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Bumpity-bump-bump:

A Passage from New Zealand to Fiji

I set out nearly a week after my planned departure date. The weather had been northerly (no good for sailing north)—but here at last was the window. I was not the only boat to jump at the blue skies and fair winds, southeasterlies, the trades, pushing our vessels northward toward the Fijian Isles and sunny tropics. Everyone expected the window to last at least four days, then anything could happen.

But no. Weather is weather—always utterly unpredictable. I didn’t get that expected window, maybe two days, just long enough to get clear of New Zealand. Those fair sou’easterlies clocked around to the east and piped up and up and up, raising the swell with it. My course was nearly due north, so I was taking the swell directly on the beam (middle of the boat). This is anything but comfortable. ARABY, being small and sitting low in the water, she takes these waves over the topsides and they crash upon the cabintop. If I didn’t have storm shutters on my windows I should have been worried about them collapsing. And for good reason—another boat in the same depression lost a port—it simply blew in with the pressure and battering of crashing waves. That’s a bloody great hole in the side of your boat. And another boat lost a front hatch—that’s even a bigger gapping hole. So indeed it was rough. Every now and again a great wave would come out of the unseen waters and hit you like freight train, with all the sound and fury, and keep on rolling by like you weren’t even there, leaving a strange quiet behind in its wake.

These waves caused problems. They may not have busted through my windows or ports, they didn’t rip off my cabin or dinghy (thank heavens), but they did plenty else. They tore my solar panels from their lower lashings and, for one of them, this tore the wiring from its terminal. This is not good.

Most aggravating though, were the waves that broke directly on the cabin. They would hit occasionally with enough water to force through the seal of the companionway hatch and cause a miniature Victoria Falls in the galley—and on my feet—when I was trying to sleep. This is most intolerable. The fundamental element of feeling safe at sea is the separation between the wind and sea outside, and the calm and dryness inside. Water in the boat destroys the sanctity of the boat, the embryonic safety that is necessary for sanity at sea.

ARABY is not a wooden boat. Glass boats are supposed to be dry. Yet this trip was anything but dry. Waterfalls in the galley! Drips here and there. It was as if the outside world were pressurized upon me; any and every flaw, every flaw was magnified.

The most problematic was the hawse hole. A hawse hole is a hole in the bow where the anchor chain comes from the windlass through the deck into the chain locker. Essentially it is sizable hole in the foredeck of a boat which can be a very wet place. I took great care in stuffing that hole when I left—duct tape, plastic bags, rags, and all this inside a sailbag used as a windlass cover, thoroughly lashed. It was a fine job; there was a sense of pride with it. /That /will never leak, I thought. I’ve had too many problems there in the past. But as the storm raged, I’d stand amidships and watch the bow as she plunged and skewered itself through the steep swell. The windlass and hawse hole were commonly under green water, lots of it. It wasn’t a matter of spray, but firehose-like pressure and beyond. It didn’t look good.

It would be days before I would realize this. The storm started gradually enough—the wind coming around as I mentioned, slowly rising to a gale. I don’t listen to the SSB (long range radio). If I did I would have known that a low of spectacular proportions was bulldozing its way due south from Fiji. There was general panic amongst sailors. All boats were running for the hills. A friend was sailing with his mother and she was thinking she might die. The low was too fast, though. No one escaped. (This may or may not be accurate, but sounds good for the drama of the story.)

As the wind rose, I reefed down and continued on like that for a couple of days. It was brutal though, no pleasure in it. We were being pummeled tirelessly. As I watched the barometer drop and drop the fear of an out of season typhoon (hurricane) haunted me. After several days of gale force winds, the weather didn’t want to break. To the contrary, it seemed to still be intensifying.

I dropped the jib and hove-to. I was tired. It is exhaustion that is most dangerous to a solo sailor at sea. This is when you slip, you get injured, you lose your balance, or you make a fatal mistake and go over the side. I walked a narrow line. Being tired, conditions being what they were, a rogue sea surprised me once as a worked a lashing on the mainsail. Will and an old climber’s finger-strength held me one handed to that lashing as the boat lurched far to port. I was furious at myself for such lack of awareness. A fall there would have been costly. Control was starting to unravel at the edges. It was time to heave-to and get inside.

It was then that I dropped the jib into the water.

It being reefed, it scooped water like a bucket. It bowed the forestay under the weight. I fought it back aboard and as a lashed her down I found the rip along the luff. This hurt me deep. It was my fault. My jib, torn! This is what drives the boat. Sailing is all about sails. I let her down.

If I hadn’t been tired I might have brought the sail inside. As it was, I lashed it on the foredeck as usual. But these weren’t usual conditions. The seas were breaking strongest there now. Being hove-to the boat was now pointed to windward, into the swell. It didn’t take long for the lashings to sag and the seas to pull the sail out of her containment. And worse, the battering she took caused a lashing to chafe through the sail in two small places. Carnage. The jib would ride out the storm there though, without other mishap.

It was sometime just after heaving to, after being in the weather for three to four days that I heard a good sloshing in the bow. I was trying to sleep and thought, “Well geez, we are taking a bit of water in the hawse hole after all. I can bloody well hear it.” As I crawled forward to have a look, I looked down into a cubby below the V-berth and damn if it wasn’t half-full of water. Now this was a new miracle aboard ARABY. I’ve taken on water before. I’ve had my share of leaks and drips. The chain locker has given me no shortage of pains—but water in the footwell in the V-berth? This was a thing unheard of. And it portended bad things.

Essentially, if there is that much water this far aft, then the chain locker has been flooding for some time. The water got high enough in there to spill out and into the forward stowage in the V-berth. It then further filled until it started to flood down and down and down. I should mention that my little Honda generator lives in that footwell. It was half underwater and is currently in a salt-water coma. (I have since revived it. Hurray. It’s Alive.)

What a disaster! I had sworn an oath to myself that I would never let the chain locker flood again. And I just painted the whole of the interior. Now “water, water everywhere. . .” all over again. My poor genny. Power tools, ect. Soaked.

It was time for the bucket brigade. I was amazed at the waterfall occasionally spitting down the anchor chain. So improbable.

Bucket after bucket, I worked slowly aft. Strangely, I actually enjoyed the brigade this time. (This is my second experience with a bucket brigade underway.) It was a job; I was working to keep ARABY afloat (no, not really, but from flooding); it was doing what had to be done and I liked it. Every few hours during the worst of it I’d go and fetch a bucket or two.

As the weather reached its climax I wondered whether my try’sle would hold. The rational side of me said to drop all sail and lie to a sea anchor. But honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. I was getting more tired. But also, aside from the imtimidation of the screeching wind and breaking seas, I knew it couldn’t be that bad. I knew, deep down I knew the try’sle could handle much more. But, God, it seemed impossible.

I don’t know how hard it blew. I wouldn’t go out there at the peak. Rain came. It was like being in a sand storm. It was impossible to see. But I believe I could have stood up if I needed to. I wasn’t forced to crawl. Times like these you put your faith in the boat and let her tend for herself. I’d estimate it was 45-55 knots; the strongest I’ve seen. It can get much worse and one day I’m sure it will.

We were hove-to safely. The seas weren’t big enough to roll the boat, but they did their best. I hunkered down. I wasn’t as vigilant as I should have been. Perhaps I was safer staying in my bunk. But chafe is evil and things weren’t stowed for weather of this caliber. For precaution, because I am engineless, I now keep the dinghy half inflated on the foredeck, available for quick use. But she is a liability there. Frankly, it is a miracle she didn’t get washed away. I had written her off in my heart. But she made it; she hung tight, though a piece of her floorboard was jarred loose and was lost to the sea.

This passage was determined not to end until the anchor was dropped and ARABY swung to. Even with the passing of the low, the winds shifted north instead of south. I was perhaps nine, ten days out from NZ. We had made good way, considering I hove-to for three days. The one lone perk had been that, while we were hove-to, our drift was due north—dead on course.

Now, with a nor-easter, we had to beat to weather. The seas were still steep. This was a miserable time. It was nice to see the sky clearing and it was nice to make way. There was a lull for a day with some fair sailing, but it was mostly drudgery.

And there is an ironic twist. I have had many windvane troubles and this passage was no exception. All the failures came to a climax at about seventy miles out. I was on the foredeck, of course, and ARABY starts heading up into the wind. I, of course, got drenched, and for the ‘nth time. I cursed at the vane and trimmed it a bit—nothing. I trimmed a bit more—nothing. Huh. . . So I went to have a closer look—nothing.

I mean to say there was nothing there. The servo-paddle, the part in the water that drives the windvane, had fallen off, well. . . broken off would be the better description. It was dragging by its trip line five feet behind the boat.

I had to chuckle to myself: I had tried to trim the vane twice. . . twice, and it wasn’t even steering the boat. The boat was steering itself naturally—albeit, a bit high, but not bad really, with no windvane at all. And herein lies the irony: uncomfortable though the course may be, it is a course the boat will steer naturally _without_ the windvane, which was now on the DL list. So, for a bit longer, I don’t have to man the helm.

A crucial weld had snapped, a weld that had snapped on my way to NZ. I had it repaired and improved there. Ah, but to no avail. I would have to hand steer us in, eventually.

As the sun came up on the twelfth and last morning, Fiji could be seen hunkering in the mist twenty miles ahead. It was a rough sea, a wet sea, as uncomfortable as any sailing I’ve done, heeling to 40 degrees. On making the outer reef I fell off and ran downwind until I could spot the Malolo Pass. I would lash the helm and then climb up the ratlines (rope ladder in the rigging) to get a view of the breakers and look for the gap that would be the pass. Then I’d scurry down as fast as I could before boat jibed or rounded up.

Eventually I saw the break. A great, huge mouth in the whitewater. It was big and clear. A wonderful sight. My heart was in my throat. I took a deep breath and turned to windward, sheeting in hard. The course would be tight—I could just carry the necessary course to make it through the pass.

As I entered, the seas all of a sudden turned to glass, the swell vanished. The wind was still stout, but the state of the tide was such as to completely dampen any windwaves. It was an awesome thing. We were rippin’ a good six knots through the pass, keeping the bead-line course straight through and into the placid waters of Fiji. And then, like that, I was clear; I was safe; I was in.

Of course, the wind followed me at each turn—I had head winds all the way. Well. . . not all the way. Five miles out from Lautoka, five in the afternoon—I was becalmed. Of all things. . . no wind! Ha. What a joke! After the trip I had had, becalmed, with one hour to go, after nearly two weeks of toil.

I left the helm. I couldn’t be bothered; what did it matter? I thought about dropping anchor, but why? I threw a line overboard and jumped in. Water has never, ever felt so refreshing; sublime is the word. I had already dropped the dinghy in the water. I crawled in the dinghy and scrubbed myself a bit and then went for the outboard.

I plopped the outboard on and was amazed when she actually did crank right up. Something survived! We sidetied and off we went. I was not to be denied, not an hour out, not a chance. I was thirsty for the end and I new it was just around one more island.

After about forty-five minutes a light northerly sprung up, just enough. I killed the engine. The sun was falling. All was calm and quiet. This moment is what sailing is all about. No motor, I sailed softly into the harbor of Lautoka under the red sky and grey evening light. Not a sound.

At first I didn’t recognize any boats. There is nothing like looking at a friend after a long passage, the camaraderie, the shared experience, the validation. It didn’t look like it was to be—I didn’t recognize a boat. But then, from behind another vessel, I thought I saw MONKEY’S BUSINESS. If there was anyone I would want to see right then. . . anyone it would be them. And there they were. There were only a few boats in the wide anchorage. I slowly tucked in behind them. I noticed they weren’t aboard.

At the same time I saw a dinghy I recognized heading my way. There they came, Laurel and Jason—and they didn’t even see me! I dropped sail; I eased in a little farther.

I hear, “Hey, is that. . . ? No. . . it’s Jonah? Oh my god! Oh my god, it is!” Laurel’s chipper voice. They were along side as I dropped the hook. I lost all track of how much chain I was letting out. It would be enough, more than enough. I let out a sincere sigh and said, “/Man/ am I glad to see you guys.”

And I meant it, deeply.