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4,200 miles and 38 days later we finally arrived in
Falmouth,
UK. Didn't quite do a Noah (40 days), but we
had a bit of a menagerie on board. More about that
later.
All in all we had a pretty good trip. After departing
Luperon on 5th
May we
made a short detour to Big Sand Cay in the Turks &
Caicos. Marno
thought he
could hear strange noises coming from the base of the
main mast. Having
fixed it back in the US with a simple wax and epoxy job,
we squirted
the
last of our epoxy into the base and then ran from side
to side of the
boat
to rock it around a bit, hoping the epoxy would settle
in the right
places
(it didn't work for long). After a rested night we
continued our
passage,
albeit very slowly. For the next week and a half there
was hardly a
breath
of wind. When there was it was very light. Our average
speed during
this
time was just 3 knots. We weren't the only ones - it was
calm all over
the
Atlantic.
Before we left we had substituted our petrol cans for
diesel, so we
carried
20 gallons on deck and 40 gallons in each of our 2
tanks. That meant
approximately 200 hours of motoring. We emptied one tank
during this
time,
but managed to squeeze 84 hours out of it. Where were
all the trade
winds we
had heard and read about? As it happens, we had a total
of 1.5 days of
trade
winds throughout the entire trip.
But, the calm weather was sensational. We used it to do
jobs and fill
the
pantry with freshly baked bread, bickies, muffins and
cakes. It was
beautiful weather and the colours out in the middle of
the Atlantic are
simply spectacular. Clear blue skies and cobalt blue
water. As the sky
turned coral pink the water deepened to royal purple.
It's amazing how
much
light there is even on the nights when there's no moon.
The stars shine
in
all their splendour and the Milky Way splashes in a long
arc from
horizon to
horizon, frosting the sky like diamond dust. The
phospheresence is
awesome.
Waves roll with green fire and the jelly fish passing
under us light up
brightly - some larger than dinner plates. Large pods of
dolphins
joined us
along the trip, we even saw whales and watched a hump
back breach and
belly
flop several times.
We did hear strange noises out there. Nautical myths of
sirens calling
from
the deep sprang to mind, but both of us heard music,
singing and, dare
I say
it, voices, out there. We were fascinated by it and
turned off all the
electrics and radios and still we could hear it - too
faint to
distinguish
words. Some would argue that it was coming from the
standing rigging -
but
seeing as we don't have any...
The days blended into each other and we slid into a
routine. The
weather got
much colder as we passed by Bermuda. We listened to the
weather on our
SSB
radio every evening, tuning in to Herb who forecasted
for any boat
checking
in with him. We were unable to reach him, but there was
always a boat
within
100 miles of us and we could generally follow the same
weather advice.
We
also downloaded weather faxes and for the most part were
able to sail
around
storms and gale systems, probably adding about 500 miles
to our course.
One of us had to be on watch 24/7. During the days it
was whoever was
the
least tired or needed a break from chores. At night we
alternated every
3
hours. Line of sight to the horizon is 5 miles. Ships
travel at around
20
knots, so it would only take 15 minutes for a ship to
reach you. We
were
always careful with our watches, but one terrifying
event turned that
caution into religious zeal.
We were listening to Herb when a Pan Pan call came
through. This is not
a
Mayday call where life is endangered, it's one down from
that when
you're in
trouble, however, if it had been me...
He was a Pommie, more or less single handing as his
first mate was his
cat.
He was closer to the African Coast in the vicinity of
the Cape Verde
Islands. It was midnight. He had been hit by a ship and
his boat holed.
He
had lost his mast and rigging over the side and was
sinking, estimating
that
he had another hour before the boat was lost and he in
the water. To
make
matters worse he didn't have a life raft and his dingy
had been stolen
at
his last port. The ship that hit him was coming back to
rescue him. We
heard
later that he was saved, but they were unable to salvage
the boat. As
he was
climbing the rope webbing up the side of the ship he
lost his cat. He
had it
in it's cage when the latch to the door broke. In a mad
struggle to
save the
cat he also dropped all his belongings - passport,
papers, everything
he
chose to salvage. We listened to the whole thing in rapt
horror. It
could
happen to anyone. Single handers only sleep for 15
minute periods. Not
something I could do. I thought 3 hours was pretty hard.
But this event
was
incentive to stay alert during watch. Only once did we
have a ship on a
collision course with us. It was quickly averted by a
friendly 'G'day'
over
the VHF.
There are always birds out at sea and a long way from
land. They seem
to
live out there. One evening we saw 3 little birds, much
like Willy Wag
Tails. They didn't look like they should be so far from
land and
guessed
they had come from a container ship. Many times they
tried to land on
the
boat and eventually crash landed. They were so cold that
two of them
were
drawn to my body heat and proceeded to climb up my leg.
They didn't
seem to
be bothered or afraid of me.
Eventually, they ducked in under the cover of the dodger
and stayed the
night. By first light they were gone. We had lost track
of the 3rd
bird,
whom we christened Frank. He showed up later that
morning so tired that
he
wobbled on his little feet. After sitting in Marno's
hand he flew into
the
boat and sat on the floor of the galley and slept.
Eventually I picked
him
up for fear of treading on him. From that moment on he
elected that my
hand
was where he wanted to be. I tried to make a little nest
in a bowl for
him,
but he just kept flying to my hand. Of course, this
wasn't practical,
so I
put him on my shoulder. He eventually wiggled down my
shirt and
snuggled
into my cleavage. This reminded me of you, Jeanne with
Sweetie.
We had him for a full day. Then one fateful afternoon,
when all three
of us
were in the cockpit, he decided to take flight. He
attempted to land
back on
the boat and missed, hitting the water. He flailed away
while both of
us
were momentarily frozen with shock. The poor little
thing was trying to
swim
back to the boat and not doing a good job of it.
It took us 10 seconds to put a rescue mission together.
Marno turned
the
boat around and I scooped him up with a bucket. He was
shivering and
soaked.
We rushed him down below and sat him in front of the
heater to dry out.
I
tried to leave him there, but he just wanted to snuggle
with me. We got
him
dry, but several hours later Frank passed away. The
shock was too much
for
his tiny body. So we had a little service and watched
our small friend
float
away.
Then there was the day, a week or so later, an Albatross
circled our
boat.
But if it had come to give us bad luck, then we reckoned
it was about
an
hour late.
We were on our final leg - about 3 days from the UK. All
in all we'd
had a
fantastic trip. The worst things that had happened to us
up to that
point
was tearing a sail, which we managed to repair, bending
the pulpit with
the
preventer when we gybed violently, Frank passing away,
and me having to
climb the mast to rethread the lazy jacks. (It's amazing
how much
movement
there is up the mast at sea. I had to hold on so tightly
for fear of
being
flicked off and had massive bruising on the inside of my
arms and
thighs.
Marno called me Lara Croft after that).
Well, it started off being such a beautiful, calm day -
so calm we had
to
motor and we needed to charge the house batteries
anyway. That's when
we
emptied the 2nd 40 gallon tank. No worries, we still had
20 gallons on
deck.
We just needed enough to negotiate shipping channels if
the need arose.
It
was so calm we had no trouble pouring the diesel into
the tank. We then
had
to bleed the fuel lines to restart the engine, which we
did and did and
did
and did - to no avail. The engine would not start. No
matter what we
did.
For hours we were at it trying different things, pulling
out every bit
of
literature we had to help us trouble shoot. Of course,
the battery by
this
time was starting to go flat. So we let it rest for 30
minutes, then 45
minutes, then 60 minutes.
Our engine manual, on the subject of bleeding the fuel
system, actually
says
this, and I quote, "In the unhappy event of the
batteries becoming flat
during the above operation, look to your flare locker
(did you check
its
contents before leaving port?)". When we first read this
many months
before,
our ribs ached for laughing so hard. So, when Marno
looked at me after
flattening the battery and said "Look to your flare
locker", I grinned
and
responded, "Did you check its contents before leaving
port?". This had
us
grinning, but we knew engine loss wasn't the worst of
our problems.
We were about to get hit by a strong gale system that
was forecast to
reach
40-50 knots and stay with us for 2 days. There was no
way we could
outrun
this one or work around it. We had done 40 knots before
from Georgetown
to
Mayaguana for almost a day and survived, so after taking
a seasickness
pill,
we cleared the decks and put triple reefs in both sails.
The wind
started to
pick up a bit and we had the choice of heading for
Ireland, about 140
miles
north, or the UK, about 200 miles east. We chose to keep
heading for
the UK
and are glad we did.
Around 7:30am the gale hit us like a freight train. We
were heading
into it
and sometimes knocked almost beam to the seas, which
kept climbing in
height. The wind this time seemed stronger than 40
knots. It was
awesome
being in a storm. There was a kind of magnificence and
beauty to it.
The
surface of the water looked like it was being sand
blasted into fine
mist
and foam was whipped horizontally off the top of waves.
Clouds raced
across
the sky. The visual feast was added by the sound - it
actually roared -
a
real deafening roar. We had to shout to hear each other.
From time to time we heeled very sharply, the port toe
rail would
totally
submerge, so we lowered the mizzen. At times I wondered
if we'd end up
having a knock down (when the boat gets knocked over on
its side).
There was
so much water over the boat - more than I'd ever seen
before. Waves
just
kept smashing onto the deck and sprayed from bow to
stern and beam to
beam.
Both of us went below and tried to reconcile ourselves
that we could
live
with this for 2 days. It was so rough we couldn't cook
and once I was
thrown
bodily off the loo. Numerous times my feet actually left
the cabin sole
and
I was jet propelled through the boat.
If it got any worse we were going to deploy our series
drogue - a long
rope
with small parachutes attached down the length and a bit
of heavy chain
at
the end. It in theory slows the boat down and helps to
cushion the
ride,
preventing knock downs and capsizing. Only problem with
a drogue is
that it
is nigh impossible to pull back aboard once deployed.
Sometimes they
are
just cut loose and left to sink to the depths. So we
knew it was a last
resort.
Having lost the engine only an hour or so before, we
turned off the
power to
conserve energy, especially as the house batteries were
pretty low. In
doing
so, we also turned off our bilge pump.
Marno peeked out through the companionway every 10
minutes to keep
watch. I
took a break from being sling shot around the boat and
dozed on the
bunk. We
heard a sharp crack on the deck. Marno bolted up and
brought back down
our
SSB antenna; the wind had caused the line holding it to
the top of the
mast
to chafe through. We wouldn't be able to use the SSB
radio now - which
was
okay as we needed to conserve power anyway.
Meanwhile, I could hear a strange sloshing and guessed
it was the
storm,
until I lifted the cabin sole to look in the bilges.
They were full of
water.We believe the water was coming through the hawse
pipe on the foredeck
(We have since found a way to block it whilst in heavy
seas.)
We
grabbed the handle to the manual bilge pump and cranked
for all we were
worth.
It seemed like now was a good time to start counting our
blessings.
Truth be
told, we were actually having the time of our lives. It
was exciting
and
adventurous. Some of the things we'd seen and done and
the people we'd
met
were life enriching. This storm, our engine and power
problems were
part of
the adventure.
Then in the 4th hour of the storm a curious thing
happened. Marno and I
had
wedged ourselves under the dodger in the cockpit to
watch the storm. We
guessed that it was peaking to 50 knots, perhaps gusting
higher (which
we
later confirmed with other cruisers who were caught in
it as well). The
sun
came out. Directly above us a small patch of blue sky
appeared and
stayed
with us for the next hour. Gradually it grew and was
both behind and in
front of us. The wind was still just as strong, but the
sunshine gave
it a
whole different personality. In another hour we had
cloudless bright
blue
skies and the sea was a magnificent shade of emerald
green. Yet, the
wind
and seas still roared.
By the 6th hour, the wind died down to about 20 knots,
but the seas
were
mighty. I was left open mouthed at the shear height.
Attitudes is a
fantastic boat - she just skidded up the side of the
huge waves, which
from
the top seemed like small mountains. These were
definately the biggest
seas
I'd ever seen.
During the storm - just in 6 hours - we had covered
almost 45 miles.
Mostly
with just a triple reefed mailsail!
Gradually the seas calmed and we hoisted more sail and
before we knew
it,
were just 30 miles from the UK. So close and yet, so far
- the wind
died
again and we were becalmed. Both of us were so
frustrated. We had
enough
fuel to motor the rest of the way, but couldn't use it.
This was the
closest
I came to despairing. The swell was rocking the boat
uncomfortably and
we
were going nowhere. I tightened the sails - made them
drum tight and
the
booms were fixed to stop them slapping in an effort to
find the
slightest
breeze. It took us 15 hours to travel 20 miles. We could
see lit buoys
of
the shipping channels and kept our eyes peeled for any
approaching
vessel.
Seeing land the next morning was exciting. You can smell
the land,
although
it's not particularly pleasant - a bit like burnt toast
and sewage. We
ever
so slowly tacked our way past the Scilly Isles and
around the first
headland
of Lands End. We were almost there.
I started to worry about no engine, maneurvering and
anchoring under
sail
power alone in an unfamiliar port. We've anchored under
sail before and
had
even cast off a mooring under sail, but I guess it was
fear of the
unknown.
Marno was quite relaxed about the whole thing.
Then the wind finally picked up and we were sailing 8
knots on a flat
sea -
such fun sailing! Took our minds off our troubles.
The land here is beautiful!! Hills are like patchwork
quilts, green and
luscious, with quaint villages built in the valleys.
We were just 3 miles from Falmouth when Marno radioed
the Coast Guard
to get
some details and advice on where to anchor. They told us
of the
visitors
moorings and Marno was able to roughly guestimate where
they were on
the
chart.
Moorings! Picking up a mooring under sail was something
new. And
everywhere
we've been the procedure is different. Some have a small
buoy with a
long
antenna type thing you reach down and grab and pull
aboard. Others you
have
to thread your own rope through and then sometimes you
have to fish
around
for the rope hanging below the surface. And then usually
the moorings
seem
so close to other boats!!
My heart was jumping out of my chest thinking about all
the things that
could go wrong. Marno tried to calm me - after all, he
said, I had
scooped
Frank out of the water with a bucket on a rope. I jolted
myself out of
my
negative thinking and we put a plan in place. This was
going to be
another
exciting chapter of our adventure! The plan was to sail
in slowly and
have a
look around first to see which mooring we wanted, then
go back to it
and
pick it up. We readied the boathook and extra line just
in case and
sailed
into charming Falmouth Harbour. A charming picturesque
European
village.
Layers of multi-story townhouses are crammed on the
southern bank. On
the
other side a patchwork quilt of green fields with
several large estates
along the waterfront. And, dotted everywhere on the
water, about a
zillion
boats - all crammed together on moorings.
Marno scanned the immediate area with the binoculars and
we headed for
a
vacant mooring. These seemed to have little floats with
a handle on one
side
to catch with a long hook. I strolled up to the bow to
my waiting
boathook,
breathed deeply and decided that we were going to do
this - we just had
to
make it look like we knew what we were doing.
We zoomed in on a mooring. I looked at Marno and asked
him what
happened to
the practice run. He just answered "Ready?". I fumbled
for the
boathook,
leaned over the side and surprised myself by picking it
up first go. I
heard
the sails drop and Marno pounding up the deck to help me
secure the
line - a
big grin on his face. Although in mild shock, I felt
elated and asked
him
what happened to the practise run. He just said he
didn't want to give
me
time to panic!
With a grin and wobbily legs I made my way back to the
cockpit. It
happened
so smoothly. We looked around at the other boats around
us and felt
mildly
disappointed that we hadn't had any witnesses. FIGJAM
was Marno's word
for
the day (for those who know the acronym).
Marno went ashore to clear with Customs while I readied
the laundry and
dreamed of long hot showers. Patrice, we remembered your
experience of
exfoliating sheets of skin while soaking in a hot tub. I
felt 3 sizes
smaller after stepping out of the shower - the amount of
dead skin is
amazing.
So here we are in beautiful Falmouth and tonight Marno
got the engine
working, after borrowing a generator from Eric and Jan
of Kuramu to
recharge
the batteries. Apparently all it needed was a really
good cranking with
full
batteries!! Tomorrow we head for Exmouth to catch up
with Sam and
Louise and
to look for work.
There's so much I haven't told you - our fishing
experience with the
shark,
the fields of jelly fish, the storm that stopped and
stalled on top of
us,
seeing the misty island of Flores - the western most
island of the
Azores,
the new and uncharted sea mount discovered by one
cruiser during our
trip,
the SSB radio nets we were involved with and the
wonderful friends we
made
along the way. But this is such a long email already.
Would we do it again? Absolutely!
But now, earning some much needed dosh is our highest
priority.
      
     
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