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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. There was so much water coming over the decks and finding every
crack, nook, cranny and vent into the boat and the bilges. We found
leaks
that we'd never had before - mainly through the bolts on the toe rails.
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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