Monday, June 13, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Update as at June 9th
Folks -- My dad should arrive Boothbay today or tomorrow (Thursday, June 9th or Friday, June 10th).
Our friend, Paul Lagassey has been providing map updates on the way up the East coast. You can see them here. http://svbrowneyedgirl.com/charts/viewHistory.asp
Just to make the last leg more meaningful, the Gods (God?) decided that it should be done solely under wind power, as they have had no transmission since somewhere off Cape Hatteras. They have therefore alternated over the last week between being a sailboat and a cork.
Here in Boston we have had some amazing thunderstorms overnight, which I presume were a last test for them somewhere between Cape Cod and the Gulf of Maine. I think his current plan is to get to the mouth of the Sheepscot and sort it out from there ...
Travis
Our friend, Paul Lagassey has been providing map updates on the way up the East coast. You can see them here. http://svbrowneyedgirl.com/charts/viewHistory.asp
Just to make the last leg more meaningful, the Gods (God?) decided that it should be done solely under wind power, as they have had no transmission since somewhere off Cape Hatteras. They have therefore alternated over the last week between being a sailboat and a cork.
Here in Boston we have had some amazing thunderstorms overnight, which I presume were a last test for them somewhere between Cape Cod and the Gulf of Maine. I think his current plan is to get to the mouth of the Sheepscot and sort it out from there ...
Travis
Jared's last blog ...
In less than 24 hours my father, the Skip, will arrive back in Boothbay Harbor, Maine after sailing around the world for close to two years now completing a dream that has spanned across four decades and a well-lived life of hard work and dedication to family. As I sit here in Costa Rica writing this (life is tough ;) I wish I could be part of that moment, stepping off the boat and truly arriving home. It has been almost two months since our circumnavigation triumphantly ended in Saint Lucia after starting there 15 months before. It was an intrepid, enlightening, sometimes scary, and always rewarding journey around the world. What an amazing feeling as all the boats formed a single-file line adorned with brilliant code flags and made the arrival back to Rodney Bay. I imagine, in the days after he arrives to Boothbay, that the Skip will realize that there will always be a part of him that is still out there riding the Agulhas current, chasing a wild boar with the spear he made through the jungles of Tanaa, or saying good-bye to a village chief by blowing on a conch shell. I can only say this because in the past two months, I have realized the same and find myself lost in memories on distant shores. I am forever shaped by this epic journey. There will always be that part of me that is still walking beside my Dad along the black volcanic beaches of Tanaa, the two us covered in jungle mud and drenched in sweat and smiling at the prospect of a well-earned pig roast.
I am, no doubt, my father’s son: The good, the bad… mostly good. Our dedication to completing our shared dream of circumnavigating the world wasn’t a fairy-book cruise, by any means. At times boredom, frustration with constant breakages, sadness, terrifying weather, missing my beloved Mercedes (the fiancé, not the car), and even disease; tested our relationship. We did not falter. It was hard emotionally and physically. We never slept well. I remember when I saw a bed for the first time in months in Australia. I took a picture of it, shortly before falling into a deep sleep. We constantly were bruised and battered by the never-ending motion of life on the sea. I should have known the physical toll it would take on me when I broke my toe the first night on the boat after arriving in Tortola on November 28, 2009. Mother Ocean has left our bodies bruised and chaffed from the reality of perpetual motion. All these realities considered, I realize that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. We were tested and of the 29 boats that started with the World ARC, we were among the half that persevered to the end. I will be forever in debt to my Dad for that and I am not bashful to say that I will be forever proud of myself for the “keep on keeping on”(Bob Dylan) attitude that dictated my success and loyalty to the boat, and ultimately to the dream. Thank you, Skip, for sharing your dream with me.
Now, believe me, it was far from hell (99% of the time-that 1% can seem eternal, though). We managed to catch so many fish that we can honestly say that we could have fed ourselves around the world (at least the protein aspect, and what more does a Metz need?) with the tuna, dorado, wahoo, and the marlin that we caught. It was nice to have won the first race in our class, the leg from Saint Lucia to the San Blas Islands of Panama, but I think the Skip and I would agree, it was even nicer to win the best fishermen award at the end of the journey. Sailors are a self-reliant lot, and to be able to provide your own dinner is, I believe, to add a component of life on the big blue that the sailing community has moved away from in modern times with refrigeration and canned goods.
To see a new shore is like looking at the world through the eyes of a child. Remember the sense of amazement you felt the first time you felt love for something or someone or saw a shooting star? That´s the feeling you feel when after weeks of seeing nothing but blue and then seeing a tropical island approaching you, with welcoming plumes of smoke belching from a volcano. We always moved the fastest after the anchor had been firmly set and we could finally get the dinghy ready to launch, retrieve the diving gear to explore a virgin coral reef, or simply go to knees and kiss our beloved terra firma.
Travelling around the world also makes one remember the greatest thing about getting away: going home, wherever that may be. We have been blessed to see much beauty in this world, but we have also witnessed great depths of sadness in the eyes of humanity. We saw the uglier side of the human experience in the poverty, racism, violence, and corruption that we experienced in certain regions. No matter how much I loved the regions I have been fortunate enough to visit, there will always be that side of me that has always existed. The part of me that screams, “I am proud to be an American.” You will never truly appreciate freedom until you have seen those who have never known it. That being said, we saw and experienced far more friendship and love than hate. People are generally good at heart wherever you may roam and tend to desire the same things from their fellow beings. We are more alike, than we often allow ourselves to acknowledge.
Skip, I want to dedicate this final blog to you. You literally gave me the world that few will have the opportunity to experience. I give you eternal gratitude with the knowledge gained in my enduring memories and the peace I now know in this kindred spirit and wandering soul. Thank you. As for the readers of my blog, let me leave you with this. I don’t know how much of the world the great singer, Louis Armstrong, saw. Perhaps the notion occurred to him by simply looking outside his door. But he definitely got it right. What a wonderful world.
Postscript:
Postscript:
In reading what was to be my last blog, it has become very apparent to me that I have been remiss in acknowledging the individuals that were paramount in the success of this journey.
First and foremost, I want to thank the original “B.E.G.” for keeping the ship afloat. Mom played the part of mule all too often for us and often at a moment’s notice before she had to fly to a certain locale. By hunting down essential l mechanical components, medications to cure our ailments, or a special book or DVD we were craving; she kept us in the game. The logistical nightmare of finding a specific fuse, arranging a flight to an obscure port, while staying within the confines of our itinerary was no small task. She never failed. Thank you, Mom.
I want to thank my brother, Travis, for setting up this blog in the first place and encouraging me to post these ideas instead of just writing them in a private journal. The feedback I have received from you guys has been truly rewarding and has inspired me to rekindle the fires for this old love of writing. Besides, after 17 days of seeing nothing but blue, forcing myself to write burned up some time between ports and probably kept me from going loco. That being said, boredom at times was so tangible that even with the blog I came close to resembling Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy…You get the point. Imagine if I hadn´t had this as an outlet. I shudder.
I want to thank my brother, Justin, for constantly being there to drive Mom to and from the airport on a moment´s notice for those special missions to bring us supplies. I also want to thank him for keeping me up on the latest episodes of the greatest show on TV: “Dexter.” Knowing how our favorite sociopath was spending his Miami nights, reminded me of very happy times in Florida watching the show with my bro, Puddah. Thanks, bro! I also want to give him a preemptive congratulation for selling my truck at an exorbitant price as I am not in country. That hasn´t happened yet, but knowing him, it will.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Caribbean Update
Travis here. My 12 year old son, Gifford, and I just got back from spending a week with my parents in the Caribbean. We met them on Saturday in St. Lucia, shortly after they arrived back to Rodney Bay, the notional start/finish line for them. We then sailed to Martinique, Dominica and Antigua before Gifford and I flew back. Wonderful trip. Sadly, Jared flew out a day after we got there but it was great to see him for a day.
We loved Dominica, particularly the midnight entrance to Portsmouth Bay, where a long curving protected beach hosts a good anchorage and very loud reggae music that goes until three in the morning on Wednesdays, which happened to be when we arrived. Good snorkeling there as well.
We sailed overnight to Antigua. My overnight shift caused me to seriously wonder how anyone sails around the world while maintaining sanity. Not for the faint of heart.
We also happened to arrive in Antigua the day before Race Weeks began. English Harbour is quite the place, especially filled to the brim with hundreds of impressive sailboats. Great museum focused on Lord Nelson there as well.
My parents are now working their way North, expecting to be back in Maine by end of May (or so).
Some pictures....
 |
| Gifford on beach in Dominica |
 |
| Gifford and Papa in waterfall on Dominica |
 |
| Sunset |
 |
| Sunrise over Falmouth Harbor in Antigua |
 |
| Small Harbor in Dominica |
 |
| I showed papa how to catch a fish from a sailboat. We ate about two hours later, fresh |
 |
| Sunset on way to Dominica |
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Marlin!
A week of rain has subsided and turned into azure skies and wonderful sunny days. Winds have been out of the North East at 15-20 knots pushing as nicely along our rum line to Grenada at 7.5 knots. A few days back, we were making 8.5-9.5 knots for several consecutive days. It's been glorious sailing and we've even been taking fish, which is a good thing as our supplies our getting low (that might be a little bit of an exaggeration-the chococalte bars ran out making late night watches very difficult). The moon has been a steady friend in the wee-hours and lights the sea up almost as if it were day. Dolphins come by to inspect our boat and ride the surfline and vanish in to the great blue. Right now we....(was about to finish the sentence with "are fishing for blue marlin." when a reel begins to scream and my two favorite fishing words: Fish On! resonate down to my writing table. The next hour is pandemonium as a blue marlin makes one screaning run that nearly spools a reel of 180 pound monofilament set at 25 lbs. We get other lines out of the water and drop sails and kick on the engine, while keeping an eye on the line teariong off the reel. Fishing from a sailboat is tough, landing a marlin almost unheard of. As soon as I could, I got to the rod and began playing the fish back. It didn't jump or tail-walk on the initial run, so the verdict was still out what type of fish it was, however, I suspected that our dream fish, the fish we had targetted was at the other end of the line. Then she jumped and her tell-tale stripes, glistening bill, a stream-lined body shown in the midday sun that we were hooked up to a blue Marlin. It wasn't the biggets marlin out there but sizeable for our first.
When Metzes fish, we aim to do battle, win, and probably eat our competition. Yeah, we do some catch and release, but when we have a few meals in the bench freezer, we put the rods and handlines to bed. But when the day calls for the lines to be put out and we do hook up, things get exciting very quickly on the boat. People whose feelings tend to get hurt if yelled at, best avoid the "Brown-eyed Girl" when it's a fishing day (and most are). We yell commands to keep everyone in tune with anyone else. After all, we are there to catch, not do the old quick-release.
The fish, I could tell, was tired and after its first run I wasn't surprised. It was still taking out line periodically but I could tell this fish had given his best with the first run to break off or spool us. I reeled and kept a bend in the rod. The excitement of having it near the boat was mounting. None of us could know what would happen then. People are often spiked by the bills as they handle the fish near the boat. To put it mildly, it can become a bad fishing trip in an instant. I saw a captain in Costa Rica who had been hit just below his left eye by the bill of a sailfish. His glasses helped to deflect the bill or he would have become a one-eyed Captain.
Soon the fish was up to the boat and Dad launched a gaff into the fish which promptly broke. I yelled for the spear gun and Captain "I-Don't Miss" placed a nice shot behind the pectoral fin. At the moment the spear hit, the lure popped out of its mouth, thus the only thing securing the fish was the nylon line of the spear gun. We needed to secure a tail-rope or two before we could call it a done deal. I climbed down the steps of the transom as the skip handed me a gaff and tail rope and the fish was secured. We added another to be safe. There she was, her beautiful blue-eyes looking up at us and stream-lined body of electric blues showed off in the wake of the boat. We estimated her weight at two-hundred pounds and decided it was a good fish to keep, not yet reproductive, and large enough to provide a lot of meals.
The Skip, Oisin, and I had done our jobs well and now it was time for laughs, photographs, and pats on the back. Dad had completed a 40 year dream in the bottom of the ninth as far as this trip is concerned. I'm glad we didn't give up on getting the marlin after losing the one near Niue. The shared experienced between father and son after many fruitless days, after such a long (often arduous, always surreal and sublime) journey made this win a little sweeter. We ate the fresh sashimi and it was really nice, not like I had heard. We will see how it cooks. The Lord was kind to us today, it's just that he was a little kinder to those aboard the s/v "Brown-Eyed Girl" (see or read "A River Runs Through It"). As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-eyed Girl" out
When Metzes fish, we aim to do battle, win, and probably eat our competition. Yeah, we do some catch and release, but when we have a few meals in the bench freezer, we put the rods and handlines to bed. But when the day calls for the lines to be put out and we do hook up, things get exciting very quickly on the boat. People whose feelings tend to get hurt if yelled at, best avoid the "Brown-eyed Girl" when it's a fishing day (and most are). We yell commands to keep everyone in tune with anyone else. After all, we are there to catch, not do the old quick-release.
The fish, I could tell, was tired and after its first run I wasn't surprised. It was still taking out line periodically but I could tell this fish had given his best with the first run to break off or spool us. I reeled and kept a bend in the rod. The excitement of having it near the boat was mounting. None of us could know what would happen then. People are often spiked by the bills as they handle the fish near the boat. To put it mildly, it can become a bad fishing trip in an instant. I saw a captain in Costa Rica who had been hit just below his left eye by the bill of a sailfish. His glasses helped to deflect the bill or he would have become a one-eyed Captain.
Soon the fish was up to the boat and Dad launched a gaff into the fish which promptly broke. I yelled for the spear gun and Captain "I-Don't Miss" placed a nice shot behind the pectoral fin. At the moment the spear hit, the lure popped out of its mouth, thus the only thing securing the fish was the nylon line of the spear gun. We needed to secure a tail-rope or two before we could call it a done deal. I climbed down the steps of the transom as the skip handed me a gaff and tail rope and the fish was secured. We added another to be safe. There she was, her beautiful blue-eyes looking up at us and stream-lined body of electric blues showed off in the wake of the boat. We estimated her weight at two-hundred pounds and decided it was a good fish to keep, not yet reproductive, and large enough to provide a lot of meals.
The Skip, Oisin, and I had done our jobs well and now it was time for laughs, photographs, and pats on the back. Dad had completed a 40 year dream in the bottom of the ninth as far as this trip is concerned. I'm glad we didn't give up on getting the marlin after losing the one near Niue. The shared experienced between father and son after many fruitless days, after such a long (often arduous, always surreal and sublime) journey made this win a little sweeter. We ate the fresh sashimi and it was really nice, not like I had heard. We will see how it cooks. The Lord was kind to us today, it's just that he was a little kinder to those aboard the s/v "Brown-Eyed Girl" (see or read "A River Runs Through It"). As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-eyed Girl" out
Sunday, March 20, 2011
On the way to Grenada....
As we are 1,000 miles (with memories of the lunacy of Carnaval still in our heads) into a 2,000 mile run from Recife, Brazil to Grenada and then a quick run to Saint Lucia to complete our 15 month circumnavigation, we find ourselves talking about the next adventures in our lives and recalling highlights of this venture around this blue and green marble. In less than a month, this trip around the world will be a mostly fond memory filled with happy stories of goals accomplished and adventures experienced. Yes, there have been low times I would never want to relive that have made me stronger for enduring but the good has far outweighed the bad so much that I constantly find myself smiling remembering a certain incident from a now distant locale shared with people I may never see again, but will certainly fondly remember. Will I ever go back to these places? Time will tell. My sailing days are almost over (for a while anyway). I embrace the next chapter of being with my one true love and finding gainful employment in my beloved Costa Rica. But this early dawn reminded us very severely that it is too early and too dangerous to take our minds off the task at hand, getting safely to Saint Lucia. Details are still being ascertained, but in the early morning hours, World Arc sailing vessel Basia was struck by a cargo ship and was taking on water from two holes punched through her hull, one by the boat and the other by Basia's rigging as she was dismasted. Fortunately, no one was injured minus a broken toe. World Arc Boats in the vicinity, in a great show of camaraderie I have witnessed time and time again on this voyage, scrambled to intercept her and help patch the holes and render any assistance as situation was assessed and plans were made to head to French Guyana.
Our watches are serious business. I recall traveling up Australia's eastern coast between the Great Barrier reef and the mainland in small shipping lanes and having boats pass by so closely that I could see the faces of the shrimpers at work. That's a head's up ball game. Just a few nights back, I found myself checking the radar and the sea in front of me as a monstrous tanker was bearing down on me, not diverting nor answering my radio calls. A boat like that hits you and its game over for you while the Captain of the tanker wonders in the dark why that slightly larger wave had to hit just then, spilling coffee on his new wool sweater. It's possible that Basia's offender was not aware of the strike to her. However, there was a response to the mayday call from outside the fleet. With all the technology being used by sailors and commercial operations alike, a boat will be found via time and location and researching company records. Some insurance inspector, in the days to come, will be gearing for battle to find the ship that hit Basia and in all probability he will succeed. An investigation will ensue as to whether there was any fault on either side and the insurance companies will battle it out. We are happy in the fact that no one was killed. That's the reality of sailing around the world. The seas may be big but the traffic at times almost seems bigger. Let your guard down, miss spotting a ship, have conditions of low visibility, or merely have one on an intersecting course as yours bearing at 20 knots and that makes for little time to react. That's when tragedy occurs. We limit any time not scanning our radar and doing a scan of the waters to no more than twenty minutes. It has worked thus far. Tonight, though, we will all be a lit more on edge I imagine. Our heartfelt regards to the crew of Basia. As I write this, I am listening to our nightly radio check-in, I hear that with the patch work done on the boat, Basia will continue on to Grenada. Tough sailors!
Looking back at Brazil, I found a vast difference in the two cities visited: Salvador and Recife. Salvador, our first stop, a place of squalor and street urchins (one actually stole a lit cigarette out of the hand of one of the sailors) was not much to see. The children beg you to buy them beer. We went on two tours of the city and the only thing remotely interesting was a cathedral adorned in gold leaf. Our marina stay was free and the small old-town was nice for as brief visit. Recife, though, had a charm to it. Though, it has 2.5 million residents and no sewage treatment and water was deplorable in the marina, fun nights were spent going to various restaurants including "Spettas", a swank Brazilian meat house where the waiters bring hot skewers of all cuts of beef and the sushi and sashimi bar was kept full even with me going after the escolar and salmon. At night, we would take a taxi to this restaurant (yes we went back). Other nights, we would walk 500 meters to another restaurant across a bridge from the marina. I never liked walking this area (even with my switchblade in pocket). It seemed a perfect ambush site for a robbery. My feelings were right. It proved to be a bad situation one night for Rosemary on "Crazy Horse" as a guy who had been following her and her group tore the bag off Rosemary's arm leaving bruises in the struggle and took off down the street. The guys gave pursuit but gave up quickly as he was a Brazilian version of Carl Lewis (and he wasn't even wearing any shoes). The great consolation was that the bag only contained a sweater and tube of lipstick. Good luck with those, thief.
Fishing report: slaying dorado 53''-56'' on handlines and fixing Jared's special carrot coconut curry sauce drizzled over sea-salt, pepper, and garlic fried dorado. Yum!
As far as Carnaval goes, the biggest party in the world, it was absolutely insane. 2 million whacked-out Brazilians fuelled on Schol beer were dressed in all sorts of garb dancing in streets so congested in 90 degree heat with music so loud I could shout in the ear of the person next to me and he/she wouldn't hear. At one point we were trapped in a throng of people that a wave of pushing began and we couldn't make way and started to get crushed. I started flinging elbows to make way, as well as Dad, who looked funny in his happy green party hair and a code-red "get-the-hell-out-of-my-way" face got busy busting through. Mom was crying as the next wave of people created a crushing sensation and a man began to fumble through her purse. I'm glad I survived it as it was an interesting happening but after Mom had her camera stolen, we were ready to go back to the marina and hang pool-side. Been there, done that, not going back again. Looking forward to some peaceful diving in the Grenandines. This fish has been out of the water too long. I need a nice spiny lobster dinner. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Our watches are serious business. I recall traveling up Australia's eastern coast between the Great Barrier reef and the mainland in small shipping lanes and having boats pass by so closely that I could see the faces of the shrimpers at work. That's a head's up ball game. Just a few nights back, I found myself checking the radar and the sea in front of me as a monstrous tanker was bearing down on me, not diverting nor answering my radio calls. A boat like that hits you and its game over for you while the Captain of the tanker wonders in the dark why that slightly larger wave had to hit just then, spilling coffee on his new wool sweater. It's possible that Basia's offender was not aware of the strike to her. However, there was a response to the mayday call from outside the fleet. With all the technology being used by sailors and commercial operations alike, a boat will be found via time and location and researching company records. Some insurance inspector, in the days to come, will be gearing for battle to find the ship that hit Basia and in all probability he will succeed. An investigation will ensue as to whether there was any fault on either side and the insurance companies will battle it out. We are happy in the fact that no one was killed. That's the reality of sailing around the world. The seas may be big but the traffic at times almost seems bigger. Let your guard down, miss spotting a ship, have conditions of low visibility, or merely have one on an intersecting course as yours bearing at 20 knots and that makes for little time to react. That's when tragedy occurs. We limit any time not scanning our radar and doing a scan of the waters to no more than twenty minutes. It has worked thus far. Tonight, though, we will all be a lit more on edge I imagine. Our heartfelt regards to the crew of Basia. As I write this, I am listening to our nightly radio check-in, I hear that with the patch work done on the boat, Basia will continue on to Grenada. Tough sailors!
Looking back at Brazil, I found a vast difference in the two cities visited: Salvador and Recife. Salvador, our first stop, a place of squalor and street urchins (one actually stole a lit cigarette out of the hand of one of the sailors) was not much to see. The children beg you to buy them beer. We went on two tours of the city and the only thing remotely interesting was a cathedral adorned in gold leaf. Our marina stay was free and the small old-town was nice for as brief visit. Recife, though, had a charm to it. Though, it has 2.5 million residents and no sewage treatment and water was deplorable in the marina, fun nights were spent going to various restaurants including "Spettas", a swank Brazilian meat house where the waiters bring hot skewers of all cuts of beef and the sushi and sashimi bar was kept full even with me going after the escolar and salmon. At night, we would take a taxi to this restaurant (yes we went back). Other nights, we would walk 500 meters to another restaurant across a bridge from the marina. I never liked walking this area (even with my switchblade in pocket). It seemed a perfect ambush site for a robbery. My feelings were right. It proved to be a bad situation one night for Rosemary on "Crazy Horse" as a guy who had been following her and her group tore the bag off Rosemary's arm leaving bruises in the struggle and took off down the street. The guys gave pursuit but gave up quickly as he was a Brazilian version of Carl Lewis (and he wasn't even wearing any shoes). The great consolation was that the bag only contained a sweater and tube of lipstick. Good luck with those, thief.
Fishing report: slaying dorado 53''-56'' on handlines and fixing Jared's special carrot coconut curry sauce drizzled over sea-salt, pepper, and garlic fried dorado. Yum!
As far as Carnaval goes, the biggest party in the world, it was absolutely insane. 2 million whacked-out Brazilians fuelled on Schol beer were dressed in all sorts of garb dancing in streets so congested in 90 degree heat with music so loud I could shout in the ear of the person next to me and he/she wouldn't hear. At one point we were trapped in a throng of people that a wave of pushing began and we couldn't make way and started to get crushed. I started flinging elbows to make way, as well as Dad, who looked funny in his happy green party hair and a code-red "get-the-hell-out-of-my-way" face got busy busting through. Mom was crying as the next wave of people created a crushing sensation and a man began to fumble through her purse. I'm glad I survived it as it was an interesting happening but after Mom had her camera stolen, we were ready to go back to the marina and hang pool-side. Been there, done that, not going back again. Looking forward to some peaceful diving in the Grenandines. This fish has been out of the water too long. I need a nice spiny lobster dinner. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Delayed blog from the crossing of the South Atlantic....
It was a hard good-bye to Cape Town and what followed was an uneventful (minus Dad's monster catch and subsequent injuries) and pleasant, but slow, 12 day, 1700 mile sail tacking downwind to Saint Helena, the last place of exile for Napoleon Bonaparte. Having toured the island and the premise in which he stayed, I can only pray to be exiled in my waning years, after my personal Waterloo in such a place of intrigue, beauty, and genuine kindness of the people we met. Though we only had a seventy-two hour window to stay on the island, we made the most of it with a day-tour of the island, diesel fuel-up, provision run, as well as good banter with the locals. We even met up some local DJ's at a one of the local restaurant who played and dedicated over the local radio Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl" for us later that night and told the tale of a wahoo that did some serious damage to Dad's leg. Listening to that song, I thought of a girl I'm madly in love with, good changes in my life, the good and bad of a venture like this, and a longing to see family, old friends and a dog who's getting very white in the face. Jake, I miss you (Mom, give Jake a hug for me). It's been a long ride and the end is in sight, the goal nearly met. But first we are going to party like it's 1999 when we hit Carnival in Rio or Salvador, Brazil.
It's not uncommon for a thrashing fish to inflict some sort of injury upon its captor, so when the Skip was bitten on the leg by a monster 60 inch, 55lb. wahoo he caught as we were making landfall to Saint Helena, we weren't surprised. In fact, had he not been injured by the fish, our eyebrows would have been raised. But as Dad proudly raised the delectable, hard-fighting, leviathan, and very much dead fish with tackle on a raised mizzen boom, we were surprised to hear a resounding howl and hear our Skip cursing the line as it dropped an open-mouthed, very toothy, down the length of his shin and calf. Apparently we still haven't learned, "It's the dead one's that get ya' (famous Peter Capstick quote about hunting lions)." Multiple dressings later and another wound to his finger while steaking the fish and we were ready for the Arc get-together that night. People loved the fish grilled by the cooks of the local yacht club. I suspect they enjoyed the story more.
If one were to judge Saint Helena by approach from sea, one might be very easily disappointed to see a barren, harsh environment with volcanic rock winding down to the sea and not too inviting. The interior of the island is quite the opposite. Boasting a verdant, lush, hilly oasis that can been viewed in one good day with a tour-guide by the name of Robert, one will walk away with the answers as to why it was worth it to travel so far to this obscure isle. From visiting Napoleon's last residence and his wordless first tomb, petting the giant tortoises at the Governor's mansion, and winding down the road near the famous 1,000 step "Jacob's Ladder" (treacherous stairwell to nice vista that I was happy to view via car). The people are the real resource of the island. As we made our way down the steep incline of the roads through fields of flax, dairy farms, primary growth forest, and lush green pastures; we encountered a small-town atmosphere. People still wave at each other as they drive by (like Niue). What a neat place. How many places can you actually catch yellow fin tuna in the mooring field? Fishermen thanked us for tying our dead wahoo off the transom of the boat as it created a bit of fishing action for the locals. They talk about an airport being constructed. I will look back on it all and be happy to have visited Saint Helena when the only way to get there was by logging the hours and sloshing through the deep blue.
It is January 30th and we are now less than 1,000 miles away from our destination on a 1900 mile run from Saint Helena to Salvador, Brazil with only 6 knots of wind and burning diesel. This is the big push homeward. When we do have wind, it's off our stern and we fly the asymmetrical and take it down and then fly it and take it down and then fly it again. The Skip prided himself today on setting it all by his lonesome. Impressive. The Skip says its good practice. The Skip also has a habit of receiving severe flesh wounds by dead fish. Hope the wind picks up (not like Hout's Bay) and as always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce. Besos y brazos, Dani y Nacho.
"Brown-Eyed Girl"...out
It is February 4th and we still have no signal to send blog out. We are less than two days (hopefully) from landfall. Fishing has been grand as we have taken two more wahoo, one weighing 33 lbs and measuring 49 inches and another weighing 25 lbs and measuring 47 inches. Wahooo!!!!!!!
It's not uncommon for a thrashing fish to inflict some sort of injury upon its captor, so when the Skip was bitten on the leg by a monster 60 inch, 55lb. wahoo he caught as we were making landfall to Saint Helena, we weren't surprised. In fact, had he not been injured by the fish, our eyebrows would have been raised. But as Dad proudly raised the delectable, hard-fighting, leviathan, and very much dead fish with tackle on a raised mizzen boom, we were surprised to hear a resounding howl and hear our Skip cursing the line as it dropped an open-mouthed, very toothy, down the length of his shin and calf. Apparently we still haven't learned, "It's the dead one's that get ya' (famous Peter Capstick quote about hunting lions)." Multiple dressings later and another wound to his finger while steaking the fish and we were ready for the Arc get-together that night. People loved the fish grilled by the cooks of the local yacht club. I suspect they enjoyed the story more.
If one were to judge Saint Helena by approach from sea, one might be very easily disappointed to see a barren, harsh environment with volcanic rock winding down to the sea and not too inviting. The interior of the island is quite the opposite. Boasting a verdant, lush, hilly oasis that can been viewed in one good day with a tour-guide by the name of Robert, one will walk away with the answers as to why it was worth it to travel so far to this obscure isle. From visiting Napoleon's last residence and his wordless first tomb, petting the giant tortoises at the Governor's mansion, and winding down the road near the famous 1,000 step "Jacob's Ladder" (treacherous stairwell to nice vista that I was happy to view via car). The people are the real resource of the island. As we made our way down the steep incline of the roads through fields of flax, dairy farms, primary growth forest, and lush green pastures; we encountered a small-town atmosphere. People still wave at each other as they drive by (like Niue). What a neat place. How many places can you actually catch yellow fin tuna in the mooring field? Fishermen thanked us for tying our dead wahoo off the transom of the boat as it created a bit of fishing action for the locals. They talk about an airport being constructed. I will look back on it all and be happy to have visited Saint Helena when the only way to get there was by logging the hours and sloshing through the deep blue.
It is January 30th and we are now less than 1,000 miles away from our destination on a 1900 mile run from Saint Helena to Salvador, Brazil with only 6 knots of wind and burning diesel. This is the big push homeward. When we do have wind, it's off our stern and we fly the asymmetrical and take it down and then fly it and take it down and then fly it again. The Skip prided himself today on setting it all by his lonesome. Impressive. The Skip says its good practice. The Skip also has a habit of receiving severe flesh wounds by dead fish. Hope the wind picks up (not like Hout's Bay) and as always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce. Besos y brazos, Dani y Nacho.
"Brown-Eyed Girl"...out
It is February 4th and we still have no signal to send blog out. We are less than two days (hopefully) from landfall. Fishing has been grand as we have taken two more wahoo, one weighing 33 lbs and measuring 49 inches and another weighing 25 lbs and measuring 47 inches. Wahooo!!!!!!!
Friday, February 11, 2011
Arrived in Brazil
SV Brown Eyed Girl has arrived in Brazil as of February 6th. Hopefully a blog from Jared will follow...
Monday, January 10, 2011
On their way across the Atlantic as of Saturday Jan 8th ... from my dad
It is 11:00 on Sat. A.M and we are ~ 5 n.m. out of Cape Town in fog. Will go by Robben Is. and probably never see it.
Recap of the entrance to Cape Town from Jared....
Since our harrowing tow and docking into Hout Bay on December 11th by South Africa Sea Rescue, much good has transpired in this beautiful, conflicted, and intriguing country of South Africa. As they say, all disasters are similar in the fact that they are triggered by a series of compounding events and bad luck, such was that day and night that we shall never forget and will be happy to never re-live. Furthermore, all events like these have those quick-to-act and quick-thinking heroes of which we should sing the praises of my beloved mother who made frantic calls to the authorities and the Hout Bay unit of Sea Rescue, an amazing group of professionals who saved our boat and maybe more. As I write this, I'm a little emotional about the events of that scary experience. It is a story of how quickly things can and do go wrong out here on the deep blue.
My brother, Travis, has done a wonderful job at getting the information out about the what transpired that day and night, far better than the local news which said we had rescued another World Arc boat by the name of "Chessie" (rescued by Sea Rescue after rudder failure). All I want to do is give you a quick first-hand account of the last hours of what was actually a nice four-day run from Durban. Hours within approach of the harbor, seas and winds began to pick up to 35 knots and above sustained. As we tried to roll in our jib to adjust for the rapidly declining conditions our furler jammed on our Genoa. As Oisin and I tried to manually roll it up, a pin broke making this an impossible task. We dropped the sail on deck and secured it with lines as howling winds and crashing waves continued to increase and make work outside the cockpit a bit more than dicey. Trying to further reduce sail, the Skip tried to roll up the main and to our amazement and fear, it jammed as well. We put the "Brown-Eyed Girl into the wind and Oisin and I tried to pull the main down but with little control of the boat at this point the main was flapping so hard it was an impossible task. We struggled at this for a while when Oisin suggested to put the boat downwind and make another attempt. It worked! We rolled up the main. With a 2 knt current working against us, no sail to power us, and winds now reaching 45 knts and above our little 80hp motor would be put to the test. At this point we could hear radio communications between our fellow boat "Chessie" and Sea Rescue and realized they were having a bad day as their rudder failed and they were dead in the water. Over the course of the next hour and a half we made a mere 1/4 mile of headway. Light was beginning to fade and the situation was tenuous. Sea Rescue contacted us and asked if we wanted a tow into the Hout's Bay and yes it is true, the Skip did ask how much this would cost. Priceless. Let's be clear and realize that we cold have just motored or drifted toward Cape Town but as winds were recorded at 90 knts while getting towed that night, I'm glad we didn't. Unbeknownst to us, mom had arranged for the two rescues when she realized we hadn't made landfall and conditions were predicted to deteriorate. The sight of Sea Rescue charging toward us was a welcome sight to weary eyes. The tow was uneventful until we approached the harbor and winds directed down the mountain passes had know reached 65-75 knts. The plan was to berth us on the lee-side of a pier by using two rescue boats to push us against the ever-increasing wind while the good citizens and responders of Sea Rescue on the pier tossed lines to secure the boat. We struggled at this for over an hour. The horrible sound of lines stretching once secured to pier will be etched into our memories. After being secured, we headed up to yacht club and grabbed a hot shower as we were drenched to the bone and quite cold. Walking along the pier, sand from an adjacent beach pelted us and the salt wind burned our eyes. We crouched as we walked. Standing up would have assured a quick flight and drop into the icy waters. We slept well, when we did manage to fall asleep. We awoke to a sunny day and realization that our main boom was cracked, our solar panels had been blown off the boat (we were able to retrieve one), our bodies were aching, and our Genoa was torn. The Indian ocean went out like a lamb while the Atlantic surprised us and greeted us like an enraged, charging lion.
On a far better note, Mercedes arrived December 15th and the two of us began a whirlwind tour of the country by car visiting Krueger National Park where we saw the big five (elephant, lion, rhino, cape buffalo, and leopard) up close and personal and a cobra and stayed at the Royal Krueger Lodge were we were pampered as we were the only guests, then to Drakensberg Mountains in Champagne Valley where we hiked to a waterfall and slept in a traditional rondival (round, adobe house typical of Africa), set off to celebrate Christmas in Port Elisabeth, and then met up with Mom and Dad and headed to Simmonstown to see the penguins and the Cape of Good Hope, and finally to Cape Town where on the most beautiful of evenings, the most beautiful of ladies officially became my fiance and accepted a diamond ring from me upon Signal Hill. The day after that very same mountain burned when arsonists set it ablaze. We've managed to find a way to say that is a good omen of things to come. The last days of our trip were spent taking the cable car up Table mountain, visiting the infamous district six and learning its sad story of the abuses of Apartheid, day trips around the city, visiting and dining with Mom and Dad, and fighting the several hundred pound seals on the dock to make headway to board the boat. Bar none, our time together seeing this wonderful country of South Africa was the time of my life. Yesterday, Merce and I said our good-byes and I made my way back to the boat grateful to be so blessed to have her in my life again and for having had such a wonderful time and a little bored at the prospect of a 1700 mile trip to the isle of Saint Helena. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
My brother, Travis, has done a wonderful job at getting the information out about the what transpired that day and night, far better than the local news which said we had rescued another World Arc boat by the name of "Chessie" (rescued by Sea Rescue after rudder failure). All I want to do is give you a quick first-hand account of the last hours of what was actually a nice four-day run from Durban. Hours within approach of the harbor, seas and winds began to pick up to 35 knots and above sustained. As we tried to roll in our jib to adjust for the rapidly declining conditions our furler jammed on our Genoa. As Oisin and I tried to manually roll it up, a pin broke making this an impossible task. We dropped the sail on deck and secured it with lines as howling winds and crashing waves continued to increase and make work outside the cockpit a bit more than dicey. Trying to further reduce sail, the Skip tried to roll up the main and to our amazement and fear, it jammed as well. We put the "Brown-Eyed Girl into the wind and Oisin and I tried to pull the main down but with little control of the boat at this point the main was flapping so hard it was an impossible task. We struggled at this for a while when Oisin suggested to put the boat downwind and make another attempt. It worked! We rolled up the main. With a 2 knt current working against us, no sail to power us, and winds now reaching 45 knts and above our little 80hp motor would be put to the test. At this point we could hear radio communications between our fellow boat "Chessie" and Sea Rescue and realized they were having a bad day as their rudder failed and they were dead in the water. Over the course of the next hour and a half we made a mere 1/4 mile of headway. Light was beginning to fade and the situation was tenuous. Sea Rescue contacted us and asked if we wanted a tow into the Hout's Bay and yes it is true, the Skip did ask how much this would cost. Priceless. Let's be clear and realize that we cold have just motored or drifted toward Cape Town but as winds were recorded at 90 knts while getting towed that night, I'm glad we didn't. Unbeknownst to us, mom had arranged for the two rescues when she realized we hadn't made landfall and conditions were predicted to deteriorate. The sight of Sea Rescue charging toward us was a welcome sight to weary eyes. The tow was uneventful until we approached the harbor and winds directed down the mountain passes had know reached 65-75 knts. The plan was to berth us on the lee-side of a pier by using two rescue boats to push us against the ever-increasing wind while the good citizens and responders of Sea Rescue on the pier tossed lines to secure the boat. We struggled at this for over an hour. The horrible sound of lines stretching once secured to pier will be etched into our memories. After being secured, we headed up to yacht club and grabbed a hot shower as we were drenched to the bone and quite cold. Walking along the pier, sand from an adjacent beach pelted us and the salt wind burned our eyes. We crouched as we walked. Standing up would have assured a quick flight and drop into the icy waters. We slept well, when we did manage to fall asleep. We awoke to a sunny day and realization that our main boom was cracked, our solar panels had been blown off the boat (we were able to retrieve one), our bodies were aching, and our Genoa was torn. The Indian ocean went out like a lamb while the Atlantic surprised us and greeted us like an enraged, charging lion.
On a far better note, Mercedes arrived December 15th and the two of us began a whirlwind tour of the country by car visiting Krueger National Park where we saw the big five (elephant, lion, rhino, cape buffalo, and leopard) up close and personal and a cobra and stayed at the Royal Krueger Lodge were we were pampered as we were the only guests, then to Drakensberg Mountains in Champagne Valley where we hiked to a waterfall and slept in a traditional rondival (round, adobe house typical of Africa), set off to celebrate Christmas in Port Elisabeth, and then met up with Mom and Dad and headed to Simmonstown to see the penguins and the Cape of Good Hope, and finally to Cape Town where on the most beautiful of evenings, the most beautiful of ladies officially became my fiance and accepted a diamond ring from me upon Signal Hill. The day after that very same mountain burned when arsonists set it ablaze. We've managed to find a way to say that is a good omen of things to come. The last days of our trip were spent taking the cable car up Table mountain, visiting the infamous district six and learning its sad story of the abuses of Apartheid, day trips around the city, visiting and dining with Mom and Dad, and fighting the several hundred pound seals on the dock to make headway to board the boat. Bar none, our time together seeing this wonderful country of South Africa was the time of my life. Yesterday, Merce and I said our good-byes and I made my way back to the boat grateful to be so blessed to have her in my life again and for having had such a wonderful time and a little bored at the prospect of a 1700 mile trip to the isle of Saint Helena. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Update from Cape Town
Further update on events described below ..
I talked to my dad this morning. Newspaper story is inaccurate. They had sustained winds in 50 knot range and gusts of 85-90 knots. As they were approaching Cape Town they struggled to reduce sail. They lost their power to furl headsail a few months ago and have been doing it manually. The mechanism they use to do it manually failed on Saturday and so they had to drop headsail completely, with concurrent chaos on foredeck and Jared and their quite capable mate (whose name I just forgot) tied in and getting beaten around. With that done, they turned to mainsail, which in theory is also auto-furling. It jammed on way down. And something also broke on mizzen mast. So they were 0-3 and ended up with both mainsail and mizzensail up.
They tried to power their way into Cape Town but literally could not make constant headway on engine. After a few hours thrashing around trying to do this the rescue squad that had taken Chessie in asked if they wanted help. My dad, naturally, asked how much it would cost. When told it was free, they delightedly took the tow, which apparently was quite hairy as was in dark, in storm. Not entirely clear what his plan was had he decided the help was too expensive. Insert your own ethnic comment here around his cheapness and stubbornness.
In any case, they have now gotten some sleep and are assessing damage. Lots of bumps and bruises but nothing too serious to crew. Hopefully same with boat, though lots of water sloshed around in cabin. My mom was apparently responsible for sending Coast Guard out to help Chessie as she got a cell phone call from them and pounded on doors at marina until she found someone that could help.
I talked to my dad this morning. Newspaper story is inaccurate. They had sustained winds in 50 knot range and gusts of 85-90 knots. As they were approaching Cape Town they struggled to reduce sail. They lost their power to furl headsail a few months ago and have been doing it manually. The mechanism they use to do it manually failed on Saturday and so they had to drop headsail completely, with concurrent chaos on foredeck and Jared and their quite capable mate (whose name I just forgot) tied in and getting beaten around. With that done, they turned to mainsail, which in theory is also auto-furling. It jammed on way down. And something also broke on mizzen mast. So they were 0-3 and ended up with both mainsail and mizzensail up.
They tried to power their way into Cape Town but literally could not make constant headway on engine. After a few hours thrashing around trying to do this the rescue squad that had taken Chessie in asked if they wanted help. My dad, naturally, asked how much it would cost. When told it was free, they delightedly took the tow, which apparently was quite hairy as was in dark, in storm. Not entirely clear what his plan was had he decided the help was too expensive. Insert your own ethnic comment here around his cheapness and stubbornness.
In any case, they have now gotten some sleep and are assessing damage. Lots of bumps and bruises but nothing too serious to crew. Hopefully same with boat, though lots of water sloshed around in cabin. My mom was apparently responsible for sending Coast Guard out to help Chessie as she got a cell phone call from them and pounded on doors at marina until she found someone that could help.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Cape Town but Problems
Sunday, December 12th
Travis here. Heard confusing story from my mom by email today. Details a little confusing. But article below describes some chaos for SV Brown Eyed Girl and another sailboat trying to enter Cape Town yesterday. I think SV BEG might also have ultimately needed a tow in as well. My mom reports damage to rigging and sails and fair amount of water in cabin. My dad hurt wrist and reports through my mom that they had gusts at 95 knots. He is now sleeping it off. Further details when I get them -- hope to speak to them tomorrow.
link to newspaper; go to Sunday 12/12 edition
Travis here. Heard confusing story from my mom by email today. Details a little confusing. But article below describes some chaos for SV Brown Eyed Girl and another sailboat trying to enter Cape Town yesterday. I think SV BEG might also have ultimately needed a tow in as well. My mom reports damage to rigging and sails and fair amount of water in cabin. My dad hurt wrist and reports through my mom that they had gusts at 95 knots. He is now sleeping it off. Further details when I get them -- hope to speak to them tomorrow.
link to newspaper; go to Sunday 12/12 edition
Difficulties in Cape Town
Stricken racing yacht rescued
THE HOWLING south-easter hampered NSRI efforts to help a crippled German yacht into Hout Bay harbour yesterday.
The twin-masted ketch, Chessie, had been taking part in the 2010 Arc Around the World Rally when it lost its rudder about two miles out of Hout Bay yesterday.
NSRI spokesman Craig Lambinon said Chessie’s skipper, Joachim Doehne, had sent out an alert. Local yacht Brown Eyed Girl went out to guide Chessie in, but when the yacht lost its steering they called the NSRI for help.
Hout Bay station commander Brad Geyser, who was at the scene last night, said the weather conditions were “absolutely foul. The wind is really bad. We’re looking at 35 to 40 knots.”
At the time of going to press the yacht was being escorted into Hout Bay by Brown Eyed Girl and the NSRI.
The Weather Office says the wind will moderate tonight, but is expected to pick up again on Tuesday.
“The low pressure will cause foggy conditions along the West Coast on Monday.”
Meteorologist Stella Nake said a strong ridge of high pressure was responsible for the “deep south-easter” experienced around the Peninsula yesterday and today.
“Typically this is the time when the ‘tablecloth’ appears on Table Mountain.”
Yesterday afternoon wind speeds peaked at 60km/h at Cape Town International Airport.
Satellite weather watcher Jean-Pierre Arabonis, of Ocean Satellite Imaging Systems, said although the seas were rough, only small fishing vessels would have a hard time.
“It’s still a nasty piece of wind,” he said.
Disaster Risk Management’s Wilfred Solomons-Johannes said there had been no reported incidents related to the high wind.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Almost to South Africa ...
This one is for the ladies we have left behind. It has been a while since I've written. A lot of that has to do with the fact that our Single Side Band radio has been about as helpful as getting messages out via Sailmail as using two Campbell's tomato soup cans with a string attached in the middle. The other reason, the real reason, is that we have reached that part in the trip where we find ourselves talking and thinking more and more about home, our loved ones, and our beloved ladies and have been less-inclined to talk and write about the places ventured. When you are getting tossed about in the wild Indian Ocean as 25-30 knot sustained winds for more than a week and continuous 15-20 foot seas pummel your boat, your muscles, and bones; you begin to ask yourself: is it really worth it? The answer in my opinion is a resounding: "Yes!" But it is does wear on one. These are the sea conditions we experienced in our thirteen day run from Cocos-Keeling to Mauritius and the majority of it was, in my opinion, quite miserable. When weather sets in like this, so does the boredom. We read our Millennium trilogy books feverishly, thought about what food would have we prepared for us if able, wondered what bliss is would be to hike up a mountain in search of deer (or just go for a walk) and of course, ventured out into the cockpit to do our safety checks and remind ourselves of the reality of our situation, and found comfort in good conversation in what we would do when we made landfall. But most of all, we thought about our ladies who sustained us through it all, though thousands of miles away. This blog is dedicated to them who will never fully understand what good they did for us in days that, at times, ironically, left us ill-at-ease and bored us.
Arriving in Mauritius, we found ourselves in a nicely developed waterfront far isolated from the reality of the poverty and horrible drivers in that country (more on that). Days were spent working on our still defunct generator, fixing some electrical issues so we could finally enjoy AC from shore-power (still don't have it when at to sea), emailing our boat's manufacturer in France to look into buying electrical motor furling kit for Genoa. With price quotes at close to 8,000 Euros and supposed several strikes going on in France (imagine that) that would make it impossible to assure delivery by a specific date, we decide to forego this option and resort, for now, to use old muscle and sinew to furl and unfurl her. We did find great delight in our afternoon pizzas at the Sun Cafe eating our pizza napletano. Media was ablaze with the excitement of the Arc being in port and a waitress said she saw me on the tv. As we finished up some boat projects, we decided to get a car and head out to a villa that Sean and friends had rented on the East side of the island. That "wild bunch" had rented a villa on the beach with pool and brick grilling pit. Being careful as always in checking the car upon delivery, I fired a few snapshots to verify any dings on the car and away we went, to see a little bit of the island, meet up with good people, and get the heck away from the boat. It did not take us long to see that Mauritians are quite possibly the worst drivers in the world. Stoplights and signs, if found at intersections, are optional and there seems to be this imaginary third lane that motorcyclists and smaller cars use when wishing to pass, which often occurs at the same time opposing traffic in the "imaginary lane" decide to do the same. It makes Boston look like a drive through the country. We were less than 39 minutes from our escape to the villa when the Skip turned on his right hand blinker, approached his turn, and started to make it when a truck foolishly passed on us on the right and slammed into the front section of dad's door and took out the right panel. The driver hit us at no less than 55 mph and had Dad been another 1/10th of a second in the turn, we believe, well, you can imagine. We were able to walk away uninjured and with the other driver admitting fault. Our car, on the other hand, was a bit messed up with the hub bent down into the front right tire making it inoperable to drive. Using a lever, we pried the metal off the tire (so delicately-ha!) and limped back to the rental for a new car. Phew! Glad I took those pictures of the dings in the car upon receiving it. A day later we made it to the villa, if only for a few hours, to share a few laughs about the day before and take in some beautiful beach scenery. We all agreed, though, being next to or in a pool was far more entertaining than looking out onto the deep blue.
After a quick overnight sail to Reunion, we found ourselves in Le Port and in a marina that offered little more than a cantina with poor wifi. The Arc, as always did put on some very nice functions. Oisin and I headed to airport and found what we believe to be last car available for rent. It was quite nice to park, as you could put it in your back pocket and carry it with you while overlooking wonderful vistas of waterfalls and lava fields. Oisin and I spent a nice day with Ritchie and Charley off "Grand Filou" in their rental exploring the highlands, which reminded me of a tropical alps. Quite cool, literally and figuratively. All the while, we dreamed of South Africa. We are getting there. It is November 2nd and we are 278 nautical miles away from the southern tip of Madagascar and that much closer to Richard's Bay, South Africa. After dodging another tsunami scare in Reunion (remember the Galapagos) to the earthquake in Sumatra and now hearing that a Category 2-3 cyclone is expected to make landfall in Cocos-Keeling today, we can feel fortunate in the bullets we have dodged along the way and to have had this experience to begin with, the good times and tough times. "It's a beautiful ride," in the profound words of Dewey Cox. As always love and miss you all. Love ya, Mom. Te amo, Merce. SVBEG out.
Arriving in Mauritius, we found ourselves in a nicely developed waterfront far isolated from the reality of the poverty and horrible drivers in that country (more on that). Days were spent working on our still defunct generator, fixing some electrical issues so we could finally enjoy AC from shore-power (still don't have it when at to sea), emailing our boat's manufacturer in France to look into buying electrical motor furling kit for Genoa. With price quotes at close to 8,000 Euros and supposed several strikes going on in France (imagine that) that would make it impossible to assure delivery by a specific date, we decide to forego this option and resort, for now, to use old muscle and sinew to furl and unfurl her. We did find great delight in our afternoon pizzas at the Sun Cafe eating our pizza napletano. Media was ablaze with the excitement of the Arc being in port and a waitress said she saw me on the tv. As we finished up some boat projects, we decided to get a car and head out to a villa that Sean and friends had rented on the East side of the island. That "wild bunch" had rented a villa on the beach with pool and brick grilling pit. Being careful as always in checking the car upon delivery, I fired a few snapshots to verify any dings on the car and away we went, to see a little bit of the island, meet up with good people, and get the heck away from the boat. It did not take us long to see that Mauritians are quite possibly the worst drivers in the world. Stoplights and signs, if found at intersections, are optional and there seems to be this imaginary third lane that motorcyclists and smaller cars use when wishing to pass, which often occurs at the same time opposing traffic in the "imaginary lane" decide to do the same. It makes Boston look like a drive through the country. We were less than 39 minutes from our escape to the villa when the Skip turned on his right hand blinker, approached his turn, and started to make it when a truck foolishly passed on us on the right and slammed into the front section of dad's door and took out the right panel. The driver hit us at no less than 55 mph and had Dad been another 1/10th of a second in the turn, we believe, well, you can imagine. We were able to walk away uninjured and with the other driver admitting fault. Our car, on the other hand, was a bit messed up with the hub bent down into the front right tire making it inoperable to drive. Using a lever, we pried the metal off the tire (so delicately-ha!) and limped back to the rental for a new car. Phew! Glad I took those pictures of the dings in the car upon receiving it. A day later we made it to the villa, if only for a few hours, to share a few laughs about the day before and take in some beautiful beach scenery. We all agreed, though, being next to or in a pool was far more entertaining than looking out onto the deep blue.
After a quick overnight sail to Reunion, we found ourselves in Le Port and in a marina that offered little more than a cantina with poor wifi. The Arc, as always did put on some very nice functions. Oisin and I headed to airport and found what we believe to be last car available for rent. It was quite nice to park, as you could put it in your back pocket and carry it with you while overlooking wonderful vistas of waterfalls and lava fields. Oisin and I spent a nice day with Ritchie and Charley off "Grand Filou" in their rental exploring the highlands, which reminded me of a tropical alps. Quite cool, literally and figuratively. All the while, we dreamed of South Africa. We are getting there. It is November 2nd and we are 278 nautical miles away from the southern tip of Madagascar and that much closer to Richard's Bay, South Africa. After dodging another tsunami scare in Reunion (remember the Galapagos) to the earthquake in Sumatra and now hearing that a Category 2-3 cyclone is expected to make landfall in Cocos-Keeling today, we can feel fortunate in the bullets we have dodged along the way and to have had this experience to begin with, the good times and tough times. "It's a beautiful ride," in the profound words of Dewey Cox. As always love and miss you all. Love ya, Mom. Te amo, Merce. SVBEG out.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Update from Travis as of October 12th
SV Brown Eyed Girl has arrived safely in Mauritius (Port Louis) as of about Saturday, October 9th. They have not had access to sailmail (their shortband email system) since shortly after leaving Indonesia so we have not had much by way of update (nor blog posts from Jared). Per my mom, who spoke with them by sat phone, they had a wild crossing of the Indian Ocean, with winds generally in excess of 25 knots. Hope to hear more soon.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Update from Travis on Saturday, September 18th
As of Saturday, September 18, my dad and brother have left Bali and are headed to Cocos Keeling Islands in Indian Ocean. They are about a day or two out as we speak. Go to Google Earth to see how small these islands are. The Indian Ocean, upon investigation, strikes me as vast and relatively un-islanded. After these islands they have a 2400 mile (!) passage across to the Mauritius Islands. That is a lot of miles. My mom has just flown home and is back in Boothbay, aiming to meet up with them again when they the African continent at the end of the year ...
Bali, Indonesia
The last few weeks have been a flurry of making headway and keeping schedule with the itinerary and whirlwind of travel destinations in the Northern Territory of Australia and southern Bali. I find myself sad to be leaving Bali in my wake so soon. It has earned itself a place in the top five of my destinations in this journey so far. A few days spent there is merely a tantalizing taste of a land of wonderment, beauty, and intrigue. This place deserves weeks, not days. In my short time there, though, I managed to cross off a few more things on my bucket list (don't worry-planning on the long haul) and experience the kindness and tranquility of the Balinese people. I have to admit, before making landfall here -- I was a little concerned for our safety, after all the terrorist bombings of Kuta in 2002 and an adjacent city in 2004 (both near our marina) have left a tarnish upon the hearts of those who have yet to visit the island. What we experienced in our short time here was so far from the media blips I recall a few years back, I have come away with a very different impression about this island, far removed from the uglier politics of the other isles of Indonesia. These are a people who abhor the violence that was rained down on them and foreigners visiting their country and have re-built and continued to live as spiritual a life as I have ever been privileged to see and experience. A kinder and poorer people, I have never known.
It was nice to rendezvous with the BEG, as we finished made land-fall just before a torrential downpour soured the day for any sight-seeing. That was ok as the Skip, Oisin, and I were extremely tired from a harrowing last 12 hours of what was a relatively tranquil trip from Darwin (too tranquil-blazing hot, no wind, and noisy as we only sailed four hours over the course of a week). However, in the last 12 hours currents rose to 6 knots, our speed over ground dropped to 1.2 knots and waves rose to over 4 meters. In those kind of conditions, a boat is just about at the mercy of the sea and that's never good. So, as we topped off the tank and jerry cans with diesel and settled into our slip and new marina, we looked forward to what the original BEG had planned and assured would be a venture into tranquility.
Our driver, a nice Hindu man by the name of Kharti, picked us up the next morning and sped us away from the marina and the boat. Thank God! Freedom from the world of boats and yachties (no offense to either, of course). As moped after moped careened by us as break-neck speeds and we weaved through intersections with no traffic lights, I was wondering when we would get to that tranquility bit. We had a morning planned of temple viewing, lunch at a popular restaurant where we would feast on suckling pig, travel through the stone and wood-crafts districts, and then make our way up tho the highlands where yes, the "most delicious of all beverages" (see the movie "The Bucket List") would be consumed: Kopi Luwac coffee (coffee beans ingested by a civet cat, then collected by a dedicated and well, patient worker; and slow-roasted in an iron kettle over open fire). We watched the majority of that process and looked at a sleeping Luwac in a cage and sat there drinking our coffee at a table overlooking a misty, jungle valley. How did it taste? At a whopping three dollars a cup for Bali standards, I'd say it lives up to its reputation. Best coffee I've ever had. Not quite sure it's worth the 50 dollars or more a cup it will put you back in other time-zones.
As we made our way around the southern part of the island, stone temples adorned with ornately-carved good and bad spirits were aflock with worshipers and wedding ceremonies. Every village has three temples and every house is a temple in and of itself. As we were invited into our driver's open-aired house he explained that houses are ceremonial compounds where extended family live together and multiple offering sites are located magnetically as to their purpose. In the center, is a room that is used for to worship the souls of deceased family members. The smell of flower baskets lovingly placed at various places of worship in the compound mixed with burning incense. All of the afore-mentioned combined with that one cup of Kopi Luwac and I was starting to get into the tranquility mode.
Nightfall found ourselves checking into the former royal palace with pools of lotus flowers leading to the royal temple. I had never slept in a temple before nor bowed before a Queen. By the next morning, I could say neither anymore. We ate a healthy breakfast of fresh fruit and then decided to head to the monkey jungle, a place of reverence for the devilishly cunning macaque monkeys. Among the banyan trees and a thousand monkeys, I made the mistake of putting the bananas I purchased in the same pocket as my camera and ended up feeling the little hand of a crafty macaque yanking both out of my right pocket. For a few seconds we played tug-of-war, before he took off with all the bananas and I managed to hold onto my camera. Draw. The Skip learned quickly that once a macaque has stolen your bananas, those bananas are rightfully his or hers. Any attempt to recover purchased bananas will result in a gaping mouth displaying sharp teeth. Further attempt will more likely than not result in trip to hospital with one wondering why one fought with a monkey to retrieve bananas meant for a monkey. I stood there watching dad fight to get his bananas back from the monkey and wisely retreat upon the flash of teeth as people took pictures of the two. I wondered who was smarter.
We are headed to Cocos-Keeling and as always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
It was nice to rendezvous with the BEG, as we finished made land-fall just before a torrential downpour soured the day for any sight-seeing. That was ok as the Skip, Oisin, and I were extremely tired from a harrowing last 12 hours of what was a relatively tranquil trip from Darwin (too tranquil-blazing hot, no wind, and noisy as we only sailed four hours over the course of a week). However, in the last 12 hours currents rose to 6 knots, our speed over ground dropped to 1.2 knots and waves rose to over 4 meters. In those kind of conditions, a boat is just about at the mercy of the sea and that's never good. So, as we topped off the tank and jerry cans with diesel and settled into our slip and new marina, we looked forward to what the original BEG had planned and assured would be a venture into tranquility.
Our driver, a nice Hindu man by the name of Kharti, picked us up the next morning and sped us away from the marina and the boat. Thank God! Freedom from the world of boats and yachties (no offense to either, of course). As moped after moped careened by us as break-neck speeds and we weaved through intersections with no traffic lights, I was wondering when we would get to that tranquility bit. We had a morning planned of temple viewing, lunch at a popular restaurant where we would feast on suckling pig, travel through the stone and wood-crafts districts, and then make our way up tho the highlands where yes, the "most delicious of all beverages" (see the movie "The Bucket List") would be consumed: Kopi Luwac coffee (coffee beans ingested by a civet cat, then collected by a dedicated and well, patient worker; and slow-roasted in an iron kettle over open fire). We watched the majority of that process and looked at a sleeping Luwac in a cage and sat there drinking our coffee at a table overlooking a misty, jungle valley. How did it taste? At a whopping three dollars a cup for Bali standards, I'd say it lives up to its reputation. Best coffee I've ever had. Not quite sure it's worth the 50 dollars or more a cup it will put you back in other time-zones.
As we made our way around the southern part of the island, stone temples adorned with ornately-carved good and bad spirits were aflock with worshipers and wedding ceremonies. Every village has three temples and every house is a temple in and of itself. As we were invited into our driver's open-aired house he explained that houses are ceremonial compounds where extended family live together and multiple offering sites are located magnetically as to their purpose. In the center, is a room that is used for to worship the souls of deceased family members. The smell of flower baskets lovingly placed at various places of worship in the compound mixed with burning incense. All of the afore-mentioned combined with that one cup of Kopi Luwac and I was starting to get into the tranquility mode.
Nightfall found ourselves checking into the former royal palace with pools of lotus flowers leading to the royal temple. I had never slept in a temple before nor bowed before a Queen. By the next morning, I could say neither anymore. We ate a healthy breakfast of fresh fruit and then decided to head to the monkey jungle, a place of reverence for the devilishly cunning macaque monkeys. Among the banyan trees and a thousand monkeys, I made the mistake of putting the bananas I purchased in the same pocket as my camera and ended up feeling the little hand of a crafty macaque yanking both out of my right pocket. For a few seconds we played tug-of-war, before he took off with all the bananas and I managed to hold onto my camera. Draw. The Skip learned quickly that once a macaque has stolen your bananas, those bananas are rightfully his or hers. Any attempt to recover purchased bananas will result in a gaping mouth displaying sharp teeth. Further attempt will more likely than not result in trip to hospital with one wondering why one fought with a monkey to retrieve bananas meant for a monkey. I stood there watching dad fight to get his bananas back from the monkey and wisely retreat upon the flash of teeth as people took pictures of the two. I wondered who was smarter.
We are headed to Cocos-Keeling and as always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Australia
Now that we finally have a little bit of signal to send and receive messages via this SSB and this service called Sailmail, I want to do a retro-blog about the beauty of the Northern Territory of Australia. In fact, to leave out a section regarding the times had there and the people met -- I would feel like I would have betrayed both. I wrote in an earlier blog that when I was in Queensland, the Aussies there are a bit like the good frontiersman of our western states, similar to the good folks I've met in Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho. The Aussies of the Northern Territory take that same independent spirit and connection to the land and multiple it by a factor of ten. These are the real Aussies, that live with the threat of drought, flood, venomous snakes, monster salt-water crocodiles that occasionally kill their brahman cattle and four or more times a year their kinfolk as well, and the logistical difficulties of the every-day life of living in a remote, yet beautiful region. This is the Australia I've wanted to breathe in, soak up, and relish for years. Kakudu National Park, the Adelaide river, Yellow Water river, and the lands surrounding did far from disappoint.
The trip up the Arnhem highway to Kakudu National park takes one at this time of year through some very dry scrub growth regions with billabongs (small water holes) that seem to dry before your very eyes. This is a positive, of course, to game-viewers like me who know that when you find the water in times like these, you find the animals. Dingos, water buffalo (feral and now being eliminated by the Aussie Fish and Game for the damage they do to the undergrowth), monster salt-water crocs, kangaroos, one dead eastern brown snake (now salted and frozen in the bench-freezer of the BEG), gouanas, pythons, and myriad bird species were observed, including the painted kingfisher.
Our first stop, very commercial but not too be missed, was the river tour of the Adelaide river aboard "The Adelaide River Queen" to see the famous jumping saltwater crocs. I'm not sure if feeding 17 foot crocodiles with chunks of pork attached to a line dangling from a pole which is lowered to the water and then quickly raised to tease the croc to propel itself out of the water is exactly a good way to keep Crocs from associating humans with food, but without doubt it has saved the population of crocs in this region. Crocs are now big money alive, rather than little money dead as their extinction was almost realized by over-hunting in the 1950's and 1960's. There is no doubt that the sound of the boat brings these bruisers to the boat. In fact, we watched these territorial creatures race each other to the boat to be the one to get their daily hand-out. If tours like these prevent the Australians from going on wild killing sprees any time someone is taken by one, then I'm all for them. The bottom line in Australia: Don't swim in freshwater or wade across streams at night determining if your rented 4x4 will make it across without being swept downstream (more on that later).
Next we headed to our cabins within Kakadu National Park and took several nice walks on site to their billabong where we witnessed a stand-off between a wallaby and a gouana, which is a large lizard native to Australia. Wallabies hopped around the grounds and fed on the more succulent green-grass being watered next to the swimming pool. For a sunset-vista we headed to a famous rock outcropping adorned with aboriginal art dating from 1,000-6,000 years of age. Paintings made from iron compounds and other organic material have weathered the ages and scenes depicting aborigines hunting crocodiles, kangaroos, and paying homage to "Lightning Man", who brings the rainy season, were there to teach life lessons. We even observed a positive imprint of a hand. As we scaled the hill, we reached the summit just as the sun was falling. Vibrant purples and oranges shined through clouds resting on the horizon and painted the land and made the iron rich rock out-croppings seem a little less harsh. The beauty of that sunset quickly faded and we made our way down the hill. Into the car we hopped, and my heart felt content with the prospects of what we may see crossing the road in the darkness of this frontier. Several snakes were spotted, but the one spotted by the Skip was the second highest on our list: the eastern brown. Unfortunately, it had been recently killed but we still approached it with great care. Mom is no fan of snakes, unlike Dad and me, and convincing her to let us take the snake back to room where we could properly skin and salt it and get it cooled down took some careful verbal maneuvering. It took Dad, some smooth talking, me whacking the snake with a stick several times and holding it, and Dad taking out an empty gas container (a way to detain the dead snake) which assured her that the dead snake would not be able to escape. As Dad proceeded to stuff the snake into the gas container, red and blue lights light up the night and a police truck pulled up and two bush cops jumped out with puzzled looks on their faces.
"Yeah, that's a bad one I reckon. Eastern Brown or King Brown from the looks of it. Not to be mucked with. Careful the Rangers don't see you with it. Have a nice night", the taller cop said giving us a bemused look as if he were thinking, "crazy Americans." Off they went and we still had the snake. I love the Aussies.
The next day found us on the Yellow river doing another boat tour. It had a truer feel to it than the Adelaide tour. Crocs were seen in great numbers and very close but they weren't the highlight of the trip. The guide's vast knowledge of the bird species we were abundantly seeing gave us more appreciation for this wild river ecosystem we were privileged enough to see for two glorious hours.
Back to that whole deal about not wading into rivers at night. Deciding how to make the most expeditious way back to Darwin, we were told of a shortcut that would easily save us "30 minutes" (cost us at least an hour) but it would be on a dirt road. We didn't mind that as we had a nice 4x4. We even spotted a dingo and two water buffalo and one very large snake that slithered off the road before we could jump out and see it. What we didn't expect to see about an hour down this "shortcut" was a river running through it (the South Alligator-known croc fatalities on it). So it was dark, we were at the point of no return, and I decided to jump out as Dad followed closely behind in the rental with high beams on and a plan of running a croc over if he saw a v making its way through the water. I tested the depth, my switch-blade in hand (because everyone knows how effective those are on 1,000 lb. beasts) as we both kept a look-out for Crocs. The water never got more than knee-deep but then again our reptile friends don't need much water to obscure themselves in the hunt. The river was quickly deemed passable and I gladly jumped back in.
In retro, we should have turned the vehicle around. We wouldn't be Metzes if we had. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
The trip up the Arnhem highway to Kakudu National park takes one at this time of year through some very dry scrub growth regions with billabongs (small water holes) that seem to dry before your very eyes. This is a positive, of course, to game-viewers like me who know that when you find the water in times like these, you find the animals. Dingos, water buffalo (feral and now being eliminated by the Aussie Fish and Game for the damage they do to the undergrowth), monster salt-water crocs, kangaroos, one dead eastern brown snake (now salted and frozen in the bench-freezer of the BEG), gouanas, pythons, and myriad bird species were observed, including the painted kingfisher.
Our first stop, very commercial but not too be missed, was the river tour of the Adelaide river aboard "The Adelaide River Queen" to see the famous jumping saltwater crocs. I'm not sure if feeding 17 foot crocodiles with chunks of pork attached to a line dangling from a pole which is lowered to the water and then quickly raised to tease the croc to propel itself out of the water is exactly a good way to keep Crocs from associating humans with food, but without doubt it has saved the population of crocs in this region. Crocs are now big money alive, rather than little money dead as their extinction was almost realized by over-hunting in the 1950's and 1960's. There is no doubt that the sound of the boat brings these bruisers to the boat. In fact, we watched these territorial creatures race each other to the boat to be the one to get their daily hand-out. If tours like these prevent the Australians from going on wild killing sprees any time someone is taken by one, then I'm all for them. The bottom line in Australia: Don't swim in freshwater or wade across streams at night determining if your rented 4x4 will make it across without being swept downstream (more on that later).
Next we headed to our cabins within Kakadu National Park and took several nice walks on site to their billabong where we witnessed a stand-off between a wallaby and a gouana, which is a large lizard native to Australia. Wallabies hopped around the grounds and fed on the more succulent green-grass being watered next to the swimming pool. For a sunset-vista we headed to a famous rock outcropping adorned with aboriginal art dating from 1,000-6,000 years of age. Paintings made from iron compounds and other organic material have weathered the ages and scenes depicting aborigines hunting crocodiles, kangaroos, and paying homage to "Lightning Man", who brings the rainy season, were there to teach life lessons. We even observed a positive imprint of a hand. As we scaled the hill, we reached the summit just as the sun was falling. Vibrant purples and oranges shined through clouds resting on the horizon and painted the land and made the iron rich rock out-croppings seem a little less harsh. The beauty of that sunset quickly faded and we made our way down the hill. Into the car we hopped, and my heart felt content with the prospects of what we may see crossing the road in the darkness of this frontier. Several snakes were spotted, but the one spotted by the Skip was the second highest on our list: the eastern brown. Unfortunately, it had been recently killed but we still approached it with great care. Mom is no fan of snakes, unlike Dad and me, and convincing her to let us take the snake back to room where we could properly skin and salt it and get it cooled down took some careful verbal maneuvering. It took Dad, some smooth talking, me whacking the snake with a stick several times and holding it, and Dad taking out an empty gas container (a way to detain the dead snake) which assured her that the dead snake would not be able to escape. As Dad proceeded to stuff the snake into the gas container, red and blue lights light up the night and a police truck pulled up and two bush cops jumped out with puzzled looks on their faces.
"Yeah, that's a bad one I reckon. Eastern Brown or King Brown from the looks of it. Not to be mucked with. Careful the Rangers don't see you with it. Have a nice night", the taller cop said giving us a bemused look as if he were thinking, "crazy Americans." Off they went and we still had the snake. I love the Aussies.
The next day found us on the Yellow river doing another boat tour. It had a truer feel to it than the Adelaide tour. Crocs were seen in great numbers and very close but they weren't the highlight of the trip. The guide's vast knowledge of the bird species we were abundantly seeing gave us more appreciation for this wild river ecosystem we were privileged enough to see for two glorious hours.
Back to that whole deal about not wading into rivers at night. Deciding how to make the most expeditious way back to Darwin, we were told of a shortcut that would easily save us "30 minutes" (cost us at least an hour) but it would be on a dirt road. We didn't mind that as we had a nice 4x4. We even spotted a dingo and two water buffalo and one very large snake that slithered off the road before we could jump out and see it. What we didn't expect to see about an hour down this "shortcut" was a river running through it (the South Alligator-known croc fatalities on it). So it was dark, we were at the point of no return, and I decided to jump out as Dad followed closely behind in the rental with high beams on and a plan of running a croc over if he saw a v making its way through the water. I tested the depth, my switch-blade in hand (because everyone knows how effective those are on 1,000 lb. beasts) as we both kept a look-out for Crocs. The water never got more than knee-deep but then again our reptile friends don't need much water to obscure themselves in the hunt. The river was quickly deemed passable and I gladly jumped back in.
In retro, we should have turned the vehicle around. We wouldn't be Metzes if we had. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Mackay to Darwin ....
The Captain studied the paper in front of him and worked the numbers out in a low voice but loud enough to hear. "It's 1520 miles to Darwin. If we average 5 knts a day; we will make it to Darwin in 12 days, 6 knts would be 10 days, and 6 knts would bring us to freedom from round-the-clock six hour watches split between the two of us. For all of our time busting hump in Mckay for three weeks, we were well behind schedule and for all of our hard labor we would be repaid with the need to skip the Great Barrier reef (overrated by people I've talked to in comparison to the diving we have done in Polynesia) and not get to do the day-tripping of the Whitsundays, a group of desolate, rugged islands teeming with bird life and rock out-croppings along their shores hiding those tasty red-throated emperor fish. I was bummed, but understood the logic. If we could eat up some miles, we could still salvage some time in Darwin and get to Kakadu National Park and do some of what we really want to do: outbacking, croc-viewing, snake-hunting, and getting to know more of these great Aussies.
Mom, being in a right, sane frame of mind, got off the boat in Cairns to experience the beauty of Australia landside; which gave us a night's rest before the round-the-clock sailing would begin. It's not that I mind the six on and six off routine with two on the boat. There is great beauty in being the lone Master and Commander (at least to think you are) of a beautiful vessel while gazing at Orion and the Southern Cross while the Skip is catching a few Z's but it has its moments that time-after-time again; one gets weary off. I had just finished my last blog (quite optimistic with all the work done on the boat), when a resounding "Oh S---!" came from the Skip as the generator petered out. Didn't we just spend three weeks in Mckay getting this boat ready and completely inspected to finish the second half? Without the generator, our newly installed 240 volt water-maker just sits. Before the generator went kablooey, we were making 220 liters of sweet water an hour. To those who have never been on water-restrictions, this may not make an impression; to those who have, remember relishing a nice hot shower or not being so stringent while washing dishes? The harder truth is that without the generator operating, batteries are not being charged unless the engine is running and we like to minimize that time to conserve fuel.
This is the crucible, though. This is what makes this an unequaled experience from other travels. It can't all be lazing it on a Bora Bora beach with an umbrella drink in hand. Fun, as it sounds, fun never equates to the pride of having tested one's determination in seeing it through. This is the reality of circumnavigating. It's tough. People constantly tell me of how envious they are of me and what a great chance to have a break from work to do this. I smile and tell them not to envy me too much and this is far from a break from work. That being said, as weeks go by and still more people drop out of the ARC; we keep on keeping on whatever may come our way. What I've found interesting in the World ARC fleet, is that the vast majority will tell you knowing how to sail is far from being the most valued skill. That's easy (unless you're into racing-I'm not). Far above that, in fact the most crucial, is the skill of being able to jury-rig broken equipment while utilizing limited items onboard. That's a real sailor. I watched my Skip use medical gauze and 5200 (great adhesive-everyone should have it on a sailboat) to patch a leak at sea in a broken hose between two attached engine parts. Absolutely brilliant as he applied layer of gauze while smearing the compound on the engine's artery stopping the massive hemorrhage and getting us from Bora Bora all the way to Australia where a mechanic replaced the broken hose. That's the Skip in his Patton-like determination to push forward quickly toward any obstacles and crush these boat issues one-by-one as they raise their cobra-like heads from the engine room and beyond. Leave it to a doctor to use his medical supplies in the engine room. I watch and assist to the best of my ability while carrying on the other tasks crucial to keeping a boat happy. As I have made friends with the various captains, boat-owners, and crew in the ARC; we have come to one universal and laughable conclusion: You have to be insane to own a boat.
As far as traversing the waters interior to the Great Barrier Reef and east of mainland Australia as we make or way northward and west, it is a head's up ball game. Super-tankers, warships, cargo ships, shrimpers, and anything else that could go bump in the night crowd the channels. It's a mine-field and no ten-minute shut-eye breaks are allowed. Thank God for the marvelous creation of the coffee bean. The rules of the road here are quite simple: the bigger vessel always wins and boats like to pass starboard to starboard here. They even drive on the wrong side of the channel. It is quite a lovely trip and its nice to not be out of the sight of land. As I longingly gaze out toward rugged cliffs, boulders, and mountains painting the landscape all shades of earthy yellows and oranges; I dream (and the Skip as well) of getting to Darwin and more interior. We'll get there.
The fishing report is relatively good. We caught a 15 lb yellow fin tuna (which I served cubed and raw in coconut milk, lime juice, minced scallions, and ginger) 2 spotted mackerel (a new species for us-meat as white as the driven snow and flaky-excellent pan-friend in butter, salt, and pepper), a tuna mackerel (not edible in my book) and then were cut off on two lines simultaneously while dragging a bloody tuna mackerel behind boat. Shark? I wonder if it had eyes like a doll's. Dark and lifeless. Time to get out the piano-wire and catch one of those porkers with the serrated, triangular teeth.
We are about half-way from Cairns to Darwin, now, and making 6.5 knts. We are tired but still making waves. I imagine in 5-6 days, we will be in Darwin. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Mom, being in a right, sane frame of mind, got off the boat in Cairns to experience the beauty of Australia landside; which gave us a night's rest before the round-the-clock sailing would begin. It's not that I mind the six on and six off routine with two on the boat. There is great beauty in being the lone Master and Commander (at least to think you are) of a beautiful vessel while gazing at Orion and the Southern Cross while the Skip is catching a few Z's but it has its moments that time-after-time again; one gets weary off. I had just finished my last blog (quite optimistic with all the work done on the boat), when a resounding "Oh S---!" came from the Skip as the generator petered out. Didn't we just spend three weeks in Mckay getting this boat ready and completely inspected to finish the second half? Without the generator, our newly installed 240 volt water-maker just sits. Before the generator went kablooey, we were making 220 liters of sweet water an hour. To those who have never been on water-restrictions, this may not make an impression; to those who have, remember relishing a nice hot shower or not being so stringent while washing dishes? The harder truth is that without the generator operating, batteries are not being charged unless the engine is running and we like to minimize that time to conserve fuel.
This is the crucible, though. This is what makes this an unequaled experience from other travels. It can't all be lazing it on a Bora Bora beach with an umbrella drink in hand. Fun, as it sounds, fun never equates to the pride of having tested one's determination in seeing it through. This is the reality of circumnavigating. It's tough. People constantly tell me of how envious they are of me and what a great chance to have a break from work to do this. I smile and tell them not to envy me too much and this is far from a break from work. That being said, as weeks go by and still more people drop out of the ARC; we keep on keeping on whatever may come our way. What I've found interesting in the World ARC fleet, is that the vast majority will tell you knowing how to sail is far from being the most valued skill. That's easy (unless you're into racing-I'm not). Far above that, in fact the most crucial, is the skill of being able to jury-rig broken equipment while utilizing limited items onboard. That's a real sailor. I watched my Skip use medical gauze and 5200 (great adhesive-everyone should have it on a sailboat) to patch a leak at sea in a broken hose between two attached engine parts. Absolutely brilliant as he applied layer of gauze while smearing the compound on the engine's artery stopping the massive hemorrhage and getting us from Bora Bora all the way to Australia where a mechanic replaced the broken hose. That's the Skip in his Patton-like determination to push forward quickly toward any obstacles and crush these boat issues one-by-one as they raise their cobra-like heads from the engine room and beyond. Leave it to a doctor to use his medical supplies in the engine room. I watch and assist to the best of my ability while carrying on the other tasks crucial to keeping a boat happy. As I have made friends with the various captains, boat-owners, and crew in the ARC; we have come to one universal and laughable conclusion: You have to be insane to own a boat.
As far as traversing the waters interior to the Great Barrier Reef and east of mainland Australia as we make or way northward and west, it is a head's up ball game. Super-tankers, warships, cargo ships, shrimpers, and anything else that could go bump in the night crowd the channels. It's a mine-field and no ten-minute shut-eye breaks are allowed. Thank God for the marvelous creation of the coffee bean. The rules of the road here are quite simple: the bigger vessel always wins and boats like to pass starboard to starboard here. They even drive on the wrong side of the channel. It is quite a lovely trip and its nice to not be out of the sight of land. As I longingly gaze out toward rugged cliffs, boulders, and mountains painting the landscape all shades of earthy yellows and oranges; I dream (and the Skip as well) of getting to Darwin and more interior. We'll get there.
The fishing report is relatively good. We caught a 15 lb yellow fin tuna (which I served cubed and raw in coconut milk, lime juice, minced scallions, and ginger) 2 spotted mackerel (a new species for us-meat as white as the driven snow and flaky-excellent pan-friend in butter, salt, and pepper), a tuna mackerel (not edible in my book) and then were cut off on two lines simultaneously while dragging a bloody tuna mackerel behind boat. Shark? I wonder if it had eyes like a doll's. Dark and lifeless. Time to get out the piano-wire and catch one of those porkers with the serrated, triangular teeth.
We are about half-way from Cairns to Darwin, now, and making 6.5 knts. We are tired but still making waves. I imagine in 5-6 days, we will be in Darwin. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
