The Man from Menzies Bay________

 

 

After our dolphin encounter, we deemed it necessary to sit with some tea in a sunny café and relish the experience.  After a long, very long hot hot shower, of course (provided with the tour).  We watched ferocious sea gulls pilfer unwatched or abandoned plates, occasionally breaking glasses in the process.  Little devils.    It was one of those beautiful sunny days, the sort that only can happen after days of rain and cold.  You just sort of soak it in like a draught.

After what seemed like an overly-appropriate amount of time we agreed to set forth down the road south once again.  Kaikoura had been grand indeed.  Christchurch was next.  I wanted to see the harbor and Martina had a contact there through a friend so we'd hopefully have a place to stay the night.

The drive south was the same as all the driving thus far: utterly spellbinding.  New Zealand defies description.  The landscape is ever changing in subtle ways, colors and hues, rainforests, moors, canyons and crags.  Flowers are in bloom and spread across broad river glades and crawl up the sides of cliffy bluffs.  Columbine of pink, yellow, blue, purple and even a few orange.  By the millions.

 

It is at this point where the story starts to lose control of itself.  From here, things get a bit out of hand and things happen of there own accord. 

 

Time was getting on.  The harbor of Lytleton (Christchurch) was blah-blah so we proceeded west onto the Banks Peninsula where Martina's contact, Hamish, lived.  We assumed that the address was in the town of Akaroa.  We planned on getting gas there and we were running low.  Martina was the driver; I the navigator.  It occurred to me that Hamish was supposedly a farmer (his cousin had climbed in Chamonix with Martina).  If he was a farmer he certainly couldn't live in town.  The address, Menzies Bay, wasn't in fact a road, but a place.  By simple random chance the bay, which was small and impossibly remote, was printed in a Lonely Planet map where it was absent from my travel atlas.  It was north and we wouldn't pass through Akaroa after all.  But it was not so far.  No problem really, I thought.  The peninsula was small.

The mountains steadily grew before us and clouds crowded then spilt over the high ridges in crashing waves.  Martina down geared as we slowly worked up and up.  The mountains were certainly not on the map.  Up, up, and up.  The steepest road thus far.  We  past through the cloud and then crested the pass, thankfully, and started down the other side.   By God! if the backside wasn't even steeper than the front.  The gas gauge steadily dropped.  Thankfully we planed out and started into a little hamlet at the mouth of a stunning bay (Little Akaloa) and rimmed on either side by great mountains edging down to the northern sea. 

The road ended at a T and sign to the left indicated Menzies Bay.  Praise the Lord!  At least we were not off track.  But then the doom of the situation started to settle on me.  Menzies Bay.  It was another bay, the next one west presumably.  Looking at the mountains we just came down and the ridge surrounding Little Akaloa Bay I realized we'd have to climb out of this bay to reach the next.  The gas gauge was at the bottom, just off it.  The weight of impending disaster turned my stomach.  The road looked treacherous, steep and long.  I had no idea if we could make it.  But could we, would we really turn back??  This place was stunning—even by New Zealand standards.  And we were off the track at last, off the "Lonely Planet Path to a Killer Trip."  The road sign read: "Menzies Bay No Exit."  I recognized several different connotations.

Naught to do but go on.  Martina again downshifted as we headed up the steep concrete.  It would eventually go to gravel and dirt.  The edge was a sheer as any Himalayan highway I can remember.  Seatbelts—bah!  We were going all the way to the waves.  But Martina was stellar behind the wheel.   She's driven the entire trip.  We peaked the ridge.  The fear and excitement likely added to the impact of the vista.  This was sheep country.  No trees.  Only Scottish-style high-grass moor.  We pondered the necessity of the fences along the road.  Where in the heavens could these sheep go?  We would eventually learn, but first as we crested and then descended did I understand that this wouldn't be Menzies Bay at the bottom.  It was still another bay away.  The drama was only have overcome.  I grimly accepted there would be no making it out.  I'd have to hike out, probably days.  But I didn't care.  It was too marvelous, too surreal—a word we found ourselves using far too often but somehow apt.  Yeah, we'd run out. . . if, if we couldn't get fuel from Hamish.  He was a farmer, and remote; I knew he'd have some.  But I now wondered if we'd even make it there in the first.  We'd long been empty and we were driving hard.

The next farm we pass is far and away the most beautiful I've ever seen: perfectly manicured  and sculpted.  Not a soul around to see. 

We see the opposite side of the bay now before us.  There is no road cutting the face.  This is the end of the road and we weren't making it out alone.  Yet there was no relief ro trepidation—it was far too exhilarating a place and adventure.  We were all smiles and giddiness.  Small tractors and sheds littered the valley, paddocks and corrals, dog kennels, shorn grass and dust on the road bending back toward the head of the bay, Menzies Bay.

We see a couple folks kenneling dogs.  Time to face our demons. We look at each other, smile and cut the engine (for the last time???),

 

Martina had tried to call Hamish and had only reached his answering machine. So we had no idea of knowing whether he'd be home.  Of course, he was a farmer; odds are. . .  So seeing someone was a relief.  But we also suspected he might have heard our message and expect our coming.

We introduced ourselves and we received a big smile in return: "ah, you're Martina.  You did good to find us."

Ah, what relief.  Hamish was youngish—maybe forty dusty slacks, ripped and stained Polo shirt, collar up, sleeves rolled, worn and oiled hat over his ears.  A perfect image from The Man from Snowy River.    Eerie really, but encouraging.  This was my kind of man.  And his smile was genuine.  This was Menzies Bay, the end of the road; you don't get many folks out here.  Old hospitality still holds true for strangers.

At the time we didn't know Hamish's last name.  Judging the nature of the place, I guessed it: Menzies.  Of course, Hamish Menzies of Menzies Bay.  His family has been here for a hundred and fifty years.

 

 

We spent three days in Menzies Bay.  We arrived the day before the mustering would begin.  This next week would be hectic.  All of Hamish's ewes and lambs must be "mustered"—which is like herding, bringing down with dogs from the pastures to the paddocks.  The lambs were to be weaned from the ewes, then shorn, and "dagged"—a hygienic sheering of their bums.  All the ewes were to be dagged as well.  Most of the lambs were to be sorted and many sold, the rest kept to keep up the herd.  Hamish keeps about 3000 sheep in Menzies Bay.

As we talked to Hamish that first time we both knew that we would have to stay on; this wasn't the sort of place you left to quickly.  And to stay on, we'd naturally have to work.    And what did we know about sheep farming?  No matter.  We'd learn, and it would be great.

And that's how it went.  We woke up at five, had breakfast with the crew and went out with the breaking light to muster, sort, and dag the "mob".   I can't remember the last time hard work felt so good.  To be on the land, on a farm, working animals, watching black and tan sheep dogs keenly hopping fences and managing sheep with an inexplicable understanding of the process.  My smile never faltered and I was determined to show my best.  I was the youngest and not having a dog of my own to work, I became one.

There was certainly something more.  I really loved the work; I loved the place; I loved this crew.  Everything about this thing was right.  It dawned on me that I may have found my place.  Or, a place for a while.  I worked all the harder.  For my future.

I asked loads of questions; I learned to work independently; I hustled like a dog and raised many a laugh and cheer from Hamish for succeeding where misbehaving dogs failed (rare).  We moved loads of sheep.  Martina and I worked a good two days before we decided we couldn't stay any longer; her trip was too brief and we had still so far to go.

Leaving was tough.  We all had become close overnight.  Hamish was a climber when the sheeping was light.  He had been to Chamonix once and had climbed a daring route on Mt Cook.  His dad done a bit of sailing and had built his own sail boat.  He said he had access to mooring all around Banks Peninsula if I ever wished to sail down.  (He had no idea of how much I was thinking of doing just that.)  I had learned a bit of Hamish's business and NZ sheep farming in general.  Most farmers couldn't afford to hire on help,  Hamish ran the farm alone except in times like this where there was much to be done.   Help normally came in the form of other farmers, friends in a similar situation themselves, whom Hamish would likewise help when the time came. 

So my prospects of work weren't great.  But they were somewhat good.  There was what Martina and I called "the Holiday House"—a sort of guest house on the property.  Hamish had made it clear he'd love to have us back.  At the least I could have free room and board.  Before I left we discussed the prospect more seriously and he said he could find some paying work for me as well.  If "Old Man Menzies" (Rick Menzies) could find me a free mooring and I could work for room, board and a bit of cash, live in the Holiday House—I could lead a hell of a life for a while, learn the sheeping business, climb a bit with Hamish around Mt Cook, take enough time off to write. . . . .

 

It is a beautiful dream.  To me.  It has its drawbacks.  We aren't as close to the Southern Alps as I'd like to be.  And it is bounded.  A man is coming to work for Hamish in May.  I wouldn't relish sharing the Holiday House even if Hamish wanted me to stay on.  So the dream is looking like a  two month stint perhaps.

 

But it is a dream and could flee in the coming weeks.  The Banks Peninsula is a long way from Opua.  And I still haven't seen Nelson, my previous first choice for harbor and home.  What is more important was that it was an incredible experience, something new, different and refreshing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Day Dawns

 

I've been busy, a happy sort of busy.  I've been sitting in a dark moldy room using an old computer with archaically (ha!) slow internet.  I hardly go anywhere.  There is precious little food in the house.  Don't even have sweet tea!  No one seems to call me back, no matter how many times I call.  (Why does everyone seem to climb in a hole when I come to town / finally have a phone?)  Martina is half a world away and not leaving—very distressing.  And I have a cold!

Yet, somehow, I am extremely enthused. 

Why?  Because I am finally making headway on a project I conceived five years ago, meant to start four ? years ago, and has been stagnant ever since.  For one thing, all the auxillary parts weren't well conceived in my head, not as well as they are now.

Unfortunately, I am talking about the most simple of things: a website.  Sorry to disappoint.  But this really means a lot to me.  I love photography and I've never been able to share my pictures with anyone.  The photos I / we (Martina and I) took in New Zealand are far and away the best of my life.  But how many of my friends have seen my Alaska pictures, or Ladakh?  Not too many, I don't think.

What is more, for the last two to three years I've had no software to work on my photos.  (I had photoshop on my old computer, but no more.)  Now I downloaded Picasa, which is simple, but I think it may be a really great thing.  I've spent hours using Picasa to reorganize, to crop, add light and contrast—man! this program has brought photos to life that I never dreamed had such character to them. 

It has been an obsession for days.

Now I have almost complete folders of the photos that I wish to upload to the internet.

Ahh. . . but where?

 

The internet is so slow my attempts at building a site were throttled and mocked.  However, the repeated failures led me to learn more about my blog.  I can open numerous blogs.  Then it occurred to me—I don't need a site with numerous pages, I can use one site linked to numerous other sites.  Blogger has been bought by Google and both are affiliated with Picasa.  I use gmail so now I have one log in for everything I use on the internet (well, mostly).  I've learned how to upload photos into my blog, at last, but now have links to my photo galleries in Picasa.

So at last it has begun.  The blog that I have had since '03, started in Nepal, has now morphed into something more respectable, something more useful, something that will become a serious tool in the years to come.

At present it is still a social tool, but I hope to change all that in the next five years.  I hope to change a lot in the next five years.  And what I am doing right now, today, is laying the ground work for what is to come.

 

Today I started looking at quality cameras.  That is the next, immediate step.  I am writing down email addresses for potential writing submissions.  The big rock I've been tentatively trying to push is now slowly starting to budge.

 

In all fairness I should say that, for the most part, my trip home has not been nearly this rosy.  At first, I went out with old friends and did have a hell of a time—best I've had home in years and years.  But it went eventually too far, staying up too late, eventually caught a well-deserved cold that won't go away.  I haven't been exercising enough.  But I got hit hard by family drama—I always get a full year's dose all in a week.  And it has been a big year in the family.  It wore me out.

And I miss Martina who I had such a great time with in New Zealand.  I won't ever be the same.

Yes, and I have NZ stories—I'll get them out soon, I hope.

So until. . . now. . . I've been quite low, even with friends around, quite lonely.  I was more at peace alone on my boat.

 

But this is often because I feel unproductive here.  Usually true.  But not at the moment, not now.  I'm knocking it out and it feels good.  Of course, this is all perfunctory, it doesn't add up to much—but I think in the end it will—it is part of something that is my passion.   Time will tell.

 

 

SO. . . from now on, if you care to read what I have to write, you'll have to click one more bottom to do it.  No more mass emails.  Now there will be pictures in my blog on occasion.  So please—just click the link.  No problem.  Don't be discouraged.  Easy as a self-tailing winch!

 

 

 

no news

No new news. Had some good meetings with folk about business stuff. Had an excellent conversation with JRincker last night, long awaited. All is well. The best part is sending so much time with my younger brother Charles--the most time we've spent together in five, six years.

This is a picture of Martina with a pet lamb when we were staying in Menzies Bay on the South Island of New Zealand.

Getting it together - Techno progress

Considering that I am on dial-up, I can’t use my own computer, and I’ve somehow lost my external harddrive, I am rather pleased with what I am getting done.

PAUSE.

I am home, back in Columbia with my family for the holiday. It is a long stay, because I was hoping to make use of free internet. I think even though it is free, dial-up is almost as bad as paying by the hour.

So this is where I am. Araby is still sleeping at the dock in Opua, I hope, safely. I have a sore throat, have been staying out too late, and miss friends that aren’t here. Would love to get some phone calls.

Anyway, I am trying to get my photos online so I can share them. That is happening slowly. I am also renovating my blog to act more like a website—since I can’t build one on this old thing I’m typing on. But I’m encouraged. I’m learning slowly. I even opened a MySpace page to see if that would be of any help. I’m skeptical, but it is a neat thing.

So now for the first time I have a photo on my blog, and links to more albums on Picasa and still more to come. This is all encouraging.

A Berth in Opua_________

At rest. The boat hasn’t moved, and neither have I if all be told. Willy is gone. He hoped on a new friend’s boat, a little 31’ and headed south to the call of culling sheep and hooking some trout.

Since he’s left I’ve slept a lot—trying to reacclimatize myself to my boat again. That is the longest I’ve had a roommate in many years.

I’m doing the most serious cleaning of Araby since I bought her. But my heart isn’t totally in it yet. My head is stuck in a book, a series really: “The Dark Tower”. I am almost finished with it. Seven books; I am on the last. It is hard to put down.

What am I really writing about?

What I really want to say is thank you. It has meant so much to me to receive letters from you all. I avidly look forward to reading them, feeling some thread of connection to my old “lives’. You all carry me through, help me to think better of myself, give me a face in my mind that I wouldn’t want to disappoint.

Sometimes I have to dig and scrap deep for motivation. Anyway, thanks.

I won’t be sending these emails as regular for a while. I’m going into hibernation for a few months, I think.

My boat is where it will stay through February, here on a linear dock in Opua. (Not so different from the linear dock I left in Port Townsend.) I am cleaning everything thoroughly ‘cause she’ll be on her own for a while.

On the 25^th my friend Martina flies into Auckland. Martina and I met on a train from Chamonix. I was confused and asked her if she thought I was on the right train. We talked briefly and I somehow extracted her email address from her.

That was, what, five, six years ago?

We haven’t seen each other since. We’ve written back and forth, growing more frequent as the years have passed.

Now we’re going climbing and “tramping” around New Zealand together for a few weeks.

After that, it is home to see the family and to attend to personal affairs, watch the ducks fly.

Mid January it is back to Araby and, hopefully, by then I’ll have a plan of what is to come. Part of this upcoming tramp is to scope out harbors in the South Island that I may want to reside in for the coming winter.

I want to be near the mountains. I need to write.

Really, after the last passage and the intensity of the dreams I had then, I am a bit nervous. The exhilaration has worn off and now I am left with the gravity of what I saw.

Is it real? And worse: Can I really do that?

I am frankly intimidated. It was so exciting to see these images so clearly, see them like they are real—but because they look real the effort of achieving them is veiled. Because they look real, there is no question of whether I can or I can’t—it already is!

But now that all has passed and I am left haunted by what I have seen. I walk forward timid and a bit confused. Where do I start anyway???

This is neither here nor there, just something I realized on a run this evening. (I need to get in shape. The mountains here are BIG).

The point was to say THANKS. And to say I was going on sabbatical.

To be continued. . .

"Houses are but badly built boats so firmly aground that you cannot think of moving them. They are definitely inferior things, belonging to the vegetable not the animal world, rooted and stationary, incapable of gay transition. I admit, doubtfully, as exceptions, snailshells and caravans. The desire to build a house is the tired wish of a man content thenceforward with a single anchorage. The desire to build a boat is the desire of youth, unwilling yet to accept the idea of a final resting place.

It is for that reason perhaps, that when it comes, the desire to build a boat is one of those that cannot be resisted. It begins as a little cloud on a serene horizon. It ends by covering the whole sky, so that you can think of nothing else. You must build to regain your freedom. And always you comfort yourself with the thought that yours will be the perfect boat, the boat that you may search the harbors of the world for and not find."

by Arthur Ransome

New Zealand__________

Safe and sound across the Pacific. It feels so good, sitting here, tied up to a dock for the first time since San Diego. No more passages for a while now. I can sit back and relish it a bit. No fear for what’s waiting around the corner. The season’s over. Now to land. Now to the hills. Soon to home and family and food and fires under the pecan trees, stories to tell and here.

This passage was quiet. High pressure prevailed and moderated the winds and quelled the seas. We did slow days. Jumped in for a bath when becalmed—eerie swimming in 15,000 feet deep water. But it felt great, like an astronaut floating in space.

When we were moving fast enough to fish we did well, catching skipjack and tuna mostly on this trip. Lots of sashimi and seared tuna breakfasts.

What made this trip special, besides having crew and having that crew being my brother, was actually the result of a gear failure—a major one at that. After a few days out the windvane broke a weld and the servo-paddle just fell off (it was tied on from the bottom with a small string—so it didn’t drop the 15,000” to see Davy Jones)

I thought of JB welding where the weld failed—it would be the only solution. The pipe has to rotate in another tube, therefore no thru-bolting. But the odds of it working were so slim.

So I decided to make use of my crew and hand-steer the boat, like the heathen pirates of old!

If you’re not a sailor you may not realize how little time is really spent behind the tiller or wheel these days. No one steers anymore. Autopilots are the rule. Or windvanes. Coming in or out of anchorages and through passes are the only times most people take over from the machines. (This is not always true, of course. My friend Tilikum would always steer during her shifts.) I do occasionally, but not often enough.

This trip was different.

It was wonderful to be at the helm. Suddenly, instead of being able to hide behind a book or under sleep I was forced to stare at the horizon, watch the sun rise and fall, watch the moon slowly wax toward full night after night after night. Four hours at a time.

Steering a boat can be very meditative.

Before leaving Vava’u, I had some amazing conversations with two great new friends, Ben and Lisa on Waking Dream, about lucid dreaming (waking dreams). We talked about the future, how fortunate we had been in the past and how we had come to be where we were. It was a grand time and put me in a place of contemplation along with meeting Trevor on Iron Bark.

Now, sitting at the helm with so much lying just beneath the surface of my thought, it all erupted. Each shift I could dive into dreams and find things I’ve forgotten or overlooked for some time. I laughed and laughed at the things I’ve overlooked in life and how they could come back to me again, here, now, in the middle of the ocean.

I spent 10 days this way. Laughing at myself from the helm. Plotting out my future, imaging different routes and exploring them. Sacrifices and pleasures.

It is hard to explain how liberating this passage has been, how clarifying. I feel as though I’ve shed many heavy garments with the onset of spring. My spirit is lighter for it.

This is what made the trip special.

Otherwise, we had dolphins near the Bay of Islands and two whales as well. The real pleasure was watching the sea birds day after day. They are the most graceful fliers I’ve ever seen and Willy agrees as well. I can’t be sure what they were: boobies and petrel—maybe terns. We had some albatross occasionally and they are a true sight to behold. They don’t look quite real; unworldly. Wonderful to have around. We watched them endlessly.

We were very lucky to have no storms. We paid for it with calms.

We had a high number of failures: windvane, main halyard (no surprise there), autopilot (again), main sheet shackle hinge…..there were more that slip my mind. But we arrived safe and that was the goal, ever the goal. The rig saw us through and now she can rest a while. Now comes a time of recovery, slow work to make her look new again, loved and professional—not all hacked and half-assed as she currently looks. Now I finish the jobs properly. Now I have time, plenty of time. I hope to stay here in New Zealand a long time.

So that is it.

Actually, the most exciting part of the trip happened today after we had arrived. Will and I were sitting on the porch of a seaside restaurant having a celebratory beverage. There is a ferry that shuttles cars across to another island just next to the restaurant on one side and a long quay juts out on the other. (Imagine a small narrow horseshoe. A restaurant and a ferry landing at the head, anchorage in the middle.) So we are sitting there and I notice the ferry doing a sort of doughnut, or maybe a three point turn in the middle of the very small anchorage. A bit odd yes, but I didn’t think about it. We were talking; Will was rolling a cigarette. Then I noticed him doing it again.

What the hell? “Willy, what’s this guy doing? This is his second one?” Will hadn’t noticed anything yet. Now the ferry had our attention. As he came around he slowed a bit and then looked as if he’d straighten out and head out of the anchorage. And just then he’d veer again. And hard.

“Holy shit! He’s gonna hit. Oh my god.”

Then he’d goose it and just miss hitting a boat on the dock, a friend’s boat as it were, turning sharply. He didn’t make it this time. “THONGG” He nicked off one piling and crashed hard in to the next one.

It was out of control. Again he straightened up. But just a bit. He had slowed. There was wind. He had to go. And then he’d mysteriously loose control. It was terrifying. He came so close to wiping out a little red powerboat at anchor that we couldn’t see how he hadn’t hit it.

Again, he came only several feet from another catamaran on the wharf. Mere feet! Before slamming into the piling along side it. (Those people had sailed that catamaran all the way from Europe, crossed the Atlantic, the Caribbean, and the Pacific—only to get sunk here in NZ by a ferry boat!!) They were so so lucky.

I think the ferry made six suicidal doughnuts in the anchorage. Hit no boats! Before getting it together and pulling into the landing. The captain was met by a roaring cheer from the small crowd on shore.

As it would happen, one of the two engines had failed, there making him turns circles. Doesn’t make good sense to me, but I’m not a ferry boat captain. But it was one of the most terrifying things I’ve seen in ages. Seeing something that massive so out of control. . . I was damned glad to have my boat far elsewhere. It was an hour and a half before I was calmed down again. Seriously.

-jonah

Bright Eyes

Bright Eyes­­­­______

Hard passages generally bring many things into question. Doubt and new born wondering sneak into the dark corners of your mind. You have to ask yourself why the hell you put yourself through this shit. A fair question. And these questions lead deeper. You look at where you stand, what you have accomplished, and where you have failed or been blinded.

These last few days the introspection has been winding and swirling deeper and deeper. The thoughts, some negative, some comic, some serious—have been whirling around without tether linking them together in anyway meaningful. Well, until tonight.

After a regatta in honor of the new Tongan king Will and I went to the post party at the Mermaid bar, which is actually a restaurant overhanging the water—we climb straight from the dinghy into the restaurant. I saw a man I’ve been wanting to talk to for some time, a guy I briefly met in Western Samoa. His name is Trevor and he has a boat that is different from the rest. It’s a boat that can go and do anything. It is a boat that woke me up and reminded me of what I am supposed to be doing.

What am I doing? (One amongst the swirl.)

When I left Port Townsend I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do. But I was green then. My goals and dreams were idealized and theoretical. Reality always paints herself more vividly and with her colors she distracts us, mesmerizes us and we wander in a path that seems to suite us. But is this the way we wanted to go? I’m not sure.

But I am going, and that is something at least. Yet now I am standing back and looking at ground covered. My eyes have adjusted to the life here, a year has rolled past and I am not as green as I once was. I have worked; I have played, been sunburned and sick, been alone and surrounded by friends. So. . .what have I to show for it?

I have had some of the greatest experiences of my life, some of my happiest times. Diving was nearly an obsession, wonderfully so. But I see I have also been diverted; I have drifted a bit from what is more vitally important. I will admit to myself though, that I am not fully to blame.

Traveling the south pacific is like a carnival ride: Move, move, move some more. Island after island. Similar and different. Visas expire or typhoon season approaches. Move, move move. The clock always ticks. Visit a few anchorages, take some pictures—next. Choose one place over five others a hundred others. Can’t see them all. Choose well. And yet many choose the same. The coconut milk run is the standard route across the south pacific. It is good. And this is what everyone does.

And everyone knows more that I do; they have more experience. Hell, they even have a plan. They must know. And what is more is that they are all so great. This is without compare the most generous and giving and selfless community I have had the honor of being a part of. Words cannot describe. . . no amount of thanks can repay. I am at a loss. So why not follow them?

Why?

My dream is not their dream. What is in my heart may be different from what is in theirs. I have forgotten the face of my father as Childe Roland would say. But my talk with Trevor tonight has rekindled the light of my dusty plans.

I travel to learn, to experience, to grow, to push. Pleasure is a byproduct (don’t mock!). What has the south Pacific taught me? Yes, perhaps a fair deal, but it hasn’t been that way as a whole. It has been a pleasure cruise, like I said, a carnival. How much time have I spent on land? How many locals have I met? How many meals shared? How much local work / community service have I offered? The answers to these questions I am shamed by. They are feable.

I admit that it isn’t purely my fault. The south Pacific isn’t conducive to this sort of experience. There are so many islands to see and time is so short if you don’t wish to stay through til next year, which I don’t and wouldn’t—one must hurry. Then my options were limited to be true. But I still must see and recognize that this isn’t how I want to continue. I can’t allow myself the mental lassitude to simply, blindly follow the crowd. And thus far I have.

The trip to Tonga again made clear the shortcomings of my fair yacht, Araby. Instead of envying other’s, I’ve taken the position of making do with what I have. If I kept on as I am going—the milk run, the standard “easy” low latitude circumnavigation—my boat would serve me well. She is simple and fare.

But that isn’t my dream. I must push, I must work, I must grow. And for me that means cold places, high latitudes (and elevations). I need an engine. I need a boat that can carry greater amounts of supplies (food, water, and fuel). I need a boat that can sleep crew. These are mostly issues that are unresolvible with my current boat. I can’t make it bigger. I can’t make it stronger (steel). I can’t put a big engine in her and hundred gallon water tanks and food stuffs for a year. I can hardly fit one crew aboard.

Trevor has a boat called Ironbark. She is a Wylo design. Wylos are steel gaff-rigged cutters. Shallow draft, ¾ keeled centerboard, tabernacled mast. 32 or 36 footers. They are generally home built so there is some variety. They are designed as a “go anywhere cold” boat and this is rare these days, very.

They aren’t so pretty, but since first seeing the Ironbark I have become a bit enamored. It reminded me of what this is all supposed to be about. But I needed a talk with Trevor. I wanted to hear if what I was seeing was true to what I was feeling. Who is he? Where has he been? Why does he have such a boat?

We talked. Talking to Trevor was not like talking to the sailors I have met before. We didn’t talk about rigs or speed or weather patterns or the local market. We talked about freezing a boat into Antarctic ice for a winter, how, when you do this, the ice will actually pull the boat down instead of popping it up as I had thought. We talked about how to fillet a penguin (much like a duck, it seems), how you can keep warmer in Greenland because there is more snow and can pack it around the boat and make it into an igloo. And the skiing was better there. (Trevor is so far the only other sailor I’ve met who carries his skis and crampons aboard.) We talked about the preferablity to visiting the Patagonian channels in winter because of more stable winds punctuated with the few low pressure systems that slide through. Yes, it is colder, but the weather is drier and better all round. And then you find yourself at the Horn ready to head around and to Antarctica at the beginning of summer.

We talked of all things far from the cruising mainland, far, far from the coconut milk run. We were off the charts. Freezing oneself into a bay for an Antarctic winter was an idea Robin Fargason had had when I first started dreaming of sailing. I never imagined anyone else was mad enough to do it. And alone! But it is real. The dream is real. And I had almost forgotten, traded it for a bright and colorful life around the equator. Come, follow us, we know the way.

No. It’s time to remember. I won’t follow the group around the world. I likely won’t head back to the south pacific next year (though I may—the diving!!!). It is time to slow down and find my pace. I will stay in New Zealand a year if I can. I must relearn how to climb. I must participate in a community ashore once again.

Perhaps I will even sell my beloved boat and begin afresh, with a better idea of what I want and need to accomplish what I must. I feel I am back on track, the Path of the Beam leading to the Dark Tower. (I didn’t know I was lost—do we ever?)

It’s been so much fun though. Perhaps I wasn’t so much off track as slowly loosing my bearing. Either or. I feel refreshed. I once again can look forward and see clearly. I again have something I must go after and attack. I have missed it so. I will slow down I will head south sometime soon. I will work on my skills. I will participate in the world outside. To these I must be true.

Tough leg

Tonga­­­­­_________

Tonga is lovely, but we haven’t seen much of it yet. We’ve been a bit overcome by rain and stormy weather, not to mention work that has to be done.

The work is due to an unusually trying trip down from Samoa. I don’t know how I really want to describe it: It was not comfortable. Honestly, it was the worst leg I’ve ever done. The devil was in the cockpit with us draping us with poor fortune and weather.

It took us 8 days to travel 300 miles, a distance I could usually do in just 2 ½. The wind was strong and directly in front of the boat. The waves weren’t so large, but steep and continually breaking on the boat, flowing through the companionway and into the cabin.

The continual beating caused old gaskets to fail, so water started coming through leeward port lights (windows) and even down the running light wire. Water found all sorts of new and extravagant ways into the boat.

Islands kept getting in our way, making navigation tenuous. The weather was so bad that staying out on watch (as to not hit the islands) was nightmarish. Everytime we’d even stick a head out to check Poseidon would generally find a way to send a breaker at that exact moment to give us a salty cold shower.

It was cold, cold and wet. We hove-to to wait for better weather but it was hopeless. It was a stationary trough, 25 knots out of the SE. We gave it up after two to three days of going backwards 50 miles.

It shouldn’t have been so rough, but somehow it was. Araby is just so wet close-hauled. And Tonga was dead upwind. The second day we made good only 35 miles (in a straight line, while we sailed great zig-zags).

I was due.

It was time for a rough one. So many others have had such bad fortune and I’ve been so lucky for so long. But now I’ve had my day; I’ve had it and I’ve come through okay.

We came very very close to going onto a reef. It was truly terrifying; one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had aboard any boat. This part of the story requires much more than I am going to give it today. But another time I’ll tell it properly. But let it be said that I was tested thoroughly. I only passed by the skin of my teeth.

I broke my boom in 12 knots of wind—this was long before the bad weather—this was just after leaving Apia. Strange thing. Not even a bad jibe; residual damage I suppose. So the whole trip we did with the trys’le (the tri- is a storm sail, not good for going up wind).

But breaking a boom is a bit of a big deal. It will be an important fix for the next passage to NZ. They also can be very expensive to replace if you don’t find a cheap solution. (Up to seven grand—but as cheap as $500, or maybe free if I’m lucky.) For now, I need a sleeve and some rivets. The replacement will be in NZ.

For now, drying the boat. (The rain isn’t helping). Fixing the boom (when it stops raining). Then we will get some local charts and start moving around and see some anchorages and do some more diving. I did see a sea snake and another moray at a sort of “refuge” anchorage just inside the archipelago.

I did many silly silly things, a few stupid things—but Araby came through. We came through. Will was tough and steady. He never freaked out or lost his cool. He caught a stomach flew and was down for several days. Beforehand he did wear out the fish: we caught four fish in two days. A good haul: two barracuda and a wahoo and a mahimahi. We ate well. Canned a bunch, made some jerky, ate some sushi. That was the sunshine of the trip. Every trip has a positive. And Tonga is a fine destination after a long haul. Many friends and good food here as well. Clear water.

Till next time. Namaste

-j

Tonga

Tonga­­­­­_________

Tonga is lovely, but we haven’t seen much of it yet. We’ve been a bit overcome by rain and stormy weather, not to mention work that has to be done.

The work is due to an unusually trying trip down from Samoa. I don’t know how I really want to describe it: It was not comfortable. Honestly, it was the worst leg I’ve ever done. The devil was in the cockpit with us draping us with poor fortune and weather.

It took us 8 days to travel 300 miles, a distance I could usually do in just 2 ½. The wind was strong and directly in front of the boat. The waves weren’t so large, but steep and continually breaking on the boat, flowing through the companionway and into the cabin.

The continual beating caused old gaskets to fail, so water started coming through leeward port lights (windows) and even down the running light wire. Water found all sorts of new and extravagant ways into the boat.

Islands kept getting in our way, making navigation tenuous. The weather was so bad that staying out on watch (as to not hit the islands) was nightmarish. Everytime we’d even stick a head out to check Poseidon would generally find a way to send a breaker at that exact moment to give us a salty cold shower.

It was cold, cold and wet. We hove-to to wait for better weather but it was hopeless. It was a stationary trough, 25 knots out of the SE. We gave it up after two to three days of going backwards 50 miles.

It shouldn’t have been so rough, but somehow it was. Araby is just so wet close-hauled. And Tonga was dead upwind. The second day we made good only 35 miles (in a straight line, while we sailed great zig-zags).

I was due.

It was time for a rough one. So many others have had such bad fortune and I’ve been so lucky for so long. But now I’ve had my day; I’ve had it and I’ve come through okay.

We came very very close to going onto a reef. It was truly terrifying; one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had aboard any boat. This part of the story requires much more than I am going to give it today. But another time I’ll tell it properly. But let it be said that I was tested thoroughly. I only passed by the skin of my teeth.

I broke my boom in 12 knots of wind—this was long before the bad weather—this was just after leaving Apia. Strange thing. Not even a bad jibe; residual damage I suppose. So the whole trip we did with the trys’le (the tri- is a storm sail, not good for going up wind).

But breaking a boom is a bit of a big deal. It will be an important fix for the next passage to NZ. They also can be very expensive to replace if you don’t find a cheap solution. (Up to seven grand—but as cheap as $500, or maybe free if I’m lucky.) For now, I need a sleeve and some rivets. The replacement will be in NZ.

For now, drying the boat. (The rain isn’t helping). Fixing the boom (when it stops raining). Then we will get some local charts and start moving around and see some anchorages and do some more diving. I did see a sea snake and another moray at a sort of “refuge” anchorage just inside the archipelago.

I did many silly silly things, a few stupid things—but Araby came through. We came through. Will was tough and steady. He never freaked out or lost his cool. He caught a stomach flew and was down for several days. Beforehand he did wear out the fish: we caught four fish in two days. A good haul: two barracuda and a wahoo and a mahimahi. We ate well. Canned a bunch, made some jerky, ate some sushi. That was the sunshine of the trip. Every trip has a positive. And Tonga is a fine destination after a long haul. Many friends and good food here as well. Clear water.

Till next time. Namaste

-j