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July 2009

Travelling North

In Trinidad ‘one time’ means - I will do it now; ‘Just now’ means - I will do it shortly and ‘Bloke’ means – a simple silly person. It pays to understand and get the meaning right. Welcome to the Caribbean and the next leg of sailing around the world.  Enjoy my journey:

• Sailing the Caribbean
• The thrill and spills up the east coast of America
• Spending a few weeks in a little country town
• Meeting the locals in Chesapeake Bay

The beautiful Caribbean

In April I returned to the Lady sitting in the boat yard at Chaguaramas - I just love saying that word - in Port of Spain, Trinidad after a 33 hour flight from Sydney. As usual, I stayed too long but did enjoy the life of these laid back people who must be the most courteous drivers in the world. Cars stop to let others out of side streets, a four way intersection turns into an instant roundabout and traffic will bank up while drivers stop for a quick chat in the middle of the street. Drivers continually toot their car horns in thanks, whilst speed limits are controlled by pot holes, some of which are such deep craters that, if you fell down, you could end up back in Australia.

The lunch menu at the Breakfast Club in Trinidad

Peppers at the markets in Trinidad

The Caribbean is a brilliant place to sail; the seas are calm, the wind consistent and the waters deep with no surprise reefs jumping up at you.  Anywhere in this part of the world if you can talk cricket you are welcome. In Trinidad impromptu games would appear in the park, the quiet street or on the beach and the Trinidadians took it seriously. Their hero is Brian Lara. Antique, another stop I made to undertake more repairs, is the home of their national hero Viv Richards. The Customs officer at Turks and Cassis talked cricket while sitting in his car as he completed the forms. He cleared me in and out at the same time and spent the next hour talking about the strength of the Australian team.

The Lady returning to the water

The air conditioner poking through a hatch to help with 34 degrees everyday in Trinidad

By late May, the Lady had undergone numerous repairs, and had a new high frequency radio installed to send and receive emails whilst at sea. All the work was done in Trini time, a little slower than standing still. With the hurricane season quickly approaching, I took off sailing through the Caribbean at pace. A stunning three day sail brought me to St Lucia, the home of movie stars, the famous and the rich retirees. Their mansions are stunning as the locals know how to cater for this wealthy group. Nature does lend a hand providing beautiful sandy beaches, lush vegetation and crystal clear waters.

Lush St Lucia

Part of the fishing fleet of St Lucia

Passing the French island of Martinique, I was followed by a French patrol boat and was eventually boarded by four French customs officers who introduced themselves by wrecking one of my newly serviced winches as they tried to tie their dingy up with a rope far too thick for the winch. This was the start of my unhappiness with the French and I was almost tempted to mention “Rainbow Warrior” and wave my Greenpeace membership card at them.

The arrival of the French Customs Patrol Boat

Dressed in full commando gear, they radioed the patrol boat but were not able to make contact so they shouted and signalled to the boat to get closer and then shouted orders. While two officers started searching the boat, the other two stayed in the cockpit questioning me. The two down below went through every locker with a fine tooth comb. The even wanted to take the large inspection cover off the fuel tank which would have resulted in diesel fuel flooding the cabin. After refusing to let them cause such instant havoc, I agreed to let them put the fuel measuring stick down the filler hole. They obviously saw this as more of a sign of winning the argument than actually searching for anything. As I do tend to sweat a lot the interrogating duo asked me the same questions over and over, “Are you carrying more than a 1,000 euro?”, “Why do you sail on your own?”, “Why are you sailing these waters?”. The joke was that they both sat in the cockpit on top of a locker where you could have put half a dozen refugee boat people and still have had room for a party. They never lifted the lid.

By contrast, when reading about arriving in the USA at Miami, the sailing guides all said that I could expect to be boarded on entry into USA waters. I spent the day cleaning the inside of the boat, getting all the documents in order and my pharmaceutical drug list updated. I arrived at the marina at Miami Beach only to be greeted by three Customs officers who were refueling their high speed boat with four huge outboards hanging off the back. These men had even more gear hanging around their waists than the French. We had a chat on the wharf; they were more interested in the Lady than in me and took my details, called them through to their office and asked me to report to Customs sometime the next day, and this is America.

If you have watched any television program set in Miami you would have seen Ocean Parade and that is exactly how it is, people parade up and down at night. They paraded past the restaurants that go for miles. Imagine if you will, a black gentleman dressed in clothes ten sizes too big for him with his cap turned back to front. In front of this dude were two big black men in black, his body guards. Hanging off him, was a girl wearing little else other than high heels with leg warmers, a g-string or thong, and an even smaller amount of material around her over proportioned chest. As my grandmother would say, “Her potatoes were boiling over”.

Models doing a photo shoot while a lady rides past on her three wheeler in Miami

Sailing from Miami to Chesapeake Bay

The 10 day sail from Miami was a fast trip chasing up the east coast of America in the Gulf Stream, a great experience to have with some 5 knots of current pushing you along. For several days, there was a little wind and I had to motor.  A huge thunderstorm entertained me one evening as I watched Captain and Commander, starring the New Zealand phone thrower, Russell Crowe. Almost on cue, during the battle scenes the lightning show would open up on three sides. The air felt charged and I turned off all electronics, put the portable items into the oven, this time with the oven door tied closed. On another night, the American Navy followed me, which was of some comfort but they did not speak to me.

Arriving at Moorhead City, North Carolina in the early hours of the morning, I tied up at the marina only to discover at first light, when the President of the seven story apartment came down to personally greet me, that I had tied up at a private marina. After a little chat, a cup of Trinidad coffee and a stuffed koala, all was well and I moved the boat 20 yards to tie up at the marina next door.

Needing a good sleep, I spent the day and the night in the bunk and then headed out to sea for the last 300 miles up the coast. Seven hours later I found myself in the middle of a storm with huge winds and sea to match. After going backwards for a few hours I turned the Lady around, headed back to Moorhead and went on anchor about a mile off the beach. The storm had taken its toll on me and I went back to sleep for that day and night, only getting up to check on the boat that was being tossed around in a good sized sea. The anchor held well.

The next afternoon, it was ‘take 2’ and off to sea again with a good breeze to push me up the coast. Another sleepless night ensued as I was confronted by a very confused sea that would turn the boat 90 degrees and set off the alarms over and over again. The next day there was no wind but I enjoyed an amazing performance by dolphins that warmed every part of me and filled me with such joy that I could only give thanks.

That night, as I approached Norfolk, Virginia, I was joined by bundles of large ships entering the harbour. For hours I dodged and weaved around them, endeavouring to enter the port at first light after yet another night without sleep. I had only sixty miles to go up the bay to a marina an Australian bloke had raved about for all sorts of reasons. There was no wind, the temperature had exceeded the ton and biting flies invaded the boat.

Just another storm, wind, rain and high seas in Chesapeake Bay

Late in the afternoon as I was about to put down the anchor off the entrance to the channel leading to the marina and wait for the tide to rise to put more water under the boat. I looked to the east and saw a massive storm approaching. I quickly turned the boat around and headed for deeper water and into the direction to which the storm was blowing. Tuning the radio into the marine weather channel, I heard the warning of the storm. With a map on my lap I was trying to identify the towns they were warning about lighting, extreme winds, large seas and the potential for a tornado. I realised I was right in the storm’s path and it did not miss me. I shot down the bay at speed, even with no sails up. I thought it best to run with the wind, the waves and the rain and not fight against them. All went well and the blue sky appeared but only to show another storm was on its way. Again I ran and by now I was many miles from where I had started so I had to turn around to motor back to the marina, a trip which was going to take a good couple of hours.

Sitting on the cockpit, I fell asleep from exhaustion, only to be woken by the Lady trying to drive herself through the mud onto Fishbone Island at Rum Point. My greatest fear had been realized. It was now dusk, I was aground and the tide was falling. After a hurried awakening, I worked for some time to free her from the mud and managed to drive her into deeper water and then I blessed myself.

How lucky I was to get off the mud bottom instead of having the Lady lie on her side in a falling tide. Now it was too late to enter the marina so I dropped the pick, set the boat up and went to bed, tired beyond belief from all the adrenalin rushes. At 4 in the morning the wind came up and kept coming up until it was blowing 30 to 50 kms an hour. It was very unpleasant with the sea rising steeply and quickly but the anchor held. This wind and sea continued all morning and I found myself curled in a fetal position with my hands clinched, my stomach was tight and I had a great desire to be sick. Nevertheless, I checked the anchor every hour. The bow of the boat was going under the waves and so was the stern as the waves crashed over her. I had out all the chain and an anchor rope and still the boat was taking a pounding.

By late morning, the anchor alarm went off and I knew by the direction the Lady was heading at speed towards the island, that I had lost the anchor, chain and rope. The rope had sheared off at the boat. At full throttle I moved out into deeper water and let the wind and sea blow me down the bay. For 6 hours I fought the elements and then sought shelter at a marina on the other side of the bay. Coming in through the channel, I had only inches of water under me but enough to slip in as a yacht headed out of the marina. The skipper called out to me that he had heard my radio conversation, wished me well and said I was a lucky bloke. Well almost completely lucky, the prop had collected a crab pot rope as I entered the channel and the engine had stalled. But, praise the Lord, as I was blown ever so nicely onto the refueling dock at the marina and I stopped.

Deltaville and a big welcome

I needed a new anchor and chain and Tom Hale of Zimmerman Marine came to my rescue. Tom arranged for the new ground tackle and put the Lady onto a service berth. For the next two weeks, Deltaville, Virginia, once the shipbuilding heart of America, became my home.  The marinas have berths that are undercover and the marina decks have been turned into kitchens, bars and lounges. Boat owners sleep on their boats but spend much of the daysitting around on the deck, emptying their crab pots and in the evenings they get together to party.

The undercover marina in Deltaville

The lounge on the deck of the marina

The people of Virginia were most welcoming and generous. Tom lent me a car to travel the country and to discover Wal-Mart, a store that sells all you ever need for yourself, car, house and your sport, including rifles and lots of bullets. Jim, the owner of a beautiful motor boat, presented me with a colour television and a long cable to receive 96 cable stations, including one dedicated to showing you how to use your rifle to kill animals. The marina gave me a rigid inflatable dingy, albeit with a few holes, 17 in fact as it turned out. A little outboard was given to me and so, along with an electric air pump, I had a new freedom machine.

Joan and Jim presented me with a gift basket as a farewell

Deltaville is also the blue crab capital and regular feasts are held of hot fresh crab, straight from the steamer. The bar in this little town was Toby’s. To get there you took a side street, then turned off into a dirt road going through the woods and arrived to find a cluster of late model expensive cars and trucks parked outside what looked like a little house. It was a true American bar, with barmaids who, on your second visit, knew what you liked to drink and gave strong spirited drinks. The houses in Virginia were just like those in the movies, with the traditional steep pointed roofs, all sitting on large blocks of land, many edging the river. I expected to see Merrill Steep walk out a backdoor in her dressing gown.

Another hot crab feast with Diane, Jim and Nuala

July 4th, Independence Day, was celebrated in Deltaville. The main road was closed and the locals took to the street. Fire trucks, ambulances and the Sheriff lead the parade that included old men driving little go-carts performing hair raising manoeuvers up and down the street. That evening, a fireworks display was fired off from the ball park. The majority of the town’s people sat in the local cemetery between the headstones. Every big bang was hailed with resounding big cheers and clapping. I felt sure that some of the people sitting around me would have clapped at someone lighting up a cigarette.

The Parade

Old men doing silly things with little cars

The Sherriff and his deputy in Deltaville

Meeting the local of Chesapeake Bay

Nuala (Joanna Taylor) flew in from Australia and joined me in the military city of Norfolk to start our tour up the Chesapeake Bay, the Jersey Coast, New York and on to Maine. The weather in Deltaville was hot and humid so we headed north quickly and, after a farewell crab feast, we took to the shallow waters of the bay. Having sailed for years in Sydney Harbour, where depth is never a problem, sailing this bay is a challenge. You either stay in the shipping channels with some of the 10,000 large tankers and container ships that move at pace on their way to and from Baltimore each year, or you try to avoid crab pots just outside the channel. They are a constant danger, along with mud shoals, wrecks and strong currents in a bay that is some 300kms long and ranges from 5kms to 50kms wide. Travelling north required constant attention to navigation and manoeuvring the Lady around the hazards. On the plus side is the wildlife. Osprey eagles nest on the navigation poles, schools of small fish are a healthy food supply for the pelicans and Great Blue Herons which impress you with their catching ability. We visited the historic village of Irvington populated with elegant houses once the homes of governors, presidents and Civil War heroes. It is also famous for oyster pirates. If I was to be a pirate, I think I would rather plunder for gold than a handful of muddy oysters.

Osprey eagles nesting in the navigation lights

One night was stopped at Reedsville at the marina outside the Crazy Crab restaurant, yes, more crab cakes, soft shell crabs, oysters and crab meat. During a morning walk, we met Lee and Carole who lived in a stately home on millionaires’ road. They loaded us with fresh tomatoes, squash, garlic, and cucumbers straight from their vegetable garden, made us a traditional breakfast of grits, potato cakes, eggs, bacon and fried tomatoes and, as we left heavily laden, presented us with jars of homemade blackberry and marmalade jam. Southern hospitality is still alive and well in this part of the world.

Quality living in Reedsville, Virginia

In Annapolis we anchored in Crab Creek, no indeed, there is no getting away from crab in this part of the world. We were welcomed into the home of Marshall and Susan, friends of Robyn Kildey, my dear friend from Sydney who just happened to be in the States and joined us on the boat. Annapolis breathes history and charm with cobbled streets, tree lined brick sidewalks, colonial era buildings. It is the home of American sailing and the United States Naval Academy where the space capsule of Alan Sheppard, the first American to go into space, is housed in its museum. Sheppard did not have too much space in his little drum that hurtled into space for only a few minutes. Annapolis is also the home of a large Amish supermarket where men and women dressed in their traditional clothing supply the freshest of food. It was a bit of a treat to find genuine, fresh vegetables without the packaging the Americans are big on. You seem to buy more cardboard and plastic than the actual food item here.

A fun night with Nuala and Robyn

Early one the morning, at the top of Chesapeake Bay, we headed out into a thick fog, to travel through the 36 km C&D Canal, a major shipping route that links the bay with the Delaware River. With the tide it is a fast ride and the wash from a passing barge reverberated again and again from the canal banks, tossing the Lady around like a cork for minutes. The Delaware River is even shallower than the Bay so you stick to the edge of the busy shipping channel. Failure to do so will put you onto a mud bank within seconds, if not already tangled up with crab pots.

A barge travelling down the canal

The wash that resulted from the barge

By now we had sailed through the state of Maryland and into New Jersey, which you almost want to pronounce as if you were Tony in the television series, Soprano’s. Yes, there was a Tony’s Pizza just across the road from the classy marina in Cape May where we stayed for a couple of nights. To illustrate Americans’ love of the automobile, I noticed Tony made a pizza delivery, driving 20 yards across the road from the restaurant to the marina with a stack of wholesome, flat, greasy, cheesy delights. Having stopped at the odd marina on my travels, the Cape May marina took the cake. Each morning the daily newspaper and a bag containing fruit with candy were left in the cockpit of the boat.

At Cape May you park your boat in the back yard

Next stop was Atlantic City, staying at the Trump Marina on a Saturday night. Atlantic City is the city of Trump; his name is everywhere, emblazoned on the buildings. It is the home of gambling, a gambling paradise with all the bright lights and poor taste glamour you would expect. A huge, high rise building housing the Harrah Casino has a brilliant extravaganza of a light show at night so you can sit outside and be entertained with no need to bother going to waste money at one of the many casinos. The marina is huge, filled with large, expensive and very opulent looking powerboats, and it seems to spread for miles in all directions. You had to take a cut lunch just to get to the showers.

Trump is everywhere

High rollers catching sea weed

A few more stops up the Jersey coast and then we reach New York, with the opportunity to sail around the Statue of Liberty. This is living the American dream.

For 22 days I sailed 4,800kms nonstop, in a northwest direction, across the Atlantic Ocean, from Ascension Island to Trinidad and Tobago. It was the final leg of my journey from Cape Town in South Africa and the longest passage I have ever undertaken. The passage was demanding and made for an exhilarating challenge on many levels. This is your quick guide to:

• Living with yourself for three weeks and not seeing a ship for 2 weeks
• Building an impressive “Must Repair” list which pleased many trades people in the boat yard in Trinidad
• How to turn a mid-ocean celebration into a half a day of absolute violence.

A lot of ocean to sail

Leaving Ascension Island was an easy task. I picked up the anchor, pulled up the sails, sadly turned the Lady away from the island, set course for Trinidad and sailed off. The “and sailed” bit was a little like, “how do you eat an elephant?” Slowly. For the next 22 days, I laboriously chewed away at the 4,800 kms of ocean that lay ahead of me, determined to achieve my objective.

Within minutes of leaving, I was back into solo sailor mode and settled back into the daily 24 hour circle of life with my day being a continuum.

What you do in the daytime is exactly what you do in the night time. What you did yesterday, you will do again today and with a high probability of doing the same thing the following day. Once you work out the daily routine, life is very easy and being regimented helps to avoid the chance of making mistakes, and to spot potential problems.

Each day started with greeting the dawn. I then slept for several hours, had a hot shower, made breakfast and got on with my chores. During the afternoon I would read, write, sleep and cook a proper meal. In the evenings I slept, read, recorded my log, studied my passage plan and ate light meals. During the black hours before dawn, this routine was repeated.
A new day started with each new dawn. The rhythm of the routine was only broken by the one minute satellite phone call to Nuala every second day to give her my position and to receive a weather forecast for the following three days. At all hours I could listen to shortwave radio stations around the world and, if the reception was good, to BBC World.

My focus was to sail the Lady to the best of my ability and as fast as I could in the right direction. In light winds I was constantly trimming the sails and altering course to achieve the best possible speed. When the wind was strong and the seas were a decent size, I spent time managing the boat speed as I zoomed along. A lot of time is spent in the cockpit adjusting and altering the sails and playing with the 31 ropes that come into the cockpit.

Spending so much time alone, I had time to go on an inner journey that I had long wanted to do. I deliberately slowed my pace down, there is not a lot to do when sailing. The huge ocean allowed me to embrace my little world, whilst the constancy of the wind and water made it easy to feel at one with the endless sea that I was just passing through. It was an absolute pleasure to be on a spiritual journey, whilst sailing and living on a vast ocean.  My 2009 New Year’s resolution was to always make a positive statement about each person I encounter and every situation in which I find myself.

Day after day for two weeks, I saw neither ships, fishing boats nor any other vessels. I was alone, alone to think, pray, meditate, and to be.

Each day I looked forward to two formal prayer sessions. When I was in my twenties, I spent a number of years in a Catholic missionary religious order. I had learnt the practice of formal prayer and for the first time in my life, these practices made sense. At the start of each session I would read one of the messages that Shari on Ascension Island wrote for the community there. Reading them day after day, I acquired a feeling for the mood of such a small community.  Once a day I would pray for the people on my prayer list. That’s the Catholic in me, keep it formal. What a wonderful blessing it is to have time to think about people, remember times spent together and to pray for peace for them to face their own challenges.

A lot of time is spent in the bunk with the lee cloth to stop me falling out.

Day after day, sailing in good winds.

Dreams are ten a penny

Every time I went to sleep I always had dreams about being with people having a good time. At first, I would wake up and think that it was a stupid dream as I was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, thousands of kilometres from land in every direction.

The dream then progressed to where I would be explaining that I was unable to go on to the next party because I was sailing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I was lucky that I did have some lovely dreams. On one occasion Sophia Loren met me and invited me home for pasta and, just like Peter Sellers, I sang to her, “Doctor, I am in trouble, goodness gracious me”. In my dream I gave her some wimpy explanation of why I could not stay, “I will have trouble getting home as my boat just happens to be in the middle of the ocean.”

I soon tired of going to sleep, dreaming and waking up in a sweat. Unfortunately, the dream progressed. Again, at a social gathering as the party goers climbed into a car to head off to the next gathering, I would disappear and the people with me then realised I was just a spirit. I thought that was a far better ending.

Was I missing the social butterfly lifestyle of Ascension Island or contact with people? Whatever the reason, I was pleased when I reached land and the dreams stopped. Sophia, I am free now and I am on land. I love any form of pasta and I know the lyrics to the song.

Book reading

In lockers, up at the front of my Lady, is stored my collection of books which are all about solo sailors, shipwreck survivors, sailing, as well as boating manuals and the odd autobiography. For years I have been saving them up for exactly this occasion. The majority are secondhand books, whilst some are collectors items like an early copy of “Sailing Alone Around the World”, by Joshua Slocum, the first man to achieve this some 100 years ago. He came to Australia on his global sail, caught a large shark off Melbourne and then charged people to see it displayed in a tent on Port Phillip Bay.  He was a bit of an entrepreneur was our Joshua.

I have become a little book worm, reading almost one book a day. If a book bored me, I threw it over the side. One of the first books that learnt to swim breast stroke across the Atlantic was about a British gentlemen who left New Zealand to sail around Cape Horn at the bottom of South America. Right from the start, he complained about strong winds, huge seas and the constant storms he encountered sailing in the roaring forties and the furious fifties. I asked myself what would you expect when sailing down near Antarctica. His book was followed very soon after by an Australian voyager who described sailing the East Coast of Australia in a slow steel yacht he had built. He was even a bigger whinger. He sank into the Atlantic.

I read books of people undertaking extraordinary journeys but generally running away from someone. One bloke escaped from the Japanese in the Second World War by sailing from the Philippines to Australia in an open boat with five men, all of whom wanted to kill him. There was a story of 17 Estonians escaping the Russians by sailing a boat not much bigger than mine from Sweden to America in 173 days. I start having space issues when there is one other person on board.

Two books in particular gave me much enjoyment. One was, “West with the Night”, an autobiography by Beryl Markham, who, in 1936, was the first woman to fly from England to America. She was a very determined woman with some firm views. She has strong views on men and shaving, “A single day’s growth of beard makes a man look careless; two day’s, derelict; and four days’, polluted.” She was making this comment on two men who struggled out of the African jungle after barely surviving for four days.
The other autobiography I loved was by Surgeon Rear-Admiral John Muir, called “Messing About in Boats,” published in 1938. He related stories of various boats he owned and the journeys he undertook. I was amused by his very English pukka writing, “The little ship looked like a queen among a crowd of kitchen sluts” but he also talked about the challenge of being a lone sailor although he always seemed to have a full time paid crewman who lived on the boat and who seemed to do all the work. “I was so tired I hardly got to Rodney’s bunk to wake him and send him on deck and adjust the sail in this wretched wind and foul weather”.

What these two authors had in common is what they left out. By 1936 Beryl had been married twice and had a son but the spouses never got a mention in the books although the good Rear Admiral did dedicate his book to his wife but only a passing mention of her in the last chapter in the book when he was about to head off in a yacht race, “I went ashore to lunch and dismiss my wife.”

King Neptune honored and the sailor initiated by Mother Nature

Crossing the equator had become a significant milestone to me as not a lot happens to get excited over when at sea. Counting down the latitude to zero and positioning myself to cross the Intertropical Convergence Zone, or the Doldrums, which at its narrowest point is only about 240 kms wide, kept me occupied. I celebrated the crossing by pouring, at an appropriate moment, half a bottle of claret over my head. A celebratory shower followed but I did notice if the water went down the plughole in the opposite direction.

The Doldrums is a region which has the reputation of having long periods of no winds when you can drift for days, although the sailing guide did warn that I could experience particularly unpleasant violent squalls and raging thunderstorms.

On the first day north of the equator I was well pleased with the progress of the Lady across the doldrums. In the afternoon the wind dropped off and I motored until a light breeze from the north east appeared. I took this change in the wind direction as a good sign of more good winds to come. This breeze blew for a couple of hours and then dropped off. Without wind I motored. The scenario of a short sail followed by a period of motoring went on throughout the evening.

I went to bed and got up every hour to have a look around. I had been watching a tropical storm well to the south of me. The black clouds were illuminated by lighting bolts which stretched from horizon to horizon across the southern sky.  The wind was blowing from the north and large clouds were rolling south at speed. I went back to bed.

The sound from the spinning blades of the wind generator woke me and indicated the wind was blowing again. I swung out of the bunk ready to turn off the engine, set the sails and check conditions and swing back into my bunk.

As I clipped on the safety harness and climbed into the cockpit, a powerful blast of wind hit me from the opposite direction from where the wind had just been blowing. The power of the blast was as if someone had tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned around, hit me in the face with the back of a shovel.

Moments previously I had been in cruise mode, only half awake, enjoying the sail. Now I was waking up in a big hurry and looking at the instruments just to make sure that what I was experiencing was actually happening. I did think at the time that it was a little silly.

This tropical thunderstorm just lurched out of the darkness with a vengeance. I remember vividly the violence of each element of the storm - the wind, the lighting, the thunder, and the fast moving grey clouds across a black sky. They all fade into nothing when compared to my memory of the violent sea.  The wind was from the south and the sea was from the north. The wind forced the waves to stand up straight with the top of the wave curling and foaming. It would thrust itself forward, roll, roar and crash and another wave immediately followed.

I stood in the cockpit, water was draining away from the last wave that crashed into, and filled, the cockpit. My actions were instinctive. I pulled down the main sail, set up the boat so it faced into the wind, tied down the wheel, put in the wash boards to stop water pouring into the cabin and isolated myself in the cockpit from the storm. In my hand was a rope that when pulled, should have wound the headsail up around itself up the front of the boat. The furling system had jammed. I had pulled on this rope for long enough to know all was not good and the furler showed no intention of changing its mind.

The chart plotter showing the Lady crossing the Equator.

My pop idol poster for the King.

The claret offering to the King.

The head sail destroying itself.

Waves never look big in photographs!

Welcome to a reality program with only one contestant.

You have a very large sail flapping, and beating itself to death up the front of the boat and, as a result, the rigging is shaking violently and thus vibrating throughout the boat. The ropes connected to the sail are tangling themselves into tight balls and banging on the mast. The spinnaker pole is still in position swung off the mast, now banging, banging and banging with force. The challenge is to stop the destruction, stop the noise.

I grew up in Brisbane, Australia, where thunderstorms late on a hot steamy summer’s afternoon were the norm. They would build up, the wind would roar, there would be the usual lighting and thunder show and then they would blow past, off to entertain the other residents of Brisbane, many of whom by now would be under beds telling their ageing mothers on the phone about how scared they were.

I held the furling rope, waiting for the wind to drop off but that never happened. Option two was to pull down the sail. This involved crawling up to the base of the mast, letting off the rope holding the sail up the mast, then go to the bow and pull down the sail and tie it to the safety railing. I knew the plan was a big ask and had the smell of men going off to battle, not too confident of returning.

Dressed in only the safety harness, I crawled on my hands and knees towards the mast just as a wave broke over the boat and flung me to the deck. I hung on tightly with my feet pushing into a deck fitting.  The experience was just like being dumped in the surf. A wave breaks and picks you up and dumps you, rolling you over and over. One minute your head is jammed in the sand and then sand is jammed in your rear. You know the wave will exhaust itself and sooner or later your head will mercifully pop out of the water. While this is going on you are wishing for the washing machine ride to end. It wasn’t quite like that for me in this case, as one wave followed immediately upon another and I had to fight to stay flat on the deck with my shiny bare bottom being beaten by violent waves. It was at that moment I made up my mind and made the announcement that no sail wants to hear, “I am going to leave you to your doom, knowing you have saved me from challenging my demise.” I think you are obliged to make a profound, pithy statement during these life altering moments.

I clambered back into the cockpit, dropped down into the cabin, replacing the washboards behind me. Inside my capsule the strident sounds of the banging spinnaker pole, the flapping sail and the vibrating rigging were all amplified just as if I were locked inside a speaker box blasting out acid rock. Waves were crashing into the boat, bashing into the side of the boat, flinging me across the cabin along with anything else that was loose. One such wave flung the door of the oven open and out shot the laptop computer, the handheld marine radio and the handheld GPS, and they hurtled across the cabin. Watching the computer crash into the floor did not fill my heart with joy. I kept the electronic equipment in the oven as a means of protecting them from a lighting strike.  The oven forms a Faraday Cage, all very clever stuff worked out by people who must have had such fun blowing things up with big, blue zaps of lighting.

I pinned myself in the bunk, a bottle of water beside me, my body was wet and salty. I was sweating and my heart was racing. My eyes darted around the cabin and I tried to concentrate on considering my next action. Inside was dry, the lady was sitting nicely and the storm was raging. As I lay down on the bunk, I wished the storm and the boat well, happy to let them get on with the violence. I was slipping out of the party and prepared myself to sleep.  I spread my body as flat as I could in my bunk, breathed deeply, and tried to calm down. I examined every sound, identified what it was and then, in my mind, I put it to one side. I had mastered this process some time ago and it proved its worth this evening, although the sounds were pounding, thumping and driving into my head.

I slept for an hour or so and then got up and had a look around into the darkness and then packed myself back into the bunk. With dawn, the storm was just as violent. By mid morning nothing had changed except that I was quickly wearing out. The vibration, the crashing, the bashing and the sound of the flapping sail still whipping and cracking, had now all become torture. I grappled with my senses, tried to gain mental control but longed to escape into sleep.

I woke at midday and the violence had dropped off. I pinned myself into the corner of the bunk and considered the situation. I had a great desire to put on clothes. A little odd, I thought, as I was now going outside and would be wet in seconds and it was too hot for wet weather gear. Then I felt that there was a presence inside the cabin with me. I felt as if I was not alone. It felt good but not overwhelming. It felt peaceful but not joyous. The glow of the chart plotter seemed to be brighter than ever on this dull, gray day. Call it what you will and caused by whatever reason, this presence was welcomed and I gave sincere thanks.

Dressed in my Sunday best, I made my way up to the bow to take down a now, very dead sail, but still gamely flapping away. The wind and the seas were dropping quickly. I pulled down the sail, opened the front hatch cover and as I was pushing the sail down into the front cabin, well pleased with my achievement, a wave spotted me, expertly aimed for me and gleefully dumped 20 buckets of salt, grey water straight down the hatch; I just sat on the deck and laughed. “You win”.

The days of wine and roses

Perhaps an apt title to describe my life would have been, “days of red cordial and muesli”. Two days after the storm, I was lying on my back on the deck up the bow, looking at the top of the mast with a pair of binoculars. “Sorry Mr Barker, but the top of the sail furling system on the front stay at the top of the mast looks like it has been shaken to death.” Parts were missing or broken and later, when I took down the torn sail, I found a piece of the mechanism stuck in it. On the satellite phone I called a well credentialed rigger in Trinidad and, after a brief discussion, it was agreed that I should not sail the boat too hard but should put aside a healthy bundle of US dollars for the repair.

That night I went to make a cup of tea and discovered that 220 litres of fresh water had disappeared. Not a good omen. Luckily, I did have a 25 litre jug of water and a working desalinator. The next morning I stopped the boat, sucked 40 litres of salt water into a tub, added packets of Sweeto raspberry and blackberry cordial crystals and pumped the mixture into the water tank. I lifted up the flooring to see the plumbing and then turned on the water pump. Very quickly the cordial disappeared but the red water did not appear to be leaking out of any of the fittings or hoses. How do you lose 40 litres of salty cordial? Bemused, I climbed out into the cockpit and was struck by the smell of sugar toffee. I lifted the locker hatch and saw that the hot water system was dispensing red cordial into a bilge, separate to that of the main cabin. What was once a hot water system had now turned into a toffee maker. How sweet is that? Add a new hot water system to the shopping list.

The toilet became blocked. I noticed that I had written in my log for seven days, “Head US” i.e. the toilet is still blocked. After disconnecting a few pipes, I flicked the electric flushing system and the proverbial really did hit the fan. That day and the next day was spent cleaning and cleaning, using every drop of bleach, spray and wipe, pine scented disinfectant, floor cleaner and even a spare bottle of mouth wash. We shall leave the story there. I will refrain from detailing my subsequent personal ablutions. The film, “Slumdog Millionaire” now resonates with me.

The computer had stopped working all together but I was not surprised. The wind instruments stopped telling me when the wind blew over 30kms which is exactly when you want to know what’s going on. Then they stopped forever. The antenna on the emergency satellite beacon just dropped off and I didn’t even touch it - honest Mum. I had a spare ready. No one had heard me call them on the VHF radio since the storm although I could hear them. The repair list was building up nicely and the bundle of US dollars, destined to leave my wallet, was getting fatter by the day.

About the muesli. What could be an every day event was flying muesli, generally with milk and peaches included. After several instances of cleaning up wet, soggy cereal throughout the cabin, I resorted to preparing my daily mixture hunched over in the sink like a little boy protecting his lolly stash. I then ate the concoction, out of a screw top container, in the cockpit.

Raspberry cordial being pumped into the water tank, with the hope of finding the leak.

The celebration

On the twenty second day at sea I did my calculations early in the morning. I could either sail 200 kms to Trinidad or 90kms to Tobago. Tobago was looking good and I had heard much about the place. By mid afternoon I had the Lady anchored in Scarborough harbour, had visited immigration and customs and had purchased my first packet of potato chips in three weeks. It is odd what you crave when you have a lot of time to think, or, more correctly, no corner store to just run in to and pick up a small packet of crisps, vinegar of course.

Over the next three days I slept, rested, went ashore and bought fresh fruit and vegetables, ate local food from street vendors and then slept and slept. I spent an afternoon making a new paddle for the dinghy as I had lost one in the harbour which is about the size of a large bath tub. I even had a sleep during the construction process. From my moment of arrival, I had vacillated from feeling wound up like a top to feeling very tired. I was sleeping long and deeply but unfortunately there were no more Sophia dreams.

On the fourth day I abandoned my Sleeping Beauty role, pulled up the anchor and sailed around the island to Mount Irvine beach, the archetypal Hollywood movie, tropical beach scene, with white sands, sun bathers and swimmers, bars and restaurants right on the beach. I anchored off the beach and luxuriated in the setting.

That day, the celebration started. While trying to hail a taxi on the side of the road, a car with two women stopped and picked me up and dropped me off at my beach. These two friendly women also invited me to a “chill out”. When they collected me, the driver, Lisa, turned around to me in the back seat and said “We are not women for hire, we are not going to get you drunk and roll you, and we are here to get to know you. You look like an interesting person.” I thought thank goodness I am an interesting person. How lucky I am. Lisa continued, “Marilyn is my best friend and we stick together and we are not lesbians.” It still sounded pretty good to me.

To “chill out” entailed going to a beautiful beach on a warm summer’s evening with a light breeze, a moon and with two women dressed in their finery to eat, drink, tell stories, sing songs, dance and laugh. So dreams do come true for a solo sailor who has spent three weeks sailing towards a new part of the world wondering what these tropical islands will be like. It was great to be in the company of these two thirty year olds, Lisa from Jamaica, a mother of five and a singer of reggae music, and Marilyn, a mother of two, who works for the government.

The next afternoon I invited the ladies to come with me for a short sail to another beach, a first for both of the ladies. Neither had been in a little dinghy, so the three of us paddled out to the boat. As Lisa said, they stuck together. Every aspect of the afternoon’s sailing was fun. They agreed to have dinner on the boat and we headed off to the beach, the three of us again in the small dingy with complementary wet bottoms, to buy some fresh food at the market. Once ashore, Marilyn said she had never been so happy to step onto dry land and insisted we had dinner ashore as climbing onto the boat from a dingy was just too scary.

As we walked near the evening market, a group of young men gathered around Lisa, chatting excitedly to her. She was extremely courteous to each one of them, encouraging them to listen to her new song. I asked a young man standing at the back of the now swelling group, who this women was. “She is Lisa Dainjah, the reggae singer from Jamaica. She is famous, man, she is an international star”. Over dinner I asked her to tell me her story. She was in town to record a new single. How wonderful it was to meet such a generous, game person who was a lot of fun and great company and unconcerned about her fame. Marilyn reminded me that she had told me the previous night that Lisa was a good singer.

The next day I sailed for Trinidad and three days later the Lady was standing on the hard in a huge boatyard with hundreds of other yachts. In the airport departure lounge in Port-of-Spain early in the morning as I watched the rain belting down, a woman asked me if I was happy and sad that the journey had ended and I was going back to Australia. My response was that this journey was complete.

A celebration after 22 days at sea with a spicy tomato juice in Tobago. The sunken eyes tell the story.

Marilyn and Lisa out for the evening and a afternoon sail.

Marilyn

Lisa

The Lady being lifted out of the water.

Sitting in the boat yard with the sails about to be winched onto the deck.

The journey was complete

In October 2008 I returned to Cape Town and prepared the Lady to sail the 9,000kms up and across the South Atlantic Ocean to Trinidad and Tobago. I had spent some 42 days solo sailing and many more days living with people in Luderitz in Namibia, on the islands of St Helena and Ascension in the Southern Atlantic and in Trinidad and Tobago in the Caribbean, north of South America.

The journey was a mixture of the challenge of solo sailing, with time on land to discover where and how people live and happily enjoying their hospitality.

In April this year I will set sail from Trinidad to Florida, then up the Inland Coastal Waterway to New York and end the journey in September at the Canadian border.

Thank you for reading the blog and sending it on to friends. I very much appreciate your notes. Please send your notes to me at all@barkeraustralia.com.

Love to you
Peter Barker

After leaving St Helena I sailed north for six days to Ascension Island. Enjoy my adventures:

• The challenge of solo sailing
• Welcome to Ascension Islands where the donkeys are feral but friendly
• Meet the men and women who pull a community together.

Six days from Jamestown, St Helena to Ascension Island

The silly solo sailor

The joy of solo sailing is, in part, the physical and mental challenge one faces. I am happy to meet this challenge and most of the time I succeed but there is always the exception. Day 4, sailing 1,200kms from St Helena to Ascension Island was such a day.

At dawn, I went up to the bow to untangle a rope that I had incorrectly connected to the spinnaker pole late the day before. I had planned to wait for daylight to rectify my mistake. The wind was very light and the sea relatively calm. I rolled up the headsail and released one of the ropes holding the 4 metre aluminum spinnaker pole out at right angles to the boat over the water. I swung the pole in and was working with the ropes, when the boat lurched and the pole swung out of my hand. I grabbed the pole to pull it back, lost my balance and started heading, pole in hand, over the side of the boat with my weight pushing the pole further and further out over the water, whilst the rest of me was kicking and screaming. By now I was almost parallel to the water with my right leg tangled between two of the safety rail wires and my left leg dangling over the water with both my arms firmly wrapped around the pole. If the aluminum pole had been a person I would have shattered every one of his ribs.

With a reputation as a quick thinker, greatly enhanced by the pain in my right leg as my muscles and bones were being rearranged by the thin wire safety lines, a decision had to be made. I could either let go of the pole and fall head first into the water, upside down on the outside of the boat while being dragged along attached to my safety harness with the right leg held firmly in the safety rails and then be forever after known as Jake the Peg; or, the alternative was to drag my leg out of the safety wires and dangle over the water and try to swing myself back in. The later looked a good option. Still hugging the pole with a true love embrace, I extracted the right leg, put my left leg on one of the ropes, pushed down hard to force the pole to swing back into the boat and I stepped casually back onto the deck. The safety lines are the wires on small poles that go around the edge of the boat to stop you falling overboard. They worked exceptionally well this time.

I sat on the deck and abused myself, rubbing my leg as the spinnaker pole swung happily about. Lesson 27 in spinnaker pole workmanship; drop the pole onto the deck so it has nowhere to swing. With every part of me racing, pounding and aching, I took to my bunk and felt sorry for myself.

Late in the afternoon I was again adjusting the sails for the hundredth time, but on this occasion from the safety of the cockpit. I found myself shouting abuse at the sails at the top of my voice. I had had enough of these light winds I had experienced since leaving St Helena. For the last four days and nights I had been constantly up and down from the cabin into the cockpit like a yoyo every time the off-course alarm sounded or the sails started flapping. The light winds were swinging around from the north east to south. This meant adjusting the sails and altering course. It is okay if you have no wind because you just drift but if you have a little wind you want to keep the boat going forward and you must trim the sails accordingly.

After this latest adjustment, I went below and returned to the book I was reading, “Salt beneath the skin”, stories of Kiwi sailors such as Sir Peter Blake, Dr David Lewis and New Zealand’s famous American Cup skippers, Grant Dalton and Russell Coutts. I found the book open on the title page with an inscription from Christine my late wife who had given me the book for Christmas ten years earlier. My thoughts went immediately to a perfect Christmas day we spent with her parents and her sisters and their families in New Zealand. The day started with Bill, my father-in-law handing me a scotch, “This will help with the children”. The lunch was the Christmas feast with the exotic turkey stuffing and gravies, much wine and laughter.  Then the mandatory sleep after lunch and the cricket game on the road in the early evening.

Looking at her writing, I burst out crying, almost uncontrollably and I could not stop weeping buckets. Sitting on the floor as a blubbering wreck not crying for the loss of Christine, I had done plenty of that in the aftermath of her death, instead, I realised that my tears were a clear sign that I was overtired and was losing control of my mental state. This is one of my greatest fears when alone at sea, for when you get tired you start to do silly things that are often not good for you or your boat. After this morning’s incident and a few other little things, like putting the fresh coffee grounds into the coffee plunger and then throwing them out, were now starting to make sense.

Four days of constantly trying to keep the boat heading for Ascension Island had taken its toll and I was not getting enough sleep. As a result, I went on deck, pulled down the sails, turned on the navigation lights, had a stiff scotch, climbed into my bunk and slept for four hours straight as the boat drifted. When I awoke, a nice little constant breeze had set in. I pulled up the sails, made coffee in the correct order, knocked out a batch of savoury pancakes and spent the rest of the night reading the book, doing the normal checks and sleeping. Life was then back to normal, that is “wonderful”.

Spinnaker pole - ideal for horizontal pole dancing

Ascension Island

It took six days to reach Ascension Island and on the last day the reluctant winds decided to put on a great show. A strong, consistent breeze was shooting me towards the island. Unfortunately it came a little late as I had calculated that I would have to slow the boat down all afternoon and through the night so as not to arrive at the island in the middle of the night. It was around three in the morning when I first saw the island standing out like a giant Christmas tree. Red lights were running up and down huge aerials, other military and communication structures were lit up with yellow and white lights, included the revolving white and green light on top of the control tower at the United States Air Force Base.

As I drew parallel with the island, a huge black jet aircraft came out of the black sky and flew direction over the boat, low, ready for touchdown. I thought the world was about to end. At first light I started to see this island as a volcano sticking out of the water. Everywhere was communication equipment, grey towers of varying design, satellite dishes by the score and giant golf balls housing more equipment. The surrounding country was stark with cone shaped hills covered in brown volcanic rock with no vegetation. Inland you could see Green Mountain, named for obvious reasons.

Ascension Island is a communication hub for the United States Air Force, RAF, Cable and Wireless and the BBC. The 1,000 residents are there to work for one of these organisations or for the Ascension Island Government. There are no indigenous people on this island and the majority of the residents are the friendly, warm, welcoming and generous Saints, people from St Helena.

I anchored in the open sea off a surf beach next to the island’s administration centre of George Town. After a decent sleep, I pumped up the dingy, mounted the outboard motor and surveyed the 1km route to the wharf. A stiff breeze was coming down off the hills and blowing across the 3 metre sea swell coming in the other direction. Rough, bumpy, wet and a little scary would be a fair description of how I anticipated the trip, although I was well prepared for the journey. Clothed in wet weather gear and wearing the life jacket, I strapped into the little dingy spare fuel, oars, anchor, torch, a bottle of water and a bailer. In my water proof pack I had my portable marine radio.

Arriving at the pier head or wharf I discovered the landing spot was a small rock outcrop with ropes hanging down into the water. I decided to employ a similar approach to the one I used in St Helena. You wait alongside the wall for the sea swell to rise up, grab the rope and pull yourself onto the ledge. Compared to St Helena’s wharf, this was a thrill ride for grownups and a thousand times more dangerous. While removing my wet weather gear I asked a local where would be a safe place to leave my clothing. “Oh just hang them on that wall, nobody will take them.” This island is one of those places where they do not have any crime, doors and windows to houses are left open and people leave their keys in their cars.  They do close their gates as friendly feral donkeys and sheep wander around the town. Goodness knows what they eat as there is no vegetation that I could see.

After visiting the police to clear immigration, complete all the formalities and pay the fees with Port Control, I was re-dressing for the return adventure to the boat when three blokes who had been skin-diving presented me with a huge piece of Yellowfin Tuna.  It could not have been any fresher. Providing much amusement to my new friends, I swung back into the dingy and just sat down when a wave joined me and swamped the boat completely.  Bailing commenced and the three lads lent a hand. Now the outboard was upside down in the water and was not going to start. “Don’t worry we will organise to get you back to your boat so come and have a drink with us at the club”. What a sterling idea.

After a few drinks with a group of firemen from the air force base, I returned to the wharf, and, as a good as their word, Tim was waiting for me in a US Air Force boat ready to take me and my dingy back to the Lady. I climbed aboard a famous Boston Whaler which is a cross between a large speed boat and a barge with two large outboards handing off the back. I knew of these boats and of their reputation as being strong and sea safe.

Some years ago I had read with great interest a full page advertisement on these boats in an American boating magazine. It was made up of a series of photographs which I found amusing and to which I had added my own response. Scene 1 was the boat upside down with a huge army truck driving over the top of it. “Truck drivers are known to do this.” Scene 2 was a goose spraying holes in the boat with an army rifle. “Sorry Sarge, the crew is dead but the Boston Whaler still floats.”  Scene 3 and the goose’s mate is cutting the boat in half with a chain saw. Floating in the front half of the boat is a bloke in army gear with his hands in the air and a look of confidence. “Sorry Sarge, we have had a bit of a chain saw massacre but Boston Whaler and I are still floating.” Scene 4, and my favorite, is that killing machine, the goose with a rocket grenade launcher on his shoulder putting a gaping hole in the boat. “Sorry Sarge, the crew are now the size of fish food but, you guessed it, the Boston Whaler lives on.”

My little dingy next to the landing

Communication equipment festoons the island

The Anglican Church and the cricket oval

Friendly feral donkeys

Ascension Island and volcanic rock a plenty; My little dingy next to the landing; Communication equipment festoons the island: Friendly feral donkeys; The Anglican Church and the cricket oval.

The social Christmas butterfly

Friday night was happy hour at the Volcano Club on the US base. Beers from all over the states were fifty cents each. After handing over an English pound, American dollars were given as change. I guess we were in a little part of the USA. What took my eye, and those of Georgie and Kevin from the Canadian yacht, were the bar snacks they had on display. It had been some time since we had come across such fresh, good looking vegetables that were arranged around the dips. Forgetting the beers and the dips, we settled for a few plates of veggies. Each week a cargo aircraft brings in fresh food directly from the States.

In the crowd were some of the fireman I had met earlier in the day, including one of their fire chiefs, Mark Greentree, a big man in his forties with an easy smile and a welcoming manner that I had come to expect from the people of St Helena. He took me aside and said, “Peter, I know you are going to spend Christmas on your own at sea. Would you like to spend Christmas with us, there will be lots of parties and I will look after you? I will put on lunch for you on Sunday and we can talk about it.” And he meant it.

Sunday morning I went to the Anglican Mass and, while the priest was speaking about Mary and Joseph heading off to find a budget stable, the feral donkeys outside raised their voices dead on cue. How do the Anglicans do that? Waiting outside the church with the donkeys were Georgie and Kevin with Mark in his big, double cabin, left-hand-drive, pickup truck ready to go to Worm’s place for lunch. The Saints are big on nicknames but for a man who has been called worm from birth I thought his nickname was hard on him.

Over lunch, in Worm’s backyard in the settlement called Two Boats, Mark outlined the Christmas festivities he had arranged for us.

Two days before Christmas was the dress up party at the RAF base mess. The British put on a swish evening with the women arriving in their evening party dresses and there was lots of dancing and good food. Mark took me to meet and greet the people he thought I should know on the island.

Christmas Eve started with a fish fry, or BBQ lunch, with the people from the Ascension Island Government. Tuna, eel, bulls eye and groper fish were among the offerings. In the afternoon, the community gathered in the town square for the arrival of the Christmas floats which had paraded around the island, led by the police car with lights and siren. The police chief told me that sounding the siren was an annual event on this island and he was pleased to hear that it still worked after a year of remaining silent.

The evening commenced with dinner and dancing to country music at the Saints club where we were joined by a bus load of people dressed as clowns, exactly what you would expect to see on Christmas Eve. It was the US base’s turn for a Christmas party and they had turned a large hanger into a party room. The food was outstanding, especially the finger food, fresh from the States of course.

Halfway through the evening, the smoke machine, laser lights and the bubble machine with the whirling light display, overloaded the electrical circuit, the lights went out and the music stopped. Mark casually turned to one of the fireman, “Mario would you be kind enough to help them out. They will spend hours trying to find the switchboard and the party will go cold. As you know, the switchboard is on the left hand side wall of the first room on the right as you enter this building. The breaker will be one of those along the bottom of the switchboard.”  Mario went off to save the night and Mark, without missing a beat, returned to the conversation at our table. Firemen know these things.

On Christmas morning Mark arrived with presents and said he had arranged for us to have lunch at his friends, Angie and Martin’s home as he was on duty. We attended a feast of turkey, chicken and ham, with all the Christmas trimmings, with a lot of festive fun and laughter.  That evening, a Christmas evening party was held on the US base at their beach hut  - one of those half round buildings built during the Second World War - for all of the people without families The food, as we had come to expect, was first class American party food.

On Boxing Day I rafted up the Lady to the Canadian boat, South Moon and we put on lunch for Mark and entertained some of the firemen later in the day. That evening I slept.

The last party was a farewell party organised by Mark for his friends returning to Scotland. This was a party for mostly the older people and they ranged from the island’s Chief Executive, a career British diplomat, to the heads of the various armed services. There was lots of dancing to music we all knew and could remember; speeches that had been well thought out were presented with flair, there were farewell banners and splendid food.

I got to know many people because, as you would expect in such a small community, you meet the same people at every party. These people know how to party and have fun with no agro or drunken carry on and they regarded anyone as a party pooper who left before three in the morning. I then would meet these people as I wandered around the almost deserted streets of George Town.

Shari

I met Shari, a Canadian who was the Catholic Church representative on the island. Every Sunday night she holds a Communion service in the grotto build by the American troops in the Second World War. On one hot, humid Sunday night there was only me as the congregation. However, it is far better celebrating through ceremony with others than it is on your own.

Malcolm

Malcolm, the younger brother of Mark was also a fireman. He had built his own boats and loved playing around with outboard engines. I gave him my little outboard engine as a Christmas present as I had lost faith in its reliability because bobbing up and down at sea in a little dingy with an engine that might or might not start again as you drift out to sea seemed to me a good enough reason.

Jo

Patsy and Alex

Jo had been a ship’s officer in the British Merchant Navy for 13 years, reaching the rank of First Officer. She had such a beautiful smile as did Patsy, a nurse at the eight bed hospital which is staffed around the clock but with no patients booked in. I went to the hospital as I was leaving the island and found her in her crisp nurse’s outfit, in the middle of an empty ward, cutting the hair of Alex, one of the doctors.

Mark

And there was Mark. He is a man with a kind heart, willing to welcome and care for you and open enough to allow you to learn of the man. In another life, Mark would be a great success managing a people-based business. He is a bloke with great ability.

Celebrating Christmas with Kevin and Georgie from the Canadian boat South Moon with Mark in the front seat

Meet Worm

The ladies looked glamorous at the RAF Mess party

Christmas float

Smiles tell of a fun time

Smiles tell of a fun time

Christmas lunch with Bill, Martin and Angie

Mark and Kevin on the Lady

The smiles of Martin with Louise from Scotland, and Ben and Rose from Adelaide now working on the Falkland Islands

A new direction

In the blackness of the night I sat on a sand dune watching a 1.5 metre green turtle dig a pit to lay her eggs alongside others on this bomb-cratered beach. She has swum 3,000kms across the Atlantic Ocean from Brazil. My plans to visit Brazil have been abandoned as I spent more time than I anticipated at each port on the crossing from Africa. I am now preparing for a 30 day, non-stop passage to Trinidad and Tobago, some 4,800 kms to the north west of the Atlantic Ocean.

Full details when next we meet. Thank you for reading - send me an email to all@barkeraustralia.com.

I am still having the time of my life.

Love
Peter

Thanks to my land based crew of Nuala, Ingrid and Maurice and to my supporters:

• Medical Industries Australia for an extensive offshore medical kit
• JSE Marine Electrical for extensive spare parts and tools
• Endeavour Marine for spare parts for the Volvo Penta engine.

December 2008

This is the story of sailing across the Atlantic Ocean from Africa to the little island of St Helena with details of:

• The passage
• The island and its people
• Its history
• The Christmas spirit

A pleasant passage

It is always hard leaving port but I found it especially hard sailing away from Luderitz after spending time with my Namibian family. I had planned to leave on the weekend but Customs and Immigration were closed. On the Monday the furious southerly winds had dropped off only to be replaced by a northerly that would have blown me back to Cape Town.

Tuesday morning I was feeling lousy and my little red bucket was called into action. I went ashore and spent the day sleeping at the Metzger’s household with the local doctor visiting me armed with a bundle of drugs that kicked in quickly. It was just a local bug that laid me low. I went back to the boat on Wednesday and slept all day and night and, of course, I was feeling sorry for myself. You know what men are like when they get ill, they think they are going to die, but I had no intention of going to sea knowing that I am always sea sick for the first few days. The combination would be too much to bear.

Eventually, on Thursday afternoon I headed out to sea in a light breeze with a send off from the accompanying dolphins and seals on the start of my 2,200km passage to St Helena. After only travelling about 100kms, the wind deserted me and for 4 days I drifted.

Day after day, drifting with no wind

With no moon, every night sky was a stunning display of stars. Venus and Jupiter were so close and so bright that their light shone on the tranquil sea. My son Daniel had given me a star guide so I spent nights lying on my back on the deck holding this clever little star chart above me learning to recognize star clusters and constellations. In the daytime I was alone with thousands upon thousands of Portuguese man-of-war or blue bottles on their way to inflict great pain on little children playing in the sea on coastal beaches.

The ocean appeared barren, apart from a pod of dolphins that had formed a circle and were having a feeding frenzy. They hardly noticed me as I drifted by. A couple of misguided flying fish leapt onto the boat every night but I did not see any sea birds except for one evening, when a little bird appeared in the cabin still trying to fly but obviously exhausted. I made a nest for her out of tea towels and she slept next to me on the floor till morning. I had one of those horrible visions. Did her arrival carry a special message or was she sent to temp or test me. You read stories about the little bird that appears on the ledge of the jail cell window to help the prisoner see the wrongs of his ways.

My overnight friend

Early in the morning I took her out into the cockpit where she continued to sleep. I sat watching over her as I nursed my morning coffee, considering how I was going to feed her, perhaps pumping an energy drink down her throat with the aid of a syringe. She woke up and started walking and bouncing around. My heart leapt with joy, she going to be alright. I took her in my hands and carefully placed her on the edge of the cockpit. “Oh fly little one, fly.” She took two steps, fell into the water and drowned.

TV mounted at the bottom of my bunk

Day 6 and a true disaster struck. The DVD player stopped working. I was halfway through my Atlantic Ocean French Film Festival when the machine started played bits and pieces, would get stuck and eventually just stopped loading the disk. I cleaned the head just as the Japanese women said to do on the head cleaning disk. No improvement. Then I discovered the laptop would also not play movies. What was wrong I asked myself? I had banned all movies with Gerard Depardieu, that big French actor who always seems to play Gerard Depardieu. It was originally a European Film Festival but I had to scrap the Italian movies as the dialogue was too fast and lengthy and about so little that I could hardly keep up with the subtitles. Although I must say, the Italian movies all seem to have a gorgeous woman whizzing about on a back of Vespa driven by some young Italian twit intent on getting her back to his place as quickly as he can for the next steamy love scene. That explains why Italians are such manic drivers.

Chart plotter

Crossing the dateline, as seen on the chart plotter. Dateline (l to r) my position, note 000 west, the course I am steering and the boat speed, local time, direction of the wind and wind speed. Chart: little red system top left is St Helene. The rule shows the distance from Africa. Red and green lines show were I am going, black little boat is me, blue arrow the direction and strength of the current, yellow line the strength and direction of the wind. Snake black line, my current track that I have travelled.

While at sea I listen to short wave radio and the marine channels. The marine radio operator at Walvis Bay in Namibia, when closing for the night always said, “Have a good evening, good fishing and may God bless you and care for you.” I expect those men on the fishing trawlers were all saying, “Amen brother”. On the Voice of America, there is an announcer called Uncle Ted who has lots of little saying like, “Here is the news that you and your family can use.” On the Voice of the Islamic Republic of Iran, the female English announcer had a slight American accent. Now figure that one out!

Ten days of bum fluff growth... an embarrassment!

After ten days of slow but very pleasant sailing with the south east Trade winds, St Helena rose out of the sea. I was greeted by sheer, barren cliffs intersected by deep valleys. It was as if you are looking at the top part of a mountain which is exactly what the island is, an extinct volcano that rises up some 3,600 metres from the sea floor with the highest peak of 800 metres.

St Helena

Having not spoken to another person other than my daily one minute satellite phone call to Nuala to give my position and collect the latest weather forecast, my first radio contact was with the marine radio station on the island. I was answered by a woman with a creamy, bright voice. I was so impressed and wanted to chat for hours. Unfortunately she didn’t. Perhaps I had been listening to my own voice for too long.

I anchored the Lady off Jamestown that is on the side of the island out of the trade winds, in deep water but still in the sea swell. The swell makes for an interesting experience when going ashore in your dingy or on the little ferry. Ropes hang down from wharf and you wait for the swell to rise up, grab the rope and pull yourself up before the swell drops and your dingy is then several feet below you. Get the sequence wrong and you end up dangling on the side of concrete wall.

How to come ashore using ropes

The Island

St Helena is 16kms long and 9kms wide with a barren coast line. Inland, the country is mountainous with bush and semi tropical vegetation in abundance. Forests of Gum trees line the steep ridges and acres of New Zealand flax plants grow on the lush green hill sides. Jamestown, the CBD of the island, lies in a valley between steep, bare rocky hillsides with single lane roads crawling up the sides. Rock falls are common and recently the Baptist Church got hammered. Now was that a sign from above? However the church building did protect the children playing in the school grounds across the road.

Jamestown in the valley

Main Street

Lush hinterland

Only some 4,000 Saints, as they call themselves, live throughout the island with houses facing the sea. Many are descendants from slaves transported by the British or slaves captured from other slave ships carrying people from Madagascar, Indonesia, Indian, Malaysia, West Africa and China. As you can imagine, with that type of cultural and ethnic mix, the Saints are a distinctive looking people with their own culture, food and language. I had to really listen to understand their delightful take on the Queen’s English.

They are the nicest people you could ever wish to meet. When I first arrived, I walked from the wharf to the town centre and every person I passed greeted me. Some wanted to talk and were genuinely interested in knowing how long I was going to stay and where I was from. They are an unhurried lot who constantly greet each other and wave at passing cars. Drivers seem to keep a couple of fingers permanently in the air to greet their fellow saints.

With the wharfies

When the ship was in you had to wear a brain bucket on the wharf. These two gentlemen were always up for a chat although I never sure what they actually did.

A middle aged man bailed me up in the street and asked if I was from Bowtie Lady. He was Bruce Salt, a keen ham radio operator who had his own ship identification system and saw me approaching the island the day before. He even knew my radio call sign. I asked him how he recognized me and he said I stood out like a sore thumb. The reality is that you can only appear on the island by sailing there or by arriving on the Royal Mail Ship St Helena, a 340 foot vessel that carries 128 passengers with 65 crew and 2,500 tons of cargo and visits every couple of weeks. St Helena has no airstrip, although they would like one, and every item and person has to come by ship.

Early one morning the ship, RMS St Helena, dropped anchor a couple of hundred metres out to sea and the wharf came alive. Every passenger, wearing a life jacket, has to disembark from the ship and board a little boat to come ashore or be lifted off in a cage, then into a barge. Barges, some being pulled by 50 year beautiful looking little tugs, take containers, cars, machinery, cement and building material to the wharf and these goods are lifted off by cranes.

RMS St Helena anchored off the island - Bowtie Lady on the right hand side

The cage to lift people who can’t climb onto the little boats

Cars & building material being taken to shore

Not always calm seas

The wharf buzzed with people waiting for family and friends returning for Christmas. The customs officers, a friendly bunch of women, along with police sniffer dogs, spend days handling people and cargo. The Saints were hanging out for onions and potatoes as the island’s stores had run out and the other fresh fruit and vegetable were snapped the instant they appeared in the shops. Because of the shipping charges, all good are expensive. I paid AU$4.00 for a litre of diesel and almost the same price for a can of beer.

Waiting for friends

Steeped in history

The island is a British Overseas Territory and very British, you can buy Tesco products in the shops. The Portuguese found the island some 500 years ago and named after a Miss, now Saint, Helena, an innkeeper from Turkey who had a son with the Roman Emperor Constantine around 250AD. Her claim to fame was that at the age of 75 she made a pilgrimage to Palestine and built churches on the holy sites. In retrospect, perhaps not a good move. I always though a person had to perform a few miracles to become a saint. Perhaps it was a miracle that the church managed to squeeze money out of an innkeeper.

Many a battle was fought in the harbour where I was anchored and numerous ships rest on the bottom, along with a bundle of cannon balls. The last ship to be sunk there was a British freighter in World War Two that was torpedoed by a German submarine. Even today, parts of a boiler still jut out of the water from another ship that caught fire and sunk in the harbour. I am sure St Helena can lay claim to fame as the place having the most number of cannons per head of population. Cannons poke out of the castle, gun batteries, stone fortifications and forts. Cannons are at the entrance to any building of significance. Cannons can be found propping up a farm shed and one is even a fence post.

Bowtie Lady anchored just off a gun post

A cannon looking over the harbour

Cannon balls

The British were big on shooting the baddies and thousands of soldiers were stationed on St Helena, especially when Napoleon Bonaparte the French Emperor was incarcerated on the island in 1815 after his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo. Incarceration was a full time job for the Saints. In 1900, six thousand Boer POWs sat out the South African Boer war on the island. You would not think that there would have been many Boers left to fight the British and the Australians. Dinizulu, the Zulu leader, had to call St Helena home for 7 years before the British allowed him to return to his people in South Africa. One prisoner who didn’t hang around was Captain Merk, a Dutchman jailed for transporting marijuana from India to Europe. He escaped in 1990 and sailed a makeshift dingy 3,600 kms across the Atlantic Ocean to freedom.

A painting of Napoleon’s last moments (Photo courtesy of St Helena Museum)

Today the jail is a peaceful place. I met a Fred, a jailer, early one morning. He was bored and waiting for sunrise. They have only 3 prisoners who are looked after by some 20 prison guards. A sign on the outside back door of the prison took my fancy. It warned that people who entered the correctional rehabilitation centre via the back door would be dealt with in an appropriate manner. One wonders how many people want to sneak into a prison using the back or the front door.

There are some interesting Saints. I spent time with two of the island’s entrepreneurs, Paul and Sally, who run a video store, a sandwich shop, computer and printing businesses, a gaming machine and pool table hire service. They have also built their own distillery making and exporting a variety of rums made from prickly pears. The rum bottles are in the shape of steps that emulate Jacob’s ladder that climbs 699 steps up the side of a mountain on the side of Jamestown. If you climb it, you are awarded with a certificate. Now there is an achievement to add to your own wall of fame.

Paul next to his still

Sally presenting me with a Christmas present

Rum bottles

Jacobs ladder at dusk

Then there is Jocey, no, a bloke, who runs the wharf. He is a big, gentle man who has an outstanding collection of photographs of all the ships that had visited the island in the last 20 years. I also met Anne, a warm and welcoming woman, who is regarded by the world sailing community as a legend. Anne runs Anne’s Place, an open air restaurant in the town’s gardens. She has cared for sailors for the last thirty years and has recorded, in numerous books, messages from those whom she has fed, done their laundry and generally looked after. She raised seven children, all of whom are now very much part of the community.

Jocey

Many businesses are called by the person’s first name - Sally’s place, Victoria’s store, Donny’s Place, Warren’s, a general store, Ardee’s clothing and Jacob’s, a little corner store. Saints also have their first names on their car’s number plate. There some 2,000 registered cars on the island so being able to recognize yours by your name if you forget the 4 numbers is very useful. Phone numbers are made up with 4 numbers.

Bruce, the ham radio man, took me on a tour of the island. I saw where Napoleon spent his first night ashore, then drove up Napoleon street to where he spent the next couple of weeks and then to the estate where he lived for the last six years of his life and finally we visited Napoleon’s tomb. He no longer lies there as his body was taken back to France in 1850. We looked at the old flax mills where 300 to 400 people worked a 50 hour a week for low wages, processing fiber for ropes, string, twine, mats and sandal soles. We also passed two large rocky outcrops called Lot and Lot’s wife. From my reading of the bible, I can never remember his wife ever having a first name. I always thought this was grossly unfair seeing that she made Mr Lot a fortune when she turned to salt, a prized commodity in those days. From now on, she will be known to me as Cheryl Lot, the salty lady.

On tour with Bruce Salt

Locals stop for a chat... no rush!

Flax fiber workers (Photo courtesy of St Helena Museum)

Perhaps the highlight of the tour was meeting the island’s best known resident, Jonathan, the world’s oldest living animal. At 176 years old, the giant tortoise lives on the front lawn of the Governor’s residence. According to the local newspaper, the Governor, Andrew Gurr, was quoted as saying “He does not say much, he only grunts when he is mating with the three younger females.” The Director of the Nation Trust added, “It would be terrible if his famous groaning is due to arthritis and nothing else.” For Georgie, a Poologist off a Canadian yacht, South Moon, her interest in Jonathan was the size, texture and type of his poos. It was lovely to see so many people take such a keen interest in the tortoise’s welfare and habits. I liked Georgie’s smile.

Jonathan the tortoise

There are no mobile phones on the island but there are lots of phone boxes. If you want one of the four taxis, you ring the phone box next to the rank. The island does have two radio stations. The popular one is truly a community station - for the people, by the people and about the people. They have announcements about when the ship is coming in, when the mail closes and, “The gym will not be open tonight as Carol is ill.” Or, “The police station is closed due to a flea infestation.” It is what you want to hear if you are a local. The station goes out and records the children’s Christmas plays and concerts for replay later. They broadcast announcements by the governor, have discussions about local politics and present the thought for the day from a local Church goer.

The locals love the old time, depressing country and western music. You know those songs about how she left me, took the truck, ran over my dog on the way out, and, I am sorry I did you wrong and pour me another drink. My favorite was the Christmas song “Daddy, please don’t get drunk this Christmas”. That sort of music gives the festive season a new meaning. They have the BBC world news and a local news bulletin. If you miss the local news you can hear it repeated throughout the day and often the next morning you hear the same news as last night except the word “today” has been replaced with the word “yesterday”. I am sure it is hard to get news in a small place, often not a lot happens. Upon my arrival there was a news story on the yachts that had just anchored, mind you, it did come after the story on the repainting of white lines on the roads in James Town.

I met the station manager of Radio St Helena, Garry Walters, an Englishman married to Cherry, a local lady with three beautiful girls. They were kind enough to invite me to dinner at their home where we shared a tasty curry dinner and later the girls festooned the Christmas tree with decorations. The next night I was a guest on his jazz program and yes, Barry Morris’s song “My Bowtie Lady” received international air play. It was a lot of fun to be behind the microphone and in the morning, locals I met in the street gave glowing comments on the song. I was the envy of my fellow yachties, none of whom had their own song other than one with a silly dirty ditty.

The Walter girls - Emma, Cherry, Helena and Jody

Gary Walters in the Radio St Helena’s studio

Christmas is coming

On Sunday I went to the oldest Anglican Church in the Southern Hemisphere. It dates back to 1774. A as boy I remember my mother proudly telling me that the new shopping centre near where I lived was the biggest one in the Southern Hemisphere. Even then I thought, looking at the countries that make up the southern part of the world, you would not have too much competition.

A fine Catholic Church stood near the packed out Baptist Church but unfortunately it had no priest. The last chap arrived with so much booze he had to pay 500 pounds in duty. Apparently the weather was not good for his chest so he left shortly after he arrived with, what is believed, a much depleted liquor supply. In this part of the world it is not that unusual for the clergy to leave the island. It is recorded on the island that over a 20 year period some 11 Anglican priests were asked to leave because of their fondness for the other form of spirit.

Arriving at the church I was invited to join the choir. I felt quite chuffed and I did like the outfit but in a choir of four people a fifth person miming would have been a dead give away. It was a high mass with lots of singing accompanied by an old gentlemen dressed in an alter boy’s outfit swinging an incense ball and constantly topping it when ever the congregation stopped coughing. I took part in the baptizing of Aisha Skye, the first November baby to be born on the island. That evening I returned to the church for the Guides and Scouts Christmas Carols, followed by cups of tea and lashing of home made cakes, jam drops and biscuits served after the service.

With the just baptized Aisha Skye

Christmas celebrations were in full swing. On the Friday evening in Mule Park -the mules and donkeys were kept there - the Ladies Orchestra put on an evening of music and singing. It was an excellent evening with Santa arriving, escorted by the police. The best part was experiencing these Saints who live in a real community where family, their neighbors and celebration are important.

Ladies orchestra

Santa - I just love the little girl looking up at Santa and the little boy checking what is under that coat

Living in such a small community you can not get away with even a silent fart. On my way to check out with Customs, Immigration and the Port Authority, the locals started saying good bye to me. The news of my departure beat me up the main street. My Lady has attempted to leave the island without me a few days earlier. She was happily dragging the anchor out to sea when one of the yachts called me on my portable radio complaining that I was leaving without saying goodbye. The anchor had wrapped itself around a truck tyre and was sliding along the sea bed at a decent rate. A quick dash to get the anchor up, remove the offending tyre and return to the harbour was only achieved with the aid of Kevin, the skipper of the Canadian boat, running around in his inflatable dingy.

Bowtie Lady

The Lady and I are now sailing for Ascension Island, some 1200 kms north west of St Helena and the yacht’s performance in light winds has made up for her recent uncalled for behavior. I expect to be at the island for Christmas and I have decided to then sail directly to Trinidad and Tobago on the longest non-stop journey that I have ever undertaken. I expect the 4,800km journey will take at least a month based on the winds that I can expect and having to sail through the doldrums - as the name implies, there is very little wind for days. Oh, I love a challenge.

Thanks for reading my story and please pass the story on to your friends. I am still having the time of my life.

Christmas greeting and enjoy the love of those around you.
Love
Peter

Thanks to my land based crew of Nuala, Ingrid and Maurice and my supporters:

– Medical Industries Australia for an extensive offshore medical kit
– JSE Marine Electrical for extensive spare parts and tools
– Endeavour Marine for spare parts for the Volvo Penta engine

December 2008

Good morning Luderitz, I barely whispered as I climbed into the cockpit with my morning coffee after waking from an almost full night’s sleep, following a four day passage from Cape Town. Although I could spell the word I was still not sure that I was pronouncing it correctly, because every time I said it in South Africa people would repeat the word after me, slowly and with emphasis. 

Luderitz is a coastal port that sits on a rocky granite outcrop in the Namib Desert in Namibia, a country that was settled by the Germans at the end of the nineteenth century.  The town looks like a German village without the vegetation. The main part of town is made up of brightly coloured baroque, German style buildings, including numerous churches with long, thin steeples reaching up to God.

The setting is stunningly stark. There is very little vegetation apart from a few palm trees or bushes that have been lovingly nurtured. The other outstanding feature is sand. Other than the sealed main roads in the town, the rest of the roads are sand. The footpaths are covered even deeper with sand. Sand is everywhere, in the air and piled up on the windy side of buildings and fences. Most people’s yards are just sand. To the north, you see giant sand dunes, to the east and south more rocky outcrops and sand. Why was I so surprised, as what else would you expect to see in the middle of a sandy desert?

Local resident, Paul, maintains that if he cannot have a lawn, then why not have a couple of boats in your backyard for accommodation.

For 25,000 people Namibia is home. Twenty thousand are coloured and black people living in townships or settlements just outside the old part of town where the majority of the white people live.

The port is busy with the comings and goings of fishing boats, large diamond dredges with their own helipads, cray fishing boats, cargo ships, bulk carriers and small diamond diving boats. Semi trailers haul zinc from a mine site some distance inland and trucks and tractors pulling trailers, rattle along going to and from the port.

The town centre is a hive of activity with taxi cabs hunting for business, office women wearing business suits and any man not office-bound, and that is the majority, wearing the worker’s uniform, blue pants and a blue shirt. The town’s buzz goes silent in the middle of the day as many of the shops are shut for lunch. Small towns seem to be the same the world over. Shop assistants need to have lunch too you know.

One local that I wanted to meet up with was Heiko Metzger. I first encountered him and his family when they arrived at Cocos Keeling Islands in the middle of the Indian Ocean last year. They were on their 50 foot steel yacht, Stellana, flying the Namibian flag. For the past 11 years they had been sailing around the world and were now heading home.  Diana, his wife, arrived at the communal yachties’ dinner table with a huge baking dish of fresh fish. Their boys, Stefan, 17 and Oliver, 9 took off to explore the island while their father Heiko sat quietly on the beach drinking beer and talking to the blokes about fishing. 

I was interested to know how he had managed to live and raise a family without having to work for so many years. “I was a diamond diver in Namibia.” Oh, that explains it I thought, having no idea that you dived for diamonds, let alone knowing anything about Namibia other than it had deserts.

For the next three months I travelled in company with the family to Cape Town and I started to recognise a kind man with many skills, including excellent seamanship. While in Mauritius, Heiko repaired a large sail for one of the other yachts. I helped cart the sail over to his boat and he went below and returned with an industrial strength Singer sewing machine and set about rebuilding the sail.  The next day he was upside down fixing an engine on another yacht with spare parts he just happened to have on his boat. So, when invited to visit the Metzger family in their home town, I was eager to take up their invitation.

Heiko is a Namibian and a bushman, having grown up in a caravan that his mother and father towed behind their drilling rig used to bore mining exploration holes across Namibia. He and his two younger brothers grew up educated in boarding schools and living on farms, hunting and mixing with the local native people. His name does identify him as having German ancestry. As is common with people who live in the bush, he became self sufficient in using his hands to make whatever was needed and repairing anything mechanical with the same thoroughness that you would expect from the Germans. 

He also learnt the languages of the people. I went shopping with him in town and within a mere 100 metres he had spoken to 4 people in 4 different languages. He chatted to a black man in Owambo, a local language, had a laugh with a big, white bloke in German, discussed cray fishing in Afrikaans with the supermarket owner and explained to me where to find the chutney in English. Having grown up in Australia speaking only English, I always find such skills impressive.

As an 18 year old, he had to do his compulsory two year national service in the South African Army, fighting in a bloody guerrilla war against SWAPO (South West Africa People’s Organisation). Namibia, then known as South West Africa, was under the administration of South Africa and its cruel Apartheid regime. Since gaining independence in 1990, SWAPO is now the political party that is governing the country.

Freedom for the young Heiko was a yellow VW combie van with surfboards and wind surfers strapped to the roof. He travelled the length of the Namibia’s west coast seeking the perfect wave and wind. At one stage he was the national windsurfing champion. As you would expect from a man with a combie, he had a rather good time and became a dab hand at dropping out the air-cooled, dust sucking engine of the VW and doing major rebuilds in the middle of the desert. He also met and married Diane, a stunning Namibian woman with flowing blonde hair, a cheeky smile, a guitar and capable of singing the complete song book of Joan Baize. As well as finding the love of his life, he also discovered a love for the sea and spent years working as a commercial diver and building boats.

Heiko salvaged a sixteen foot sardine fishing rowing dingy and converted it into a 24 foot launch with an engine, suction pump, air compressor and gravel sorter and became a diamond miner, extracting diamonds from the sea bed. He also set about making his millions because he wanted to sail the world. 

This form of mining is hard, dangerous work. The water is freezing and the divers descend to depths of 24 metres that only allow them to stay on the bottom for 30 minutes.  They vacuum gravel from the sea bed with a large suction pipe connected to the boat and use crowbars to roll back boulders that hide heavy gravel containing the diamonds. A few fingers and limbs get damaged along the way. They then sort and bag the smaller gravel and when the boat is fully laden after a week at sea, they return to the diamond extraction factory to learn of the success of their toil.

There are stories around the town of the substantial finds that Heiko made. I am sure the legend may be a bit distant from the truth, however he was successful, and when he gave up mining he had a much larger boat with five commercial divers and a 4 man boat crew.

He also had a reputation as a hard worker and as a fair and honest man; fair, because the divers and crew got a percentage of the bootie, and honest because if you steal diamonds the company running the show they will make sure you never drive again and you may spend many years looking for the key to get out of jail. There was no shortage of stories of how those little white stones have caused the downfall of many a man. In this part of the world, diamonds are indeed precious and mining the ocean floor is not for the weak, the dishonest or those who have trouble holding their breath.

Heiko’s last diamond boat and on the right the catamaran he is getting ready for charter work.

Heiko is again back on the sea with his son Stefan but this time rebuilding a large catamaran which he also salvaged. It is being converted into a charter boat to take out 24 tourists at a time to see the local wildlife attractions. He occasionally thinks of returning to mining the deep, but then reminds himself of the pain from the cold water and looks at his hands. He says the urge now quickly passes. 

Diana sitting with Stefan, showing a rather complicated fishing permit

Diana has returned to the Montessori School she started six years before they left to sail the world. For fun, she entertains diners a couple of nights a week at the trendy restaurant in town and has her own collection of middle aged groupies, marine scientists who have a strange way of clapping when she does her penguin songs. Living with penguins does that to you. It takes a special kind of person to live for 12 years on an island 100 metres wide, 400 metres long, with just your partner and 11,000 penguins.

For Oliver, now 11, going to school everyday has been a shock to the system as he was born and raised on the boat and was taught by his mother and father. I would have liked to have gone to school in this part of the world. They kick off at 7 in the morning and are back home by one on the afternoon.

Their 18 year old son Stefan did all his schooling through correspondence and today works with his dad in the morning, goes diving for crayfish and then trains at high speed kite boarding in the afternoon. He hoots off down the speed track on a board not much bigger than a cricket bat.  Earlier this year the world kite boarding community arrived in town to set the world speed records. They needed a place that was windy and they found it in this desert town.

Stefan measuring the wind

On my third day in town the wind got up, big time.  We measured it howling at 80 kms an hour. To the locals a light breeze is a stiff 35 km an hour wind. And it blows for days on end. By mid afternoon, that day, the sky had turned yellow. Sand blasted me as I fought my way around town doing my chores. My hair was a sand pit, ears and nose were building sand dunes. Sunglasses helped the eyes and I kept my mouth well and truly shut. I saw a local rush out of one of the banks with a beanie pulled right down over his face. No one in the street got excited except me but I quickly saw another practical use for this head dress.

Late that evening I returned to my boat, totally exhausted after a big night out and went straight to bed in the dark. When I awoke the next morning I noticed the dark red quilt cover was covered in sand. Then, all around me there was sand in great quantity. Climbing out of my bunk I discovered the boat full of sand, even inside the lockers. There was so much sand inside the boat, that if I had had a bag of cement I could have built the pyramids. Who was the idiot who left the hatches open? Lesson learnt, the day was then spent cleaning and cleaning the boat. I had simply not taken the sand into account. You always shut the hatches when you think it is going to rain. I was assured that I did not have to worry about rain as, on average it rains about 3 times a year in April with the town enjoying an annual rainfall of only 100mm.

There are two road signs that continually appear as you drive down the sealed road leading out of Luderitz. One says ‘Sand’ and the other ‘Wind’. They make instant sense as you drive slowly into a howling wind with tons of sand flying across the road from one sand dune to the next. The people of this area know that if you drive at speed you have your car’s paintwork sandblasted, and they are not joking. They tell the story of a foreign businessman who took delivery of his brand new blue BMW and drove it at speed some 500 kms, arriving in Luderitz with a brand new silver metallic BMW.

A little dust on the engine cover

There was a third sign, “Hyena Cross Here”. I wish the 1200 threatened Brown Hyenas well, as any animal that can live in this desert deserves to be congratulated. The look of a hyena always reminds me of the Creator doing work experience by joining a front and rear end of different animals just to use up what she had left over. They are not the most attractive of God’s creatures to roam the land. In this stark and seemingly barren land, the springbok, wild horses and antelope all survive depending on moisture from the morning fog.

I went for a 10km stroll into the desert that starts the moment you leave the town centre. I stayed on the sandy road as wondering off to the left was diamond country and that was forbidden land and the people here take the warning signs very seriously. On the right were hills which I am sure would have been a pleasure to climb but I was all too aware that if I did myself an injury I would have no chance of being found and I did not fancy the idea of dragging myself back through the sand, dying of thirst on the road just like you see in a cartoon strip. As I pushed on into the sand laden wind, I expected at any moment to see the actor Peter O’Toole as Lawrence of Arabia and his young side kicks come over a hill on their camels, or, to be passed by JC heading off to the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. Walking in the desert does allow for time to reflect. There is not a lot to distract your mind and the last sand hill looked like the other 20 in front of me.

One of the local Shabeens

I also took a walk to the settlements where the most of the people live. Tiny little shabeens, or drinking rooms, are attached to houses in the main street. Women sit out at little stalls in the open wind and the sand selling their wares, and there is a proliferation of barber shops. 

My hair stylist Phillip with Mr Charles carving his nut

Meet Phillip my new, reluctant hairdresser. His saloon is a brick windowless room, 3 metres square, painted  some time ago in a dark earthy red. “I’ll have a number 4 on top and three on the sides thanks Phil.” He looked a worried man. Was it that he was a lousy barber and did not know to tell me, or was he not really sure what I wanted?

Together we hunted the salon for the No.3 and No.4 combs, found those that fitted his clippers, agreed upon the radio station to listen to and off we went. Although the electric clippers hummed away, there was not a lot of hair being cut. Without missing a beat he reached for his screw driver and adjusted the cutting blade. I had seen barbers do that before so I was not concerned. Off we went again and this time it was cutting one hair in twenty. Within seconds, he took out his screw driver and whipped the off the back cover of the clippers, made some adjustment, screwed it back on and “take 3”. By this stage I thought it could be a long afternoon. “Phil, why don’t you cut it all over with a No.1 comb?” His face lit up and off he went running the clippers over my head in every direction with the style of a seasoned sheep shearer.

Enter Charles, a young lad about 15 or 16 years old, who introduced himself, then asked me my name and where did I come from in South Africa. When I said, I’m an Australian, mate, he shouted out the door to a group of blokes “Something, something Australia mate.“ Now they too joined us in the salon to have a chat. Three of them squashed onto a little bench calling me, Mr Peter. I asked Charles, now Mr Charles, what his village name was and he made a number of clicking sounds coupled between “mur, dur” and a “cur”. I had no hope of repeating it. He told me quite proudly that his name had 3 of the 4 clicking sounds used in their language. I was impressed, but more so by the way he conducted business. By now more teenagers had arrived outside and he had set up a roster system letting 3 boys and girls in at a time for a few minutes. I was sure he was not doing the crowd control for free.

My hair stylist Phillip was still working away happily. He had finished the big cut and now was using the electric clippers to trim around the edges. Mr Charles had now returned with a Nazhana nut with a piece of leather stuck in the top and a tiny little cutting blade tied to a stick. “Look what I have done for you Mr Peter. I have carved your name into the nut along with these animals, the lion and buffalo. This nut will make a very good key ring.” I knew I was being had. For years on our back porch at my parent’s home in Brisbane were displayed two wooden swords from Fiji that had Ray and Dot Barker carved onto them. I remember my father telling me the story of how he was conned. He also thought it was quite funny and he enjoyed remembering the experience when he and mum were in Fiji.

I though the end was near but no, Phillip was in full swing, the clippers were working well and he was not going to stop. Now, for the beard. I had a couple of day’s growth around the face. He turned the clippers over and started giving me a shave. This was a new experience. I sat very still. Mr Charles was sending back in the original three lads, they must have paid him extra and he had now carved “Mr Charles, Luderitz 2008” into the nut.

Mr Charles' nut

Hairdresser to the stars, Phillip was nearing completion. All he had to do was find the plastic bottle with methylated spirits. It was a team effort and within minutes Phil was splashing the spirit around my glowing red face.  Mr Charles was now selling me the most priceless key ring I will ever own. I paid far too much money for it but I didn’t care. His selling skills were a treat to watch. The next afternoon Mr Charles was in town and saw me in the street. He said his mother wanted him to thank me for buying the nut. That evening when he returned home with the money she went out and bought food for a great dinner for the family. “Oh and by the way, won’t your sisters in Australia also want a key ring?”

Dinner

I too enjoyed great dinners with my new family. Diana said to me on the first night I was in town that she expected me to join them every evening for dinner and she meant it. Every night when I arrived, Heiko would say “Oh you made it and here’s a beer.” I am sure he half expected me to be blown down the harbour across the bay in my little blow up dingy. I really enjoyed their company and it was a treat to be part of a family again. We ate well. Fresh crayfish covered with garlic butter, springbok, antelope, German sausages, plaited pieces of pork along with home grown spinach and salads, were all part of the evening feast, as was having a beer with the family, watching the sun set as we looked down onto the town and the harbour.

In Namibia there are 2 free-to-air television stations. After the evening news each station has a soap opera. One is from Spain and the other from Mexico, both dubbed in English. Across the screen one night ran a message apologising for the poor visual and sound quality. They should have added apologies for the script, acting, costumes, set design, lack of story and the ill-fitting English dubbed voices. They made the Days of Our Lives look like a major Hollywood epic. You can also stay well informed about the world in Namibia. They broadcast the BBC World Service, CNN, Deutsche Welle and the Chinese Television International throughout the day and overnight.  The election of Obama was big news in Africa, in fact the people of Kenya were given a public holiday to celebrate his success.

One of my favorite television advertisements is of a young attractive couple having a candlelight dinner. They raise their wine glasses and smile; you can see they are in love. He slides a small black satin jewellery box across the table to her. She is excited and slowly opens it and gives the man a, “I’m going to eat you up” loving look. I thought how lovely that was! Then you see the box’s contents, a condom, with the audio message, “Protect your love for each other”. You have to wonder what her expression would be if the box actually contained a ring.

HIV is such a big issue here and has a much greater public profile than it did in South Africa. There is an African television program, a mixture of Race Around the World and Survivor that had one of the tasks being a competition between the teams to see how many people they could encourage to be tested for HIV in an afternoon.

Signs of encouragement and free condoms

A Dr Colleen does a series of 30 second, no nonsense messages on television. She cuts to the chase with her messages that go from, “Do you trust your partner?”, to useful information on how to care for those with the disease. Dr Colleen has also turned a noun into a verb – condomise, meaning wear a condom. So “condomise” along with “know your status” are now part of the local lexicon. So too is the availability of condoms. When I went to customs to check in, there on the counter next to me was a box of free condoms. These people are taking this problem seriously.

On my visit to immigration and customs to gain permission to leave, I arrived without my reading glasses. Customs was fine as the forms were a decent size. Immigration, obviously wanting to save paper, had a form reduced to one slightly larger than a postage stamp. I asked the officer if he would be kind enough to tell me the questions on the form and I would write in what they wanted to know. Instead he took my passport and completed the form for me, them stamped it. We were both happy, he had the completed form and I had a stamp in my passbook allowing me to leave the country.

Luderitz, not only can I now pronounce it, I can say it with a mouth full of… you guessed it, sand.

Still having the best time of my life
Love
Peter Barker

Capetown to Ascension Island

October 2008

Welcome to my new adventure. I have arrived at Luderitz in Namibia after a month in South Africa. This is my story of:

• Arriving back in South Africa
• Taking a taxi ride
• Reg Whare going home
• The joy of being back at sea

Back with my Lady
Touch down in Cape Town after a splendid 20-hour flight from Sydney via Singapore. At dawn we crossed the African coast near were I had landed last December. I now knew that after 8 months in Sydney I was going to return to a life on the sea playing with ropes and living the life of a solo sailor. Feeling excited but also apprehensive about returning to the Lady, I headed north, up the west coast in a hire car to Club Mokonos, where I had left the Lady.

It is like driving a good country road anywhere in Australia - there are acres of wattle trees. A noxious pest in this county, the wattle bush was brought from Australia in the early mining days and flourished without the bugs that keep our trees in check.

After you pass the wattle, you see gum trees in clusters that stand out from the low growth scrub that covers the sand dunes. The further north, you see the start of the wild flowers. Pink, purple, yellow and white flowers appear in great numbers. It looks like a coloured mist that goes for miles. A beautiful sight, and such a contrast from the rough green and grey scrub.

Driving on South Africa’s open roads is an experience. The speed limit is 120km per hour. The roads are excellent and are about 3 lanes wide. On the left hand side is a yellow line about 3 metres in from the side of the road. When a car travelling faster than you draws up close behind, you move over to the left hand side of the road to let them pass. Once they have passed, they flash their emergency lights once as a ‘thank you’, and it is common for the other driver to flash their head lights in response. This method seems to work well as there is very little traditional overtaking required.

When I arrived, the Lady was sitting happily at the marina. Clean with tight lines, and just as I left her. Down below she was dry, no mould to speak of but plenty of dust. I had left a little hatch partly open to let the air circulate and for the dust to settle in every corner.

She was taken out of the water and placed on stands in the boat yard to have her bottom painted with antifouling and the sides cleaned and polished. Going home now meant I had to climb up a 20 foot extension ladder to get there. Nights were very quiet, as I was the only person living on a boat. The days were windy and the dust flew. The only visitor I had was a local cat that climbed the ladder and greeted me as I lay in my bunk watching a movie. I was not happy having a flea bag on my boat and chased the cat out of the cabin. It ran into the cockpit and leapt into the night, never to be seen again.

Manus and John, boat yard workers, spent a week working on the boat. They were good at their job and friendly people. John put on a brai, or BBQ, at his home one Saturday night. Family and friends gathered. Just like in Australia, the men gathered around the cooker. The women prepared the food and the children just went off and played and entertained themselves. I am always delighted to see how others live. On the walls in the lounge room were framed certificates of their qualifications and awards for their long service to their employer. People do not change jobs in this town.

Club Mokonas was a Greek resort. The buildings look Greek, there is a Greek restaurant where they smash the plates every night, and the donkey with baskets of flowers take children for rides. Why a Greek resort? A local woman said that 20 years ago the country did not have many international friends and such a resort was a novel place to go and stay. Still very popular today, the resort had a conference centre. For a week, a large group of senior teachers met. In the common area outside the conference venue were six small tents with medical people doing HIV tests. HIV and Aids is such a big issue in this country. One afternoon a young woman was sitting with a doctor looking at a variety of drugs. You just knew the story.

After three weeks at the marina I sailed 10 hours south to Cape Town to provision the boat and have the rigging checked and the electronics fixed.  For almost an hour I sailed with a pod of Sperm whales who were also heading south. These massive animals would swim towards the boat and just when I thought a collision was inevitable, the whale would disappear under the boat and then reappear on the other side of the boat. I’m sure they had a smile on their faces as if to say, “I bet that scared you, you little sailor”. Yes, I was a little concerned but also blessed to be in their company.

Taxi
I had to return to Langebaan to collect the hire car. The only way back was to take a taxi. A taxi in this country is a standard mini van that took 15 passengers.

I arrived at the taxi terminal in Cape Town and found the van. I approached the driver and asked when the taxi was leaving, “When the taxi is full”, he said. “And when do you think that will be?”, “When the taxi is full!”.

For the next one and a half hours I sat with several other people also waiting. One by one others would arrive and take their seat on the bus. My fellow passengers were bemused that a white person would take a taxi. I found out later that many white people had never been on a taxi nor did they ever want to, for these taxi’s had a bad reputation of crashing, speeding and, “Didn’t the people smell?”

My fellow passengers. A young man was going to see his girlfriend who had just given birth to his child. He was excited. Two women were going home. They did this trip everyday leaving very early in the morning to travel the 90 minutes from their home to Cape Town. An older man was a seaman on a factory fishing boat where he spent a 100 days at sea processing and canning fish. Another man was so happy as he had just received his tax return and said to me that he felt like a rich man.

The woman next to me was in her late twenties. She was wearing a smart business suit and a white blouse that was so designed to promote her large chest. An old lady once said to me when seeing a women with her breast well promoted, “Her potatoes are boiling over”. This was indeed the case and every time she laughed or was making her point to fellow passengers her breast would perform. I gazed out the window or looked anywhere else, but it would appear that in South Africa women are not shy about showing off their breasts.

I escaped from my chesty companion by being invited by the driver to sit in the front seat, the only seat with a safety belt. I jumped at the opportunity. Fully laden with 15 passengers plus 3 children and a baby, we took off. The driver was a very big man who had to lift up his stomach to get behind the wheel. With three of us sitting in the front seat, plus the stomach, it was now a tight fit.

From the start I realised this driver knew only stop and go fast. Laden to the gunnels with men, women and children, and pulling a trailer with everyone’s bags, we stopped at a service station to buy fuel. All of a sudden the van started rocking madly. I grabbed the man next to me who return a bemused look. “He is just trying to get as much fuel into the tank as he can”. We had another 2 sessions of rocking and rolling. You could image how strong this man was. Apparently this is a common method to fill the tank, full. I guess it must work.

The road up the coast is long and straight and the driver took off. How fast? The speedo was not working but you could see from the steering wheel that the van was floating and at any moment would be airborne. All of a sudden he would break hard and slow down to what would appear a brisk walk. This happened 3 times where he knew the traffic police could be waiting with their radar. No police to be seen so we took off again.

From the moment we started, until when we arrived, the sound system, the most expensive part of the van, blasted the thump thump music. In South Africa they call this dur, dur Taxi music and the passengers know what they wanted to listen to. The first CD was shouted down and quickly replaced by love songs but they still went dur, dur.

Having chewed through the safety belt, we eventually arrived at our destination and after 15 hand shakes and a pat on the children’s head, freedom and a quick prayer of thanks to my guardian angel.

Reg is in town
One day in the marina in Club Mokonos, I heard my named being called. I popped my head out of the cabin to see Reg Whare, a lawyer from Newcastle in Australia. A South African boy, he had returned to Cape Town for a holiday. Reg, a keen sailor, had his boat next to mine when I was refitting the Lady at Lake Macquarie, two hours north of Sydney. On my passage across the Indian Ocean he stayed in contact with me and he knew I was returning to his home land.

Off to lunch we went, with his friend from Newcastle and his nephew. The venue was Die Strandloper, an open air restaurant right on the beach. ‘Restaurant’ may create the wrong impression. On the sandy beach were little shelters covered in fishing nets, sand floors, concrete table and stools, open fires with cooks stirring the contents of large pots and grilling all sort of seafood. A Deco station menu, starting with plump mussels in wine and loads of garlic, then grilled haarders fish, followed by paella potjie that contained angel fish, calamari and snoek. Crayfish, smoked angel fish and 2 or 3 other fish straight from the grill are all served with freshly baked bread and a variety of local jams. The meal is complete with traditional moet coffee. The water is boiled in a big kettle, handfuls of coffee are thrown in and then simmered. Then the cook took a thick stick from the fire and dunked it into the coffee. The taste is not what you would expect. You could say it is different.

Reg had given me two bottles of Hunter Valley wines before I left Sydney. All were surprised that I still had them onboard. Lunch was enjoyed with a fine bottle of Australian wine, local beers and a drop of the local wine. A perfect day, no wind, great company and a wandering guitar player entertaining the diners. Most of the song were in Afrikaans and must have been very funny, as there was much laughter from the diners. This musician had taken tuning a guitar to a new level. The little knobs at the head of the guitar were missing. Instead he used an eating fork to tighten the strings.

Back in Cape Town, Reg was having a few reunions with people he grown up with. Sunday afternoon, and a group of friends had gathered at a local restaurant and bar to hear a cover-band play Cliff Richards, and the Shadows. The guitarists were excellent. You could close your eyes and hear Hank Marvin working his guitar with those great instrumental tunes that made the Shadows famous. The bass guitarist was Reg’s brother and the other musician played with Reg in school rock bands. Well known South African musicians and singers took to the stage to perform. Fifty year old rockers, including Reg who picked up a guitar and did his thing. I knew all the tunes and danced into the evening.

His friends were most welcoming and Miles and his wife Mandy and their friend Noleen looked after me while in Cape Town and spent entertaining evenings onboard the boat. The ladies took me shopping for supplies. First visit was to a food warehouse where I purchased enough cans and dry food to last me until I reach Brazil. Forklifts dashed around the crowded warehouse and it was literally get your trolley out of the way or have it squashed. A novel way to shop.

Just prior to leaving, Mandy drove me to 12 different places all over town taking most of the day. Firstly to the port authority, then immigration and customs to obtain a clearance to leave. These departments are spread out all over town and have to be visited in the right order or you have to start again. Never any trouble with the officials but just lots of paper work, the same number of papers as if you were a huge container ship wishing to leave port. I was so grateful when heading off to buy a piece of electronics, have a gas bottle filled or find a chart shop, Mandy would say, “I know where that is”, and she would head off to the other side of town.

Back at sea
After a week being marina bound, I left Cape Town when the weather was right for a 4 day sail up the west coast of Africa in the Atlantic Ocean to Namibia, the country north of South Africa and south of Angola. The first two days were great sailing with the wind and sea heading in the right direction. I was back on my own in the big ocean travelling about a 100 miles out to sea. All the sailing guides and pilot notes warned about getting too close to the shore. When you look on the chart and see a proliferation of wrecks marked, you heed the warning.

Day three and no wind, so I motored for the day. During the night the wind returned and I sailed the Lady hard so to arrive at the port of Luderitz before dark the next day. I think I was praying a little hard for good winds because the wind grew and grew to 35 knots. Eventually I had to turn right and head for the port. By this time the sea was huge, and the wind howling. It was rough. The wireless computer mouse flew across the boat and disappeared. Later I found it inside a plastic container hidden behind the oven. I still have not found the wooden spoon.  Waves smashed over the boat completely covering the deck. I was sea sick and my red bucket became my constant companion. Not a pretty sight.

Oh how I wished the passage would end. Flying along the side of a huge green wave I caught sight of a Jack-Ass Penguin. It just sat there quietly as I approached. The next minute it was high on the wave looking down on me as I passed it. “The little smart ass”. As I approached the land I was escorted by a Heaviside’s Dolphin all the way into the port. Entertaining to say the least, well at least it took my mind off feeling ill and worrying about getting my approach to the port right in this huge wind and sea as the sun was setting.

I gained permission, over the radio from the port controller, to enter the port and headed for a mooring buoy that my friend Heiko Metzger had arranged for me. Absolutely exhausted, I found the mooring, grabbed the rope and brought the Lady to a stop. Minutes later Heiko and his son Oliver came alongside in their dingy to welcome me to Luderitz. What a beautiful sight they were.

Next adventure
I intend to spend a little time in Luderitz with the Metzger family before heading across the Atlantic to St Helena Island in the middle of the ocean.

Please pass on this blog to as many people as you like and encourage them to do the same.  It is so nice to hear from people who are also enjoying the adventures.

Still having the best time of my life.
Love
Peter Barker

Thanks to my land based crew of Nuala, Ingrid and Maurice and my supporters:

–    Medical Industries Australia for an extensive offshore medical kit
–    JSE Marine Electrical for extensive spare parts and tools
–    Endeavour Marine for spare parts for the Volvo Penta engine

I am back with Bowtie Lady in South Africa getting ready for the next adventure of sailing on my own to Brazil.  Currently I am sitting 20 feet up in the air in the boatyard at the marina at Club Mykonos in Langebaan about a 100 kms north of Cape Town.

I wanted to let you know what I have been doing:
• Removing myself of my worldly positions
• Leaving home but staying around
• Winning the Cruiser of the Year award for having the best time
• Hiding away trying to write

In June this year I was sitting in a bedroom surrounded by 20 storage boxes, a great roll of bubble wrap, and two 3-foot high statues standing on 4-foot tall pedestals. One was of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the other his mother, Mother of Mercy. These boxes contained my entire worldly possessions that were not on Bowtie Lady. The boxes have gone, some 100 items auctioned on EBay, starting with the furniture, floor coverings, paintings and ended with the religious statues.

My other yacht for many years was Aria, a 26-foot Westerly, that has been moored in Sydney Harbour just a five minute walk away from where I lived. She quickly sold on EBay to James and Scott, 2 young fathers who both had young children. They will have such a good time sailing this boat in Sydney Harbour.

I have moved out of the building in the main street of Balmain where I spent 16 years of my working life, and in later years the penthouse became my home. Bowtie Lady is now my only home and, while on land, I have been blessed to lead the life of a vagabond who spends his day wearing a pin-striped suit. I lived with Robyn Kildey throughout the selling period. I lived among the boxes, posting items on EBay under the name of ‘now it is yours’.

For some time since then, I lived with Neil Oakes, a colleague of mine, and his young brown Labrador dog. When given charge of Baloo I have discovered, to my absolute delight, that when walking the streets he is a magnet to attractive women. “Oh what a lovely dog”, and my response has to be “Oh what a lovely lady for being so kind.” Just in case there is a next life I know what I will be putting my hand up for.

There is a sense of freedom in not having a place to call home. However, I do have many friends who live in my inner Sydney Harbour suburb of Balmain. My days are spent working in a city office with people whom I like, doing what I enjoy and trying to build up the money chest for the next adventure. I will be back in Cape Town in the beginning of October to prepare the Lady to sail solo across the Atlantic Ocean later that month.

How easy it is to fall back into the business world and the daily routine. I must say I do enjoy the lunches, dinners and any function that serves quality hors d’oeuvres. There is a great sense of belonging and feeling safe when I return to the place where I have lived for 30 years. I know the people in the shops, recognise people in the street and catch up on the local village talk about what is going on. The most common question I am asked is, “Were you scared?”, and my response is invariably, “Yes, I was challenged, exhilarated, blessed, privileged and scared. Life does not get better than that.”

The members of the Balmain Sailing Club were generous to present me with the Cruiser of the Year award, a beautiful porcelain trophy. In my acceptance speech, I said “How good is this, being given an award for having the best time of your life?”. The last time I was presented with a sailing trophy was when I was 12 years old and had won a race at the Oxley Sailing Club on the Brisbane River in my Sabot, an 8-foot sailing dingy called Mr. Jinks.

My intense interest in the weather has been replaced with a constant vigilance of the time. As a cruiser, the weather takes on great importance, especially when you are in the middle of an ocean and you have to put up with whatever is dished out at you. Today I am trying to complete my To Do List, although being an optimist and a dreamer; I know I am always going to be disappointed with what I actually achieve. I do have a big plan and am counting down the days till I am back on the Lady.

It is so good to tell others of my adventures and of the people I have met. My slide show has been shown at the sailing club, to friends and family and essentially anyone who enjoyed falling asleep during a slide show when they were a child. I believe this is a tradition when it comes to slide shows. In Brisbane, I spent a lovely evening with my family and relatives reliving the adventure. My Uncle Roy, who had been reading out the blogs of my trip to his mates at the pub, was delighted. “I now have so many new stories to tell I won’t have time to buy the beers tomorrow!”

The blog that I wrote on my last adventure was so widely circulated by others to others and then to others. I was thrilled so many others enjoyed the stories. At one of my lectures to lawyers conducted at the Macquarie University Graduate School of Management, one participant, a very pleasant woman who, unbeknownst to me, had being reading my blog, informed other lawyers during a coffee break of my adventures. At the start of the next session, I was barraged with questions about my trip. I was enjoying the story telling until I suddenly realized that, as a student at the Marist Brothers’ College in Brisbane, we would adopt similar tactics to get a Catholic Brother off the subject he was teaching by encouraging him to tell his favorite stories. I quickly ended the story and, to the sounds of boos and hisses, returned the group back to their notes on client development.

A dear friend and the man who taught me the basic journalist skills, Barry Morris, wrote and sang me a song about Bowtie Lady. Last week we went into the studio and, along with a professional pianist, Kenny Powell, recorded a jazz number. The whole process was so much fun as you will hear soon.

Joseph Heller, the author of the book Catch-22 that became an American classic, said that thinking and speaking were relatively easy but writing is hard. How right the good man was. I have finished the book  “The Splendid Indian”, the story about sailing on my own from Australia to South Africa across the Indian Ocean. That was an absolute joy and a lot of fun. The other book “The Attractive Lawyer” has consumed my life. With the guilt levels of a good Catholic boy and having graduated from the school of putting things off, I have been able to make the writing process a protracted affair.

I will keen you informed of the fun and adventures.
Love
Peter Barker

Cape Town, South Africa

Leg 1 of world passage completed
On Sunday night, 10 December, I sailed into the Royal Cape Yacht Club to complete the first leg of my journey. Oh what a tired but happy man I was to pull the sails down for the last time and make Bowtie Lady fast to the marina.

This is the story of my sail down the African coast and the celebrations in Cape Town including:

• The Agulhas current -  the fast track
• The last sail for a while
• My mate arrives with a surprise
• Men and women celebrating their dreams

The Agulas current - the fast track
After the severe belting I had received on my arrival in Durban the night before, I had a day to get the boat ready for the trip south. Warren Henri, a businessman I had met in Mauritius, kindly took me to the port authority and customs to complete a myriad of forms to gain permission to leave, and then took me shopping for supplies.

South Africa has interesting methods to care for yachties’ safety and to stop people stealing boats.  Before you can leave a port, you have to lodge a flight plan which is a 3 or 4 page document providing all the details about your boat, your intended passage, a drawing of your yacht and a list of your safety equipment.  The flight plan has to be lodged separately with the police, customs and the port control authority. As you can imagine none of these authorities are in the same place and it requires local knowledge to find these offices.  When you are finally heading out of port you call the port control to ask permission to leave.  If you have not lodged a flight plan and do not ask for permission, you are visited by the water police - this tends to alter your plans for the day and the day after that.  Everybody is very polite and helpful but you have to go through the paperwork and then if you have not gone within 36 hours of gaining approval, because of a change in the weather for example, then you have to do it all over again.

Durban marina, devastated by a severe storm as I entered the port, was still in chaos. To get from the floating marina to the land, you had to ferry yourself across in a row boat.  The weather people and Vince, the man I hired to guide me down the coast, advised that we had a good weather window lasting enough time to get well towards Cape Town. The evening before departing, I was taken by Warren and his wife Megan, Dave, his colleague and Dave’s wife Colleen, to a very classy restaurant for a Japanese dinner and entertainment. After a few hours sleep, I departed at 4.30 in the morning along with some 20 other yachts, many of whom had been waiting weeks for a good weather window.

Down the east coast of South Africa runs the Agulhas current which moves south, running up to six knots - that gives a yacht an additional 10 kms per hour free.  With the wind and sea coming from the north pushing you south you are on a run ride. Early in the morning, most of the yachts had headed out to where the current is the fastest and where the sea is 200 metres deep.

Bowtie Lady was flying along and we were passing yachts on a regular basis during the day and into the night.  Fearful that I would end up running into one of my fellow yachties as we were all essentially following one another, I headed out to sea to get some sleep with the hope of returning to the strong current in the morning.  After 3 nights at sea, I arrived at Mossell Bay on the fourth day, only an hour behind the fastest boats. I was very pleased with the Lady’s performance although I had very little sleep. The next day the weather turned bad but all the yachts had reached safety at one of the ports I had passed along the way.

It was a great delight to be greeted by Joe Miles, a solo sailor whom I had not seen since Cocos, but, at every port that I arrived in en route I had heard that he had just left. Next to the yacht club at Mossell Bay, was a very popular seafood restaurant and bar where Joe and I met many very friendly local people. Many of these people invited us home for dinner or took us to meet their other friends. The local taxi driver went out of her way to help us with our laundry, getting our gas bottles filled and filling her car’s boot with barrels of diesel for us. I could not have met nicer people who all wanted to ensure that visitors enjoyed the hospitality of the locals.

Five days later another good weather window opened up and the dash to Cape Town was on.

The last sail for a while
The trip from Mossell Bay to Cape Town is some 250 miles or 400 kms. Joe and I left the friendly people of Mossell Bay early on a Saturday morning with the wind and sea all going in the right direction.

By eleven that night I rounded Cape Agulhas, the most southern point of Africa. By morning, having left the Indian Ocean behind, I was now travelling north and had entered the Atlantic Ocean. Seals were sunbathing out at sea and a variety of sea birds were keeping me entertained.

It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning as I sailed past Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope.  I felt very proud that I had rounded these capes in good weather. However, I also felt very sad and melancholy as this was my last day sailing at sea on my own for sometime. I had time to reflect on the journey, on the wonderful experiences of visiting other lands and meeting lovely people. It was also time to remember how lucky I had been to have this opportunity to cross an ocean and how much I had enjoyed the challenge of sailing day after day on my own. I was never bored or lonely. I so much enjoyed having time to just sit and look out to sea, to meditate and to pray. Most of all, I enjoyed gaining all the skills required to run a sailing boat, a machine that needs constant attention, to acquire the skills to sail a boat fast but without pushing her too hard, to cook, to navigate and to understand the weather.

With just 30 miles to go to Cape Town, the wind moved around to the north forcing me to tack or zigzag my way up the coast.  With only 23 miles to go, a heavy sea fog engulfed the boat and I was forced to go down below to sail the boat using just the radar. It was as if I needed one more challenge to finish the journey and I was not to be disappointed. To add zip to the challenge, it seemed that half the South African fishing fleet was leaving Cape Town and heading out to sea in the fog. It was dodgem cars on the high seas. It began to feel a little like a computer game as I pushed buttons to steer the boat and constantly adjusted the radar to track all the fishing boats.

My mate arrives with a surprise
I had been waiting at the arrival section of Cape Town airport for the arrival of Joanna Taylor (Nuala) who was flying in from Sydney via Abu Dhabi and Johannesburg. Nuala had been very involved in the boat project, having spent months working on the refit of the boat and who had updated me daily on my sailing weather and the news from home while I was at sea. Now we were to spend weeks sailing and driving around South Africa and putting in a few hard days working on the boat.

You know those moments at an airport waiting, along with a couple of hundred other people, for doors to open to see who is coming out of the baggage collection area. She never came; instead I heard on the airport public address system “Would a Mr Peter Barker, awaiting the arrival of Mrs Joanna Taylor, please make yourself known to a South African Airlines representative”.

The representative then introduced me to a man dressed in very bright yellow clothes with the word Paramedic splashed across his chest. “Mrs Taylor has collapsed, she should be alright but we would like to take her to hospital.” I was now the one feeling sick. In the back of an ambulance was Nuala looking very tired, pale and slightly away with the fairies. Nuala had collapsed from exhaustion just before her plane landed in Cape Town. She was carried from the aircraft, fitted with a drip and lots of electrode patches for an ECG and the other things medical people do. I loaded her bags into the back of the ambulance, took a front seat and headed for a hospital close to the city. Nuala was wheeled into a room and nurses and doctors gave her the once over and then unplugged her before I took her by taxi to the yacht club and onto Bowtie Lady where she instantly fell asleep and slept for the next 15 hours.

Work on the boat and our sailing adventures were delayed for a few days while Nuala recovered. In the mean time, she had taken a liking to my bunk with the inner spring mattress, the cabin food service and the continuous movies screening on the flat screen TV mounted at the bottom of the bunk.  Once a solo sailor but now a carer, I was relegated to the vee berth up the bow of the boat and had to go on swap sessions with other yachties to keep up the fresh supply of movies to help with what appeared to be her long recovery. This could have been a ploy to delay the confrontation with the multitude of minor jobs and repairs that had accumulated during my passage.

Men and women celebrating their dreams
Twenty five yachties from 12 countries are sitting at the Christmas table in the Royal Cape Yacht Club in Cape Town, South Africa. The table has been beautifully decorated; turkeys have been cooked in the ovens on various yachts, plum puddings heated and each boat crew has brought a salad or a side dish. Filming the lunch is a solo sailor from China. He is sending a story and video to be broadcast on Chinese television.

Sitting opposite is John, a retired American orthopaedic surgeon, and his wife Patricia.  He and his wife are typical of the people at the table, the majority of whom are in their sixties, retired, and so talk will quickly turn to grandchildren. All are living their dream or, in many cases, the dream of the man who is supported by his partner who may not share quite the same love of the sea. Many couples are sailing around the world and have doing been so for years and may spend 12 months exploring a country before moving on.

On Christmas Eve there was another party, and this time for 3 people who were celebrating their birthday on Christmas Day; Stephan from Germany, Joe from America and Nuala from Australia. The club gave us a venue, we decorated the room with large sails and blown up photographs of Stephan, Joe, Nuala and the other person who celebrates his birthday at this time of the year, JC. Fellow yachties and locals gathered for a briaa (BBQ), all brought salads and presents suitable for yachties like torches you wear on your head as you work on deck at night.

Mid way through the evening, the marina manager arrived at the party with a very tired looking Steve, a British solo sailor, who had just completed a 5 week trip from South America to Cape Town.  His motor had broken down so he sailed into the harbour, only then to run out of wind and so he had tied his boat up at a wharf some distance from the club. A few of us left the party to help tow Steve into the club marina.  He then joined us for a meal and after two glasses of red wine was falling asleep into his plate so we got him back to his boat for a long rest.  He suffers the same problem that I do. The closer you gets to land the harder it is to sleep, which results in days with very little sleep and an extremely ragged appearance upon arrival on land.

One of the nicer gatherings was sundowners, or early evening drinks, on one of the yachts that I had met in Cocos Island. Six of us watched the sun set behind Table Mountain, enjoyed nibbles and each other’s company. What was a delight was, after knowing these people for several months, how well you get to know them.  You have heard their stories, learned about their families, their childhood and the reason they are sailing the world.  In trusted company, yachties start to share other parts of their lives, stories you would not tell unless you felt comfortable and pleased to be in one another’s company.

The final party for the year was New Years Eve at the sailing club. Around the club, briaas were set up to cook meat, a local band set the mood and we danced the rest of the year away with several hundred other members of the club. At midnight, a few of us went outside and into the railway shunting yard to fire off outdated flares, of course, just to see what condition they were in.  To my surprise and dismay, the old parachute flares that should float around in the sky for a few minutes, simply plummeted to earth - not good if you are depending on being seen at sea by rescuers.

Next step
During the next few weeks I will see a little more of the country, put the Lady into a marina and moth ball her for 3 months while I return to Australia to replenish my financial supplies and prepare for my next leg across the South Atlantic en route to Brazil, discovering the country and others in South America as I head north after the cyclone season to the Caribbean and then sail on to New York.

To reach this part of the world I have been wonderfully supported by Ingrid Conde, my personal assistant, who has helped run my life back in Sydney. I loved getting phone calls from her while at sea and the host of emails that updated me on all the happenings on the home front. I wish to thank the many people who have contacted me in the past few weeks. I am also delighted to hear that these blog updates are being sent to lots of other people who tell me they have enjoyed sharing my adventure.

When I am back in Australia I will add lots of photographs and maps to present a better coverage of the adventure so far.  I will let you now when that has happened.

Love, Peter

Thank you to my supporters:

–       Medical Industries Australia for an extensive offshore medical kit
–       JSE Marine Electrical for extensive spare parts and tools
–       Endeavour Marine for spare parts for the Volvo Penta engine

Richards Bay, South Africa

Yeh! I have sailed the Indian Ocean!

On Saturday morning, November 17, I entered Richards Bay, South Africa just as the sun came up. I have happily and successfully sailed on my own from Australia to South Africa across the Indian Ocean, one of the big three great oceans in the world.

The crossing has taken 7 months with some 70 sailing days and I have covered 9,000 miles or 14,500 kms. There were three major ocean passages: Darwin to Cocas Keeling Island then to Rodriguez and the last passage from Reunion to South Africa.  Each passage took about 14 days. I spent a few weeks in Darwin and Cocas and a week each in Rodrigeus, Mauritius and Reunion. How’s that for an adventure?

To share this last leg of the passage with you, let me tell you about:

• The welcome to South Africa
• Great moments while at sea
• Nice people in the middle of the Indian Ocean
• A day sail down the South African coast

The welcome to South Africa
My plan was to reach Richards Bay at first light around 5 in the morning. Twenty miles from the shore I stopped the boat to wait as otherwise I would arrive too early for port entry, so had time to make the South African courtesy flag. I then crossed the Agulhas Current which runs south at speeds of up to 7 knots or 10 kph. Half way across, I was met by a south westerly wind coming in the opposite direction that was quickly growing stronger.  This is the combination you do not want.  The sea is pushing into the wind and the sea rises very steeply, very quickly. The boat starts going up and down as if you are riding the offspring of a hobby horse that was mated with a bucking bull machine that you see in the pubs.

By the time I reached the shelter of the bay and avoided another two ships I was ready to stop. I had not slept very much in the previous 3 days. Merchant ships, a rough sea, strong winds and a fast boat dictated total commitment. For three days I had sailed through the shipping lanes with container ships, bulk carriers and oil tankers going to all points of the compass.  The other night there were 21 ships profiled on the automatic identification device. There was no order and no direction, “those travelling north please keep to the left hand side”, it was every ship for itself. If a ship came within 24 minutes of me an alarm would sound. I would then climb out of the bunk, size up the situation on the chart plotter, alter the sails so I could change direction, call up the ship to make sure they can see me and ensure that they are happy to alter course if necessary.

A very pleasant port controller over the radio welcomed me to Richards Bay which has the world’s largest coal loader. I motored into the little boat harbour to tie up against the wall in the international section to wait for customs, immigration and the police.  As I approached the wall I had badly misjudged my arrival and come close to another yacht. From down below, emerged a little round faced man who just flew into me with such a vulgar spray for just for coming near his boat. I had to say to the red faced chap, himself a foreigner from the land of the maple leaf, that if he would give me a break and just give me a hand instead of abusing me at six in the morning I would very much appreciate his kindness. He was absolutely not a morning person and was a rare yachtie, a rude individual. He then went on to tell me in not so hushed tones how much he hated solo sailors. I then had to endure with him the three things I find most boring in life, wineries, playing golf and being near people who hate lone sailors. A group of far more pleasant yachties came to my rescue and Hendi, a South African, who saw my eyes falling out of my head, invited me on to his boat for a cup of tea and toast.

From that moment on, I could not have wished to meet nicer people and that is the way it has stayed for the week I spent at Richards Bay. Zululand Yacht Club was the friendliest and most party orientated club I have visited, who fussed over international sailors. Every night the locals have some gathering organised, be it a braai (BBQ), a sing-a-long in the bar, a “some reason” party, or dinner on someone’s boat, or at a club member’s home.

Upon arrival in South Africa my first mission was to have a hair cut and buy my favourite biltong (or beef jerky). I have been know as the bar snack kid, so I looked forward to eating ostrich, kudu and springbok biltong. Biltong is seasoned dried meat that even the flies have given up on. I purchased the complete collection and was into my second piece of dried kudu when one of my front teeth sheared off. Welcome to South Africa, but smile with your mouth shut.

Great moments of being at sea
I have been at sea for 5 days now and have been sailing down the coast of Madagascar some 150 miles out to sea on my way to South Africa. Last night the wind dropped off to nothing just as the sun was setting so I turned on the motor. By 2 in the morning the wind was again blowing and a storm was in full flight with the sky and the sea lighting up with silver magnesium light.  With the lighting and the thunder came the rain and it was an ideal opportunity to give the clothes I was washing a good rinse.

I put the buckets out to collect some rain water and as I went back into the cabin I was followed by very large mayflies who took up positions under the lights and on the glowing chart plotter and radar screens. How did they get here this far out at sea, and not just the odd one but a whole collection of them? I turned all the lights off but they stayed and stayed so I left them and went to bed. Throughout the dark hours of the morning when I got up, they were still there but by dawn every one of them had gone.

In the first light of a new day, while adjusting the sails, I found the largest flying fish that had ever graced the Lady. It was lying in the cockpit with an expression of “bugger, messed that flight up, and, never be fooled by a bright light in the night”. She went back into the sea. I then happened to look out to sea and, a hundred yards away, a tail of a large, black whale was pointing into the air and it slowly dropped back into the sea. That’s not a bad way to start a new day.

The excitement did not end. The wind grew stronger and the navy blue sea grew bigger under a grey sky. The sea was what you call a confused sea with waves coming from different directions and varying in size and distance between them. Not a pleasant way to have your cereal as I cleaned it off the floor. I almost felt like saying to the sea, “I know you are confused, we all get that way at times. Do you want to talk about it?” She was not in the mood and was sending along waves that would not be out of place at Bondi Beach. I almost expected to see a few surfies fighting each other to ride the wave. The waves would crash into the boat, sending tons of water over her. The Lady would stop still for a moment, give herself a shake, and head off again.

You have to admire the power of the sea. Try this at home. Fill a 70 cent Woolworths’ plastic bucket full of water and then have someone throw it over you. You then repeat the exercise by throwing a bucket of water over them. You then sit down together with a beer and compare notes. A bucket of water is heavy and the power of the water is substantial. You learn so much when you are out at sea on your own.

Nice people you meet in the middle of the ocean
I am about half way through this passage and have settled into the fun and dramas that sailing brings. When sailing the ocean blue it is quite correct to say that what happened yesterday, the same will happen today and more than likely will happen tomorrow. Well, this leg of the journey has been far from that and has been the hardest passage of the trip across the Indian Ocean. One day it is blowing a gale, with big winds and big seas that are unforgiving. The next is so placid that you think yesterday has not happened and you are motoring.

Last night in the middle of a blow, the staysail, which is one of the 2 sails that rolls up around itself when not needed, decided to set me a new challenge. The rope that is used to roll up this sail came undone and required me to go up the front of the bouncing boat and roll the sail up by hand. To top off the challenge, two other ropes got seriously tangled and needed to be cut away. The sail was flapping so badly it was like being belted in the head by a big man. Not a pleasant experience but had to be done if I did not want to wreck the sail and I badly needed to slow down the boat speed. When I finished fighting the sail I came below to discover that a pump had gone on strike and water was flooding the Powder Room floor. Also the VHF radio that is used to speak to other ships wanted to turn itself off and on as it wished. Where do they get this attitude? To top it all off, the ship, Zosco Zhoushan, was going to pass very close. At four in the morning I decided I could not make the radio work, let alone pronounce the name of the ship, so I decided that the flooded floor could wait and if a boat ran me down, so be it. I climbed into my bunk and went to sleep, knowing that the boat was not going to sink, simply because God was on my side. I love the logic. When I awoke an hour later I took a different attitude to the problems and set about solving them.

Today the winds were light and the sea calm. A large container ship, Terra Lumina, on its way to Lagos, was going to pass close so I called it up on the now repaired radio.  The first officer was a very pleasant chap and wanted a conversation which I was more than happy to have. He talked about how wonderful Sydney Harbour was and, even if he was off watch, would go up on deck to enjoy the beauty as the ship entered the harbour.  When he found out that I was a solo sailor he asked if there was anything that I needed and, if I did, he would come close to my boat and drop it off.  Although I was low on milk, I was not ready for such an experience but thanked him for his offer. As it was, he came very close and there he was waving from the bridge of the ship.  He was a few hundred yards away but that appears very close when you see the size of these ships and how small I am bobbing in these seas.

An hour or so later, the Meask Dunbar, another huge container ship was on its way to Brazil and was going to pass close to me so I called them on the radio to make sure they could see me.  The first officer, Romilla, was also ready for a chat. He was from the Philippines and had spent his life at sea. He was looking forward to leaving the ship just before Christmas so he could be at home with his wife and 2 year old daughter. He travels the world but rarely gets off the ship. When he arrives in Brazil the ship will be in port for just 18 hours and he will be working on the unloading and loading, then it is back to sea. He was a lovely bloke and we talked for a good half hour. Again, he wanted to know if I needed anything and I was happy to settle for the latest weather update. He said I was the first solo sailor that he had had a conversation with and told me how much he had enjoyed himself, plus I helped keep him awake during his watch. I felt the same way. More often than not, these officers are very business like in their response to your call but these guys were just lovely to speak with while on this big ocean.

One day sail down the South African coast
The seas along this coast are famous for being rough with storms coming up the coast on a regular basis. To ensure that I picked the right weather patterns and could position myself the right distance from the coast, I engaged the services of Vince, a well know professional sailor, to advise me daily on the weather and sailing conditions.

I left Richard Bay in the middle of the night for a one day sail south to Durban. Good winds and big sea pushed me along nicely. As I approached Durban, I called up the port control to seek permission to enter the port and to supply details about myself and the boat. This is one of the busiest ports I had sailed into. For two hours I was steered around ships sitting at anchor waiting to go into the port.  My automatic identification system showed 56 ships in the port or waiting outside. I could also see a storm approaching with black clouds and lighting. I pulled down the sails and revved up the engine with the hope of getting into the port before the storm broke. Just two miles from the entrance, port control called me to say the storm was coming and they were going to close the port until the storm passed. This storm had not been expected nor been mentioned by the weather forecasters.

Then bang, the wind roared in. One of the ships recorded the storm howling at 73 knots or close to 120 kph. That is a big wind and the sea was instantly foaming. I tied down the steering, put in the wash boards - shut the back door - and went below just moments before the engine alarms went off. The engine was overheating so I shut it down and then I was drifting. Not a good way to be.

I sat at the navigation table looking at the chart plotter, a computer screen that shows an electronic map and where the ships are. I was drifting sideways with the wind in total control. A big gust of wind came and the boat heeled over until the boat was lying on its side. Green water was rushing past the port holes and I was hanging on sideways.  This is what is called a knockdown. The boat was pushed over by ninety degrees and the rigging and the mast were in the water. It stayed that way for just a few moments and then the boat came back up again.

The wind continued to roar through the rigging whilst the Lady was being pushed over with the sea bashing into her. I just sat in the chair and watched the screen as I was afraid that I would drift onto a ship and that would have been the end of me, my boat and the journey. God was on my side as those ships that were down wind of me were moving quickly out to sea and giving me a clear passage to be blown along at the mercy of the wind and the sea.  Then bang, and again the Lady laid herself down just like before. By this time I was getting worried about the rigging and hoping the mast was not going to come down around me. While all this was going on, I was listening to the radio with port control and the ships talking to one another. Chaos had broken out. A ship alongside a wharf had broken its lines and was drifting onto another ship. Tugs boats were called to go to her rescue. Ships were reporting their movements and it was every one for himself. Through the radio chatter, the port controllers called me up several times to make sure I was okay. They could see me being tossed around. 

The storm raged for about twenty minutes and I just sat and hung on. I guess I should have been preparing to do something just in case but I was more interested in seeing how the Lady handled this weather. Oh what a beautiful Lady, she just rode it out time and time again.  The wind was furious. When I did venture out into the cockpit to tighten some ropes the sea spray blew so hard, it was like standing in front of a sand blaster. It not only hurt but was also painful. Suffice to say, the visit outside was very short lived. The tightly tied down ropes on the deck were thrashing around and they sounded like men banging the deck with hammers.

By this time I was into the fourth decade of the rosary, prayers that good Catholics say even when their lives are not in danger. The wind dropped and I was safe. The engine had cooled down and I motored to the port entrance. I called up the controllers and they allowed me to enter the port and I thanked them most sincerely for watching out for me.

When I arrived at the yacht club marina it was carnage. The marina had been torn apart; boats were twisted around one another and it was a scene of general chaos.  Through all of this, two Peters were standing on the end of the marina waving at me. One was the American Peter I had not seen since Mauritius although I had talked to him and his wife Beth everyday on the radio. The other Peter was a Frenchman I had not seen for two months and it was an absolute delight to be greeted by them. I came along side the broken marina and they jumped onto the boat and helped me find a place to tie up the Lady.

I was taken to one of the boats I knew for a celebratory drink and was greeted by other yachties that I had not seen for months. It was a lovely reunion heightened by the events that had just happened. These people understood what I had just been through. I was totally exhausted and went back to the boat to sleep. In the blackness of the night I lay in my bunk reliving the afternoon.  I knew I had been in a very serious situation and if something had gone wrong my life options were not good. I am not trying to be a “he man” when I say I was not scared, yes I was very concerned but I trusted the Lady and wished for the storm to end. I was proud that I had everything inside the boat locked away other than a book on adventures at sea that had flown across the cabin and hit me in the head. I also realised that I had learnt so much from sailing across the Indian Ocean and that I automatically did things and, best of all, I believed in myself and my ability.  I also had time to finish saying the rosary and give thanks.

In the morning I discovered that two aerials mounted on top of the solar cells were totally destroyed and my body felt like I had fought with a monster, but I still had a big smile on my face. Yes I made it.

Next step
I am sailing down the coast to Cape Town where I will celebrate Christmas and the New Year with a group of lovely people from other boats whom I have met whilst on my journey. I will also take time to undertake a few repairs and have a look around this interesting country. I will leave the boat at a safe marina and come back to Australia in late January to work for a few months and bore people with stories from the sea.

I can be contacted on my cell phone with a local South African number, +27 76547 1685.

I now know that I love sailing the seas and the challenge that it brings, and I also so much enjoy visiting ports and the people who live there.

Thank you to all who send me messages, call me and enjoy sharing my little adventure.

Love
Peter

Thank you to my supporters:

–       Medical Industries Australia for an extensive offshore medical kit
–       JSE Marine Electrical for extensive spare parts and tools
–       Endeavour Marine for spare parts for the Volvo Penta engine