Voyaging with Annie Hill

2012-01-13T23:24:00.000-08:00

David’svisit has been a great boost for Fantailand me. As well as giving me the encouragement and inspiration toget on with jobs on board, David has also put his designer’s brainto work on my behalf, and given me skilled assistance –particularly with some tricky woodwork, which is not my strongestsuit.

TheJunk Rig Association is to hold a rally in North Island in March. The Royal Cruising Club plans a Bay of Islands meet. I should verymuch like to go to both, but really felt that neither Fantail norI were up to it. David agreed about the former, but not the latterand has spent a considerable amount of his time and energy on both. I have been worried about the forehatch, which I’ve always felt tobe a miserably inadequate affair, ever since I bought the boat. Fora start it never had any adequate means of securing it. Although Iremedied this, with some difficulty due to its unusual design,nothing I could do would make it more than barely weatherproof. Itcertainly wasn’t strong enough to go to sea. Most people kepttelling me to ‘get over it’, so I asked David’s opinion. Hetook one look at it and said replace it.

Sothat was job number 1. After costing wood, considering the amount ofwork required and also the amount of mess that would ensue building awooden hatch, I then looked at an aluminium one. It was possible tobuy one large enough to go right over the old cut-out on a newframework that would probably strengthen the existing deck, too. Myfriend Paul came to my assistance again, conning one of hisinnumerable contacts into selling me a top-quality Culéhatch at cost price. I bought some cedar and David and I made andfitted a frame for it. I painted it and its surrounds the colourthat I plan for the decks, but alas have not had time to do any more.

Inspite of apparently being so huge, it fits on deck ‘like it grewthere’ and I’m very pleased with the result. As well as beingcompletely waterproof, it lets in light. What bliss! I also lovebeing able to lie in bed and see the stars and the moon, check theburgee and get an idea of the weather.

Oneof the best pieces of kit that came with the boat is a Simrad TP22autopilot. Of course, it requires a lot of electricity, but it isgreat not to have to steer all the time and can be very useful at‘lending a hand’ at the tiller. However, I have an innatedistrust of such a complicated piece of equipment and was not keen onthe idea of having to rely on it for my trip up north. David agreed, but ‘just happened’ to have several pieces ofself-steering gear in his lockers. He designs and builds his owngears and often tries out new ideas. These leftovers, combined witha few more pieces of wood, some blocks and some line, were assembled,assessed, fitted, trialled and finally passed as fit for use. Thisall took rather longer than it sounds, but Fantail now has aproper sea-going, offshore wind-vane self-steering gear.

Tome, this is not only a vital piece of gear for any short-handed orsingle-handed sailor, but one of the best pieces of safety equipmentyou can fit. Mine cost virtually nothing, due to the fact that Davidhad so much of it to hand, but even starting from scratch, it wouldnot be expensive. It will work regardless of the state of thebattery, needs hardly any maintenance, can be repaired on board or ina simple workshop ashore and allows me to concentrate on things likepilotage or cooking warm food, while it gets on with the job ofsteering the boat. The only time it does not work well is when thewinds are very fluky, as in sailing in the Marlborough Sounds, ofwhich more another time.

Thefirst boat I ever sailed in, Stormalong was black and itseemed quite natural for us to paint Sheila black, too. Sincethen, every boat I have owned, with the exception of Spartan,has been black until I bought Joshua as she then was. At thetime I disliked the white hull and the maroon trim and the passage oftime did nothing to make it more appealing. I soon envisaged thecolour scheme that I wanted and was so sure that it was correct, thatit was always something of a surprise for me to see the all-whiteboat at anchor. To me, my little ship’s transformation would notbe complete until I had painted her the colour I wanted.

Davidand I had planned a small cruise in company over the Christmasholiday. Fantail had becomequite foul in her drying berth in Motueka and the difference in herperformance had become noticeable. As I had to haul her forantifouling, I decided to paint the topsides at the same time. Imade arrangements to get her pulled out on one of the trailers thatthe Yacht Club uses, in spite of the truly dreadful forecast. Theweather on the day we hauled out was better than anticipated andtaking this as an omen, or maybe simply because I’m an incurableoptimist, I went for broke and started sanding down the hull. I wasthen committed and I have to confess that mid-way through theoperation, I was rather wondering if I hadn't bitten off more than Icould chew. The boat had had plastic ‘go-faster’ stripes stuckon, and these took an age to remove. A heat gun didn’t work, nordid sanding. The least inefficient way of getting them off was topeel them, but the plastic was old and brittle and often reluctant toco-operate. I had only 5 days to get these damn strips off, sand thehull and bottom and apply two coats of paint on the built-uptopsides, 2 coats on the hull and 2 coats of antifouling on thebottom. And the forecasters were still muttering about rain.

Davidnobly offered to feed and water me every night, so by 0630 everymorning, I was hard at it. He also nobly refrained from telling methat if the weather forecast was right, I didn’t have a cat inhell’s chance of getting the work done. But I bet he thought it!

Thegods were kind to me, the weather held and with careful juggling ofpainting times so that the hot sun was not kicking the paint offfaster than I could apply it, I got the job knocked over. The GoodOld Boys in the Yacht Club were somewhat taken aback at both myfrenetic activity and my colour scheme. They tend to do their workin a more leisurely fashion and, generally speaking, boats are white. However, Ivan was going away on the 22nd and as he had taken suchinfinite cares with Fantail when hauling her out, I preferred that hewould be the one to put her back in. Besides, David and I wanted tobe in Pelorus Sound for Christmas, so I had to get a move on.

By0730 on 22 December, I was ready to launch. Ivan checked all hislines; I fussed over my new paint and occasionally relaxedsufficiently to admire my handiwork. I thought she looked ratherspecial, actually.

Ifelt a huge sense of relief as I warped her along the wharf and inspite of the early hour, I had a small bottle of bubbly chilling forThe Occasion. I felt I deserved a celebration.

Iwent round and admired the new paint job, looking very mellow in theearly morning sun. At last (apart from the deck) Fantailwas looking as My Boat should.

Lessthan an hour later, Tystieand Fantail weresailing down the harbour, bound for the Marlborough Sounds.

2011-12-19T09:26:00.000-08:00

The Grren Interview that Trevor and I did with Silver Donald Cameron can now be viewed, if you have good Internet access. I haven't so have not seen it, but I did download the transcript of the conversation, to remind myself of what it was all about. I think it would be interesting to view. You have to subscribe, but I think most people would agree that most of the other interviews would be fascinating. When I stop working flat out on Fantail and get away cruising for a while, I shall be reading many of the transcripts myself.

http://www.thegreeninterview.com/greeninterview

2011-11-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

My friend, David, who helped me design the rig, sailed in from Tasmania a few weeks ago and has been nobly helping me with various projects. Paul, in whose workshop I built the rig, came down for a visit so that we could take the two boats out sailing; we had a huge amount of fun.

I took a load of photos of Tystie, but then I gave them to David and forgot to keep copies for myself, so can't put any on this post.

We left from Mot with a N wind, which means a headwind up to the Abel Tasman Park, where we were headed. However, it meant we could run down to the bar together

After we crossed the bar and headed offshore, Tystie vanished over the horizon. We plodded on, close-hauled to Adele, with only just enough wind. I lashed the helm and really enjoyed the sail - for once there was enough wind to get the whole way without resorting to power. It has to be said that Fantail sails really well to windward - it's nice to have a boat that actually makes progress when beating!

Both boats spent the night anchored of Adele I and in the morning, David and Paul came aboard Fantail.

David tweaked some of the control lines to his satisfaction, and then we took her out sailing. David had lots of fun sailing her - she is so light and responsive compared with his ocean-cruising 35 footer and he was delighted at how the sail has turned out. We have altered the lead of the running luff parrel and the sail is setting properly now. Only one Honk Kong parrel left and I think this can come off. I'm pleased about that because I think they stress the rig.

The wind was up to about F5 at times and David carried on with more sail than I would have. But she stood up to it, which is more than you can say for me! But it was good to try things out.

When we came back I had to put them back on Tystie and with the fresh wind eddying around and the boat swinging at anchor to the tidal swirls, it wasn't easy, but apart from a few bruises, I don't think there was any damage.

The following day we sailed up to Anchorage in company. I left first, the sun shining but not much wind. I motored up out of the roadstead to get enough breeze to sail with and carried sail right into anchor. Tystie came in a bit later - apparently she had only managed to sail down into Torrent Bay. Small is beautiful I thought, smugly!

We all went ashore for a walk and then sailed back to anchor on the W side of Astrlolabe Roadstead.

I enjoyed the sail so much so that I ran half way down between Adele and the mainland before turning round and beating back - just for the fun of it. It was wonderful and even more wonderful to find myself enjoying it all so much. It makes all the hard work and expense seem worth while now and has enthused me sufficiently to get on with some of the other jobs I need to do to make the boat properly seaworthy.

2011-08-27T12:37:00.000-07:00

Back in D’Escousse, we stayed for a few days spending time with our friends and celebrating my birthday. Then it was back through the St Peters Canal, shopping and visiting and out into the Bras D’Or. I always associate this area with good weather and in a particularly bad summer, it was good to find ourselves pottering up the lake in the sun. A light breeze took us up to the pretty anchorage at Cape George Harbour.

While we were sailing up, we were stopped by the police in a large and expensive RIB. They wanted to see our papers and I couldn’t help thinking how much money and resources are wasted on this sort of thing. It is beyond my comprehension as to how two middle-aged people sailing in a small boat have any affect at all on the countries they visit – apart from bringing in a certain amount of foreign exchange and paying sales taxes which we can rarely claim back. But we have to contact Customs and Immigration and, in too many cases, do this in advance and/or at regular intervals while we are in the country. All we want to do is to visit and move on, but this simple attitude seems to frighten the authorities who like to keep us tightly controlled.

Cape George Harbour is a typical Bras D’Or anchorage, a small, mud-bottomed lagoon protected by a shingle spit, and is safe in most condition. Our sun didn’t last long and next day it poured with rain, so we stayed put and even lit the fire, burning logs that Greg had given us.

It was still raining when we got up on Tuesday morning, but we left anyway, with Trevor having to pour gallons of water over the foredeck to wash off the sticky mud. No sailor really resents this – this sort of mud is good holding!

Three hours of gentle sailing in drizzle, we anchored in a lovely spot in the Crammond Is, with no houses in sight. The anchorage is between two islands, which have a narrow slot between them at both ends. One end is really pretty shallow, but there is plenty of water in the other, with a wee dog leg. A bullet proof spot.

One of the joys of sailing in this area is the number of bald eagles. You see them constantly and they are absurdly easy to spot with their bright white heads showing up clearly against the dark trees. Although such grand and dignified birds, they seem very gentle creatures, frequently mobbed by terns, who object to them coming anywhere near their nesting sites and chased by crows, who seem to object to them simply on principal. Their call is far from impressive, too, being a rather feeble high-pitched peep. Some fishermen leave heads and guts for them on the shingle spits and it’s wonderful to see them so close. However, generally they are most uncooperative when it comes to being photographed, but I did manage to get one passable shot.

The next day was a bit brighter and we sailed round to Ross Pond. There were more houses around than we expected. People round here must spend an absolute fortune on fuel for their cars as so many of these places are miles from any shops. The very appeal of this beautiful area is one of its drawbacks. There doesn’t seem to be any control over the many houses that have been built since I first visited, and all too often they are huge, unattractive and extremely intrusive, standing on cleared ground with no trees anywhere near them. The sailing on the lake is true holiday sailing, but to my mind it is rather tame and unstimulating and generally, there are too many houses about. I much prefer the wild and woolly Eastern shore, with its fog and islands and inlets.

We went back to the Crammond Is and as we approached, we saw a boat we’d met in St Peters, Calliope, had run aground. While unpleasant for them, it was great fun for us and we rounded up and anchored. Trevor rowed out our stern line and they attached it to the stern. Once it was secured, I cranked away on the winch and we soon pulled the boat off. They headed off no doubt thanking their lucky stars that we’d been about, because this is not a particularly popular anchorage.

After lunch, Trevor took his new saw across and chopped down some more firewood. We were both happy with this new toy – I could keep warm and dry and Trevor didn’t need to spend hours each week getting the wood.

After lunch, it brightened up a bit, so we motored to Marble Mountain, which was rates as a five-star anchorage in our cruising guide. It is still very sheltered, but its appearance was rather disappointing anchorage. Most of the spit has been washed away/removed/overgrown and there are too many mansions on manicured lots. Fizz boats were whizzing around and we had to listen to loud music in the evening. It was disappointing. However, we stayed put because we were planning on having a nice tramp up Marble Mountain. According to Peter Loveridge it was quite a work out – an almost sheer 1000 ft climb. With a forecast of a sunny day, I was looking forward to it.

The day came in thick and drizzly, but it cleared up later in the morning. I made calzone – our standard picnic fare - and off we went. We had to walk along the road for much of the way and had a bit of difficulty finding the track up. It started as a logging trail with lots of ‘Keep Out’ signs, but we were determined to get our day out. The '1000 ft climb' was more like 750 ft and no more than a stroll. It was really disappointing after having looked forward to it so much. But there were some nice views and it was pleasant to sit in the sun, eat our food and enjoy a bottle of beer each, all in the sunshine.

We visited an interesting old store/shop that a lady and her partner are renovating in the hope of turning it into a sort of living museum. She stopped what she was doing to show us round – it was quite fascinating and a true labour of love. The difficulty of financing such a project really doesn’t bear thinking about.

When we got back aboard, we decided to go somewhere a little quieter and moved to the very pretty Pellier Harbour, where there were only a couple of houses in view. We went ashore and tramped - quite arduously - along the shoreline, where we had to do a bit of bush bashing - one of my least favourite pastimes. Trevor nobly left me on the beach while he fought his way back to get the dinghy and rowed back to pick me up. This was a lovely anchorage and with good holding, an easy entrance and well protected from all directions, it would be a good refuge in bad weather.

Saturday started foggy and we were debating staying in this attractive spot when the first deerfly arrived and tried to take a chunk out of me. It was speedily followed by a huge number of mates, so we got the anchor up in short order and motored until we were out of range. In due course the wind came in and we sailed to Maskells Harbour. This is a haunt of members of the CCA, not only because it is a beautiful and sheltered spot, but also because in 1922, several American boats that were sharing the anchorage decided to set up the CCA. There was just enough wind to sail in, so we did, although it was quite a tricky beat. We had quite an audience watching us sail in, so we were somewhat committed. Fortunately, it went off without a hitch and some people ashore took a splendid photo of Barky tacking in through the entrance.

We spent a few days here, hospitably entertained by various CCA members who have summer homes near by. Their natural generosity was enhanced by the fact that Trevor and I are joint recipients of their Blue Water Medal and I think they were pleased to have a medallist in ‘their’ harbour.

While we were there, we spent time with an intersting couple with an offshore motor yacht, Egret who had taken her many interesting places, including Chile. Their ocean passages sounded much harder work than on sailing boat: they were obviously competent and conscientious sailors, but with an engine running constantly, it has to be constantly monitored. Rather different from our relaxed approach when sailing under wind-vane self-steering.

Another very interesting boat was a Spray replica, Double Crow. I had actually been to see her in build many years previously in Chéticamp. With her huge scantlings she was much more a little ship than a boat and quite a sight with her handsome gaff rig.

In due course we sailed up to Baddeck, the end of the cruise for me. It was sad to leave Trevor and Barky, but my own boat was calling me and I looked forward to being back in NZ.

2011-08-02T01:11:00.000-07:00

Drying out wasn’t going to happen, sowe decided instead, to go across and see some friends in St Peters. Their bush telegraph was obviously working, because as we tied up atthe waiting jetty, they were there to greet us.

We had a pleasant time catching uplater that evening. I had long been wanting to meet a couple whohave a junk schooner, Easy Go,that theybuilt to the same design as Badger,so I was delighted when I discovered that Greg not only knew them,but knew them well enough to invite them over for dinner thefollowing day.

After a wonderful evening, we all went back on to Iron Bark fornightcaps, still talking nineteen to the dozen, with so much incommon and so much that we wanted to learn about each other. Bob andKathy were leaving to see their son in Newfoundland in a couple ofdays, but we just had time to make arrangements to go and see them –and the boat! - before they left.

StPeters, I should explain, is at the entrance to the Bras D’OrLakes, a remarkable geological formation that is an essential part ofCape Breton’s character. The islandof Cape Breton was almost split into two by the formation of twobodies of water – going back to the days of the great glaciers,which form a large part of the area of this island. (Although acauseway was built over half a century ago, to join Cape Breton tothe ‘mainland’ of Nova Scotia, it is, by Nature’s purpose, anisland.) These two lakes are themselves almost separated by a‘Narrows’ at Barra, that was long ago exploited by building twobridges – one for road and one for rail. They are still brackish,although almost fresh, and so have a unique ecosystem. The majorappeal of the Bras D’Or for most people – particularly NovaScotians and particularly sailors –is that being inland, theyrarely encounter the prevailing summer fogs that bedevil the rest ofthe province.

Thecanal itself is no great feat of engineering if compared with some ofthe European creations, but is interesting and – better still –staffed by some of the most pleasant people one could ever hope tomeet. It is always a pleasure to go through and, as a sailor whoisn’t particularly fond of motor cars, there is an additionaldelight in seeing the bridge swing open and make all the traffic waitas one makes one’s stately way through.

We sailed into the River Bourgeois on agrey day. Considering that Bob and Kathy have now made it their homeand that for a long time, it has been the summer retreat of therenowned writer Farley Mowat, it is perhaps a ratherinappropriately-named spot – in the sense that most of us use theword ‘bourgeois’.

We anchored close to Easy Go

andbefore we had worked out where the housethat Bob and Kathy were building was located, we saw them dragging adinghy down the beach and rowing out to meet us. We went over to seethe boat and were made very welcome. Easy Go was built– incredibly - in 11 months, but while she is undoubtedly verysimple, there is no feeling of a project that was rushed or in anyway executed less than thoroughly. It did my heart proud to see her– she had Badger’s spiritstrongly within her and Bob and Kathy would leave me standing intheir economic efficiency and their ability to enjoy all the goodthings in life. It was good to see that a lot of the things that Ithink worked particularly well in Badger– such as the unusual companionway, had been both copied and kept.

Later,we went ashore to see their latest project – the cutest littlehouse – whose 350 sq ft will contain all that anyone wouldreally ever need. We stayed for the evening and I was very sorrythat they were leaving on the next day and that I wouldn’t get thechance to spend more time with them.

We left the next morning and Bob andKathy came down to the entrance to the river, where they took somebrilliant photos of our sailing out.

Trevor's blog

2011-07-31T13:39:00.000-07:00

Trevor has finally got round to writing a blog. So far he has published an account of his time in Chile, but I'm hoping he will write a lot more. Go and see it at http://iron-bark.blogspot.com/

2011-07-29T20:46:00.000-07:00

We woke up to a perfect, if perfectlycalm, morning. We left straight after breakfast, drifting out of theanchor and leisurely making sail.

The ‘other part’ of the St AndrewsPassage, which I had also always wanted to transit, was the CansoStrait, taking you between Canso I and the mainland, where the townis located. En route to the passage that goes past the town itself,we passed the Canso Light sitting on its wee island, which looks asthough it might get washed away in the next severe gale!

As you turn the corner, the town iscompletely dominated by a huge church, and this continued to be thecase as long as we had the town in view. The leading marks are, intrue Nova Scotian style, well maintained and attractively designedand executed. I often wonder why, now that we have so many aids toour creativity, we can so rarely create something that is bothfunctional and attractive. Indeed, creating something aesthetically pleasing seems to be animpossible challenge for most designers these days.

Thepassage was very pretty and the town looking most appealing under asunny sky, bordered as it was by a calm sea. But I couldn’t helpthinking that it’s probably a bit bleak in the winter. Fromall angles, the church wasthe town and I wondered how much influence, for good or otherwise,this institution has on Canso.

Canso is an old town, by New Worldstandards and it is amazing how many of its day-marks are obviouslyof quite some vintage, but still standing. I am sure they must getbattered by ice in the winter and they are undoubtedly built of softwoods, but in the middle of the channel leading out towards IleMadame, was a structure holding a light. It was covered with shags –until I got my camera out – but although sagging and bulging, andwell out of true, still appeared to be doing its job.

We drifted out and with no greatdistance to go, were quite happy with the light winds that took usmost of the way to D'Escousse. If nothing else, it gave us an excuseto finish off the beer!

When we arrived at D’Escousse wefound the harbour full of boats, enjoying the Yacht Club's annualfestival. There was no sign of our friends Don and Marjorie, andafter catching up with the irrepressible Claude, who shanghaied us togo and look at a building he's restoring (apparently to theaccompaniment of a running battle with the local council); andvisiting our dear old friend, 'Uncle' Bill's widow, who was bakingvast quantities of bread for her son to take back home to CentralCanada; and participating in the 90th birthday party of a completestranger, we went back aboard. Trevor had been hoping to put Barkyalongside to scrub off some barnacles and change the anodes, but thisdidn’t seem to be the right day for such a task!

2011-07-29T16:28:00.000-07:00

Weleft today in very light winds, butsaileduntil we came to the StAndrews Passageto Canso. I've been dying to do this for years, butsomehow it has never happened. It'ssupposedly quite tricky, but it turned out to be very well-buoyed andquite straightforward.

Not even very exciting, it was all so wellorganised, butvery pretty and well worth while! Bythe time we got there, what wind there was had headed us and therewas a foul tide running, so we started the engine. Therewere more buoys and they took us along a slightly different routefrom that shown on the chart. We saw lots of seals near thestrangely-named Sherewink I. The shores, covered in stunted spruce,had a number of what were apparently holiday homes along them.

We ambled along until we came into PortGlasgow, which is a real misnomer, where we anchored. There is noport at all and the only sign of any building is the spire of achurch peeping over the hill. But it’s a spacious harbour,although there are a number of rocks and shallow patches that wouldmake it awkward to sail in and out of.

2011-07-27T15:22:00.000-07:00

This Eastern Shore is a trulydelightful cruising ground.

Thursday saw us sailing in very lightbreezes and wending our way among a variety of islands and skerries,the sixteen miles to Beaver Harbour. There is a spit here, where Ihoped we'd get ashore and explore, but after we had anchored, werealised that there were terns nesting there and as we didn’t wantto disturb them, we stayed on board.

We left the following morning, with fogcoming and going. Trevor had loaded in the waypoints and at a trickymoment realised that he had put in some incorrectly, so there was abit of flurried activity. The compass badly needs swinging – thejoys of a steel boat! - which makes the one in the GPS moreimportant than is usually the case. But one usually has more timethan one realises. There was a lovely bit of pilotage throughislands, which I enjoyed doing the old-fashioned way.

We came out into a large area of openwater and drifted in the hot afternoon sun while we drank a couple ofthe beers that we’d bought in Sheet Harbour.

Just before tea time, we anchored inMary Joseph, a fishing harbour with a large fleet of dead boats andthe somewhat surreal sight of a large Coastguard vessel groundedashore.

Saturday came in with a beautiful dawn.

But I was glad to leave Mary Josephbecause I found it a rather depressing harbour. Just before we gotunder way, a fishing boat set off, calmly dumping a bag of rubbishoverboard - plastic bottles and polystyrene takeaway containers. Ican’t understand how people whose livelihoods depend on the sea cantreat it this way. I’d have thought they could have dumped theirrubbish ashore before they set off.

We sailed out in very light airs. Wehad a bit of fun by Liscomb Island when the fog came in thick and(once again!) the waypoints didn’t match reality. I was actuallyquite happy, because I was steering and had been taking in the routeas we sailed along. The visibility was coming and going and I prettymuch knew where we should be heading, but it’s a bit different whenyou suddenly come up and can’t see anything! But GPS or no GPS, acouple of bell or whistle buoys in the vicinity, doing their thing,are always welcome. We noticed that the sound of the whistle buoysseems to carry much better, regardless of the wind direction, thanthat of bell buoys. We were almost on the Liscomb buoy before weheard it!

The entrance into Spanish Ship Harbourwas narrow and intricate with a bit of tide running, so we motoredin. The harbour, which had looked so pretty on the chart, wasnowhere near as attractive as I'd hoped it would be. A lot of treeshad been cut down ashore and a major highway ran along the far side. Trevor went ashore to cut some wood, but came back complaining aboutthe poor quality. Still, as he pointed out, with his trusty chainsaw, he didn’t mind spending time cutting up indifferent woodbecause it wasn’t really that much work.

As we sat having oursundowner, the fog came in and we wondered if we were going to betrapped there the next day.

We were planning to leave early,because we had a 45-mile sail ahead of us, heading for WhiteheadHarbour, so we were relieved to find that the fog had vanished whenwe got up.

We were underway just after 7, with alight wind, which forced us to use the engine for a little while. Itfilled in to about F2 by 9 o’clock, but 2 hours later, there was nosign of the promised westerly. However, it gradually filled in asforecast, and we were soon sailing along in fine style. Welloffshore there was not a lot to look at, so we appreciated all themore the sight of a very pretty little schooner going the other way. Trevor got some fine photos of her.

The entrance to Whitehead Harbour ishidden among islands and skerries and took a bit of sorting out. Foronce the Mr Loveridge’s cruising guide was not particularly clearand as we bounded along in a fresh breeze, there were a few tenseminutes before everything fell into place. Once it did, it was quitestraightforward and we made our way into the charming Yankee Covewith no more problems.

Astonishingly, five other yachtsfollowed us in, including three Nonsuch catboats of various sizes. The place was positively crowded!

With easterlies forecast, and thenrain, we stayed in Yankee Harbour for a few days. It was a lovelyspot. One afternoon, I took Lisa and rowed all around the islandthat made up one side of the anchorage, leaving Trevor to wrestlewith the cooker which had been misbehaving. That used to be my job –there are advantages to being a guest!! Trevor also assaulted thelocal forest and we spent time sorting out photographs, swopping withone another so that we each had a good selection.

2011-07-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

Unbelievably, we ran out of water lastnight. Trevor was convinced that somehow I had managed to getthrough 180 litres since we left Halifax, which seems unlikely. Ireminded him that I do still live on a boat when I’m not on IronBark and, moreover, at presenthave to fill up a 4 litre container as my tank needs repairs. Andthat usually lasts me more than a day. In the end he agreed thatpossibly there had been an airlock when he filled the tanks and thatthey hadn’t filled properly. After some debate about bludgingwater from one of the nearby houses, we decided instead to go toSheet Harbour, where we could top up fuel and fresh food, too.

There was no wind, so we motored the 6 miles there. We launched Lisa and rowed to a small wharf, with a launch alongside, as there was no other good landing. As we tied up, a man walked over the road from the house across the way and welcomed us to the town. It was his wharf and far from being irritated at our appropriating it, he told us that we could use his outside tap to fill up our water containers. Nova Scotians are such generous people! So while Trevor filled water containers and bought diesel I went and found a supermarket.

Sheet Harbour is an attractive town and it was apparent that it had much civic pride. There were handsome houses and the main street had been ornamented with new Victorian-style lampposts and trees had been planted by the sidewalk. Before shopping, I walked from one end of town to the other, stopping to admire the rapids that explained the fast-flowing current in the river. They had once been dammed and diverted for hydro-power for a saw mill. Now the river is dammed further up and the water runs freely here. It was an attractive spot.

I hadforgotten how fierce the sun can be in Nova Scotia and my face hadbeen getting burnt, so I went looking for a visor. I had beensurprised that I couldn’t find one in Lunenburg and now,incredibly, this item of head wear that was once so ubiquitous wasnowhere for sale. I mentioned this fact to a nice lady in thehardware store. She promptly picked up the phone and rang herhusband at home, giving him strict instructions as to where he shouldlook for some ‘spare’ visors that she had, and to bring them tothe shop. This he duly did and she offered me one from what he hadbrought. She refused any payment and insisted that I accept it as agift. I was very touched at her kindness and consideration.

On the way back, I thought I’d get ussome grog from the liquor store, and as I went in, there was Trevorcoming out. Two minds with but a single thought! We combined forces(and purses) and staggered back to the boat with shopping, bottlesand cans.

After we’d stowed our purchases,Trevor took me back ashore to the garage to show me a chain saw thathe’d seen. Sawing up firewood is not his favourite task,particularly the pine that it most common around Nova Scotia. Ittakes quite a lot of effort and burns quickly. I had to admit thatthe little saw he showed me was light and small. And I know thatTrevor some times was cold and damp in Chile simply because it tookso long to acquire firewood. So ‘why not?’ I said and the dealwas done. The Good Old Boys sitting around the shop part of thegarage, drinking coffee, took a great deal of interest in the wholedebate and transaction. I guess not a lot happens in Sheet Harbour.

We had noticed a pretty spot back downthe river and decided to move back for the night, but the wind died,so after drifting a couple of miles, we headed inshore and droppedthe hook in Watering Cove.

2011-07-19T12:15:00.000-07:00

Today started off bright and sunnyagain – but no wind. Looking at the chart, a little anchoragecalled Malagash Cove looked very attractive. Only 13 miles away, itwould be a pleasant day sail.

We went around the back of Harbour I,which gave us a bit of nice pilotage. Trevor uses GPS for this, butI try to keep my old skills up, working out which island is which andpiloting by the chart.

Unfortunately, the echo sounder, which is ofsuch help in thick conditions, is working rather erratcially at themoment. Trevor reckons there may be some barnacles on it. However,although it was occasionally misty, the visibility was generally OK.

The wind eventually picked up enoughfor us to sail – espeically as we weren’t in a hurry. . Wesailed through the narrow entrance into Malagash Cove, tacking in toanchor.

Some people standing on the balcony of their house, waved tous as we sailed in. Another pretty anchorage, with houses dottedaround the shoreline.

2011-07-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

Today was a really lovely one.

We hadbeautiful weather and as soon as there was a breeze we left Sambroand headed out towards the passage between Inner Sambro I and CapeSambro. With a leading wind, we sailed through; the shoreline waspretty, covered in black spruce on the grey rock.

Soon we could seethe handsome lighthouse peeking over the land.

The trees gave way to grass, at the endof the island as we came out into the bay.

We now had a clear view of thelighthouse and the keepers’ cottages, which looked abandoned. The lighthouses are no longer manned of course, but the SambroLight must have been one of the cushier numbers. It would have beenvery rare for the keepers to have been stranded due to bad weather,so close to the mainland.

We bowled along happily, passingHalifax and several other possible harbours as we made best use ofthe wind to get along the coast. We made it to Shelter Covein Popes Harbour, but once again the wind died away and wefinally started motoring in order to get in before dark. It was agorgeous anchorage and for once we shared it with another boat.

The main water tank ran out as I wascooking dinner and Trevor accused me of squandering all our water because he filled it up just before I arrived. However, I can't see that I've used any more than I usually do. But we have another tank and that should easily last for several more days.

Trevor reckons that the cove iswell-named and that in case of a hurricane, it would be possible totie at all four corners and be safe. Unfortunately, as is so oftenthe case along this coast, it’s not possible to go ashore for awalk without arduous bush bashing. But it was lovely to look out of the galley window as I cooked dinner and to be able to admire our beautiful surroundings.

2011-07-16T19:18:00.000-07:00

Saturday came in cool and wet, but weset off hoping to get beyond Halifax. There was the odd shower aboutand not a lot of wind, in spite of the weathermen blithelyforecasting a F6 for later. For all that, we managed to sail allday.

After lunch we were not far off SambroHarbour; it sounded appealing in the cruising guide, so we decided toput in and dropped the hook just after 3 o’clock, feeling quitechilled and in need of hot grog.

Sambro is a tidy little commercialharbour, with a tiny marina which has room for 3 or 4 small visitingboats and 4 mooring buoys laid, also for visitors. These facilitiesmade us feel we were welcome.

We put the dinghy in the water and wentashore to have a look round. There is not much in Sambro – acouple of stores and a number of houses – but it was good tostretch our legs and all the locals we spoke to were friendly. Butit was still cool, and once back on board, I cooked a thick andwarming hotpot for our dinner.

2011-07-15T18:45:00.000-07:00

We left on a morning of thick fog: ayacht, Solana, thatleft at the same time was almost invisible, its white sails and whitehull blending into the white fog.

There was hardly any wind as we motoredout, and the calm lasted most of the day. Occasionally there wassufficeint wind to sail, but we were too lazy to haul the sails up,knwoing they would have to come down again when the wind died oncemore. The visibiltiy also came and went: occasionally we could seefor at least 15 miles and occasionally we were lucky if we could see15 metres!

We ended up motoring all the way toMcGrath Cove, which turned out to be a pretty little harbour,surrounded by a small community of surprisingly large andprosperous-looking houses. Here and there were older buildings froman earlier time. Wharfs around the harbour had fishing boatsalongside and it looked as though this was one place where people were still making a decentliving from the sea.

The head of the harbour had a fewskerries across, with narrow passages that obviously had sufficientdepth for a small launch, as we saw several thread their way through. We planned to take Lisathrough to investigate, but it rained and it blew for the next coupleof days, so instead we loafed and read on board.

2011-07-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

Lunenburg is one of my favourite placesand I’ve been there sufficiently often that I know my way around. I always enjoy that feeling of familiarity. Unfortunately, themorning came in with heavy rain. As it seemed unlikely to ease up,we donned our oilies and went ashore to have a look round and seewhat was happening ashore.

The south end of the town was lookingrather more prosperous than when we were last there, and we soondiscovered why: Bluenose II,Canada’s iconic fishing schooner whose image is on the back ofevery 25¢piece, was being completelyrebuilt there. The original was built in the traditional manner, ofbarely-seasoned soft woods and iron and in the traditional manner,was pretty much at the end of its life after 25 years. Much moneyhas been thrown at the problem, but there is nothing that can solvethe issue of inferior initial construction. Finally money wascollected to rebuild the ship completely. About the only originalstructure to be used will be the deckhouses. Traditional and modernbuilding methods are being used, with much laminated wood instead ofhewn timbers. Instead of pine, the hull is being planked inAngélique,a tropical hardwood with similar attributes to teak. Plenty ofpeople are being employed in the project, many of whom will havelearned new skills, or had the chance to use once again, skills thatthey have been unable to hire out in recent years. The whole projectwill cost about CAN$3,000,000 which seems a better use of money thanan extra couple of miles of highway, in my humble opinion. My onlydisappointment came when I realised that none of the hands-on workerswas a woman.

Walkingback through the town, we were disappointed to see that theblacksmith’s forge had been taken over by a boutique distillery. Not that I have any objection to distilleries, boutique or otherwise,but it’s a shame that the forge had to go rather than one of themany knick-knack shops. We also got sidetracked by a large shopselling gorgeous clinker day-sailing boats, with a very friendly andowner who was only too happy to tell us all about them. Wefinally madeour way to the library, so that we could send e-mails and I wasdelighted and flattered to be remembered by one of the ladies workingthere. What a memory she has! Then we went and did some foodshopping and dripped our way back to IronBark.

Sundaycame in fine and sunny: we were not the only ones to be happy,because a street festival that had originally been planned for theprevious day, had been postponed in the hope of better weather. Werowed ashore to go and visit some friends who live nearby.

By theside of the road was a large pond and to my delight, beavers wereswimmingabout init. Two adults were resolutelyswimming back and forth with either food, or building materials andwe were amazed to see them disappear under the road. A beaver’slodge is usually mounded up in the middle of its pond, with anunderwater entrance – it seems a little eccentric to have one underthe road! The babies were alternately floating and paddling aboutwith their skinny little tails cocked up in the air. Although notmuch bigger than a kitten, they seemed very self-confident andapparently unconcerned that a passing bald eagle might fancy them asa snack.

WhenTrevor managed to drag me away, we carried on up the road, but a fewminutes later were almost run down by three mad cyclists. Withexclamations of delight, we realised that these were our friends,Thierry and Maren, with their son, Joshua. They had heard that wewere at anchor and were coming to find us. Joshua was going to theFestival to do a bit of busking – he’s a brilliant tin whistleplayer – so we all turned back towards town.

Later, Thierry,Maren, Trevor and I wanted to have a sit down in the sunshine, drinka couple of beers and catch up on each others’ news, but NovaScotian wowsers disapprove of such decadent behaviour. A bona fidepub will allow you to drink without eating – as long as you don’tdo it outside where you can be seen and corrupt the morals of theyouth; any other hostelry which sells alcohol can only do so if youeat food as well. In the end, Thierry suggested we buy a few beersand go to the yacht club. This sounded like a grand scheme: theLunenburgyachtclub is a wonderful affair– a floating raft with a small shed on it, moored in the harbour. It was built by the locals in order to provide a place to meet afterracing and is the perfect place to loaf on a sunny afternoon.

Ihave an old friend who lives in town, and Trevor and I went to spenda few hours with her before going back to Thierry and Maren’s housefor dinner. They have quite a bit of land and we were introduced tothe latest family members – two delightful donkeys, whoserole in life is to pack out firewood and, in due course, providetransport by pulling a cart to and from the weekly Farmers’ Market.Thierry’s ‘Wylo II’ design, Io,wasalso close to hand, gettinga well-deservedrefit. I was happy to catch up with Esther, all grown up now andabout to leave for France the next day, but still a keen sailor.

Monday was, as the weathermen wouldsay, ‘a-mix-of-sun-and-cloud.’ We went for breakfast ashore: anearby B&B is run by David, whom we met in Tasmania! Talk abouta small world. He is a keen sailor and has an extreme gaffer whichhe’s looking forward to racing. The hull is a 19th century design(I think) but built of alloy. It looks absolutely lethal, carrying acloud of canvas, but I gather that David enjoys going fast!

We stayed on for a day of fog anddrizzle and then left on July 12th, heading Down East.

2011-07-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

My decision to have my own boat andlive in New Zealand, rather than to carry on voyaging with Trevor,has added an extra layer of complexity to my life, which I could welldo without. Worse though, by far, is the extra layer of expense andthe concomitant excessive consumption that comes with it. For mostof my life I have managed to avoid long-distance travel by any methodother than small boat. Now I find myself choosing to fly long haultwice a year. It is the one aspect of my decision that I reallydislike: not so much the flying itself, but the extravagance andwanton waste of the whole exercise. But it’s the price I pay formy eccentric choice.

This year Trevor and I were to gettogether in Nova Scotia. The nice young man at Flight Centre and Ispent a long time in setting up the cheapest set of flights, with theleast waiting time. All to no avail. About 3 weeks after everythingwas done and dusted, he asked me to come back into the office. Apparently airline companies in USA had changed their schedules andwe had to do the whole exercise again. In a foolish bid to savemoney, I went by way of Los Angeles instead of flying direct toVancouver and across Canada. Never again. Los Angeles must be oneof the least-welcoming airports in the world, which I gather issaying a lot. With the original flights I had a wait of 7 hours –more than enough, so perhaps the fact that I now had 16 hours to waitinfluenced my negative reaction, but the impossibility of getting anaffordable telephone or Internet access so that I could inform Trevorthat I had at least crossed the Pacific, had not a little to do withit. That and the fact that they refused to take my bag from me until3 hours before the flight was due to leave.

A volcano is Chile had been eruptingand throwing ash into the skies of the Southern Hemisphere, andflights had only just got back to normal when I left, so it wasimportant to reassure Trevor that I had managed to get away. In theend I telephoned – credit card only – and the 20 second message Ileft on our friends’ telephone cost me about $15.

We left LA 40 minutes late and I had tosprint across Newark to catch my flight to Halifax. This meant thatI was unable to buy the duty-free bottles that I had intended to takeas presents. However, when I eventually came through the gates atHalifax, there were Trevor and Don to greet me and it was all worthwhile. As it was close to lunch time and as my body, after 2 days oftravel had no idea what time – or even what day – it was, a glassof beer seemed like the go. So we had a fine glass and a decentsandwich before driving back to Halifax.

Iron Barklooked very smart, swinging to her mooring off Don’shouse and after enjoying a hot shower ashore (withlovely, big towels that Marjorie piled on me!),I went aboard and lay down for a few hours. It was good to be backon board a boat after all the madness of getting there.

I got up in timefor sundowners and Trevor and I enjoyed a wonderful evening catchingup with our friends. I slept well and have to say that I neversuffered from the slightest twinge of jet lag. I put this down to alifetime of insomnia!

Don isa highly-respected writer and journalist and Trevor and I were bothvery surprised and honoured when he said that he wished to record aninterview with us. Silver Donald Cameron ishost and executiveproducer of The Green Interview, in which he talks about “TheWorld’s Biggest Issues” with “The World’s Finest Minds”. Obviously, he makes exceptions! It was a fascinating experience:twenty-first century technology means that all is required is acamera operator, the interviewer and the interviewee. Little tinymicrophones are attached to one’s clothing, there is no fuss aboutmake-up or anything of that sort and minimal manipulation of lightingnatural or otherwise. I have been lucky enough to know Silver Donaldfor more than a few years, which must have helped, but he was sorelaxed that I felt as though we were simply chatting in the sunshineon the deck behind his house. Whether or not the interview will everbe shown, I don’t know. Neither Trevor nor I is used to this sortof thing and we may not have come across well. However, it was sucha compliment that Don thinks sufficiently highly of us to feel wehave something to say that may be of general interest.

Apparently the summer, up to the end ofJune, had been non-existent, but I seemed to have brought the Nelsonsunshine with me. After a couple of days on Don’s mooring, we setoff for our wee cruise. There is a huge amount of cruising to beenjoyed in the Maritimes and with the season being so short, most ofmy trips there have included a brief visit to Nova Scotia and agallop along the coastline in order to explore Newfoundland and theLabrador. This time, I had said to Trevor, I would really love toexplore Nova Scotia itself, to say nothing of catching up withfriends that we have met over the years. I suspect that thelogistics of getting me back from Newfoundland or Labrador may havesomething to do with the readiness with which Trevor accepted thissuggestion.

We left Halifax on a foggy morning,with a light breeze to waft us down the harbour. If you sail in NovaScotia, you’d better get used to the idea of sailing in fog! Thefog came and went and was rarely enough to be a significant issue. Unfortunately, the breeze varied from flat calm to fresh enough todouse the topsail, so that on occasion we ended up motoring. We cameto anchor in Rogues Roost later in the afternoon. It was just aspretty as I’d remembered.

The following morning we went ashore,looking for the path that Mr Loveridge’s cruising guide had assuredus was there. In spite of following his directions with care, wecould find no trace of it. Trevor volunteered to bush bash until hecould find a way up, while I went back and moved the dinghy to alikely-looking spot. Trevor joined me onshore and we worked our waythrough some relatively thin scrub until we came out on top of thelittle island from where we could look around at delightful views.

Yesterday’s fog was long gone and wecould enjoy the vista of inlets and islands that is what makes thispart of the world such a superb cruising ground. Our bliss wassomewhat marred by my being bitten viciously on the forehead by adeerfly. The plethora of biting insects – blackfly, deerflies andmosquitoes – are what prevents this part of the world from being aperfect cruising ground. Some would add fog, but I don’t, of whichmore anon.

We strolled around and then went backon board to loaf in the warm sunshine and I pottered around in thegalley cooking something a bit special to celebrate our first nightat anchor again.

The following morning, we left forMahone Bay mostly sailing, but with the occasional use of motor whenthe wind died completely, with fog banks coming and going. Weanchored in Deep Cove, which, in our cruising guide, had 5 stars forprettiness. Well, maybe it was once as pretty as that, but nowadaysit is surrounded by over-large, flash houses and some sort of resort. All this building has really spoilt it.

Trevor and I went ashore for a walkacross a peninsula to look over the other side. It was a pleasantenough stroll, but of course one can’t get off the road to find adecent walking track. And we agreed it would have been pretty niceto have found a pub somewhere. It has to be said that the cost - anddifficulty - of buying a cold beer to enjoy in the sunshine, is oneof Nova Scotia’s major drawbacks!

Thursday morning saw us leaving undersail, in bright sunshine. It was a glorious, sunny day, with asteady barometer and a light S breeze. It was great fun, tackingbetween Big and Little Tancook Is, although by then the fog hadreturned and at times hid some of the landmarks – even those thatwere quite close to us. We didn’t get lost, of course, because wehad the GPS. But GPS also makes it less fun.

I remember with great pleasure thetimes when we sailed Badgerin the Maritimes and had to work so hard to findour way around in thick fog. We would examine the chart andwork out a route that took us over – or past – obvious features,such as a shoal, or a steep-to skerry that we could approachsufficiently closely to see or hear, without risking running aground. I would steer, watch the echo sounder and keep a look out; Petewould watch the log and work out the next course shouting up suchthings as ‘you should see a skerry to port in about 3 minutes’. It was enormously satisfying to bring up to anchor in a harbour thatyou hadn’t even seen, and then wake up in the morning to discoverwhere you were. On one or two occasions, we entered and left withoutever getting a clear view! Even now, I would like to ignore the GPSand use my old skills, but I think Trevor would reckon I’m daft.

The wind varied from about F2 to theoccasional F5 and Trevor was tucking in and shaking out reefs. Itimed him: five minutes from start to finish in good conditions. Abit less to shake one out. No wonder I like junk rig.

We came into Lunenburg under sail –which generally means mainsail and jib and often a bitunder-canvassed, as we were on this occasion; in fact we ran out ofwind at the entrance to the harbour and had debated starting theengine. And then, just to be spiteful, we were hit by a nasty squalljust as we were coming into anchor. Trevor wanted to run down, turnround and reach back, which I find can be quite scary, because thingsare happening too fast and in a hard gust, gybing is nerve-racking. I much prefer to beat up under more control, going slower. Fortunately the mainsail came down OK in the squall, but the jibsheet had got caught under the staysail gasket when it was stowed.And for a moment, it was a bit tense. We dropped the hook and brokeout the rum, discussing the boats at anchor.

2011-06-15T13:44:00.000-07:00

THE TRANSFORMATION OF JOSHUA

Since that unhappy day when Badger sailed out of my life, I have missed sailing with junk rig. I am, I suspect, the world’s laziest sailor. I enjoy the way of a boat under sail; manoeuvring the boat in close quarters; even steering when day sailing, as long as the boat is going more or less in the right direction and there’s lots to look at. What I don’t enjoy is fiddling with bits of string or physically handling sails. I get frightened on the foredeck and a flogging sail turns my knees to jelly. In truth, I’m not really much of a sailor. My pleasure comes from pilotage, from living on board, from ‘nice’ maintenance tasks such as varnishing or whipping a rope’s end, from sitting in the cockpit with the self-steering nodding away and the boat bounding along in the right direction while I do nothing but enjoy it. I fear readers will be very disappointed to hear this, but it will explain why someone such as myself, who prefers sloth to activity and is far from being even a competent woodworker would go to so much trouble – and not a little expense – to transform a ‘perfectly good’ Bermudian sloop into a little junk.

Even during my first small adventure with Joshua I had condemned her rig and was contemplating the alternative. I had Practical Junk Rig, written by Jock McLeod and Blondie Hasler and considered ‘The Bible’ in the world of junks, and this I studied. I generally kept the idea to myself, knowing what most people would think, but I mentioned it to a friend who is also a junkie. (An apt word as proponents of the rig tend to get addicted to it). David although in N Island (NZ) at the time, was eager to help and it’s amazing what can be done with a little email and a lot of text messaging. I sent David a drawing of the hull and rig. Text messages followed: ‘How far stmhd 2 fwd bnk blkhd?’ “How far can mst stp b frm bnk blkhd?’ While David pondered, I, with pencil, rule and eraser (much of the latter), toiled away at my drawings. But one morning I opened my Inbox and there was a PDF document with a perfectly executed sail plan. (David understands CAD programs.)

I had intended to ‘do everything myself’, but am not so foolish as to turn down the best of help for the worst of reasons.

Now it so happened that David was visiting another junkie, Paul, who is in the midst of refitting a 32 ft steel ketch he built in S Africa. She was, of course, to be junk rigged. Their joint enthusiasm led to momentary madness when Paul e-mailed me saying that he had a good sewing machine, a large table and some ‘spare’ sailcloth, which should be about enough for me to build the sail that David had designed. What could I say but ‘thank you’ and from toying with a long-term plan, I was suddenly committed to an imminent project.

Consoling myself with the thought that I would be able to sell the extant rig for what a new one should cost, a few weeks later, I packed a bag and got a cheap flight to Auckland. Paul and his wife met me and we returned to their flat behind a factory, alongside which lay La Chica, under plastic and obviously in the middle of major work.

Paul has a superb workshop in the factory, which included the large table on which I could lay out fabric. However, the first hitch in my project came when I realised that the table was insufficiently long for me to cut full length panels from the sailcloth (in fact a polyester awning material, called Odyssey). There was not going to be a lot of fabric to spare, so I wanted to waste as little as possible. David had by now left for Oz, Paul was busy with work and boat renovations so I had to try and sort this out myself. I concluded that the best thing would be to ‘make the material’ to make the panels. Paul reckoned he could knock out patterns for this, using his computer, to minimise waste. This he did and I got out the scissors and started cutting and sewing. This was fairly straightforward and now that I was handling the material, I could start planning the sailmaking itself.

I am not good at planning too many steps at a time when making things. This occasionally results in my having got so far and being unable to see where to go next. However, I am stuck with the brain I was given, so have to live with it. So having started cutting material, I still didn’t know exactly how I was going to get to the end result: a sail. But once the material for the panels had been sewn together, I could begin to see the whole process. The latest thinking, in the junk rig world, is that it is both possible and beneficial to put camber in the sail itself, thus avoiding the weaknesses that have always plagued the flexible battens that people have used towards this goal. But being junk rig, things are not as you might expect: instead of the camber being along the height of the sail, it is along its length, between the battens. There are several ways of doing this: I used a method whereby one cuts out lens shaped pieces of fabric and sews these to the straight edges of the generally-assymetric panels.

The lenses, which decrease in size as they go up the sail, required some fairly basic lofting techniques. The panels were more demanding, so I started with the lenses to get the feel of things.

This seemed to go well, so I started to loft and cut the panels themselves. To do this I needed to measure the diagonals and as the sail is some 5 metres long from leach to luff, this was not straightforward on my own. However, I found a couple of lead weights and with these weighed down one end of the tape measure while moving the other end.

As I cut them, I marked top, bottom luff and leach and, for good measure, such things as ‘to lens no 4). I can be remarkably stupid at sewing up a simple frock, so I tried everything I could think of to make sure nothing went wrong with the assembly. Odyssey is coated on one side, so that one side is shiny and the other matt: this also had to be taken into account. In fact I only had to undo one seam: a batten pocket that I did sew on wrong side up. All the graffiti paid off. The final cutting job was the batten pockets.

Once my pile of pieces was cut out I was ready to begin sewing. Although I have been involved in making junk sails before, my role has invariably been that of assistant, but when I started sewing I was amazed by how much had sunk in. I started from the top, because these panels were smaller and easier to handle. The plan was to sew panel to lens, sew on next panel and then to sew a batten pocket over middle of the lens. This way I was always working on (more or less) the edge of the sail. It all went surprisingly smoothly, although my stitching was far from straight or regular. For several panels I rolled the sail that I had already made, into a tube, thinking this would be easier to push along the table, but it was reluctant to slide. Eventually I just shoved mountains of material back and forth. This did allow the machine’s foot to do its thing and feed the fabric through, but it was still far from perfect. However, the stitching does the job it is meant to do, even if its not exactly of professional quality. Rough chipboard is rather different from the varnished floor of the average sail loft.

The foot and head of the sail had boltrope attached to fit in the slots on the yard and boom; I sewed a webbing boltrope on the luff and leach. Then I reinforced the corners and cut off all the long ends. The sail was finished. I called Paul in to admire my handiwork and we hoisted it up on its boom: it looked almost like a sail.

I should have added eyes above and below each batten in order to lace them together should a batten break or a panel tear, but I had none to hand and put it off for another day.

Back in Nelson I started thinking about the mast. I investigated timber, new and second-hand, alloy poles of various shapes and sizes and even fibreglass. A neighbour, clearing out under his house, presented me with a broken Douglas fir mast and a large baulk of the same timber, about a metre and half long. This gift eventually decided me to go for a ‘hybrid’ mast, with alloy base and wooden top – not a revolutionary idea, but one suggested in Practical Junk Rig. The longest length of 152 mm tubing I could buy was 6 m. I needed to end up with a 9.5 m mast and the topmast would need a bury of some 400 mm. I reckoned I had just about enough wood.

The local boatyard kindly let me use their big shed to build in and I got them to cut the old timber into more-or-less the right size. I went over each piece with infinite care because Danny had made it quite clear that if he damaged his saw blade or planer, I would have to pay for the resharpening, or replacement of a tooth. Once sawn, we were all impressed with the quality of the wood.

I scarfed the shorter lengths of wood together and glued them into two long lengths. These were then glued to the two lengths I had had sawn from the old mast.

The next stage was to pull out the screws, fill in the holes and then sand the whole thing down. Next I had to shape the mast, which was a barely-tapered square section. Because of the way I had put it together, there was plenty of wood at the top, so I could remove weight up here and create a pleasing taper. Then I worked down the mast planing off more wood as I turned the sharp edges into well-rounded corners, ensuring that there was still adequate thickness of wood to maintain the integrity of the spar.

I now had a square-based mast and a round hole to put it in. So I filled out around the base to create an almost-circular section. I fitted pieces of wood roughly to size and then filled in the gaps with thickened epoxy. The whole butt was then sanded. I had bought an offcut of alloy tubing of similar dimensions to my mast and used this to ensure a good fit.

I then filled screw holes and various imperfections in the second-hand timber and coated the glass with epoxy. The old wood soaked up plenty. Once it was well-coated, I sanded it all down and then covered it with a layer of glass and epoxy. This makes a very hard finish and should be impervious to the sawing back and forth of the batten parrels.

The next stage was to make a shoulder for the topmast, so that it would rest securely on the alloy tube. Offcuts created when I scarfed the wood came in useful here. This was then planed, filled, sanded and glassed.

I put a couple of wires up the mast: one for a tricolour light and one for an all-round steaming lightthen painted the mast with pigmented epoxy, slightly thickened with silica, as an undercoat.

Instead of making a masthead fitting, I glued some large hex bolts into the top, head down (I had left extra wood here for this purpose) and a large eyebolt for the halliard. Stainless steel eyes were screwed to the bolts. A certain amount of tooth-sucking from various parties has resulted from this, with dire warnings of fatigue because the eyes are not meant to be used in this way. But they’re very big! Finally, I used the said eyes to suspend the mast while I painted it my favourite shade of turquoise, which colour I intend to use on my boat when I repaint her.

While waiting for glue to dry, etc, I had prepared the old rig to be removed. New Zealand yacht clubs and marinas rarely have their own mast cranes and masts are left in boats for decades at a time, apparently without problem. The usual route for me to have taken would have been to hire a crane, but this was going to cost several hundred dollars and I don’t have many. Instead I consulted with my friend Dick, on Irene, one of the most competent sailors it has been my good fortune to meet. Brought up around smacks and Thames barges, Dick knows how to use low cunning instead of raw power. We arranged to bring Joshua alongside his Irene – a large gaff ketch – and use her gear for pulling out the mast. My friend Ulla assisted, Pat took photos and provided tea and the whole thing went like clockwork, as anyone who knows Dick would have anticipated.

That done, I now had to reinforce the deck, make a large hole in it and line said hole with substantial partners. I then had to fit a mast step at the correct angle and distance so that the mast would go in as planned, with a forward rake of 6º. This rake is for two reasons: the first was to keep the mast out of my bed, the second to assist the sail to hang out when running in very light winds, in a slop. I tend to emphasise the latter reason when asked about my forward leaning mast!

Had I made the mast and partners out of wood, I should have ended up with overly large structures, so I bit the bullet and asked a local metalworker to make them for me out of stainless steel. Galvanised would have been as good, but they would have to be sent to Christchurch to be galvanised (assuming the works had survived the earthquakes) which I reckoned would cost almost as much as the extra expense of stainless. When Bob presented me with the heart-stopping bill, explaining how much welding gas he had needed, I wondered if I had made the correct decision! Still and all, they are very well built and robust. So with plenty of what the Kiwis refer to as bog, plywood on deck and a hefty piece of mahogany below, I fitted the partners.

Now I had to line up the step. I dithered and measured and worried and fretted. Finally I got the whole stub of the main mast and stepped it through the partners and marked as well as I could where the step should go. The mast seemed to have an excessive forward rake, but I took photos and measured the angle and it seemed to be about 6º. With a bit of help from a neighbour, I got the heavy tube out again and started another round of fretting and worrying: the marks I’d made didn’t match up with my measurements. I faffed about for another couple of days before forcing myself to get on with it and bolt the step down. This, in itself, was a bit of a mission, because a previous owner had added some trimming ballast just where I wanted to fit my step and these random-shaped pieces of lead were very firmly secured with Sikaflex. Eventually, I filled in the gaps with (huge amounts of) epoxy until I had a solid layer to set bolts into. Using the Gougeon Bros methods, I then drilled oversized holes and set greased bolts into these, held in place by the step itself (also greased). When the glue set, I backed the bolts out and cleaned up the step. Then I spread Simson’s Marine Glue and stuck the step down, replacing the bolts.

This done, I brought the topmast out of the shed and spread generous amounts of Simsons over the butt. Using a couple of pieces of copper tubing as a roller, I moved it into the alloy base, wedged securely on the pontoon. In order not to upset the Management I had to get it into the boat quickly. By this time Dick had left for Australia, so once again I roped in the neighbouring boat owner and several other of my strong and/or willing friends. Bruce moved his boat alongside Joshua, and we used his halliard to get things started.

As La Racina is considerably smaller than Irene, we needed far more brute force and bad language, but at last we had the heel of the mast over the hole and quickly slacked away a little on the halliard. More pushing and pulling on deck and then Bruce and I went below to haul the heel back, that was inclined to sit on my bunk. Once it was past the half bulkhead, it gave up the fight and as it was slowly lowered, moved gradually down and into its step. To my profound astonishment, I might add. To the sound of much rejoicing, we released all the lines, I tapped in some temporary wedges and we all stood back to admire The New Mast. I was rather proud of it.

Now we came to the really exciting bit – bending on the sail. A friend came by as I was feeding battens into their pockets and offered to help. He was amused by my refusal and explanation that I was really enjoying doing it all on my own. I had a lot of fun playing with new rope, knotting and whipping. There is plenty of string on a junk and my cambered sail required some lines I hadn’t used before. There was a natural tendency for the folds to hang in diagonal creases and it took a fair bit of time to remove these. But finally I felt all was ready for a trial sail.

On a calm morning in early April, I started the motor, cast off the lines and chugged out of my marina berth. I turned up the harbour and with the last of the land breeze, shut off the engine and hoisted sail, ghosting through the marina and its rows of silent boats. Once in the Haven we were heading into the little breeze and the boat seemed to take herself to windward quite satisfactorily. We went through the entrance and out into Tasman Bay where the new sea breeze greeted us. As she lifted to the swell coming down from Cook Strait and heeled to the increasing wind I looked up at the lovely sail, thrilled at what I had created. I tacked and gybed, with nothing to do but move the tiller across. I dropped reefs and shook them out again. I felt in control and confident. I was ecstatic. The great fan rose above me and her new name was obvious: like a little bird, she ducked and swooped over the water. The transformation was complete and Joshua had become Fantail.

America North and South

2010-12-01T16:05:00.000-08:00

Some of those who read my blog may have heard that Trevor and I have been awarded the highly prestigious Blue Water Medal of the Cruising Club of America. We were astonished to hear that we had been thought worthy of this accolade - and still are. Part of the deal was that we would be flown to New York to receive it. What could we say but yes?

Due to my decision at least temporarily to swallow the anchor and to spend some time in New Zealand, as described in an earlier blog, this meant that I would be flying from Nelson, while Trevor would make his way from Chile. The advantage for Trevor, was that I could make all the arrangements and all he needed to do was to arrive at the correct airport on the correct day.

I left Nelson on 2 March, starting, as I meant to continue, with a minor drama. Packing my clothes, I got out the new shoes that I had bought for the Blue Water Medal presentation only to find that they were different sizes! I leapt on my bike and whizzed round to the shoe shop, but it only opened at 9 o'clock, when my friend was due to pick me up and take me to the airport. Back to the boat and a quick text message - can you come a bit sooner, please? A few minutes later, we were bundling my bags into her car and back we went to the shop, which was still shut. We went and stood outside the doors and they got the hint. I only take a size 35, so was worried that they might not have any more, but fortunately they found the other shoe (the only one of that size that they had) and the swop was made. Back to the car and in time to have a coffee with my friend before I took off.

I have done more flying in the past few years than I ever expected to do in my whole life; and as a result of my (possibly eccentric) decision to live on a 26 ft boat in Nelson rather than continue voyaging on Iron Bark, will unfortunately probably find myself doing rather more in the future. That said, I love the flight up from Nelson, aboard the little Dash 8 plane, where I always manage to wangle myself a window seat and can admire the country as I fly up to Auckland. All went smoothly and I arrived in LA a short while before my friend picked me up in Nelson, a fact which I found difficult to comprehend.

I had 2½ hrs in Los Angeles, plenty of time to clear in, collect my bags and find out where to go next. Or so I thought. In fact by the time I had been searched and had my bags searched (on at least 3 occasions); my visa waiver (which I'd already applied for and been given) processed; my passport scrutinised; my fingerprints taken and my retinas recorded I had less than half an hour to check in and make my way to the departure lounge. Here my desperate wish for a decent cup of tea finally foundered: the lounge area served at least half a dozen gates, but there were only 3 retail outlets, none of which offered tea in any shape or form. Airports and aeroplanes both seem to be excessively dry places, and I didn't feel that a cup of coffee was going to have the appropriate re-hydrating effect. So I sat down and read.

Dear old Qantas had provided me with the window seat I'd asked for, so I had a splendid view over early morning California. I watched the little map on the screen in front of me and plotted my way across the country. Everything was uniformly brown, except where it was white from snow. I had never appreciated just how dry New Mexico, Kansas and those other Western States are. Over Ohio the cloud socked in, which didn't surprise me in the slightest - my memories of autumn in that state are of continually grey skies - and I caught no more than brief glimpses of the land until we got below the cloud on our way to land in New York. As none of the movies caught my imagination, I got on with my book.

We landed in New York on a cool, cloudy late afternoon. I was feeling pretty exhausted by then and was delighted to find that the CCA had come up trumps, arranging for me to be collected by a chauffeur-driven car! The driver, Francisco, came from the Dominican Republic and was delighted when I told him I had been there. He was a charming man, and an excellent driver, so that my journey from JFK airport to the New York Yacht Club was as relaxing as it could be, considering the amount of traffic and my assiduous rubbernecking at everything around me. Apparently Francisco owned his car - a big, black beast (Mercédes?) - and made his living as an ad hoc chauffeur. It struck me as a big investment and a precarious livelihood. He had got this particular job because his friend, who had been asked first, was already booked and so passed it on. No doubt for a small fee. Francisco was smartly dressed in a suit and a beautiful (to my eyes) overcoat and the whole thing was very professional. I felt a little overwhelmed. (I had been assured by the genial CCA member who organised the whole Blue Water Medal event that the car was paid for. Later he reassured me that the tip had been included. After several years living in New Zealand and Australia, I had completely forgotten about this iniquitous practice and it had never occurred to me to offer a tip to Francisco! Or, later, to a taxi driver that I had to employ. An innocent abroad, indeed.)

To call the New York Yacht Club overwhelming, is to open myself to charges of understatement. When I made my number, I was greeted by an immensely tall and patrician gentleman, in black suit and bow tie. Only his lack of years stopped me from suspecting that this might be the Commodore himself. In fact he was the major domo and to my immense embarrassment, gathered up my bags and escorted me to the lift. (I very much doubt that the marble portals of the NYYC have ever been defiled by such a bag as I had: it cost me $2 from the recycling centre and had 'Hawaii' emblazoned on the side.) Up in the lift (all fitted out in polished bronze and walnut) and along a thickly carpeted corridor to my room 'America' (as in the yacht, rather than the country). This contained two large beds, a writing desk, a couple of armchairs and what I gathered was a TV/video player in a handsome cabinet. A door led into a dressing room with two wash basins and then another door led to the bathroom. A further door revealed a large wardrobe, containing a couple of enormous bathrobes and an iron and ironing board.

I unpacked a few things and then got out my little computer to check e-mails (there was wireless access, of course!)

You may recall that there was a huge earthquake in Chile at the end of February. Trevor, of course, was in Chile and although in Puerto Montt he was well away from the epicentre, even there, there had been some damage. However, the issue was that in order for Trevor to arrive in New York to be presented with the Blue Water Medal, he had to fly from Santiago. I had been able to access the Internet from Auckland Airport, but had been too rushed to have another opportunity. At that time, Trevor had said that there were no flights from Pto Montt to Santiago and that all overland transport to the city were booked up. He wasn't at all optimistic about being able to get to New York. His latest e-mail was equally pessimistic and I felt desperately sorry for him, and rather depressed myself. I had a shower and went down to the bar for a much-needed drink and dinner.

After my meal I went up to my room, checked to see if there was anything from Trevor in my Inbox - nothing - and turned in. I woke in the small hours and lay listening to the city. I had my window open and was surprised how noisy it was - truly the city that never sleeps. I was astonished to hear the regular blare of car horns at 3 in the morning. As an alternative to counting sheep, I counted the seconds between blasts on the horn. The longest quiet period was 40 seconds! I finally dozed off again about 5 o'clock and then overslept so that I was almost too late for breakfast.

Back in my room, I checked my emails again. Trevor was still trying to find a way to get to New York and it really wasn't looking too hopeful. There was a route overland to Argentina and out via Buenos Aires leaving later that day and Trevor had hoped to use it, but when he came to pay for it, he found that his credit card had expired 2 days previously and that he was a few hundred dollars short of what was needed in his other bank account, which only has a debit card. There was not enough time to transfer money around as he had to leave in 4 hours to get through. I felt so sorry for him, but was keeping my fingers crossed that he might find some way to get to NY But it was now Wednesday and the presentation was on Friday.

Looking out of the window, I saw that it had stopped raining. I couldn't tell whether the sun was out: in early March the sun is low and in Manhattan, the buildings are high. The combination is sufficient to keep New York's citizens bereft of the bliss of walking in the sunshine for weeks, if not months, on end. I should feel like a troglodyte if I had to live there, but I can only assume, unlikely as it sounds, that people get used to it.

I went down and out in W 43rd St to go exploring. Early on and to my intense, if rather simple-minded delight, I discovered why and when W 43rd became E 43rd. 5th Avenue is the answer. Subsequently I was little bemused to find that Broadway and 5th are the same, as are Park and 3rd; however, just to completely bewilder non-Manhattanites, Lexington has been cunningly inserted so that 3rd Ave is in fact, 4th. And I'm not entirely sure if there is a 1st although Franklin D Roosevelt Drive runs along the waterfront and may, like some of the others, have two names. To be honest, I found the rigid logic of Manhattan's street and avenues just a little irrational. But anyway, in case you have never yet worked it out, the (posh) East side is on one side of 5th Avenue and the (proletarian) West side is on the other side. There aren't that many Avenues: Manhattan is a long,thin island, but there is a prodigious number of streets up to about 174, I think. And this explains 'the Upper East Side' and 'the Lower East Side', etc. The really Lower East Side, ie the 20s and below seems to be beyond The Pale, but I may have got this wrong. Anyway, when I now read American thrillers set in NY I have a better comprehension of what they are talking about!

My brief sojourn in the NYYC had made me feel extraordinarily scruffy and I had taken advantage of my ability to get on line, to hunt down the local Salvation Army charity store. This was somewhere around the corner of 36th St and 10th Ave, so easily within walking distance. It was a substantial building of 3 floors, and a rummage of the racks produced 2 silk shirts, a raw silk jacket and a rather natty blazer in faux suede for a total of about $25. Feeling a little more confident about my ability to look presentable in the Yacht Club Bar, I settled down to the business of wandering around lower Manhattan. It was like being an anthropologist on a remote island, I felt so out of place. The shops were bursting with stuff to buy and I couldn't help wondering how there could be so much money about. But even stranger was the fact that in the same block I would pass, for example, a grog shop with a bottle of whisky on sale for $7,000 - yes, US dollars - and about three shops further on would be what was effectively a dollar store selling a wide variety of tat that surely no-one would want to buy. I concluded that they must be money launderers. Come to think of it, how many people would pay $7,000 for a bottle of Scotch? Maybe they were laundering money, too. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my long tramp, alternately window shopping and looking at buildings soaring way over my head. I fell in love with the Chrysler building and felt a sense of awe for those early 20th century architects who had, in truth, designed with a similar passion to those who built the great cathedrals: so often there was intricate and beautiful detail that even if you were looking for it, was too far away to be seen clearly. It was created for its own sake; perhaps because 'God will see'. Some of the new buildings did have an innate grace or stature, but not many. The UN building is possibly one of the ugliest I have ever seen.

I was well satisfied when I got back to the YC and even more so when I found an email from Trevor saying that he had found a way out of Chile, by bus to Argentina, a plane to Buenos Aires and a further one to NY. He should arrive on Friday morning, comfortably in time for the Presentation.

Robin Knox-Johnston, who was also receiving a Blue Water Medal, had arrived and was giving a talk at the Club that night. I went along, too, and wandered around looking at all the models that lined the wall and filled several display cases. When I tired of that, I admired the carvings and mouldings of the vast room and wished that they weren't working on the huge Tiffany skylight, that is usually illuminated at night. Photos weren't permitted, unfortunately, so you will just have to take my word for it.

Then Robin got up to give his talk and I was struck by how professional he was. Afterwards I found that the dining room, where I had anticipated eating, was booked for those who had tickets to the talk. I hadn't (although it had been suggested that I attend), which was a bit embarrassing, but when I explained my predicament to a CCA flag officer whom I had finally managed to track down (very difficult in a room where every single man appeared to be over 6 ft tall. I had a crick in my neck from talking to them and as they gazed loftily over my 5ft 1in, had difficulty in attracting their attention), he introduced me to a charming man who took me to his table. He had a great deal of knowledge about the models and their history, so it was very interesting talking to him.

The CCA had wangled two nights for us at the NYYC, and these I had enjoyed, sadly without Trevor. Some kind CCA members had been prevailed upon to offer us accommodation in their Park Avenue apartment, and the following morning saw me on my way there. Uniformed door men whisked my back pack and case to and from the taxi and they vanished into the service lift while that designated for people was summoned. It was a clever security system - only the doorman could send the lift up from the ground floor - which meant that one didn't need to lock one's door. My hostess met me at the entrance and made me feel wonderfully welcome. She had been told about Trevor's situation and she was relieved to hear that he should make it in time.

I unpacked and ironed the clothes that I'd brought for the presentation. Then I went for another stroll round before coming back to the flat to shower and change and walk back to the NYYC for a meal for all the Prize winners and some of the CCA committee. It was about 25 blocks, but the cool evening made walking very enjoyable and I could see into a lot of the apartments, where the lights were on but the curtains still open. We had a very nice meal. Sheila McCurdy, the CCA Commodore, is a lovely lady. Robin told stories and Lin and Larry Pardey could not only talk cruising, but also make intelligent noises about racing; I was the only person at the table who never raced (or have ever wanted to!). I was sent home in a taxi, because although my hostess had told me that it was perfectly safe to walk, no-one else seemed convinced!

Almost as exciting for me, as being presented the Medal, was the fact that my brother was coming out to share the event. I hadn't seen him since he joined Iron Bark in Tobago at the end of 2003, and we would have four days together. He had arrived on Thursday evening, but was quite happy to go and find a steak bar that he'd heard about and meet me in the morning. While my kind hosts and I were having breakfast, Trevor arrived, looking understandably somewhat tired and dazed. He had been travelling for ages as well as having been pretty stressed by organising it all. He was given a welcome cup of coffee and then it was generally agreed that he should go straight to bed to get ready for the evening. I went with him to our room and we had a quick dry run with the shirt and jacket I had bought in the Nelson op-shops. He had found some decent trousers in Castro, the shirt was a good colour, a tie that a friend had given me (pure silk, kept for patchwork) went well and the blazer (all NZ$10 of it) fitted like it was made for him. He looked very smart and it also meant that I didn't have to drag my brother to the Salvation Army to find something else! So I tucked Trevor up and sallied forth to find my bro.

We had a wonderful time sauntering around and talking about all that we were looking at. I said that I'd heard that New York was full of nutters, but even so had been surprised at the number of people - smartly dressed, too - that I had seen talking to themselves with wild gesticulations. My brother looked at me with that kindly pity usually reserved for the mentally challenged. 'They're using Bluetooth,' he patiently explained. 'They're actually talking on their mobile phones, using a little device behind their ear.' And I thought that after two days of negotiating New York all alone that I was really savvy and streetwise. But to be fair, if you see anyone walking around Nelson talking animatedly to themselves and waving their hands in the air they are nutters!

We did a fair amount of rubbernecking and my bro (who had been to NY before) took me into Grand Central Station where we both gawped at the wonderful Art Deco features and marvelled at the enormous sums of money that it must have taken to build such a structure. Before the Great Depression, some people were inconceivably wealthy.

Finally we wandered through Central Park and went to a bar/restaurant by the lake. Here we sat and did a bit more people-watching and drank a couple of beers. After that, we went our separate ways for a few hours, to meet at the NYYC for The Presentation.

Trevor was up and looking much more like himself. I ironed his shirt and tie and we both primped and preened. I had to wear what the Americans would call 'hose' for the first time in over 10 years. I can't say that they felt particularly comfortable! However, the dress that my friend had made, looked lovely with a jacket my Mum had bought for me in Cape Town, which is kept for special occasions. I wore black opal earrings that Trevor had bought for me in Oz, an antique watch chain and sovereign, which had belonged to Mum and the $20 shoes that had caused me so much worry. We both looked more than presentable. A cab was called and the three of us drove off in style. It was rush hour and I suspect it would have been quicker to walk!

My brother arrived about the same time as we did and was followed shortly by an old friend from Nova Scotia, a member of the CCA and the man responsible for putting forward our names to the Blue Water Medal committee. It was lovely to see him again. The Model Room was full of tables and people and we were all assigned seats. The Commodore dealt with some of the Club business between courses and then came the Presentation.

I think both Trevor and I felt quite nervous and very aware of the long line of truly great sailors who had also been honoured with this award. We stood and smiled for the camera and then each made a little speech and then sat down with a sigh of relief that everything had worked out so well. (If you want to see what we looked like in our best bib and tucker, there is a photo on the CCA website.) There were drinks and conversation after the formalities were over and we found many people wanting to talk to us. Trevor and I walked back to the apartment talking all the way.

Our hosts had very kindly extended their invitation for us to stay in their apartment until we left NY and had offered Mike a room, too. We spent the next three days exploring and seeing some of the sights. Mike shouted us a ride to the Top of the Rock(efeller Centre) and a trip round Manhattan on the ferry, waving

aside Trevor's protests by saying that because he was staying with at the apartment he was saving on hotel bills. The weather was perfect, cool and sunny (when you managed to get away from the shadows of the high rise buildings!) and ideal for walking around. We spent most of one day in the Museum of Modern Art and after Mike had left, Trevor and I spent another day at the Met Museum of Art. It was all incredibly interesting and quite overwhelming actually to see some of the things I've only previously seen in photos.

Then it was time to leave for Chile and Iron Bark. Trevor's flight arrangements had been difficult to confirm after being so radically rearranged and we weren't at all sure that he would even get on the flight to Santiago. I had brought the print-out that I had been given in Nelson and produced this when we came to check in. It appeared that Trevor actually wasn't on the flight, but the fact that we had a document saying that the flight had been confirmed seemed to swing it. Trevor suspected that some poor person had been chucked off, but maybe he just got bumped up! We flew overnight and I caught a fleeting glimpse of San Salvador and we stopped briefly in Lima, before arriving in Santiago about 3 in the morning. The place had been badly knocked about by the earthquake and the whole departure area was closed. The Chileans had responded magnificently, erecting marquees in the car part with one or two stallholders gallantly making coffee, running back and forth with electric jugs to taps situated yards away. There were benches aplenty and if it was a bit cool, at least we were out of the wind.

Stands, tapes, blackboards and ladies standing at lecterns with laptops, organised all the check-ins and moving people to the correct place to catch their flights. There were no conveyors for luggage and men were running with trolleys carrying bags out to the waiting aircraft. Everyone was good-natured and helpful. It was most impressive. Then we set off on our final leg to Puerto Montt; I hadn't slept well the night before we left and not at all on the plane. We hadn't been at all sure that Trevor was confirmed for the leg from Santiago to Puerto Montt (although the indefatigable lady in Nelson told us it was all OK), so all in all I was rather tired and stressed. It was with a feeling of great relief that I looked out of the window at sea and mountains and realised that we were about to land at Puerto Montt. Blissful thoughts of a good cup of tea and a comfortable bed filled my mind as we got on the bus. We were about to get off at the Terminal de Buses when a small, moustachioed man in an army uniform turned us back. There had been another 'quake and the town was on tsunami alert. So we had to sit and wait for a few hours until we could persuade a taxi to go round the back way and get us to the Club Nautico. At last we could get back on board and we trundled my bag down to the jetty, where we could see Iron Bark waiting, only to find that the connecting finger had broken away and that there was no way across. Just before I burst into tears, someone that Trevor knew came along with his children to dinghy across to the island where they lived. He offered us a ride and we hopped in and finally got back on board. Trevor poured me a stiff drink and then went to check that all was well with our lines. That done he poured himself a drink and we sat down and relaxed. Whew!

We spent the next 2 or 3 days going back and forth to Puerto Montt, which is a typical, scruffy South American town. There is a small street market which sells a limited variety of fresh food, but what is available is cheap and very good. I don't know what they do - or more probably don't do - to their food but they can pick it ripe and it keeps. Avocados with blackened skins and flat patches where they had lain against the side of the basket, were still perfect 2 weeks later. Their only drawback, if it could be called one, was that they had tiny stones, so didn't take much of a dressing! But there are plenty of other ways of eating them. Nectarines as big as tennis balls, full-flavoured and juicy kept for over a week and the ripe plums kept for three. Tomatoes were a bit trickier, but responded well to bleach-washing and then would last ten days or so. Lovely old-fashioned carrots, not sweet but actually tasting of carrot kept for a month or more. And of course there were potatoes. Chiloe, the big island opposite Puerto Montt is the place whence Walter Raleigh brought potatoes back to England. They were, needless to say, excellent and better still to our strange white-man's taste, the small ones were considered inferior and so a lot cheaper!

Half way between the yacht club and Pto Montt is Angélmo where smaller vessels offload the produce from Chiloe. Not very long ago, many of these would have been lanches de vela, gaff cutters of around 30 ft or so. They were generally painted black and frequently picked out in yellow; their dinghies were invariably yellow, so Iron Bark and Lisa fitted right in. There are none left working, but in

the past few years there has been a revival of interest in the boats and several have been built as yachts. This perhaps gives the wrong impression, because they rarely have accommodation and most are used solely as daysailers. Trevor told me that when he first arrived, there was a regatta taking place for these boats and that the people sailing them were almost delirious with excitement when they saw what appeared to be a foreign lanche de vela sailing up the sound!

There were a lot of small stalls selling to the tourists who were also offloaded here from the visiting cruise ships. No doubt the stalls did a great trade on those days, because it has to be said that Angélmo didn't have a lot else to offer! Trevor had already bought himself a lovely, chunky fisherman's sweater and he bought me a soft, pretty alpaca one with leaves and llamas knitted into it. In fact I liked it so much, that I went back and bought another one: more practical this time as the first one had a lot of white on it that I reckoned would soon get spotted from eating and cooking!

We met a great couple, Peter and Ginger on Marcy - friends of friends - and caught up with our old friend Andy O'Grady on Balaena. He is also a member of the RCC and has done a lot of work on their cruising guide to Chile.

The major drawback with cruising Chile is the bureaucracy and it is a challenge. If you don't worry about things too much and can speak a bit of Spanish you can keep the hassle factor within bounds, but it can be a nuisance. The human element are allowed 90 days by the Immigration and then you either pay US$100 or go over the border and come back for another 90 day visa. The boat is given 12 months by the Customs, BUT this has to be 'renewed' every 3 months. At a Customs port, which is an increasingly rare commodity as you go further south. Ideally, you have e-mail on board and you can then work on renewing it by that method and keep up to date with its progress. Having e-mail on board also makes life easier with the third arm of bureaucracy, the Armada, who like you to write out a detailed itinerary - and stick to it - in addition to calling in every day and confirming that you are where you said you would be. Of course, you are often out of VHF range or you and the operator are mutually incomprehensible to each other. If you have e-mail, you just send your lat and long every night and everybody is happy. The Armada couldn't cope with the fact that not only did we not have e-mail on board, we didn't have SSB radio, either. Fortunately, they much prefer a lifeboat to a liferaft, so were actually quite impressed at the site of the lovely Lisa sitting upright in chocks on deck, ready to go. Trevor was not happy when he went to fill in the zarpe because they had started wittering on about having up-to-date flares and other equipment that we don't have. In the end he just said yes to everything, but was worried that they might actually come on board and check. You can often get around this by being incredibly stupid and not understanding a word that they say until they get bored with the whole thing, but sadly more and more of the Armada speak English, so this ploy no longer works! Anyway, in spite of Trevor's forebodings, he managed to get his zarpe and after having had Andy and his new lady round to dinner, we could finally get away and go and see the Chile that I had come for.

We left on a promising day of sunshine and clouds. A nice N wind filled in and we sailed happily for several hours until it died. Then we motored for a while to get to the planned anchorage before dark. The wind returned and we sailed again to a pretty group of islands, which contained the little bay of Huelma, which Andy had described as a 'spectacular' anchorage. As we dragged the anchor when we first set it, I can only suppose he was referring to the scenery, which looked rather dull to me. But perhaps if the mainland mountains weren't covered in cloud I would have had a better impression. We watched a Chilean yacht with about 5 men on board dragging their hook back and forth over the bottom like they were dredging for scallops and concluded that the holding was definitely not all it could be. We drank our pisco (not sour, but with hot water: a very comforting drink on a cold evening) and ate.

The following morning, our neighbours dragged onto the muddy shore and after one or two more attempts at getting their anchor to hold, gave up in disgust and left. After breakfast we did the same, and found a much prettier spot with lots of birds to look at. I had bought Trevor a splendid bird book for his birthday, so we had great fun identifying them. Trevor is not a polyglot, but by the time he's finished in Chile he will have a wonderful if somewhat strange vocabulary, from translating from the text. We spent the next few days trying to get a good look at the local steamer ducks, which we both reckoned were the flightless variety, but which the book said didn't go so far north. It's not that easy to tell, from a distance, because the ones that can fly prefer not to! (Should you be interested, we decided that they were the flightless type.)

Another day of S winds followed, which was a nuisance, because that was where we wanted to go. However, we pottered across to the village of Muchuque, a nice little place almost devoid of motor cars, but with a handsome launch in build upon the beach. There was a little museum there, which really should have been in a museum itself, and the proprietor, whose name I forget, showed us around with

touching pride. There were some truly fascinating things and it made me realise - yet again - how hard people's lives were before modern technology came along. And not so long ago, either, in this case. It's not uncommon to see oxen pulling carts and ploughs in Chile, and horses are still very much in use for day-to-day transport. Trevor told me of seeing young men in their Sunday finery, all dressed up like gauchos with highly decorated wooden stirrups and spurs a foot long, but the only Sunday we were 'in town', it was raining and they probably didn't want their best hats and ponchos getting wet.

Muchuque had lots of lovely wooden houses, some of which, known as palafitos, are built out on stilts over the drying harbour: tides are around 4 metres or so.

There was no comfortable berth for Iron Bark, so we motored back to where we had come from, for the night.

It was pouring with rain when we woke up, but that meant a N wind and so we had breakfast and got underway. Before too long the weather started to clear up and we had a day of sunshine and showers. We made reasonable progress and brought to in a nice anchorage off Los Angeles on Isla Quehui (pronounced 'kiwi'). Trevor had been here before and when we went into the 'supermercado' (which, generally speaking, far from being a supermarket really means a small grocery) the lady came out and greeted him like a long-lost relative. I bought a little shopping bag there, on which she had painstakingly embroidered: Supermercado Los Patos, Isla Quehui. It's perfect for filling with the salads I buy at Nelson's Saturday market. The Chileans have the habit of mooring their boats so close to the beach that they dry out most of the time. I suppose it saves the

worry of dragging a mooring, but I also suspect it's because many of them can't afford a decent dinghy, and it makes getting back and forth easier in windy weather. It must rather detract from spontaneous decisions to go out and look for some fish, but as we also noticed, it makes the general maintenance a lot easier. One chap had his little launch ashore and was using a hatchet to trim new deck planks. He probably turned it upside down to drive the nails, because he certainly was not over-endowed with tools. As we walked back a man came toward us driving a couple of vast bullocks a cow and a calf down the road. He stopped at a junction and turned left, leaving his dog to finish the job of escorting the cattle down to the beach to graze. In spite of their huge size, they seemed very benign animals.

The next day was one of fine and continuous drizzle, but we went for a stroll anyway. The island was pretty, with semi-cultivated scenery interspersed with hedgerows. Fence posts stuck into the ground, were sprouting new shoots and

branches, so I suppose that is how the hedges start. There were lots of little birds, including humming birds who seemed particularly to love the wild fuschia

bushes that abounded. We met lots of friendly locals, but not only was my Spanish very rusty, they spoke very quickly and with a strong accent, so we had to get by with nodding and smiling, which is not really very satisfactory.

One of our - or more accurately, I suppose, Trevor's - projects was to add to and update the RCC cruising guide on Chile. Pete and I did quite a bit of pilotage work in Badger days and Trevor got interested in the idea when we first went up the Labrador and started updating some of my earlier stuff. His technical training and geologist's mind make him a natural for this type of thing and he has completely taken it over. There was little information about the bay in which we had been anchored, so first thing that morning we chugged all around it while Trevor noted the soundings. The day was cool and showery with light winds that made for rather a tedious sail. We were going to an anchorage that Trevor had spoken of very highly (quite rightly) and when the rain became more serious as we entered the river, I was told off to make hot grog while Trevor lowered the sails and motored up the river of Estero Pailao. We dropped the hook in a wide part of the river, with pretty, semi-farmed scenery on both sides and squadrons of shags - two different species - flying back and forth and gathering in large groups to fish.

The next day, we had occasional warm sunshine and as the wind and tide were both against us, we had a leisurely breakfast and rowed up the river in Lisa. It was lovely to row four oars again and we could make real progress, to say nothing of enjoying a bit of exercise. In Nelson, most mornings I cycle to the Botanic gardens, about a km away and the walk up to the 'Centre of New Zealand' (it really is!) a climb of about 500 ft. It helps keep me fit for tramping and although it's often a bit of an effort to get out of bed and get going, I found I was missing it.

Wednesday morning saw Trevor up early and we drifted with the tide down river in the morning calm. There were lots of black-necked swans about and the

inevitable multitudes of shags. Chile does a particularly handsome red-legged shag, which as well as scarlet legs, also has the same colour on its face and a gorgeous, mottled olive green plumage. It is by far and away the most handsome shag I have ever seen. They are also extremely curious (or stupid) and they would detour to circle Iron Bark as we sailed along, going round and round several times, craning their necks to look at us. In spite of this, I never did manage to get a decent photo of one.

The breeze was fitful and we alternately motored and sailed through islands and channels. I find that GPS has taken the fun out of pilotage - often when I am trying to work out exactly where we should go next, Trevor will hit the GPS and tell me. And indeed, knowing that it is there takes away a lot of the satisfaction. Our destination was the port of Quellón, and as we sailed up the channel between the Chiloe 'mainland' and the offshore islands, we could see 2 large boats in build

on the beach. The Chileans still build a lot of wooden boats and obviously enjoy the material. There were a number of steel vessels about and the occasional fibreglass one, but generally speaking,the wooden ones were much better cared for. The harbour was full of boats of all sizes, in many cases two or three to the mooring, but although a lively and colourful sight, we felt that we might be better

off somewhere a bit quieter. We found a comfortable berth on the far side of the harbour, a quarter of an hour's motor away.

Quellón would be the last town for a while. I was still hoping to get to Laguna San Rafael, which was for me the major attraction in this part of Chile. There you can see a glacier coming down to the sea. These I have seen before, of course, but what is particularly interesting about this one is that it is the nearest to the Equator of any in the world and I was intrigued at the thought: it's the equivalent of seeing one in Northern Spain.

The next day we motored over to town, Trevor fetched fuel and I explored to find the best shops for our needs; the afternoon was spent ferrying supplies down to the dinghy on the beach and out to Iron Bark. We had,of course, cleared in with

the Armada, the one advantage of which is that you get to see the forecast that they usually have pinned up. This is much easier for us to understand, with our poor Spanish, then the one they read out on the radio. The forecast was threatening a bit of unpleasant weather for the following night, so we decided to stay put.

It rained all the following day and we stayed on board. I was busy writing on my computer, but Trevor had read all his books and forgotten to swop any when he had the chance in Puerto Montt, so was frankly bored. He started talking about mulled wine - it's a good way to use up the cheapest boxed wine that we have experimented with and not really liked and Trevor had already produced his particular version on several occasions - and I suggested he have a look at the recipes in The Joy of Cooking. He started reading them out to me with increasing surprise and delight. 'This woman's a bloody lush!' he exclaimed as he listed the ingredients of increasingly exotic drinks. Then he got to buttered rum. 'I've heard about this but never tried it,' he said. 'We must see what it's like!'. So that was the end of any useful work for that day.

I assume it blew overnight, but we were so sheltered that we only felt the very odd gust. We woke to a gorgeous day and could see the snow-covered mountains at last. The Andes are incredibly handsome. Because so many of them are extinct volcanoes their elegant, white cones against the bright blue sky are one of the

finest sights you could wish to see. We went ashore and finished our shopping. I bought Trevor another fisherman's jersey - this one had a nice pattern across the front and was a bit better made, with finer stitches and more tightly (hand)woven wool, than his other one, which he'd never had off his back since buying it. The lady who had made it ran the little shop and seemed delighted by our praise and appreciation of her work. She gave me a little key ring, with a wine jug on it, as we left. I hid the jersey away for Trevor's birthday and had the great satisfaction, when I gave it to him, of his telling me that he'd forgotten all about it until he actually came to open it!

The tides were such that we set off after lunch and then anchored for 6 hours right at the S end of Chiloe, before leaving for an overnight sail to the island group of Chonos. Trevor turned in, but knowing I wouldn't sleep, I stayed up, made myself a meal and read until it was time to leave. The Golfo de Corcovado, named for a magnificent volcano, has a bad reputation and Trevor had been concerned about nasty seas whipped up by the wind over the strong tides, but in fact we had a pleasant sail, although we arrived at the archipelago at around the first of the ebb,which meant a deal of motoring, the light breeze dying completely with the daylight. Whenever there was enough wind, or the tides permitted it, we sailed and there were lots of pretty islands and birds to look at, with playful fur seals coming by to investigate. Occasionally, we caught fleeting glimpses of the

mountains, but most of the time they were hidden in cloud. Perhaps it's just as well: it would really be criminal to become blasé about such scenery. We anchored for the night off I Valverde.

In the morning, Trevor rather dashed my hopes of getting to Laguna San Rafael, by telling me that we still had 320 miles to go. On mature reflection, this seemed unlikely, and indeed when I checked the chart and worked out the route, I discovered that it was about 220 miles. I've no idea where he'd got his figure from! Trevor reckoned that to play safe I should leave from Pto Aysén, which was only about a third of the way back to Pto Montt. Even so, he remained very pessimistic about this timetable until the day we dropped the hook in Pto Chacabuco, the anchorage for Pto Aysén 8 days before I was due to leave. We got underway and that Monday saw us largely chugging along in a flat calm with low cloud and drizzle - a rather depressing day, really, in no way improved when the engine started playing up. Eventually, we decided to try changing the fuel filters, which solved the problem, but they were not particularly dirty, so we had a couple of drinks and put it down to One of Life's Mysteries, while I cooked us piping hot chilli and rice.

My diary describes the next day as being one of 'rain, interspersed with showers and the occasional bright interval'. Trevor went off to fetch some firewood for the wonderful little solid fuel stove that he made in Nelson, and I took the opportunity to do a bit of cleaning. We decided to push on in the afternoon - another day occasionally sailing and then drifting until we got fed up and put the motor on. Generally what was happening was that the wind was feeding in through the west facing fiords and then blowing up and down the N/S fiords, so we would have a calm period, and then a headwind and then a romping beam reach, followed by a run in a gradually dying breeze. In the gaps, the breeze was too much to carry full sail and in the calms, the sails flapped annoyingly, so in the end we doused the topsail and staysail and proceeded under main alone in the calms, and main and jib when we could sail. Like most fiord sailing, it tried one's patience. However, the sun came out the next day and although there were still showers about, we could see the scenery again, for which I was more than a little pleased. It seemed a shame to come so far and not to see it! We had some really fine sailing and passed the only other yacht that we saw after Pto Montt: obviously a charter vessel. Looking up into the blue sky, we thought that we saw a condor. There are lots of vultures around this part of Chile (well, most of S America, actually), but we both felt that this looked a different shape, with longer wings. I'm sure that Trevor will see many more before he leaves Chile, but I was thrilled to think that I might have seen one of these magnificent birds.

For the night, we found a pretty little anchorage on I Melchor, up a narrow cut whose entrance was guarded by one of the many fish farms in the area. But when we brought to in the snug little anchorage, the farm was out of sight, to my relief.

We planned to explore ashore the following day, but when Trevor went for a wood recce he came back to tell me that the bush was even thicker than it looked. I can't say that I'm fond of bush bashing, so we went for a brisk row in Lisa instead. Our anchorage was generally perfectly sheltered, but we were hit by the odd gust, and when we rowed round the corner where there was quite a long, open sound, we realised that it was blowing harder than we thought. But we'd already decided to stay put for the day. After our row, Trevor went off on another wooding expedition and I baked a fruit cake.

Later in the day we saw a man rowing a heavy boat towards us. We invited him aboard and Carlos told us that he lived in a house that we had seen when we went for our row. He worked at the fish farm. We chatted for a while and he asked if we had any reading glasses we could spare. Trevor had stocked up with plenty from the $2 stores, but they weren't strong enough for Carlos. Then Trevor remembered that he had some extra strong ones that he uses for really fiddly work, so he gave a pair to Carlos. We also sent him off with a box of wine when he told us that the following day was his birthday.

We got up at first light and set off south and once again, we motored whenever the wind died. In fact, as so often happens after a day of gales, we had a day of calms and motored most of the way to an interesting little anchorage on Isla Fitzroy. (So many of the names recall British men and ships.) As we approached the wind managed to find its way to us, but was unfortunately out of the S. The anchorage had about a 3 mile fetch from that direction, but there was every indication that it would die down that evening, as indeed it did. We rowed up to the end of the cove, which forked in two and one arm led quite some way into a pleasingly jungly setting. Rain forest is rain forest: - tropical or temperate - with lots of mosses and tangly vines and fallen trees rotting slowly away. Unfortunately, it is pretty impenetrable, too, so we didn't get much time ashore.

The next day brought us within coo-ee of Laguna San Rafael. We motored in a flat calm, but were lucky with our tides which helped us handsomely overall. The streams are not easy to predict in the maze of inlets and channels; in theory the flood sets east or north, but often the local topography makes it easier for the tide to run in the opposite direction from what one would expect, so in the end we gave up trying and just took it as it came. The whole area is very recently (and, of course, still actively) glaciated and unlike so much of the fiord country that I've sailed in, many of the drowned valleys are quite shallow - obviously hanging valleys in a recent existence. Our chosen anchorage was beyond a drowned terminal moraine, that had a narrow channel through which the tides rushed at speed. Going against the tide was not an option in a boat of Iron Bark's size, but there was fairly good tidal information for this spot, and got there about an hour before slack water. We had quite a struggle against the last of the ebb for a while and a back eddy threatened to sweep us past the narrow entrance into the anchorage, but we made it without mishap and anchored just as the sun was setting, having covered far more ground than I had anticipated when we left that morning.

Quesahuén was a delightful spot. There were several buildings ashore, but only one was occupied, apparently by a solitary man with his dog. There was an old

sawmill and so a lot of the area had been cleared, but was starting to grow back. There were still a number of old trees and I watched a family of woodpeckers busying themselves on one of them. The anchorage was a sort of lagoon behind a number of little skerries, with a view across the fiord to the beautiful mountains. It was a lovely spot, and made even better by a midnight visitor.

The sound of rapid footfalls on deck woke me, and when I got up I saw a small, dark mustelid (which we later identified as a mink - an escapee, or one of its descendants, from a fur farm). He had obviously climbed up the anchor chain and was not particularly afraid of me, although he decided to hop back over the side when I got too close for comfort. I went back to bed and about half an hour later we heard him again. This time Trevor got up armed with his camera. Just in time, as our visitor was about to come down the hatch! Again he was curiously

unafraid, and not a bit aggressive when cornered. He hid under the dinghy and played hide and seek with Trevor for a while, before finally walking back down the anchor chain and swimming away. But not before he'd put his cheeky little head over the forehatch coaming to say hello to me, still lying in bed laughing at his antics. We named him Don Descaro - Master Impudence!

We woke to a perfect day, with the mountains shrouded in mist, coloured pink by the rising sun. As we set off towards the glacier, the mist gradually burned off,

revealing a magnificent landscape, doubled by the reflections in the perfectly calm water. We had the tide with us at first and this helped us the first dozen miles to another gap again, I assume through a drowned moraine. The mist slowly burnt off, revealing snow-covered mountains rising from the water.

To one side was a large area of shallows, but along the edge of a large island there was a deep water channel and we followed this until we came to what looked for all the world like an artificial canal. This led to the Laguna. A back eddy ran with us for a while, but eventually the tide turned against us and as we came to the end of the canal, it was swirling and eddying dramatically and carrying bits of ice from the glacier with it. A largish piece swept across our path and crashed into a shoal, exploding dramatically into three large and many smaller fragments. A bright blue hemisphere had us puzzled for some time - it was too symmetrical and too bright to be anything other than man-made, but in fact it proved to be a piece of ice, jewel-like in its depth of colour and iridescence.

The photo I took does not do it justice. The final clouds lifted like a stage curtain and as we struggled out of the cut, we could see the glacier coming down to the water. It was a beautiful and impressive site and made me so pleased to have put in the effort to get there. If needs be, I would have turned back then and felt I had been lucky, but in fact it was still quite early in the day, so we continued motoring through increasing amounts of ice towards the glacier.

I have seen a number of glaciers coming down to the sea, but they have nearly always been surrounded by snow and ice. This one had trees growing down almost to its edge, which gave it a rather surreal appearance, to my eyes. A small

ship was at anchor near the glacier: a cargo vessel that plies the channels from Pto Montt to Pto Williams and takes passengers as well. They were embarking into the ship's boats as we approached, to go and take a look at the glacier. I suspect that they must have rather envied us, going in our own boat and able to linger as long as we wished.

While Iron Bark was hauled out in Nelson, Trevor built an extension to the bow in order to raise the bobstay fitting above the waterline. In the past, hitting a solid lump of ice with the bobstay has tended to have a rather alarming knock-on effect: the sudden weight against the bobstay would cause it to pull down the bowsprit, which in turn bent the mainmast forward and the whole lot would shake as the tension went off the bobstay. Now our 'icebreaker bow' took the shock and the bowsprit and mast were unaffected. Of course we had to try it out and check that all went as planned!

While you couldn't really describe the glacier as 'calving', bits were dropping off at regular intervals with a roaring and splashing that seemed a bit over dramatic,

but was eminently satisfying. We stayed there for about an hour, admiring and

photographing and really hoping that a great big bit would fall off to give us something to boast about. Eventually, however, we decided that we had better

get back to our pretty anchorage, which would enable us to take the first of the tide back up the Canal de Elefantes (named for the long-vanished elephant seals that probably abounded there before the hunters got to them) in the morning. The sun continued to shine, the day remained calm and the tides were sufficiently accommodating that we had no problems saving our daylight. It had been a day in a thousand.

The next few days saw us making our way to Pto Chacabuco. We had another visit from Don Descarpo one night. He was a big fellow this time, and even bolder, but again, was very gentle. We had a big slab of cheese that we had bought in Chiloe and suspected that he could smell it. Handsome though he was, we really didn't feel that he should move in, but he had other ideas. No amount of hand clapping or shooing had any effect and he perched on the bar round the self-steering gear watching us with great self-possession. Finally, Trevor levered him off and into the water. Even then he failed to hiss, snarl or respond with any sign of nastiness. But he didn't return after such ignominious treatment. We visited several other attractive anchorages, including one that had a large cataract pouring into it. The only other excitement was one day when we came to

turn the corner that would take us down to Pto Chacabuco. It was another calm, sunny day, but as we made our way towards the turning point, we admired a gorgeous snow-capped peak. But as we got closer, we could see that the wind

was howling along Seno Aysén. There was no way we could make against it to fetch the last mile to a nearby anchorage, so we backtracked several miles to another anchorage. It gave Trevor the opportunity to saw some more fire wood.

Seno Aysén is notorious for its completely local and very strong winds and I could see that Trevor was starting to fret again about our getting to Pto Chacabuco, in spite of the fact that we still had plenty of time before I had to leave. Fortunately, the next day we managed to battle through the slightly reduced wind (this time with a fair tide) and after a couple of miles had left it behind us, still blowing like mad in that one small area. No wonder old-time sailormen were so superstitious!

Just to tease us, we ran aground on a falling tide at the entrance to Pto Chacabuco, but it was nearly low water and we were off again in about an hour. It allowed us to drink a beer and admire the scenery before going and anchoring for the last time, at least as far as I was concerned.

Pto Chacabuco is a small village whose only reason for existence to to service the port. This used to be at Pto Aysén, but massive deforestation caused equally

massive silting and the port is now only accessible to small craft at high water. I doubt it was much of a place in its heyday and now I would have to say that it's a bit of a dump. However, there was a brand spanking new supermarket, where we could start re-provisioning Iron Bark for the next few months. Trevor's plans were to continue in Chile (bureaucracy permitting) until about October, then sail to the Falkland Is. After that he will probably sail up to Canada. As he is unlikely to find anywhere better or cheaper until he arrives in Canada, we did a fair amount of research into the price and quality of anything he wanted, that has a long shelf life.

I had hoped to get a bus from Pto Aysén to Pto Montt and see some more of the wonderful scenery, but not only was the bus going to be travelling largely at night, it was going to deposit me in Pto Montt at ten past one in the morning. As the town is not that salubrious, I felt the idea was starting to lack merit and when I discovered that I could take a bus to an airport and fly back and catch a connecting flight for NZ$120, all on one day, I decided to go for that option.

We managed to keep ourselves amused in Chacabuco and Pto Aysén - just - while Trevor struggled with bureaucracy and trying to replace the credit card that had expired and caused so many problems earlier in the story. We took a day trip for the 'resort' of Coihaique: we exhausted its possibilities in about 3 hours, including taking a long time to drink a really good cup of coffee (a rare commodity in Chile) and having a picnic lunch. But I'm sure it would be a wonderful place to be based, with loads of opportunities for tramping, climbing, kayaking and so forth.

Pto Chacabuco, being in Seno Aysén, is also subject to the very strong winds. All the time we were there it remained relatively calm until the last night. The holding is extremely good and we had plenty of ground tackle down, so we weren't really worried, but it takes a stronger constitution than mine to sleep in gale force winds. The wind was gusty, rather than constant, and I wasn't really too worried about getting ashore, but Trevor was concerned that things would get worse, so we ate breakfast and I packed my bags. Trevor launched the dinghy and we rowed ashore to wait in wind and rain for the mini-bus that was to take me to the airport. We found a partial lee next to a seriously unprepossessing night club and were speculating on the state of mind of the poor sailors who reckoned that this was the best they could do in the way of entertainment), when the caretaker came out. We tried to explain what we were doing there and a few minutes later he came back out and invited us into his kitchen, where with charity worthy of the Good Samaritan himself, he gave us hot Nescafé and a toasted bun. It was a gesture that sums up why it is that everyone who goes there has a very soft spot for Chile. The towns may be scruffy; the bureaucracy stifling, but the people appear to be invariably kind. I don't think I ever saw people shouting at each other or hitting their children. The stray dogs generally seem to have enough to eat and lie in the middle of the footpath in the secure knowledge that people may step over or round them, but will never kick them out of the way. Horses are groomed and I never saw any with galls or sores; the huge oxen are gentle and unafraid. And most of the Chileans we saw had little extra in their lives, but did not seem to resent a couple of apparently wealthy gringos in their society. One of the more heart-warming aspects of cruising there is the way in which every vessel on the water went out of its way to salute us. Even the big cargo steamer would sound its siren in greeting. I was glad to be going back to New Zealand, but part of me would have liked to stay longer.

Eventually the bus arrived. I felt dreadful saying good-bye to Trevor, who would undoubtedly find Iron Bark cold and empty when he went back. It would have been much better had it been a bright, sunny day.

The young guy driving the minibus spoke a bit of English and could understand more. I could speak a bit of Spanish and understand more, so we managed a reasonable conversation. He was born and brought up in Ushuaia, but both he and his brother, who works at Aysén hospital, moved to Chile about 5 years ago. He told me that they both much preferred it to Argentina - it's more peaceful, more beautiful and that they can earn more money. That last bit was a surprise to me, because I hadn't got the impression that Chileans are particularly well paid. Things must indeed be dire in Argentina. I also got the impression that he didn't feel too confident about Argentina's democracy, but we didn't really have enough common language to discuss this properly. We drove all round the back streets of Aysén, picking up more people before heading off towards the airport.

It was great being in the front on the way to Coihaique - I could see a lot more than when we went on the bus. There was a large shrine to San Sebastian - I had seen the sign as we went past, but this time I saw the shrine itself. It was like a grotto and there were lots of candles burning in it. Considering that it was quite a long way from town and still raining, it tells you something about the locals' piety that they had made the effort to go there and light candles. The driver crossed himself as we went by.

The rain cleared away as we started to climb the mountains and it was sunny and dry by the time we arrived in Coihaique. The bus took a bypass, in fact. The country changed dramatically on the other side of the town. After the steep, gullied mountains, it opened out into rolling countryside that reminded me of Yorkshire on a grand scale. The farming seemed to be done a bit more intensively and, one might say, seriously than nearer to the coast. Arable farming must be a bit of a challenge in the terrain. It's not seriously steep, but there are lots of slopes and valleys: level fields of more than about 3 or 4 hectares are a pretty rare sight. Fine for small scale tractor and trailer stuff, but not somewhere you could use a combine harvester. There were a lot more biggish houses about and most of the buildings were far better maintained than down by the coast. Large or small, they had fresh paint and white, rather than grey, net curtains. I got the impression that inland is the where the prosperity is rather than along the coast.

It was a long and interesting drive to the airport at Balmaceda. The land was extensively cleared and the views much more open than anything I had seen before. The far horizons were still dominated by gloriously-shaped, snow-covered peaks and the whole area was very appealing. I think I even saw a condor soaring over a hayfield near the road - it really did look too big for a vulture and its wings were proportionally longer. It would be nice to think that's what it was, anyway.

I was fretting a bit about getting to the airport on time, because we seemed to be running a bit late, but consoled myself with the fact that everyone else on the bus was going for the same flight. I was also looking forward to getting a glimpse of Balmaceda, which I reckoned must be quite a sizeable place to have acquired an airport of such importance. I was therefore the more surprised when we arrived, to find it consisted of nothing more than a collection of houses, a couple of small shops and an airstrip. No-one seemed to find this a bit odd, but I thought it was more than a little strange to build an airfield in the middle of nowhere, 55 kilometres from the nearest town. I know that there wasn't a lot of level ground around, but in fact there was an area of plateau land not far from Coihaique.

I paid my fare - in fact $7000 rather than the $8000 we had been quoted. About 17 Kiwis for 134 km. Pretty reasonable by any standards for door-to-door service. No-one spoke any English at the airport, of course, but I gathered that there was a certain amount of concern about my flights. My connection at Pto Montt was with the same carrier, but on a different plane and there was only 20 minutes between flights. The staff were very careful and helpful and emphasised that I would have to move 'muy rapido' to ensure my connection. They sent my baggage priority. I had a window seat, but there was quite a lot of cloud around, so I didn't see quite as much as I'd hoped, although I had fantastic views of the islands we had visited around Chiloe. At Pto Montt I duly rushed to get my baggage, but couldn't see it. I heard my name being paged, so dashed to the check-in counter to explain that I couldn't find my bag. Then I realised that they had in fact been super-efficient, checking my bag through to the next flight for me. I was most impressed, my heartbeat slowed down to normal and I felt that there was now even a possibility that both I and my bags might get back to NZ! I got a few grey hairs however while waiting by that carousel.

A good flight to Santiago, but largely in the dark. The airport was pretty much back to normal, with few signs of the earthquake damage. I had a comfortable amount of time before my flight to Auckland. All 12+ hours of that was in the dark, which was a bit grim. For some reason, I appeared to have really bad eye strain, so I couldn't read. I watched a movie (Sherlock Holmes - an intriguing approach that would work a lot better on the big screen) and tried - unsuccessfully - to sleep. Somewhere along the way they stole Saturday from me: we left Santiago at 2300 on Friday and arrived in Auckland at 0400 on Sunday. Early, alas, because my flight back to Nelson was scheduled for 1120.

Clearing in was blissfully easy and my luggage had arrived with me. Everything was smoothly organised and there were no queues to speak of. My passport has a chip, which means that I could go and clear myself in at one of the many machines provided for the job. There was also a plethora of scales in the departure lounge, so that you could weigh your baggage before checking it in. For the sake of interest, I weighed my big bag, which had seemed to weigh a ton each time I handled it - 20.5 k. But a very awkward shape. My carry on bag was 7k. I felt I had done pretty well at travelling light, all things considered, because I had summer clothes for NZ, posh clothes for NY and cold-weather sailing clothes for Chile!

I got myself a cup of coffee and sat down to wait for the ticket offices to open in the faint hope that I might be able to get an earlier flight to Nelson. Amazingly I could, so I checked in my big bag and backpack, which I knew would be handled with more care than I would guarantee with the big planes, and celebrated with a croissant and a pot of particularly pleasant Earl Grey tea.

We left into clear sky and I had the most glorious flight back home, with bright sunshine over the whole country. I could see all the way down the Cook Strait to Wellington on N Island and the Marlborough Sounds on S Island. Even the Strait was flat calm and the ships' wakes were clearly visible at some distance behind them - not a common state of affairs. Then down Tasman Bay and at last we landed at Nelson, 30 hours after my leaving Chacabuco.

Half an hour later I was back on board my little boat, which seemed none the worse for my absence.

A change of pace

2010-11-12T16:58:00.000-08:00

A CHANGE OF PACE

The moment Iron Bark sailed between the headlands which guard the entrance to New Zealand's Bay of Islands, I felt I'd come home. My mother was born on South Island, and I had always wanted to visit the country of her birth. Finally it had happened.

Over the next year, I waited for the rose-tinted spectacles to fall off, but when we sailed for Australia, I felt a harder wrench than usual as I said good-bye to my friends. I loved Oz, but looked forward impatiently to turning Iron Bark's bows back towards New Zealand.

For 35 years, my life has been dominated by voyaging. The only time I've stopped anywhere for more than a few months has been to build a boat. Occasionally we stay somewhere to carry out a refit, but once all is ready for sea, we raise anchor and head out. It's all been rather wonderful, but recently, I've been hankering for a place I can call home. I've become tired of saying good-bye to people I love, knowing I might never see them again. My parents are long dead. There seems nothing for me in England, my remaining family so used to my prolonged absences that I'm no longer important in their lives. And New Zealand reaches out to me: I love its scenery, its climate and its people. My mother's accident of birth gives me the right to live here; my best friend swallowed the anchor and bought a house in Nelson. Maybe I can create a 'family' here so that when I sail away, Nelson will be the home I return to; someone will welcome me back; I'll belong.

Trevor, not surprisingly, doesn't share my feelings. After years spent building Iron Bark, he wants to enjoy her. I sailed with him to Australia and then we successfully circumnavigated South Island, but all the time I knew it was time to stop and put down some roots. At last I had to tell him that for the moment, anyway, I need to stop voyaging. It's just as necessary for him to carry on, so we agreed that I should buy myself a little boat to live on – even if I could afford it, I couldn't envisage living in a house – and fly out to join him for a few weeks every year. Financially it is a foolish decision and the idea of flying around the world is unappealing, but sometimes you just have to follow your instincts.

My ideal boat is about 28ft, cold-moulded wood and junk-rigged, but with 8m (26ft), I could immediately get a berth and 'liveaboard' status in Nelson Marina – both necessities in my new way of life. Small, cold-moulded boats are easy to find in NZ; junk rig nearly an impossibility. As well, the New Zealand dollar has shot up in value, and from being worth 32p in 2007, is now worth 45p, so my savings are worth considerably less. But eventually I found an 8m yacht that fulfilled many of my desiderata. Admittedly she is fibreglass, not my favourite material, a bit run down and poorly maintained.

On the other hand, she has the most attractive interior, with lots of mahogany, a good – indeed an excellent – galley and a comfortable saloon.
Buying her was a fraught affair, her owner intransigent and refusing to see that things had deteriorated in the decade he'd owned the boat. The brokers suggested scrapping the deal and looking again, but it would be difficult to find anything more suitable for the money and before Trevor's planned departure in November. She was so close to what I wanted that it seemed worth paying over the odds for her.

Joshua, as she is named, is a Raven 26, designed by Owen Woolley. Many were built in the late 70s with plywood decks; Joshua is a Mk II version, built in the 80s, with a foam-sandwich deck. I say deck rather than coachroof, because Joshua, like most of the boats I've owned, has a full-width cabin, which is undoubtedly part of her appeal. The name is unfortunate, conjuring up heroes such as Slocum and Moitessier, and it's not much of an improvement to know that she's named for the previous owner's pet Pug. Her original name, Small Change doesn't have quite the right overtones, either, so I decided to leave it until she suggests a name to me.

With my usual impeccable timing, I finalised the deal in early winter. Joshua occupied the brokers' display berth and, not surprisingly, they wanted it back. I should have to sail the 90 miles from Picton to Nelson – by way of the Cook Strait – with the shortest day only three weeks away.

Trevor would have been only too happy to accompany me, but I needed to take responsibility for my boat from the start and not rely on anyone else. Besides, I rather liked the idea of having a boat that was entirely mine, to do with as I wished. Master - or is it Mistress - under God and all that. However, I gratefully accepted Trevor's offer to drive me over and at the end of May, we hired a car, loaded it with bits of gear that were conspicuously absent from Joshua's inventory and drove across to Picton on Queen Charlotte Sound and to Waikawa Marina, a couple of miles to seaward of the town.

We emptied the car and I stowed things below. Trevor helped enormously: loosening an almost-seized gate valve (I made a mental note to replace them all with seacocks asap), tightening the stern gland, and checking the batteries. He bought me a shifting spanner for my vestigial tool kit and drove me to fill up the gas bottle. I could tell he didn't want to leave me, but he had to get home and I needed to be alone to think things through. Finally, he got into the car, I waved him off and went back on my boat, which seemed cold and scruffy and unwelcoming. I had a bad dose of Buyer's Remorse and left to have a hot shower.

Back on board, Remorse gnawed at me again, so I lit the cooker – only one burner seemed to work – and boiled a kettle, debating for all of ten seconds before taking the whisky bottle from the grog locker and pouring myself a large tot, topping it up with hot water. By the time I'd drunk it and made myself a hot meal, things looked a lot better.

After I'd eaten, I got out the New Zealand Cruising Guide (Central Area) and started to plan my passage. The first obstacle was rounding Cape Jackson – the local Cape Horn . Then I had to navigate French Pass. I read about these with some misgivings:

"Cape Jackson... naturally exposed to all winds... quite a hurdle to boat users... conditions can be most uncomfortable and dangerous... the tide flow is often considerably stronger... five knots... passage often has tide rips and overfalls... strong tidal steams... up to four knots... should be avoided in bad weather conditions."

Of French Pass, I read: "it is dangerous to attempt to travel against the stream unless the boat is easily capable of at least nine knots under power... even if travelling with the stream there can be problems controlling a boat, because of the eddies... the bow of the vessel can swing into the counter current and the boat be slewed in to the shore... not as dangerous as those formed by the flood tide... start engines before entering the pass in order to maintain steerage way."

Then I read about the Beef Barrels: "notorious for having caused many wrecks... frequently difficult to see... surrounded by other rocks, some awash at LW... extremely dangerous and should be given a wide berth."

Did I want to do this? Briskly reminding myself that Pilots always sound daunting; that I learnt to sail in Morecambe Bay with 7 knot tides and no engine; that I had successfully navigated in many places that were poorly charted and had no information... I found I was still daunted at the thought of this single-handed passage. I poured another hot toddy and carefully worked out the tides for the next few days and considered my options. I wanted to avoid night sailing and the short days made it important for me to get my timing right. With a rough plan sketched out, I turned in, snuggling into my down sleeping bag and pleased to find my bunk is really comfortable.

Before I left, I needed kerosene for the light and a winch handle, but it being a Saturday, the chandlers opened late. While I was filling up the water containers (Joshua's tank was not usable), the broker came to chat. I was not really too reassured when he gave me a plethora of useful tips for getting round Cape Jackson with boat and life intact.

The forecast was dreadful, but if I didn't leave now I never would and I could pick up a secure mooring further up the Sound. I squared everything away and with my heart in my mouth, started the recently-overhauled engine. The single-cylinder Bukh seemed to find it as cold as I did, but eventually coughed into life and settled down to a reassuring thump. I had to execute a three-point turn to get out and nearly got myself into trouble at that first manoeuvre: with so many things to think about I had temporarily forgotten that the gear lever goes down for astern and up for forward, not what I'd expect. But the kick of the prop wash against the rudder was a clear reminder and I quickly found astern. Joshua turned on her heel and we chugged away from all the expensive boats towards the Sound. As we cleared the breakwaters that protect the marina, I felt my heart lift.

Being the weekend, there were other boats about to give me moral support. It was heavily overcast, but the odd shaft of sun momentarily found its way through, causing a brief sparkle on the water before disappearing once more. I set the jib to a SE F3 and headed NE up the Sound. Joshua has electric self-steering – something I'd never used before – which did a fine job of holding the tiller for me when I wanted to do something else. The wind was fluky and I felt that there was enough going on without my setting the mainsail. I'm sure that there aren't that many ferries going to and from Picton from Wellington, but they seemed to come past every few minutes.

Occasionally the wind died and I'd start the engine. The forecast wasn't improving and while we were sheltered from whatever was going on outside, I didn't have the local knowledge to know if this was likely to change.

By mid-morning, Tory Channel was abeam and at noon I bore away into Endeavour Inlet (41°09'1'S, 174°10.4'E), to find my mooring. The wind eddied round onto the nose, so I rolled up the jib and motored in. The mooring I'd intended to borrow – which belonged to a local sailing club – was occupied by a 30 ft boat, Mr Busby. I reckoned he'd probably leave later, so prepared to anchor, but the two men on board waved to me and beckoned me alongside, hospitably putting out fenders.

"We're going off in an hour or so," one of them told me, " so you might as well pick up the mooring."

They were surprised to find me alone and even more taken aback when I said I was bound for Nelson. "That's a gutsy trip to do single-handed," commented the skipper. I felt rather pleased with myself. We chatted for a while, I tidied up the boat and later they kindly took my line to the buoy before casting off theirs and setting off across the Inlet to another anchorage.

I reflected on my 12 mile epic. The engine and autopilot had been excellent and the jib did its thing satisfactorily. The next leg was a long one, and I'd be using the main, but I'd been pleased at the way that Joshua had sailed under jib alone – she could be left for a few moments without having hysterics, which was very reassuring. With her fin keel and balanced, spade rudder (not my ideal choice) I'd thought she might be very skittish. For a while I sat in the cockpit, enjoying the lovely bay, with bellbirds singing all around. But the cold soon drove me below.

I spent the afternoon pottering and tidying and carefully cooked myself a meal of chickpeas, aubergine and rice – my idea of a feast. Keeping busy and eating hot food made me feel more self-confident, but the forecast was still atrocious and I turned in, fairly sure that I would be going nowhere in the morning.

Most parts of New Zealand have a local shipping forecast that is played continually on the VHF and when I woke in the morning I turned it on. It was ghastly: 55 knots, occasionally more in 'Cook', which is where I was headed. I listened to the actuals: 67 knots at Brothers a mere 15 miles away as the shag flies. I decided to stay put.

We were wonderfully sheltered. The sun came out for a while and I put the inflatable dinghy over and tried unsuccessfully to unblock the heads outlet. There was a holding tank in the system and I had only just discovered the blockage . I could do nothing about it, so put it on the 'to do' list, sighed and got out the bucket. I whipped some ropes and scrubbed the decks. By lunch time, gusts had started to eddy round the bay and Joshua chased around the mooring.

The sun vanished, to be replaced by a cold, thin drizzle. The wind gusted down the hatch and I felt cold, low and rather lonely. When snow started eddying into the cabin I wondered what on earth I was doing there, alone on a mooring in the middle of winter, and with no heater. However, I went forward, dug out a few more clothes and made cheese toasties. The clothes were excellent, the food warmed me and if I wasn't exactly cosy, at least I was no longer cold. I read until dark, when I decided to go to my warm bed. It was blowing 75 knots at Brothers. I listened one more time at about 2200, before going to sleep, and the wind had dropped to a mere 55 knots. Perhaps the worst was over. It was wonderfully snug to know I was secure while the wind howled over head.

I was up at first light the next morning and had a hot and hearty breakfast. The forecast for Cook was 30 knots and easing. If I wanted to make the tide at Cape Jackson, I'd better get moving, so at 0745, I cast off the mooring and motored out of Pukekoikoi Bay. Overhead the sky was a clear blue and cats-paws dashed across the water all around. With such fluky breezes I kept on motoring.

The actual at Brothers was S 20 knots: it was obviously very sheltered in the Sound, but soon the coast would fall away and I would actually be able to see Brothers Is, so it was worth motoring to find that fair breeze.

We chugged on up the W shore, passing Resolution Bay and Ship Cove. So many reminders of Captain Cook in this area. Once past Motuara I and out of its lee, I should pick up my breeze, so was both surprised and disappointed to enter Cook Strait and find it almost calm. In the summer, I'd have gone to find an anchorage and waited for a breeze, but at this time of the year felt it would be much more prudent to get past Cape Jackson and Alligator Head, before doing so.

The engine behaved beautifully, the little autopilot did its stuff and I admired the scenery while drinking coffee and wondering at how different 2 days could be. The sun was almost hot! Considering it was the first day of June, it hardly seemed like winter.

At 1035 the log read: "Cape Jackson aka Cape Horn abeam! Hardly any wind and overfalls merely interesting. What a relief!"

By midday a breeze came in from the W and for a while we sailed happily along on a close reach. The breeze increased and I put a reef in the mainsail. What a performance! The so-called jiffy reefing took forever. The internal halliard was led back to the cockpit and several trips were required to lower sufficient sail and then raise some of it back up. The logic of the system failed me: surely it would be much easier to handle the halliard from the mast, as I had to go there anyway to wrestle with sail slides and hook the cringle onto the boom? As I sheeted the sail in, I promised Joshua that one day I would fit a junk rig!

As we brought Forsyth I abeam, the wind came in from ahead. There were 11 miles to go to an anchorage just north of French Pass and we could make it under power. I doubted we could beat there in the four hours of daylight left and debated going elsewhere. However, the timing for French Pass was critical and with the days being so short, it only made sense to go through at the morning slack water.

Sighing, I dropped the mainsail, rolled up the jib and turned on the engine. Although only 10 HP, it made short work of the chop and F4 on the nose and we made surprisingly good speed, picking up a mooring in Cherry Tree Bay, Catherines Cove (40°52.3'S, 173°52.5'E) at 1555. We were another 35 miles on our way.

I felt a sense of elation. Cape Jackson was behind us, we were out of the Cook Strait and only the curve of the bay prevented me from seeing French Pass. A friend had given me a bottle of bubbly to celebrate my new command and this seemed a suitable time to open it. As the low sun reflected back off the water, I toasted my little ship.

I set the alarm and was up at 0600 the next morning. I was concerned about my timing, because there's only a short period of slack water and the tide tables aren't entirely accurate, so I got underway at 0715, as soon as it was light enough to see.

It was flat calm, but I preferred this to the thought of facing the Pass with a capful of wind. By my reckoning, we arrived 15 minutes early, but the tide still ran strongly against us in the narrows. The water swirled and eddied round the underwater rocks and hidden obstructions. The engine did its best, but we seemed to mark time. At last the Pass relented and we were allowed through, the bow swinging this way and that as the fierce eddies caught us, but there was no real danger. Next time I'd arrive on the late side – at least it would all be over a lot faster! As we came out from Current Basin, a N F2 filled in and I set the jib.

With my worries now behind me, I was starting to enjoy myself and toyed with the idea of sailing into Croisilles Harbour for the night. But I would be out of both radio and mobile phone range and Trevor might start to worry if he heard nothing from me. If I kept moving, I could make it to Nelson just before dark, so for the rest of the day we motored, sailed and motorsailed in the sunshine, with the whole of Tasman Bay to ourselves.

At 1700 I sent a text to Trevor warning him of my arrival and he was there to take my lines as I coasted into my marina berth.

It may seem foolish to make so much fuss of such a straightforward delivery trip, but for all that, I felt very proud of myself, and the start of a real affection for the little boat I had shared it with.

A few days later I put her alongside the piles and changed those seacocks!

Pickling Fish

2010-10-22T21:24:00.000-07:00

I do try to keep this up to date, but have many other distractions.

Someone asked me for my recipe for pickled fish. Here it is: it is included in my book The Voyaging Vegetarian, which I have been trying to get published for some time. I suspect I shall resort to self-publishing, which also has the advantage that I get somewhat better paid for my efforts!

Occasional Fish Eaters may well catch their own. If you catch a big one, it can be an embarrassment, especially if you don’t have refrigeration. However, when I was in Brazil, Christine on Encounter taught me an excellent way of preserving fish that I’ve used successfully ever since. It’s particularly useful for those occasions when you have caught more than you can reasonably eat and don’t want to waste any. One of the best aspects of this recipe is that you don't need special preserving jars, or even glass ones. Any jar that has a spill-proof lid will do. It also saves you from having to keep on eating fish until you are sick to death of it.

Boil a kettle of water and put it into a vacuum flask.
Bring a pan of vinegar to the boil and keep it hot.
Skin and fillet the fish; chop it up into 25 mm (1 in) cubes.
Fry these in olive oil and when they’re just cooked, put the chunks into clean jars.
Add ½ tsp pickling spice to each jar.
Pour over equal parts of boiling water and vinegar. Tap the jar to get rid of trapped air.
Cover with a layer of cling film (to prevent the vinegar from attacking the metal cap) and then screw on the caps.

Variations

Add sliced onion, diced garlic, capers or chilli peppers instead of or as well as the pickling spice. Dried onion and garlic are useful here.
Use appropriate herbs, such as tarragon, dill (weed) or thyme.

Remarks

The pickled fish seems to keep indefinitely and can be drained and used as hors d’oeuvres, in salads or cooked in a fish dish - the flavour of the vinegar seems to disappear after about ten minutes cooking. Some rather flaccid, white fish, improve in texture from this treatment. I would say that it is most successful drained, tipped into a bowl and eaten using toothpicks with some other nibbles and drinks.

Around South Island

2010-05-26T20:14:00.001-07:00

A CIRCUMNAVIGATION OF SOUTH ISLAND

During the year that Iron Bark had spent in Australia,Trevor and I had covered many thousands of miles while our little ship had been much less active than usual, staying securely anchored in Queensland’s Burrum River (between Maryborough and Bundaberg).

Trevor had done a lot of work on the inside of the boat, chipping and painting areas of corrosion: three winters frozen into ice had resulted in massive amounts of condensation come spring, which had taken its toll. Iron Bark was now in good shape once more and looking forward to new adventures. On 22 December 2008, we said good-bye to friends in Bundaberg and turned our bows towards the sea.

With little wind, we motored to cheat the tide; the necessity to clear Customs had dictated our time of departure. Then, in a narrow part of the river, the engine started to overheat, so we ran back to where there was room to anchor and tried to see what the problem was. This took a couple of hours, at the end of which we were little the wiser and indeed, the engine continued to overheat in an unpredictable fashion for several more months. By now the sea breeze had filled in with a vengeance and the flood was running hard. We had a long, slow and rough motor out of the river and I was feeling distinctly seasick when we finally killed the engine and started to beat offshore under reefed main, jib and staysail. It seemed an inauspicious start to our passage back across the Tasman.

The next day saw us continuing to beat against a gradually decreasing wind. By 1920 we were enjoying a lovely, quiet evening and I had put up the Christmas decorations. The wind continued light during Christmas Eve, but for once we had a fair current which pushed us on our way, while I put up the Christmas decorations. The afternoon was spent wrapping up presents, which were tastefully arranged in a laundry basket on the chart table, and there they stayed in the prevailing quiet conditions.

It was our second Christmas at sea in 2 years. At midnight we were ‛blasting along at 6/7 knots and making excellent progress’, but the wind took off for us to have a very pleasant day, opening presents and eating and drinking in true Yuletide fashion.

For the next week we enjoyed fair winds and a kindly current. There was often enough breeze to justify both reefs in the main, but progress was comfortable. We sailed within sight of Elizabeth Reef, which in these days of GPS was merely an interesting event; the well-known self-steering designer, John Letcher, lost a boat here and we were both less than relaxed until we knew for sure that we had seen it – GPS notwithstanding.

A vicious squall on New Year’s Eve gave Trevor a hard time: although the mainsail came down without any problems, he had a tussle getting sail tiers round the bundle. After years of debating the merits and otherwise of lazyjacks, I believe it was this night that finally made up his mind to fit them.

The New Year came in quietly and we sighted our first Wandering Albatross. The weather was getting distinctly cooler and it was pleasant to feel the need for a cover on the bed.

Apart from a couple of days spent close-hauled, we enjoyed fair winds all the way to South Island. On Wednesday 7 January, Trevor sighted Taranaki’s perfect cone at dawn. We raced along all day and arrived off Farewell Spit, at the entrance to Tasman Bay, just after midnight. Predictably, the wind then switched off and we drifted until the sea breeze filled in, enjoying the views of snow-clad mountains.

At 1600, we entered Nelson Harbour and started the motor, furling the sails as we motored up to the Customs Dock. We had taken 17½ days to cover 1540 miles.

We spent a pleasant three weeks in Nelson, catching up with friends before heading off once more. Our intention was to go and have a look at Fiordland, which Trevor had already cruised about 20 years previously, and then to have explore Stewart Island – a pleasant way of spending the summer months. We spent a day or so anchored off beautiful Adele Island (40°58.7’S, 173°03.3’E) before leaving. It’s about 450 miles from Nelson to Milford Sound and once you leave Tasman Bay, you may as well go straight there because the only harbours along the way are impassable in anything other than perfect weather. We had a fine forecast of NE winds, but they failed to materialise until we were within 6 miles of our intended anchorage. In the meantime we had a mixed bag of winds and more beating than we would have chosen. With an imminent gale forecast, we pushed on as hard as we could, but in the end resorted to motoring rather than finding ourselves jammed up against that iron-bound coast.

We arrived off Milford Sound in suitably dramatic conditions: Scotch mist eddying with the gusts of wind and the mountains’ feet emerging from the murk as we closed the coast. Much has been written about the scenery of Milford and many photos taken, but even so I was impressed with what we saw. It is on the grandest scale and even although I am by now something of a connoisseur of majestic scenery, I found it magnificent. But we were far from being alone in our pleasure: as we made our way along the Sound, we were accompanied by 2 vast cruise ships, four tour boats, several helicopters and a couple of ’planes to say nothing of half a dozen runabouts.

We brought to in Deepwater Basin (44°40.9’S, 167°55.7’E) at 1830, took a stern line ashore and sat down to admire the scenery of rugged peaks and a snowfield, with lush rain forest dotted with enormous tree ferns on the lower slopes.

Tired after our passage, we would have slept in, but were driven from our comfortable berth by very unwelcome visitors. The sandflies, for which Southland is notorious, commenced their attack at daybreak and continued, unremittingly until dark. The only time they let up was when the wind was too strong for them to fly. Iron Bark has screens, which have successfully foiled Tropical insects, Labrador blackfly, Greenland mosquitoes and Tasmanian horseflies, but they hardly slowed down the sandflies. If you looked carefully, you could see them working their way through the mesh one careful leg at a time. Then they homed in. Even mosquito coils had little deterrent effect. The only consolation was that the climate was such that one was rarely tempted to strip off. Liberal use of insect repellent kept them from one’s hands and face, but they were an infernal nuisance, and even Trevor, who generally mocks my misery when mosquitoes bite, found them intolerable.

We woke to the sound of rain and it threw it down all day. A sheer cliff forms one side of Deepwater Basin and the rain poured down its face. As the day progressed and the volume of water increased, the whole cliff face became a myriad of spectacular waterfalls, with the surrounding mountains similarly transformed. It was an amazing spectacle. The dinghy needed regular baling and we filled our water tanks to overflowing with wonderfully pure water.

The clouds cleared away in the morning and the waterfalls dried up so quickly that most had vanished by mid-morning. I have never seen a landscape undergo such rapid transformation.

We duly did the tourist thing at the Interpretation Centre and went to the appropriate spot to admire and photograph Mitre Peak, which, if photographs involved friction, would surely have been ground down to a pimple by now. Then we went for a leisurely amble along the Cleddau river, sitting by the rushing waters to enjoy a picnic and gaze at the splendid scenery, even more stunning against a blue sky, which set off the snow to advantage.

We left in a flat calm that had the mountains reflected to perfection. Stopping only to watch some fur seals at play, we motored nearly all the way to George Sound. As is so often the case in Fiord country, we found the winds to be all or nothing – and, of course, funnelling along the fiords, several of which run perpendicular to the coast. In fine weather, they would invariably have a very fresh sea breeze blowing into them after about 1100. It paid to make an early start if moving on.

George Sound has several anchorages and we spent a few days pottering about. On one occasion we were accompanied by a pod of bottlenose dolphins which included two babies; they accompanied us for over an hour as we drifted and motored down the Sound, only leaving us when we dropped the hook off Alice Falls (44°58.7’S, 167°26.4’E)

Fiordland is infamous for its rain, but initially we enjoyed the most marvellous weather, although this meant rather too much motoring. Once we’d left Milford behind, we generally had the place to ourselves and when we did meet the occasional boat, it was an excuse for pleasant socialising rather than the all-too-common feeling of ‛Oh no!’. Surely one of the best aspects of sailing the higher latitudes is the empty anchorages.

Anchoring in Fiordland is not an unmitigated delight. For a start, many of the anchorages are extremely deep. In addition, by the time one has manoeuvred sufficiently close inshore to find a reasonable depth, one is within easy reach of the sandflies and finally, we often ended up needing lines to stop us swinging back out into deep water with the anchor pulling downhill. However, fishing boats also dislike all these things and occasionally lay moorings that we could use with confidence. They also left handy lines or buoys for when we did need to tie up ashore, which made life easier. One particularly memorable mooring was in Blanket Bay (45°18.0’ S, 166° 58.8’E), where Thompson Sound meets Doubtful Sound. A waterfall tumbled down the side of Secretary Island into limpid water; birds sang ashore and a pair of kea tumbled over us in the sky. It was a wonderfully pretty spot with an interesting building perched on some rocks by the water’s edge, a small pier running alongside. This building is used by fishing crews who want a few nights off the boat and until recently had been kept unlocked. I would have liked to spend more time in Doubtful sound – Captain Cook really missed out on this one – but there was so much more yet to see that we decided to carry on.

We found another particularly pleasant anchorage in an unnamed cove at the head of Dagg Sound (45°26.0’S,166°54.2’E) in about 16 m, with plenty of swinging room. Coming in we had passed three of the rare Fiordland Crested Penguins, and finding this pretty spot seemed like the icing on the cake. Weka were calling to one another as we rowed ashore and we had a delightful little tramp across to Crooked Arm on Doubtful Sound, which gave us a wonderful view along its length.

When we came back to the beach, we went looking for a track that we’d read about in our guide. This would take us to Breaksea Sound and our intention was to locate its start and then tramp it the following day. We were very much looking forward to this, but in spite of our best efforts we could find only a few markers remaining. With a decent topo map we might have been able to follow the route, but we didn’t have one and anyway, I dislike bush bashing. It was a great disappointment: the Dept of Conservation preserve and maintain a vast number of tracks, which occasionally are abandoned for various reasons. They often remain quite usable for several years after, but in this instance, the forest had grown back very quickly. As we walked back along the pebble beach, one rolled from under my foot, badly twisting my left ankle. The pain was severe and I had to hobble to a nearby rock and wait for Trevor to go and fetch the dinghy and row back for me.

Back on board, I carefully removed my boot and gently massaged Arnica cream into my ankle, telling myself that it was only a twist. In fact it was a fairly severe sprain and was giving me the occasional twinge over 6 months later.

Bad forecasts kept us in harbour for the next couple of days, but although it blew hard, we were in good shelter and didn’t budge.

We got away again on the 22nd February and sailed/motored round to Dusky Sound. Another pretty anchorage was found in Second Cove (45°33.0’S, 166°48.5’E) alive with sandflies, which sent us below. But the following morning came in with a lovely sailing breeze and nary a sandfly to be seen. We left our anchorage and ran joyfully back up Breaksea Sound, but lost the breeze when we turned into Acheron Sound. We turned up Wet Jacket Arm and worked our way into a tiny anchorage between a small island and the shore (45°39.65’S, 166°44.12’E). Trevor had anchored here about 20 years previously, when he cruised the Fiords in his 30 ft Salvation Jane. We dropped the hook on some unpromising-looking rock and I held her in place with the engine while Trevor rapidly took lines ashore, bow and stern. The log notes it as being an ‛extremely compact little harbour’. It is variously known as Stick Cove and Muscle Cove, the latter being possibly the original spelling of Mussel, named by an exploring party from HMS Acheron, who dined well here. The wind increased during the day and the trees on the island in front of us swayed in the gusts, but only the odd eddy disturbed us.

Astern of us was a beautifully wooded cliff and I admired – and photographed it – as I drank my morning cup of tea. We extricated ourselves without too many difficulties and then had the most delightful sail I can remember having in a long time. The wind was perfect, it was warm and sunny, the conditions were ideal for Iron Bark to make to windward and the pilotage was sufficiently intricate to be interesting. We anchored in Fanny Bay (45° 46.2’E 166° 51.5’S) in 30 m, ended up too close to shore so tried again in 20 m.

We ran a stern line ashore and went for a row round the bay and up a little stream that ran into it. Back on board, Trevor decided he wasn’t happy with our situation, and as there was plenty of daylight left we went to find another berth for the night. There is no shortage of places to choose in Dusky Sound, which I thought contained not only some of our nicest anchorages, but also the best sailing and we thoroughly enjoyed our sail through Nine Fathom Passage – named not for its shallowest spot, but for its narrowest point! A splendid little waterfall fell down the cliff, and the evening sun created lovely rainbows in it. We eventually anchored in 17 m in Shark Cove (45°43’S, 166°58.7’E).

We had a bit of a windy and restless night, with the chain grumbling over the rock bottom, but didn't appear to shift. Next morning found us heading the short distance to Supper Cove (45° 42.1’S, 166°56.9’E), at the start of the Dusky Track. We had originally intended to tramp a fair bit of this, but my ankle was still very painful and we had had to abandon the idea. In fact there is no particularly good anchorage from which to access the track, the only possible anchorage being in about 17 m with shallow ground alarmingly close by. One would not feel happy leaving a boat here. We were offered the mooring of MV Pembroke, whose skipper brings trampers in and out. With an outboard motor, one could dinghy around from Shark Bay, 3 miles away, but we hadn’t been entirely happy with the holding there.

A helicopter came in to pick up some trampers and we waited for them to leave before rowing ashore and landing at the same spot. We had about an hour’s tramp each way, giving up at a particularly steep bit that was too testing for me. I felt sorry for Trevor and guilty that my problems would spoil his pleasure. However, with bad weather forecast for the following day, we would not have liked to leave the bot on her own, anyway. A float plane landed as we got back to the cove – it was a busy place!

Back on board, we motored round to Cooper Island, where we spent the best part of an hour sorting out a complicated, but secure-looking mooring system. We went down below to get ourselves a well-earned drink and to listen to the forecast, only to hear the warning of an E gale – the only direction to which the anchorage was open. We disentangled ourselves, hauled the dinghy on board and Trevor sailed back to Shark Bay while I cooked our tea. We started the engine to investigate a better berth and dropped the hook behind a sand spit in relatively shallow water. Trevor then rowed a long line ashore, tying it round a huge fallen tree. I pulled in the slack and we sat down to our belated meal, feeling well-secured against whatever was heading our way.

As so often happens, the following day was apparently calm – tucked so far inside the Fiord system it wasn’t always easy to know what was going on. Another yacht sailed in – a rare event – and later Peter and Margret came over. They were interesting people, both master mariners, and told us that they were also sheltering from the ‛gale’ and were pleased that nothing seemed to be happening. They too, suspected the bottom of being rock. Later Navigator left for Supper Cove.

We spent a pleasant, sunny day at anchor. I bottled beer and started a new batch (lager: it brews well in cool conditions as long as you use the correct yeast), made savoury muffins for lunch, mixed muesli and finally cooked a delicious blue cod that Trevor had caught.

Dusky Sound, of course is redolent of Cook’s explorations, and for me it was imperative that we anchor in Pickersgill Cove where the Endeavour spent a peaceful and productive month. We had a gentle motor and drift there, somewhat marred by the gear connection at the engine shearing. Fortunately, there was little tide and what breeze there was enabled me to keep the boat out of trouble while Trevor did a temporary fix. It meant that we had to have an ‛engineer’ below putting the engine in forward and astern, but it allowed us to continue. At 1835, we anchored in the Cove (45°47.8’S, 166°34.5’E) and took the usual lines ashore. As Trevor went below to effect a more permanent repair, I warned him that a launch was heading our way. We put out fenders and in due course, Miss Akaroa, last

seen in Caswell Sound with a wild party of women divers on board, steamed in, with a slightly less wild party of fishermen on board. There were still plenty of bottles in evidence and some were passed our way while a detachment went ashore on the DOC boardway, which takes you round the site so that you can see the tree stumps remaining from Captain Cook’s time (when he cleared a number of trees to observe the transit of Venus). After half an hour or so they left for another anchorage, giving us an enormous groper to cook (and bottle) and a crayfish, which gladdened Trevor's heart no end, because I don’t eat them.

Next day was taken up with the gear shift repair, which took a lot longer than anticipated We went for a walk ashore, looking unsuccessfully for a track, but my sprained anchor was still a severe hindrance to bush bashing. So instead we went for a row and enjoyed the company of a delightfully playful young fur seal.

Still in Captain Cook mode, we went to Luncheon Cove (45°45.9’S,166°31.3’E), first passing through the narrow gap between Crayfish I and the mainland. The lovely weather had deserted us and a heavy drizzle fell most of the day. We anchored in 6 m, near a handsome launch, Cassandra. A visit ashore resulted in a very pleasant tramp made the better by seeing a number of saddlebacks. We had

not realised that Anchorage Island was predator free and at first couldn't believe our eyes. A visit to Cassandra proved equally fruitful, as they loaded us down with crayfish and venison that they had been storing in their freezer. The story behind the venison was complicated and included a tuna, a kayak and another yacht. I never did quite get it straight, but they were happy to make room for the crayfish they had been catching and it pot-roasted very well.

We left and had a fine sail down to Chalky Inlet and for once, carried our breeze all the way up to our anchorage in Lake Cove and spent several days there waiting for bad weather to pass. Navigator was also there and we both felt that the other boat was more sheltered and heeling less in the storm force gusts that occasionally tumbled down the hillsides. They picked up a huge snag when they came to leave and appreciated Trevor’s assistance from the dinghy.

Time was rushing on and we still had Preservation Inlet to investigate before moving onto Stewart Island. We left soon after Navigator in a flat calm, surrounded by innumerable, vicious sandflies – we had had to use head nets when getting in our anchors. The forecast was for more storms: Navigator – a faster boat than Iron Bark - decided that they could probably make anchorage before the weather deteriorated, but we went to shelter in North Port (45°58.0’S,166°35.0’E). Again we laid to two anchors and waited for the weather. This was on Friday 6 March. We stayed there a full week, while the forecasts varied from a modest 35 knots to 60+. For most of the time we huddled in the lee of a small island as the wind howled down Edwardson Arm, but on Wednesday, we scuttered round to the other side when the wind started coming in from the South. The only consolation was that in the quieter times, Trevor managed to hook some blue cod near the boat passage.

At last the winds died away and we escaped while we could, towards Stewart Island. The New Zealand Pilot says, ‛Foveaux Strait is very exposed to frequent W gales and the whole area S to Campbell Island is recognised as a particularly stormy part of the world’. The last week’s weather seemed to bear this out and so we were in some haste to get on our way. It was by now the middle of March and the equinox was approaching. The days were rapidly getting shorter and the southern sailing season coming to an end. 45° in the S Pacific is the equivalent, in many ways of 55° in the N Atlantic. But once we got outside there was hardly any wind, although there was still an unpleasant leftover swell. We ended up anchoring in the open roadstead of Tewaewae Bay (46°12.3’S, 167°21.7’E), waiting on a breeze. The only consolation of this enforced wait, apart from the welcome sunshine, was a pod of rare Hector’s dolphins, which came and kept us company at anchor, reminding me of the similar behaviour of the ‛Puffing Pigs’ in the Falkland Islands.

At 1930, we got our anchor and set off towards Stewart Island, which had been beckoning us all day. The forecast breeze never materialised and we alternately drifted and motored. I had a peaceful couple of watches but then got up to find us pretty much becalmed in thick fog. A light breeze filled in about 0930, but the tide was running strongly against us and we made little progress. Eventually, we started the motor in disgust and motored to Port
William (46°50.3’S, 167°05.3’E), where the motor, having behaved itself for ages, suddenly decided to overheat once more. We managed to drift the rest of the way up the harbour and anchored in 7 m, the fog disappearing as we came close to the land. We put the dinghy in and rowed ashore to stretch our legs and throughly enjoyed the pretty views, the warm sunshine and – most of all – the absence of sandflies!!!

Next morning we went round to Oban, the ‛capital’ of Stewart Island, where we obtained diesel and paraffin, a few stores and enjoyed an exceptionally fine pint in the little pub. Having exhausted Oban’s possibilities, we had a lovely sail round the headland to Thule Bay (46°54.3’S, 167°07.1’E), a charming anchorage where we enjoyed a gorgeous sunset, and shared a beer or two with an old mate on his yacht, Bilbo Baggins.

With time running short, we didn't linger in Paterson Inlet, although there is plenty of good cruising to be found there, but got down to Port Pegasus at the S end of Stewart Island, while we could. Here we found a wonderful little cruising ground with everything you could wish for. We went into Evening Cove’s E arm (47°12.2’S, 167°37.5’E), very compact, but a particularly beautiful spot with lovely birds, where a foolish young seal came and played with our lines and from where we took a really splendid tramp to Gog and Magog – strangely shaped mountains. The ‛remarkable rock’ known as the Scotsman made a fine landmark along the route. My ankle stood up remarkably well to this and other tramps we

made. Disappointment Cove (47°14.6’S, 167°37.1’E) was anything but and another very pretty spot, as well as being a wonderfully secure anchorage. An interesting little walk took us to a beach on the far side where we had a close encounter with a huge sea lion. From there we went to Waterlily Bay (47°10.4’S, 167°40.3’E),and I am starting to run out of superlatives.

On 24th March, we moved round to ‛The Settlement’ (47°09.4’S, 167°42.1’E) to go for a tramp on Tin Range. This track had been maintained until about 5 years ago and was very easy to follow and just strenuous enough to make a challenge. But the best thing of all was that as we were walking, a couple of

Kiwis crossed the path. Trevor was leading and he stopped so that I could pass him and maybe get a better glimpse of them. As I stood there, one of them came pottering down towards us. We stayed perfectly still and watched in amazement as it came along and pecked me on the boot. I managed to take a couple of photos, but was so excited that my hands were shaking and they’re not very good! It looked up at me and apparently decided that maybe it had made a mistake, because it turned round and legged it back up into the bush. It was a magical experience.

‛The Settlement’ - so called because there was once a tin mine nearby, which led to a Post Office, General Store and Hotel being built there – is only a fair weather anchorage and with yet another gale forecast, we moved round to Ben’s Bay (47°10.9’S, 167°39.8’E), where we were not as comfortable as we had expected from the cruising guide, because of strong gusts finding their way in.

We would have stayed longer, but by now it was 26 March and still a long way back to Nelson. A strong tide spat us out of Port Pegasus and we made our way back up the coast as far as Lord’s River. Here we anchored in The Nook (47°06.6’S, 167°06.7’E) and had some fun and games sharing the hawser to which we had tied our stern line, with a fishing boat that came in later. The forecast was bad, but we were secure and as the next day’s forecast warned of strong N’ly winds for the following 4 days, we left for Paterson Inlet, where there is plenty do even when weather bound. After a good start we had a horrible time: the wind came in with a black squall from the W, blowing F8 and never really let up. We were about 1 mile S of Whero rock, which marks the entrance to Paterson Inlet. It took nearly 2 hours to motor the 3 miles around the corner and clear of Pipi Reef, between Bradshaw Peninsular and Ulva I, at times making less than a knot and having difficulty in keeping the bows up into the wind. Eventually we came to anchor in the SW cove of Little Glory Cove (46°58.3’S, 168°09.4’E), on its NW side. Despite the weed on the bottom, our Spade anchor held immediately.

Between gales, we managed to Iron Bark over to Ulva Island (46°55.8’S, 168°08.2’E) and anchored there to go ashore. This is a special island, predator free and with many rare and endangered birds apparently thriving. I spent quite some time watching a Kaka having a wonderful time ripping bark from a tree, in true parrot fashion.

It was the end of March, but we wished it had been a month earlier – there was still so much to do and see on Stewart Island. We had really enjoyed Fiordland, but agreed that Stewart is the better cruising ground. Quite apart from the fact that there are so many interesting and deserted anchorages, there are the added ingredients of sensible anchoring depths, good holding, good shelter and moderate distances. There is plenty of tramping to be had ashore and a very good chance of encountering Kiwi – Stewart Island is one of their last strongholds, being the one major island that escaped the deliberate introduction of stoats and weasels – and Kaka, which are also relatively abundant. Finally, if one only wanted to visit Stewart Island, one can sail down the E side of South lsland, in the lee of the Westerlies, with several harbours along the way. And last, but by no means least, sandflies are uncommon on Stewart Island.

There was no real question of which route we would take back to Nelson. The autumn gales were coming through with increasing frequency and anyway, it was slightly shorter to go up the E coast. The only drawback would be dealing with the gales, contrary winds and tides of the Cook Strait, but at least there were a number of safe bolt holes in the area.

We had a splendid current and fair winds to take us up to Dunedin, where we spent a few days at the hospitable yacht club, waiting for N’ly winds to change. With a forecast of SW’ly we looked forward to a fast passage up to Akaroa, where Trevor had friends. However, the wind filled in more strongly than we’d anticipated and we were soon reaching along at over 6 knots under staysail alone. We were surrounded by magnificent birds – various mollymawks, lots of Royal albatross, which breed near Dunedin; Cape petrels

and sundry shearwaters. In the small hours of 9 April, we had a serious trauma: the mainsheet chafed through and the boom started thrashing madly. In his tussle to secure it, Trevor repeatedly dislocated his left ring finger. I repeatedly straightened it. It turns out that he ended up splitting the tendon like a buttonhole and sadly, the damage seems permanent, in spite of the best efforts of New Zealand’s excellent health care system. It is an inconvenience rather than a catastrophe, but something he could have lived without. Surprisingly, after the initial event, Trevor suffered very little pain with it and could carry on with the usual sail drill, which was just as well because Iron Bark is too much for me to handle in anything over F4.

We sailed up the Kaikoura coast with the snow-capped mountains gleaming in the moonlight, passed Cape Campbell, and at 1510 on 10 April, we dropped our anchor in Oyster Bay, Port Underwood (41°18.2’S, 174°07.1'E), 349 miles and just over 3 days out from Dunedin.

We rested here for a couple of days and then had a truly unpleasant sail up the Cook Strait. Trevor, for some reason, did not want to go through French Passage, so we ended up beating against a gale for a couple of days to get round the top end of D’Urville Island. We picked up a mooring in Philante Cove (40°48’S,173°52’E), finally back in the welcoming arms of the Nelson Bays. Summer still lingered and as we anchored once again off Adele Island, friends greeted us and invited us over. It was only when they congratulated us that we realised that we had – somewhat inadvertently – circumnavigated South Island.

Around Australia

2009-07-14T16:14:00.000-07:00

By the time Trevor had dismantled, repainted and re-mantled the forepeak and saloon, he was understandably ready for a break. ‛I think we should go and drive around Australia before it gets too hot,’ he suggested. What a splendid idea! We'd been planning to do this for years. I’d been saving up since Panama – and had started to doubt it would ever happen. Australia is an enormous country and although much of its coastline is worth visiting, the real Australia is the interior. Sure, most of its cities are along its shores, but they are not what Oz is about. Our preparations didn’t take very long. We bought a cheap four-person tent, some interlocking, closed-cell foam mats to use as a ‛footprint’, several large plastic boxes for clothes, food and cooking equipment, dug out our propane cooker we use when tramping, sleeping bags, etc and loaded up the car. We went by way of Beelbi Creek, where Brendan and Caroline live, to pick up some things we had temporarily stowed there and Caroline persuaded me to leave behind our sleeping mats in favour of real Oz swags. One of these belonged to Trevor, anyway, and he looked at it with such nostalgic affection, that I felt that I’d better take her advice and do the job properly. For those who have never come across a real swag, they are an arrangement that make a lot of sense in that dry country. Their basis is a piece of proofed canvas a little over twice the width of a sleeping bag. On the bottom are sewn a couple of pockets at each end and these hold the closed-cell foam mattress in place. You can then tuck a couple of sheets and a blanket or two round the mattress – or put a sleeping bag on it – and put your pillow in place. Around the bottom and up one side of the mattress is sewn a zip and this fastens the whole thing up into a sort of super sleeping bag, but with an extension on top, which can be put over your head to keep off the dew or – on rare occasions – the rain. In the morning, you climb out, zip up the whole thing, roll it up and secure it with straps sewn onto the outside. The canvas keeps it clean, you can sit on it, but when you are ready turn in, you simply undo the straps and instantly you have your bed, ready to use. In dry conditions this effectively obviates the need for a tent, but we usually used at least the ‛inside’ of ours, because the floor enabled us to put our clothes down without their getting dusty and kept out unwanted visitors such as snakes. The screen kept out biting insects, of which Australia has a large and varied population. The swag also provides a comfortable seat on which to sit while cooking and eating. Caroline – as usual – had given sound advice.

Travelling around Oz in GEG was often like cruising in Iron Bark. GEG was not into speed, but would doggedly continue when many a more flash and expensive vehicle would have given up the ghost. She had no luxuries, but was essentially comfortable. She was strongly built and simple (apart from her electronic fuel ignition, about which more later). She was neither new nor fashionable, and throughout the whole 20,000 km trip, we would meet people who said, ‛You’re surely not driving around Australia in that?’. (We didn't have extra-wheels, or extra-wide tyres. Nor did we have a snorkel, roof rack or any other of the accoutrements that real four-wheel drive vehicles had. Even the spotlights fell off after the first bit of real dirt road!) However, after she had towed her third vehicle in half an hour, out of a veritable sandpit, one of the rescuees stated, ‛Now that’s a real car,’

and indeed, she seemed to required little more than petrol and the occasional top-up of oil and water. Cheap and reliable – like the ideal cruising boat. ‛Driving off the bitumen’ also resembles sea cruising. You give passing vehicles a friendly wave. You start fretting about where to spend the night a couple of hours before sundown and occasionally end up in less than ideal surroundings – gravel pits in this way of life –

rolly anchorages in the other. You try to avoid expensive marinas, a.k.a caravan parks, and seek out a free and secluded berth at night. Time was, when cruising in Scotland, that you could go into an hotel and request a shower: while land cruising in Oz, we did this at roadhouses, and often the hot shower was free or paid for by a ‛gold coin’ donation ($1 or $2) to the Flying Doctor. Believe me – hot and dusty needs a good shower as much as cold and salty. When roadhouses didn't oblige - or after a particularly dusty day, we did as we do aboard and used a ‛Sunshower’ to sluice ourselves off.

And like real cruising, we had to provision for several days without refrigeration,

hunt out laundrettes, watch our water consumption and look out for weather – some of the dirt roads that we travelled would be completely impassable after only a few mm of rain.

Of course, there were a lot of differences, too. It's an incredibly expensive way to travel – we spent more on fuel in 8 weeks than we would spend in 8 years, sailing, although, to be fair, we were travelling between the end of June and the end of September 2008, when the cost of petrol was at and all time high! We covered vast distances at great speed, so that while we saw a lot of the country, it was more like a series of snapshots than a detailed appreciation. On the other hand, if we felt tired of driving, we could stop – we didn’t have to wait until we found a safe haven to drop the hook. Overall, it was a wonderful thing to do once, but unlike cruising under sail, there was not much of a sense of achievement. It was partly for this reason, that driving on the dirt roads is so satisfying – at least there is some challenge to it. The most mundane day sail is positively exacting compared with driving along a well-made, hard-top road – especially in Oz where there is so little traffic. We left on 22nd June and set of NW into the heart of Queensland. Away from the coastline and along the Divide, we encountered well-wooded country and rolling scenery, but soon we were into a much flatter landscape. Horizons are often a long way off in Oz; roads run on to vanishing point,

and I found it difficult to believe that what looked like desert to me, was in fact cattle country – as Trevor described it: ‛a rabbit would take a cut lunch to cross one of these paddocks’.

The real desert was covered in vegetation – scrub that can tolerate minuscule rainfall and fierce, unremitting sunshine.

It was also difficult to come to terms with the sheer size of the place – after driving for a week, averaging about 420 km a day, we were still in Queensland! In the farming areas, the roads went through small towns – often little more than what would be regarded as a hamlet in England – that served a community that covered many square kilometres. We bought Trevor a new hat in Barcaldine. In sunny weather – the norm in this country – he nearly always wears a broad-brimmed hat, and as an Aussie he is a connoisseur. I was told that it was insufficient merely to have a broad brim, the hat must not only be made of felt, but the felt must be produced from rabbit fur. At one time there were many manufacturers of such hats, but now it was difficult to find one in the lower price range. His old hat had unaccountably shrunk and become uncomfortable, so eventually Trevor bit the bullet and bought himself a very flash hat made by Akubra. This one had a final flourish – a small black opal set into the hat band. Trevor looked very handsome in it, but was initially embarrassed to wear it. But it soon became impregnated with red dust and began to look lived in!

These small towns often had English names that conjured up in my mind a completely different image,such as Ilfracombe – a quaint little place,whose main claim to fame was ‛a mile of old vehicles’, which lined its only street. A far cry from the seaside town of stone buildings in faraway Devon.

The drive across the central deserts along deserted and dusty roads was incredible. We saw perhaps a dozen vehicles in a day. Outside Boulia, a crude sign announced ‛Next Fuel 460 kms’.

In the ‛dusty Diamantina’, ’roos bounded along beside us, then, with suicidal tendencies suddenly crossed the road.

Huge road trains swamped us in clouds of dust.

For 8,000 kms there were empty creek beds and no running water. Often the bush was burning, which I found frightening and disturbing, in spite of rationalising the necessity for such an event, in this particular environment. The Australian vegetation has evolved in such a way that regular burnings are a necessity: a number of plant seeds will not germinate until they have been through a fire, and the fires clear out dead trees and plants, which enables new growth. But my imagination was tortured by the thought of the slow-moving animals entrapped in the flames, and the sight of the scorched land was distressing to a mind that associates greenness with health.

For three days we drove along the Donahue-Plenty Highway – the main road from central Queensland to Alice Springs. In many places we had to dodge
from one side to the other to avoid potholes, frequently filled with ‛bull dust’,a trap for the unwary, because the holes could be half a metre deep, but the soft dust made them appear innocently smooth. It was a strange experience to be barrelling along on the wrong side of the road for several km at a time, seeking out the better going.

Alice was a sad town, filled with unhappy-looking, Aborigines,too many of whom were waiting for the grog shops to open. I saw one elderly man, very distressed about the loss of his wallet, being treated with rudeness and contempt in the shops that he went into, enquiring if anyone had found it. After he left one establishment, I heard a woman remark, ‛It’s no use him asking us. You can be sure one of his friends stole it.’ He was a quiet and dignified man. I wondered how she could be so certain.

Alice has a horrifyingly high rate of crime and is on the ‛not recommended’ list for tourists in many countries. That the Aboriginal people are in a sorry state would be a masterpiece of understatement, but no-one seems to know how to give them back their sense of purpose. You can hardly blame them for preferring to eat out of tins rather than to spend days searching for food that is barely sufficient to keep body and soul together, but like most people, they need some purpose in life. There is a confusing double-think at all levels: ‛No-one is asking them to become black white fellas’ is something I heard frequently, and yet the same people would say, ‛We need more and better jobs for Aboriginal people.’ And yet surely working at a job from 9 to 5, five days a week is exactly what white fellas do and not at all what black fellas did. It’s not lack of money, that’s the problem, it’s that life has no meaning for many of them. And problems of the spirit take a lot more fixing than problems of the bank balance.

White Australians, with their belief in ‛ a fair go’ are confused and embarrassed by the situation, but I also found a surprising proportion very racist. I can understand that the word ‛Aboriginal’ is a mouthful and I enjoy the Aussie way of shortening words for convenience, but even so, I could never hear people say ‛Abo’,without wincing. No doubt one could say ‛nigger’ without meaning to be pejorative, but it’s hardly respectful.

There are two reasons for going to Alice: it is the centre of this vast country, and it’s the gateway to the famous Ayers Rock, or Uluru as it is now more commonly known. Rising out of apparently limitless spinifex plains, it is a startling sight – a huge, red monolith in the middle of nowhere.

Trevor tells me that its sacredness to the Aborigines is somewhat moot, because the people who originally lived round here moved on or died out many years ago. However, anyone can see why they might take offence at the
constant stream of tourists, hauling their unfit and overweight bodies up the side of Uluru, by a rope, held in place with large stanchions hammered into the rock itself. It was not a pretty sight and we didn’t join in, but contented ourselves with viewing it from the roadside and driving on. It dominated the landscape for several hours until the scrub blocked it from sight.

One of the things that I had not expected in Australia, was the vast number of trees that cover so much of the country. While there were many scrubby little bushes growing no more than waist high, much of the landscape was covered in trees that were far too tall to see over, and in many places positively grand in their appearance.

After Uluru, we were on the Central Highway, which in the Northern Territory was little more than a rough track. While no part of it actually required us to use four-wheel drive, a less robust vehicle would have struggled to survive its ruts and corrugation. As we crossed the Great Victoria Desert to the gold fields of Western Australia, the road improved dramatically and we stopped to look at the litter of abandoned mine workings – old and new – that dotted the country,


































and on to Kalgoorlie, with its gaudy, ostentatious,19th century pubs.

We spent a week in Perth with Trevor's family and then headed up north
through the Pilbara and Kimberley. WA is even bigger than Queensland
– and this northern part is remote and untouched. Red rock and spinifex,
aboriginal rock art,

boab trees, wonderful birds and, in the Kimberley, masses of running water – a delight

after all the arid country we had traversed. Although it was mid winter, the sun was hot enough that it was glorious to be able to swim - or even to wash our hands,

crocodiles permitting. Saltwater crocodiles are fearsome beasts and can travel a long way up the rivers. Even their small freshwater cousins grow to 2 metres.

We rarely saw the sea in the Kimberley and Top End, because big tides and mangroves keep the road well inland.

We travelled along the Gibb River Road, notorious for the number of punctures it causes. GEG didn't survive unscathed, but we drove this road with old tyres and the one that shredded itself was so worn, it was probably illegal.

A few days later GEG's electronic fuel ignition ceased functioning. After 3 days of fiddling, Trevor got it going long enough for us to limp back to the bitumen. We needed a tow truck to take us the 100 km to Katherine, the nearest town, where he spent 4 days sorting out the problem with help from experts mechanical and electrical, and a computer program. At the end of the process, poorer, wiser and with bloody knuckles, Trevor said that he knew what the F in EFI stood for! As always: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

There had been plenty of rain in this area, and our days were enlivened by creek crossings, some deep enough to lap over the door sills.

Now we needed our 4WD and high ground clearance. The Kimberley was amazing: rushing water and abundant life contrasting with arid hillsides. To be there in the Wet when the summer rains cut off much of this country for weeks, must be an unforgettable experience.

On across the north of the country almost to Darwin, before turning south, back into Queensland. The lovely wetlands and tumbling rivers were left behind and water was again a rare commodity. We stopped by a grateful oasis on the Diamantina, alive with parrots, pelicans and spoonbills. This was the billabong

of Waltzing Matilda and we camped 'under the shade of a coolabar tree'. A few thousand more kilometres, and we were back to Iron Bark. Our sturdy little home seemed very luxurious after 2 months living in a tent and cooking on wood

fires. But now we need to get on with the chipping and painting.

Tasmania to Queensland

2009-04-02T17:53:00.000-07:00

From Tasmania to Queensland

We left Port Arthur on Friday, 4th April – Trevor scoffs at superstitions such as not leaving on a Friday. A pity, really – I rather like these old traditions. The end of Tasman I was an impressive sight as we sailed past.

There was some debate about our route: Trevor was feeling jangled by the gale and wanted to wind off latitude, while I, ever the optimist, was convinced that the change from summer to winter would be gradual and was concerned about getting stuck in high pressure north of Tasmania. As usual, Trevor won the argument and we went for latitude, but still with quite an easterly component because we were hoping to visit Lord Howe I. That evening, we had a wonderful display of Aurora Australis – just to make us wonder if we really should be heading towards the Tropics. We were soon close hauled and this continued for day after day as the anticipated westerly wind failed to materialise and we started to feel the effect of the SE Australian current. It was interesting to watch our progress through the water as against that shown on the GPS screen. While the compass pointed resolutely NE, our course made good varied from due E to due W! On one occasion we hove to for repairs and although we were apparently drifting at about 110° at a knot or so, the reality was that we were being set 170° at about 3 ½ knots. The net effect was to keep us close-hauled and making little progress.

On the morning of 8 April, we got into a favourable eddy: this kicked up a nasty sea, but at least we started reeling off some miles in the right direction. We were now somewhat harassed by discovering a leak – not what you either want or expect in a steel boat. At first the windows were blamed, but later Trevor traced it to corrosion around the exhaust pipe. During a calm spell, we hove to on the port tack and he hung precariously over the side with a tube of silicon rubber and managed an adequate temporary repair. Our favourable eddy died away and we were back to plodding away against wind and current.

By day 6, we were bored with our lack of progress and as we’d never sailed into Sydney, decided this might be just as interesting in its own way as visiting Lord Howe I. and a lot easier; so we altered course accordingly. The following night we picked up the loom of the city lights – over 100 miles away. The wind headed us again and the morning found us close-hauled once more and not laying our course. This was getting to be something of a habit! A series of afternoon thunderstorms affected the wind in our favour and the buildings on the cliff tops grew noticeably larger. However, as we sailed through the heads, just before dark, a tremendous thunderstorm came sweeping down on us with torrential rain. This promptly killed the wind and blotted out all the landmarks and most of the lights. We started the engine and Trevor steered into the rapidly deepening gloom, while I dodged from chart table to hatch, identifying lights as they appeared, for the impatient helmsman, and trying not to drip too much on our cruising guide.

Finally, we worked our way into an anchorage in Rose Bay as the rain eased off. The hook went down at 1950 – 9½ days and 773 miles after leaving Port Arthur, although Trevor reckoned we probably sailed at least 300 more through the water. We were heartily tired of the contrary winds and currents and joined the ranks of those who rate sailing in the Tasman Sea as one of life’s less enjoyable experiences. A couple of hot whiskies, some cheese and salami and a pile of pasta and pesto, washed down with plenty of good, cheap Aussie wine, restored our tempers.

In the morning, we took stock of our surroundings. We could see the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which Trevor informs me is nicknamed ‛The Coat hanger’ a few miles in the distance and the shore line was covered in large, and undoubtedly very expensive, houses. Unfortunately, with one or two exceptions in the style of an Italian palazzo, they were hideous, vulgar, ostentatious and, all too often, all three of the above. With so much wealth and with a new country untrammelled by historical precedent, it seems a great pity that Oz architects have failed to rise to the challenge of providing houses that reflect their country. Indeed, the older, vernacular architecture, is the stuff worth looking at: many houses built by ordinary people at the turn of the last century, are attractive and appropriate to the landscape. It is even possible to live in them without the need for air-conditioning – which can’t be said for most of the contemporary designs!

Rose Bay is reputedly one of the more expensive suburbs in Sydney, and certainly the prices in the shops were sky high. Apples and bananas were nearly $13 a kilo and one shoe shop had its sale prices at over $250! We found the streets noisy and full of traffic that had no time to let pedestrians cross in front of it. The bay was busy and noisy with ferry traffic and light seaplanes,

so the next day we moved to a more attractive and interesting anchorage. The sail was filled with interest: it was easy to see the appeal of the harbour area as a home. Islands and inlets abound and there are miles and miles of waterfront, some covered in luxurious houses, some in factories modern and decrepit, some in native bush. With low hills around many parts, it can’t be difficult to find a home with a view of the water. Sydney is truly centred around its harbour and ferries provide a huge amount of public transport. It makes for an attractively lively scene, with an endlessly fascinating array of craft: bustling passenger ferries, tugs, cruise liners, high speed ferries, launches and yachts sailing in all directions at every speed. We felt like country bumpkins in the city, and hugged the coastline, trying to keep out of everybody’s way. It was strange to be sailing with yachts that simply ignored us – just another east-coast Aussie boat among thousands. Iron Bark had come home. Tasmania may officially be part of Oz, but to me, Sydney felt like a very different and new country.

Under an overcast sky, I found the Opera House a disappointment, drab grey instead of the

gleaming white of my imagination, but we anchored right next to it between the Botanic Gardens – noisy with cockatoos – and the CBD with its myriad skyscrapers. The shoreline was walled in stone with nowhere to land a dinghy, but it was a wonderful place to sit and watch as continuous stream of joggers passed, isolated from everyone else with their headphones and solipsism.

The next day we sailed under the magnificent bridge to a small bay called Balls Head Bay, where we could anchor within an easy walk of a station. As we went ashore, we met a couple who recognised Iron Bark as a Wylo II design. It turned out that Ian and Robin knew Nick Skeates (who designed and built the original boat) very well, from when they all lived in New Zealand. They, too, were planning to go into the city for the day, so we went up to the station together, bought tickets and got on board the train. This took us over the bridge, with a splendid view of the shipping below and then into a very modern station, which our new friends told us was the best situated for visiting the waterfront. It was the first time that I had been in a city in years and it was rather overwhelming. We made our way to the waterfront area, which, like in so many cities has been transformed into a recreational area. Everything seemed very expensive and the city appeared to be awash in money and leisure – certainly there was no shortage of people enjoying the facilities and a large number of the voices we heard were Australian. Our day turned into something of a busman's holiday, because the four of us spent hours on the barque James Craig, shown over by David, one of her crew, who had joined the project in its early days and was still filled with enthusiasm for the lovely old ship – mentioned in one of Alan Villiers’ books. She had ended her working life on a beach in Tasmania – oddly enough in an anchorage we had visited only a few weeks previously – in the 20’s. A devoted party of people managed to get her afloat and to Sydney, where she languished for many years while they collected the money necessary to rebuild her. David told us that an astonishing amount of her plating, frames and deck beams were original, pointing them out to us when we went below. She had however, been completely ‛refastened’ with hot rivets, each one put in by hand using volunteer labour. A tremendous job. She is now a fully-functional sailing vessel, with the original rig, but 2 large engines. Because they want to keep her looking more or less as she did in her working years, she cannot be permitted to sail very far offshore because of the vast, open hold not being subdivided with watertight bulkheads. OK for cargo, but not for paying passengers (I suspect that many other things would be needed, too), so she has never been able to go back to Tasmania. However, she travels up and down the coast so many Australians have been able to get a taste of those more humble working ships that we hear so little about, unlike the tea clippers or warships. I'm not generally very interested in larger vessels, relating much more to fishing craft and pilot cutter type boats, but I found James Craig absolutely fascinating. A few days later, I re-read one of Villiers’ books and it all meant so much more after having been on this wonderfully restored barque.

There wasn't much time left to look round much more of Sydney, so we bid good-bye to Ian and Robin (whom, unfortunately, we never saw again, because I stupidly forgot to get their telephone number), and I dragged a reluctant Trevor up some of the streets to do some window shopping. We spent a fascinating half hour in an opal dealer’s shop. I wanted to look at some of these wonderful gems unset and although the young man who dealt with us realised straight away that we were not in the market to buy, he very kindly got out several different trays and explained the good and bad points of the stones, told us a bit about how they were mined and explained what a jeweller would look for when selecting a stone for a particular piece of jewellery. Like all true enthusiasts, he was very interesting and I learnt a lot. The day had been both exciting and exhausting and as we sat in our double-decker(!) train passing back over the Harbour Bridge, I was rather glad that I didn't have to do this every day.

Hicks that we are, we soon tired of Sydney and the impossibility of buying sensibly-priced produce, so decided to press on north, back out into the Tasman. Again we had contrary winds and current. Not enough that you could say we battled against them, but enough to

make progress tedious. Then, on 26th April we sailed into the Coral Sea. It greeted us with a boisterous WSW wind, but this sent us bowling on our way with surprisingly little sea. The breeze gradually moderated and the barometer started to climb. Although the wind and current hadn’t quite finished with us, the weather was definitely improving, instead of mollymawks skimming over the wave tops we saw flying fish and the sky was patterned with puffy little Trade-wind clouds. We debated sailing into the south entrance to Wide Bay, but there was a more attractive alternative, strongly endorsed by these new, Trade-wind conditions. We could go to Lady Musgrave Island – a platonic coral atoll, just off the coast – and watch boobies and noddies while enjoying blue sea, warm sunshine and the sense of isolation that such anchorages bestow. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.

Winter days are short, even this close to the Tropics, and as so often happens, we had to heave to until daylight made it safe to enter the lagoon. Our (old) chart showed that the nearby Lady Elliott had a light and its characteristics were confirmed by one of the more astonishing features on our hand-held Garmin 76 GPS (given to me by my old friend Aubs, back in 2001). We were surprised to find that even little Lady Musgrave now has a light – the Australians do not appear to believe that the advent of GPS is an excuse to eliminate navigation aids: on the contrary, they are strewn around with an almost Breton generosity.

The night was squally, as was dawn. We waited for the light to improve and then made sail, perhaps a little over-cautiously, seeing as the the pass is clearly marked. However, it would have been embarrassing to put Iron Bark on a reef just as she was so nearly ‛home’ The wind was blowing straight down the pass into the lagoon and with a vigorous spring ebb against us, our 16 hp engine had its work cut out. Another yacht came steaming up behind us, but slowed down and waited outside the pass when they realised how we were struggling. After we’d anchored and made sure that we were staying put, we were surprised to see that it was someone we knew from Survarov. Later we got together and found that Pat and Marg had spent most of the time since we’d last seen them in Australia. Aqua Magic had been given a refit and was looking very spruce. They had travelled inland and had family to visit them and both looked fit and rested. Now they were looking forward to their next adventure – heading off into the Indian Ocean. It was fun to have a few glasses together and catch up on all the goss of mutual sailing acquaintance.

Lady Musgrave is particularly beautiful ashore, with splendid trees housing hundreds of

Nesting noddies,

and myriad flightless rails pottering around rooting in the undergrowth.

Day trippers come across from the mainland, but the island is a sanctuary and the birds are unafraid. At certain times of the year, turtles haul themselves out to lay their eggs. It’s a little piece of paradise – an outlier of the Barrier Reef proper and a taste of things to come, for those continuing north.

Iron Bark was built in the town of Maryborough in Queensland, and we intended to take her back there for a good refit. There was some corrosion along the stringers, which were inadequately sand-blasted when the hull was still upside down. Three winters frozen in resulted in a lot of water resting on the stringers, causing them to rust. The corrosion had to be dealt with, as did some rust on deck. The yellow cabin sides were looking pretty weary and there were plenty of other jobs, which would be done depending on how energetic we were feeling and for how long we could haul out. The slipway we planned to use can only be accessed on a spring tide and what with one thing and another, the earliest we could hope to haul was the beginning of July. In the meantime, we anchored in the mouth of the Burrum River, at Burrum Heads, whose main claim to fame is that it’s a very popular place for ‛grey nomads’ to spend the winter in their caravans. There is apparently no shelter between the anchorage and Fraser Island (of dingo fame), some 25 miles away, but in fact extensive sandbanks reveal themselves by half tide and we enjoyed superb protection, in spite of there being less than 2 metres range.

The winter weather was perfect, with sunny days and temperatures in the 20s and cool nights. The trees were noisy with rainbow lorikeets and kookaburras woke us in the morning as daylight crept in. It was a good place to get on with those jobs that could be done afloat and for me to meet Trevor’s friends and get to know his part of Australia. Brendan and Caroline O’Brien, whom Trevor has known for about 30 years, live nearby – which, indeed, is the main reason we chose to go to Burrum Heads in the first place – and they made me very welcome. We had free run of their lovely home, with a washing machine and hot showers available whenever we wanted one, true luxuries for those who live aboard small boats

However, living in rural Australia has one severe drawback – a vehicle of some sort is an absolute necessity – so obtaining one was our first priority. With the thought of doing some travelling around the country, we decided to buy a four-wheel drive, with plenty of ground clearance and room to carry a tent, food, cooking equipment, bedding, etc. While we had been in Nelson, some friends had taken us for a day tramp in their Isuzu Bighorn and we had been impressed by the vehicle. So when we saw the Australian equivalent (supposedly made by Holden and called a Jackaroo) we were very interested. It was being sold by a second-hand car dealer, who had had it for some time. Too old and too small to have any cachet, it would suit us very well, although I had doubts about a 2.6 litre engine. I was assured that by Australian standards, this is a fairly small one! The car seemed to have been well maintained and after some negotiation we bought it for AU$4,000. While we went raiding the local cash machines, the paperwork was sorted and in a surprisingly short time I was driving back to Burrum Heads. We called the vehicle GEG from its registration plate, as ‛car’ seemed an inappropriate word and the really vehicle didn’t seem flash enough to qualify as an SUV!

Then Trevor got down to work. Steel needs protection and for a good paint job, Preparation Is All. Ten years ago, The Man hired to sandblast the hull, prior to priming, was – as the Aussies say – a piker. The hull was sandblasted while still upside down and the stringers near the ground were awkward for him to reach, so he didn’t bother to do a proper job. This left us with the abovementioned corrosion problem. Steel craft are a boat-within-a-boat, so the interior joinery has to be removed and the corroded areas chipped and painted: a thankless and tedious task.

By the time Trevor had dismantled, repainted and re-mantled the forepeak and saloon, he was understandably ready for a break.

2008-12-06T21:20:00.000-08:00

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