OCC Flying Fish 2021-1

2021/1

The Journal of the Ocean Cruising Club 1

®

“If there is magic on this planet it is contained in water.”

— Loren Eisley

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OCC officers

FOUNDED 1954

COMMODORE Simon Currin VICE COMMODORES Daria Blackwell REAR COMMODORES Zdenka Griswold Fiona Jones REGIONAL REAR COMMODORES GREAT BRITAIN Beth & Bone Bushnell IRELAND Alex Blackwell NORTH WEST EUROPE Hans Hansell NORTH EAST USA Janet Garnier & Henry DiPietro SOUTH EAST USA Bill & Lydia Strickland WEST COAST NORTH AMERICA Liza Copeland CALIFORNIA & MEXICO (W) Rick Whiting NORTH EAST AUSTRALIA Nick Halsey SOUTH EAST AUSTRALIA Scot Wheelhouse ROVING REAR COMMODORES Nicky & Reg Barker, Suzanne & David Chappell, Guy Chester, Andrew Curtain, Fergus Dunipace & Jenevora Swann, Bill Heaton & Grace Arnison, Alistair Hill, Stuart & Anne Letton, Pam MacBrayne & Denis Moonan, Simon Phillips, Sarah & Phil Tadd, Gareth Thomas, Sue & Andy Warman

1954-1960 1960-1968 1968-1975 1975-1982 1982-1988 1988-1994

PAST COMMODORES Humphrey Barton 1994-1998 Tim Heywood 1998-2002 Brian Stewart 2002-2006 Peter Carter-Ruck 2006-2009 John Foot 2009-2012 Mary Barton 2012-2016 ..2016-2019 Anne Hammick

Tony Vasey Mike Pocock Alan Taylor Martin Thomas Bill McLaren John Franklin

SECRETARY Rachelle Turk Westbourne House, 4 Vicarage Hill Dartmouth, Devon TQ6 9EW, UK Tel: (UK) +44 20 7099 2678 Tel: (USA) +1 844 696 4480 e-mail: secretary@oceancruisingclub.org EDITOR, FLYING FISH Anne Hammick Tel: +44 1326 212857 e-mail: flying.fish@oceancruisingclub.org OCC ADVERTISING Details page 244 OCC WEBSITE www.oceancruisingclub.org 1

CONTENTS

PAGE

Editorial 3 The 2020 Awards 4 Seaburban Around Alone, Part 2 22 Respecting Paradise 37 Sending Submissions to Flying Fish 46 The Gig 48 The Insect 59 Full Circle 62 Sailing Swift ~ The French Canals, Part 1 79 The Crux of the Matter 90 Letter 107 Book Reviews 109

Sailing in Metaphors 118 To Seek, to Find, and not to Yield 124 Book Reviews 137

From the Galley of ...

The 1989/90 Whitbread..

Round the World Race Salvaging a Season Connemara to Bantry in Strange Times Three Great Capes in a 40-year-old Boat Just like Childbirth The Early Adventures of Beyond the Blue One Step Ahead of COVID An Unexpected Maine Cruise Obituaries and Appreciations Advertisers in Flying Fish Advertising Rates and Deadlines

146 148 161 168 179 188 196 208 220 233 243 244

Bert ter Hart Ellen Massey Leonard Humphrey Barton Phil Gordon Graham and Avril Johnson Morgan Finley Randall Reeves Ann and Glen Bainbridge People of the Sea; West Country Cruising Companion; Facing Fear; Weather at Sea; Electronic Navigation Systems; Capri – Sailing Distant Seas Sheila McCurdy Peter Owens and Vera Quinlan Arctic and Northern Waters; NOVA, The History of the Nova Espero; The Weather Handbook; Reeds 9-Language Handbook; Seamanship 2.0; A Knot a Day; Breakfast with Dolphins Tim Bridgen Colin Watkins, Introduced byi Richard Nicolson Iain Simpson Fergus Quinlan Saša Fegić Jill Gallin David Zaharik Martin Fuller Jack Griswold

HEALTH WARNING The information in this publication is not to be used for navigation. It is largely anecdotal, while the views expressed are those of the individual contributors and are not necessarily shared nor endorsed by the OCC or its members. The material in this journal may be inaccurate or out-of-date – you rely upon it at your own risk.

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After worrying once again whether the curtailment of cruising over the past year would result in a very thin Fish, I was delighted that my concerns proved unfounded. Not only do we have the concluding parts of Bert ter Hart and Randall Reeves’s recent high latitude adventures – both recognised by the Barton Cup – but from the past we have a memorable leg of the 1989/90 Whitbread Around the World Race and, equally gripping, The Gig, a wartime ‘true adventure’ from the pen of OCC Founder Humphrey Barton.

Less dramatic but equally impressive are the circumnavigations made by Saša Fegić, for which he received the Qualifier’s Mug, and Graham and Avril Johnson, which brought them a second Vasey Vase. And then there are the ‘limited-duration cruise’ accounts, without which Flying Fish would not truly reflect our Club and its diverse membership.

On a practical note, I’m often asked to forward the PDF of a particular article, book review or obituary. While I’m happy to do this, I always point out that anyone – member or non-member – can download items from any issue of Flying Fish direct from the club’s website. It’s not even necessary to sign in. If unsure how to do this read on, otherwise skip the next paragraph...

Open the website, click on the ‘hamburger’ at top right, then on ‘Cruising Info’ (near the bottom of the drop-down menu) and then on ‘Flying Fish Archive’ (near the top of the next menu). Alternatively, enter www.oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive in the address bar. Finally, locate the issue you want in the central box. To read it online click ‘View Flying Fish’ below the front cover image, or to download it (about 10Mb) click ‘Download Flying Fish’. To download an individual article, find it in the contents list and click on the PDF icon to the right. The PDF’s name will appear at the bottom left corner of the screen, after which it can be opened and read or saved in the usual way.

Now for a couple of requests: Firstly, if you’d like to join the Flying Fish book review team please e-mail flying.fish@oceancruisingclub.org outlining your particular interests and the areas with which you’re reasonably familiar. Though most books are reviewed in hard copy, many are also available as e-books, including Kindle. Secondly, the Flying Fish larder is almost empty of recipes, so if you have any seagoing favourites that you’d like to share please do send them to me, with a photo or two if possible.

Finally, my apologies to Australian member John Maddox, whom I incorrectly stated in Flying Fish 2020/2 had been born in the UK. John, who joined the OCC in 1968, has been PO Sydney since 1991 and served as Rear Commodore Australia from 1993 until 1999, is proud to have been born in Sydney! He tells me that he did not set foot in England until he was 26, at the end of his qualifying voyage aboard Ramrod from New York to Hamble – see Pioneers and Trail Blazers, Flying Fish 2004/2 pages 27–31.

Lastly the usual reminder – the ABSOLUTE DEADLINE for submissions to Flying Fish 2021/2 is Friday 1st October, but if you can manage mid-September it would be much appreciated. Thank you!

Cover photo: Dream Away in Loltong Bay, Pentecost Island, Vanuatu, August 2015 – see page 62. Photo Graham and Avril Johnson 3

THE 2020 AWARDS For the second year running, COVID-19 prevented our Club from holding an Annual Dinner at which to present the annual Awards. However, three – the OCC Seamanship Award, the OCC Award (members) and the OCC Barton Cup – were presented ‘virtually’ following the AGM. At the time of writing it is hoped that the 2022 AGM and Annual Dinner will take place in Annapolis on Saturday 2nd April, and if all the winners from 2019 and 2020 attend, in addition to those for 2021, we can anticipate quite a party! Note that the OCC Award (open), the Events and Rallies Award and the Australian Trophy were not awarded this year.

Thanks are due to Eoin Robson, Chair of the Awards Sub-committee, for receiving the award nominations and overseeing the judging panel, the third year he has handled this sometimes challenging task.

Further details of the The Club Silverware history and criteria for all the awards, together with information about how to submit a nomination online, can be found at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Awards.

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THE DAVID WALLIS TROPHY Presented by the family of David Wallis, Founding Editor of Flying Fish, and first awarded in 1991, this silver salver recognises the ‘most outstanding, valuable or enjoyable contribution’ to the year’s issues. The winner is decided by vote among the Flying Fish Editorial Sub-committee.

There were several very worthy contenders for the 2020 David Wallis Trophy, with Dag and Ma Theresa Hoiland finally emerging as winners for their article Voyaging with Vetle which appeared in Flying Fish 2020/2.

In October 2018, during their son Vetle’s fourth birthday party in Stavanger, Norway, Dag and Ma Theresa announced to family and friends that they were planning an extended cruise aboard their Beneteau First 47.7 Escape, which they’d already sailed many thousands of miles. Their mantra is ‘Explore – Learn – Share’, a philosophy they are working hard to pass on to their son.

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The first part of their article covers preparations, and members of the Editorial Sub-committee were particularly impressed by how carefully Dag and Ma Theresa considered every aspect of ocean cruising with a young child, with particular focus on what he would most enjoy and benefit from as well as the more obvious safety aspects.

Vetle had been sailing since before he could walk and had already made passages to the Faroes, Shetlands and Orkneys as well as to northern Norway, but an ocean passage is a very different thing.

Departing in July 2019, their route took them south as far as the Cape Verde islands before heading west for Barbados at the end of December. Readers get an insight Dag, Ma Theresa and Vetle Hoiland into shipboard routine including ‘inspection’ and ‘school’, during which the multilingual family practised words in Tagalog – Ma Theresa comes from Pangasinan in the northern Philippines – and English as well as Dag’s native Norwegian. (The Editorial Sub-committee was impressed by Dag and Ma Theresa’s excellent written English, despite it not being the first language of either.)

Following their Atlantic passage, the Hoiland family cruised north through the Caribbean islands as far as St Martin before heading south to Curaçao in mid-March as COVID-19 took hold – see the September 2020 Newsletter – where Escape was laid up. They hope to return to her in July this year and, COVID permitting, spend time in the ABC islands, followed by Colombia and the San Blas islands, before reaching Panama and transiting the Canal in December. Their plans for the Pacific are flexible, but may include Easter Island and Pitcairn before heading for French Polynesia.

Flying Fish will be encouraging them to submit further instalments but, in the meantime, Voyaging with Vetle can be found on the OCC website at https:// oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

 THE QUALIFIER’S MUG Presented by Admiral (then Commodore) Mary Barton and first awarded in 1993, the Qualifier’s Mug recognises the most ambitious or arduous qualifying voyage published by a member in print or online, or submitted to the OCC for future publication.

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Saša Fegić and his big, red (model) boat

The Qualifier’s Mug has been presented for many remarkable voyages in its 27 year history, but never for a circumnavigation, let alone one via the Three Great Capes, visiting 15 countries, taking 28 months and covering 39,000 miles – the achievement of Croatian sailor Saša Fegić. The full story of his eastabout voyage aboard the 34ft HIR 3, a survivor of the Croatian war of independence in the early 1990s, can be read starting on page 179 of this issue, and their route followed on the plan on page 22.

A sailor through and through, Saša was born and raised in Zagreb but caught the sea bug early and has been sailing since the age of 12. He took his first formal sailing lessons in 1992 aboard this same boat, HIR 3, already famous for completing a circumnavigation via Cape Horn in the late 1980s. For the past 20 years his life has revolved around boats and sailing, working as a professional skipper, charter manager and sailing entrepreneur.

A circumnavigation was an obvious ambition, and Saša claims to have chosen the toughest route ‘because it was supposed to be the fastest and the cheapest way to get around the globe, and it took us by the southernmost bar at Yacht Club Micalvi in Puerto Williams, the coolest place in the world to take a beer’.

Back in Croatia, Saša is offering the chance to sail aboard HIR 3 to as many of his fellow countrymen and women – and others around the globe – as possible. Visit his website at http://sailing-tribe.com.

 THE WATER MUSIC TROPHY Presented by Past Commodore John Foot and named after his succession of yachts all called Water Music, this set of meteorological instruments set into a wooden cube was first awarded in 1986. It recognises a significant contribution to the Club in terms of providing cruising, navigation or pilotage information, and is open to members only.

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The Qualifier’s Mug and the Water Music Trophy The 2020 Water Music Trophy went to Canadian yachtsman Kirk R Patterson for his ongoing efforts to popularise Japan as a cruising destination. He arrived there aboard his 40ft steel cutter Silk Purse in 2013, having previously worked in Tokyo, and has cruised Japanese waters extensively in the years since. His wife is Japanese and together they have adopted a young daughter.

Kirk’s love for his new country shines through his two-part article Japan, The Next Cruising Frontier which appeared in Flying Fish 2020/1 and 2020/2. This chronicles his threeyear circumnavigation of his adopted homeland and paints an enticing picture of both the land and its people. He has been our Port Officer for Japan since 2018 and is in the process of writing a cruising guide to the country – believed to be the first in any language.

He is the founder of Konpira Consulting [ w w w. k o n p i r a consulting.com], set up to support foreign cruisers visiting Japan as well as to organise yacht charters and kayak Kirk R Patterson, with Silk Purse behind tours. He is particularly keen to give visitors ‘opportunities to meet local people, to experience the culture first-hand, and to foster cultural understanding and intercultural communication’.

Kirk was an early contributor to the series of OCC Webinars, still available at https:// oceancruisingclub.org/Webinars, while those who missed his articles will find them at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

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THE PORT OFFICER SERVICE AWARD Introduced at the suggestion of then Rear Commodore Mark Holbrook and first presented in 2008, this award is made to one or more OCC Port Officers or Port Officer Representatives who have provided outstanding service to both local and visiting members, as well as to the wider sailing community.

Two awards were made for 2020, both related to the COVID-19 crisis which affected so many yachts around the globe. These went to Honorary Member José Azevedo and his team at Peter Café Sport in Horta, Azores, where José is POR, and to Victor Langerwerf, POR for Curaçao in the southern Caribbean.

The nomination for Peter Café Sport described how, during the 2020 COVID-19 lockdown in the Azores, owner José and his team, which included his sons and his nephew Duarte, went out of their way to give advice, guidance and support to the many crews who called in there on their way back to Europe from the Caribbean, the Eastern Seaboard of North America, Brazil and the South Atlantic. Many, but by no means all of these crews, were OCC members.

With lockdown in place, José and his team provided meals from the Café Sport kitchen, took shopping lists to the local supermarket and returned with stores, transported pets to vets and people to doctors, and undertook a variety of other tasks with cheerfulness and great good humour. They offered practical support and light relief to yachties who could see and smell the land but were unable to set foot ashore.

José Azevedo (centre) with (left) RIB skipper Filipe Goulart and (right) his nephew Duarte Pinto

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José also liaised with local officials in an effort to get the rules relaxed for those who had already been at sea for many weeks.

See Retreat From Paradise by Vice Commodore Daria Blackwell in Flying Fish 2020/2, available on the OCC website at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-FishArchive, to learn more.

 Victor Langerwerf’s nomination for the Port Officer Service Award was made by one of the many yachtsmen he assisted. When the Hoiland family reached Curaçao in the Dutch Lesser Antilles aboard their Beneteau First 47.7 Escape in late March 2020 they were refused entry – the island’s waters had been closed while they were on passage. They were trying to contact the authorities by radio when Victor arrived on a paddleboard offering help – and, to quote Dag Hoiland, ‘help he did, together with his wife Marjolein Elgersma’.

With yachts arriving all the time, Victor had already started to lobby the authorities and local media to find a solution, as well as alerting his numerous friends to the situation. Within three days Escape, with five-year-old Vetle aboard, was granted a 48-hour permit, extended next day to the full 14-day quarantine period. While in quarantine Escape was frequently visited by the coastguard as well as by Victor’s friends, including one man accompanied by his son bringing a bag of books and puzzles for Vetle.

The same assistance and friendship was extended to the eight other yachts which had also been denied entry.

Victor Langerwerf When nominating Victor, Dag wrote: ‘This assistance continued until we flew out of Curaçao two months later leaving Escape on the hard. He even drove us to the airport. As new OCC members, this was our first meeting with the OCC as an organisation. We quickly realised it is a family more than an organisation. Victor helped many yachts and sailors, and engaged in discussions with the Curaçao authorities to find a workable solution allowing other yachts to seek safe haven for the 2020 hurricane season in the Caribbean. Victor is an excellent ambassador for what we now understand is the core of the OCC.’ Last summer Victor received an OCC Special Award for his actions – see the June 2020 Newsletter, with a fuller account from Dag Hoiland in the September 2020 Newsletter. Both are available on the OCC website at https://members. oceancruisingclub.org/members/Newsletters.

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THE VERTUE AWARD The Vertue Award is presented to a member in North America for an outstanding voyage or for service to the Club. Named after Vertue XXXV, in which OCC Founder Humphrey Barton crossed the North Atlantic in 1950, it was created in 2014 to commemorate the Club’s 60th anniversary. Awardees are selected by North American Regional Rear Commodores.

Announcing Bill and Lydia Strickland as winners of the 2020 Vertue Award may create feelings of déjà vu in members who attended last year’s virtual AGM, during which the presentation was made.

Bill and Lydia have been members since 1996 and 2014 respectively, Lydia as an Associate before becoming a full member in 2015. They became Regional Rear Commodores for South East USA in 2016, and since then have promoted the Club tirelessly, contacting new members, offering hospitality to those passing through and organising social events. Each year they organise the Annapolis Fall Dinner, which normally attracts well over 100 attendees, handling much of the catering themselves to keep costs as low as possible. They also provide support to those running other OCC events around the Chesapeake, notably the Chesapeake and Southern Chesapeake Cruises.

In 2019 Lydia and Bill accepted the challenge of organising the OCC’s planned 2020 AGM and Annual Dinner in Annapolis, the club’s first-ever AGM weekend outside the UK. They toured hotels and venues in both Washington DC and Annapolis before suggesting the Hotel Annapolis and Annapolis YC to the General Committee. They made all the arrangements for the morning talks, AGM and Annual Dinner, as well as for a tour of the US Naval Academy, and enlisted other local members to provide additional sight-seeing opportunities on the following days.

None were more disappointed than Bill and Lydia when the event had to be cancelled but, gluttons for punishment, they immediately offered to repeat the entire process for April 2022, COVID-19 permitting.

Our Club is incredibly fortunate to have such efficient and dedicated US Regional Rear Commodores.

Bill and Lydia with their Vertue Award ‘keeper’ plaque.

Photo Rick and Julie Palm 10

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THE VASEY VASE Donated by past Commodore Tony Vasey and his wife Jill, and first awarded in 1997, this handsome trophy recognises an unusual or exploratory voyage made by an OCC member or members.

The Vasey Vase for 2020 was awarded to Graham and Avril Johnson for their low-key circumnavigation aboard their 44ft cutter Dream Away. In an age of speedy world circuits, often in the higher latitudes and frequently in pursuit of a place in the record books, an 18-year voyage is undoubtedly ‘unusual’. Even more so is the extent to which OCC members have been able to share in it, with 20 Flying Fish articles over the years culminating in Full Circle, starting on page 62 of this issue. The entire portfolio is listed on page 65 and is available on the OCC website at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

On learning of their award, Graham and Avril wrote: ‘We were amazed and delighted to receive the wholly unexpected notification of our award of the Vasey Vase. To have our exploits recognised in such a way is indeed a great honour, particularly so from the OCC, one of the world’s most successful international sailing clubs. The award is particularly precious to us as we know Tony Vasey well, having had the pleasure of supporting him in Avril and Graham celebrating Christmas at Pangkor, Malaysia in 2017

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our role as Membership Secretaries during his four years as Commodore in the 1990s. It is the second Vasey Vase we’ve been awarded – the first being that for 2007 following our passage from Cape Horn north to Puerto Montt through the Chilean channels.

Wherever we have been our philosophy has been to engage with local people, to experience alternative cultures and offer whatever help or friendship is appropriate, and we have attempted to share this through the pages of Flying Fish. The voyage was immeasurably fun and enjoyable, which is as it should be.

We have returned with the same people aboard as when we left and no one ever fell overboard, which is as good a measure of success as any. Sailing across the vastness of fathomless oceans under the eternal heavens is in itself humbling, and we confess to a similar feeling in response to the generous recognition of our exploits by our treasured fellow OCC members. We thank you all.’

 THE OCC JESTER AWARD Donated by the Jester Trust as a way to perpetuate the spirit and ideals epitomised

by Blondie Hasler and Mike Richey aboard the junk-rigged Folkboat Jester, this award recognises a noteworthy singlehanded voyage or series of voyages made in a vessel of 30ft or less overall, or a contribution to the art of singlehanded ocean sailing. It was first presented in 2006 and is open to both members and non-members.

It’s surprising that Jack van Ommen has waited so long to receive the Jester Award. As readers of Flying Fish 2020/2 will be aware, Jack has made a series of notable voyages – including a circumnavigation – in his two Fleetwoods, both 30ft Naja plywood kit-boats.

He left his home port of Gig Harbor, Washington State, in 2005 and returned 12 years later at the age of 80, having visited 60 countries and sailed some 54,325 miles. Now 83, he continues long-distance sailing and is convinced that There’s No Mandatory Age Limit for Ocean Sailing – the title of his article in Flying Fish 2020/2.

Jack has overcome setbacks which would have made lesser men give up – not least the loss of his first The second Fleetwood sailing at Gig Harbor, Washington in September 2014 12

Jack with his first OCC burgee, at the Beaulieu Rally in May 2016 Fleetwood in 2013 in the Balearic islands.

After initially thinking ‘that God had a new plan for me and my sailing days were over’, he changed his mind and bought another 30ft Naja – which he also called Fleetwood – and restarted his circumnavigation.

Following the shipwreck he wrote a book called SoloMan,* subtitled Alone at Sea with God and Social Security – or Alleen op Zee met God en AOW in its Dutch version.

(Although born in the Netherlands, Jack emigrated to California at the age of 19 and writes in both languages.) As he puts it, ‘I rediscovered that the best experiences are God’s free gifts, like friendships, family, sunsets, starlit skies, the breathing of a dolphin alongside in the night while I am half-awake in my berth ... I am convinced that peace and happiness also add to my physical condition – no home, no car, no bills, no worries.’

On learning of the Award, Jack responded, ‘I am delighted and honoured. I am also very grateful for the opportunity to brag about my blessings and inspire others to follow in Fleetwood’s wake.’ * Reviewed in Flying Fish 2016/2.

 THE OCC LIFETIME CRUISING AWARD First presented in 2018 and open to both members and non-members, the OCC Lifetime Cruising Award recognises a lifetime of noteworthy ocean voyaging.

Nick Skeates, winner of the 2020 OCC Lifetime Cruising Award, is a true cruiser’s cruiser, a ‘fantastic character full of soul, wisdom and experience’. He has been an almost permanent liveaboard since leaving the UK in 1975 aboard his first Wylo, a Morgan Giles-designed 28 footer, at the age of 28. Two years later, having sailed to New Zealand and back into the Pacific, he lost her on a reef near Fiji in poor visibility. Back in NZ with almost no money he decided to design and build his next boat, Wylo II, a 32ft gaff cutter with steel hull and wooden deck, which he launched in November 1980 having spent around NZ$2000 in the process. He did nearly all the work himself, including making her sails.

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Nick Skeates aboard Wylo II. Photo Lizzie Bowen

Wylo II is very simple but extremely strong – at least one sistership has sailed around Cape Horn – with an interior built mainly from recycled timber and with a couple of primus stoves in the galley.

More than 160 sets of plans – some of a slightly extended 35ft version – have been sold, with some 50 boats built.

Since launching Wylo II in 1980 Nick has completed four circumnavigations, covering more than a quarter of a million Wylo II miles, and has crossed the Atlantic more times than he can count. He still prefers to navigate by sextant, though he admits to carrying a GPS in reserve. In these days of ever-larger cruising yachts with all the bells and whistles, Nick remains true to the philosophy which has served him well for nearly 50 years. He remains a fount of knowledge both for those who have purchased plans and those who simply drop by Wylo II at anchor (he shuns marinas) wherever they may see her.

 THE OCC SEAMANSHIP AWARD Donated by Past Commodore John Franklin and first presented in 2013, this award recognises feats of exceptional seamanship and/or bravery at sea. It is open to both members and non-members.

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Garry Crothers with the day’s catch!

When COVID-19 struck in spring 2020 many countries went into lockdown and most transatlantic flights were cancelled.

Among these were the ones due to bring crew out to Sint Maarten to assist owner Garry Crothers sail his Ovni 435 Kind of Blue home to Northern Ireland. Neither was Garry able to lay his boat up and get a flight back to Derry, where his daughter was due to get married a few months later.

After careful thought he decided to sail home singlehanded – and Garry is truly singlehanded, having lost his left arm in 2009 following a motorbike accident. As a young man he had travelled the world as a Merchant Navy radio officer, so had no illusions about the conditions he might face. He joined the OCC Atlantic Crossing Group, which benefited from the tracking service offered by PredictWind (see Flying Fish 2020/2, page 30), and departed Sint Maarten on 29th May. While many crews stopped in the Azores (see page 8 of this issue), Garry decided to head direct for Northern Ireland to save time and avoid unnecessary manoeuvring.

He sailed conservatively, pushing hard at times to avoid weather systems but reducing sail at night and resting as necessary, and doing everything that good seamanship dictated. As he approached Northern Ireland a rapidly developing gale threatened to overtake Kind of Blue, but he made it into the River Foyle on 4th July before the storm broke, 37 days after leaving Sint Maarten – a passage wholly deserving of the OCC Seamanship Award.

Since returning home Garry has been elected Chairman of Foyle Sailability, which was instrumental in his path to recovery and return to sailing. He Stripping down a winch 15

has become a role model for sailors with disabilities, proving that almost anything is possible with the right attitude and a healthy dose of seamanship. He is a true role model and inspiration.

Garry has contributed a memorable addition to the series of OCC Webinars, available at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Webinars, and it is hoped that Flying Fish 2021/2 will carry a full account of his transatlantic passage.

 THE OCC AWARD The Club’s oldest award, dating back to 1960, the OCC Award recognises valuable service to the OCC or to the ocean cruising community as a whole.

The outcome of judging the OCC Award for 2020 was hardly in doubt following the outstanding COVID-19 pandemic response effort co-ordinated by Vice Commodore Daria Blackwell with support from Rear Commodore Fiona Jones, Regional Rear Commodore Ireland Alex Blackwell, Roving Rear Commodore Guy Chester, and members Moira Bentzel and Tim Goodyear. Their achievement was also recognised outside the OCC with the Royal Cruising Club’s Medal for Services to Cruising.

Flying Fish 2020/2 carried Daria’s day-to-day account of how her team reacted to the developing pandemic, opening the OCC Facebook Group’s Atlantic Crossing, Pacific Crossing and Caribbean Net+ to non-members as well as pooling resources with Noonsite, the Seven Seas Cruising Association, the Salty Dawg Sailing Association, the Cruising Association and BoatWatch among others. The greatest problem for many cruisers was the speed with which national borders were closing, often with little notice and when yachts were already on passage. As OCC PR Officer, Daria knew that the only way to get the attention of world leaders was to highlight the plight of cruisers in Daria at the wheel of Aleria

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Daria’s OCC Award plaque – all the Award winners received similar tokens the general media, not just the yachting press, and gave many interviews and used her media contacts in pursuit of this.

The situation throughout the Pacific was particularly difficult, with the governments of many small island nations so desperate to keep COVID-19 away from their shores that they refused entry to all yachts, including those which had been at sea far longer than the standard two-week quarantine

Fiona Jones in Thailand.

The orchid is reported to have thrived during its three years at sea!

Guy Chester in his companionway period. Fiona Jones and Australian member Guy Chester, both circumnavigators, worked tirelessly to encourage them to reconsider, Guy drawing on his extensive diplomatic experience. They also kept nearly 200 yachts in various parts of the Pacific abreast of changes. Among their successes was persuading Fiji to set up ‘Blue Lanes’, which yachts could enter under quarantine, but their attempts to convince the governments of Australia and New Zealand that yachts needed to move south ahead of the approaching cyclone season largely met with refusal.

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Tim Goodyear aboard Mojito

Meanwhile, in the Caribbean Tim Goodyear had begun to compile a list of yachts intending to head home to mainland Europe or the United States. As the list grew and Tim began to prepare for his own departure, Alex Blackwell on the west coast of Ireland and Moira Bentzel in Rockland, Maine took over, keeping in contact with yachts at sea, sometimes around the clock. A subscriber to PredictWind, Tim persuaded the company to make their fleet tracker service available to all yachts free of charge so that friends and relatives ashore could track their progress – see the map on page 30 of Flying Fish 2020/2 to get an idea of the numbers involved.

It seems very likely that the success of the COVID-19 pandemic response was due in part to the ocean-going experience of all involved, which allowed them to relate first-hand to the problems being faced by their fellow sailors. Daria and Alex are most familiar with Atlantic waters, having sailed their Bowman 57 cutter ketch Aleria across Alex Blackwell relaxing in Aleria’s cockpit

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Moira Bentzel, happy at the helm of Equinox it three times. Fiona and her husband Chris made a ten-year, 60,000-mile circumnavigation aboard their Gitana 43 Three Ships between 2005 and 2015 and now sail from Caernarvon in North Wales. Moira, until recently our Regional Rear Commodore for North East USA, has sailed some 25,000 miles including two Atlantic passages with husband Dick aboard Equinox, a 36ft Westerly Corsair. Guy has sailed all his life, including more than 30 years’ cruising in Pacific and Indonesian waters, and between 2013 and 2020 circumnavigated in his 52ft catamaran Sanctuary. Finally Tim, wife Jules and Chloe the labrador have lived aboard their Tayana 48 Mojito for the past four years, cruising the US East Coast and Caribbean before crossing to Portugal in June 2020.

Daria’s account of the Retreat from Paradise will be found on page 18 of Flying Fish 2020/2, with Alex’s Lessons Learned from Providing Shore Support following on page 28. Both are available on the OCC website at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

 THE OCC BARTON CUP The Club’s premier award, named after OCC Founder Humphrey Barton and donated by his adult children, twins Peter Barton and Pat Pocock, the Barton Cup was first presented in 1981. It recognises an exceptional or challenging voyage or series of voyages made by an OCC member or members.

Little remains to be written about Bert ter Hart’s remarkable singlehanded circumnavigation via the Five Great Capes, during which he navigated entirely by ‘traditional’ means. Instead we have Bert’s own two-part account of the voyage, begun in Flying Fish 2020/2 and completed in this issue, starting on page 23.

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This tells us of the extensive pre-departure preparation and upgrading of his 45ft Seaburban – much of it done by Bert himself, aided by his wife Nani – his departure from Victoria, BC in October 2019, and his return in July 2020 to a very different world.

Sailing without sponsorship – other than an OCC Adventure Challenge Grant – in the 32-year-old heavy displacement, long keel cruising yacht which he’d owned for 12 years, Bert likened his voyage to doing the Paris-Dakar Rally in a motorhome.

The OCC Challenge Grant allowed him to buy satellite communications equipment and send regular progress reports back to Nani and his ‘Shoreteam’.

As the voyage progressed he built up a worldwide following on social media, including some 2500 children, whom he The Barton Cup, aimed to inspire our premier award Bert enjoying the respite off with his lifelong New Zealand’s South Cape passions for ocean and atmospheric sciences. With (see page 30) advanced degrees in maths, physics and physical oceanography, Bert has studied the role the world’s oceans and coastal seas play in moderating and regulating climate, nutrient productivity, pollution distributions and salmon migration, and is a keen advocate for the citizen scientist in all of us.

The extraordinary voyages of early Spanish, Dutch, French and British sailors and mapmakers have been an ongoing inspiration for Bert, who is an enthusiast for traditional navigational skills and techniques. Not many recent circumnavigators can claim to have ‘carried Stark’s solutions to the Lunar Distance problem in case of a complete collapse in timekeeping (but) never resorted to them for anything other than amusement’!

Bert’s thoroughly seamanlike attitude is summed up by his comment that: ‘I arrived back in Canada with a boat and sails in good enough condition to set out again on a similar trip in a matter of weeks. ... This, I can only imagine, would be the goal of every sailor – sailing the boat or yourself to bits when help is highly uncertain at best is simply foolhardy. The end goal, as far as I was concerned, was to arrive back in the place from which I had departed with myself and the boat in very nearly the same condition as when I had left.’

That he achieved this was confirmed by Past Vice Commodore Tony Gooch, who presented Bert with the ‘virtual’ Barton Cup following the 2021 AGM. 20

Bert on arrival in Victoria, BC. Photo Dr Don Butt On learning from Commodore Simon Currin that he had been awarded the Barton Cup for 2020, Bert wrote: ‘I am absolutely stunned. It is an honour and privilege that I really have no words for. I remember reading through the list of previous recipients before I left last year and marvelling at the names and accomplishments of those sailors, many of whom have been a profound source of inspiration to me.

It really hasn’t sunk in. Please know that I am humbled and deeply grateful to be awarded the OCC’s Barton Cup. I cannot help but feel as if there must be some other voyage more deserving than my own, considering the extraordinary passages made by so many other intrepid, brave OCC skippers. Thank you for this tremendous and singular honour.’

 Of all the inventions and improvements the wit and industry of man has discovered and brought to perfection, none seems to be so universally useful, profitable and necessary, as the art of navigation.

John Locke, 17th century writer, philosopher and physician 21

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SEABURBAN AROUND ALONE, PART 2 Bert ter Hart (Flying Fish 2020/1 followed Bert and his 45ft Seaburban from Victoria, British Colombia down to the Southern Ocean – the first part of his planned circumnavigation via the Five Great Capes navigating only by traditional means. We left him becalmed on the Burwood Bank near Cape Horn...

Bert was awarded the Barton Cup for 2020 in recognition of his achievement.)

First to Last: Cape Horn to South Cape, January–April 2020 Becalmed on Burwood Bank, the enormity of traversing the southern Atlantic, Indian, Tasman and Pacific Oceans sank in. For the previous two months the Horn had occupied nearly every waking moment. Slowly but surely, I came to grips with the realisation that the real work of the circumnavigation was yet to begin.

I had been more than lucky with the weather prior to rounding the Horn, but that luck looked to change for the worse after leaving Burwood Bank and approaching the Falklands. This was confirmed when I was unable to clear the shoals and currents lying to the north and east of the Falklands before an extremely severe storm swept through the South Atlantic. With steering issues compounding every day, I made the decision to seek refuge and anchor in Stanley Harbour.

Despite sustained winds of 60+ knots, gusts well beyond and a 2m chop, Seaburban somehow managed to stay anchored. I had left her usual complement of ground tackle at home, thinking there would be no need for 85lb hurricane anchors and 100m of heavy chain. What I did bring I cobbled together and, despite fore-reaching wildly about the anchorage, we stayed put ... but just barely. At 0315 on the last night of the blow, unable to keep station and dragging shoreward ignominiously towards the local graveyard, I called Stanley Harbour Control on the VHF to let them know things weren’t going as planned. No one answered.

I had reserved the Minus her normal complement of ground tackle, Seaburban last 10m of rode to be hangs by a thread in Port Stanley. Photo R Goodwin deployed in case of emergency, and could think of no greater emergency than that at hand. Up on deck and making my way forward, my only view of the situation was of the deck as I crawled, head-down, towards the bow. Whether the extra rode kept me off the rocks I can’t say, but 23

Departing Port Stanley, the obligatory radio call to the Port Captain drew a long silence when I announced my next port of call as Victoria, Canada, east-bound via the remaining Great Capes. Photo G Munro within a few hours the sound of the wind in the rigging ceased to be that of a freight train thundering across the Canadian prairie.

Leaving Stanley and determined to get east, the only option was north. East and south were impossible, west was out of the question, and north became north-by-west before foul weather to the south finally moved off enabling me to set a course across the South Atlantic.

My plan for the southern Atlantic and Indian Oceans was simple – avoid the seamounts centred around 42°S 0°W, give the Agulhas Current as wide a berth as possible and, come what may, do everything humanly possible to stay in the deep oceanic waters north of Marion and Prince Edward Islands. The Southwest Indian Ridge is discontinuous between 35° and 40°E and I felt that the rising, tortured seabed was in no small part responsible for the horrific conditions for which the southern Indian Ocean is infamous. Add in a variable current resulting from eddies spun off the Agulhas Current opposing the prevailing winds and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. I wanted no part of any of the above and to get east of the Crozet Islands as fast as possible.

I had not given much thought to typhoons spinning their way south into the Roaring Forties. Not counting Stanley Harbour, the only one I had given any thought to had been months ago in the Eastern Tropical Pacific. None, I thought, frequented the Roaring Forties, let alone that patch of ocean north and east of the Crozets. Squeezed between a tropical storm bearing down on my track and the now ubiquitous gales and storms parading eastward, I once again pointed Seaburban north. Cursed north. Above 40°S, Moitessier’s warnings of Vito Dumas’s problems began to ring in my ears. Days later, standing in the cockpit under an impossibly blue sky lording over an azure sea crowned with whitecaps, I put Seaburban’s helm hard over, tacked, and set a course south-southwest.

Finally. It was 45°S or bust.

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Desperate to get east after leaving the Falklands, I am forced north by severe gales and storms tracking along 45°S

Gales and calms pile on with clockwork-like efficiency. Seaburban drifts aimlessly while becalmed on a confused and restless ocean. All in all, I was becalmed for more than 50 days during my circumnavigation

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Like Moitessier, Seaburban’s constant companions are the albatross

The Last: South Cape, 28th April 2020 ‘Battle-hardening’ is how Tony Gooch had referred to my transit of the south Tasman Sea. The Austral autumn had provided much the same weather that we experience in November and December in the Pacific Northwest – storm upon gale with little or no reprieve.

The weather had worsened consistently and without mercy since passing Cape Leeuwin but, having been forced north

My track over the tortured bottom topography north of Prince Edward and Marion Islands and west of the Crozets. I constantly marvelled at Cook’s astonishing ability to range about the place, illustrated on a page of JC Beaglehole’s ‘The Life of Captain James Cook’, the definitive autobiography

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by a massive Southern Ocean storm immediately after passing under Tasmania’s South East Cape, my track to New Zealand’s South Cape was now cast in stone. The detour north was unavoidable, and now I needed all the sea room I dared take as storms astern and south of me forced my hand. I sailed straight for South Cape, and pushed Seaburban as hard as I dared in steadily building seas and wind as the weather deteriorated in fits and starts over the better course of a week. I had sailed most of the way across the south Tasman Sea with very little to reassure my navigation. Sun shots were few and far between and the few sights I did get were hampered by rough seas, indistinct horizons and hurried shots. I was more than nervous as I pored over the paper charts I had for the area immediately south of Stewart Island. The Traps and Snares, the islands I was aiming to miss, seemed aptly named and didn’t inspire confidence.

Conditions harden as Seaburban crosses under Australia and heads deeper into the Roaring Forties

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Tools of the trade – slide rules, the laminated S-Tables, customized work forms and plotting sheets.

I spent at least two hours each day navigating

During a shakedown cruise to Alaska I practise the dead reckoning and plotting I would need to master before attempting a celestial-only circumnavigation. Photo Nani Belle Browne

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Gybing downwind between danger bearings, Seaburban’s track closes in on the Traps and Snares The worsening weather and seas had me doubly concerned about crossing the shallows that extend out from Stewart Island. With my navigation in doubt, I was feeling pressed either to throw caution to the wind and attempt crossing the bank, or take a much longer route in far deeper water south of Campbell Island. I wasn’t keen on the idea of crossing the Solander Trough in a gale hounded by a large and confused Southern Ocean sea.

Depths in the Trough are in the order of 2500m rising to less than 140m in about 20 miles. Tidal currents opposing gale-force wind and waves, a steeply shoaling continental shelf and an uncertain landfall do not bode well for safe passage. I well remembered Jeanne Socrates heaving to and waiting for favourable weather in her latest, extraordinary, success before rounding South Cape, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what Randall Reeves had done on his two roundings of South Cape while pursuing the incomparable Figure 8 Voyage. So I reached out to Randall and asked.

Like Tony before, Randall responded almost instantly. Yes, he had dared cross the shallow bank. He had, in fact, lain becalmed within sight of Stewart Island on his second passage south of New Zealand. He gave me the latitude and longitude of the North and South Traps as well as of the Snares. The storm looming behind and another far worse to the south made the decision for me – I transposed the lat and long of the Traps and Snares onto a plotting sheet, drew in danger bearings, and put the proverbial pedal to the metal.

I was lucky enough to get a decent running-fix* of the sun while still in deep water.

This last piece in place, I took the time to secure the boat for storm conditions and then focused on keeping Seaburban moving as fast as the Monitor would allow. My passages through the southern Indian Ocean and south Tasman Sea had taught me * A running-fix can be used to estimate a vessel’s position when simultaneous observations are not possible. A single line of position is determined, and a careful record of course, time and speed (or distance) is maintained. A second line of position is determined and the first is advanced, or run up to, the second. Advancing the first to the second is done along the track the vessel has maintained between the two observations.

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to weigh boat speed against steering loads. Too fast and the Monitor couldn’t cope or would get behind and Seaburban would broach or, worse, gybe. Too slow and the Monitor could not stop her from lying a-hull and getting savagely hammered by cresting and breaking waves.

As luck would have it I crossed into shallow water with both the tide and the Antarctic Circumpolar Current helping. It was almost anticlimactic as the seas mellowed despite the gale. While still in deep water, swell from three different directions and winds gusting well above gale-force had made for a chaotic, confused sea. On the bank it seemed like a holiday and, for the first time in months, the sea no longer snapped at Seaburban like some angry, rebuked minion. It was a welcome, unexpected relief and stamped on those few hours the realisation that I had actually, unbelievably, successfully sailed south of the Five Great Capes.

The model forecasts called for a significant strengthening of the gale that was following me as it crossed over the South Island. A different, more severe gale tracking eastward near 50°S would force me north. My plans for easting in the prevailing westerlies of the Roaring Forties once again took a turn for the worse as I resolutely pointed Seaburban north and east.

Hard on the wind and clawing north, and eventually northby-west, I work Seaburban around a gale that refuses to move off to the east

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Upwind against the South East and then North East Trades proves to be the last consequential hurdle. Missing her largest jib, the slog upwind against the Trades adds at least ten days to the trip Given a chance to reflect on passing south of New Zealand, I realised I no longer had the single-minded focus on the ‘next one’. There were no next Capes – all five were behind me. I had not put nearly as much thought into the final part of the voyage as I put into every other and it came as a bit of a shock. I had been slow up to this point and was seriously behind schedule – clearly, I wasn’t getting home and completing the circuit in anything under 250 days. With the Southern Hemisphere winter fast approaching, I figured it was time to put conservatism aside and push for home. Home would be the goal now. Not another Cape, but Home. The decision to push seemed timely and I thought the passage up the Pacific would be less of an ordeal than the previous oceanic transits. I’m sure somewhere Thomas Gray was smiling. It was he who, in 1742, penned, ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise’.

Southwest of Chatham Island, about 270 miles east of New Zealand, the jib halyard parted, putting that sail out of service until I could get up the mast and reeve a new halyard. I had already been up the mast twice and knew full well the conditions needed to make a success of it. I thought that, when closer to the Trades, or surely the Doldrums, I would get lucky with the conditions. Unfortunately they never materialised and Seaburban was forced to rely on her 70% Solent to get her the remaining 6000, mostly upwind, miles home. At 280ft2 it’s a far cry from the 480ft2 110% jib that I flew on the forestay north of 35°S or the 400ft2 90% Yankee I flew south of 35°S. The loss of both of those jibs added something like ten days to the circumnavigation.

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The End: Victoria, British Columbia, 18th July 2020 In fact, the passage up the Pacific was anything but easy. Running out of food and water, Seaburban crippled without the use of her most powerful sail and thousands of miles sailed dead upwind had taken their toll. Both the boat and I were tired, and it was beginning to show in the carefully-constructed and rigidly adhered-to routines that had kept me safe for tens of thousands of miles and more than 200 days. Moreover, I was getting more and more anxious about returning to a world I no longer knew.

COVID-19 had locked down Australia, New Zealand, Polynesia, the US and, of course, Canada in the months since my departure – I was welcome back in Canada and nowhere else. The Shoreteam had inquired about landfall in other countries in case of damage or emergency but the answer was always an unambiguous, emphatic ‘No!’. It was Canada or bust. But Canada, and in particular British Columbia, was not welcoming me back with particularly open arms. A mandatory 14 days of quarantine and self-isolation looked to be a certainty. We were told by the Canadian Border Services Agency that no one would be allowed on the dock, and any group present at my arrival had to be less than 20 people and most likely limited to six. With only the boat and myself to worry about for close to nine months I was overwhelmed and more than a little confused by the onslaught of rules and regulations imposed by the new normal. I rebelled and railed at none but myself as I sailed over the North Pacific High and headed due east for home.

The closer I got to home, the more anxious I became about what was in store. Everyone had expected that I would return a changed man. No one, including me, imagined I wave excitedly to a handful of friends and family while Seaburban floats some 100 yards off Saxe Point, British Columbia

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Arriving at the Customs dock, 265 days after departing the Royal Victoria Yacht Club. Photo Dr Don Butt that the world I would return to would be nearly unrecognisable. Already a bit of a square peg in a world of mostly round holes, I imagined the new normal as something to avoid at all costs. Daily visits and phone calls from the Shoreteam to the offices of the Superintendent of the Canadian Border Services Agency proved fruitless. Letters written on my behalf to Dr Bonnie Henry, British Columbia’s Chief Medical Officer and architect of its COVID-19 response plan, went unacknowledged let alone answered.

My introduction to COVID-19 would be both swift and brutal.

In the end the Shoreteam, and in particular my sister Leah, pleaded with me to let events unfold as they would – perhaps my luck would hold. After all, had Lady Luck not smiled on every aspect of the voyage to date? I relented and focused on getting Seaburban into and through the Straits of Juan de Fuca without incident. It proved sage advice. At the entrance to Juan de Fuca the wind shut off as if someone had hit a switch and I drifted rather than sailed the last miles past Race Rocks as the tides, calms and currents had their way with me. Dodging some 40-odd recreational fishing boats while the current poured through Race Passage, the last obstacle en route to the waters surrounding Victoria from the west, I gave little thought to Canadian Customs and less still to the end of the voyage.

By noon local time on 18th July I could just make out the blue dots on the slopes above Saxe Point. The blue dots were family and a very few, very precious friends wearing Five Capes T-shirts. Nothing could have prepared me for the emotions that flooded through me when I realised what I was looking at. The voyage was at an end, and a successful end at that. Customs could do their worst – it would not matter in the least.

Landing at the Customs dock in Victoria Harbour, I stepped ashore and suddenly, unbelievably, I was no longer at sea but at home. Home, as Robin Knox-Johnston had written in A World of My Own, was no longer an abstraction but a reality, albeit 33

With the 5Capes.com Shoreteam at Silva Bay Marina, Gabriola Island.

L to r: Peter Bolton, Chief Commander of the Canadian Power Squadron; Leah ter Hart, Shoreteam Manager; Nani Belle Browne, my wife; Dr Don Butt, MD; John Bullas, family friend and retired meteorologist; Sally Bullas, family friend. Photo Mary Butt drastically changed and somewhat unrecognisable. Clearance proceeded in a comical, other-worldly fashion as I fumbled with a mask and then laboured to grasp and then sign off on the dozen or so pages of COVID-19 isolation rules, regulations and associated fines and penalties. I pleaded my case as forcibly as protocol would allow and, with the decision out of the Customs Officers’ hands and squarely in the court of some Public Health Official 4500km away in Ottawa, I made small talk about the size of the waves in the Southern Ocean. In no time flat, a very surprised Customs Officer returned to tell me I would not be quarantined – I was, in fact, free to go. I smiled ear-to-ear beneath my mask and I’m sure the officers were smiling as well. The news spread quickly to the small group of family and friends who had gathered on the other side of the locked, plexiglass gate which had served to separate me from the rest of the world. Once unlocked and held open by what had been my jailers only moments before, I stepped ashore and, at long last, arrived back home.

It is impossible to understate the support of my family and friends, as well as the thousands who followed my circumnavigation on social media. There was always someone ready and willing to pick me up when I needed it most. Without the support and encouragement of the OCC and its executive, and especially of Tony Gooch, Randall Reeves, and Rick Whiting, there is simply no way that my circumnavigation could have unfolded as it did. I cannot thank the OCC, the Challenge Grant Awards Committee and those members mentioned above enough. I owe a debt that I am unsure I will ever be able to repay.

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A few notes on navigation:  I used a Cassens and Plath Horizon Ultra sextant. For back-up, I carried a Freiberger drum sextant and a Bris sun-repeater. The Cassens is a wonderful instrument with superior optics. I was extremely careful, however, to keep it as free as possible from spray as I did not carry spare mirrors. Neither the Freiberger nor the Bris saw active service. (For more about the Bris sun-repeater visit https://www.yrvind.com/brissextant-for-sale/.)  Although I carried HO Pubs 229, 249, 208 and 211 I never used them and I worked my sights exclusively with S-Tables. These are extremely compact (nine pages total) and small, and before I left I laminated mine to ensure they were waterproof. To make their use simpler still, I developed custom forms to work my sights.  Lastly, I carried Stark’s solutions to the Lunar Distance problem to work out times and therefore longitude in case of a complete collapse in timekeeping. Luckily, I never resorted to them for anything other than amusement.

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RESPECTING PARADISE ~ Thoughts on Voyaging Responsibly Ellen Massey Leonard (Ellen and Seth Leonard have sailed nearly 60,000 miles on rudimentary classic boats, including a circumnavigation by their mid-20s, a voyage to the Alaskan Arctic and two more crossings of the Pacific. Ellen writes regularly for sailing magazines in the US, UK and Canada while Seth is a data scientist who recently founded OttoQuant, a company providing predictive analytics. They live on the island of Hawai’i, where tourism has had similar impacts to those outlined in this article, and share the honours for the photographs which illustrate this article.

Their beautiful Celeste is a 40ft LOA, 28ft LWL custom cold-moulded wooden cutter, designed by Francis Kinney and built in British Columbia in 1985 by Bent Jespersen. At the end of 2020 they sailed Celeste home to Hawai’i after several years in French Polynesia.)

I first started to write this story at the request of one of my Marquesan friends who hoped to make the cruising community more aware of the issues I outline here. But I want to make it clear that I do not think the problem is very widespread. In general I think voyagers are responsible and respectful of the places we visit, but it only takes one or two instances of disrespect on the part of sailors for local attitudes to change. So it is simply in the spirit of raising awareness that I write this.

Hanamoeona Bay, in the Marquesas Islands of French Polynesia, is the stuff of dreams.

The golden sand of its beach is so fine that your feet sink deep into the warm, soft grains.

The turquoise water is Seth and Ellen in French Polynesia so clear that you can see your boat’s shadow on the bottom 30 feet down. The patches of coral teem with brightly-coloured reef fish. Manta rays glide gracefully around the bay, scooping up krill in their wide filter mouths. Wooded hills rise gently from the beach, giving protection from the strong easterly trade winds to leave the bay tranquil and calm.

Coconut palms line the shore and out to sea the sun sets in brilliant red, pink and gold into the unbroken Pacific.

It is the kind of place sailors fantasise about when they sit at home with pilot charts and guides, planning yearned-for voyages to the South Seas. It’s the kind of place that 37

Beautiful Hanamoenoa Bay in a rare moment with only two boats

keeps up morale on the long ocean passage that’s required to reach these tropic isles.

And it’s the kind of place that, once you find it actually exists, brings first awe and then exuberant excitement. We made it to the South Pacific, to the fabled Marquesas!

Most cruisers who reach the Marquesas have heard the fables ... of the abundant tropical fruit, seemingly growing wild in these verdant, fertile islands; of the sailors before us being showered with hospitality, loaded down with fruit and fish, and welcomed almost as if they were family. Some of us even received that hospitality ourselves on earlier voyages, many years ago.

We’ve heard of, or experienced on earlier voyages, the empty anchorages where it’s just us and the wilderness, the untouched reefs alive with all kinds of fish to spear and eat.

Marquesan fruit, for which we traded in Fatu Hiva 38

Unfortunately these fables, while they were mostly true at one time, are today just that – fables. Even before the pandemic, the locals in the South Pacific were becoming overwhelmed by the steadily increasing number of cruisers, especially in French Polynesia where even non-European sailors could (before the pandemic) stay up to three years with the right paperwork, whereas they used to be given only three months. French Polynesia is essentially facing a problem of over-tourism by yachts, which has led to a whole range of problems between cruisers and locals. My own anecdotal experience has shown me that these fables are one contributor to the problems. Enough sailors believe the fables, and even believe they are entitled to the same experiences, so that troubles are bound to arise.

Like all fables, these stories have a basis in reality. There was a time when these kinds of things did happen.

Before World War Two, when voyaging in small yachts was the province only of strange misfits and adventurers, when an offshore sailor could count on one hand the number of other cruisers he met, there actually were untouched reefs in the world. Harry Pidgeon, setting out alone almost a hundred years ago in the 34ft yawl he’d hewn out of timber himself, found plenty of deserted anchorages and generous locals. And following World War Two, when pioneering voyagers like the Smeetons, John Guzzwell and Bill Tilman were roaming the globe, these fables were still more fact than fiction.

Fiction, however, is what they are today, unfortunately. There are exceptions, of course, as in anything. I’ve been the recipient of great acts of generosity, even as recently as last year, and certainly throughout my first voyage to the South Pacific over thirteen years ago. But it’s important not to expect it. It’s important to realise that this is no longer the norm, because believing otherwise threatens to create unpleasant situations for everyone.

Take, for example, the no-anchoring policy that now exists in Bora Bora, an island that used to be the crown jewel of Polynesia but has suffered from too much traffic. Similar anchoring restrictions quickly followed in Tahiti and the rest of the Society Islands.

The Cook Islands, to the west of Tahiti, charge hefty daily anchoring fees, which vary 39

by island. Hawai’i – wishing to avoid derelict boats either left to rot or with liveaboards who do not maintain them to a reasonable standard – has a 72-hour anchoring policy, and marina slips are A graceful manta ray hard to come by, a combination which makes the archipelago difficult to cruise.

Even in places where anchoring remains free and unrestricted, cruisers increasingly find locals less than welcoming. On the mild end of the spectrum, in the most frequented parts of the Marquesas I’ve noticed exorbitant prices for ubiquitous goods like limes and bananas. In Atuona, a port of entry, I heard $30 quoted for a small bunch of bananas while rats ate the bananas rotting on the trees nearby. On the extreme end, in 2019 rumours were swirling about locals in Ra’iatea (one of the islands between Tahiti and Bora Bora) cutting sailors’ anchor rodes while they were asleep or ashore.

From the cruisers’ perspective it feels horrible. It feels like profiteering, vandalism and worse. Sailors who started out with beautiful dreams of self-reliant freedom, gorgeous landfalls and happy experiences meeting new people, are hurt by feeling unwanted and are disappointed to find that the freedom of sailing over the horizon isn’t so unrestrained after all. It’s hard to understand at first – you’ve come with the best intentions.

Celeste in Hanamoenoa Bay

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Anaho Bay, Nuku Hiva in the off season.

In the high season there might be up to 50 boats at anchor The greatest change since Guzzwell and the Smeetons set sail is simply that there are more boats. Even a dozen years ago, a fraction of the number of boats that now visit French Polynesia did so. There are all kinds of reasons why this is so – the cheaper prices of used boats following the 2008 financial crisis, bigger and more comfortable boats with many of the conveniences of home, the affordability and ease of use of today’s navigation, communication, and other technologies, increasingly flexible remote working arrangements, tempting fables of the sailing life marketed

by YouTube channels, changes in French Polynesia’s long-stay visa programme, and increased development within the islands, including faster internet and more and better facilities for cruisers.

More people interested in sailing and able to realise their dreams is not at all a bad thing – on the contrary, it’s wonderful to see people setting out to sail oceans. It has lots of good side effects, such as making more people conscious of the environmental threats to the world’s oceans. But unfortunately, in aggregate, it also puts more pressure on the islands and the local people. While an individual cruiser is coming with the best intentions, it’s impossible for hundreds of cruisers not to have an impact. It’s crucial to realise this and to act accordingly, to be honest about what cruising means today. It’s not the same, but it’s equally good, and if we approach it with care and thoughtfulness it can remain wonderful for a long time to come. To that end, it’s important to think about what it looks like to the locals when hundreds of boats arrive, not all of them behaving perfectly.

In the Marquesas over the last three years, I have gotten to know a number of the local people quite well. All of them were generous and kind beyond measure, but a few of them noted that they’d occasionally had trouble with cruisers. Their primary concerns were with stealing fruit, spearing too many fish from the reef and – in one instance – a big crowd disturbing the quiet peace of the beach and bay. Of course most sailors do not mean to steal, over-fish, or disturb anything or anyone. They’ve just heard the fables. The fables that when they get to the Marquesas there will be fruit everywhere, the locals eager to give you the wild produce of the land.

Most of it, however, is not wild. One Marquesan man showed me round his garden, pointing out where he’d planted new trees and was nurturing them along. He told 41

A beautiful beach on Tahuata. The area behind the beach may look wild but it’s actually a garden, carefully tended every day me about a group of sailors who had picked all of his pamplemousse (grapefruit) when he was gone one day, leaving him with none for several weeks. He told me of cruisers trampling his new saplings, not noticing them underfoot when they tried to hike up the valley from the beach. The hikers had also inadvertently scared away the wild boar and goats he hunted, meaning he had to range much further afield for his meat, leaving his orchard and garden unprotected. This orchard might not look like a New England apple orchard – it isn’t ordered in tidy rows, the fruit trees are in among the natural vegetation so that at first glance they do appear to be growing wild. But if one looks a little closer, there’s evidence of a gardener’s care, of someone watering the plants when everywhere else is dry, of weeding around the young saplings.

Our friend Tafeta on a wild boar hunt on Tahuata

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I’ve heard similar complaints about sailors spear-fishing.

Spear-fishing is increasingly popular, especially among young cruisers who’ve watched YouTube sailing channels before embarking on their own voyages.

A manta But if every spearray homes in fisherman takes a fish on a ball of fish for dinner every night, the reef can’t support it and the locals’ food resource is gone, not to mention the destruction this causes to the ecosystem.

Each time I heard these complaints I tried to explain why sailors would behave this way, that many thought the fruit grew wild, that they’d heard stories about the South Pacific that weren’t necessarily true but which they’d believed. But the locals should not have to worry that anchors and over-fishing will damage the coral reefs. They should not be made to feel that they owe hospitality to the sailors simply because their grandparents might have freely given it to the sailors of 50 years ago. None of us are entitled to anything in our voyaging. Put another way, nothing has to be. So everything that is, is something to be grateful for.

Hanamoenoa Bay – South Pacific idyll

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Dramatic Vaipo waterfall in Nuku Hiva, cascading 2000 feet from the plateau down into Hakaui Valley When we approach our voyages responsibly, realising that it’s a great gift to be able to do it at all, our perspective changes. No longer are we upset that we do not have the South Pacific idyll of Hanamoenoa Bay, or the beautiful protected circle of Anaho Bay, or the mysterious cloud-wreathed spires of Hakaui Valley, to ourselves – instead we are grateful to be there in the first place, surrounded by such beauty. We see the other boats in the anchorage not as an annoyance but as an opportunity for new friendships.

When we feel gratitude instead of entitlement, we no longer expect to be showered with pamplemousse, bananas and starfruit. Instead we’re happy that it’s there for us to purchase (at reasonable prices, of course – I’m not endorsing overcharging tourists!).

Better yet, we can be generous ourselves, giving or trading extra line, snorkel gear or other items in remote places where goods are hard to come by. If we understand and accept that times have changed and that sailors are not the rarities they once were, then we’re not unpleasantly surprised when the locals don’t show great interest in us – rather, we make the effort to show our interest in, and respect for, their culture, their lives and the places they call home. They are our hosts, and we want them to invite us back for a second visit.

I hope that if all cruisers can step back and adjust how we look at voyaging in the more visited places, there’s a chance that we can stop the increasing official restrictions and unofficial unpleasantness that can sometimes happen. We have a lot to offer these places and people, just as they have so much we can learn from them. With 44

this kind of mindset, voyaging today does not seem a lesser experience than that of the pioneering voyagers of the 1920s and 1950s. It’s just different. The ocean sailors of the past had to be patient and phlegmatic about the weather (they had no routing services or satellite communications), about their navigation (successive overcast days caused much anxiety when your sextant was the only means of fixing your position), about their diet (on-board refrigeration was almost unheard-of) and about their lack of creature comforts (to contemporary eyes, their boats were slow, leaky, cramped and terribly lacking in modern conveniences). The ocean sailors of today have to be patient and phlegmatic not about those things but about the issues caused by increased levels of world travel. However, there are still many, many friendly people out there who are eager to befriend someone who makes an effort. You might even find they want to give you a huge bag of fruit when you say goodbye.

And there are still many, many beautiful wild places in the world where a sailor can drop the hook, watch for the sunset’s green flash, and marvel that they’re there, precisely where they’d dreamed of being.

With many thanks to the Cruising Club of America, in whose journal Voyages this article first appeared.

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Anne Hammick, Editor flying.fish@oceancruisingclub.org 46

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THE GIG Humphrey Barton (It’s easy to forget that, together with his sailing skills and impressive number of ocean passages, our Founder was also an outstanding writer. The following account first appeared in The Sea and Me, a collection of fifteen true stories published in 1952. It is reproduced here with the permission of Hum’s son Peter and daughter Pat, both OCC members of very long standing. The former explained that, ‘my Dad spent the first year or two of World War Two with the Royal Engineers in the Orkneys, and when he asked to be moved to somewhere more interesting he was sent to the Shetlands!’

I would also like to thank Past Vice Commodore George Curtis, who spotted The Gig in The Marine Quarterly and drew it to my attention – and who points out that, had this voyage turned out differently, our Club would not exist!)

No one likes to tell the world of their mistakes and it is with some doubt and hesitation that I begin this yarn. I hope, however, that it may be a warning to people who contemplate coastwise cruising in unsuitable craft. Time and experience, trial and error, have evolved the correct proportions of any boat, yacht or ship. If any one dimension be reduced or exaggerated to excess then that craft will almost certainly prove to be unseaworthy in certain conditions. I have cruised many thousands of miles in all sorts of small craft and have only rarely found myself in danger from the sea itself.

An open boat properly handled will survive quite severe conditions, but even if she is correctly proportioned there is a definite limit to what she will stand. How closely we approached that limit I leave you to judge for yourself.

The first time I saw Foula was from the bridge of an 800-ton cargo steamer bound from Stromness in the Orkneys to Lerwick in the Shetlands. It was getting dusk and we had just left Fair Isle a mile or two to starboard, and were rolling heavily to a long swell, when I sighted away to the northwest a small high island, jet black against a pale violet sky. I could not for the life of me think of any island that lay right out there in the Atlantic, so mysterious and so lonely. Finally I asked the captain. ‘That is Foula,’ he replied. ‘It lies 26 miles west of Scalloway and it is the most western of the Shetlands.’

This sounded interesting, so I looked it up in the North Sea Pilot and discovered that it is quite a small island, only three miles long by two miles broad, and that it has five distinct mountain peaks. The highest is the Sneug, which rises to 1373ft (418m) and descends casually to a cliff which falls a sheer 1200ft (366m) on the west side of the island. I decided then and there that one day I would visit Foula. I wanted to stand on the edge of that tremendous cliff and look down into the sea. (When it came to the point, I found it better to lie and not stand.)

In Shetland I learnt more about Foula. It is pronounced ‘Fool-er’ like ‘cooler.’ The population was then (1943) about 80, of whom more than 50 were aged over 50. The people are crofters but spend much of their time fishing and fowling. The great skua breeds on the island as do many other seabirds. The island even has its own peculiar mouse, found nowhere else in the kingdom. All this on a two by three island!

The first thing to be done, of course, was to find a sailing boat and then to train a 49

crew. I searched Lerwick harbour for a suitable craft and soon found a Naval gig. She was lying on a quay, half full of rainwater, utterly neglected and simply filthy. I learned that the Navy owned her and I at once asked if she might be lent to the Royal Engineers for training purposes. The suggestion was not approved. However, I was determined to have that gig. She was a really lovely boat, double-skin carvel and most beautifully built, two-masted, with dipping lugs of almost equal size.

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A few days later the Navy, most fortunately, required a mobile crane of ours. The rest was simple, and the gig was lent, complete with all her gear and without any more fuss. I was so pleased that I threw in the crane driver for luck. We set to at once and fitted her out. There were plenty of volunteers. Not one had ever been in a sailing boat before, but they learned very quickly.

The boat had an amazing turn of speed off the wind – I believe that they can do 10 knots under ideal conditions. We lost three masts in quick succession until it dawned on me that the Navy never sit these boats up, and that shrouds are essential if the crew are kept up to windward. We fitted one shroud to each mast and shifted it over to the other side every time we tacked. What with dipping both lugsails round the masts, fleeting both shrouds and shifting the foresail sheet block across, it might be thought that turning to windward up narrow channels would be a little difficult; but in point of fact the crew became so adept that it was all quite simple. Eventually they became so quick that when it breezed up and a reduction of sail became necessary, they could shift the tack tackles and sheet blocks on to the reef cringles whilst the gig was in stays, and by the time we were sailing full on the other tack both reefs in both sails were down except for rolling up the foot and tying the points.

Having sailed several times round Bressay, the island off Lerwick, and having visited every island and rock within ten miles, we sailed to the Out Skerries one weekend.

They are a small group of inhabited islands 25 miles north-northeast of Lerwick. It was an uneventful trip except for the fact that we arrived back only just before a heavy gale from the southwest. The Shetlands seem to lie rather close to the track of the frequent depressions that come rushing in from the Atlantic, and the wind can increase very rapidly.

Having exhausted the Lerwick district as a cruising ground and still thinking of lonely Foula, we sailed the gig south round Sumburgh Head to Scalloway. The distance was 50 miles and the passage took two whole days as the wind was light and variable. We came back from Scalloway by road in about 15 minutes, the distance across the island being less than six miles.

Our new base offered great possibilities. Within a 5 mile radius of Scalloway there were nearly 30 islands for us to explore. In bad weather we could sail in sheltered water under the lee of the islands when conditions outside were impossible. In strong westerly winds the spume from the swell breaking on the outer islands would drift into the inner waters and we would sail through a layer of froth that covered acres of sea. Sometimes we would slip out between the islands and for an hour or two ride the great seas outside. And nearly always we could see the peaks of Foula rising temptingly in the west.

‘When are we going to Foula?’ the crew would ask. But I was waiting for the right weather. There was no great hurry and we were gaining valuable experience all the time. It came at last – a perfect Saturday morning and an excellent weather forecast.

There were three volunteers – Captain E H Davies, Regimental Sergeant Major T Colclough and Corporal Lowe. All Sappers, all young, keen and by now thoroughly experienced in handling the boat. There should have been two more, but unfortunately they were on leave.

There was very little wind when we left Scalloway at about midday. We rowed and drifted down to Hamna Voe and landed at the quaint little pier to wait for a wind.

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Some of us wandered to the summit of the little island. In the clear northern air Foula looked absurdly close, but it was still about 21 miles distant. All around us were scattered the little brown islands, pounded by the sea into every conceivable shape.

To the northeast, Scalloway lay tucked neatly round the head of the bay with blue peat smoke rising straight up from its chimneys and the heather-covered mountains rolling away into the distance. Half a dozen bright-varnished Norwegian fishing boats swung idly to their moorings on a glassy sea. The cool northern sunlight was lighting up the whole magnificent seascape in the most delicate pastel shades, producing an effect never seen in southern waters. At our feet lay our beautiful gig, her long, lean hull and short varnished spars perfectly reflected in the clear, calm water.

We did not have to wait long for a wind. It came in gently from the south, little dark patches on the turquoise sea. We pushed off at once. The tide was running to the south (at an unknown speed) and we just kept Foula fine on the port bow.

The wind soon freshened to a 10 knot breeze, and on a broad reach we covered the 20-odd miles in less than four hours. It was all just too easy. We sailed into the tiny harbour of Ham Voe and tied up to a small stone quay. This is the only harbour in the island and, despite the fact that it lies on the east side, the westerly swell finds its way in during bad weather when every boat has to be hauled out up the rough beach at the head of the Voe. We were followed into the harbour by a small sailing boat that had been fishing off the island. One of the crew was the husband of Mrs Smith, the schoolmistress, and he took us up to their house. Nothing was too much trouble for these kind people.

We were lent the ‘Proprietor’s House’ for the night. The house did not appear to have been lived in for some time and things seemed rather damp and musty, but we soon had a peat fire going and made ourselves comfortable.

During the night it blew hard from southwest and next morning was dull and damp with the Sneug lost in grey, ragged cloud. We climbed it and were nearly lost ourselves.

Descending on the west side we emerged from the driving white mist of the clouds, got our bearings, climbed another slight rise and found ourselves, suddenly, on the edge of the stupendous cliff, the highest in the British Isles. From such a height the sea did not look particularly rough and the crew presaged a good passage back, but I knew from the broken water at the base of the cliff that there was a fairly heavy sea running, and my heart sank within me.

Having dropped a few rocks over the edge – they took ten seconds to reach the bottom – we returned to Ham Voe by way of the north end of the island and had lunch.

I found it very difficult to decide what to do. The wind had certainly moderated considerably, but I did not altogether like the look of the weather. Prudence demanded that we should stay, but we were short of food and I hated to sponge off the islanders, who were themselves short of many items. We were all due back the following morning and there might be all sorts of trouble if we failed to turn up. The crew did not understand my hesitation – they had complete confidence in myself and the boat, bless ’em. Weakly I decided to go. Never have I done a more foolish thing. Fortunately, I had sense enough to lower the foremast and shift the mainmast to the centre step.

This gave us 143ft2 (13∙3m2) of sail nearly in the middle of the boat – a very snug rig.

The harbour was so sheltered that the crew were astonished and obviously thought my caution excessive. They changed their minds later.

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Gigs sailing close-hauled, in photos thought to have been taken in the early 20th century

We left at about 1500 and, steering east-by-south, soon lost sight of the island in the fine driving rain. As we lost the shelter of the land the sea increased, but it was well abaft the beam and the gig was running cleanly at 5 or 6 knots with wind and sea on the starboard quarter. For about an hour all went well, and I was beginning to think that we might yet make a good passage, when quite suddenly we found ourselves among heavy breaking seas. I bore right away at once, but a few minutes later a big sea broke alongside. It poured in over the port gunwale, a foaming torrent of roaring white water.

It filled my seaboots and it was icy cold, cold as the touch of death. The crew were dazed by the suddenness of it all. ‘Bail,’ I yelled. ‘Bail like hell!’ And bail they did.

I confess I felt sick with fright. I realised only too well what a mess we were in.

But the boat was still afloat. She certainly had a lot of water in her, but it was far less than I expected. When a sea breaks aboard it looks much worse than it really is, as it is mostly froth.

I brought the boat on the wind and we soon bailed her clear. And there we lay, close-hauled, starboard tack and heading about south, riding a sea that was running most dangerously high. No one on the mainland knew we were at sea. No shipping in sight, and no prospect of seeing any. In fact not the slightest hope of assistance should the worst come to the worst. It all looked pretty grim to me, but I doubt whether the others ever realised how serious the position was.

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By taking a careful look to windward when on the crest of each sea one could, I found, get a fair idea of what was coming. Many a bad sea could be avoided by bearing away in ample time. Others we missed by hardening sheet and sailing the gig as close as she would go. But it was the most anxious work. Time and time again it seemed that nothing could save us. Several more seas broke aboard, but fortunately never two in quick succession, and the crew were always able to bail her clear before another fell upon us.

How high the seas were running it was difficult to estimate, but we were all agreed that they were much higher than our mast. Height itself does not matter, of course – it is in the breaking crest that lies the danger, and far too many were curling over and bursting into a mass of white roaring water that fairly numbed one to the marrow.

I considered the possibility of returning to Foula, but the risk of missing the island altogether was too great. I realised that the sea was largely caused by a very strong weather-going tide running south against a heavy swell. The North Sea Pilot gives the strength of the tide as 2 knots. The people of Foula had said 4–6 knots but, knowing how common it is for the strength of a tide to be exaggerated, I regret to say that I had not altogether believed them. I S Holbourn in his book The Isle of Foula, which I read later, says that the tide off the Hoevdi Grund, an extensive rocky bank which lay just to the southwest of us, runs at 9–10 knots at springs. The 16,000 ton liner Oceanic was lost there in 1914.

I hoped that we were far enough to the eastward to miss that shoal, but even so things looked bleak beyond words. We could not continue indefinitely to lie more or less hove-to heading south. We must at all costs get in somewhere before dark. I could have kicked myself for getting into such a mess.

For three hours we rode those seas. I hope I never have a worse three hours. But I had made my plans by then – a somewhat desperate plan, but it seemed our only hope.

The seas were not quite so vicious and I guessed that the tide must be on the turn.

‘We will run for Walls,’ I told the crew. ‘It lies dead to leeward of us and is nearer than Scalloway. I have not been there, but I know all about it and I am sure it is the best place for us. Now when I bear away pay out the anchor warp astern. Give me the end now and I will pass it under the horse.’

I waited my chance and then bore right away. The crew paid out the 25 fathoms of 2½in manila*. A great sea came rolling up astern. It was on the verge of breaking. Rapidly it overtook us. We soared to the summit. Gunwales amidships nearly awash. Crest spattering spray all over the boat. Going like a surfboard. Drag warp bar-tight. But it held the boat square to the sea. Time and time again that rope saved us from broaching-to.

Like an arrow the gig ran northeast, a mere speck on a great heaving ocean. Ahead lay a dead lee shore with only one possible refuge, and that a mere hole in the rocks.

I had only a vague idea as to our position, for our compass was a miserable prismatic, and I had no parallel rulers – not that I could have used them in such conditions. If my navigation was at fault... But I dared not think about it. In any case, I had plenty to think about in steering the boat. Although the rudder was a good deep one, extending well below the hull, we found that frequently when on the crest of a great comber the blade was out of the water. Then the tiller just went sloppy in one’s hand and the * This equates to 150ft (46m) of 63mm diameter manila. When wet, as it undoubtedly was, this would have been a nightmare to handle.

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rudder became quite useless at the most critical moment. It was on those occasions that the drag rope acted as a brake and steadied her.

Owing to the great length of the boat in proportion to her beam and depth, our freeboard amidships when perched on a crest was perilously slight. We had already jettisoned everything of little value and we had concentrated the few remaining weights in the middle of the boat so as to make the ends as buoyant as possible. We pulled up the centreplate after which there was nothing more we could do except run northeast, bail when necessary, and trust in the Lord.

From about 1900 we ran square before wind and sea. It had become a race against time. We must get in before dark, for I knew that we would not last long when darkness fell. Fortunately, it would not be dark until about 2300. The crew were all seasick by this time and the corporal had received a stunning blow from the mainsheet block which more or less put him out of the picture.

I have forgotten how many seas came aboard. One burst alongside with such fury that some of the crew momentarily disappeared from my sight. But Davies and Colclough always had her bailed clear before we took another aboard. They were a dauntless pair. By keeping a close lookout astern I found that I could avoid many a bad sea by altering course as necessary, but I had only a brief moment, when on the crest, for that glance astern. Some of the seas we evaded could have overwhelmed us with the greatest of ease.

Visibility improved slightly and at about 2100 we sighted land ahead, distant six to seven miles. It was a great moment, but all we got was an occasional fleeting glimpse of a bleak and rocky coast. The little harbour of Walls lies behind a small island named Vaila and at the head of Vaila Voe. There are two entrances to the Voe – Wester Sound and Easter Sound. Both are narrow, and as Wester Sound appeared from the chart to have several nasty rocks right in the fairway, I chose the other one. But the difficulty would be to identify it, as I knew that from seaward the island would look as if it were all part of the mainland of Shetland. Fortunately I remembered that there was a coastguard lookout hut on the clifftop just eastward of Easter Sound.

Gradually the distance lessened. Soon we could see flashes of white against the dark cliffs when the rollers burst on the rocks below and the spray flew halfway up the cliffs. We appeared to be heading for certain destruction. There was not a break to be seen in those cliffs.

We ran on until we were about three miles from the coast, and then lowered the sail so that I could get a better view of the land. Hanging on to the mast, my sodden oilskins flapping around me, I strained my eyes to identify something. It was difficult, as the land was in sight for only a second or two when on the crest of a sea. At last I spotted a small speck on the hillside. But was it the coastguard hut or just an outcrop of rock? I waited for the next sea. It seemed to take an age to come along. I climbed up on the thwart. Up went the gig again, this was a bigger sea than the last. There was the land again, miles of it – miles of unbroken cliff. Where was my speck? There it was, dead ahead now. Was it a hut? Yes. No. Yes, it was a hut. I was almost certain it was a hut. But supposing it was another hut... There just could not be more than one hut on such a desolate coast. I climbed down from my perch, and was about to tell the crew I had sighted the hut and that we had nothing more to worry about when I saw the father and mother of all seas coming up astern.

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The dramatic illustration, drawn by J Chancellor, which accompanied the story in The Sea and Me ‘Hang on, chaps,’ I shouted as I scrambled aft to the tiller. But I was only halfway there when it burst over the stern with a shattering roar. Colclough was steering, and he disappeared from sight. I thought for a moment that it was the end. But no, the gig was still afloat, although she had the devil of a lot of water in her. The crew bailed her clear. I kept the hut fine on the starboard bow – when I could see it – and hoped for the best.

The swell got even greater as we closed with the land. Contrary to general belief we never lost the wind when in the troughs, but I did observe a distinct downdraft every time we were thrown skywards by a sea. I suppose that a big swell must displace by its movement a certain amount of air. And what a monstrous swell it was – never had I seen a bigger one, not even on the west coast of Ireland. We could not have been a mile from the land when, at last, we identified Easter Sound. It appeared to be a mere gap in the cliffs, and the whole place seemed to be a mass of seething white water. It looked hopeless. But there was nothing to be done except run on and hope for the best. It was getting dusk and would be dark in less than an hour.

We lashed the foremast and the furled foresail down to the thwarts to increase our 56

buoyancy if, as I fully expected, we were swamped. ‘Stick to the boat if she fills up,’ I told the crew. ‘The coastguards have almost certainly sighted us by now, and if we capsize they’ll send something out from Walls to pick us up.’ Later I learnt that the coastguards did not, in fact, sight us until we were actually entering the Sound. The gig was a mere speck in such a sea and would have been visible only when on the crests.

Soon we could hear the roar of the sea on the rocks. Gradually it became louder and louder, and by the time we had reached the entrance it was a thunderous din that fairly put the fear of God into one. The seas were hurling themselves onto the rocks and halfway up the cliffs. I steered for the centre of the opening. A great sea came thundering up astern, picked us up, and hurled us ahead. I thought it would take us right in, but we slid over its back and dropped into a trough so deep that we almost lost sight of the cliffs, close as they were. I glanced astern. An enormous sea was coming along, a great mass of unstable water, and it was on the verge of breaking. The crest was spattering spray. Up went the gig. Up and up she went, gathering speed until we were on the crest, going like smoke, gunwales awash. A fleeting glimpse of Gruting Voe ahead. We were looking right down into it. Then, quite suddenly, we found ourselves in the smooth waters of the Voe. ‘We’ve made it, chaps,’ I said.

We swung sharply to port and groped our way up Vaila Sound in the gathering darkness. It was quite dark when we tied up to a sturdy motor fishing vessel at Walls.

A tousled head appeared from a hatch. ‘Where are you from?’ asked the man. ‘Foula,’ I replied. He laughed his disbelief.

Someone shone a torch and I saw the name of his ship. It seemed to strike a familiar chord. ‘Ah,’ I exclaimed. ‘The Smiths told us this morning that they were expecting you today. What are you waiting for?’ and I laughed – it seemed to be my turn.

His face was a study. Almost worth the experience we had been through.

If you enjoy reading Flying Fish you may also enjoy The Marine Quarterly. It describes itself at https://www.themarinequarterly.com/ as ‘112 pages of intelligent sea reading ... published in a useful pocket size, printed on hefty paper, illustrated with woodcuts and line drawings ... greeted with appreciative remarks from readers all over the world’.

An annual subscription will currently set you back £44.00.

Founder Member Ian Nicolson reviewed an early issue of The Marine Quarterly in Flying Fish 2011/1. This can be accessed – together with a great deal of other good reading – at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

There’s no thrill in easy sailing when the skies are clear and blue, there’s no joy in merely doing things which anyone can do.

But there is some satisfaction that is mighty sweet to take, when you reach a destination that you never thought you’d make.

Edgar Guest 57

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10/02/2021 11:50

THE INSECT Phil Gordon We had left Beveridge Reef, that invisible atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with the prospect of a modest trade wind wafting us gently but firmly towards Tonga.

Blue sky, blue sea with small, very small, white-caps, flying fish and dolphins was what we had in mind. By the second day it was clear that our wish was not to be granted – the weather was deteriorating rapidly and before long it was blowing 35 knots with driving rain and a considerably increased sea state. Was this really the South Pacific, that ocean that we had sailed 10,000 miles to experience?

The companionway door was closed to prevent the rain driving into the saloon, but the sliding hatch could be left open so I was able to stand in the dry with my head and shoulders outside and view the scene. And what a magnificent scene it was, exciting even. The seas directly on our stern were large and steep with frothy crests.

As each one bore down on us it appeared certain that it would crash down on the counter. But no, every time Deliverance would lift her elegant bum and the sea would pass harmlessly underneath giving us a short burst of speed. Time and time again I watched this exhilarating performance.

Jill’s watch and a time for me to catch up on some sleep. I rigged the lee cloth and climbed into bed. Jill was able to keep watch sitting on the chart table, from where she could see the compass and look out through the windows on the wild weather. I had not been stretched out for long when she announced that a strand of wire in the aft starboard lower was broken. “Are you sure?” – “I’m sure”. I lay there for a while

Deliverance approaching the Marquesas. Photo Mike Whibley

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contemplating this. Going out there was not an attractive prospect, but nor was losing the mast and in that event the recriminations did not bear thinking about. I crawled out of bed, pulled on my oilies and launched myself into the outside world.

On hands and knees I crept along the side deck, then peered at and felt the offending shroud. No problems. I crawled back to the cockpit, took my oilies off and headed back down below to bed. Not many minutes had passed before Jill stated, “Either there is a broken wire or there is an insect holding on to the bottom of the shroud”. Now there was food for thought. I would much rather snuggle down in bed than crawl around the deck again ... but an insect! I lay there wondering just what kind of insect might hold on in 35 knots, driving rain and the occasional deluge of salt water. Even David Attenborough would be hard pressed to come up with such a creature.

Oilies on again and back to the recalcitrant bit of rigging for another look. This time I found it – the broken wire, not the insect. On the tight turn where the wire wraps around the thimble there were one, possibly two, broken strands. Two out of seven is not good. Back to the cockpit for a plan of campaign. I pulled a stout length of line from the lazarette, struggled into my safety harness and made my way forward.

Climbing up the rope ratlines in rough weather is not easy – as each ratline takes one’s weight, the two supporting shrouds move closer together making the foothold slack and very wobbly, and with every foot gained in height there is a corresponding increase in the already violent motion. The plan was to tie a bowline immediately above the crosstrees and lead the line down to a winch on deck, thus taking the strain off the damaged shroud.

Having reached the crosstrees, all I had to do was tie a bowline and descend. To tie a bowline one normally needs two hands, but here I was 20 feet above the deck needing both hands just to maintain the status quo. I wrapped one leg and one arm around the mast, sort of giving me one free hand. Could I tie a bowline? No, I could not. Many years ago I was a climbing instructor. I recall standing at the top of a gritstone cliff telling the novice at the bottom how to tie a bowline. “Make a loop. No, other way round. No, loop on the inside”. Just how many ways are there of making a loop in a bit of rope? “The rabbit comes out of its hole, no, out, not in. Round the tree, not that tree, other way round the bloody tree”. I felt like that novice. Whilst cruising one must tie a bowline at least once a day, usually several times. That means that over the last three years I have tied that ubiquitous knot a thousand times, maybe double that. Gripping on up there, the Pacific Ocean doing its best to shake me off, I was intellectually incapable of achieving that simple task. Much bad language and the knot was tied. Jill caught the flailing rope which was duly wrapped around a winch and the strain eased from the shroud. In fact in my enthusiasm on the winch I started to bend the mast. I hadn’t realised our winches were that powerful.

I checked to establish that the rest of the rig was insect free, at deck level at least.

Then down below to dry off and return to bed. Hang on, think about this, my off-watch time was over. I looked at my bed longingly. “Go on Phil, get your head down, I’m all right here”. Jill can be a gem at times.

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FULL CIRCLE Graham and Avril Johnson (Graham and Avril received the 2020 Vasey Vase for their 18-year circumnavigation aboard their 44ft cutter Dream Away, during which they’ve been among Flying Fish’s most regular contributors. The account of the last leg of their voyage, entitled The 19th Hole and coincidentally their 19th submission, appeared in the last issue, and the offer of a final piece recalling some particular highlights was definitely not to be missed.

Dream Away anchored at Vanuatu in August 2015 features on this issue’s cover.)

The boys finished university, so we left home. We had been planning our great escape for years. The boat was ready, Graham obtained early retirement from academia and the world’s oceans beckoned. Living aboard full time is different from a three-month extended cruise, so we set a two-year window before making a longer-term decision.

Apart from a passion for sailing, it is fortunate that we share common interests in people, wildlife, exploring new places and learning new things. Neither of us had experienced South America, so Brazil looked an exciting destination.

Leaving from Southampton in June 2002 our navigation was on paper charts of varied antiquity with a stand-alone GPS receiver backed up by a sextant. We made it as far as Cowes, since it was blowing hard from the southwest and Av had been promised more downwind than windward passages. In August we departed Falmouth to meander down the Atlantic coast to Lagos, Portugal, revisiting favourite haunts and friends along the way. Leaving the European mainland, a spectacular spinnaker run sped us on to the Canaries. We shared Arrecife anchorage with a great bunch of cruisers, hosted Sunday lunch pizza extravaganzas aboard Dream Away and made many friends. After the ARC departed we cruised the islands, surviving a dreadful storm in Gran Tarajal on Fuerteventura. We shared the harbour with a pair of Aussie yachts and our combined efforts saved the boats. Senegal followed, anchoring off the Club Voile de Dakar at Hann. Along the beach large wooden fishing pirogues landed their catch, the same craft which had indicated their presence at night by lifting the lid from the brazier amidships, unleashing a great gout of flame.

We moved on to The Gambia, sailing 150 miles upriver to Janjanbureh, the old capital, spotting crocodiles, hippos, monkeys, chimpanzees, baboons and all manner of birds.

Here we were immersed in traditional Africa, a far cry from the more commercialised, tourist-savvy coast. The people were warmly welcoming, and kids followed us everywhere, eager to run errands and show us around. Their currency was footballs, as hard cash was immediately confiscated by their parents. Negotiating in fractions of a ball was entertaining – they always knew when a whole one had been earned. Our maths class attracted the local teacher, who became a good friend. The school was shut as UK charity funding had been stopped, but the charity assured us they were restarting in the next school year so in the meantime we continued the funding. A great party ensued, with promises of our own hut in the compound when we return!

May 2003 arrived, along with the first rains, our trigger to set off for Brazil. Our Aussie friends were already bound for Surinam but kept in touch via HF for the ocean crossing. The radio had already proven its worth, keeping us connected with friends in 62

One very happy Gambian schoolteacher the UK, weather information, nets and schedules with other cruisers. Our amateur licences provided legitimate contact with all number of different services and, once installed, virtually all were free. We added a Pactor modem* in South America to give us access to GRIB files, from then on the mainstay for our weather forecasts.

We have stayed with the GFS model, having learnt its limitations and foibles, and found it accurate enough for our requirements. We are not fans of multiple model debates, which is not to say that others are not equally good – it’s simply a matter of information overload and any forecast beyond three days is dubious.

The 23-day ocean crossing was uneventful, our radar enabling us to avoid the worst of some impressive squalls in the doldrums. Arriving in vibrant, noisy, steaming Salvador was another culture shock. Brazil is a fascinating, vast country with some serious social problems, and watching one’s back and never carrying valuables was de rigueur for any trip into town. After exploring the spectacular bay full of island gems we sailed south, investigating several rivers where the riverside villages introduced us to a very different Brazil. Enraptured by our new lifestyle we continued south, exploring more of Brazil, then Uruguay, and ending up in Buenos Aires, Argentina. We met Dutch friends repairing their 50ft steel yacht, badly damaged in the notoriously horrendous seas that arise along the shallow eastern coast when a pampero wind howls through.

Av has two Argentinean distant cousins who provided a wonderful insight into the country, culture and society. We travelled extensively on the impressive coach system and loved our time in the High Andes.

Following extensive boat preparations in Mar del Plata, in January 2005 we began our great adventure to the Beagle Channel in loose company with our Dutch chums.

Our friendship with a retired Argentine Air Force officer paid dividends – being the meteorologist for the Total oil field at the entrance to the Magellan Straits, he provided detailed weather data during the passage. There were several fascinating breaks, notably the surreal red sand cliffs of Caleta Hornos, then Puerto Deseado, an archetypal frontier town some 700 miles south of Mar del Plata, deep into the Roaring Forties, which we enjoyed until violent weather confronted us on our harbour * A Pactor is a terminal node controller fitted between an HF radio and a computer to facilitate digital radio communication.

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Graham and Avril have written many articles for Flying Fish over the past 18 years, listed by issue below. All appear on the OCC website – if you’re unsure how to access them, refer to the Editorial on page 3.

1 Hythe SC, UK 2 Falmouth, UK 3 La Coruña, Spain 4 Lagos, Portugal 5 Puerto Calero, Lanzarote, Canaries 6 Hann (Dakar), Senegal A Foray into Africa, FF 2003/2 7 Banjul, The Gambia 8 Salvador, Brazil Beautiful Bahia, FF 2004/2 9 Abraão, Ilha Grande, Brazil 10 Porto Belo, Brazil 11 Piriapolis, Uruguay Voyage to the Uttermost Part of the Earth, FF 2005/1 (11-16) 12 Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires, Argentina 13 Mar del Plata, Argentina 14 Puerto Deseado, Argentina 15 Cabo Virgenes, Argentina 16 Ushuaia, Argentina The Wet ‘n’ the Dry, FF 2007/2 (16-18) 17 Caleta Olla, Chile Trouble with the Wildlife, FF 2005/2 18 Puerto Edén, Chile Networks Working, FF 2006/1 19 Cumberland Bay, Robinson Crusoe Island, Chile Evolution in Action: The Story of the Stealth Goat, FF 2009/1 20 Bahía de Caráquez, Ecuador Cowes with Altitude (Lake Titicaca), FF 2008/1 21 Isla Coiba, Panama Equatorial Escapade, FF 2008/2 (21-22) 22 Acapulco, Mexico 23 Marina Seca, Guaymas, Mexico Baja Bound, FF 2009/2 Time Out in the Baja, FF 2011/1 24 Papeete, Tahiti 25 Mopelia Paradise Found, FF 2012/2 (25-30) 26 Suwarrow

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27 Apia, Samoa 28 Neiafu, Tonga 29 Nuk’alofa, Tonga 30 Opua, New Zealand 31 Alofi, Niue 32 Tonga 33 Fiji 34 New Zealand 35 SavuSavu, Fiji 36 New Caledonia 37 Napier, New Zealand 38 Anetium, Vanuatu Pig Tales, FF 2017/1 39 Torres, Vanuatu Bank Notes, FF 2017/1 40 Pohnpei, Micronesia Sweet Carolines, FF 2017/2 (40-41) 41 Palau 42 Talcoban, Philippines 43 Puerto Galera, Philippines 44 Subic Bay, Philippines 45 Port Barton, Philippines 46 Kudat, Borneo 47 Santubong, Borneo 48 Sebana Cove, Malaysia 49 Pangkor Marina, Malaysia Malaysia to Madagascar, FF 2019/2 (49-57) 50 Telaga, Langkawi, Malaysia 51 Ko Hong, Thailand 52 Sabang, Indonesia 53 Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 54 Gan, Maldives 55 Salomon Atoll, Chagos 56 Seychelles 57 Lotsoina Bay, Madagascar 58 Baly Bay, Madagascar The 19th Hole, FF 2020/2 (58-65) 59 Richards Bay, South Africa 60 Cape Town, South Africa 61 Walvis Bay, Namibia 62 St Helena 63 Ascension Island 64 Horta, Faial, Azores 65 Hythe, UK

Awesome glaciers inch down from the Darwin range mooring. A friendly fisherman counselled us regarding tactics and bolt holes further south, one of which provided refuge a few days later in an approaching storm. We anchored close in under the high cliffs just north of Cabo Virgenes lighthouse at the entrance to the Magellan Straits. Further out the weather and sea state were vile, and while our greatest danger came from debris blown over the clifftop we remained unscathed. It certainly substantiated the old adage to listen to local advice, especially from professional seafarers.

Finally rounding Tierra del Fuego, we entered the Beagle Channel heading towards Ushuaia. We had not planned to tarry but, finding the region totally enthralling, we elected to overwinter. Renewing visas was simple as the Chilean naval outpost of Puerto Williams lies just a few miles away along the Beagle Channel on Isla Navarino.

There was so much to see and explore and the wildlife was extraordinary – albatross and condors, steamer ducks and penguins, otters and beavers, seals and orcas ... the list was endless. Sailing highlights were rounding Cape Horn, including a brief landing, and weeks circumnavigating Isla Gordon in the Beagle Channel, exploring all the extensive inlets along ‘glacier alley’. Here, in the presence of one of nature’s most hypnotic, powerful forces, we were shocked to see the effects of global warming.

Bleak moraines stood isolated, behind them a great swathe of barren land before the retreating glacial face.

In Ushuaia we enjoyed both excellent skiing and a busy social life amongst the small contingent of cruisers and welcoming locals. Finally, eight months later, we waved goodbye, to spend the next six months exploring the plethora of Chilean channels and caletas on passage to Puerto Montt. It is an extraordinarily wild, remote wilderness where safety and self-sufficiency are paramount. An epic diversion was the sail through the Andes to Puerto Natales, where we left Dream Away at anchor 66

in a shallow river whilst we travelled to renew our visas. We were carrying five anchors to provide security in all seabed types and wind conditions, and employed our favoured tandem-anchoring system, a traditional fisherman anchor shackled on 6m of chain ahead of our main 60lb (27kg) CQR. We later changed the CQR for a Manson Supreme, which provided significant improvements in setting time and overall performance. Its Achilles heel is the quantity of thick mud it picks up, which can inhibit resetting if not cleared.

Further north, in Puerto Edén, we made friends with the Port Captain and his family, enjoying a memorable New Year celebration together. We were also involved in the search for a missing French yacht, eventually located in a remote bay. A gas explosion had wrecked the yacht and the couple were in a desperate state after 20 days’ living ashore in their liferaft. We found the Chilean Navy personnel scrupulously honest, fair and helpful, so it was embarrassing when the falsification of the stricken vessel’s insurance documents was discovered. This is not a unique deception, just another stupidity that engenders distrust of yachties and encourages ever more restrictive regulations.

Finally we reached Puerto Montt, a small city supporting a large fishing fleet and the base for the significant salmon-farming industry. Easter Island was next on the agenda, but an email from a fellow cruiser, injured whilst touring in a 4x4, persuaded us to fly to La Paz, Bolivia to drive him back. We spent a leisurely six weeks touring Bolivia, crossing the Atacama Desert, the salt pans in Uyuni and land-cruising through Chile back to Puerto Montt.

Next day we scaled the peak opposite, rewarded by more spectacular views of Machu Picchu

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Reviewing the sailing plan we decided on Mexico, since our Spanish was currently good and Baja California was on Av’s wish list. Spurred on by the Humbolt Current and a following wind we reached Ecuador via the Juan Fernández (Robinson Crusoe) islands and Iquique, northern Chile. A secure mooring in Bahía de Caráquez, Ecuador freed us to explore. Machu Picchu, another on Av’s wish list, was an awesome highlight of the adventure. Elsewhere, Lake Titicaca, Quito and Mount Chimborazo were memorable destinations.

In November 2007 we left South America to explore Central America. On a dark, windy, wet night close to some reputedly dangerous Colombian islands, Dream Away was suddenly lit by a high-powered spotlight. A large panga roared up alongside full of balaclava-shrouded men. There was much shouting and gesticulating, but we got the message to follow them. We were greatly relieved when they guided us through the gap in their long fishing net, advising us of the best course to avoid others ahead.

We don’t carry guns, feeling they are more likely to escalate than solve trouble, are useless in the face of a bunch of seriously armed pirates and cause endless trouble with the authorities. We sometimes ponder how many ‘missing fishermen’ are the result of panicking, gun-toting sailors.

The wind on the passage north is either feast or famine. We used the diurnal coastal breezes to make slow progress, with an occasional blast from a papagayo. The notorious Gulf of Tehuantepec produced a quiet day and we crossed into Mexico under spinnaker.

Finally we reached Guaymas in the Sea of Cortez, enjoying pelicans, boobies, turtles, manta rays, dolphins and whales on passage. We hauled Dream Away out, went for a tour around the country, then returned to the UK to resolve family issues. Mexico was good to us – we made many friends amongst both cruisers and locals, loved the food and the scenery, and the wildlife exceeded all our expectations.

In March 2011, after a year cruising the Sea of Cortez, we headed for the Marquesas, soon settling into our normal three-hour night watch routine. It was a good, varied run – we lay becalmed for 24 hours with all sails stowed, the big yankee split in a blow and a chainplate sheared, but our ancient Monitor wind vane never slept

Beautiful bays abound along the Baja Peninsula in the Sea of Cortez 68

We regularly provided overnight accommodation and we arrived safely in Hiva Oa after 27 days. French Polynesia is a world-renowned destination with many spectacularly attractive islands and atolls. We found an underlying tension between locals and colonialists, however, and it was not a happy place. Tahiti gave us the opportunity to restock, replace all the chainplates and meet some of the multitude of cruisers jammed into the anchorages.

We encountered several skippers on their first sail, eager to expound knowledge which, disconcertingly, rarely extended to the collision regulations. Equally worrying were those whose maintenance Everest is changing a light bulb – both sorely try the patience of their competent and generous fellow cruisers. Today’s technology which enables a yacht to be sailed by simply pressing buttons encourages such feckless behaviour, but there are many avenues to sensible, responsible preparation such as the OCC’s Associate Membership, mentoring and youth sponsorship initiatives.

We took the northern route across the South Pacific via Suwarrow, Samoa and Tonga. With the cyclone season approaching, we set out for New Zealand in early November 2011, arriving in Opua eleven days later after an uneventful passage. We had barely arrived when disaster struck. Av was diagnosed with breast cancer, needing an urgent operation, so we stayed in Auckland for immediate treatment. All went well, with outstanding medical care, and a passing conversation in Ponsonby Cruising Club resulted in our moving into the basement flat of Dave and Barbie Fredric. Av A small OCC gathering in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand.

Left to right: Avril, Malcolm and Helen Shaft, Nina Kiff, Graham

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Fulaga, Fiji, one of our all-time favourite atolls convalesced there until March, after which we returned to Opua to spend more time with Tony and Nina Kiff, PO for the Bay of Islands, who had been unbelievably supportive from the outset. These four folk transformed a nightmare into a bearable reality, being true ambassadors for NZ’s legendary hospitality.

Av recovered well, so in mid May 2012 we sailed off for a circuit around Niue, Tonga and Fiji. Arriving in Fiji soon after the authorities had opened the Lau group of islands to cruisers, we found an unbelievably beautiful atoll and spent a solitary month there. Fijians are naturally open, friendly people, illustrated by allocating a Old and young striving to rebuild after Cyclone Pam in Vanuatu

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number of their islands to the populations of small Pacific communities facing the catastrophe of rising sea levels inundating their land. So a pattern was established – southern summer in NZ and winter in ‘the islands’. Then in 2015 Av was cleared for longer-distance voyaging so it was time to move on. During our downtime we edged into the 21st century with digital charts, computer-based navigation, notably Open CPN and the ability to create overlay chartlets from Google satellite images. We even bought a smartphone and an AIS. Cyclone Pam devastated Vanuatu before our NZ departure so we advertised for aid goods and in true Kiwi tradition the response was overwhelming. Traditionally, the first departures north were in early May, coinciding with the end of the cyclone season, but the cyclone season is now extending into late May, and cyclones are becoming more intense. Rising sea temperatures are contributing to this and the problem is accelerating at a frightening pace. We finally left in early June, making landfall in Aneityum.

Contacting the local medical centre they reported a shortage of baby clothes, “well, it just so happens...!”, and so it continued as we made our way north, visiting isolated villages on many islands. We met and made friends with a great number of people who shared their thoughts, beliefs and lives with us in a way possibly not achievable in more normal circumstances. For us it was an unforgettable experience filled with images and stories that we treasure.

In mid November, with the cyclone season approaching, we sailed from the Torres islands, the northerly extremity of Vanuatu, bound for Pohnpei across the Equator in Micronesia. It was a good passage – the inclination to stop in the Solomons was overridden by the prospect of a fair wind all the way across the Equator, so the spinnaker Glorious downwind sailing in the Pacific

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Like nothing they’d seen before – the ‘Gay Gordons’ in response to Lamotrek’s traditional dance stayed set. In Pohnpei all manner of shops and supermarkets, bars and restaurants abounded and we had internet access. The latter is a mixed blessing. Today’s apparently insular cruiser leaves less behind, as technology enables family and friends to travel with them virtually. Abundant cruising information is available instantly on the internet.

There is no time to row over to other yachties to chat or to glean local knowledge.

Heading west we found increasingly more traditional island communities.

Lamotrek, Elato and Woleai were favourites where we both got immersed in local projects. Their gratitude, warmth and inclusiveness always made leaving hard, but

Long-time ambition achieved.

We even met the farmer who discovered the site

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the leaving parties were unforgettable. However, all is not perfect in paradise. Fish stocks are decreasing, shorelines are littered with plastic detritus, seawater levels are rising and the seasons are becoming unpredictable. Finally we reached laid-back Yap, where people knew we had visited their ‘home’ island because of Av’s islandwoven, uniquely patterned, wraparound skirts.

Moving on to Palau gave an altogether different experience, with a booming tourist industry based around diving in the stupendous karst island studded lagoon. Soon tiring of all the hubbub we made for the Philippines, clearing in at Tacloban. We were apparently something of a novelty, but everyone was friendly and helpful and we

Traditional waterside fishing village in the Philippines moved on to enjoy a wonderful cruise through the islands ending up in Subic Bay on Luzon. Dream Away was looking well used, so we arranged for a spray job at highlyrecommended Waterside Ventures, and whilst awaiting suitable painting weather we went travelling. Firstly a brief visit to NZ for Av’s check-ups, then three months touring Australia – Cairns to Adelaide on hop-on-hop-off Greyhound buses, then campervan across country to Darwin. A memorable trip, catching up with sailing friends along the way. A month enraptured by a luxury tour of China – a special birthday present from Av’s wish list – completed the grand tour.

The excellent paint job completed, we left in late January 2017 on a fascinating cruise through myriad islands heading towards Borneo. We explored the quieter western coast of Palawan, hoping to avoid the significant terrorist problems in the south, but after a couple of unnerving encounters were glad to reach Kudat safely after a night crossing the Balabac Strait. Kudat proved a pleasant town, with a defunct ferry terminal still housing the customs and immigration officials. The ink pads had dried out so we only had the faintest impressions in our passports. It was an easy introduction to Malaysia and the special forces team kept a good watch on us to Kota Kinabalu, from where we 73

Multitasking mother in Borneo

travelled to see the amazing wildlife. Orangutans are the top draw, but the biodiversity is phenomenal. It was depressing, however, to fly over once-pristine jungle now replaced by an endless vista of palm oil plantation.

Northerly winds in the South China Sea can blow fiercely, creating dangerous conditions as the swells pile up along the western Borneo coast. Coupled with extensive

Temples and cultural sites abound in Sri Lanka

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inshore oil fields it’s an area requiring some respect. Nevertheless, we had a wonderful time exploring rivers, offshore islands and Kuching, the capital of Sarawak with its fascinating history and architecture. It was a short leg across to mainland Malaysia and, following a brief visit to Singapore, we carried on up the Malacca Strait to Pangkor Marina, recommended by several cruisers. We found it well managed and safe, with exceptionally friendly and helpful staff. We flew to visit more of Asia as planned, Cambodia, Vietnam and Japan giving us a varied insight into the culture and beliefs of societies very different from ours.

In January 2018 we sailed the remainder of the Malacca Strait to Langkawi, a duty free island and one of Malaysia’s top holiday destinations. It encompasses many small islands with stunning anchorages and a large area of navigable mangrove forest, home to prolific birdlife. The Thai border lies less than a mile north and, after checking in, we island-hopped towards Phuket. Phang Nga Bay, where The Beach and Bond films were shot, is tightly packed with jungle-clad limestone islands featuring beautiful beaches and, of course, endless sunshine. It was horrendously crowded, both ashore and afloat, the water was filthy, and a heavy swell made many anchorages untenable.

It’s probably more attractive out of season, but we were glad to leave.

A recurrent gearbox problem changed our plan inasmuch as we returned to Pangkor to resolve the issue. Eventually, the start of February 2019 found us underway bound for South Africa across the Indian Ocean. This region is renowned for poor HF propagation so we bought a sat phone, which provided eye-wateringly expensive weather reports. We chose a northern route to include Sri Lanka, where we found a fabulous, safe, secure anchorage in Trincomalee that enabled us to travel to Lion Rock, also on Av’s ‘must see’ list. As home to some of the world’s oldest cultures it was fascinating, as the scene of recent atrocities it was disturbing, our Tamil driver providing an alternative scenario to the government dogma.

Then followed Gan in the southern Maldives, Salomon Atoll in the Chagos archipelago, and a fairly bumpy ride to the Seychelles, typical of the Indian Ocean, putting considerable wear on the sails and crew. After being told by the locals there was no chance of a safe passage to Madagascar until mid September we sailed late July, arriving safely having negotiated the fearsome compression zone unscathed. There A hermit crab recycles mankind’s followed over two months exploration of the mess in Chagos relatively undiscovered paradise along the northwest coast with unique wildlife and remote, friendly villages.

In early September, Topsail informed us of our insurer’s refusal to renew our cover. It’s happened before and it’s tiresome. We had an unblemished record with considerable experience in a proven boat, but every time, the same excuse – the insurer had had heavy losses the previous year and was not prepared to countenance any undue risk. With more countries now demanding a minimum of third party cover, many cruisers simply buy this and get full cover locally. Fortunately, Topsail came up trumps with an alternative insurer.

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A crowned sifika, one of many unique and endangered creatures found in Madagascar The end of October found us in Richards Bay, South Africa, berthed at the Zululand Yacht Club. We enjoyed the nearby safari parks, met with old and new friends, celebrated Christmas together and, following a raucous New Year’s Eve party, left at 0300 on New Year’s Day 2020. Setting a Dream Away record of 240 miles in 24 hours in the Agulhas Current we reached Cape Town via Port Elizabeth and Mossel Bay. The Victoria & Alfred Waterfront under the shadow of Table Mountain was our new, totally-sheltered home, while a new set of sails and standing rigging completed a significant SA refit programme.

We enjoyed the usual tourist activities and sights in the region and flew to Namibia for an incredible wildlife expedition, driving around in Etosha Safari Park. Next we sailed there, reaching Walvis Bay in the normal thick fog after a good, fast, downwind Rich and poor juxtaposed in Nosy Be, Madagascar

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Christmas on the journey home. Still together after all these years passage. We only have a cold store with a small freezer box, enough for long passages where the food competes with the beer and sealant tubes. When stationary we tend to eat ashore, sampling an incredible variety of local foods and flavours. Whenever we go travelling we find someone ashore who allows us a corner in some large freezer.

So after taking advantage of the sailing club restaurant freezer we embarked upon an awesome drive around this beautiful, vast, sparsely-populated country in a 4x4 with a roof tent. The warning that you needed to be self-reliant took on a new dimension when we buried the vehicle up to door-level in mud.

Back aboard, COVID-19 was dominating the news. Initially we stayed put but in late April, during the second lockdown, decided to return to the UK in sensible weather conditions, rescinding a long-standing plan to visit the Caribbean ‘when we are old’.

St Helena was closed to us, but Ascension provided a month’s welcome respite in a COVID-free environment. Leaving in June we made an uneventful 3000 mile voyage to the Azores, revisiting Horta for the fifth time after a 26-year absence. On 22nd August Portugal was added to the UK’s safe travel corridor list, so we sailed back to home waters, finally arriving on 11th September at Hythe Sailing Club, Southampton where it had all started 18 years and 60,000 miles earlier.

We have sailed to some unimaginably beautiful places and met people of all colours and creeds, rich and poor. Consistently we have found them naturally engaging, kind and generous. Even in our darkest times folk have stepped forward to help, and we have made many lifelong friends. The cruising community remains a unique body of souls, some undertaking the most incredible voyages, others content to potter about in the sun. We have loved the lifestyle and treasure many memories. We thank all our friends for helping to make it such an unforgettable experience.

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Hallberg Rassy 48 “DREAMCATCHER” en route to Lanzarote

© Fintan Walton

SANDERS Stimson 56 “ALCEDO” in the Solent

Recommended by OCC Members SANDERS

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SANDERS SAILS | Bath Road, Lymington, Hampshire, England, SO41 3RU

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Tel: +44 (0) 1590 673981 peter@sanders-sails.co.uk

SAILING SWIFT ~ The French Canals, Part 1 Morgan Finley (Morgan and Melanie, and their daughters Isla (12) and Pippa (9), are from Victoria, Canada and have sailing in their blood. They spent years researching what boat would suit them for long-term cruising, eventually settling on the 1990s version of the Moody 44, a centre-cockpit design with a practical layout and solid build and finish. Having found one for sale in the UK, the purchase went through in November 2019 and they named her Swift. They had their eye on spring departure so hastily renovated, packed and rented out their Canadian home, but had a slow start from the UK due to COVID-19 lockdowns.

They share pictures on Instagram @sailing.swift and have a blog at https://www.sailblogs. com/member/sailingswift/ which they update from time to time).

Decisions It’s 5.30am and we’ve already been in Cherbourg, France for a week. It looks like it may be the best day for the next week to make a 90-mile run southwest, but the wind is still blowing 15 knots and will be right on the nose. The Channel Islands are still closed due to COVID-19 travel restrictions so we can’t shorten our day. We’re up early so we can catch a lift from the huge currents in the Alderney Race, but there’s no excitement for this morning’s adventure. We know Pippa will suffer from mal de mer, and I’m suffering from mal de biere. What are we doing? We hate beating to weather.

We’ve heard the French canals are open again ... Paris, vineyards, pastoral countryside, no slogging to windward and no crossing the Bay of Biscay? The decision is obvious, so next day the wind is at our backs as we slip eastward.

A week later we’ve pulled the mast in Le Havre and arrive in beautiful Honfleur at the mouth of the River Seine. We aren’t going into this completely blind. We had planned to use the French waterways to reach the Mediterranean when we found a Moody 44 in the UK with a shallow draft of 1∙5m. However, the spring COVID-19 lockdown in the UK derailed our itinerary, and the Using our folding bikes to collect timber to support the mast on deck 79

Isla, Pippa, Melanie and Morgan passing the Eiffel Tower

uncertainties from a slowlyreopening Europe suggested we might be better going across the Bay of Biscay. We had also planned to make this trip in May when, historically, the water levels in the canals are higher and the traffic lighter. It’s now 8th July and, although we can still picture the worst with Swift grounding in a drying canal until the autumn rains, we are also very excited to be finally heading in the right direction and going somewhere we really want to go!

Within the first 30 minutes we and two other yachts run aground at low tide outside the Honfleur lock. I hang my head in shame – at least it is soft mud. Swift has the shallowest draft and we are soon off to catch the tidal

Pippa showing off her gymnastic skills to walk the mast

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Château Gaillard, built by Richard the Lionheart in Les Andelys overlooking the Seine

surge for the run up the River Seine to Rouen. We pass medium-sized freighters and dockyards, but also long stretches of muddy banks with riverside vegetation and very little else. The first lock is 40km past Rouen. It’s huge – sized to accommodate commercial barge traffic. Our first transit is near disaster because we have moored far up the lock, nearest to the turbulence from the flooding process. We swing all over and the mast comes in close to the wall. We emerge shaken but unscathed, and moor for the night at a quiet wall by a sleepy neighbourhood. A friendly canal traveller provides advice for future lock transits. We celebrate our successes and look forward to tomorrow.

Paris and beyond The next morning is amazing. We are up early and mist swirls over the river as we motor on our way. The remainder of our run to Paris is a transition from the lowlands of the

Sunrise on the River Seine

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Seine estuary to a more scenic landscape with farmland, pretty villages and even the occasional castle. We transit the locks without mishap and with much less stress.

We reach Paris on 12th July, two days before Bastille Day. It is surreal to arrive in one of the more beautiful and vibrant cities in the world on your own boat. You motor right past the Eiffel Tower – so very impressive and very huge! We motor under spectacular bridges and past an eclectic mix of canal barge conversions, and eventually moor in the Arsenal Marina basin near the foot of the Bastille monument.

Our experiences of Paris and the Bastille Day celebrations are ones of social distancing but are nonetheless great. We walk or rent electric scooters. We visit the Eiffel Tower but don’t go up. We see the Louvre but only from the outside.

We eat ice cream near the fire-gutted Notre Dame Cathedral. We drink French Passing under the bridges of Paris

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The Renommee des Arts statue which flanks Pont Alexandre III beer outside Parisian brasseries. We stumble across military horse guards and their accompanying band, who parade unannounced through the streets to avoid drawing a crowd.

Our view of the fireworks is distant, but how great is it to be sitting on the banks of the River Seine listening to musicians and the chatter of groups of friends enjoying a few beverages?

Paris doesn’t disappoint and was one of the adventures that Isla was most looking forward to.

Our only negative to date – and it is certainly enough to dampen our enthusiasm for our waterway adventure – results from meeting another sailing boat, the first and only one we see. They are on their way back to the English Channel having encountered excessive weed on their chosen route south of Paris. We spend an extra day in Paris trying to get answers from the Voies Navigables de France (VNF), the agency responsible for the waterway system in France. Due to our draft there is only the one route through France available to us, and they confirm there are weeds but that it is open for now. For now? That sounds ominous, but we decide to push on.

Bastille Day military parade

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We depart Paris nice and early and head west along the Marne River Chalifert tunnel, between system. On the first day Paris and Meaux we get to take our oceangoing sailboat through two tunnels. They are narrow and low, but we get a rush out of the novelty.

That night we arrive in the city of Meaux, where there is an excellent Halte Nautique (a public stopover) with pontoons for a dozen boats. We have one neighbour and the cost to moor is only 10€ including power and water. The town is pretty, and the kids stay on board while we sneak off to drink a couple of beers in the town square at a vibrant little bar. Our journey continues down the Marne and the scenery transitions to hillsides covered in vines. We tie up beside cornfields in the middle of nowhere and the swimming is great, as are the views. We stay up in the cockpit until well past dark enjoying the peace and beauty of the French countryside.

Leaving Chalifert tunnel astern

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Loving life in the canals

We continue on through the Champagne region, where we stumble upon a Champagne tasting room and leave with a few more bottles for the bilge.

We are loving it! This is exactly what we wanted.

This stretch of the Marne is really beautiful, with lots of interesting stopping places and friendly people. The river is clean and provides some excellent swimming breaks, and the weather warm and sunny. Aside from the regret that comes from eating my body weight in cheese and consuming the same in wine on a daily basis, we are feeling pretty good.

We continue on through the Canal Latéral à la Marne and start to encounter more weed. The canal narrows 85

and the locks are sized down accordingly. It is possible to push through the weed, but the size of the floating rafts at the entrance to some of the locks is concerning.

We start emptying our raw-water strainer every morning. Two days later we enter the outskirts of the city of Vitry-le-François and don’t feel the love for canal life anymore. The canal is a narrow, dirty ditch past ageing industrial buildings, weeds choke the edges and I skim past a shopping cart. We turn past the boat harbour we originally thought we might stop at. There are a few small commercial barges and some pleasure craft, but most look like they got this far only to die a slow, rusting death. A barge pumps dirty brown bilge water into the canal in front of us – no Swift in a narrow swimming here! lock surrounded The entrance into the by weed first lock of the Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne is no better. It is under a train staging area which makes a low, flat-ceilinged tunnel with nowhere to wait and no room to manoeuvre. Finally the gate opens and we squeeze in. It’s a taller lock than any we’ve had in a while, making it feel even more tight, but up we go and the sunlight is shining on us again. The lockkeeper is friendly and hands us a remote to operate the locks.

He also informs us that the weed isn’t bad and the water levels are okay. We leave the lock feeling as if we just won a prize – things are looking up!

The Race to the Top It is 23rd July, day 14, and we are only a couple of kilometres, locks and nights into the Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne. The free shower is a really nice start to the day, but I walk back to Swift to receive terrible news from Mel – the VNF is closing this canal in six days and it has been allowed to drain overnight, bringing the minimum depth 86

Isla and Pippa ready to handle lines in a lock d o w n t o 1 ∙ 6 m . We have 210km to go and over 120 locks, and our draught of 1∙5m is now very close to the new levels. We’ve also heard that weed continues to be an issue. We start to panic and call the VNF immediately. This is the only route that will get our boat through France to the Med, but we are so far in that we are determined not to return to the English Channel.

The start of our trek is pretty weedy but we push on and water levels seem fine. Our lock transits become more streamlined as we fall into a routine. The remote has a button to open the lock gates and, once inside, Pippa goes up the slimy ladder or gets boosted over the top to catch lines, Isla fends off the opposite side and then tends the stern line, Mel tosses the bow line and runs around assisting, and I manage the spring and the bow line, sometimes from the deck and sometimes from the top depending on bollard placement. Entry into each lock is tight, with about 8 inches each side if I get it perfect, so we go in under low revs or let our momentum carry us. When there is no weed the bow-thruster helps with final manoeuvres. Just like when we enter the lock, our remote has a button to fill it and the lock exit sequence is otherwise automatic.

We are still a couple of hours from St Dizier when Mel gets hold of VNF who confirm that the canal is closing and tell us to move quickly. The sun is relentless. We’ve taken down the awning so we can better transit the locks which come every couple of kilometres. Twice we cool off in the cleaner-looking canal sections. It is too narrow to stop the boat, so we take turns hanging, superman-style, off the stern ladder while Swift glides down the canal in neutral so we can maintain steerage.

St Dizier is unappealing as a stopping place and leaves us too much distance still to go, so we head for Joinville with two potential mooring spots. By 5pm we are tired and worn out by the locks and the sun, but we still have 15km and five locks 87

to go – at least two hours. Pleasure boat traffic is supposed to tie up from 6pm, in contrast to commercial traffic which can continue for another hour, but we suspect that we can use our remote to keep going after 6pm, especially because there is no commercial traffic this year. We push the boat speed up above the 6 knot speed limit and speed up our lock entrances and exits as much as we can. The countdown to 7pm continues and there is nowhere to stop. At 6.25 we still have two locks to go; by the time we exit the second to last lock it is 6.42 and it is 2km to the next.

If we trigger the lock sequence before 7pm we figure it has to run the full cycle? At 6.52 the lock is in sight and Mel is pushing the button trying to start the sequence.

It flicks to red and green meaning it is preparing for us. We are in the lock by 6.57 and, thankfully, it fills and then lets us out again! We are in the clear ... except the first mooring place is much too shallow and has a private barge on it. The second has room but, as we ease towards it angling the bow in, we run aground. We are about a metre away, which is just within jumping distance.

We need to re-provision so I grab my wallet and phone and run up to try and find the store that is apparently open until 7.30. At 7.29 I find it and they let me in despite having no mask. I grab random fresh vegetables, some bread, meat, even a pack of beer, only to realise I don’t have a bag and they don’t supply them. I walk back to the boat juggling carrots and the rest. The kids are having a celebration chocolate. We are pretty happy with our progress. It was a long, very long, but more or less manageable day.

Day 15, 24th July. I am up way too early, concerned about water levels. We could see the evidence of the draw-down when we arrived last night, and I’m very worried they will continue to draw-down and our situation of being gently aground will become a whole lot harder. My fears are unfounded but by 6.45 everyone is up, the girls drinking sweet tea and eating cookies. Our day starts at 7am when commercial traffic could get going in a normal year. We are congratulating ourselves on being able to push through – the depths are low, only reading 0∙2 to 0∙4m under the keel and the weed is bad at times, but we haven’t faltered. Then, two hours into our morning, we hit the worst stretch yet. Farmland stretches away on either side, no trees line the edge of the canal, it is hot, and the weed is thick with only a narrow ribbon of water where the mats of weed don’t choke the surface. The edges are fresh mud from the draw-down and the depth drops to 0∙1 and then 0∙0m under the keel. We watch the speed slow from 4∙4 knots to 3∙5 and then 2∙8 – we are crawling along. There is hardly any water in the canal. We look at each other, thinking that we can’t go on if it’s like this the whole way. But there is nowhere to turn around – the width of the canal is much less than the length of the boat. How long will it be until the autumn rains float us again if we get stuck? A frog swims beside us. I eye up its legs, contemplating their potential as a protein source. We think that one of the nearby fields is growing sugar beets – can you eat sugar beets? We are also the cork in the bottle. If we stick here no one else will get through either. Stress – you bet!

At which moment of high drama we must leave Swift and her crew – rejoin them in Flying Fish 2021/2.

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THE CRUX OF THE MATTER Randall Reeves (Randall’s account of the first part of his unique ‘Figure 8 Voyage’, for which he was awarded the 2019 Barton Cup, appeared in Flying Fish 2020/2 – see A Second Try at the South, also available on the OCC website at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

More recently he also received the Cruising Club of America’s prestigious Blue Water Medal for 2020.

Mōli (whom Randall refers to as Mo) is a 45ft (13∙7m) aluminium sloop, built in 1989 and previously owned by OCC member Tony Gooch who made a non-stop solo circumnavigation with her in 2002/3. More of her history – and a stunning photograph – will be found on pages 106 and 107 of this issue.

Randall sent in daily posts from sea, including high-resolution photographs, and has since produced The Figure 8 Voyage, a picture book of images from some of the remotest places on the planet, which can be purchased from his website at www.figure8voyage.com. A more detailed book is planned.)

15th August 2019, Graham Harbour, Devon Island Compared to the roaring river that is the south, the north is a cathedral of quiet. From Mo’s Graham Harbour anchorage at 74°30’N 88°10’W there was such stillness that I could hear my ears ring and the low grumbling of a nearby growler as it jostled the rocky shore. Here, in late summer and yet at the beginning of the Northwest Passage, I would gnaw my fear for an evening while awaiting another discouraging ice report.

The coming days would decide the success not just of this transit but of the entire Figure 8 Voyage, and the going did not look good.

Often during Mo’s Southern Ocean circuit I anticipated with pleasure the anticlimax to follow our second Cape Horn rounding. There, at 56°S, we would be released from the imperative to make easting – we Randall poses for a selfie with a particularly attractive iceberg during his 2019 crossing of Baffin Bay 91

Departing Halifax on an easterly breeze. Photo Sebastiaan Ambtman would climb into the hospitable Atlantic, into the unfaltering and floral trades requiring no hand on sheet or tiller nor overnight calls to reef. These would be fit refreshment, I thought, after our arduous time in the wilds down below.

And what we got on the advance toward Recife was warmth aplenty, but also a season surprisingly devoid of steady breezes and a sea clogged with sargassum weed. Where the south had promised, and usually delivered, a gale a week, now we were made to endure as many calms. By the time Mo drew level with Bermuda she found it difficult to run off even a hundred miles from one sweltering noon to the next. Ever so slowly the lengthy blue ribbon of Atlantic slipped by. Then, on 31st May 2019, the port of Halifax emerged from fog, and here we made our first stop on day 237 out of San Francisco.

This call, too, contained its surprises. For one, as I handed Mo’s lines to Wayne Blundell, dockmaster of the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron, the man handed back an envelope full of cash – an entry custom I’ve not found typical of foreign ports. “Sent ahead by your friends Tony and Connie,” he said, “so you can buy a round at the bar”.

In Halifax we refitted over the course of a month. Items not even contemplated in the previous 31,000 sea miles – anchors, chain and windlass, autopilot, depth sounder, dinghy and outboard, the radar, the little red engine – were serviced, run hard, tested and tested again for the coming Arctic trial. And all the while the Canadian ice charts declared only Pas d’analyse (No analysis). Summer solstice had come and gone and still there was nothing to report.

Mo and I departed Halifax heading north on 2nd July for an uneventful run to St John’s. Here we were welcomed at the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club pier by Port Captain Ted Laurentius, and many a passer-by remarked ‘Oh look, that’s Tony’s boat’*. * Mōli sailed in high latitudes as Taonui when owned by OCC members Tony and Coryn Gooch, and is frequently recognised as ‘Tony’s boat’ in out-of-the-way places.

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We departed on 15th July for a slow jog up the west coast of Greenland, more for the pleasure of it than to avoid the famous middle pack. There was no hurry. By this time, the reports showed that ice in Lancaster Sound had begun to flush, but it hadn’t shifted at all in Peel Sound or Prince Regent Inlet.

In Nuuk, with the help of local magistrate Jens Kjeldsen, I bought a rifle for defence against polar bears. To my amazement (as an American), the attendant handed over the firearm and shells with as much concern as if I were buying a quart of milk. Then I followed Jens to a birthday party for his Inuit wife. These two had just returned from a circumnavigation via the Northwest Passage. “My wife is the only Inuit to have sailed around the world,” said Jens. “She made all the papers”.

South of Disko Island, icebergs appeared. Distant white specks jutting above the blue plane grew to gothic spires or became tabular and sheer, and all calved brash that flowed away on the current like the tail of a comet. On 26th July we crossed the Arctic Circle in fog and calm airs. Near Sisimiut, a black ooze in the bilge revealed that Mo’s little red engine (a 48hp Bukh diesel) had burst an oil seal. Luckily, a replacement was found in the last-explored parts bin of the town’s snowmobile shop. Finally, in Sondre Upernavik we took on fuel by dinghy for the 400-mile crossing of Baffin Bay, filling all of Mo’s fourteen jerry cans for the first time.

The crossing was grey and flat and not much else.

The approach to Pond Inlet on 9th August was ice free, as was Navy Board Inlet and the approach to Tay Bay two days later.

Even the run up Lancaster Sound presented glassy, open water with but here and there a brilliant berg.

Still, each report from Environment Canada showed persistent, close pack inside the passage.

Only slowly was the Canadian archipelago releasing her winter Filling jerry cans at wealth. the town pier in Sondre I am often told by those Upernavik, Greenland in the know how much easier a Northwest Passage transit is today than it was in 1975 when Willy de Roos and his strong steel ketch Williwaw fought for every mile. Climate change has turned an ice passage into a lake passage with but an occasional frigid encounter, say these experts. There may be some truth in this, but it misses the point.

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We sight our first big berg on the approach to Disko Bay For a westbound yacht, the Northwest Passage – especially between an entrance at either Prince Regent Inlet or Peel Sound and the exit at Cape Bathurst – is a maze of sometimes narrow, often poorly-charted water. Here the pack can become trapped, swirling on local currents but unable to flush to sea – it must melt to clear the way.

Moreover, though strong, Mo is not an icebreaker. Pack covering an area from one point to the next can stop her cold, and when that gate opens, allowing further progress into the maze, a gate ahead or astern may close and may remain so for the duration.

The risk is of finding oneself deep inside enemy territory with no ability to advance or retreat and facing the prospect of a ten-month freeze.

Graham Harbour is eerie. The cove is small and depths are too deep with a bottom too rocky for good holding. The crowding mountains threaten williwaws and put the boat in a cold shade. Three times the anchor merely clanged across the bottom before catching by a fingernail. I set the drag alarm and prepared for a night of poor sleep.

After dinner, I reached out to ice guide Victor Wejer for one final consultation. “Prince Regent Inlet remains impenetrable,” he responded, “absolutely no chance it or Bellot Strait will be available to you this year. Peel Sound is your only hope”.

Bergs show as red targets on the radar

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Over the previous few days the pack had begun to move in Peel Sound, but this was meagre encouragement. The colour-coded charts from Environment Canada displayed long stretches of orange (indicating surface ice concentrations of 7–8/10ths) from its entrance all the way

A chart from Environment Canada showing surface concentrations of ice between Lancaster Sound (NE) and Cambridge Bay (SW). Red areas indicate that 9–10/10ths of the surface is covered in ice, orange indicates 7–8/10ths coverage, yellow, 4–6/10ths, green 1–3/10ths and blue less than 1/10th. White areas indicate land or unmoving ice (thus ‘No analysis’) or open water.

The blue line indicates possible routes through this section of the Northwest Passage to Cape M’Clure. Below Franklin Strait great masses of ice flowed down from M’Clintock Channel, and here the chart remained resolutely red (indicating surface concentrations of 9–10/10ths ice). Worse, the 165 miles from the intersection of Lancaster and Peel to the first tenuous anchorage at False Strait provided no secure hiding places.

I knew from Victor that other yachts were having to battle in this section. Inook had punched south of Bellot Strait, friends on yellow-hulled Breskell were in Peel with Altego and Morgane nearby. These boats had crews who worked the ice from the bow with long poles, wedging through the pack, clawing for every inch. “Alioth is a day ahead of you and reports it took twelve hours to pass from Hummock Point to the Hurditch Peninsula”. I went to the chart and measured it off – 12 hours to make 40 miles. “This a difficult year,” wrote Victor. “Most sailboat crews fight tooth and ice pole to get through Peel. But there is no option. It is time to take your difficult bite”.

16th August, Lancaster Sound Mo departed Graham Harbour under power at 0400. Already the sun sat two hands above the horizon, warming the fluted cliffs of Devon Island as we emerged from the Mo about to pass to leeward of a big berg in Lancaster Sound.

Photo Vincent Moeyersoms

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Flat calm and first ice at the head of Peel Sound

darkness of the anchorage. Not a breath of wind – the sea, a navy-blue mirror. I made our course west-southwest for the entrance to Peel Sound, distance 120 miles. All day as we crossed the fulmars flew the other way, out from the ice maze ahead, down Lancaster Sound, into Baffin Bay and south. The fall migration had begun. We were pushing against the stream.

By midnight the headlands of Prince of Wales Island had covered the sun. During our 20 hours from Graham Harbour at least one white chunk had always decorated the horizon, and now being off watch for more than 15 minutes was too long. Given the difficulties of the next leg, I decided to take one last, long sleep. Off Cape Swansea at the head of Peel Sound I hove to and shut down the engine. Mo drifted slowly northward. I crawled into my sleeping bag but I could not find sleep. Worry brought me on deck every hour. At 0400 I rose, made coffee and a hot breakfast. By 0500, we were underway again.

17th August, Peel Sound Clear and calm again. As we motored hour after hour, each notation in the wind column of the log read simply, zero. Bright sun, warm on face and hands, produced temperatures in the cockpit of 50°F (10°C). With no ice in sight I set about chores, topping off the fuel tanks from the jerry cans, lifting the hydrogenerator, and removing the windvane paddle from the transom. Neither would be needed for many days, and either could be fatally damaged by a nip from the ice.

By 1100 we had crossed Aston Bay in open water, but two hours later Mo moved through long, low plains of 2/10ths ice off M’Clure Bay. I disengaged the autopilot and took the tiller. Easy going. The ice was rotten – some pieces were so decayed that they appeared to be nothing more than floating snow, others had been eaten by the warmth into pale green and white mushrooms. I pushed Mo at full speed and kept an eye forward for more.

From abreast of Hummock Point I saw solid white on the horizon, which the day’s mirage transformed into the crest of a tsunami rolling towards us. Soon we moved through more ice than water, but with care and concentration I could always find a 97

Midnight, deep within Peel Sound. The western sky remained orange, but in the east it was deep purple with a full moon over low hills lane just when it was needed. Mo, a heavy bird, swooped and dodged through the floes while I exercised the tiller as if it were the handle of an oar. And it was exhilarating, the constant motion, the rapid decision-making. We could do this, I thought.

Only once did I screw up, and this by aiming to split two close floes – too late I saw the diagnostic light green water between them indicating their connection below the surface. Mo thunked quietly, then there was a clinking sound like ice cubes in a glass.

Astern, the floes drifted apart.

Ice went thin, then thick, then thin again. Sometimes the way ahead seemed closed until we were right up to the pack edge, then I’d see a sliver of water. We’d follow slowly, feeling a route as much as seeing it. Then a pause. I’d climb to the spreaders searching the white for dark veins. Then onward and out. Heave to for a cup of coffee or can of soup. Then at it again. Hours passed, and I was still working the tiller.

By 2300 what had been heavy-going began to thin. The water was clear enough that my course changes were slight, mere nudges of the tiller between my legs with hands in pockets for warmth. I played the dangerous game ... how little could I change course, how close to the ice could I safely get? Only occasionally a miss, proof being a soft swooshing on the hull and a smudge of black bottom paint on the passing floe.

Midnight. The western sky remained orange, in the east it was deep purple with a full moon over low hills. The dusk made for difficult seeing, but here the floe was odds and ends. I had been hand-steering for 20 hours. Fatigue weighed on leaden eyes, my thighs were shaking.

Ahead at last was a long, dark opening as wide as the sound. Clear water. The faint white on the horizon must be a whole ten minutes distant. I flipped on the autopilot, dropped below, and set the alarm for a five-minute nap. I collapsed against a bulkhead, immediately asleep. On the fourth minute a heavy crashing sound. Mo shuddered as if hitting a wall and stopped dead. The engine ground right down. I leapt for the throttle and backed her off and then looked forward. Mo and an ice block the size of a car were drifting slowly apart.

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By 0200 there were scattered floes but we were past the first plug. A sense of satisfaction, and still we motored south. Finally to the east I saw the expected cut in the land, False Strait, where we dropped anchor at 0600. We’d come 150 miles in 26 hours and were through Peel Sound.

18th August, Tasmania Islands At noon the next day the anchor came up clean, the tip shining bright – another rocky bottom. Over a quick morning coffee, I pulled an ice report and then also noticed a message from Alioth.

Hailing from Belgium, Alioth was a 55ft aluminium expedition sloop we’d met for the first time in Halifax. I’d gotten to know her crew of three – skipper Vincent Moeyersoms, with Olivier and Jean, brother and friend respectively, experienced sailors all. After a day of outfitting we would meet to compare notes over a beer, and I came to admire Vincent’s thoughtfulness and his careful preparation. Still, one cannot anticipate every eventuality. This morning’s message said that Alioth’s gearbox had failed (who carries a spare gearbox?). Now she was without propulsion in 5/10ths ice south of the Tasmania Islands, some 75 miles from our position. She’d have to sail the 250 miles to the next village, Cambridge Bay, for repairs and was asking if we would join her as consort. We departed immediately.

As Mo steamed southwest I could see ice issuing from mile-wide Bellot Strait in a continuous sheet. How fortunate we were to be heading away from it, how unfortunate that within ten minutes we had entered an obliterating fog. I reduced speed to 4 knots and began to pick my way through loose floes. It was easy enough going, but I had no idea what lay ahead nor if my lane would remain clear. The cold was nipping hard. My

Growlers coming out of a thick fog south of Bellot Strait

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Cold and tired after hours of handsteering en route to the Tasmania Islands

hands were in a triple-layer of fleece and leather mittens, but the mitt on the tiller felt thin as paper and that hand soon ached, and my toes were numb even after stamping in place. And so painfully slow was our progress! I began counting off the seconds between when ice became visible and when it passed abeam. At first the count was five. When the fog dissipated enough that I could count to ten, I put Mo at full speed.

We approached the Tasmania Islands in late evening, and here the fog lifted and the ice thinned to mostly open water. I knew I needed a short sleep before encountering the unknown with Alioth so decided to risk the pass between the easternmost Tasmania island and the mainland. Depths were not marked on my chart, but I had a faint recollection of Bob Shepton having been through here in Dodo’s Delight, and a divot in the coast catty-corner* from Cape Rendel looked like a promising shortterm anchorage. It was nearing midnight when we made the entrance and here we passed a solid line of growlers grinding together where tidal streams met. Inside the pass the current pushed against Mo and our progress slowed dramatically. Worse, the cut was full of brash and scattered floe. With such a current the anchorage I’d hoped for would be too easily swept – there would be no stopping after all. The bottom continued to be uniformly deep mid-channel, but ice kept me at the tiller. In the darkness, fatigue and cold bore down with intensity and were moderated only by the sense of risk and the need to keep moving.

By 0400 we had exited the pass and were back into the relative safety of the strait.

Exhausted and shivering I hove to, shut down the engine, heated a can of soup and went straight to my bunk. Two hours later I woke to a heavy thudding against the hull. The day was bright, the sea a solid white all around, and Mo lay gently heaving in close pack.

From the pilot house we seemed penned in, but from a perch on the gooseneck winch I found the floe looked loose enough that we could make slow way to the southeast. Alioth * diagonally opposite 100

Difficult ice south of the Tasmania Islands

lay to the southwest at 70°51’N 97°19’W, half a day away where, according to Vincent, she was jogging back and forth under mainsail in the gut of a large opening. Vincent reported solid pack to his north, east, and west but that he could see what appeared to be a clean lane due south. That was good news indeed, but could it last?

By 1400 I’d worked below a solid line of pack separating our two vessels and was able to swing due west toward Alioth’s position. An hour later her sleek grey hull came out of the mist where she was hove-to in a cove of blue surrounded by sparkling, icy shores.

“Nice to see a friend,” remarked Vincent over the VHF, “our lane seems to be holding, and there is a north wind”. Alioth spread her wings immediately and we began to make our cautious way. Sometimes our lane would tighten, at others it would divide, and then Vincent and I would study what we could see in binoculars and negotiate over VHF which path we thought best. Each decision, so made, paid off. Three hours later the

Mo as (just) seen from Alioth at our rendezvous south of the Tasmania Islands. Photo Vincent Moeyersoms

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Alioth spreads her wings and we begin to make our way out of the ice lane became so wide and straight it was as if Moses had parted a sea of white just for us. Then suddenly the ice receded altogether. We were below the second plug. Alioth made a close approach to Mo and we four cheered our good fortune.

Searching for leads ahead with binoculars. Photo Vincent Moeyersoms

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Below the second plug. Alioth makes a close approach to Mo and we all cheer our good fortune As Alioth swung by, Olivier tossed over a treasure – a loaf of freshly baked bread, which I was happy I caught without mishap and happier still to eat immediately with butter and jam. Photo Vincent Moeyersoms We knew M’Clintock had pushed its pack well out into our preferred route, so we continued south until nearly aground on Clarence Island. Then we wore toward Victoria Strait in open water. Overnight our two vessels sailed in company in a beautiful following wind, around midnight Alioth taking the lead and keeping watch while I rested, promising to wake me on VHF if she spied obstructions ahead. Twice the VHF barked, “Mōli, wake up.

Growler to port, do you see it?”.

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In the Arctic a sailing wind is rare and short-lived. Thus the next day came on grey, the sea greasy smooth, and with it arose a new problem. We were becalmed 100 miles from the shelter of Cambridge Bay, and though this presented no serious difficulties for the moment, the forecast was for an intense westerly gale to sweep our quadrant two days hence. Our position well north of Jenny Lind Island provided no room for running off or lying to a drogue in a blow that would work to push us back onto the ice we had just escaped.

I offered to take Alioth in tow, but Vincent refused. He didn’t wish to risk another man’s engine – and by extension, a successful passage out of the Arctic that season – just for the sake of his own. He countered that Mo should proceed to safety without Alioth, a suggestion I found equally unsatisfactory. Having achieved stalemate, we drifted in company most of the day, taking now and again a little breeze for a mile or two and until the evening forecast insisted we acknowledge the coming danger.

Mo pulled alongside Alioth in the twilight. Vincent lifted over a yoke and towline which I took and secured. I throttled up the little red engine, the line came taut and the two vessels were underway at 4 knots for Cambridge Bay. All night we motored, and into the next day. Gradually the sky lowered and grew threatening, but still there was no wind. In the late evening we entered the long channel to Cambridge Bay. Then we were inside and steaming up the welcome confines of the West Arm. At 2300 on 21st August I cut Alioth loose over her chosen spot and her anchor splashed down. I moved further up the bay and let go Mo’s anchor in 35ft (11m).

Mo took Alioth in tow to ensure we both achieved the safety of Cambridge Bay ahead of the coming low. Photo Vincent Moeyersoms

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Happy sailors in Cambridge Bay. Left to right: Olivier, Jean, Pablo of Mandragore, Vincent and Randall. Photo Olivier Moeyersoms 22nd August, Cambridge Bay In the night the gale came on as foretold. From my bunk I could hear the rigging roar as it had not done since the Falklands. Mo started at her snubber, but the holding here was ancient mud and her anchor lay buried far, far to windward. I eased deeper into the down of the bag and fell asleep listening to the blow.

A few days later Mo and I left Alioth in Cambridge Bay to await spare parts and at Cape Bathurst we departed the ice as well. On 12th September we crossed the Arctic Circle headed south. We stopped in Nome, Alaska the next day, made Dutch Harbor

Randall alongside Roald Amundsen’s statue in Nome.

Amundsen led the first successful transit of the Northwest Passage in 1903–6 105

on 20th September, and returned to our home port of San Francisco on 19th October 2019, completing the Figure 8 Voyage in 384 days.

Epilogue I am often asked which was more difficult, the circuit of the Southern Ocean or the Northwest Passage transit. One thing that made the Figure 8 Voyage unique was that the demands of these two historic routes were so different – big wind, big seas in the open waters of the south, close quarters and pack ice in the north. In retrospect, I think the south was harder but only because it was longer. From her first pass under Cape Horn to her second, Mo sailed over 15,000 miles in 110 days, mostly at 47°S and taking, on average, a gale a week. Those conditions are very hard on both boat and crew. In the north, the demands shift from non-stop sailing to mostly motoring and frequent stops, but though the endeavour feels no easier, the summer window is very brief and the distances are shorter. Mo made her 5500 mile Northwest Passage transit in 48 days.

Both routes are no-sleep enterprises for the singlehander and both, in their different ways, are glorious grinds.

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Ann and Glenn Bainbridge SV Gjoa, Victoria, BC

2nd March 2021

We’ve been OCC members since 2013 and read the March e-Bulletin with interest. It contained a reprint of a press release about four OCC members receiving recognition from the CCA, definitely a fantastic achievement by all concerned. However, Mōli has a lot more OCC history than the paragraph about Randall Reeves receiving the Blue Water Medal gave her credit for – there is a piece missing.

Mōli (ex Taonui, ex Asma) should read Mōli (ex Taonui, ex Gjoa, ex Asma). We bought the boat from Tony in the UK in 2013 and sold her to Randall in 2016 in Alaska. As Gjoa, she completed a Northwest Passage transit in 2014/15 and overwintered in Cambridge Bay, where she endured temperatures as low as –50°C. Gjoa enjoyed meeting Steve Brown’s Novara on her 2014 transit. We also met Randall then – he was crewing aboard Arctic Tern – and discussed how perfect our boat would be for his planned voyage.

So, this boat has been owned by at least three OCC members and made three Northwest Passage transits (including Clark Stede/Michelle Poncini’s voyage, when she was called Asma)*. It was an honour for us to have bought Tony’s boat and to see Randall continue with her to achieve his remarkable voyage.

As long-standing OCC members, we thought her full OCC history should be put on record. * She has also received the Cruising Club of America’s Blue Water Medal twice – only the second yacht to have done so. The first was Wanderer III, in 1955 with Eric and Susan Hiscock and in 2011 with Thies Matzen and Kicki Ericson.

I start from the premise that no object created by man is as satisfying to his body and soul as a proper sailing yacht.

Arthur Beiser, The Proper Yacht

Opposite page: Gjoa (now Mōli) over-wintering in Cambridge Bay during her 2014/15 Northwest Passage transit – see above. Photo Denise LeBleu 107

Sail away with books from

REEDS & ADLARD COLES

OCC members get 25% off Reeds and Adlard Coles books using the discount code NAUTICAL25 at www.adlardcoles.com

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PEOPLE OF THE SEA – James Wharram with Hanneke Boon. Published in robust soft covers by Lodestar Books [https://lodestarbooks.com] at £25.00. 288 216mm x 216mm pages, many bearing mono or colour photos, drawings or chartlets.

ISBN 978-1-9072-0650-4 Despite starting conventionally with ‘I was born in 1928 in Manchester ...’ – People of the Sea is the autobiography of a very unconventional man. It remains largely chronological over the remaining 273 pages, but within those pages it contains much more than just an account of James Wharram’s life as the designer and populariser of the eponymous catamarans, or more correctly Polynesian double canoes, interesting though that alone would be.

James’s only previous book, Two Girls, Two Catamarans, published in 1968, told the story of his first Atlantic circuit in 1955/56 aboard the 23ft 5in Tangaroa – the first such voyage made by a multihull. It was the fact that he was accompanied by two young women that many found most memorable, however, and which threatened to eclipse his growing reputation as a designer over the following years. Incidentally, while he states several times that he always detected a certain hostility from the yachting establishment and particularly the yachting press, my strong suspicion is that this had less to do with having the ‘wrong’ background and accent and a lot more to do with envy! Here was this guy, living an alternative lifestyle and invariably accompanied by a group of attractive and obviously intelligent young women, while they spent their days in stuffy London offices...

Despite stating that ‘This book is not an account of sailing voyages, but one about my life as a designer’, as nearly all James’s voyages were made aboard vessels he had designed and built himself – albeit with the help of his largely female workforce – long passages do feature, generally followed by comments that they were good, fast, enjoyable etc. Not all James’s life has been sunshine, however, with occasions of deep personal tragedy and others of sheer terror, such as the near loss of the 63ft Spirit of Gaia in the Canaries.

It is clear that James has never allowed himself to forget that most Wharram catamarans are built by amateurs, doubtless some more amateur than others! For several decades it would have been hard to find a distant anchorage without a Wharram catamaran in it. Designed for home-building, for the impecunious they were often the passport to long-distance voyaging, but they have become rarer in recent decades.

James’s philosophy of ultra-simple sailing – no refrigeration, no watermaker etc – which was relatively standard up to the 1980s, had become less common by the 1990s and would appeal to an ever-decreasing number of cruisers as the years passed. There is also the fact that multihulls tend not to be marina-friendly in terms of both manoeuvrability and cost, and all too many former anchorages have now been ‘developed’ to meet the needs of those who prefer to step straight ashore.

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Despite Polynesian craft being his overriding interest – sparked by reading Éric de Bisschop’s The Voyage of the Kaimiloa in Manchester Central Library as a teenager – James makes discerning and practical comments about many traditional designs and construction methods. What materials were readily available? What were typical launch/recovery conditions? And above all, what would a vessel be used for? In many ways People of the Sea is a world tour of indigenous watercraft, nearly all of them based on the canoe-plus-outrigger or double canoe concept. James is certain that, together with simple rafts of buoyant materials, these were the first seagoing vessels ever built, and it is hard to disagree with him. With his designer/builder’s eye, he sees and interprets details sometimes missed by those from a more academic background.

The text is accompanied by a great many photographs, mostly full-page, though somewhat more informative captions would be welcome. A time-line of major events in James’s life, and an index of his dozens of different designs with date, LOA etc, would also be a useful addition to future editions. (All his designs carry Polynesian or Maori names, frequently quite similar and, for the lay person, difficult to differentiate and remember). On the plus side are a number of very clear sequence drawings created

by Hanneke, clearly a very talented artist and draughtswoman.

The final third of People of the Sea is largely devoted to Spirit of Gaia’s five-year circumnavigation in the 1990s, made partly with the aim of participating in the 1995 Great Gathering of Canoes at Huahine, one of French Polynesia’s Society Islands.

Sadly this turned out to be a somewhat frustrating experience, marred by the apparent lack of interest of many of the local crews and the unfriendly ‘us and them’ attitude of the organisers. Fortunately the welcomes in New Zealand and, later, in Tikopia more than compensated, while Spirit of Gaia must be one of the larger vessels to have transited the world’s two major canals propelled only by outboards. Though still active as a designer, James concludes the detailed narrative in 1998 on completion of their circumnavigation, with only a brief Epilogue covering the years since.

The entire book is very well-produced on robust matt paper with a stitched spine and flexible, matt-laminate (ie. wipe-clean) covers. Though large for the bookshelves aboard many boats, it should withstand the typically damp maritime atmosphere for many decades. All in all, People of the Sea is a fascinating and well-written book – though not the easiest to review – and one which I can recommend unequivocally to mono and multihull sailors alike. Part autobiography, part boat design and building manual, part philosophy of life, James has packed a great deal into his 93 years and, with the help of diaries, journals and not least Hanneke Boon, his companion of nearly 50 years, this book is a distillation of that experience.

AOMH

WEST COUNTRY CRUISING COMPANION – Mark Fishwick, 9th edition.

Published in hard covers by Fernhurst Books [www.fernhurstbooks.com] at £42.50 (though discounted on Amazon) or at £19.94 for Kindle. 284 A4 pages in full colour. ISBN: 978-1-9126-2105-7 This book has been the go-to reference for anyone with plans to cruise England’s West 110

Country since the first edition was published in 1988. I keep a very salt-stained copy of the soft-back 4th edition from 1998 aboard our boat for old times’ sake and have the 8th edition from 2014 on the Kindle app on my iPad. I once had an even earlier edition, which sadly dissolved in brine. I have always had a high regard for Mark Fishwick’s work and was therefore pleased to be asked to review the recently-published 9th edition!

Before doing so, though, I should explain why this pilot has been so popular for so long and through so many editions. The format is that of a comprehensive guide for cruisers written from seaward by an author who has both a deep knowledge and a deep love of this whole area. I first used it thirty years ago when visiting the West Country’s harbours as a newcomer and can continue to recommend it as a passage planner, harbour pilot and tourist guide. I have continued to use it because of its comprehensive detail, which I still use to guide us further into upper reaches and hidden nooks. My home port of Falmouth, Carrick Roads and its rivers alone earn 26 pages and 30 colour photographs.

West Country Cruising Companion covers the area from Portland Bill west along the south coasts of Dorset, Devon and Cornwall to Land’s End and the Isles of Scilly, then turns east along the north coast of Cornwall as far as Pentire Point. It apologises for the paucity of cruising opportunities on the north coast, but fully details its only real harbours of St Ives, Newquay and Padstow.

It has a useful introductory section covering things to think about before cruising the area, then its six regional sections start with passage planning advice before describing the harbours and anchorages in terms of history, local colour, facilities, navigation, pilotage and berthing. The author’s knowledge of all these aspects has been obvious since the first edition and, over subsequent years, the detail has become more and more comprehensive. The earliest edition omitted the Isles of Scilly, but they are now covered in 40 pages of the same beguiling prose, photos and bespoke chartlets as the rest of this cruising area – one that both the author and I regard as among the best in the world.

You will have correctly surmised that I have long been a loyal and appreciative user of this publication. What, then, is my opinion of the latest incarnation of this local classic?

The same and once again improved. The buoyage, harbour facilities and offerings ashore have been fully updated, the harbour chartlets have remained bespoke and accurately reflect just those navigational marks that a skipper needs to focus on in unfamiliar waters, and the already lovely photography of this photogenic cruising area has been added to.

So yes, I thoroughly recommend this edition, whether you are already familiar with the West Country’s beautiful waters or are yet to discover these gems of the world’s cruising locations.

TJB

FACING FEAR – Lisa Blair. Published in soft covers by Australian Geographic, Sydney. Available from Amazon.co.uk at £16.99, or via the author’s website at https://lisablairsailstheworld.com at AU$34.95 for a signed hard copy or at AU$11.19 for an ePub. 334 235mm x 155mm pages, with 16 in full colour. ISBN 978-1-9223-8806-3 111

Lisa Blair, winner of the 2017 OCC Seamanship Award for the voyage recounted in this book, was the first woman to circumnavigate Antarctica solo. Her goal was to do so non-stop and unassisted, but that was not to be. A dismasting forced her to construct a jury rig and divert to South Africa for repairs.

I was riveted from the first sentence, which begins with the dismasting in a violent storm with 8m seas. She had me right there on deck with her, spiralling into hypothermia as wave after wave crashed over her while she tried to clear the rigging.

It was a survival story, 1000 miles from land in freezing conditions, knowing that her only chance to save herself and her boat was to face her paralysing fear.

Yet, when I turned the page, she took me back to the beginning, in the bush cottage in Australia where she and her sister spent their childhood on countless adventures.

Her parents divorced amicably when she was a young girl, and though her mother then met a man with a sailing boat Lisa didn’t really pay attention. She had a learning disability similar to dyslexia, was bullied at school and didn’t fit in anywhere. Then a friend who was off sailing with her dad called and asked if she would crew with them.

She spent several months at sea and was hooked.

Lisa began dreaming of solo sailing, of being in complete control of her world. She wanted to gain experience in a hurry, so signed up for Robin Knox-Johnston’s Clipper Round the World Yacht Race. When she learned that it would cost £40,000 (AU $80,000) she almost gave up, but with encouragement from her mother she started fund-raising in a multitude of ways and managed to raise half the money prior to the mandatory training interval. She was despondent, but again her mother stepped in and convinced her to at least complete the training. She proved so enthusiastic and competent that, miraculously, crew members started donating to her cause. She raised enough to complete the entire race aboard a highly competitive yacht which won 12 of the 15 legs – more consecutive wins than any other. A year earlier she hadn’t sailed across an ocean, now she had sailed around the world. Suddenly, the challenge of ‘what next?’ seemed daunting.

The idea of solo sailing still intrigued her. She wanted to enter solo races, but securing sponsorship and a boat proved almost impossible so she gained her commercial skipper’s licence and started running charters aboard Southern Cross in the Whitsunday Islands.

Somehow, things always fell into place unexpectedly for Lisa. A couple lent her the money to buy a boat, she secured sponsors for the Sydney to Hobart Race as a promotional trial run, and soon after that Climate Action Now set off for the Antarctic challenge. The rest makes very clear how well prepared one has to be to sail solo in the Southern Ocean ... and how much courage and endurance it takes to complete the mission.

Lisa’s writing style is very clear and her descriptions easy to follow, even for people without bluewater experience. The critical parts where she has to free the mast as it’s sawing the boat in half reads like a super-fast-paced thriller. I read furiously and was gripping the covers with both hands white-knuckled. There’s enough detail to be informative yet told in a way that’s engrossing. Her decision-making processes and what influenced them are fascinating. There’s much more, including an encounter with a ship, but I won’t give it away. It’s a story of endurance, resilience and perseverance – qualities with which many of our members will be familiar. I thoroughly enjoyed Facing Fear and am in awe of and full of admiration for this 5ft 2in sailing dynamo, Lisa Blair.

DOB 112

WEATHER AT SEA – Simon Rowell. Published in soft covers by Fernhurst Books [www.fernhurstbooks.com] at £14.99. 95 236mm x 155mm pages with many photographs and diagrams. ISBN 978-1-9126-2108-8. Also available for Kindle.

Weather at Sea is an excellent book for the cruising or racing yachtsman. It is Simon Rowell’s first book on meteorology and he has all the required credentials for writing it, and then some. He is an accomplished circumnavigator and the winning skipper of the 2002 Clipper Yacht Race, a fully-qualified meteorologist who, since 2015, has forecast for the British Sailing Team amongst many other clients, and an RYA Ocean Yachtmaster Examiner who has taught meteorology to yachtsmen for many years.

That latter experience shines through in the structured way that Rowell builds up the reader’s knowledge throughout the book. There is enough science, without excessive detail, to enable the reader to understand why weather systems develop and his clear explanations are supported by simple diagrams and good photographs.

Rowell’s explanation of the Coriolis Effect, for example, is one of the best, and most amusing, that we have come across.

In terms of readability this book is a riot of colour, which is used both as a chapter identifier and to enhance the many diagrams, greatly increasing their legibility. The diagrams are large, too, which helps make them easy to read, and in most cases the captions contain full explanations to enhance those in the text. The main body font is also of a good size – no squinting over tiny reference book type required here. Finally, all the diagrams are referenced really well in the text. There’s no ‘as you can see in Fig 6.3’, at which point you have to hurriedly flip back and forth to find Fig 6.3. Instead, it’s ‘these photos from ...’ (referring to the only photographs on the page) or ‘in the diagram below...’. Better still, all these references/directions are correct. There’s been a lot of careful editorial work post layout in the production of this book.

As already intimated, the clear layout and profligate use of colour does not make this book a triumph of style over substance. Rather it is an excellent primer on the basic principles that govern the weather. No previous knowledge of meteorology is needed and Rowell’s logical approach guides the reader effortlessly through the basics of global weather patterns, the terminology and weaknesses of forecast types, the mechanics behind mid-latitude depressions and the relevance of the jet stream, before moving on to cover more localised effects such as sea breezes and topographical effects. The detail initially focuses on the North Atlantic mid-latitudes weather familiar to European sailors, but there are also useful chapters on tropical weather in general and tropical revolving storms (hurricanes, cyclones and typhoons) in particular.

Throughout the book Rowell uses weather examples from around the world (including the southern hemisphere) to illustrate his points, and he includes some practical guidance too. His explanation of the formation of squalls, their local effects on surface wind and whether or not to tack as they approach will be of interest to all long-distance ocean sailors. Though this book assumes that the reader has no previous knowledge of the subject, there are still plenty of nuggets of useful information which will make it a worthwhile read for most yachtsmen. In particular, we found Rowell’s explanation of the importance and uses of upper-level forecast and analysis charts enlightening.

By the end of Weather at Sea the reader will have covered the meteorology syllabus 113

of the RYA Yachtmaster Ocean course from first principles and will have a solid grounding in worldwide weather systems and effects. That said, meteorology is an extremely complex subject and there are limits to the detail that can be covered in a 95-page book, so the reader will find that some aspects are really just touched on.

But the advantage of Rowell’s approach is that there is enough information to cover an impressive amount of ground in those 95 pages and you don’t get bogged down with minutiae.

A good understanding of weather, how it is formed and what the various forecasts mean is a fundamental skill for any long-distance sailor. This is a superb book which should be read by all those preparing for their OCC qualifying passage or, indeed, anyone who just wants to develop their understanding of this most vital of subjects.

NSB & MHRB

ELECTRONIC NAVIGATION SYSTEMS: Guidance for the safe use on leisure vessels – edited by Jane Russell, version 1. Published by the Royal Institute of Navigation, free download at https://rin.org.uk/page/ENav with registration available for free updates. 98 pages in full colour with photographs, chartlets and diagrams.

ISBN 978-1-8382-3600-7 (print)*, ISBN 978-1-8382-3601-4 (digital) Electronic navigation systems have undoubtedly increased the numbers of people putting to sea and crossing oceans. The level of accuracy in positioning, electronic charts, radar and AIS have all made sailing safer and much more accessible. This booklet provides a comprehensive review of current electronic navigation systems for leisure users and is particularly aimed at improving awareness of the current vulnerabilities of electronic systems and how to mitigate them, enabling all of us to make better and safer judgements, both when passage planning and at sea.

The booklet has been compiled with the assistance of some 50 contributors, including members of the OCC, and has the authority that comes from the Royal Institute of Navigation. It starts with a useful glossary of relevant terms and acronyms and then, in Chapter One, goes straight into the accuracy and vulnerability of Global Navigation Satellite Systems (GNSS). There is a helpful description of how aids to navigation (AtoN) such as lighthouses, buoys and beacons are being fitted with AIS and incorporated into the array of references for those at sea. The description also covers how Synthetic AIS AtoNs are being more widely used (an actual physical structure, but the AIS transmitter is located elsewhere), along with Virtual AIS AtoNs (messages are transmitted but no physical AtoN or transmitter exists in that location) – for example, creating a series of virtual AIS targets to indicate an iced-up area as monitored by ice surveys, or the position of a large iceberg as tracked by satellite. Deepwater traffic separation schemes can also be marked this way.

Chapter Two addresses electronic charts and their display systems, again setting out some of the drawbacks and potential risks for leisure sailors, including highlighting * Although the RIN website does not mention this, it is understood that a paper copy may be obtainable by making a donation to the RNLI. 114

the risks with crowdsourced bathymetry*. There is an increasing use of wiki-type cruising information for anchorages on apps such as Navily although, as the booklet notes, ‘Reports from individual vessels have always been liable to a level of inaccuracy because so much depends on the localised circumstances at the moment that the data is recorded’. Also covered is the use of satellite imagery (eg. Google Earth) as a navigational tool to mitigate chart offsets, but noting its limitations, such as no accurate depth information.

Chapter Three covers Radar and AIS use, providing details on functionality, operation and issues of which readers should be aware.

Chapter Four is concerned with guarding against electronic failure on small craft and covers the reasons for failure, lightning strikes and alternative power generation.

Great emphasis is placed on having a mindset that is prepared for any electronic failure, building redundancies and resilience into systems, identifying likely points of failure and knowing how to work round them, and having sufficient spares and back-ups.

Chapter Five addresses key navigational skills, with and without electronics, and reminds us of the need for traditional navigational skills such as DR and EP, as well as how to estimate speed through the water without a log. Matters concerning pilotage information and routeing are also covered.

Finally, Chapter Six looks briefly at future developments, naming MetOcean data trials (remote sensing of ocean current/tidal stream data), and ePelorus, being developed by the General Lighthouse Authorities, which uses a handheld device with an electronic compass to take bearings that can be transmitted to the electronic chart system to get a position fix.

Electronic Navigation Systems will be of most use to those who are new to electronic navigation systems, but we would recommend downloading it and having it aboard for any new crew or visitors. Moreover, in this time of COVID when some may be away from their boats for as long as two years, it serves as a useful refresher and the handy checklists at the end of each chapter provide clear aide-memoires.

NH & PH

CAPRI – SAILING DISTANT SEAS – Carsten and Vinni Breuning. Published in soft covers by Forlaget Mellemgaard [http://mellemgaard.dk/] at 299,95 Danish krone (±£35.00). 744 220mm x 150mm pages with many photographs. ISBN 978-8-7938-8011-5. Also available for Kindle.

Having accepted the invitation to review Carsten and Vinni Breuning’s book about sailing in distant seas, I was a bit daunted when the volume arrived, nearly as thick as Reeds Almanac! To state any criticism upfront, I thought the production of the printed version of the book left a bit to be desired. My proof copy version was missing a few * Bathymetry is the study of water depths in oceans and lakes. Crowdsourced bathymetry (CSB) allows private and commercial vessels to share depth measurements to help identify uncharted features and fill gaps where no data exists.

Visit https://iho.int/en/crowdsourced-bathymetry to learn more.

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pages near the beginning, and the pagination caused the captions of some illustrations to appear on the following page. To get over this I downloaded the e-version, which was very well presented.

As I started to read the book, sometimes the printed version and sometimes online, I became totally engrossed in Carsten and Vinni’s experiences and in re-living happy memories of the places which I too had visited. It is a well-told and lavishly-illustrated account of how their individual dreams panned out, and they take it in turns to give their innermost feelings day by day. It starts with Carsten’s dream: ‘Crossing oceans under white sails propelled by the wind. Find and explore places unreachable except by boat. Walk beaches few others had’. Then Vinni’s dream, after her first day’s sailing in Danish waters, ‘I’d never experienced that before and I was terrified it would capsize. I sat and hung on to the railing for dear life while everyone else chatted and enjoyed the fresh sailing. That day didn’t get me excited about sailing’.

Later, in waters off the US Virgin Islands, she wrote, ‘We’re immediately plastered by what is probably the worst squall we have run into on this trip. It is, however, marvellous to be at sea again’.

They gained a little experience in local Danish waters and luckily their first offshore passage to Scotland was benign, although Vinni describes being cold, frightened and seasick. They thoroughly enjoyed cruising through Scotland despite unremitting rain, and the weather remained unfriendly with fog off Ireland and thick fog all the way down the coasts of Spain and Portugal. Problems encountered included an unreliable navigation system, hand-steering because the engine battery charging was intermittent and only worked in harbour (!), and three entanglements with fishing nets in the fog.

One of these involved Carsten spending an hour over the side cutting Capri free in a sloppy sea, in full diving kit topped off by his cycling helmet.

They had a relatively uneventful sail with unfavourable winds to the Canary Islands, where they prepared to take part in the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers. This, in the event, proved a bit of a mixed blessing. The first leg to the Cape Verde Islands was in very light airs and most of the fleet used their motors incurring penalties in their race timings. Capri sailed the whole race and came in rather late, only for Carsten and Vinni to discover, to their delight, that they were third overall on sailing time and first in both the two-handed and small boat divisions. On the next leg to St Lucia the fleet got so dispersed that they were out of radio range of other competitors, so the idea of going across in a group didn’t come to much. The trade winds never filled in, and in light airs and swell their large genoa flapped heavily. This forced Carsten to make two trips up the mast as Capri rolled, one in order to replace a broken halyard and the second to cut the sail down after the halyard jammed irrevocably. The passage was so slow that they thought they might not finish within the time limit, but when this seemed certain the tension on board evaporated. They relaxed and enjoyed the next day’s sailing, only to discover that the management had extended the time limit by two days. They were under pressure again in order to finish within this time, which they just achieved.

The narrative continues with their voyage south via Bequia and the Grenadines to Grenada, back to Saint Lucia, then direct to the US Virgin Islands and on to Fort Lauderdale. Their writing evokes the atmosphere, history, politics and living conditions of all the places they visit, but often finding some anecdote to show that life there isn’t 116

paradise. They continue up the Intracoastal Waterway to Norfolk, VA – despite being told that it’s impossible in a vessel drawing 7ft – marvelling at the countryside as they go. Then on to New York and up the Hudson River to tour West Point and Hyde Park, President Roosevelt’s country house. Back south to Florida and on to the British Virgin Islands, Antigua, Panama including the San Blas and a transit of the Panama Canal.

In the summary of their thoughts at the end of the book, they say that they are sorry not to have met more friends during the voyage – I wondered if anyone had suggested they join the Ocean Cruising Club! The Port Officer network might also have assisted them with some of the ‘yacht maintenance in exotic places’ issues that they describe. So thank you, Editor, for asking me to review this book and be taken on a most enjoyable voyage through its pages, visiting during lockdown many places where I would love to have been in person.

AGHC

It's very difficult for two shells to speak Freely together. Each listens to its own sea call.

It remains for the pearl-diver or the peddler of the antique to say with firmness: 'Same sea, after all'.

T Carmi, Translated from the Hebrew by Dom Moraes

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SAILING IN METAPHORS Sheila McCurdy (Sheila has cruised and raced over 100,000 miles offshore, is a Past Commodore of the Cruising Club of America, holds a Master of Marine Affairs degree from the University of Rhode Island and a 100-ton USCG master’s licence and has, over the years, given a vast amount back to the world of sailing.

She and her husband David live in Rhode Island where they sail Selkie, a classic McCurdy & Rhodes Concordia 38 cutter.)

If you are reading this, sailing has had or will have a profound influence on your life in some way. There is, of course, the physical aspect of sailing – that of making a complex vessel advance through water, harnessing invisible forces. There is the communal aspect of living and working with others in a confined space for extended periods. There is the practical aspect of planning, preparing and then responding to a raft of eventualities.

We study. We learn. We listen. We screw up and learn again. We find joy in the places we go. We grieve injury and loss. We doubt and overcome. We remember what we have heard or seen on the water when any number of situations arise on land, and are likely to say, ‘It is just like being on a boat’. Sailing is a metaphor for everything.

There are writers and poets who can conjure language to say what we feel. I offer this sampling that crystallises some of the feelings for the sea that we have in common.

Awareness Marcel Proust was very good at writing long, involved works, but in this quote from Remembrance of Things Past he seems to sum up why some of us return to passagemaking again and again:

The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds, that each of them is...

Jerome K Jerome wrote Three Men in a Boat in 1889. It is a lovely, humorous yarn about sharing time on a small boat with chosen friends. I aspire to his list of essentials: Throw the lumber over, man! Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need – a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, ... enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.

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Risk Rear Admiral Grace Hopper, USN ret, was a practical and persuasive mathematician turned computer scientist. Starting during World War Two, she showed the Navy that computers could compile as well as do arithmetic. She did not shy from hard work in a hostile environment and was one of the oldest active duty officers in the Navy when she retired at the age of 79. She was fond of an aphorism popularised by John A Shedd in Salt from My Attic:

A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.

Samuel Johnson was trenchant in his assessment of shipboard life:

Being in a ship is like being in a jail, with a chance of being drowned.

We all know that command at sea is not a democracy. In The Republic, Plato considered the metaphor of a ‘ship of state’ as a warning for how the rule of the people could cause jeopardy. On board Plato’s ship are the captain, the crew, the crew leader and a navigator: The captain has power but is ‘a bit deaf and short-sighted, and similarly limited in seamanship’. The crew is querulous and each thinks he knows better than the others and tries to influence the captain. The navigator is thought to be a useless ‘stargazer’ but is the one who has the knowledge to lead them all safely and peacefully.

‘They don’t understand that a true captain must pay attention to the seasons of the year, the sky, the stars, the winds and all that pertains to his craft, if he’s really to be the ruler of a ship ... Don’t you think that the true captain will be called a real stargazer, a babbler, and a good-for-nothing ...?’

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Emily Dickinson was not familiar with the sea, but she captured the sense of how integral, yet off-balance, an immense and immediate ocean can make us feel:

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.

I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, This gave me a precarious gait Some call experience.

Betterment Kahlil Gibran, author of The Prophet, opens his story as his central character is about to board a ship. The prophet may have felt compelled to express his guiding principles before embarking on a voyage, and he may have good reason to be thinking of catastrophic danger:

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul. If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.

Henry David Thoreau was a champion of self-reliance and independence – qualities that appeal to all offshore sailors. Here he draws a comparison that brings a knowing smile: The sail , the play of its pulse so like our own lives: so thin and yet so full of life , so noiseless when it labors hardest, so noisy and impatient when least effective .

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Love and Life American poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou combines a surprising quartet in this poem. She seems much less picky about her boats than her men:

Ships?

Sure I’ll sail them Show me the boat, If it’ll float, I’ll sail it.

Men? Yes, I’ll love them.

If they’ve got style, to make me smile, I’ll love them.

Life?

‘Course I’ll live it.

Just enough breath, Until my death, And I’ll live it.

Failure?

I’m not ashamed to tell it, I’ve never learned to spell it, Not Failure.

Death Emily Brontë brought a gothic quality to her view of the sea, perhaps because the one with which she was most familiar was the North Sea. Constantin Héger, the head of a school she attended, said, “She should have been a man – a great navigator.”

Weep not, but think that I have passed Before thee o’er a sea of gloom.

Have anchored safe, and rest at last Where tears and mourning cannot come.

‘Tis I should weep to leave thee here On that dark ocean sailing drear, With storms around and fears before, And no kind light to point the shore.

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Past, Present, and Future Joseph Conrad delved into almost every human condition in his writings of the sea.

In their novel Romance, Conrad and Ford Madox Ford conflate the passage of time with the passage of life and perception. It is a stream of thought that might occur on a solitary night watch:

Journeying in search of romance – and that, after all, is our business in this world – is much like trying to catch the horizon. It lies a little distance before us, and a little distance behind – about as far as the eye can carry. One discovers that one has passed through it just as one passed what is today our horizon. One looks back and says, ‘Why there it is.’ One looks forward and says the same.

In his poem, Ulysses, Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote of the hero reflecting on his heroic youth:

All times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea.

But even in old age he was still rallying for adventure:

Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars until I die.

With many thanks to the Cruising Club of America, in whose journal122 Voyages this collection first appeared.

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TO SEEK, TO FIND, AND NOT TO YIELD: A family Atlantic adventure, Part 1 Peter Owens and Vera Quinlan (In 2004/5 Peter and Vera spent their honeymoon sailing an Atlantic circuit in their 12m Van de Stadt Plyades. Then in 2011 they found Danú, a steel 43ft Bruce Roberts Mauritius ketch, on the Rio Guadiana and sailed her home to Ireland and beyond – see Flying Fish 2015/2 and 2017/1. By 2019 they wanted to show their children – Lilian then aged 11 and Ruairí aged 9 – something of the cruising life, with an extended voyage to many different countries...).

On 15th March, as the world began to go into shutdown, we were sailing up the west coast of Guadeloupe with ideas of going to Montserrat for their annual St Patrick’s Day parade. News began to filter through about countries in Europe closing down, so we made the decision to sail directly to Antigua. From a sailing point of view Antigua offers many safe anchorages for all wind directions. If we were to be locked down, we reasoned that it should be there.

We managed to clear customs at Jolly Harbour minutes before Antigua closed its office there. News filtered through of how countries were dealing with sailing yachts and it was clear that movement would be seriously restricted. We had heard of a sparsely-populated island called Barbuda to the north of Antigua, surrounded by reefs and crystal-clear water, so it made sense to sail there as soon as possible before being prevented from doing so. We made the 30 mile hop a few days later and dropped anchor off a reef at Spanish Point, its southeastern extremity.

This was indeed a wonderful place to be. The water was so clear we could see our anchor dug in from the bow of the boat. There was little roll as we were protected from the Atlantic swell by the nearby reef. Snorkelling was exceptional, with a whole range of sea creatures to see – sharks, eagle rays and stingrays, lobsters and a myriad of multiLilian in lockdown, Barbuda

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Spanish Point anchorage, Barbuda

coloured reef fish were spotted on most of our dives. Sometimes we would snorkel two or three times in a day. We got to know this little reef quite well, so well that we could return and visit the same marine creatures on different days.

A day after arriving, the coastguard called by and informed us that we were welcome to stay but not to leave, as Antigua was in full lockdown with a 24-hour curfew – we were stuck on this island paradise for the long haul. A multinational group of sailors happened to be doing the same. Eight boats with sailors from France, Sweden, Scotland, South Africa and the UK were anchored close by, many with families on board. As the days passed we all got to know each other well, while the kids spent their days in and out of the boats, messing about on paddleboards and in dinghies.

There was a real sense of community amongst the group – it felt like a mini commune at the edge of the world.

As the days passed into weeks, food and water became an issue aboard Danú. For food supplies, we sent an enterprising Barbudan resident WhatsApp messages detailing what we required. He would arrive on the beach in his pickup truck and unload the food, and we would drop off payment, adhering to social distancing as much as possible. It wasn’t cheap, but was a lifeline for us. We ran out of water after two weeks but a nearby Swedish boat kindly let us fill our tanks by can as they had a watermaker – another lifeline for Danú and an example of the camaraderie between the cruisers at this idyllic spot.

Global lockdown had curtailed the cruising plans of nearly every boat. Our intention had been to continue north to the Virgin Islands and on to the Dominican Republic, but that was not possible for the foreseeable future. So we were stalled in Antigua, at this anchorage in Barbuda. Despite the abrupt halt, the flip side was that we slowed down and really got to know a place for the first time on our voyage. We gained a lot of new friends, all of whom we plan to keep in contact with in years to come.

The lockdown enforced many changes on most sailors. Some were simply not ready to cross eastbound, many finding themselves short-handed unexpectedly.

Some yachts were shipped home, while others engaged professional crew. Aboard Danú we had always planned to sail to the Azores archipelago before continuing to 125

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Ireland. Nonetheless, the Atlantic crossing ahead of us had a heightened sense of drama as, when we left, almost no countries (including the Azores) were open to visiting yachts. We returned to Antigua, started provisioning and kept an eye on the weather. On 16th May 2020 we raised anchor in Deep Bay and sailed for home and our second ocean passage as a family.

A year previously we had slipped our mooring at Parkmore, Kinvara on Ireland’s west coast and headed out onto a sea still lumpy from a southwesterly gale that had passed over the previous night. We had taken leave of absence from our jobs, the kids were out of school, the house was rented out and our ageing car had just been towed away by the scrappie. Heading out into Galway Bay on a 14-month cruise in mid June 2019 was the culmination of many years of planning and ensuring Danú was ready. During the winter she was hauled out onto Parkmore Pier by a 100-ton crane and work started straight away on a long list of modifications and upgrades – electronics, transmission, steering gear and building new davits, to name just a few. We fixed a passage chart of the North Atlantic on the living room wall, and at every meal our eyes would glance over the places we could visit.

One day we sat down together and planned our route, with each having a say in where we would go. The rough plan was an Atlantic circuit, sailing from Ireland to France, on to Spain and Portugal, Morocco, the Canaries and the Cape Verdes. From there we wanted to try something different by sailing to South America, followed by the Caribbean and maybe as far north as the Eastern Seaboard of the US. Since our previous circuit we’d had kids and built a house and life in the west, but having taken on many sailing and mountain trips over the years we became anxious to go again, not to be squeezing bigger cruises into ever-tighter work schedules. But taking the kids Leaving Irish shores for the Isles of Scilly. Photo Felim O’Toole

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Paddleboarding in the Isles of Scilly with us this time brought a very different dynamic and amplified the responsibility.

And so, as we reached out of Galway Bay with three reefs and small headsail, we were relieved to be off but at the same time wondering what we had got ourselves into.

After four nights in Dingle we got the winds we required and had one long day to Crookhaven. There we overnighted, and the following day made the jump to the Isles of Scilly off Cornwall. This little archipelago was unexpectedly worth visiting, with some great anchorages in crystal-clear yet still cold water. A gale forecast prompted our transit to Falmouth to meet Vera’s sister Sarah and family, and on 5th July we departed for France, making landfall in Camaret-sur-Mer. We stopped at the Îles de Glénan and then at La Trinité-sur-Mer. This massive marina is somewhat daunting, but eventually we found a berth alongside another steel boat, bigger than us and not moving anywhere, and ate out in a wonderful French restaurant for Peter’s birthday. The primary reason for visiting La Trinité, however, was to see the 6000-year-old menhirs and stone alignments at Carnac. Then we left the racing yachts of La Trinité and sailed on to the sanctuary of Navigation lessons en route to France

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Remembering old Belle Île, a beautiful routes on Naranjo island, very French, de Bulnes in the with some superb Picos de Europa coastal walking.

From Île-d’Houat we set off on the 315 mile passage across Biscay to Northern Spain, making good progress with a 6 knot average, the seas confused and lumpy on our approach to Cariño, northeast of A Coruña.

After a brief stop in Cariño we headed west to Sada. There we left Danú at the marina – much cheaper than A Coruña but swell from Biscay can be a problem. With Danú festooned in plenty of springy lines we left by hire car and drove to the mountains for two weeks. Asturias has a beautiful mountain range, the Picos de Europa, which was to be the location of our first inland adventure. There we walked and climbed, meeting up with old Irish climbing friends from years past, now, like ourselves, armed with children galore. The Picos offer something for everyone, from long-distance walks to superb rock climbing on mountain limestone. We stayed overnight in mountain huts, did a lot of walking and wrecked the kids.

Returning to Sada Marina after two weeks we found two chafed lines but Danú otherwise in good shape, and continued west to A Coruña. The town was abuzz with free concerts and we drank beer from plastic cups in the main square. Berthing fees at the Real Club Náutico were a shocker at €50 a night, but you can’t beat its location.

We lingered in cosmopolitan A Coruña long enough for Ruairí to buy a skateboard and Lilian to have a scooter accident which left her with bad scrapes on her elbows and knees. To deal with Lilian’s injuries, we spent an extra week in Camariñas getting help from the excellent medical facilities there.

Our sail to Muros was memorable for dumping 350 litres of fresh water into the bilges after a pipe ruptured – many expletives from parents as we bailed for two hours in a sloppy, windless sea. On the Muros pontoon we grabbed the attention of passing sailors 129

as they eyed up the soggy contents of our ship’s stores being dried in the sunshine. We visited several other classic spots such as the Ría de Arousa for Pobra do Caramiñal (and the lovely Rio Pedras swimming holes), Isla Ons, the Ría de Vigo and then Baiona, where we spent five nights waiting for the winds to ease. On 21st August we left for the long jump to Cascais, anchoring at 2300 in 25 knots of breeze, and pressed on to Portimão – which we’d chosen as our jumping-off point for Morocco – on the 25th.

It took three days to cross the Straits of Gibraltar to Rabat. Dodging plenty of ships in the first part of the passage, we had a mixture of sailing and motoring in good weather.

On the third night, at the 1000m contour, we had to steer delicately through a multitude of small fishing boats with adjacent nets marked by flashing beacons. We ran goosewinged as close as we could, preferring sail over engine with so many nets. On the AIS we spotted a yacht at 0 knots having got fouled. In the dead of night, Moroccan fisherman were heard on the VHF calling and whistling to us yachts as we passed by, sometimes with menacing language, doubtless their idea of fun. Then, through the morning haze, the coastline of Morocco came slowly into view. Swell can affect the entrance to Rabat and, when it’s over 2m, yachts are advised not to enter – even on this calm morning there was white water. The marina sent a pilot boat to guide us through the unmarked channel, with a dogleg and breakers to negotiate at the entrance.

Turning the corner we were met by one of the most exotic entrances sailed in Danú, with the magnificent ramparts of the Kasbah des Oudaias sweeping down to starboard as we entered the Bouregreg river. This was a step back in time and a distinct change from European waters. Lavishly coloured fishing boats lined the shore and single-oared ferryboats plied back and forth as we made our way upriver.

Wide-eyed, we took in the sights and sounds.

Alongside the quarantine dock we waited for hours, sweltering in the Moroccan heat. Police and Immigration boarded, all done in a cordial yet unhurried m a n n e r. T o Ruairí and Lilian’s delight a Planning the trek with our guide Hamou Ait Lhou 130

The Jebel Saghro team of sniffer dogs were led towards Danú, but unhappily for their trainers they were repulsed by our guardrails. It would have been interesting to see them in action. At noon we finally tied up at the Bouregreg marina, tired and sweaty but happy to be in North Africa once again.

We spent three weeks in Morocco. Leaving Danú safely tied up at the marina in Rabat, we took a train to Marrakech and from there travelled by bus to Kalaat M’Gouna.

This dusty town was the jumping-off point for a six-day trek through the Jebel Saghro, a lesser-known range in the Atlas Mountains, being lower in altitude but making up for that by their remote feel. For this we hired a guide and two muleteers. The kids carried their own daypacks with water and snacks, the adults a bit more and the mules

The dunes of Merzouga

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Baía d’Abra, Madeira.

Photo Bernardo Bacalhau

the rest. Amazingly the kids kept going, with gentle encouragement at times. Over the six days we walked 150km through a variety of landscapes, camping every night.

The scenery slowly changed from rocky mountains to desert – an incredible geography lesson. The destination and end of the trek was the exotic palmeraie (palm oasis) of N’Koub. From there, Lilian and Ruairí, our ‘trip advisors’, requested that we ride camels through the Sahara and camp out in the desert at Merzouga. Following this, various means of transport brought us to Er-Rachidia, after which an epic 14-hour bus journey returned us to Rabat. Morocco did not disappoint as a cultural experience – we were left with many great memories – but we were happy to be opening up the hatches on Danú once more and readying ourselves for our next passage.

Hurricane Lorenzo was due to kick up a swell which would close off the exit from Rabat, so we decided to depart Morocco on 22nd September. We cleared formalities in two hours, with more dogs, a police check and our passports stamped, and five foreign sailing yachts made their way out of the entrance with Danú, as fate would have it, in the lead.

Then, under full main and genoa, Danú was sailing at 6 knots in a steady north wind.

Three days’ passage took us to Porto Santo, northeast of Madeira. Having missed these islands in 2004 we were keen to visit this time, and Porto Santo did not disappoint. At first sight the island was not promising, but we grew to love it. Highlights were anchoring for €6 per night (including showers and water), good provisioning, an incredible 14km beach, a high pier for jumping off and some great walking. Here we met many other crews planning to sail the Atlantic circuit, some of whom became firm friends. Some very sociable barbecues later we tore ourselves away and departed for Madeira.

Our first anchorage was in the dramatic Baía d’Abra. We only stayed two nights, the roll eventually getting to us, but the snorkelling and walking were fantastic.

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Then we decamped around the corner to Quinta do Lorde, where all the sensible sailors were. Madeira is famed for its walking, often making use of levadas, the island’s network of irrigation channels. We reached Madeira’s highest point, and the views from Pico Rivo and Pico do Arieiro were superb. We found ourselves a little disappointed with the walking experience however, as the trails were crowded and, in our view, somewhat sanitised.

We departed Madeira in very gusty conditions and the first 24 hours were the most challenging sailing since our departure from Ireland. Two days later we anchored at Corralejo on Fuerteventura. This town is all about surfing and kiteboarding, so we took a class and bought a board. Ruairí excelled and made it look easy. The Canaries never lack for wind and with full sail we made good progress toward Tenerife, the mountainous view of this spectacular island coming into view through the morning haze. The marina at Santa Cruz was packed at that time of year and Danú had her first stern-to berth. It was interesting manoeuvring a heavy boat with cross winds and no bow-thruster, but all was good with many lines and a few helpers onshore. We hired a car for three days for climbing and surfing – highlights included rock climbing above the clouds on the slopes of Mount Teide and surfing until dark at Puerto de la Cruz.

On 5th November we left La Gomera for Sal in the Cape Verde islands. A fresh northerly brought squalls and rain for the first 24 hours but we quickly settled into goose-wing with pole. We caught our first dorado on the second day, making a fine meal with vegetables and rice. After that the wind increased steadily and the seas began to build, and by the end of the third day we experienced gusts over 40 knots and 4–5m seas, these conditions lasting until the fifth day out. By then we were making steady progress under a small headsail alone, Danú surfing steadily towards the Cape Verdes. On 11th November we raised the main again, with three reefs, and by midmorning could see the island of Sal through the haze. It was a fast ride, with many yachts sustaining damage due to the conditions.

Palmeira, the main anchorage on Sal, was crowded with cruising yachts and it was difficult to find a space. It was a lively and bustling place, however, and we were glad to be in the Cape Verdes again. We surfed at the south end of the island and on another Baía dos Ferreiros, Isla Brava, Cape Verde islands

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The anchorage at Fajã d’Agua, shared with just one other yacht day swam with lemon sharks (getting around the island is a fun experience, flying along sandy highways in the back of a pickup). We sailed on to Ilha de Sal Rei on Boavista, 40 miles to the south, where Vera’s ‘godson’ Christopher Lacy joined the crew. A newly graduated Yachtmaster, he was aboard to gain miles and experience an Atlantic crossing. Boavista has a very different ambience to Sal, but with more nice beaches and a great surf break close to the anchorage – Ruairí and Chris told us about surfing with turtles one day. Unfortunately the anchorage at Sal Rei is subject to swell, which increased daily until it became uncomfortable. With the reef breaking heavily not far from us, we began to feel uneasy so sailed overnight to Praia on Santiago to clear out.

Arriving on a Friday, we were informed that we had to wait until Monday to complete the formalities. The police were far from helpful and told us that yachts were not welcome in the harbour as they could not control the security. They took our papers though, so we were stuck for the weekend. A yacht next to us told stories of theft and damage in Praia and on the nearby island of Fogo, prompting us to take the dinghy aboard at night. Highlights are few in Praia, but the chaotic fish market is a wonder to behold. We were happy when we got our passports stamped and could leave for Isla Brava, the westernmost island of the group.

Passing by Fogo (the ‘Island of Fire’ with an active volcano) at night, we continued to Baía dos Ferreiros on Isla Brava’s southwest coast. This deep narrow inlet is a wonderful anchorage, with clear water and excellent snorkelling. We were able to fill our tanks with good water, carrying jerry cans and 5-litre bottles down the cobble beach to the dinghy. Isla Brava has remained largely unchanged from what we found 15 years ago – remote, friendly and unspoilt. The anchorage at Fajã d’Agua, a few miles to the northwest, was still as beautiful as we remembered, with only one other yacht there. Swell made the dinghy landing with five of us a choreographed affair, but once ashore we sipped cold beers and contemplated the next part of our journey, our Atlantic crossing to French Guiana.

The second part of Danú’s Atlantic circuit will appear in Flying Fish 2021/2.

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ARCTIC AND NORTHERN WATERS, including Faroe, Iceland and Greenland – Andrew Wilkes, 2nd edition. Published in hard covers by Imray Laurie Norie & Wilson [www.imray.com] and the RCC Pilotage Foundation [https://rccpf.org. uk/] at £65.00. 442 305mm x 219mm pages in full colour throughout. ISBN 9781-8462-3931-1. Also available in PDF format.

The new edition of the Royal Cruising Clubs Pilotage Foundation’s guide to Arctic and Northern Waters by Andrew Wilkes is not merely a rehash of the previous 2014 edition, but a comprehensive update with over 70 extra pages and well over 1000 changes and additions. The origins of this guide can be found in the reports written by OCC and RCC members following their summer cruises to the area, including the legendary HW (Bill) Tilman, the Rev Bob Shepton and Willy Ker amongst many others.

This has been a serious undertaking, with much of the research undertaken by the author, ably assisted by his wife Máire, and is built on their previous experience cruising in the Arctic and transiting the Northwest Passage. Extensive cruises to the Faroe Islands, Iceland and Greenland plus three trips to the east coast of Baffin Island provide the bulk of the information. In each of the main cruising areas the harbours, anchorages and chartlets have been updated with additional input from local harbour masters and a number of other experienced high-latitude sailors. The additional section covering Baffin Island adds a number of anchorages previously unknown (except to the locals) and contains many stunning images.

When reviewing the previous edition in Flying Fish 2014/2, Jarlath Cunanne commented: ‘Preparation is the key to successful Arctic travel. The vessel and crew must be self-sufficient and self-reliant for the duration of the voyage’. This is as true now as it was then and the section on Arctic Survival, supported by first-hand accounts of over-wintering in the ice, either from choice or when forced to by events, will be of interest to those considering venturing to higher latitudes. It will only serve to reinforce the message that these are no ordinary cruising grounds.

A greater number of boats visit the region each year, many with experienced skippers and crew, others new to northern waters. This guide covers all aspects of the challenges faced when cruising the region – the selection and preparation of a suitable vessel, crew, clothing and equipment, plus communications, weather, tides and currents. There is a comprehensive explanation of the various forms of ice and icebergs and how they are affected by wind and currents, and the dangers posed to a vessel in transit and at anchor. The author has been able to include numerous excellent photographs for each region, plus dozens of chartlets and sources of additional information covering everything from weather and ice updates to the latest in aids to navigation technology.

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A completely new section on managing our impact on the environment highlights the importance of following the correct procedures, from waste management to encounters with the abundant wildlife to be found in the region. It is crucial that all skippers and crew heading north read and re-read this chapter if we are to play our part in minimising our impact on the ecological systems and preserving the Arctic environment. Neither should cruisers underestimate the dangers posed by the increasingly desperate polar bear population, and the book not only gives a comprehensive guide of what to do in a worst-case situation but focuses on how best to ensure that the worst case never happens.

No skipper considering a voyage through this amazing and breath-taking area should leave without a copy of this excellent pilot on board and Andrew Wilkes, the RCCPF and Imray are to be congratulated. The challenges and dangers of cruising through this area are very real, but the rewards are enormous.

SB

NOVA, The History of the Nova Espero – Robin Somes. Published in soft covers by the author at £10.99 and as an e-book at £7.99, both available from shop. robinsomes.co.uk (together with several other books and CDs). 178 216mm x 140mm pages, many with photographs or drawings. ISBN 978-1-8380-1363-9 I first encountered the story of the Nova Espero when I was lent a copy of the charming little picture book Smiths at Sea*, which told of the Smith brothers’ amazing adventure in amusing cartoons drawn by Stan Smith. Now the full story of their remarkable little boat and her intrepid crew, as well as their family history, is told by their second cousin Robin Somes.

In 1949 Stan and Colin Smith from Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, designed a tiny sloop while en route to Canada aboard RMS Aquitania, building her soon after they arrived.

Then they sailed her from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia to Dartmouth, Devon in 43 days – nearly 3000 miles at an average of 75 miles per day. Arriving home expecting to be greeted by a few friends and family, they found that they were national heroes. Nova Espero (‘New Hope’ in Esperanto) was 20ft overall with a 6ft 3in beam and drew 2ft 10in. Gunter-rigged with an open deck, she was built of clinker planks which the Smith brothers found in various timber yards ‘lying around in dirty heaps – at least it was well seasoned!’. The open deck was covered with an upturned dinghy, which Stan and Colin built in three and a half days.

When they left on 6th July conditions were pleasant with moderate wind and seas but, sure enough, bad weather soon set in and Nova Espero sailed under just a trysail, being tossed around so violently that the crew below were thrown across the boat. The primus stove ‘roared merrily with the pressure cooker hissing and filling the cabin with scalding steam’. It all sounds highly dangerous to modern ears, but Stan and Colin took it in their stride – aged 31 and 27 they had youth on their side. Only twice during the voyage did the weather situation get really bad – enough to put in the cockpit hatch board. 35ft seas * A review of Smiths at Sea, in Flying Fish 2007/1, is available online at https:// oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

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crashed over the boat for twelve hours and at first Stan was ‘gripped by terror’, but as Nova Espero proved her seaworthiness he felt ‘terrific relief at being alive!’. They endured several frustrating days of calm off southern Ireland before finally arriving in Dartmouth on 14th August. Black and white photos show the boat and her intrepid crew being welcomed off the Eddystone Light by family, and greeted by huge crowds in Dartmouth and again in Yarmouth when they returned to their home port on 30th August.

The rationale for the adventure was to show that Britons could still build a good ship. Initially the voyage was intended to be two-way, with the brothers returning to Canada having proved their skills as boat builders, able to earn their livings while establishing ‘peace colonies’. They had both served in the RAF during the Second World War and had come to the conclusion that ‘all men of any colour or background could live together in peace, and it was only mistaken leaders who could persuade them to fight and kill’. Their ambition was to found a village made up of many nationalities and prove their theory to the rest of the world.

The author discusses the unorthodox beliefs and individualism of the whole Smith family who, more than most, were prepared to face down authority and live life on their own terms – to ‘do their own thing’ in today’s parlance. In early 1949 Stan sent a 22page poem to Phyl Somes, the author’s mother, with whom he had been corresponding, united by their mutual love of poetry. Robin Somes comments that he debated whether or not to include it in the middle of the book, suspecting (probably correctly) that most readers would skip an overly long epic verse full of symbolism, the state of the human race, war and the leaders who had brought the world to its present state. On the other hand, if you’re into that sort of thing you may well find it fascinating and inspiring – the old saying ‘whatever floats your boat’ is particularly apt for OCC members.

Smiths at Sea, with its delightful cartoons, was published in 1951 by Adlard Coles with Stan – a Founder Member of the OCC – receiving a £50 advance. But a year earlier he had written a full and more accurate account of the voyage which was lightened up for publication – Adlard Coles probably feared that the non-seagoing public would be horrified by the true story! The Nova Espero manifesto – the Smith brothers’ grand plan for a new world order (and world language, Esperanto), which they felt was urgently needed to avert another world war, makes interesting reading – a bit naive, wacky and impractical to today’s eyes, but reminiscent of the strength of feeling in the ‘ban the bomb’ era of the 1960s, and perhaps echoing the huge concern about climate change that we’re facing now.

Despite many applications to join the proposed peace colony in Canada, the plans for a Utopian village ultimately foundered. The story doesn’t end there, however.

Nova Espero sailed for several more years, including a 120-day voyage to New York with a stop in the Azores for repairs. She came home on a ship after being exhibited at the New York Boat Show. After more adventures in the Mediterranean Nova Espero returned to UK, where later plans to restore and preserve her, as a vessel of historic interest, sadly failed and she went through several owners before being wrecked in the early 1980s when she broke free from her mooring in a gale.

I really enjoyed this book with its many photos. Anyone who – like this reviewer – grew up sailing on the Solent and visiting Yarmouth in the 1960s and ’70s will find it especially interesting, though to fully appreciate it one should also order a copy of Smiths at Sea from Robin’s website. Definitely recommended!

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THE WEATHER HANDBOOK – Alan Watts, 4th edition. Published in soft covers

by Adlard Coles [www.adlardcoles.com] at £16.99. 160 236mm x 159mm pages with many photographs and diagrams. ISBN 978-1-4729-7859-2. Also available for Kindle.

We have copies of Instant Weather Forecasting and Instant Wind Forecasting by the same author and were keen to see the new edition of The Weather Handbook, which is billed as an ‘essential guide to how weather is formed’, helping you to ‘look at the sky and interpret the signs for yourself’. The back jacket quote from Practical Boat Owner, ‘The perfect introduction to understanding weather’, implies that this is a book that could be picked up and understood by a novice, but this is definitely not the case.

Ex-pilots and transatlantic yachtsmen with a fair background in meteorology, we still found this quite a tough read.

The primary reason for this is that it reads as if one has been dropped into the middle of a met course. There is no gentle re-introduction to the subject with a reminder of terms and basic background theory, or even a suggestion that if you feel the need for a refresher then you should refer to XYZ book. In fact, it could be a good book to read after studying Simon Rowell’s Weather at Sea*, which gives the basic theory, with The Weather Handbook adding the detail of more complex systems and ideas that Rowell has omitted, possibly due to space constraints.

That said, there is a chapter at the end of The Weather Handbook which contains ‘Information and Explanations’. This seems to be an odd mish-mash – there are a few short definitions (eg. of the term ‘cyclonic’, which is often misunderstood) but while some paragraphs are complex, such as the explanation of evaporation, others (eg. the paragraph on Tropical Revolving Storms) are remarkably simple given the level of assumed knowledge with which the book starts. It’s almost as if Watts wrote a Weather Encyclopaedia which was subsequently cut back to Handbook size.

An early chapter describes various cloud types, stating when and where in the weather situation one could expect to see them, all illustrated with beautiful photographs. It’s a good start to the meat of the text after what is a fairly dense introduction and first chapter. But it’s one of the few light interludes in the book’s 160 pages and the next chapter plunges into all manner of detail and technical terminology. It’s very interesting and there’s a vast amount to be gained from it, but it’s not a ‘perfect introduction’.

To be fair, our main problem with this book is really in understanding at whom it is aimed. Alan Watts is a well-known and very expert meteorologist, but much of this book is very technical, not introductory or teaching text. It provides a huge amount of excellent information on forecasting weather in the mid-latitudes of the North Atlantic and Northern Europe, melding observation with in-depth detail from forecast charts, met theory and the like. But to ‘get’ it, certainly the early chapters, you do need a reasonable grasp of the background theory, and even then you may still need to re-read the explanations a couple of times. Some of the later chapters contain much more easily understood and simply described concepts, however, such as the section on fog.

It is clear, though, that this book is aimed at a generic observer/would-be forecaster and is not specifically aimed at yachtsmen, though there is much in it that will be of benefit to mid-latitude sailors of all types. * Reviewed on page 113 of this issue.

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In summary, this would not be our first choice reference book on the weather and there are far simpler and more accessible ‘starter’ texts available. Nevertheless, this is a book that we plan to keep on our bookshelf for future reference, as it contains a great deal which will help provide a deeper understanding of Northern European weather patterns and which should help us to develop our own forecasting abilities.

NSB & MHRB

REEDS 9-LANGUAGE HANDBOOK. Published in soft covers by Reeds Publishing [www.bloomsbury.com] at £9.99. 160 160mm x 100mm pages in full colour throughout. ISBN 978-1-4729-8494-4. Also available for Kindle.

If there is one undeniable truth it is that any sailor in a foreign land is going to need some local help sooner rather than later with his or her boat. The Reeds 9-Language Handbook will come into its own when this eventuality arises, so it would be a good idea to remember where it is kept on board – otherwise it will be one of those small items that is always hanging around until the moment you need it, when it will have slipped into some recess and disappeared without trace.

This little book, which will fit into a jacket pocket, is cleverly put together, presenting a lot of information in English, French, German, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, Danish, Portuguese and Greek but, surprisingly, not in Turkish, despite so many people sailing and chartering there – pandemics permitting. The format consists of clearly-drawn, full-colour illustrations of, say, a boat’s hull, together with an arrowed naming in English of its parts, each with a designated number. Beside each illustration is a translated list, using the same numbering and colour-coded for each of the other eight languages.

Because it is a pocket-sized book the print is quite small, but this is offset by the high quality of the graphics and of course it is likely to be used mostly in bright daylight.

(If companies selling complicated things which come with instruction manuals would only make their manuals as clear as this, it would save us all a lot of trouble.) Some of the information – such as the act of gybing – does not lend itself to illustration and in these cases the translating is limited to text, without the pretty pictures.

There are five sections – ‘The Boat’, ‘Under way’, ‘Maintenance and Repairs’, ‘Emergencies’ and ‘General Reference’. There could almost be another section for ‘Unforeseen Circumstances’, these being the things that dog most of us, but that would be an unlimited topic and might result in a large tome instead of a handy little book.

I drew the line at verifying the translation from English into eight other languages, but did do some in-depth sampling of the French translations, being the only one of the eight in which I am reasonably comfortable. A genuine French sailor might not agree with my comments and I have to be careful because it is not my native tongue, but I did quickly pick up some translations that did not seem quite right, even if of no great significance. For instance, the French word for topping lift is the rather attractive word balancine, not corde du levage de gui (literally translated as ‘string for lifting a spar’).

While the word cordage is acceptable for rope in general, French sailors are deeply superstitious about using the word corde on a boat, with its ancient connotations to 141

do with hanging mutineers, and also they normally call their boom a bôme, not a gui, which is any old horizontal spar. A chandler in French is a shipchandler or possibly a magasin d’accastillage, but not a magasin de fournitures maritimes, although I suppose technically that is what it is. I think the steering wheel on a RIB should be a barre, originally a tiller but generally used for wheel steering as well, rather than, as the book has it, a gouvernail, which is a rudder. There were quite a few others that sprang off the page, but my task has been to review this book, not correct it.

The real point of all this linguistic quibbling is to prove that there has been some limited road-testing of the book and this has inevitably revealed a few imperfections, although none that I have found have been of any real consequence and they do not detract from a nice and practical little manual. It will be worth having and will do a very useful job for lots of people.

BH

SEAMANSHIP 2.0 – Mike Westin, Olle Landsell and Nina and Pär Olofsson.

English edition published in soft covers by Adlard Coles Nautical [www.bloomsbury. com] at £14.99. 158 156mm x 234mm pages in full colour throughout. ISBN 978-1-4729-7702-1. Also available for Kindle.

Seamanship 2.0 is subtitled ‘Everything you need to know to get yourself out of trouble at sea’, a title and stated ambition that may perhaps raise eyebrows given the slim 158page reality. Nevertheless, it encompasses a comprehensive diversity of issues that may face a skipper in a variety of situations.

The rationale for the book is that too many boat owners make little or no attempt to extract themselves from problematic situations, preferring to call for help by whatever means are available. Apparently this applies even in the middle of oceans with no risk to life, though given the general level of discussion it is clear that the target audience is primarily inexperienced skippers undertaking coastal or limited offshore passages.

In response to this, Seamanship 2.0 seeks to inspire boat owners to become more selfreliant and competent to deal with any mishap or emergency that befalls them.

It is divided into four major sections: Seamanship (best practice), Problem fixing, Emergencies and Basic First Aid. Each is further divided into between eight and fourteen subsections which are discussed in the text, extensively supported by colourful illustrations which bring life and clarification to the writing.

A large part of the Seamanship section is devoted to tight marinas, storm preparations in a marina and Mediterranean mooring. Techniques such as using a spring, warping, surging lines and prop walk are all given an airing along with basic handling under power. This is followed by picking up a mooring, during which several methods to hook the buoy are suggested but no mention is made of the simple and effective RYAendorsed technique of throwing an open loop over the buoy. It was surprising not to find anything in this section regarding Collision Regulations.

Problem fixing is, at 16 pages, the smallest section and covers: engine, fuel and electrical problems, ripped sails, fouled propeller, gas leak and a fouled anchor. Given the increasing reliance on electrical supply by vast numbers of skippers I was surprised at 142

the scant two sides devoted to the topic – no mention is made of generators, a piece of kit high on the unreliability table, or of environmentally-friendly systems such as solar panels and wind generators. By comparison, the 32 pages devoted to Basic First Aid are comprehensive, clear, concise and well illustrated. Most common eventualities are covered except for electric shock, a significant issue with the high current supply from lithium-ion batteries and powerful gen-sets becoming increasingly common.

The primary topics in the Emergencies section are man overboard, fire, holed and sinking, running aground, rudder failure and losing the mast. Apparently, losing the keel does not bear thinking about. We then move on to helicopter and SAR boat rescue, abandoning ship and emergency communication. Understandably, the largest topic is the 12 pages devoted to man overboard and a variety of recovery techniques.

Regarding liferafts, the very sensible advice is to get the fittest person in first to help pull up others as it may be extremely hard to get in. I was reminded of our sea survival course, where only two people out of 16 were able to enter the raft in a swimming pool unaided. All were only wearing T-shirts, shorts and life jacket.

Whilst the book raises many issues and poses possible solutions, it would be unwise to think that having read it you would be aware of everything you need to know to go to sea safely – and to suggest that you would is disingenuous. After studying it a novice would undoubtedly be better equipped, with a greater perspective of the breadth and diversity of knowledge required for safe seamanship, but the superficial discussion does not confer deep understanding of important issues. The authors appear to suspect that purchasers will already have good knowledge and perhaps vast experience. I do not think that anything new is brought to the table, however, and such buyers may be disappointed.

GMJ

A KNOT A DAY, 365 Knot Challenges for All Abilities – Nic Compton. Published in semi-rigid covers by Adlard Coles [www.adlardcoles.com] at £16.99. 368 203mm x 193mm pages including an estimated 1800 colour photos. ISBN 978-1-40889272-5. Also available as an e-book.

Other than the incomparable Ashley Book of Knots, which first appeared in 1944, this is one of the most comprehensive books on the subject that I’ve come across.

Comprehensive in terms of the number of knots, that is, but much sketchier in terms of what each knot should – or should not – be used for. Although not specifically aimed at sailors it does, of course, include all the familiar sailor’s knots, whippings and splices as well as, to paraphrase the back cover, handy knots for making outdoor items (plant hangers, tree swings etc), for knot craft projects (keyrings, belts etc), magic ‘trick’ knots (escapology and vanishing knots etc) and even ‘fashion knots’ for shoelaces, scarves and ties.

The brief introduction explains the colour-coding system displayed on the page borders – eight colours to identify the five categories already mentioned, plus general knots, decorative knots and indoor knots. It would have been even more helpful if the contents list had been colour-coded, as I searched in vain for an example of an ‘indoor’ knot. I’m sure there were some – I just couldn’t locate them. Incidentally, 143

while printing the rather cramped contents list on dark buff paper may have seemed cool to a young layout artist, it will ensure older knotters – kompologists if you want to be formal – in search of something specific will go straight to the index at the back which is, fortunately, printed on a slightly lighter, marbled background. In this reviewer’s opinion both contents list and index would have been clearer on white paper.

Most pages carry four or five photos illustrating how a single knot is tied, though a few of the most basic are fitted two to a page, while some of the more complicated ones, such as the Three-strand Plait Sinnet, occupy both sides of a spread. In terms of photos, I think pride of place goes to the Dog Toy (a rather neat bone look-alike) with a sequence of 12 knots across two pages. In contrast, the humble granny knot is covered in two photos on half a page.

Some variety is introduced by the use of different coloured lines and backgrounds, while the coloured borders allow for a variety of ‘uses’ within the overall sequence of easy-to-difficult. Most will probably dip in at random, and there’s no doubt that with a suitable piece of line and some time to spare this book would be both entertaining and instructive. What I suspect no-one will do is work through it day by day over the course of a year. It would be a handy book to have aboard on a long passage when time can hang heavy, while family crews could certainly use it as a source for competitions and challenges – or possibly to settle arguments. Well-produced on heavy paper between robust though flexible covers, A Knot a Day should justify its relatively high cover price by lasting for many years. The ‘fee’ for reviewing a book in Flying Fish is normally the book itself, and this is one I anticipate returning to quite frequently.

AOMH

BREAKFAST WITH DOLPHINS – George Fohr. Published in soft covers by Tredition GmbH at £9.28 / €14.99. 256 190mm x 123mm pages, including 12 of photographs. ISBN 978-3-3471-7682-9. Also available for Kindle.

In 2002/3, German-born George Fohr and his wife Beate sailed their yacht Athene 5500 miles from their home in Holland around the eastern Atlantic. George wrote about this voyage and his book was published in Germany. Years later, a conversation with a friend put an idea in his head – why not write a new edition in English, with extra stories from their more recent cruise, and include more details of their adventures and the fascinating people they met? Books in English sell many more copies than any other language – important if you are self-publishing and hoping to make some money, or at least cover your expenses. George thought it would also be an excellent chance to improve his English language skills (which were already pretty fluent) but, on his own admission, ‘be a pain in the neck for native speakers’! Unfortunately, he’s achieved exactly that, as being a fluent speaker isn’t quite the same as being able to write fluently in another language. This book is hard work to read at first – it would have benefited from a professional translator, or at least a good editor. Flying Fish publishes many excellent articles from non-native English speakers, which get as much, or as little, ‘tweaking’ as necessary. Having said that, I’m full of admiration for anyone who is bi- or multilingual so this isn’t intended as criticism, just an observation.

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Back to Athene and her crew, who set off again, hoping to recapture some of the fun they’d had first time around. In May 2019 she was launched on the north German coast, from where they cruised to Denmark and explored Copenhagen, before sailing over to Sweden and up to Norway, about which the author writes at length, packing in much interesting information about the country. Eventually they crossed the North Sea to Scotland, entering the Caledonian Canal at Inverness. Athene continued west to the Hebrides, where they cruised the islands as far north as Stornaway on the Isle of Lewis, tasting – and buying – plenty of whisky along the way. George’s descriptive narrative gives a real flavour of their surroundings and the people they meet, from other cruisers to café staff. They found strong Scottish accents hard to understand, but were reassured to be told that English sailors had the same problem!

So on to Bangor in Northern Ireland, from where they visited the Titanic Museum, and south to Howth for a visit by train to Dublin, where we get more astute observations of the city and its inhabitants. From Arklow it’s over to Wales, where bad weather made them put in at Milford Haven, and finally south to A Coruña in Spain, from where George and Beate visited Santiago de Compostela. Lack of wind meant motoring down the Spanish coast, with stops in Vigo and Bayona, and on to Portugal where they enjoyed sampling port in Porto. George writes entertainingly – in his rather Germanic English – about the history of the city from Roman times. After nearly four weeks in Porto instead of the intended five days it was getting colder, so Athene pushed on south to Cascais, followed by stops in Lagos and finally Vilamoura.

By now it was March 2020, and tourists were disappearing fast as the cafés and restaurants closed and supermarkets restricted the numbers of shoppers who could enter. Following two months of strict lockdown, yachts were allowed to cruise locally but not to leave the country. This is where George’s story ends for now – he and Beate are ‘living in the moment’ and dreaming of the day that they can resume their travels and reach the Azores and beyond.

The author’s reflections on the Iberian way of life are interesting and perceptive. He has deliberately set out to record their travels on land rather than the routine sailing passages from place to place – he did that in his first book, so the sea conditions get only a brief mention, which works well. He spends a lot of time observing people in the street and on buses, and has some amusing comments on the vagaries of human behaviour. A chartlet showing their route would have been helpful, but the 24 captioned photos grouped together at the end have reproduced well, despite not being printed on photographic paper.

My feelings about this book changed as I read it for this review. After initially being irritated by the author’s sometimes clumsy use of my mother tongue, I found myself rather enjoying his style – you could almost hear him talking. His enthusiasm for everything and everyone they met overrode my perhaps rather petty objections, though he could still use a good editor! Perhaps surprisingly, I’d recommend this book.

EHMH Initially George included no details of Athene in case they distracted from the ‘travel narrative’, but changed his mind on learning that other cruisers might find this decision strange or even annoying. Newer copies should include that Athene is a Cumulant 38F, a long-keel 11∙55m sloop built of steel in Holland in 1990.

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FROM THE GALLEY OF ... Tim Bridgen, aboard Marionette Prawns in their own sauce (serves 2–4) Technically this is a bisque, but it’s not too cheffy and is entirely doable in the galley!

Ingredients • • • • • • • •

500g prawns (more if you have them!)

1 large white onion, peeled and sliced 1 large carrot, washed and sliced 2 celery stalks with their leaves, sliced * 1 desert spoon tomato concentrate 1 table spoon brandy (optional) 2 table spoons double cream (optional) 1 pinch saffron (optional)

The prawns can be any type, any size, boiled or raw, fresh or frozen – but they MUST have their heads and shells on. That’s where all their flavour is. If frozen, defrost. If raw, put in boiling, salted water for no more than five minutes until they all turn bright pink. Allow to cool, then peel, retaining the heads, shells, tails and legs – everything. Chefs always say to ‘de-vein’ them, removing the black line down the backs of larger ones, but I don’t bother.

Put the shells etc on a shallow baking tray, sprinkle them liberally with olive oil and put them in the oven at 180°C (350°F / Gas Mk 4 / moderate) for about 20 minutes. Browned is okay but don’t let them char. Remove from the oven and tip the shells into a large pot, scraping any bits that have stuck to the tray in with them. Add the onions, celery, carrot and enough cold water to just cover everything. Simmer gently for an hour with the lid on. Do not season!

Strain through a sieve, pressing with the back of a spoon to retain as much of the prawny, veggie goodness as possible. Pour back into the pot and boil vigorously with the lid off until reduced by a half. Lower the heat, add all the other ingredients except the peeled prawns, and simmer very gently for five minutes. Season to taste and, depending how thick you’d like the sauce, you might want to thoroughly mix a teaspoon of cornflour (US: cornstarch) with a tablespoon of cold water and stir into the pan off the heat.

Just before serving, stir in the peeled prawns and allow to warm through.

Alternatively you could fry the pawns very briefly in garlic butter (they’re already cooked) and pour the warm sauce over them.

Lovely with fresh, crusty bread to soak up the sauce, or poured over pasta. * If celery is not available a fennel bulb would be good (but probably also unobtainable).

Cristofine or pak choi might work, otherwise a good old vegetable stock cube.

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Flying Fish and Members Handbook Half page: 105mm high x 148 mm wide Artwork should be supplied as: • a high res, PDF, JPEG or EPS 300 dpi at size • • CMYK (not RGB) as a PDF from Adobe inDesign, please use ‘Press (if Quality’ and include trim marks and bleed) Text and logos should ideally not extend beyond the Pink line to ensure that nothing is too close to the edge of the page Black line is the edge of the trimmed page Red line is the bleed line, and images should extend beyond this to ensure that white does not creep in 147if there are inaccuracies in the trim

THE 1989/90 WHITBREAD ROUND THE WORLD RACE Colin Watkins Introduced by Richard Nicolson I spent my early years building pretend yachts from timber off-cuts in cold, damp Scottish boatyards. Much to my frustration, my father, a Founder Member of the OCC, spent more time building boats than sailing them. Then in the late 1970s he saw sense. He bought a bare hull, and as soon as a secondhand mast was acquired we went sailing. This sort of sailing was basic – no engine, no electrics (not even lights) and no luxuries. My dad, my sister Elizabeth and I short-tacked into local marinas under cover of darkness to refill the water containers (no water tanks) and, as our experience grew, my sister and I would sail the boat without parental supervision.

On leaving school I assisted with the rebuild of a 42ft wooden yacht, Tritsch Tratsch, Beth and I completing our first transatlantics (and OCC qualifying passages) aboard her from Falmouth via Madeira and Bermuda to Marblehead, Massachusetts. On arrival I hitched aboard racing yachts in Long Island Sound and the vicinity.

The first Whitbread Round to fully-crewed yachts of four years since then, 2001 and The Ocean a European port early races were this had a distance were 23

Satquote British Defender on the starting line

the World Race took place in 1973 and was open all sizes. It has been held every three or becoming the Volvo Ocean Race in Race in 2019. It usually starts from during early autumn, and though split into four legs, by 1989/90 increased to six, covering of 32,000 miles. There entries this time, ranging in size from 51ft to 84ft. It was the last Whitbread Race to accept all suitable yachts, with later races contended in either one or two classes, and is recognised as both the last with amateur Corinthian crews and the first with all out professionals.

The British Armed Services took great interest in the race from the beginning and were occasional competitors, viewing the event as an adventure-training programme 148

Richard preparing to peel the spinnaker

with a change of crew for each leg. By 1989, with private sponsorship, the Services were able to enter a competitive and purpose-built yacht to be named Satquote British Defender (SBD). They announced a crew selection process and, as a newlycommissioned Army Officer, in the spring of 1988 I submitted my interest. A mix of sailing, fitness and psychological testing was carried out. At the British Parachute Regiment’s headquarters we slept in the gymnasium, were woken in the early hours and then water-cannoned. This was very typical of the next few months. Unlike previous Service entries, to maintain consistency we would have a core crew and only a small number of changes at each stop-over. SBD would race each leg with a crew of between 14 and 16 and, after arduous tests, I was selected as principal bowman and sailmaker.

SBD was a state-of-the-art custom 81ft maxi, competing in Class A. This contained the 15 largest and fastest yachts, including Steinlager 2 (NZ), Merit (Switzerland) and Rothmans (UK). There were 23 starters across all four classes, and most yachts were sponsored with budgets reportedly running to £10 million (about £26m today). The race departed from Southampton in September 1989, and during the next nine months we would sail to Punta del Este, Freemantle and Auckland, then back to Punta del Este, before the penultimate stop in Fort Lauderdale, and finally home.

The following extracts are from the log kept by Colin Watkins, skipper of SBD during Leg 2: Punta del Este, Uruguay to Fremantle, Australia.

Saturday 28th October 1989: It was good to feel that at last the day of the start had arrived. We had worked hard on the yacht during the four-week stop-over and many of the crew had taken no more than a couple of days’ local leave. The spinnaker crane had been replaced, a new pulpit made and fitted, the usual routine jobs completed 149

The crew, including shore team, in Punta del Este and, most importantly, the deck leaks forward had been filled.

Having been wished farewell by the Duchess of York (who had travelled to Uruguay to present the Leg 1 prizes) we slipped and set off for the start. The timescale went something like this: 1130: Halcyon compass fails. (This supplied data to the majority of our onboard tactical computers and was later repaired.)

1200: Start, second over the line, Fisher & Paykel is recalled.

1220: Round the inshore buoy and we are off across the South Atlantic.

The first night found us reaching along at 14 knots, initially under blast reacher then, as the wind freed, under reaching kite. The fleet was closely bunched together except for Steinlager 2 which had pulled five miles ahead. During the night the spinnaker halyard shed its sheath, jamming itself in the mast. Loath to cut the halyard on the first night out, it took a while to clear. Later the head of our heavy reaching kite, 2∙2oz with Kevlar reinforcing, pulled out. These incidents lost us several miles and resulted in us being the wrong side of a front. Rather than chase the fleet and make ground to the north we bore away in the rising easterly and sailed a great circle route that took us down to 52°S. Monday 30th October, 40°S 50°W: ‘What are we doing beating in the Roaring Forties?’

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Eventually the wind swings round to the south and then to the west at last. Going south early looked bad at first but as usual it paid off and SBD together with Gatorade and Charles Jordan which had followed us were only a few hours behind the leading group.

Thursday 2nd November, 46°S 33°W: Making good 300 miles a day under a 1∙5oz kite with a true wind of 25 knots, apparent wind 11 knots, air temperature 6° by day and 2° by night – lovely weather! It is all going too well and next day the helm becomes very stiff. Nothing wrong with the top end, something must have jammed it. Much peering over the side with torches and we can just make out a vast bunch of seaweed trailing behind us. The yacht is almost uncontrollable so with regret we drop the spinnaker and round up but are still going too fast to clear the rudder, so drop the main and stop the boat, with Justin Packshaw, our diver, ready to jump in. The seaweed, which is not jammed but held in place by water pressure, luckily falls off but Justin has a quick, cold look anyway. Up mainsail, bear away, up kite ... we have to carry out this procedure twice more within the week.

Monday 6th November, 50°S 7°W: Running hard with 31 knots true wind, making over 300 miles per day. Properly in the westerlies now, and in true Southern Ocean style visibility is down to 25 yards, can just make out the forestay. Other yachts are reporting icebergs, which are carefully plotted. We run the radar for a sweep every 10 minutes with the standby watch leader on the tube. Some of the boys are nervous – is it good seamanship to run at over 20 knots in zero visibility with ICE about? Of course it isn’t, but if you wanted to be safe you would not race in the Whitbread.

A contact is seen on radar at three miles bearing green 30°. Minutes later it is ahead at two miles, and soon bears red 20° still at two miles – a 20 knot iceberg?

Yet another parted line...

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Surfing at 30 knots or more causes SBD to submarine and the crew to be swept aft (sequence) A quick chat on VHF establishes that it is NCB Ireland – they didn’t know we were there! We seem to be plagued with electronic trouble and Andy Bristow

is busy fixing and juryrigging computers and B&G equipment. To be fair most of the problems are water ingress. We have a seawater leak in the hydraulics panel, which is over the chart table and electronics bay, so it’s a wonder that anything works at all!

Wednesday 8th November, 50°S 5°E: Air temperature zero at night rising to 3° by day, the sea temperature a steady 3°. Running superbly and making 60 miles in each four-hour watch. The boat is behaving well in a large following sea. She picks up speed very quickly to allow surfing at over 25 knots for periods of over two minutes. We have enough speed to overtake waves and although it is difficult, demanding in concentration and very hard work to steer, this is why we joined. One can easily get hooked on downwind speeds.

Overnight the wind increases to 40 knots – time for the second reef and the storm kite, fondly named the Beast! The boat becomes too wild, so down kite and up with the blast reacher. Our normal practice when reefed is for the reefing clew to be secured by a nylon strop and Sparcraft snap-shackle, thus relieving the weight on the reefing line.

This naturally means the on-watch bowman (Richard Nicolson or Paul Anderson) going out on the boom. Last night it was considered too dangerous to do this and before long the inevitable happened and the second reefing line parted, dropping the boom into the sea. The vang piston, a solid titanium bar, had been at full extension and snapped like balsa wood! Priority was to get the boom, which is 37ft long and weighs about 800lbs (360kg), out of the water. A good old-fashioned lazyjack was rigged, the mainsail set up and a wire-rope cascade rigged as jury vang, and we were off again.

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The HF radio has been soaked once too often and has packed up. No radio communications with the outside world makes one feel a little lonely, but there are 16 of us so what the hell. A couple of days hard running in near gale conditions with frequent snow showers and freezing temperatures confirms our position at 50°S 20°E. I had intended to go further south, but equipment failures and lack of a reliable HF radio to receive ice reports keep me at 50°S. The temporary vang is not powerful enough to keep the leach tight, and the leeward curl of the main makes steering awkward. Eventually it had to happen – a serious broach, boat laid over and crew trying to trip the guy to get rid of the kite. Before they succeed the inboard pole end fitting shears and catapults the pole end through the mainsail.

Luckily the kite is not damaged! Down kite, up storm kite on the second spinnaker pole and continue. The rip to the main is near the luff and therefore not taking much strain. The sailmakers, Bill and Richard, reckon it will last the night. The next day, with a little less wind, we drop the main leaving the kite up, take the main below and Bill sews up the damage. The sewing machine is red-hot from kite repairs.

Friday 10th November: My birthday is celebrated with a screaming surf which cumulates in the bows buried under tons of water as we catch the wave ahead.

We are then laid flat as we broach momentarily before swinging round to leeward as the kite refills. The main preventer cannot hold the boom, which swings across and removes the check stay.

Fortunately we have the second reef in – otherwise we might have lost the runner. Repairs to the check stay do not delay us and we

continue in the driving snow, passing the halfway point which we celebrate with a rare tot of rum.

The HF radio came back to life quite suddenly and without any help from us.

We found that we were lying in the middle of the fleet, with the leading four yachts some 12 hours 153

Wet bowman hardwiring the first reef ahead and the third group some 12 hours behind. Morale boosted, two more days and another 500 miles under our keel. The wind dropped slightly, allowing those who had gone down to 53°S to get ahead. We were receiving fax pictures from the Soviet weather station on Antarctica and still just receiving data from Buenos Aires, which produced excellent circumpolar pictures taken from the UK Met Office at Bracknell. The signal from Pretoria, South Africa was stronger, but the weather data did not quite tie-up with the other two! The fax was backed up by our weather satellite receiver, which every 3 to 4 hours provided real time pictures from the NOAA orbiting satellites. Everything pointed to a depression coming north, and the fleet made ground to the north to keep on the west side of it.

Sunday 12th November: We were reaching along under blast reacher when at 0710 the forestay parted! The forestay is in two sections: one is approximately 30m and the other some 6m. The reason for two sections is that at the tuning stage it is much cheaper and easier to make a new shorter or longer lower section than change the whole forestay.

Anyway, thank heavens the lower section was the one that had parted! Needless to say the blast reacher was seriously torn and the head foil a write-off.

A bowman up the mast to We were lucky that the helm, John retrieve a shredded spinnaker Bartlett, promptly bore away saving the mast. Once the mess was cleared up we set the storm staysail on the inner forestay and thought about the problem. Watch leader Serge Guilhamou and rigger Latimer Clark designed and constructed a side clamp from which we secured an eight-part wire strop to a couple of spare turnbuckles*, the whole arrangement being shackled to the stemhead. It was an excellent job which attracted much admiration from professional riggers and other crews in Freemantle and earned Serge and Lats the Henri-Lloyd Trophy for Outstanding Seamanship. * Often called bottlescrews in the UK, though they differ in that turnbuckles have open bodies which expose the threaded sections while bottlescrews have enclosed bodies so the threads are hidden.

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One problem remained: how to hoist headsails without the luff foil. Fortunately the No 4 and No 5 jibs were fitted with cringles, but through an oversight we carried no hanks! Problem solved – we removed the carabiners from our safety harnesses and made up a few from rope strops, which gave us enough fastenings for one sail. Just as strong, though a little fiddly with cold hands. (Before anyone thinks we were compromising our safety, our harnesses were through-footed in the eyes on our oilskins, this being in the era of harnesses being intrinsic to oilskin jackets.) Later in the race, when we needed to hoist larger and lighter sails, Bill sewed Kevlar strips to the luffs enabling us to attach the sails to the forestay.

Wednesday 15th November, 50°S 60°E: Beam-reaching in 30 knots true wind and making 40 to 48 miles per watch. The variation is 51°W, increasing by one degree every three hours, another regular event is the time-zone changing every second day – it takes a while for some of the inshore racers to get used to these bluewater facts of life! Although we are never quite sure of our position in the race and have long given up trying to catch the race reports from Portishead Radio Station in the UK, which provide fleet positions using the Argos satellite system, we know from the twice daily chat show on HF that the middle group (including ourselves) is catching up the leaders who are in light airs with sunny weather and getting worried.

Thursday 16th November: The long-awaited depression has arrived. The wind swung round to the west and started to increase, and we gybed so that we could easily run past the north coast of the Kerguelen Islands. The wind increased to a steady 40 knots gusting 50 knots – time for the second reef! Reefing completed, the vang parted again (getting to become common-place), the boom skied in the water to leeward and a crack was A rigger preparing the forestay repair

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heard from the mast. On inspection, the boom was found to have cracked for 70% of its circumference at the weld holding the gooseneck to the boom end.

The end of a surf My initial thought was, ‘if the weld breaks the boom will fall to the deck, possibly going through it!’. We quickly tied up the boom’s inboard end, then down with the mainsail and up trysail. Night was falling and our situation was not good. Because we were making slow speed we were being pooped every few minutes, the wind was increasing, it began to snow and somewhere ahead was the west coast of the Kerguelen Islands. We had 2000 miles to go, without the boom we could not race, and with the conditions on deck a repair was not feasible. Out of curiosity more than anything else I spoke to the Met station on the Kerguelens – the head man was delighted to talk to someone new! He offered the use of their workshops for an aluminium weld repair and said they’d be delighted to receive us. The settlement and harbour lie on the east coast and it would not be a very large detour to skirt the north coast and nip in for a quick repair.

We picked up the island on radar and sailed inside the off-lying rocks and close to the rocky coast all, of course, invisible in the snow. It was an uncomfortable night – a very rough and confused sea, constant pooping and a leak in the lazarette and (later discovered) a leak in the steering cockpit which was allowing gallons of water to pour onto the nav den, soaking charts and electronics and making me very grumpy. By the time we got to Cape Digby at the island’s

The crack around the forward end of the boom Not very tidy, but it held 156

Richard checking northeast corner, the the reef pennants wind was a steady 45 knots which, as we hardened up, rose to 55 knots over the deck. SBD was slamming into the short sea caused by the island’s lee and I was worried for the temporary forestay.

A chat on the radio again and the Met station reported gusts of 70 knots in the harbour with white water and a 1m chop! No way could we offload the boom onto a workboat and take it ashore.

I decided that we could not afford to wait a day for the weather to moderate and therefore set a course for Fremantle.

Creighton’s Naturally put into the Kerguelen Islands a couple of weeks later for repairs. They had a superb reception, excellent food and were presented with 100 bottles of wine by a Soviet factory ship – mind you, they did have a few girls on board...

Running down the seas at 12 knots with trysail and No 4 jib when all around you the fleet is surfing at 25–30 knots is depressing! As well as losing some 250 miles in 48 hours to the fleet, our EPIRB, Danbuoy and a horseshoe lifebelt were all washed overboard when the pushpit broke up under the onslaught of the sea, and our last remaining satnav system died when the aerial was taken out with the pushpit. Thank goodness we were carrying a sextant.

Saturday 18th November: The gale had abated and we started to repair the boom.

Mark Stevens had spent much of the summer taking masts and booms apart in the UK and he managed to compress the split weld together by utilising the hydraulic flattener. A hole was cut through the boom and an aluminium bar passed through, and the boom wire-lashed to the mast side of the gooseneck fitting using the protruding ends of the bar. The wire was secured with bulldog grips and the flattener left on as a 157

The view from aloft – the bowman’s daily rig inspection safety precaution. It looked good, so we hoisted the mainsail. Initially we put a limit of 25 knots apparent on the boom, but later this was exceeded without any problems.

Monday 20th November: Dawn came up with another gale brewing, but our jury rigging held out well and we achieved 27∙4 knots on a beam reach with a No 5 jib, storm staysail, and the first reef in – not bad for a yacht written off as a cripple by one newspaper!

The sea was getting warmer at last and it was nearing the time to take off our innerlayer polar suits. Adequate precautions were taken to prevent asphyxiation and notice was given before removing clothing! With just 1000 miles to go it seemed to be plain sailing and we started planning a weekend run ashore. With no aerials left we were not receiving fax or radio weather messages, and although we suspected the semi-permanent high off Western Australia and kept south to skirt it, we were not sure of its extent.

Eventually, just like everyone else, we came under its influence and our daily averages dropped to 130 nautical miles on Friday 24th November and 107 on the 25th. With 450 miles to go it was just like being in the doldrums again!

Sunday 26th November: The breeze picked and, in the afternoon at 34°S 113°E, the VHF, our only radio left, burst into life. It was NCB Ireland and they sounded rather dispirited. The Argos position reports had led them to believe that they were ahead of us by several miles, but when their bowman was carrying out the daily rig check he saw us about seven miles ahead. Great for our morale, bad for theirs. We then had a super night’s racing, not knowing exactly where we were as the evening stars were obscured, but at 0300 the loom of Rottnest Island light could be seen from the deck.

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Monday 27th November: We crossed the line at 0900 local time, some 38 minutes ahead of NCB Ireland but a long way behind the race leader, Steinlager 2, and a day behind the yachts we had been close to near the Kerguelens. On the positive side, we had sailed very nearly 8000 miles in 30 days at an average speed of just over 11 knots, no one was injured and we had continued in unfavourable conditions with some quite major repairs. We had all learnt a lot and would be that much better for the remaining legs. The welcome Freemantle gave us was beyond words, as was the help and friendship shown by HMAS Stirling* just south of the city. Within days they were repairing the boom, stanchions, pushpit, main battery etc, while our electrics were fixed by the local expert and new bits ordered. The crew concentrated on the hull, mast, sails and running rigging. A quick haul out inspection and hull cleaning and we were almost ready to go again.

Footnotes to Leg 2  As the fleet headed south on the Great Circle route, Union Bank of Finland had two frightening broaches among the ice which caused her to sail more cautiously at night.  Creighton’s Naturally suffered a serious broach at about 0300 one morning during which Anthony (Tony) Phillips and Bart van den Dwey were swept overboard. Both were pulled back aboard and van den Dwey successfully resuscitated but, after three hours’ trying, the crew were unable to revive Phillips. A few days later, following radio agreement with relatives ashore, he was buried at sea.  Satquote British Defender came within five miles of breaking the 24-hour record for a monohull.  Fortuna Extra Lights created a new 24-hour record of 405 miles.  One of the crew from The Card broke his arm in two places during a broach, while the bowman on Fortuna Extra Lights broke his collarbone when the spinnaker pole slammed him into the forestay.  At the approach to the finish in Freemantle, only 22 miles separated leading maxis, Steinlager 2, Rothmans, Merit and Fisher & Paykel. Steinlager 2 crossed the line first, 90 minutes in front. Rothmans and Merit staged a match-race for second place, Rothmans beating Merit by 28 seconds after 27 days of racing.  Satquote British Defender achieved 12th place for Leg 2, and 13th over the race as a whole. * Not a ship but a Royal Australian Navy shore establishment, informally known as a ‘stone frigate’. According to our friend Wikipedia, the term stems from the Royal Navy’s use of Diamond Rock off Martinique as a gun platform to harass the French in the 18th and early 19th centuries. Because the Royal Navy was prohibited from occupying territory ashore, Diamond Rock had to be commissioned as a ship.

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SALVAGING A SEASON Iain Simpson (Iain, Jan and their Najad 570 Song of the Ocean are no strangers to Flying Fish, having featured numerous times over the years. In FF 2020/1 Iain described how 2019 had been A Summer of Southerlies, after which Song of the Ocean returned to Kemer, in Antalya, Turkey where she had also spent the previous winter. That was in July, and in a normal year Iain and Jan would have returned to her sometime in April...)

As was the plight of so many, the 2020 season brought havoc, the only variation being the degree. In our case we realised that we had to commission Song of the Ocean if we were to have a season to look forward to in 2021. Yachts do not react kindly to being laid-up for inordinate periods of time, and in our case that already amounted to 14 months ashore in Turkey, including the intensely hot month of August ... twice.

We returned to Kemer on 3rd September to find SotO in dire need of a spring clean – and if only that could have been the extent of the work, how happy we would have been. After three weeks’ hard labour we thought that we had escaped any serious equipment failures, until we tested our watermaker, but as the season was fast ebbing away we decided to set sail anyway and leave the In the slings at non-functioning pump to Kemer Marina be returned to Spectra for reconditioning.

On 25th September we slipped our lines in a flat calm to motor 25 miles out of Antalya Bay and round into Finike Bay for the 29-mile sail to Cold Water Bay, Kekova. We set out on a gentle reach in southerly force 3, but as the day progressed the wind veered into the west and increased to force 4/5, setting up an irritating short sea to make our fetch to weather challenging.

On a more positive note, nothing cleans teak better than waves of high saline content swabbing the decks. On reaching our destination we were surprised to find this 161

normally peaceful anchorage full of yachts, as well as three rafted ocean fishing boats!

As became apparent over the ensuing three weeks, everybody with a vessel had seemingly put to sea to distance themselves from the pandemic.

With poor weather forecast, we decided to weigh anchor next day for Round Bay, Göcek, 74 miles to the northwest.

At first light we motored the first 20 miles to Kastellorizo, then set sail on a fine reach in a westerly force 3 with calm sea for the Seven Capes, subsequently reaching across Fethiye Bay and making the anchorage by sunset. Attention is always required for the Capes, which can set up unpleasant conditions in onshore winds which create a backwash off the steep cliffs.

Kastellorizo ahoy

Marmaris Bay

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Another early start on 27th September was greeted with a bracing 10-mile beat south out of Fethiye Bay to exit northwest across Marmaris Bay for the 48-mile passage to Kumlu Bükü. On rounding the Göcek peninsula we were faced with a boisterous southwesterly force 5, with a weather current setting up another powerful, steep sea.

Once clear, however, we bore away on an invigorating broad reach. Three quarters of the way to our destination the sun became obscured by dark threatening clouds releasing eye-flooding torrential rain which, to our surprise, killed the wind and left us to complete the day under motor. Life is full of the unexpected, but this did lead to one of our favourite anchorages, seven miles south of Marmaris. In its southwest corner there is a Chinese restaurant with Mediterranean docking facilities for patrons, widely considered the best in Turkey. We were not prepared to drop our guard, however, no matter how good the restaurant – in fact we hadn’t frequented any shop, restaurant, or bar since leaving New Zealand in early July.

Sunrise over Symi from Kargi Koyu

In Marmaris Marina we were to meet North Sails to measure up for a new mainsail, and also needed to check in with engineers to arrange for a complete overhaul and service of our hydraulics. In this respect Marmaris offers possibly the best yacht services in Turkey. However, as we normally only frequent marinas by necessity, as soon as business was complete we returned to the peace and solitude of our Kumlu Bükü anchorage. The following morning, 2nd October, we weighed anchor for a 20-mile beat down the Bozburun peninsula before bearing off on a reach to complete the 47-mile passage to the peaceful anchorage at Kargi Koyu, a couple of miles south of Datça. En route we passed Greek Symi – it was disappointing not to be able to visit Greece this year, as it offers some excellent anchorages amongst its plethora of Aegean islands, but that seemed a small price to pay for us to be sailing and ensuring that everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion.

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Simbo Rig on a downwind run We awoke on 4th October to a windless morning, which necessitated a 20-mile motor down the Datça peninsula to round the ancient port of Knidos for a fine reach to the northeast of Kos in a west-northwesterly force 3. SotO is an amazingly nimble yacht in light weather and can easily increase apparent wind speed in these conditions to achieve 7 knots through the water. This led on to an invigorating sail, close-hauled in 20 knots of true wind, across the wind conduit between Kos and the Bodrum peninsula to conclude a 40-mile run for the day. The anchorage lies north of Koca Burun in the sheltered bay off Akyarlar. All very picturesque, unless one ventures ashore. After a peaceful night’s sleep we upped anchor after breakfast to sail round the Bodrum peninsula and bear away north-northeast for the inland sea of Kuruerik Bükü east of Didim, a run of 31 miles. We anchored off Arasi Dly – most yachts make for Didim marina, which leaves this loch delightfully remote and peaceful.

Next day we deferred our departure until midday to take advantage of a westsouthwest force 3 building to 20 knots around the Bodrum peninsula. This still gave us plenty of daylight in which to return the 31 miles to our previous anchorage off Akyarlar. Then on the 6th we set off on a breezy reach to the northeast of Kos, followed by a gentler continuation down to Knidos in a slowly fading westerly.

Once around the Datça peninsula with the assistance of the engine, there followed a magnificent run under Simbo Rig* in 20 knots of wind to complete the 40-mile passage to Kargi Koyu. There we found only a sparkling new Contest 60 and a wellmaintained HR49 at anchor. * To learn more about the Simbo Rig, see A Sail Management System for Safer Downwind Cruising in Flying Fish 2018/1, available in the Flying Fish archive at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

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Next day dawned with continuing fair weather for us to weigh anchor at 1030 for a gentle reach past Symi, followed by a Simbo Rig run up the Bozburun peninsula to five miles short of Kumlu Bükü where the wind died, forcing us to complete the 46-mile passage under motor. Kumlu Bükü may seem somewhat repetitive, but many Turkish anchorages are in deep water and require anchoring stern-to the shore which is not an option for us. Free anchorages away from the gulets and the madding crowds are few and far between and, for us, a peaceful anchorage overrides variety of venues.

Everybody had advised us that after mid October the weather becomes unreliable and the days noticeably cooler, setting up diurnal local weather systems. With this in mind, and the fact that we had considerable family responsibilities to attend to in the UK before returning to our home in the Isle of Man, we decided to head south for our final two weeks before lifting out and settling the yacht for winter. During our snatched season the UK had taken Turkey out of the air-bridge, which meant we would need to self-isolate in England before attending to our responsibilities there, following which we would have to self-isolate for a further two weeks in the IoM. This translated into our not being released until 17th December – not a whole lot of time to prepare for the festive season!

On 8th October we made the six miles to restock our provisions at the excellent Marmaris Yacht Marina store. This involved anchoring off and taking the dinghy into the marina, before returning to Kumlu Bükü. Next morning, in a force 4 northwesterly backing southwesterly, we ran southeast under Simbo Rig across Marmaris Bay to round up on a reach into Fethiye Bay and our anchorage at Round Bay, Göcek – an enjoyable 46-mile sail that will live on in memory through the winter months.

Not to be outdone, the following day’s weather was a repeat with a reach out of Round Bay followed by an exciting Simbo Rig run in competition with an Outremer 51 catamaran which was determined to outperform us by tacking downwind under mainsail Kumlu Bükü

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Downwind sailing made easy...

and asymmetrical spinnaker. Try as they did her crew couldn’t better our ability to sail directly downwind with no sail-handling other than to gybe the mainsail off Kalkan Bay for the last 11 miles of the day’s 58-mile passage to Kaş. In our opinion, Kaş has the nicest marina and town on the whole of the Turkish west coast and, as a result, it is the only one we frequent for pleasure. The old town was built by the Greeks before they were exiled from Turkey following the First World War, but their architecture remains a monument to them and creates the interest and atmosphere that attracts the tourists.

We stayed three nights in the marina with its unusual Migros supermarket – unusual insofar as, unlike other branches countrywide, it specialises in providing European produce to meet the requirements of international marina customers.

Cavus Koyu

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Fair winds and following seas!

We slipped our lines on 13th October for an unexpectedly satisfying 29-mile sail to Cold Water Bay, Kekova. It began with a light-wind reach past Kastellorizo, Greece’s easternmost island, towards the southern headland of Içada at the entrance to Finike Bay. There we gybed and bore away northeast on an 11-mile run in force 5, again under Simbo Rig. One of the reasons for our selecting Kemer for winter lay-up is to take advantage of the reliable downwind sailing off the west coast of Turkey to Antalya Bay, which also affords the most spectacular scenery along the whole coastline. Following two days on anchor in Cold Water Bay, to allow gale-force winds to pass through, on 16th October we left to reach northwest to Yardimci Burun, followed by a run up the last five miles of the 35-mile sail to Cavus Koyu in the southwest part of Antalya Bay. This left 22 miles to reach Kemer the following morning. We wanted to arrive after the departure of the gulets and pirate ships to permit us to refuel in peace and make for our marina berth to service, clean and stow our equipment for next season. The late autumnal cruise had proven a different experience to previous spring/summer seasons but equally enjoyable, with greater attention needing to be paid to the weather as well as taking into account the shorter daylight hours. Our snatched season allowed 627 miles of great sailing, despite looking exceedingly unattainable for most of the year – year – but, as the saying goes, ‘the season’s not over ’til the fat lady sings!’.



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CONNEMARA TO BANTRY IN STRANGE TIMES Fergus Quinlan (Fergus and Katherine built Pylades, their 12m van de Stadt-designed steel cutter, themselves, launching her in 1997. In 2009 they departed on a three-year circumnavigation, recounted in Flying Fish 2013/2, and in 2016 followed this up with a ‘Russian Voyage’ to St Petersburg and back – see Flying Fish 2017/1. In 2020, however, COVID-19 kept them closer to home...)

It was a grim background to an interesting year. In March, the plan was to take Pylades from her Bellharbour winter mooring to the Galway Boatyard, but due to inclement weather and little daylight coinciding with the high tides, the trip was postponed. The virus then swept in like a rising tide scuppering plans for the Azores but, thankfully, the lockdown did not trap Pylades in the Galway yard. The weather over the following two months was glorious and, as Pylades was on a mooring only 800m from our house, we passed our incarceration rowing out to work on her, watched by seals and serenaded by the call of the cuckoo on the tranquil bay.

7th June: Pylades finally sails to Galway and emerges from the tide under the boatyard manager’s watchful eye. Over the following socially-distanced four weeks, with helpful tips from a local diesel mechanic we fit new engine supports, a clutch plate, gearbox, flexible coupling, stern gland and cutless bearing. The time ashore also allows us to apply antifouling at a leisurely pace and not, as we usually do, racing a rising tide.

18th July: Finally sailing west we pick a mooring at Cashla Bay, the simple joy of a glass of wine sitting in the cockpit enhanced by the satisfaction of a smooth-running drive train and a dry bilge. The next day dawns fair and, after weaving our way north inside the Namackan, Fair Service and Skerd rocks, we anchor off St MacDara’s Island.

After a very brief, chilly swim, we walk the land.

21st July: A slow sail takes us to the gorgeous Gorteen Bay where we anchor and, as ever, explore the fascinating interface between sea and land. Next morning a front arrives, all day dragging its cold, wet rags across the bay and boat – time for onboard jobs and lighting the fire at wine time. With the clearance, an intriguing entry in the excellent Irish Cruising Club West Coast Cruising Guide* brings us on a tricky passage into the heart of Connemara, where we anchor off the very deserted village of Aill na Caillí or Ailleenacally. In its shoal harbour lies the aesthetically-challenged ex-schooner Manissa, a boat once seen not to be forgotten. Distant memories of a meeting with the owner come back – he told me of digging a hole in his garden and forming a clay mould into which he laid the fibreglass. When we spoke, he was on his way around the coast with his daughter – I think I prayed for their safety. The intriguing story of the boat’s owner and the village is essential reading if one intends to visit – search the internet * The Sailing Directions for the South & West Coasts of Ireland, 15th edition. Edited by Norman Kean and published by Irish Cruising Club Publications Ltd. 169

for ‘Aill na Caillí by Turtle Bunbury’. We explore the crumbling cottages and hear the playful echoes of children long dead. A beautiful stream cascades through the village and its pool before running off to the sea.

24th July: In deteriorating weather a southwest wind starts to kick against the ebb.

We up anchor on becoming tide rode and re-anchor at Cartron Bay. Next morning, a grey, wet day, we move to Roundstone where we buy crab claws at the market.

While shelling them is a messy business, it is worth the work as, with a quick fry in garlic butter, they are the best we have ever tasted.

After a few days of pleasant reading we decide to head back to the Aran Islands.

Aill na Caillí The electric anchor windlass refuses to operate, however, so with stout gloves the chain is hauled aboard and we sail for Kilronan, flying along in a fresh northwest wind. For well over a week we have been watching the progress of Danú as she sails towards the Aran Islands.

Aboard are our daughter Vera, her husband Peter and our two grandchildren, Lilian and Ruairí*. We secure at Kilronan and prepare a welcome. Also in position are their friends aboard Golden Harvest.

29th July: An exhilarating moment at 1900 as Danú and her precious cargo round into Kilronan harbour and tie alongside Pylades. It’s an emotional reunion. With much to catch up on, we pop champagne and gossip into the evening. A few beautiful days are spent walking, talking and repairing the windlass electrics.

2nd August: Danú sails for Parkmore, Kinvara; Pylades leaves at 1800 for Dingle. To avoid entanglement in pot markers we exit the Aran Islands in daylight, planning to arrive in the Blasket Sound at dawn. Our sail south starts well – leaving the Gregory Sound we can just lay the waypoint off the Blasket Islands. However, as the night progresses the wind slowly backs, until the light at Loop Head is flashing off the starboard * For the first part of the back-story, see To Seek, to Find, and Not to Yield on page 124 of this issue. The concluding part will follow in Flying Fish 2021/2.

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Welcoming the children home bow. Before scratching the cliffs, we tack and motor-sail out into a swell and sea that grows more contrary with the approach of Sybil Point. Dawn, however, is enchanting, passing through the always-rewarding Blasket Sound. Having run the gauntlet of ‘Fungie the Dolphin’, a significant attraction at Dingle Harbour entrance for 37 years but now believed deceased, we tie up in the marina at 1000. Later we walk the Morning in Blasket Sound busy town. Peering through dusty windows of favourite pubs we see our ghosts on empty stools where, in better times, we had supped ale and sung songs.

Paraphrasing Richard the Third ... ‘A vaccine, a vaccine, my Kingdom for a vaccine’.

5th August: Following a leisurely sail to Valentia, tying at the copious breakwater we are delighted to hear the sound of summer, screams of happy children pier jumping and swimming. The density of traffic somewhat mars our 171

Pylades (just right of centre) at Derrynane

walk up the gorgeous road to the slate quarries, but nevertheless we revel in the area’s rich biodiversity. The following day, we move a short distance and anchor off Beginish Island to swim and go walkabout.

With just whispers of wind we motor-sail to Derrynane and find all the visitors’ moorings taken by unattended boats. Due to the mixture of moorings and anchored boats our anchoring proves tricky – we foul a heavy chain at the western point of the harbour and, with no tripping line, it takes time and a friendly passing boat to sort it out – but finally, we manage to anchor in this most pleasant spot. Ian Heffernan, Master Mariner, hails us from Kadoona. We had met previously at different locations during our circumnavigation in 2012 and, gathering for socially-distanced drinks on board, we meet his partner Katherine Quinlan – an astonishing coincidence, but no relation so far as we know – and their recent son Brendan, and enjoy a great evening catching up on past adventures.

Next day, while walking the mass path at Derrynane, I reminisce about teaching children to swim on the adjacent beaches – children who now have children who swim like fishes and sail oceans. Memories flood back of sailing around the area in 1976 in my first Pylades, a 17ft Express Pirate with its Seagull outboard, and of pints and songs in Bridie Keating’s pub. Tempus fugit. The water temperature allows snorkelling gear and an inspection of the prop and shaft anodes – they are wasting too fast, perhaps an electrical leak to be chased.

10th August: Exiting Derrynane we note a small green tower under construction on the middle rock at the entrance – a new starboard beacon to reassure first-time entrants to the harbour. Our waypoint is adjacent to the Stickeen Rock and by 1330 we are anchored in Ballycrovane. Landing at the boathouse slip, we walk south up 172

the lovely winding path. At the entrance to the coastguard station is a recent sign summarising the revolutionary events that took place there in 1920. A hundred metres further, on the right side of the path, are the remains of a house destroyed by an accidental fire in 1947. This low ruin is where Katherine’s mother Joan was born – a small timber plaque on the wall names the thirteen children born in the house.

Katherine relates stories of her childhood and holidays spent in the area with her parents. We continue our nostalgic ramble to Eyeries village. The next day dawns fine and the skipper jumps into the sea, a refreshing start to the day. We later explore the little hidden creek to the north of the harbour and sections of the adjacent road.

13th August: Being swept through the Dursey Sound at speed is a delight, and in no time we anchor in the designated area at Castletownbere. Going ashore with a bag of empty bottles to dispose of, we enquire at the library and, informed that the bottle bank is a few miles out of town, slouch off. But the woman of books runs after us and volunteers to get rid of our load ... kindness abounds. After a wide-ranging conversation with a local shipwright about the Spanish At the home of Katherine’s fishing fleet, mother’s family in sinkings and Ballycrovane boat building, we peruse the local art gallery and go shopping.

Back aboard the noise of trawlers running generators flat out eventually drives us to pick up a quiet mooring on the other side of Dinish Island. Breakfast concluded, we slowly motor east to Lawrence Cove Marina, take on diesel and wander the quiet village.

The skipper reflects on the excellent training he received from the now-departed Les Glénans sailing school.

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In tranquil Lonehort anchorage

15th August: Motoring a few miles to Lonehort Harbour on Bere Island, the tricky-looking entrance is approached with caution and we sound our way in, slowly.

We feel very snug in this excellent anchorage which, to boot, has the warmest Irish water we have swum in.

According to archaeological investigations the Vikings started constructing an inner breakwater, still visible near low water. We walk to the adjacent army firing range butts. Recalling days in the army reserve, training as a sniper, the skipper deliberates with Katherine how the target system and safety procedures work. The main point made is that, mercifully, targets do not return fire!

In bucketing rain we stroll back to the dinghy, such heavy rain that Katherine’s automatic lifejacket inflates. But rain does not stop wine, thankfully, so a good evening and night’s sleep ensues. Next morning, while enjoying a leisurely breakfast, we are shaken by what sounds like someone playing a kettle drum very rapidly and loudly on our steel deck. Rushing to investigate we behold a red flag over the butts and a line of soldiery with automatic rifles expending lethal fire.

On leaving the battleground of Bere Island we enter another. Out on Bantry Bay the sea is churned by gannet, guillemot and gull and a whale breaches repeatedly to the south of us ... the mackerel shoals are having a hard time. Passing south of the Cracker Rock into Bantry harbour, we anchor north of Rabbit Island. Landing on Whiddy by dinghy, we organise bike hire for the following day with Tim O’ Leary the ferryman.

Images of Whiddy as merely a repository for oil reserves are banished as we whizz down the hills, hollering like children. It is one of those memorable days of summer when the air is luxuriant with the scent of wildflowers and meadow grass. At one stage the island was a British fortress and boasted three heavy gun batteries guarding against a return by the French. Climbing to the main battery entrance a ‘No Entry’ sign has to be bypassed to traverse over the trench moat into the decaying settlement, for a fine view and a position to reflect on the existing state of a once-proud empire. Unfortunately Bank House, the little pub at the quay of which we had great reports also, alas, has no entry signs – ones we cannot bypass.

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18th August: The VHF carries a warning regarding Storm Ellen. Cancelling plans to anchor at Glengarriff we slip across to Bantry marina where Michael, the marina manager, reassures us of shelter. We stick on a few extra lines and springs. At midnight the eerie calm is shattered by a violent burst of wind that heels the boat and thus it howls all night, but we are on the weather shore and all is well. When the wind veers the next day we jump around a bit, but are generally okay. As the weather looks grim for a few days we repaint the rear cabin and Katherine plays her cello.

23rd August: The voyage home commences. Against a fresh westerly we motor-sail back to a flat calm mooring at Dinish Island, Castletownbere. The Met Office is warning of a new storm – Francis – but we reckon we can get to Valentia before it hits.

It is a bumpy enough ride in unstable conditions ... one can smell trouble. Arriving a few hours ahead of the wind, we tie inside the fairly deserted Valentia pontoon.

Regardless of where we secure, we will suffer the storm’s admittedly small fetch from some quarter. At 0200 the storm screams in from the southeast. We are battered, one fender bursts and both of us are on the dock in horizontal rain. Pushing the boat off is not an option, but with difficulty we insert more fenders and a tyre. By 0500 the wind veers southwest and the pressure is off. As the storm intensifies from the west at dawn the shelter increases – we think we made an okay choice.

26th August: Having given the sea a few days to allow the swell to lose its rage, we depart Valentia at 1530 and catch a fair wind and tide north through the Blasket Sound. On exiting the sound, however, the wind disappears and the confused sea tosses us around playing havoc with the mainsail. Despite our best efforts to stabilise and flatten the main, it shatters slides so we drop it. At 2110 we hear “Mayday relay, Mayday relay, any in the vicinity of Kerry Head please respond”.

In Bantry, sheltering We respond, and from Storm Ellen the coastguard requests our position, speed and the number of persons on board. A man fishing from the rocks at Kerry Head had been swept into the sea. A helicopter and three rescue boats are approaching the reported position, but we are 17 miles off 175

and thankfully the coastguard releases us from involvement. The victim, unfortunately, is not recovered. Pylades is well beyond Loop Head Light before the sea becomes somewhat regular and a semblance of civilised sailing can be restored. At 0900 we tie up at Kilronan, followed by a day of rest – it takes a least three days at sea before one gets into the rhythm of sleep, one night always leaves us a bit shattered. Over the next few days we walk to the Black Fort and delight in the gossip of the island. The fishermen, and people in general, go out of their way to make us welcome.

29th August: a fresh north wind provides fast sailing back to our mooring at Parkmore.

The wind direction gives little shelter in the mooring field and our pickup buoys have become a tangled mess. It takes an hour of work and the loss of a boat hook before we lasso the mooring in the choppy water. Opting not to unload Pylades until the predicted calmer conditions of the following day, we head home.

We have a 30-year-old tradition that goes back to the days of Pylades as a Sabre 27 – we sail over to Galway Docks to celebrate our respective birthdays on 13th and 14th September. It is not easy to explain to people who drive to Galway every day why we find this such an enjoyable experience. The satisfaction of no traffic, then finding a vacant berth – this time the harbour master’s – buying birthday bits, seeing a film in the adjacent Pálás cinema, chatting at the docks and an excuse to dine out. Maybe it is simple pleasures for simple folk!

1 5 t h S e p t e m b e r : We motor from the docks across a mirror-calm bay In Valentia after to New Quay, and tying Storm Francis at Linnane’s Bar we bolt on the timber leg. Over the next few days, while Pylades rises and grounds to the rhythm of the tide, the sails, furnishings and books are transported home to the attic and the shaft and prop anodes replaced.

Finally, on 17th September, we disconnect our timber leg and, with a spring tide and perfect weather, head around the Finavarra spit to Ballyvaughan Bay. Approaching the bay’s southeast corner we are gripped by the tide and swept in a nerve-tingling gauntlet through the tight gap between the reef running out from Scanlan’s 176

Black Fort at Inishmore

Island and the south shore. Then on through the shoal water of Muckinish Creek, to pick up our winter mooring in the slack water of Béal na Clugga. We dinghy back to our house, thanking Pylades for our adventures on the west – another great season.

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+44 20 70432832 www.mailasail.com 178

THREE GREAT CAPES IN A 40-YEAR-OLD BOAT Saša Fegić (HIR 3, a 10∙1m CAT 34 built in 1979, became something of a legend in Croatia after making a westabout circumnavigation in 1988–90, rounding Cape Horn on 21st January 1989. Then, 31 years and one day later, she rounded it again, this time heading east. During the intervening years she suffered misfortune and neglect, including nearly 300 holes from bullets and shrapnel during the war in Croatia when Dubrovnik was under siege and the marina bombed. She was saved and restored, but later left abandoned. Then in 2014, while walking around a marina in Vrsar, Saša noticed a familiar red boat...

Saša was awarded the 2020 Qualifier’s Mug for skippering this 39,000 mile, 28-month circumnavigation via the Three Great Capes. Turn to page 22 to follow HIR 3’s route.)

When I saw the red boat I remembered how I had learned to sail on her more than two decades earlier. She was hardly recognisable – neglected for over ten years, she was in miserable condition and just barely floating. Feeling sorry for the legendary yacht, I searched out her owner and convinced him to sell the abandoned craft to me for a reasonable sum – but inside I was wondering if it was worth it, or if she was beyond repair. According to everyone who saw her it was an act of utter optimism, but I decided to give it my best shot. I was determined to repair her and take her around the world once again.

Calm near the Aeolian Islands I moved HIR 3 to Pore č in northern Croatia and launched a crowdfunding campaign to help with the initial cost of repairs. We managed to raise about €5000 – a drop in the ocean – but, more valuable than money, the crowdfunding campaign brought attention to HIR 3 and numerous unknown people offered their support and assistance. It took me two years of hard work to make HIR 3 seaworthy and it was late June 2016 before 179

The Rock of Gibraltar

she sailed again. During the rest of that year we sailed around the Adriatic from north to south, from Dubrovnik back to Trieste where we sailed in the Barcolana*, the biggest regatta in the world. HIR 3 was alive again and I wanted to show her to everyone – many have recognised the legendary red sailboat.

2017 was a year of fine-tuning and crew recruitment. We raced in ten regattas, and more than 100 people sailed on parts of her 4000 mile cruise around the Adriatic. This was a way for me to gain experience, because I had already announced my intention to sail around the world. In 2018 I did the final preparations for ocean sailing in Mali Lošinj.

Safety gear was installed, a new set of sails ordered and the boat thoroughly sealed, cleaned and painted – she had never looked prettier and one could not tell her age.

The voyage started on 17th June 2018 from Mali Lošinj when, fully-crewed, we sailed out of the harbour and into the new adventure. We sailed south to Bari, then through the Strait of Messina towards the Aeolian Islands, stopping in Cagliari on the south coast of Sardinia. From there we continued to Ceuta, through Gibraltar to Las Palmas, and finally to the Cape Verde islands, before setting sail on our first real ocean passage.

The plan to go directly to Cape Town failed when a forestay broke in mid Atlantic.

My girlfriend, Marina, and I had to change course downwind and head to Salvador de Bahia in Brazil for repairs. We crossed the Atlantic twice before we finally reached South Africa. In Cape Town my friend Nebojša joined me, and Marina went home to act as shore crew. The two of us sailed around the Cape of Good Hope and through the variables between 30°S and 40°S to Australia. It took us 85 days to cover the * The Barcolana, run by the Società Velica di Barcola e Grignano, takes place annually on the second Sunday of October in the Gulf of Trieste. In 2019 it became a Guinness World Record holder when it was named ‘the greatest sailing race’ for its 2689 boats and more than 16,000 sailors. (Wikipedia) 180

Saša, Marina & Nebojša – crew change at the Royal Cape Yacht Club

5500 miles logged between Cape Town and Fremantle. Then on the next leg, in Bass Strait, the forestay broke again. Nebojša and I spent the whole night struggling to get things under control and managed to reach Melbourne under a jury rig of reefed mainsail and the storm jib on a babystay.

We had missed the season for crossing the Southern Ocean and had to wait for the next one, so we left Sydney in May and headed towards the tropics. We spent a month in New Caledonia, then went to Vanuatu and spent two months in Fiji. There we met Sunset over the Indian Ocean

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Taking a sextant sight between Sydney and Noumea cruisers who had sailed from Panama – they all thought we were crazy, and soon we were known in the community as ‘the guys who are sailing the wrong way’. The reality is that there is no right or wrong way to sail. This was my way.

We sailed from Fiji to New Zealand, and spent a month in Auckland where we prepared the boat for the Southern Ocean. After leaving New Zealand we sailed along the 40th parallel until we reached 100°W, then entered the notorious ‘Roaring Forties’ and ‘Furious Fifties’. It became cold and miserable. One low pressure system after another hit us hard, and we sailed constantly under only an extra-small storm jib. The air temperature was around 10°C and the water temperature half that.

HIR 3’s extra-small storm jib

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Saša, Nebojša and mascot Cool Bear rounding Cape Horn

On 22nd January 2020, after 66 days at sea, we rounded Cape Horn, the greatest Cape of them all. It was exactly 31 years and a day after HIR 3 had rounded it the first time. There were no round-the-world races in 2019/20 so there were few yachts sailing across the Southern Ocean and around Cape Horn that year. We were lucky – we hadn’t conquered anything – the ocean let us pass.

We celebrated in the southernmost yacht club in the world, Club Naval de Yates Micalvi. She’s an old Chilean Navy ship that was run aground

Above and right: A toast with 40-yearold Skënderbeu brandy at Cape Horn

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Mishko, our Navik windvane self-steering, takes us downwind

and now serves as a marina at Puerto Williams in Chile’s Beagle Channel.

It’s a perfect place to have a beer after passing through the Drake Passage.

During the next leg, to Argentina, we survived a near capsize when we were hit by a rogue wave in a big storm.

We were lucky that Mishko, our Navik windvane self-steering gear, managed to steer away from the wind and the boat righted herself. Even so, the boat was flooded and deck equipment damaged, and we lost all our electrics and electronics. I had to hand steer down the waves until the storm passed, while Nebojša bailed and occasionally made us a cup of tea. Eventually we managed to start the engine, but it took us almost a month to fix everything in Mar del Plata. The COVID-19 pandemic had started spreading and it was the last chance for a final crew change. Nebojša flew back to Europe and Marina came out bringing desperately needed spare parts.

We had to abandon the idea of sailing to Rio de Janeiro because of the pandemic and instead sailed into Rio Grande du Sul, the southernmost port in Brazil, on the very last day before the lockdown. The Croatian embassy helped us with clearing into the country and we were allowed to stay in a closed Rio Grande Yacht Club for a month before we could continue north. On 12th May, just two days before my 42nd birthday, we sailed into Salvador de Bahia, from which we’d started heading southeast nearly two years earlier. We came back from southwest. Tamen illud sphaericum! (It’s round after all!).

It took us 28 days to cross the Atlantic for the third time. In the Cape Verde islands we weren’t allowed to step ashore because of the pandemic, but fortunately by the 184

In Salvador, following the full circle time HIR 3 reached Madeira and then Gibraltar the borders were open again and we were able to enjoy being on land again. The passage from the Cape Verde islands to Madeira and Gibraltar was a torture, beating against the prevailing trade winds. It took us almost a month to cover just a thousand miles from Mindelo to Funchal – we eventually sailed almost 2000 miles against these northeasterly winds.

The HIR 3 Sailing Tribe logo we painted on the wall of Funchal Marina, Madeira

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We are welcomed back to Mali Lošinj These difficulties continued in the Mediterranean, with several low pressure systems forcing us to seek shelter first in Sardinia and then in Manfredonia on Italy’s east coast.

Finally, just 250 miles from home, the boom broke during a gybe. A shipyard in Brindisi helped us to make a jury repair that took us back to Mali Lošinj, where we were welcomed by family, friends and media. So on 17th October 2020, 28 months, 15 countries and 25 stop-overs since leaving, I completed my circumnavigation of the globe. HIR 3 and I had covered 39,000 miles and sailed around Three Great Capes – the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Leeuwin and Cape Horn. Mission accomplished!

On my return I was accepted as a full member of the International Association of Cape Horners and was welcomed into the Ocean Cruising Club. I have been writing a book about the voyage, entitled My Way Around the World, which should soon be available on Amazon. HIR 3 is being refitted and will welcome everyone who wants to sail in the Adriatic aboard a legendary boat. Join the Sailing Tribe at http://sailing-tribe.com.

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JUST LIKE CHILDBIRTH Jill Gallin (Jill and Michael Gallin bought Gerty, their Allures 45·9, new in 2017 and had always planned to depart in 2020. She is an aluminium centreboarder with twin wheels and rudders and draws only 3ft 9in (1∙15m) with the board raised, which allows her to visit places not accessible to most yachts. Read more about Gerty and her owners at svgerty.com.)

On Friday 6th November 2020 I wrote, “Finally, it happened. Just like they said it would.

Today I found my sea legs! It’s day four of our passage from Put-In Creek, Virginia to English Harbour, Antigua. It feels as though we have left politics, COVID-19 and, well, the world as we knew it, hundreds of miles behind us. Oh, wait a minute, we actually did do that! Albeit temporarily. We are now about 750 miles from where we started and I feel good.” During the next five hours of my night watch, from 2000 to 0100, I continued to write, taking time out every 15 minutes to check the sails, the radar, any AIS vessel locations, the weather, the speed over ground, the boat speed, the wind angle, the horizon, the sea state and the bilge, while Michael slept. This is what I wrote that night:

I feel so good that I’ve taken out my computer for the first time ever while sailing. I actually feel as though I can write without the urge to vomit over the side. In fact, I just realised that I forgot to take my seasickness medication when it was due 5 hours and 20 minutes ago. Clearly, something inside me has changed.

That’s the point, isn’t it? To change. To complement my work as a writer I’ve been reading how-to books. Although these instructional books have taught me different techniques, the authors unanimously agree that one of the most wonderful ways to create change in the main character is to take them on a journey. “Fancy that,” I Gerty at anchor in the Caribbean

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Jill and Michael in Put-in Creek, Virginia before departure

thought to myself this morning as I gazed out over the purple-blue ocean. “I am the main character on a phenomenal journey that will change me, most definitely for the better.” This simple, private epiphany made all the difference.

In the beginning I felt like a fish out of water. What irked me the most was the profound sense of impostor syndrome that came over me in the weeks leading up to the Salty Dawg Sailing Association Rally to the Caribbean. Even though I had earned my US Coast Guard Captain’s License, and been cruising successfully with my husband for five months, confidence eluded me. The more SDSA Zoom calls we sat through, the more I believed that I wouldn’t measure up. I had convinced myself that the other sailors in the rally were elite sportsmen and women. I was not. I was just a nurse with a sense of adventure who loved and trusted her husband. I could tell Michael felt at home in the group. He had a full understanding of the complicated weather GRIBs, routeing and necessary preparations. I had forgotten it all.

It didn’t matter – we were going to Antigua with or without my confidence. On the day of our departure it was very cold, but sunny. We had lots of gear on to keep us warm and dry. It was bulky and mildly uncomfortable. Just before anchor up, I set up a miniature tripod on Gerty’s cockpit table to snap a picture. We laughed at the photo of ourselves in our geared-up outfits and gave in to the thrill of adventure. Gerty likes to sail downwind in 20 knots or more, so we set sail on the back of a storm as planned and tore out of the Chesapeake fast with a west-northwest wind. My first night watch went well, with a full moon to light the way and chocolate chip Granola bars to replenish the dinner that had refused to stay put. My synapses started firing and I remembered everything that I had never really forgotten about how to sail our boat.

The sun came up and all was well ... until the spinnaker pole swung across the 189

Our asymmetrical spinnaker, torn from head to foot along the luff

Michael burying our dead sail in the sail locker

foredeck and into Michael’s forehead while he was preparing to pole out the jib. I could see the rising bump and split skin from 15 feet away and prayed, “Please don’t pass out and fall off the boat”. Then I glanced at his intact tether and adapted my prayer to “Please don’t have a concussion so that I have to sail the boat alone”. He steadied himself, made eye contact with me through the dodger* window, mouthed the word “ouch” and continued to set up the rig.

We owe a debt of gratitude to the dolphins that came to raise our spirits after the mishap with the spinnaker pole. They welcomed us into the Gulf Stream with a celebratory playfulness that was so surreal that it puzzled us. According to our charts, there was now approximately 13,000ft (4000m) of water below us and the surface of the ocean extended as far as the eye could see in every direction. How did they find us?

We had an entire conversation about the colour of the water. I thought that if my five-year-old self had a jumbo box of Crayola crayons, the colour of the ocean that day was the exact colour of the crayon I would have picked to represent it. We jointly praised the job Michael did strapping the dinghy to Gerty’s arch instead of the foredeck. “It’s totally secure,” he said with satisfaction. We made the turn south. The winds eased to 12 knots from the northeast and we ceremoniously raised Gerty’s asymmetrical spinnaker. We had nicknamed this sunrise-coloured sail our ‘Happy Sail’, because it was impossible not to smile when it filled with wind. All was well, as Michael likes to say. Then, in an instant, the spell was broken with a loud bang as the * Sprayhood to Brits, for whom dodgers are what American sailors call weathercloths...

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Happy Sail tore from head to tack along the luff. Again, Michael tethered himself to the jacklines and made his way along the starboard side rail, gathering the sail as he went and eventually burying it in Gerty’s sail locker. The death of such an exquisite sail is surely a reason to mourn.)

The chance to see a rainbow unobscured by land is reason enough to make the passage to Antigua. That said, mahi mahi is another compelling reason! Imagine a neon-green, iridescent fish so beautiful that it’s painful to watch it die. This delicacy is a pelagic mahi and Michael caught a big one! Finally, a galaxy of stars scattered across a moonless, midnight sky is yet another reason to just do it.

I was quite surprised when I next logged onto my computer, about six days later while sitting in Gerty’s cockpit over a turquoise blue English Harbour, and came across the narrative above. This is because Friday 6th November was the calm before the storm or, more accurately, before the squally, wavy, tilted, beam-reach windy world that was to be our home for the remainder of the passage.

Most vivid in my memory is the cacophonous symphony that droned on and on without intermission. In the cabin, a horrific rhythm section made up of cabinet creaks and dishware squeaks played constantly, interrupted only by the percussion section, composed solely of our slamming V-berth storage cover. A New Age accompaniment consisting of ten thousand broken baby rattles would cut in at random moments, followed by the worst sound of all ... dead silence. The absence of sound could only mean one thing – that Gerty had been thrown into the air by the might of another monstrous wave and a thunderous crash was imminent. The crash would be followed by my whole body levitating above the mattress, leaving me in temporary hysteria as

The chance to see a rainbow unobscured by land is 191reason enough to make the passage to Antigua

Michael with his catch, a pelagic mahi mahi (sometimes called a dolphinfish) to my whereabouts, not only in the middle of the ocean but within the confines of our boat as well. In the cockpit the deafening sound of the wind and sea was relentless.

It felt like I was being tortured by the white noise app I had downloaded for free on my mobile. Imagine having it cranked up to full volume on a phone with a magical battery that never, ever runs out of charge.

We were exhausted! On 7th November Michael, a captain who knows his audience, suggested it was time for us to heave to. This manoeuvre, which effectively stops a sailboat in a luxurious holding pattern, was a necessary sacrifice. Each minute hove-to would blow Gerty west, negating the precious easting that we had worked so hard to make but, for God’s sake, we needed a shower! Fifteen minutes of relaxation could only be a benefit to our psyche – except that when Gerty levelled out her bilge alarm went off. I dutifully checked the forward bilge and saw six inches of water. I didn’t panic. I tasted it, exactly as I was trained to do. Salt water. It was confirmed. We were sinking. I cried.

The thirty seconds it took Michael to explain that minuscule amounts of water entering through the bilge pump hose had probably built up during our extended time on a port tack, and that it was nothing to worry about, were too long. I was giving up.

But it turns out that giving up on a sailing passage is like giving up halfway through childbirth. It’s not an option. Which is really, really good on both counts!

Our ship’s log tells a tale of repeatedly putting in and shaking out reefs that night. There is a written record of steep seas, a broken navigation light, fighting currents, upwind 192

Ocean sunset – we were definitely going to make it! sailing and squalls, but that’s not what I remember now. I recollect waking up clean for my morning watch and feeling irritated that my continuously pounding headache had not washed away with the salty grime on my skin. I was irate at the ocean for refusing to shut up, but Michael had said something that was still fighting for attention in my ears before he went down for a nap. He’d said, “I couldn’t have done this without you. I wouldn’t have done this without you. We’re almost there. We’re gonna make it. I love you, Jill”. He was absolutely right – we were definitely going to make it.

I got smarter. I scrambled to find my noise-cancelling headphones from the forward cabin and placed them on my ears, understanding that they probably wouldn’t recover from the saltwater spray, but rationalising that it was going to be worth the $50 I’d spent on them. I watched as Navionics reduced and iTunes enlarged on our waterproof iPad screen. I pressed ‘shuffle’, and while standing alone in our drenched cockpit I let out a giggle. Out of the hundreds of songs we have in our music library, the powers that be had selected Getting Closer by Billy Joel.

Land ho!

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Jill and Michael on arrival in English Harbour I focused on our two sons, our new president, the dolphins that were swimming beside Gerty, and the funny Iridium Go! messages we’d received from friends and family.

I marvelled at all the things Michael had fixed while I was sleeping, including the head. Apparently the base had come loose, making it even more difficult than usual to steady oneself on the seat, but I hadn’t even noticed. I reflected on our amazing accomplishment that was about to be realised. I had an incredible teacher in Michael, a loving husband and the sexiest captain alive. I had a floating home that made its own water, converted the sun’s energy and harnessed the wind. Of course, the most fantastic thing of all was that I had a new story to tell.

Handling a small yacht in a big, steep sea is a grand experience not easily forgotten, especially if it be attempted on a pitch-dark night, with a little too much canvas aloft for comfort, too big a sea to allow you to take your eyes off each phosphorescent crest as it comes crashing towards you, and with a dangerous shoal somewhere to leeward. Under these conditions you generally wish to goodness you hadn’t come and begin to wonder exactly how long the boat will stand such a terrible pounding ...

Maurice Griffiths, Sailing on a Small Income (published 1953) 194

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THE EARLY ADVENTURES OF BEYOND THE BLUE David Zaharik The dream started in 1975 when I declared, “when I retire, I’m going to sail around the world”, and in 2019 the dream began to become a reality. Against all odds and during years of layoffs, in 1979 I started a career as a pilot and, after almost 40 years with Air Canada, I did indeed retire. Within a year Boréal Yachts, in Tréguier on France’s North Brittany coast, completed construction of our semi-custom aluminium Boréal 47 and Beyond the Blue was launched in February 2019.

Jean-François Delvoye (left), the designer and joint-owner of Boréal Yachts, shakes with David on the deal for a Boréal 47 In early May 2019 my wife Scarlet and I moved aboard and began the learning curve, not only of a new and relatively complex sailing boat but of tides and tidal currents. We come from the west coast of British Columbia and thought we knew about tides and currents, but in Northern France the range can reach 10m and in places the currents can run up to 9∙5 knots! Attention to detail in planning is essential.

After a few training sails we left in early June for a delightful visit to the Channel Islands, in the English Channel northeast of Tréguier. It was our first experience with ‘cills’. Because of the huge tidal range, many marinas build walls or cills at the entrance to trap the water as tide drops. It was quite something to wait for high tide to cross the cill, trusting that we had calculated the time correctly. We spent a week motoring around Jersey, Sark and Guernsey due to lack of wind, and returned to Tréguier for 196

A beautiful sunset in the Port de Plaisance at Tréguier the first engine service and a few minor adjustments such as a new boat always needs.

A week later, with an additional deckhand, we finally departed and motored to the mouth of the Rivière Jaudy to anchor overnight and catch the west-going tide first thing in the morning. We thought we would take advantage of our swing keel and beach the boat to check the prop zinc and the bottom. We carefully navigated into a very shallow area where the charts did not show anything of concern and dropped the anchor, only to be accosted minutes later by two French fishermen rapidly approaching in a dinghy, gesticulating and yelling over the wind for us to move. It seems we had

David, Scarlet and their daughter Rachel at the dock in Tréguier ... the champagne gets the lifejacket!

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dropped our anchor in the middle of an uncharted oyster farm. Oops! Raising the anchor quickly in the rapidly falling tide, we motored across the bay and dropped the anchor once more, this time between two uncharted oyster farms.

It became apparent that our depth-sounder was not calibrated correctly. We had three separate readouts and each one gave a different figure, so we took a lead line and confirmed our suspicions that, yes, the depth-sounder was indeed inaccurate, so we returned to Tréguier and had Boréal’s electronics technician recalibrate all three units. With accurate depth and an adjusted radar we set off on a gorgeous beam reach around the west coast of France, stopping at Roscoff, a delightful resort town with a great marina and fabulous restaurants. The following day we sailed out around the westernmost part of Brittany, passing Ushant and spending the night in Camaret-surMer. From there we did an analysis of the weather for the next week to ensure our crossing of the Bay of Biscay would be uneventful.

After enduring two months of unseasonable weather in France, our weather window looked perfect. Setting out early on a broad reach we were delighted as pods of dolphins escorted us south across the Bay. The sail was fabulous – a broad and beam reach in nice steady breezes and moderate seas made what can be a treacherous crossing into a non-event. Scarlet, whose mantra had been “I’m not sailing across the ocean with you”, enjoyed the passage, unaware of Biscay’s reputation. Landfall found us in Camariñas, northwest Spain, another delightful village with very friendly people who served one of the best desserts I have ever eaten!

Due to immigration restrictions in the Schengen area of Europe we were on a mission to enter the Mediterranean and get to the south of France, for which we had one-year visas, as soon as possible. Because of that ever-present reality, during our passage south along the coast of Portugal we only stopped in Porto and Lagos.

Beyond the Blue, beached with her keel retracted, at the mouth of North Brittany’s Rivière Jaudy

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David, Scarlet and RYA Yachtmaster Instructor par excellence Ian Thompson Three things stand out in our memories of the sail down the coast of Portugal.

Every night dozens upon dozens of fishing boats come offshore to ply their trade. Of course, at night we couldn’t see their nets. Furthermore, they do not maintain a course and often turn off their AIS. This added a level of navigational stress that, at times, was almost tangible.

Complicating navigation even more, these same fishermen would leave very large beer keg-sized floats attached to their nets and traps.

Although easy to see in daylight, they are unmarked at night. This proved interesting when, in the middle of one night, we hit one directly on the bow while motor-sailing at 7∙5 knots. The noise was like an explosion as an aluminium keg hit our aluminium hull. Fortunately no damage was done, and once we were sure we were free of the lines we set off again. Perhaps the line cutters installed on the prop shaft did their work? Later, during Scarlet’s watch, we sailed into a lightning storm of unprecedented splendour ... and stress.

After stops in both Porto and Lagos, both with beautiful marinas and lovely towns, our hired crew member departed and another boarded. From Lagos we were off again to Cádiz and then Gibraltar. The new crew member, a RYA Yachtmaster Instructor, was fabulous – absolutely fabulous. He taught Scarlet so much in ten days that her confidence soared, and made suggestions to me that were sensible and very instructive.

We learned so much in such a short time. However, we didn’t make it to the south of France. While in Gibraltar we calculated that we only had seven days to get there, and as our hired instructor had to leave the two of us would have to do the passage of close to 1000 miles on our own. We probably could have made it, but it would have meant non-stop sailing and if a delay occurred we would have been in a very tenuous situation trying to explain why we had not complied with the Schengen rules. Rather than adding that stress, we decided to leave Beyond the Blue in Alcaidesa Marina right next to Gibraltar for our mandatory 90-day exit. So we went home.

During our sojourn back home we had to make a decision. Should we go into the Med in November and head to France for the winter, or should we let go of that dream and cross the Atlantic? We decided, after much deliberation, to cross the Atlantic. With the Bay of Biscay having been crossed it was an easy ‘sell’ to Scarlet, who had repeatedly stated “I’m not crossing the ocean with you”, to sail down to the Canary Islands.

Knowing that we would be relatively close to land the whole way she agreed and so, 199

David and Scarlet with the Rock of Gibraltar astern with her smiling, we set off in early November for Lanzarote. Because Scarlet and I did not have ocean-crossing experience we had to hire two bluewater-experienced sailors to comply with insurance regulations. Little did we know that the insurance company would have accepted our sail from France to the Canaries as sufficient experience, but they failed to tell us that until we had reached Lanzarote in the Canary Islands.

The six days of sailing were lovely, but marred by what appeared to be a failed alternator. Oddly, the alternator was producing power but the power was not being fed into the battery bank. While we were in Alcaidesa, Volvo representatives had completed a recall warranty item on our engine, replacing the marine diesel interface, and although we checked the systems prior to departure, during our sail south we could not charge the batteries properly. We had both solar and hydro-generators, but it was cloudy and the light winds kept us from attaining the speeds necessary for the hydrogenerator to produce power. Needless to say we were a little concerned that we would lose all power, but managed to reach Lanzarote late on the sixth day.

It was difficult to get the Volvo representative in Lanzarote to admit that his colleagues in Alcaidesa might have erred and to take responsibility and troubleshoot our problem. Finally we had a conference call with Boréal and the French Volvo engineer who designed the system and, fortunately, they were able to explain to him what the issue was. He entered the engine room and, within minutes, the problem was resolved. Humorously, and a little frustratingly, when we asked him what he had done he replied “nothing”.

Now we were ready for the Atlantic and miraculously (although admittedly, planned and crafted on my part) she whose mantra was “I’m not crossing the ocean with you” 200

Scarlet enjoying the large mid-Atlantic seas now thought that this adventure was too cool to pass up. On 29th November 2019 we cleared the Canary Islands heading southwest out of Lanzarote, somewhat disappointed that the electrical problem had eaten up all our planned cruising time in the Canaries.

Nonetheless, with great anticipation the four of us set sail.

Writing up the log en route to Antigua in Beyond the Blue’s gorgeous doghouse nav station

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David resetting the controller of the Watt & Sea hydro-generator With the forecast winds I thought a double-reefed main and full genoa would be a great idea for our first night and indeed, outside of reefing the genoa, we never changed sails again all the way across.

Moderate winds carried us down towards the Cape Verde islands where we turned right a bit too soon and started tracking toward Antigua ... sort of. I actually believe that the turn slowed us down and we had to motorsail more than if we’d continued south, but that is conjecture in hindsight.

The crossing, mostly a broad reach with the genoa poled out, was at times in pretty rough conditions which caused the boat to yaw around her keel as we crested each swell and then surfed down its back. Having a retractable keel, I decided to experiment and lifted it – the yawing stopped and the ride improved dramatically.

And she who previously claimed she wouldn’t sail across the ocean with me enjoyed the passage immensely. There were times when I heard her giggling (I kid you not) as she pointed up at 5–6m swells off our stern, and saying “Ooooo look at the size of that one” as we surfed down mostly at 9–13 knots but hitting peaks of 15 knots. Beyond the Blue performed incredibly well – a Cadillac ride.

The only boat issue we struggled with was not technically part of the boat but a piece of third party equipment, the Watt & Sea hydro-generator. We eventually discovered that we needed to continually reset the controller to get it to work, and this required us to unplug and re-plug the unit approximately every 20 minutes ... which we did, grumbling, all the way across the Atlantic. Although that may not sound too difficult, the plug was on the stern so it required the person on watch to hang over the stern, unscrew the plug, unplug it, reinsert and screw it back on – a procedure that was somewhat daunting at times on the large seas. To their credit, on being contacted Watt & Sea asked me to send them the control unit for testing and, lo and behold, they found it was indeed faulty and sent me a brand new one. I have yet to test it on board, but I’ll make sure it is functioning properly prior to our next departure.

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On the customs dock at Jolly Harbour, Antigua at 0800 on 18th December

On the 18th December, 18½ days after departure, there was a spectacular sunrise as we passed E n g l i s h H a r b o u r, Antigua, heading towards Jolly Harbour. The sense of accomplishment at our first-ever ocean crossing was euphoric, while at the same time humbling. The voyage had been marked by an unseasonable number of squalls rolling by almost every day and night – not one or two, but almost one an hour for most of the crossing.

We had only three squall-free days, near the end of the passage when we finally got into the trade winds, but nonetheless it was massively enjoyable.

At anchor off Gustavia, St Barts

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David hoisting the courtesy flag in Sint Maarten Our crew left and two days later our daughter arrived.

We d e s p e r a t e l y wanted to go sailing, but once again we were experiencing a very peculiar weather pattern with the wind howling out of the north at 30–40 knots with peak gusts at 50. We were safe in the marina and nearby anchorage, but it wasn’t until our daughter’s visit was almost over that we could actually do some day sails. Soon after she departed we were joined by a friend and, once we had more favourable winds, we began our journey north and west.

Although we had already sailed some 4000 miles in our new boat, we really hadn’t ‘sailed’ her – we just put the sails up and for most of the time we rode a sleigh, not needing to touch anything except to reef the genoa. Now, we were sailing. North, to an almost uninhabited part of Barbuda, then west-northwest to St Barts, Sint Maarten, Saint Martin, St Thomas in the US Virgin Islands and then Fajardo, Puerto Rico, where our friend left us and, for the first time since we left France, it was just Scarlet and me.

We set off on what, due to flukey winds, turned out to be a five-day motor-sail to Matthew Town in the Bahamas. We stood two-hour watches at night and had a fabulous comfortable cruise. And what a blast the Bahamas were! After a few days in remote Matthew Town on Great Inagua we dropped anchor off Clarence Town on Long Island and toured. I had so looked forward to swimming in the crystal-clear waters of the Bahamas and I did a bit ... until I saw them. Sharks. Not just nurse sharks, but bull sharks and hammerheads. After that I swam in the pool.

Our overnight passage from Matthew Town to Clarence Town had an interesting twist to it. In the late afternoon after we left Matthew Town a freighter from Haiti showed up on our AIS dead on our stern. As the freighter slowly crept up on us I began to get concerned. I turned 20° to starboard, he turned 20° to starboard. I turned back on course, he turned back on our course. After a bit I decided to turn 40° port. So did he. Now somewhat alarmed, I pulled out our sat phone and was prepared to call the emergency number to the US Coast Guard. I did find it odd, however, that if they had ill intent they had not turned off their AIS. They came within a half mile absolutely dead astern before veering off east. Whew! I thought it extremely unprofessional and could only assume that they thought it humorous.

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From Clarence Town we had a delightful sail up to George Town on Great Exuma, where we stayed for a week and were joined by friends. Unfortunately the wind again picked up to 25 knots, delaying any adventuring, but as soon as we had better winds we were off, navigating the sparkling clear waters north, dropping anchor a few times along the way at remote, protected locations, until we arrived at Pig Beach on Staniel Cay. Our friends had flights booked out of Rock Sound airport on Eleuthera, so we motor-sailed through the cuts back into open water for a passage to Cape Eleuthera, again seemingly almost jinxed with the unseasonable winds right on our nose.

Cape Eleuthera Resort and Marina is a fabulous, remote location where we stayed for a week once again waiting for the winds to change. While we waited we picked up my brother in Rock Sound and hung out until we got our weather window. Finally we departed for a glorious beam reach up to Hatchet Bay. This was the first time he had sailed and we gave him a wonderful fast close reach in 15m of crystal-clear water along the coast. He had flown down expecting to get two weeks of sailing but, unfortunately for him, the winds delayed our departure for a few days. Then, on reaching Hatchet Bay, the entire adventure collapsed.

It was while we were anchored in Hatchet Bay that we heard about borders closing due to the developing pandemic – it was mid March and President Trump had just shut down flights from mainland Europe. Overnight we had to radically change our plans and, against everyone’s advice and to our gross disappointment, we left Hatchet Bay directly for Fort Lauderdale, expecting the US border to shut. We arrived 48 hours later on 16th March, but just in time – the Canadian/US border closed three days later.

Sunset between Puerto Rico and Matthew Town, Bahamas

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Once in Fort Lauderdale we made the massive decision to ship Beyond the Blue home to Vancouver via Seven Seas Yacht Transport and, after two intense and hectic days of packing and boat preparation, departed, landing in Canada the day before the border closed. Our boat arrived safely in Vancouver two months later. It seems our circumnavigation is going to have to wait, but with April 2020, and Beyond the Blue being lifted in Beyond the Blue now home, Fort Lauderdale for shipping home we continue to dream ... now the dream could take us down the Pacific coast to the Baja and, who knows, the South Pacific? But at a slower pace perhaps...

A man is weak but the spirit yearns To keep to the course from the bow to the stern And to throw overboard every selfish concern That tries to work for what can’t be earned Sometimes the only way to return is to go Where the winds will take you And to let go of all you cannot hold onto For the hope beyond the blue Josh Garrels – Love & War & the Sea in Between

Beyond the Blue at her home port of Vancouver, BC after her first 7000 miles at sea 206

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ONE STEP AHEAD OF COVID: Cape Verde to Canada in 2020 Martin Fuller (Martin only began sailing in 2015 when a change in his life gave him the dream of one day sailing around the world. He decided that first he’d better check that he liked offshore sailing, and by the time he reached RYA Yachtmaster level had confirmed he did. The next step, in January 2017, was to look for a bluewater cruising yacht suitable for short-handed sailing and Sandpiper, a wing-keeled Sadler Starlight 39 built in 1994, met all his requirements.

Stephanie joined Martin to sail Sandpiper from the Exe to Port Solent, and they have been together ever since. Stephanie brought a wealth of experience to the team, having sailed many ocean miles including the Northwest Passage (west to east) with the Reverend Bob Shepton in 2013.)

After a wonderful cruise from North Wales to Cape Verde in 2019, to begin with everything went according to plan for our onward passage across the pond. When we left on 6th January the weather looked settled for a fast crossing and we set off downwind in a north-easterly force 6–7, predicted to ease to force 5. We settled into our passage routine of three-on three-off from 1800 to 0900, with Stephanie doing an incredible job in the galley cooking up tasty dishes even in fairly rough seas. I don’t know how she does it – but she did, from day one of the crossing.

By day three we had found the easterlies and were looking forward to using our twin headsails, bought especially for the trip, and ploughing a direct downwind line

Sandpiper in the Isles of Scilly before heading south

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Skipper and author Martin Fuller to the Caribbean.

But fate had other ideas! I had chosen to use two telescopic whisker poles to poleout the headsails, for their lightness and ease of handling. We had previously used them successfully in winds under 16 knots but now had 15–20 gusting 23 knots.

Both poles went out perfectly and we were making a wonderful 8 knots until, on the third day, we heard a crack like a rifle resulting in two pieces of pole swinging in the rigging amidst a collapsed sail, and the second pole impersonating a bent banana.

We tried to goose-wing the headsails, both with the wind vane and while handsteering, which worked but not for very long. Either the wind would shift or the waves and swell, often 3m+, would pull the bow around spilling the wind. We accepted our fate and sailed downwind as best we could while enjoying the immense skyscapes, wonderful The broken whisker pole

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Stephanie, Chief Mate and fantastic partner seas and swell, glorious night skies and, of course, stunning sunsets and sunrises ... all with the occasional company of dolphins to bring a smile to the face.

We were using PredictWind Offshore as our main weather source, which enabled us to sail around a few ‘dead spots’ and maintain 6+ knots. Strange how the days merge in one’s memory, becoming an impression or vague memory rather than a series of clear events, but Stephanie has reminded me that there were not many days when we didn’t have 2m+ waves or 16–20+ knot winds. We were never able to relax totally, but soon became accustomed to big seas and a strong breeze – good sailing weather, I like to think.

Our 500 mile waypoints came up reasonably quickly, and before we knew it we were into that ridiculously long final 500 miles. However, Mother Nature had a sting in her tail for the final 100 miles as we closed Barbados on the last night of our crossing.

It was a dark, moonless night, with a couple of showers before sunset but no sign of stormy weather. But then at 0130, while I was on watch, the wind picked up and the rain started in earnest. Sudden strong gusts, rapidly changing direction by 60–90° to the main wind direction, had the seas churning and Sandpiper pitching about as we fought to keep control. The squalls continued for about six hours. Stephanie did a fantastic job on the helm in some strange and often frightening conditions, while I managed the sails. By dawn, though drenched we were through the worst of it and Barbados was visible over the horizon, allowing us to ‘enjoy’ a blustery and wet final day’s sail around the north of the island, to anchor in Port St Charles on our 16th day out. Not as quick as we had hoped, but memorable nonetheless and we were soon celebrating our arrival with a welcome cold beer. But although the Bajans were very friendly, Barbados proved 210

somewhat disappointing. It was a pleasant point of arrival and great to swim in warm water at last, but we were glad to set sail southwest to Grenada.

We soon learnt that local chart and pilotage information had to be taken with a pinch of salt. Channel marks are often missing – probably blown away by the last hurricane and never replaced. We cleared into Grenada at Grenville on the east coast and saw first-hand why some of the reefs are not as flush with fish as they once were – the local fish market was buzzing with activity and we saw more colourful reef fish on sale than on most of our scuba dives. We moved slowly around the island, establishing a relaxed routine of stopping off for lunch in an attractive anchorage, having a swim, then moving on to another anchorage for the night. We found many splendid anchorages, not all of them full of charter boats! We carried on up through the renowned anchorages of the Windward chain, bumping into many OCC members en route.

Not many things beat a good toothache. Approaching Antigua, Stephanie broke a crown eating the hard crust on a boat-made pizza ... not too much sympathy from the skipper. The helpful three-lady customs team at Jolly Harbour produced the name and number of a dentist who, amazingly, agreed to an appointment the following day.

Four hours and a serious number of dollars later, Stephanie emerged root-canalled and re-crowned.

The following day we explored the island, including the Sir Vivian Richards Cricket Stadium where sadly the wicket was in need of some serious attention before the season resumed.

The immigration and customs The memorial to cricket icon Viv Richards staff we met in the Caribbean were a mixed bag, good in parts like the curate’s egg. Nevis was one of the bad parts. Perhaps it was the increasing seriousness of COVID-19 that upset them. We were glad we only wanted a short stop-over to see the Horatio Nelson Museum and the hot sulphur baths – both worth the trip and the hassle. One night was enough and we pushed on to St Kitts, another isolated, palm-fringed beach en route to Saba and another fascinating dive site – along with a bonus, close encounter with a grey tip shark chasing and catching a tuna close to the dinghy as we headed to the reef to snorkel.

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After enduring one bouncy night at Saba we decided on an overnight passage to the British Virgin Islands rather than suffer in a rolly bed for a second night. The decision paid off, with a good fast passage to the badly battered, hurricane-hit marina at St Thomas Bay, Virgin Gorda. We enjoyed a visit to the nearby Baths, an area of huge granite rocks, pathways and pools. Before leaving Porto, Stephanie had discovered Mojito cocktails.

These became something of a benchmark in scoring locations and Rosy’s Jungle Bar at St Thomas Bay marina definitely scored well – the crew slept soundly that night.

Our onward moves were now dictated by the Six Nations rugby calendar and the need to be at Nanny Cay Marina by 6th March for the England v Wales match. We made it, and celebrated the result in Mulligan’s Sports Bar along with the best surf and turf platter of the voyage. We continued to enjoy good day sails between frequently empty anchorages as we moved through the USVI, and it was not until we reached San Juan, Puerto Rico on 14th March that we learnt that curfews and lockdowns were being imposed around the globe. San Juan was no exception, as we discovered on checking in at 1730. The curfew was due to start at 1800 that night with an immediate three-week lockdown. We realised that our cruising plans had been washed overboard.

Fortunately, there were not many yachts in the islands just then and our application, direct to the Governor, for an exemption to sail on to a marina in Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos archipelago was granted. That saw us locked down in small, friendly South Side Marina along with five other yachts to wait out the lockdown, until we could find a way to safety – somewhere, anywhere – before the start of hurricane season.

In times of crisis we often see the best side of people and this was no exception. We were fortunate to link into the Salty Dawg Sailing Association, which was taking a lead in helping USA-bound vessels return home from the Caribbean and generously opened their doors to all sailors in the region. This created the possibility that we could use our existing American visas and cruising permit to enter the USA and continue to head north to Nova Scotia. Our long-term passage plan appeared to be back on the rails.

By 19th April we were reprovisioned, had applied for clearance to sail through Bahamian waters, and were ready to go. Fair winds and sunshine gave us a good 90 mile run out to Hogsty Reef, an oval, 3-mile-long reef in the middle of nowhere with two small sandy islands at its western end. Our anchorage in the lee of the largest one gave us a chance to stretch our legs, pick up another bamboo pole as a spare whisker pole, and enjoy more swimming in turquoise waters. For the first time, despite no land within 35 miles, we found small plastic fragments suspended in the water – a sad reminder of the pollution we are causing.

Sandpiper carries two kayaks aboard

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Anchored in the Turks and Caicos

The following day we had a short passage to the eastern edge of the Bahamian Bank and decided to anchor in the shadow of the abandoned lighthouse at deserted Castle Island, southwest of Acklins Island, in order to give us a full day to cross the Bank in daylight. But before embarking for the Tongue of the Ocean we learnt that permission to transit Bahamian waters had not yet been issued, so rather than risk an unfriendly reception we decided to head west for Miami. During this 445-mile passage we enjoyed the company of dolphins, fishing displays by beautiful terns and a spectacular but slightly worrying all-night lightning storm ahead of us as we approached the Florida coast. With favourable winds and some Gulf Stream assistance in the last stages, we soon swapped the splendid isolation of the open seas for the congestion of an anchorage in downtown Miami on the edge of the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW).

We had deliberately chosen this anchorage due to its proximity to the Customs and Border Protection Agency office. We were eventually permitted to clear in and escape – but not before being required to provide a destination address, which we didn’t have.

Following a rapid, frantic Google search we gave a random boatyard address in Maine, allowing ourselves some scope for more sailing.

Moving north, we had a choice of inside, using the ICW, or outside. From Miami we sailed 110 miles outside to Fort Pierce, avoiding the multitude of bascule bridges on the lower ICW, then moved into the ICW. Surprisingly, we rather enjoyed the inside passage. Typically, we would cover 35–45 miles in a day, passing through a fantastic assortment of landscapes. The wildlife was ever-changing, especially around the Cape Canaveral area where we sighted pelicans, flamingos, terns, bald eagles, ospreys (feeding their young), dolphins and manatees in significant numbers. We never did deploy the main, but frequently used the headsail albeit sometimes with the ‘lee shore’ of 213

Dwarfed in downtown Miami the channel rather too close for comfort. At times the channel changes from narrow swampy, forested areas to vast tracts of open water, inviting the sailor in us all to break free of the magenta-coloured ‘preferred route’ marked on the charts. Sadly, with one or two exceptions, these huge expanses of water could often be waded across. Not that we ever became stuck – perhaps temporarily delayed, but nothing too serious.

As we passed Cape Canaveral in early May I was beginning to miss the clear water and warmth of the Caribbean. Long sleeves and trousers came out of storage for windier days and we looked in dismay at the brown, murky water which offered absolutely no temptation to go swimming. Spring might have arrived, but definitely not summer.

Good anchorages are limited in the ICW. One can ‘pull over’ and anchor on the edge of the channel, but straying too far risks ending up on the bottom at low tide.

We avoided marinas and anchored whenever possible, often in remote locations, frequently amongst marshlands with just the birds as company. There weren’t too many bugs, thankfully, so we enjoyed many sunset dinners and drinks in the cockpit with no other boats in sight.

COVID-19 had closed many facilities, certainly all those run by the State, but businesses opened up as we moved north and the locals were extremely welcoming and friendly. We moved steadily north through Georgia, and popped outside in a southerly wind window to reach Savannah, a must-visit historic city with wonderful parkland. Prevalent northerlies drove us back inside to transit South Carolina, where we enjoyed being woken by bird song in more remote anchorages, along with visits to charming historic towns such as Charleston.

June was fast approaching as we moved slowly through North Carolina, a mixture of very monotonous motoring in narrow channels and wide-open areas of shoal-ridden water, especially the 30 miles through Bogue Sound. Any attraction the ICW might once have had had by now worn very thin. On the border of North Carolina and Virginia we made our way through the murky waters of Alligator Creek, avoiding a force 6–7 off the Outer Banks and Cape Hatteras’s notoriously difficult waters. We’d been told that it was too far north for alligators but, along with plentiful deer, bald and golden eagles, vultures and a few wild turkeys, we did see and photograph a lone ’gator.

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Dangerous mud banks are never far from the channel...

We had assumed that the Dismal Swamp would be a remote and mystical area. Our free overnight mooring at the Town Dock in Elizabeth City, the entry point for the canal, and an evening walk around its deserted streets, should have warned us not to be too optimistic. We moved steadily along the first 18 miles of the Pasquotank River, enchanted by the remoteness, wildlife and calm feel of the waterway, but the canal itself failed to impress. The entry to the first lock at South Mills was not marked at a key river junction and we took a short but annoying diversion down a cul-de-sac ... time for a bit of reversing practice. We frequently scraped the bottom as the canal did not have the charted 6ft along its centre line and, with a highway along its eastern side, it was not remote. We pushed through quickly to overnight at the northern end and were glad to be out of it.

The Dismal Swamp Canal – straight and narrow

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Norfolk was another story – it was amazing, if only for the amount of naval hardware gathered in one place. After a guided boat tour of the harbour and Naval Yards we set off once more with the promise of good southwest winds for sailing up the Chesapeake – it was good to shake out the main and find open, deep water without worrying about canal banks or shoals. Five delightful day cruises, along with lovely quiet anchorages in the many side creeks, brought us safely to Annapolis and the quiet backwater of Weems Creek. The area appeared prone to thunderstorms at that time of year but the excellent local weather service, with good radar images of approaching storm clouds, meant we mostly stayed dry and out of trouble.

We decided to take a short break to explore the hinterland, so hired a car to visit the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and took a fascinating evening drive around Washington DC, where we saw more joggers than cars. But we were soon leaving the marina and heading north up the Chesapeake to ultimately find our way back to the ocean via the Delaware River, or so we thought.

How many times have you changed your impeller? We have done so several times, never giving too much thought to where all the bits of missing rubber had gone. Out of the exhaust? Well actually NO, as we found out. The engine alarm sounded as we negotiated the tight channel out of Back Creek, requiring a hastily-raised headsail to clear the breakwater (a lee shore – what else could it be?) and find safe water to anchor and investigate the problem. Having changed the shredded impeller, cleared the intake pipe, checked the second feeder pipe from the water filter and checked that the gas/water exchanger was functioning, we still had a problem. We were towed back into Back Creek and fortunately found a mechanic to look at the engine that evening.

It turned out that years of shredded impeller bits had clogged both the pipe from the impeller to the heat exchanger and the intake itself. Two hours later the engine was purring. Despite the considerably lighter wallet it was a relief to deal with a problem that had clearly been building up for years, probably since before I had bought the boat. It is now on my preventative maintenance list.

We were back on the move next day and our weather window held good. We sailed up the final stretch of the Chesapeake towards the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal and had a surprisingly pleasant passage through the 14- mile canal seeing only three other pleasure craft. A couple of nights later we were snug in the family-run Utscher’s Marina at Cape May, New Jersey, having scraped the mud (again!) on the way in. A warm reception was cemented with a complimentary bottle of wine in the welcome pack.

Years of impeller debris excavated from the cooling system 216

Passing through Hell Gate on New York’s East River Wanderlust and a favourable weather report saw us slipping out of the harbour for an overnight passage of 120 miles up to New York, a significant milestone on our trip. That iconic skyline greeted us when we arrived at 0730 and there was a bonus, a free anchorage in the shadow of the green lady – the Statue of Liberty. COVID-19 restrictions kept us aboard, but we enjoyed a short sail up the Hudson River and the night-time panorama of New York, before an early start to catch the tide at The Battery to head up the East River and through the notorious Hell Gate. Like many such narrows, if you time it right you wonder why it is notorious. We did reach 9∙6 knots, and despite our spot-on timing experienced some interesting whirlpools – not on the scale of Corryvreckan, but enough to remind us that such waters should never be taken for granted.

Despite Long Island Sound’s reputation as a cruising destination, we had no intention of lingering there but day-sailed our way east, enjoying picturesque anchorages. At Greenport we lifted Sandpiper to check and clean the bottom. Just as well we did, because I found an anode had not only wasted to nothing but the steel bolt securing it had also rusted away ... we must have been within days of having a hole in the hull. Regardless of copper coating doing its job against growth, I will now haul out on a regular basis – one never stops learning with a boat. We reached Block Island harbour on 2nd July, and it seemed half of Cape Cod had come early for the 4th of July celebrations despite all official festivities having been cancelled. The excellent anchorage was full of all manner of craft flying the Stars and Stripes, some larger than the boat.

We pushed on to Martha’s Vineyard, where we had our first real sailing winds for some time – force 5 northeasterly. The change in air temperature became noticeable, 217

4th July extravaganza!

and even Stephanie wore long sleeves and a jacket as we faced the cool wind and drizzle. As we closed the island it was sheer delight to see our first seals since leaving home waters. Once again the effects of the pandemic limited the opportunities ashore at both Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket Island and, after a few hours’ walk around the cobbled streets, and more delicious seafood, we were ready to leave.

We rounded Cape Cod to make landfall at Provincetown, a long day’s sail made memorable with the sight of four humpback whales blowing close inshore as we beat upwind to round the headland and make harbour in the falling light. Every landfall is different and Provincetown, with its tall, grand, granite tower marking the site where the Pilgrim Fathers first landed, was an interesting introduction to Cape Cod. The following night we anchored for free in the middle of Gloucester, famous as the setting for the films Manchester by the Sea and The Perfect Storm. It was refreshing to find a working fisheries town with such strong links to the sea. To avoid imminent bad weather, we moved onwards to the granite shorelines of Maine, a reminder of Scottish lochs (minus the mountains) and a welcome relief from the sandy shores to the south. A tropical depression moving through the area caused even more fog banks than normal, and we sailed for 10 hours in light winds to Cape Porpoise seeing nothing but a 100m radius bubble of fog, both of us on watch throughout and the radar doing a great job picking out the maze of crab and lobster pot markers.

Maine is a friendly and wonderful cruising area, despite the lobster pots. But the season was moving on far too quickly and with July half gone we decided to push on for Canada with a potential crossing to Greenland at the start of August. We had considered over-wintering north of Nuuk, but with problems getting insurance, and our acknowledgement of our limited Arctic experience, we decided that particular 218

challenge must wait for another year. Therefore, after a short period of R&R in Portland, we set out for Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, planning to make it our final leg for this year. It turned out to be a splendid 165 mile overnight sail with the inevitable fog bank at the end, but clear water, AIS and radar helped us locate the outer marker for Yarmouth. As we entered the channel the fog eased and we cruised peacefully up to Killen Brothers Wharf. Another milestone on our journey had been reached – Canada.

We were not allowed to clear in at Yarmouth, though we were given ‘right of innocent passage’ to Newfoundland provided we did not leave the boat at any time. Having dropped the idea of continuing on to Greenland, we decided to head for Lewisporte on Newfoundland’s northeast coast and leave Sandpiper there for the winter and for minor repairs to be made. We then had to depart as soon as possible, and were not allowed to come ashore except to go direct to the airport!

I was a novice sailor on leaving Wales – would I have set out if I had the knowledge of hindsight? Definitely, something just draws one on. I know that I have learnt even more than I realise and am now a little wiser and, most importantly, now know a lot more of what I don’t know. Stephanie and I will be continuing our passage north to explore the high latitudes – may it be challenging, rewarding and fun.

Martin also forwarded a great deal of useful information about harbours from Port St Charles, Barbados to Castle Island, Bahamas, all of which will be found in the Cruising Information section of the Forum at https://forum.oceancruisingclub.org/.

To the next adventure – wherever it may take us!

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AN UNEXPECTED MAINE CRUISE Jack Griswold (Jack and Zdenka sail Kite out of Portland, Maine. After returning from a seven-year westabout circumnavigation in 2016, during which they served as Roving Rear Commodores, they spent two years as Port Officers for Portland, after which Zdenka joined the General Committee and in 2019 became a Rear Commodore.

They understand the requirements of a club journal perfectly, having recently completed four years as editors of the Cruising Club of America’s annual publication, Voyages. Nearly all the photos were taken by Zdenka Seiner Griswold.)

Last spring, Portland shut down – restaurants closed, theatres, museums, bars and barber shops all shuttered. And no one was going anywhere by bus, train, or plane. But we had Kite, our cutter-rigged Valiant 42, and we had the coast of Maine, as good a cruising ground as any we have found in our travels around the world. The coast measures about 228 miles, but the tidal coastline, including all of the inlets and bays, stretches almost 3500 miles and increases to more than 5000 if you include Maine’s 3166 islands.

Kite was ready to go. We had worked on her over the winter in preparation for a transatlantic passage to Ireland. That was no longer going to happen, but she could be our antidote to COVID-19 isolation. And so we embarked on a long, leisurely summer cruise along the coast, with an emphasis on the leisurely, our indispensable Cruising Guide to the Maine Coast by Curtis Rindlaub and Hank and Jan Taft in hand. We wanted to poke around parts of Maine that we hadn’t visited before, particularly some of the rivers and inlets formed by long, rocky ‘necks’ left behind by retreating glaciers in the last ice age. Many of these anchorages are quite out of the way, and normally we might just blow by them on our way to the cruising grounds of Penobscot Bay and points further east. You can sail Maine for an entire lifetime and never see it all. This was our chance to explore our own backyard.

Kite in Criehaven, Maine’s most remote inhabited island

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Dix Island in the Muscle Ridge Channel

Heading up the Sheepscot River, we spent a night on a friend’s mooring, just outside the Oven’s Mouth where the tidal current rips through a narrow channel. We dinghied over to their dock and walked up to the house for a drink. There, during a ferocious thunderstorm, we learned that our friends’ son and his girlfriend were buying Sea Bear, the steel-hulled, self-built cutter belonging to our friend, OCC member and 2002 Barton Cup winner, Peter Passano. Peter has sailed Sea Bear all over the world, Peter Passano aboard Sea Bear with her new owners

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Red’s Eats, Wiscasset including some impressive Southern Ocean voyaging, much of it singlehanded.* We knew how pleased he must feel that Sea Bear had been given a second life by this young couple. Heck, it made us feel warm and fuzzy. Peter and the new owners were outfitting her at a dock in Wiscasset, just a few more miles up the river, so we set out to meet them the next morning.

Wiscasset was a prosperous seaport in the late 18th century and, as a result, has a lot of pretty colonial-era architecture. One of its claims to fame nowadays, however, is Red’s Eats, a small shack on a street corner that serves takeout lobster rolls. For some reason that we can’t figure out, Red’s Eats has become quite famous and is a bucket list item for every tourist coming to Maine. A lobster roll is composed of a bun (usually a hot dog bun) filled with lobster meat and either mayonnaise or butter. That’s it. There isn’t much difference from one lobster roll to the next, except maybe the amount of lobster. Nonetheless, there’s always a line outside Red’s and even during this pandemic summer, it was continuing to churn out those rolls at $24 a pop.

At the head of Muscongus Bay, we anchored near the Todd Audubon Sanctuary on Hog Island. Among the special things about the Maine coast are the many undeveloped, preserved wilderness spots open to the public. Organisations such as the Maine Island Trail Association work with land owners to make private islands accessible. Maine Audubon manages several coastal sanctuaries and local preservation trusts maintain numerous trails along the coast. Just about every day we would anchor in some beautiful place, more often than not by ourselves, take the dinghy ashore and go rambling about.

Muscongus Bay is filled with small islands and rocky ledges. We were carefully picking our way through them at dead low tide on our way to Port Clyde when we passed Friendship, a small fishing village with a busy working harbour. We decided to pick up a mooring for an hour or so while we had lunch, figuring that the owner * See Sea Bear Doubles the Horn and Sea Bear in the South Atlantic in Flying Fish 2002/1 and 2002/2 respectively, both available at https://oceancruisingclub.org/ Flying-Fish-Archive.

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The Basin on Hurricane Sound, Vinalhaven

was off lobstering for the day.

Pleasure boats are few in Friendship and, despite its name, it has been known to be downright unfriendly to yachties. We had just got the pendant aboard when we saw a large lobster boat steaming directly for us. We braced ourselves for a not unjustified stream of crusty invective.

The skipper pulled up next to us and let loose with a stream of ... apologies! He was so sorry, but he needed to use the mooring. Normally he’s out fishing, but he had to do some unexpected maintenance on his boat. He usually had another mooring available which we could have picked up, but a friend was using it. We left feeling badly that we had made him feel badly. We promised to come back another time and use his mooring.

A fisherman’s skiff in Winter Harbor

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Tranquil, well-protected Maple Juice Cove is around the corner from Friendship.

We dinghied in to a nearby lobster operation with a working dock and fish store and asked if we could leave our dinghy there while we took a walk. No problem. The owner even promised to keep an eye on it for us because the dock was so busy. We were invariably welcome to tie up to these fishing docks, though we always made a point of asking first. A short walk up a country road brought us to the handsome farmhouse where Anna Christina Olson lived with her brother, made famous as the scene for the painting Christina’s World by US artist Andrew Wyeth. The house is now owned and operated by the Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockland, but unfortunately it was closed because of the pandemic. Reminders of the pandemic were all around us but cruising itself, socially distant by its nature, did not seem much different. In a world suddenly turned sideways, this was comforting.

Escaping the inlets, ledges and bays of the coast we headed out to Monhegan, 12 miles offshore. This craggy island of tall granite cliffs covered with pine trees has been home to an artists’ colony since the mid-19th century. It still draws artists, but also day trippers and vacationers who come for the solitude and remoteness as well as the beauty. Monhegan Associates, a private land trust, maintains 17 miles of hiking trails. Although not far from the mainland, Monhegan feels like a different world.

It’s not an easy place to visit by boat, with a small harbour completely exposed to the prevailing southwesterlies, no anchorage and no way to reserve a mooring in advance. If it’s not blowing from the southwest (which it usually is) you pick up a vacant mooring if one is available, then go ashore in search of the harbour master, who can sometimes be found at the Fish House restaurant. With luck you will be directed to an overnight mooring. If not, Port Clyde is not far away. But Monhegan is worth it.

Manana Island is next to Monhegan, on the other side of Monhegan’s harbour. Much of it privately owned, it is the site of an abandoned US Coast Guard station and, in summer, a small herd of curious goats. We dinghied over to explore and stumbled upon a fairly large tortoise in the grass. This was curious. As far as we knew, no tortoises are native to Maine. A Google search turned up the Maine Master Naturalist Program.

That seemed to be just the ticket, and we sent them a picture.

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The Olson house, Cushing

Hiking on Monhegan

Very quickly we got a reply – it was an African spurred tortoise. Native to the Sahara region, they are apparently popular as pets, but can grow to over 200 pounds and live anywhere from 70 to 150 years, so they are often abandoned. This was the initial hypothesis for how this tortoise got to where it was, and it set off an excited flurry of activity among the master naturalists as to how to rescue it before the brutal Maine winter set in. E-mails flew back and forth as they identified possible places that accept rescue tortoises and determined how they would get it there. Apparently, Delta Cargo has a live animal transport service – who knew?

Sammy’s World

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Criehaven

One of the naturalists made plans to capture the tortoise and we agreed to help out.

Luckily, before the whole enterprise was set in motion, he got in touch with the island’s owners to get permission to land and the mystery of the tortoise was solved. He was indeed a pet and had a name, Sammy. Every summer, Sammy is let loose on the island and every fall he is picked up again. We wondered if perhaps the owners’ great, great grandchildren would still be transporting a 200 pound Sammy to his summer home in the 22nd century. Zdenka took a picture. Perhaps influenced by our recent foray to the Olson House, we thought of it as ‘Sammy’s World’.

Penobscot Bay, a little more than halfway up the coast and spoiled with picturesque islands, towns and villages, has a justified reputation as a premier cruising ground. The destination of choice for many cruisers coming to Maine, this year that was true in spades. Because of the pandemic, many more people seemed to be out cruising. Some were locals like us who had planned to be elsewhere but had never left, others came Bottom work at low tide, Winter Harbor

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from neighbouring New England states, and there was a contingent of COVID-19 escapees from the Caribbean – while Europeans had sailed home across the Atlantic, many Americans had headed to Maine.

A happy consequence was that we were able to meet up with many friends. We perfected the art of socially distant sundowners in cockpits, ashore and, when we were with OCC members Cindy and Jeff Wisch – fleet surgeon of the Cruising Club of America who set an impressive example to us all – tied to the stern of their Oyster 53, Wischbone, sometimes with an empty dinghy as a COVID-19 buffer between guests.

A less happy consequence of the pandemic was the plethora of megayachts, an unusual sight in these parts. Normally these things go from the Bahamas or Caribbean to the Med, but this year they couldn’t do that so many of them came to Maine.

Fortunately they seemed to mostly stick around the more ‘social’ spots – among them Camden and Northeast Harbor on Mount Desert Island, which also have some facilities to support them – and only sporadically ventured out to the more pristine anchorages such as the islands of Merchant Row, near Stonington.

‘Down East’, the sparsely-populated easternmost part of the coast beyond Mount Desert Island, owes its name to the fact that it is reached by sailing downwind in the prevailing southwesterlies. Here, there are only a few fishing villages and the coast has a wilder, more remote feeling. Rocky and rugged, it can also be foggy, and this summer seemed foggier than most. In the old days – actually not that long ago – cruisers would often become fog-bound, unable to move for several days or longer. But with our chartplotter, radar and AIS we were able to navigate fairly easily even when we could hardly see past our bow. We often felt as if we were in some sort of video game.

The bane of our existence, in fact the bane of all sailors in Maine, was the ever-present lobster pots. Lobstering is such a lucrative fishery that lobster pots are ubiquitous. In many places they look like a multicoloured carpet and you don’t think there can possibly be room to steer through them. You can never really relax, and navigating among the pots in fog raises the anxiety needle pretty high. Nobody relishes the spectre of going

In the fog ...

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... but it doesn’t bother the lobstermen

into Maine’s frigid waters to free a tangled prop, or losing the ability to manoeuvre while being carried towards a ledge. Even anchorages are affected. When we arrived at the absolutely lovely Cows Yard we saw no clear spot to drop the hook. Finally, we anchored in the best place we could find – near a ledge, with about a foot under the keel at low tide. By next morning we had fouled three pots, which were wrapped around the prop, keel and rudder. It took a good, painstaking hour to free ourselves, but happily we were able to untie and retie the floats without cutting any of them.

Soon we were as far east as we could go. Another year, we would have sailed a quick overnight to Nova Scotia (where lobstering is not allowed in summer!) or continued up the coast to New Brunswick and into the Bay of Fundy. But this year Canada was off-limits with the border firmly closed.

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Kite in Jonesport

The old lighthouse at Mistake Harbor

We anchored at Cross Island, an uninhabited National Wildlife Refuge. A lifesaving station, built in 1874 and long abandoned, still stands on Cross. The island has a large network of trails and it’s easy to get lost – in a good way. You would feel far away from it all were it not for the US Navy’s very low frequency antenna station right next door.

It is huge, with two arrays of 13 antennas each. Each array has a central mast 997ft tall, surrounded by an inner circle of 875ft masts and an outer one of 800ft masts (304m, 267m and 244m respectively). The station’s job is to communicate with the Atlantic fleet of ‘boomers’, nuclear ballistic missile submarines (commanded by a corps of ageing captains?). We understand that in the event of nuclear war, this antenna station would be a primary target. It’s sort of a spooky spot, and you can’t help but wonder if all those powerful radio transmissions aren’t somehow scrambling your insides.

Cross Island, with the navy VLF station beyond

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The small town of Cutler, the last decent anchorage before Canada, was our easternmost and last stop. Its narrow, attractive harbour is surrounded by houses and a pretty lighthouse sits on an island at the entrance. The harbour is full of fishing boats and moorings, but there is room outside the mooring field. Just after we anchored, we received a call on the VHF: “Vessel anchored in Cutler, this is IceBear. We have a mooring that you’re welcome to use, would you like it?” The boat name was a bit unusual, and Zdenka remembered that one of her best friends from university had recently mentioned a sister who was in the midst of a circumnavigation on a boat called ... IceBear? She answered yes, we would love to use the mooring, and by the way, was this Carol? After a stunned pause, the radio voice said yes, but how could you possibly know that?

Jack with our new Cutler friends on their porch And so we spent a pleasant afternoon on the porch of this welcoming couple’s house, overlooking the harbour. Amazingly, Carol had a stack of photos from her sister’s and Zdenka’s university days, memories of a happily misspent youth. IceBear, the handle Carol and her husband use when radioing visiting boats to offer the use of their mooring, was in Cape Town under COVID-19 lockdown. We have often been struck by how small the cruising world is, but even so, this connection surprised us all.

We spent over three months on our leisurely cruise along the Maine coast. What began as a summer of dashed plans ended up being one of the best seasons we have spent cruising. And now, we’ll look forward to visiting Friendship again and picking up that lobsterman’s mooring, checking in on Sammy to see if he has grown and we know that we’ll have a spot in Cutler the next time we get there.

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OBITUARIES & APPRECIATIONS Diana Russell Diana Russell was born on 20th December 1943, the elder of two daughters of the Hon Edward W C Russell and Barbara K Russell. She grew up in Washington, DC and attended The Potomac School and The Madeira School. Diana graduated from Bryn Mawr College in 1965. For a short time she lived in historic Georgetown, Washington, then moved up to New York City to pursue her interest in naval architecture. Diana loved ‘messing around in boats’ and, especially, sailing anything she could get her hands on.

In the early 1970s she joined the renowned yacht design firm of Sparkman & Stephens. She was a pioneer in computer programming, writing the firm’s nascent, empirically-based performance prediction system into yachting’s first computational Velocity Prediction Program.

Her work inspired Olin Stephens, the firm’s founder, to co-lead the subsequent, large-scale development of the original VPP for yacht handicapping through a team at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Diana sailed as much as she could, including transatlantic and in the North Sea, and joined the OCC in 1978 Diana Russell following a 2640 mile passage from Gran Canaria to Barbados aboard the 38ft Wild Hunter. No degree of physical discomfort could stop her from following her deep love of boats wherever they took her. She loved to study how they moved through the air and water and how she might design them to move more efficiently. All aspects of boating dynamics interested her.

Diana had an extremely inventive, creative mind and held several patents. She specialised in small boat design, especially hull profiles. She had a constant curiosity about the science of sailing, and delighted in the study of hydrodynamics as she perfected her own boat designs. Shortly before her death she was working on a wakeless judging boat to be used for rowing races. She also had ideas for a wind-powered oceangoing container ship, all in keeping with her environmental awareness and concerns.

Eventually Diana founded a small company called WingSystems which manufactured and sold tenders, dinghies and windsurfers.

In addition to the OCC, Diana was a member of the Seawanhaka Corinthian YC for around 40 years. She was also a member of the New York YC, the Royal Ocean 233

Racing Club, the Explorers Club, the Royal Institute of Naval Architects and the Cruising Club of America, NY station.

Diana was an avid animal lover, always owning several dogs and cats. She was a donor to multiple charities protecting wildlife and preserving nature despite being bitten by a zebra on one occasion, as was her father! She had a wry sense of humour, loved a good story and was always game for adventure, be it windsurfing in Aruba, searching for silverback gorillas in Africa or exploring small towns in Turkey with friends. She loved to ski, and rented a ski house in Vermont for many years. She was a truly free spirit, choosing her own path and following it in her own inimitable way. Diana was loved by everyone who knew her.

Alice Boardman

Commodore Sam Bateman AM RAN (rtd) Australia lost one of its finest mariners and a long-time member of the Ocean Cruising Club when Commodore Sam Bateman passed away peacefully on 18th October 2020.

Sam was a mariner in the broadest sense of the word. During his 40 years in the Royal Australian Navy he had four sea commands – the General Purpose Vessel HMAS Bass, the Attack Class Patrol Boat HMAS Aitape, the River Class Destroyer Escort HMAS Yarra, and the Guided Missile Destroyer HMAS Hobart.

Even after he retired from the Navy, Sam continued his connection with the sea through his academic pursuits.

He was perhaps one of Australia’s greatest maritime strategic thinkers, who staunchly believed that Australians should see themselves as part of a maritime nation and that maritime issues should be a key component of national strategy. He completed his PhD in 2000 with a thesis entitled The Strategic and Political Aspects of the Law of the Sea in East Asian Seas.

The sea ran through Sam’s veins.

He loved everything to do with the ocean. He enjoyed catching a wave on Mooloolaba Beach, being a passenger on container ships, taking friends and family on offshore fishing trips, making Antarctic and Arctic voyages and, of course, sailing. Perhaps one of his Taking a meridian passage aboard Red Boomer II in the 1970s 234

great regrets was that he did not fulfil his ambition to purchase a cruising yacht and set off around the world. Academia and the Navy probably prevented him from achieving this, but it is clear from from his collection of Flying Fish that the desire remained strong.

While he may not have accrued as many cruising miles as other members of the OCC, his love of sailing was realised in other ways. He competed in his first Sydney Hobart Yacht Race in 1966 in the Royal Australian Naval College’s yacht Franklin after completing the Montague Island race earlier in the year. While living in Brisbane in 1969 he sailed with the Royal Queensland Yacht Squadron in Sequana with Maurice Tilley, including a Brisbane to Gladstone Race that year.

During a posting to Port Moresby, capital of Papua New Guinea, he had part ownership of the Diamond Class Kanhai and he and his partners were keen competitors in the Royal Papua Yacht Club A-Class Division. Sam was also Hobart bound Vice Commodore of the Club. It was in Port Moresby that Sam befriended Bill McNeil who had built the 63ft ketch Red Boomer II. Bill asked Sam to navigate in the upcoming Sydney Hobart Race. Not having many racing attributes, Red Boomer made a leisurely passage to Hobart where they were joined by Sam’s wife Lois before, in early 1975, they headed west across the Great Australian Bight to Fremantle.

Sam cited the 1500 mile passage from Hobart to Albany as his qualifying voyage when he joined the OCC six years later.

Perhaps Sam’s happiest sailing days were most recently, when he took his family on two-week charter holidays in the Mediterranean. These would involve the charter of two similar yachts, crewed by fourteen family members all with varying sailing experience. Over the course of Sam in his element, sailing in the Greek Islands 235

four years the family sailed the Ionian Sea on two occasions, Croatia and the Aeolian Islands. Each of these cruises were meticulously planned by Sam, who always ensured he brought his hand-bearing compass and sextant in order to teach the youngsters the finer points of navigation.

As cancer ravaged his body and COVID-19 prevented overseas travel, after receiving a terminal diagnosis in early 2020 Sam was determined to achieve one last sailing trip. Somehow he convinced his doctor and in October, after enduring bouts of chemotherapy, he and other family members chartered a catamaran in the Whitsundays.

Whilst obviously sick he was in his element, ‘driving the yacht like a destroyer and chasing the elusive tuna’. After handing the yacht back on the final day he declared he was feeling unwell and was taken to hospital where he passed away the next day. It was as if all he needed was one last bit of time on the ocean that he loved.

Sam is survived by his wife Lois and their children Simon, Sarah and Emma, along with their respective families.

Simon Bateman

Paul Ives Paul loved the sea from boyhood, and started sailing after his parents gave him a rather tender dinghy for his 21st birthday. Although he sailed in the cold winds and waters off Aldeburgh, often capsizing, nothing dampened his enthusiasm.

However, Paul was primarily a musician. He was a boy chorister at Ely Cathedral, where he excelled, even shaking the hand of the Queen Mother after singing a solo at a performance she attended. He went to the Royal Academy of Music to study the cello, leaving with the coveted Recital Diploma Prize, and spent six years with the cello section of the BBC Symphony Orchestra before leaving London for Wales, to play and teach.

It was there that he started sailing again. He bought a 22ft Macwester Rowan in which he and the family sailed to Scotland, the Channel Islands and France then upgraded to a beautiful 31ft Golden Hind named Winfarthing. This enabled him to greatly increase his sea passages, including, in 1997, a 1418 mile passage from Aberystwyth, Wales to Faial in Paul Ives the Azores which became his qualifying voyage on joining the OCC in 2000. His final boat was Altair, a Rustler 36, in which he made four singlehanded Atlantic passages. His last voyage was also singlehanded, from Puerto Mogan to Falmouth, where he decided to sell her. OCC Treasurer Charles Griffiths adds: ‘When I bought Altair in 2015 she was totally fit and ready for ocean sailing. Paul was a highly accomplished yachtsman whose unstinting advice helped and mentored me into becoming an ocean sailor’.

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After selling Altair Paul pursued other passions, including a flight in a Spitfire over the Solent, doing a victory roll and looping the loop. He was so excited about this that he couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.

We joined a walking group and completed many walks, including Glyndwrs Way, a 134 mile trail through the remote hills and valleys of Paul aboard Altair, his Rustler 36 North Wales. Then he went on to mastermind a complete renovation of a derelict E-Type Jaguar. In 2018 we drove it to Le Mans and managed to complete part of the old Formula One road circuit – his last passion before time ran out.

Paul remained upbeat and positive to the end, saying he’d had a wonderful life and wouldn’t change a thing.

Susie Ives

Roger Stuart Dawe A 48-year love affair with a 29ft (8∙9m) Dragon, a Pedersen and Thuesen wooden racing yacht called Royalist, plus the fulfilment of a lifelong dream to buy a cruiser and sail the world, which he did with his wife, meant that Roger died with many truly amazing memories.

Born during the Second World War, his early childhood entailed moving around the country to avoid the Blitz. When the family returned to the southeast, Roger went to Dulwich Preparatory and The City of London School. In fact, London was to remain his destination for most of his working life in the building industry, in which he remained interested long after he retired.

Roger Dawe He was happier in the countryside than in town, however, and never lost his sense of adventure. His early love of racing motor cars came to an abrupt end with a near fatal crash in his Lotus 7 at Silverstone, and this was the point at which Roger 237

Roger and Jo’s Oyster 53, Dragonfly of Upnor was introduced to dinghy sailing by one of his lifelong friends.

Michael Freeman owned a Fireball, which Roger found to be equally exhilarating though somewhat less dangerous than racing cars. His passion for sailing had begun, and before long they progressed to racing Dragons. Fortunately for Roger he met Johanna soon after this. They became a brilliant team, and were well-matched in all aspects of their life together, which lasted for 46 years until Roger’s death on 10th October 2020, two days before his 79th birthday.

Roger and Jo were keen hikers and completed many great walks – the Machu Picchu Trail in Peru, The Pitons in St Lucia, South Georgia including part of Shackleton’s iconic trek across the mountain range, Ben Nevis, Snowdon, The Great Wall of China, volcanoes in the Caribbean and walks in the Amazon Rainforest. At home in the UK they walked the Thames Path and many coastal paths. So many walks in so many places, in so many parts of the world. They felt truly grateful that they were able to share all these wonderful experiences together.

Both generous hosts, they loved celebrating life with their large extended family and many friends. Celebrations included everything from fancy-dress balls to garden barbecues, but Roger’s preference was for one-to-one interactions, where he was always interested in meeting new people and in hearing their life stories.

With retirement came the opportunity to buy an Oyster 53, which they named Dragonfly of Upnor. All three children and many friends were now set for exotic holiday destinations. Racing across the Atlantic in the ARC, being the only people on a desert island, sailing up the US East Coast to Maine and down to South America – their adventures fill many log books, diaries and photo albums which continue to give the family great comfort. Their 2002 Atlantic passage aboard Dragonfly of Upnor was later cited by both as their qualifying voyage when joining the OCC, Roger in 2005 followed by Jo ten years later.

Roger and Jo returned home to be with older family members and for the subsequent births of two grandchildren, to whom he passed on his great love of wildlife. When not in the garden you’d find him down the River Medway – Royalist, Roger and Jo’s handsome wooden Dragon 238

wherever we went, he’d always find boats to look at. Although well-known as a modest gentleman, Roger was a keen and competitive sailor and Class Captain, winning the overall Medway Yacht Club Championship many times, as well as other Series Cups and Regattas. He also competed in the Edinburgh Cup (National Championships), seven times.

Whilst Roger leaves behind a huge void in our lives, he has also left a great legacy.

He is sailing amongst the stars now, no doubt ‘kite up’, pole trimmed forward, main eased down the track and kicker in hand, and with a smile on his face. We wish him fair winds and blue skies always.

Jo, Nicola, Amelia and Daniel, and grandchildren Eliza and Bodhi

Tom Delaney Thomas F Delaney passed from this life too soon, on 12th November 2020 at the age of 70, due to complications from COVID-19. The son of Carroll J and Mary (Reilly) Delaney, Tom was born in New York City and was raised in Bronxville, NY. He graduated from Fordham University and earned his MBA from NYU where he met Linda, who became his wife. Tom finally retired after a distinguished 40-year career with CBS as Senior Vice President of Market Resources. A Life Member and Past Commodore Tom Delaney of the New York Athletic Club, Tom was an avid sportsman and accomplished sailor, enjoying many sailing adventures with family and friends.

Tom developed an early love for sailing, inspired by his shipbuilding grandfather and on a yacht belonging to his uncle, John D Reilly, a member of the St Francis Yacht Club on San Francisco Bay. He enjoyed racing sailboats and became very active in the New York Athletic Club Yacht Club and the New York Yacht Club. He was one of four founding members of the Winged Foot Syndicate which, in 1988, purchased a classic wooden racing yacht, Hi-Q-II. They refurbished her, enabling her to enjoy a second wind from 19882003 as a champion racer.

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Tom and I joined the Ocean Cruising Club in 2010. His qualifying voyage had taken place back in 1982 aboard Cyndsure, sailing from Newport, RI to Fort Lauderdale, FL, and this was followed by many shared ocean-crossing adventures. Tom became OCC Port Officer for New York City in 2013.

He was known for his engaging personality and generous offers of help, and particularly enjoyed taking visiting OCC members to the New York Yacht Club on 44th Street, of which he had been a member since 1984.

Every summer we sailed Siren, our

Tom Delaney relaxing aboard Siren... ... and at the wheel Tayana 55, to the New York Yacht Club in Newport, RI, where we served on the Race Committee for over 15 years.

We a l s o s a i l e d throughout New England and Maine, enjoying clam chowder and lobsters in every port along the way.

Tom created a life of adventure that took him across the globe – sailing on many Newport to Bermuda races, scuba diving in Australia, tobogganing in Japan and golfing in Florida. Tom was the family pool shark and Whiffle ball champion, teaching his children and grandchildren a love of the game and the endless pursuit of fun! He was filled with energy and spirit, and served on many esteemed boards. He loved to celebrate and was the heart of every gathering, bringing laughter and excitement everywhere he went. He will also be remembered for always supporting his friends and family through their difficult times as well as their shining moments.

Tom is survived by his loving wife Linda, with whom he had a joyous relationship for 34 years, his children, Kristin, Thomas and Lisa, and his five adoring grandchildren. He will long be remembered by his family, many friends and admirers – he truly embodied the Corinthian spirit.

Linda Baker-Delaney 240

H Blane Bowen Blane Bowen, who always saw life as an adventure to be lived to the fullest, passed away peacefully in Toronto on Monday 12th October 2020 after a hard-fought battle with cancer. He was predeceased by Sally (Douglas), his wife of 20 years, and survived

by Hilary Macmillan, the mother of his three children Michael, Tim and Jenn, his brother Bill, sister Bev and many grandchildren.

A passionate and perpetually curious man, Blane was never one to pay homage to the naysayers or to do things by half measure. A successful fork-truck peddler, as he liked to say, over a 50-year career Blane worked his way from the parts order desk to CEO and Owner of Liftow Ltd. His success in business was only outshone by his success in living and the many true friends he made wherever he travelled.

In his later years, as a keen fly fisherman, upland bird hunter and conservationist, Blane was often knee-deep on the saltwater flats, double-hauling the perfect cast or guiding a bird dog through the fields, shotgun in hand. He thought about what was needed and could be done to protect the world which gave him such joy, and initiated or supported projects that made a difference. Throughout his life Blane never ceased exploring the world, Kenya and Israel being among his favourite countries for their rich and diverse cultures and histories. He could also be found off the Antarctic coast capturing emperor penguins on film, exploring the off-roads of India on a motorcycle or cruising the Galapagos Islands in pursuit of Darwin’s discoveries. His love of people and places was unceasing.

Perhaps his most profound passion, however, was the ocean. Blane truly fell in love with it, embracing its many moods and sailing many of its seas. For most of his life you could only find him if you could smell the sea – living aboard Atlantica, the family’s beloved schooner, gunkholing along the coast of Maine, exploring the many islands of the Bahamas and greater Caribbean or cruising the Mediterranean.

In 1979 he won the Transatlantic Race from Marblehead to Cork with his Swan 48

A young Blane at the helm

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Blane Bowen in later life Scaramouche of Warwick, continuing with a successful Cowes Week campaign that included surviving the tragic Fastnet Race, returning to Plymouth unaided following retirement from the race. Between times he dragged his J-24, Chain Smoker, around North America from regatta to regatta with his young family in tow, eventually securing a spot at the J-24 World Championships in San Francisco.

While the ocean played an inspirational and dominant role in Blane’s life, he was just as drawn to the arts, whether in support of the performers, composers and artists he enjoyed, teaching himself to paint and capture the moments that moved him, the photography that placed him on the cover of Sail Magazine, or his many workshop hours designing and building whatever his imagination inspired. His fascination with creativity never left him.

However, above all else, his love for and pride in his Taking a sun sight family had no equal. While one could never call Blane a traditional family man, he led by example, instilling a deep sense of integrity, personal responsibility and spirit for adventure in his children. He supported them while never interfering (well mostly), allowing them to fail, to triumph and to follow their own passions, always excited to see where it led them. In the end he will probably be most remembered for the twinkle in his eye and how he made people feel special – and who could want anything more?

Tim Bowen

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ADVERTISERS IN FLYING FISH Adlard Coles Nautical (nautical almanacs, books and guides) ............................. 108 Admiral Marine (flexible yacht & boat insurance for offshore cruising) ............. 177 Alcaidesa Marina (full service marina & boatyard at the gateway to the Med) .... OBC Astilleros Lagos (full service boatyard in NW Spain) ............................................. 61 Berthon International (international yacht brokers) ............................................ 135 Bruntons Propellers (feathering propellers for sailing yachts) ...............................187 Epifanes Yacht Coatings (manufacturer of yacht paints & varnishes) ......................... IFC Fox’s Marina (boatyard (refit and repair) and marina in Suffolk, UK) ................... 58 Hydrovane Self Steering (wind vane self-steering systems) .................................. 207 John Rodriguez Yachts (specialist blue water and cruising yacht brokers) .............. 35 Konpira Consulting (supports cruisers & organises yacht charters in Japan) ............ 45 Mactra Marine Equipment (watermakers, Superwind turbines and solar panels) .... 117 MailASail (e-mail and satellite communications) ................................................ 178 Mid Atlantic Yacht Services (services & chandlery for yachts in the Azores) ..... 147 OCC Regalia (UK) ................................................................................................ 232 PredictWind (detailed worldwide forecasts, weather routeing & GRIBs) ............ 160 RCN Portosin (yacht club and marina in Galicia, Spain) ...................................... 89 Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club (50 ton lift, clubhouse, gasoline, dockage etc) ..... 147 Sanders Sails (sailmakers, upholstery and covers) .................................................. 78 Scanmar International (wind vane self-steering systems & anchor trip device) ..... 123 Sevenstar Yacht Transport (yacht transport by sea) ............................................ IBC SHIP Insurance International (yacht insurance specialists) ................................. 136 ShiptoShore (mail forwarding and scanning service for travellers) ........................ 89 Sillette Sonic (marine propulsion specialists, custom engineering) ...................... 195 St Katharine Docks Marina (moorings in central London) .................................... 36 Varadoiro do Xufre (marina and dry dock to haul out, winterise, repair or refit) ........47 Please support advertisers by giving consideration to their products or services, and mention the OCC and Flying Fish when replying to advertisements. Details of advertising rates and deadlines will be found overleaf.

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ADVERTISEMENTS RATES Advertising is sold on a two consecutive issues basis Inside pages Full page colour ...................£280 (for two issues) Half page colour...................£170 (for two issues) Cover pages Inside covers colour........................ £525 (for two issues) Outside back cover colour.............. £840 (for two issues) A 10% discount is available to OCC members

COPY Copy should be supplied as a high res PDF, JPEG or EPS file, at a resolution of 300 dpi (118 dpcm) at finished size Full page (portrait): bleed 210 x 143 mm; non-bleed 188 x 120mm Half page (landscape): bleed 100 x 143 mm; non-bleed 90 x 120mm Bleed adverts should allow 2mm all round in addition to the dimensions above

DEADLINES Advertisements are accepted for inclusion on a ‘first come, first served’ basis.

Space may not permit all advertisements to be accepted, but please try!

Latest dates by which orders must be confirmed are: 14 October 2021 for Flying Fish 2021/2 14 March 2021 for Flying Fish 2022/1 though new artwork may be accepted after these dates

ENQUIRIES AND ORDERS e-mail: advertising@oceancruisingclub.org

Printed by Hobbs the Printers Ltd Totton, Hants SO40 3WX, UK. www.hobbs.uk.com 244

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