In the morning, we set out from camp for a walking safari, which was a lovely hike across golden bushland, except for the moment when we were charged by a bull elephant. It was the one time a sudden urgency possessed Alec, although he still addressed us in his usual short sentence structure.
“Elephant! Run!” was his only command.
We did run and the elephant stopped short, happy to have us off his section of the savannah.
Bad hippos and territorial elephants aside, our road trip through southern Africa was a terrific experience. But after three weeks of land travel, it was time to get back to our element. The sea was calling.
Although we’d made it safely to Africa, the Indian Ocean was not yet behind us. We wouldn’t leave it in our wake until we rounded the Cape of Good Hope. And the journey around the cape, with its notoriously windy conditions, was no small undertaking.
We were up against the same weather challenges. In southern African waters, the biggest weather concerns for sailors are the low-pressure cells that move from west to east across the southern Atlantic and affect the southwestern area of the cape, causing strong winds and heavy seas. The depressions march through at a rate that makes rounding the cape in one long passage virtually impossible. To add to the challenge, there are relatively few, relatively widely spaced ports of call.
We took the first step and made the 90 NM trip from Richards Bay to Durban without trouble, but there was still nearly 900 NM to Cape Town. We waited in Durban for eight days, sitting out a forty-knot blow, before venturing out on the next round of good weather.
To aid our weather information, and as an added safety measure, we’d joined the Peri Peri Maritime HAM radio network, masterfully controlled by Roy, a resident of Durban. Radio check-ins with Roy became a highlight of our dash around the Cape. I called in twice daily to give Roy our position and get an update on when the next cold front was due to arrive. After I introduced myself as Jennifer, Roy, like many South Africans (and Brits and Aussies), immediately began calling me Jenny, a nickname that has always made me cringe. There are only two people who have ever gotten away with repeatedly calling me Jenny, my father-in-law and Roy.
Departing Durban with a solid northeast wind filling in behind us and the strong southwesterly-flowing Agulhas current beneath us, Green Ghost flew south for the cape. We recorded our fastest time ever, sailing 224 NM in a twenty-four-hour period, nearly double the mileage of a typical day. At that speed, we made East London Harbour in good time and Roy waved us on.
“You’ll make Port Elizabeth at this rate,” he advised on the afternoon schedule.
Another 135 NM to the safety of Port Elizabeth, and the weather held. Another 200 NM to Mossel Bay, and still the weather held.
We’d been at sea for a couple of days. The sailing was good but demanding in the cold. We wore pants and socks and fleece jackets to keep us warm on the night shifts and slept poorly, chilly in our bunks. We were reminded of our sailing roots back in Vancouver – seals in the tea-green water, mountains on the shore, and cold feet. As we passed each port in favourable conditions, Nik began to lament.
“We’re missing opportunities for a good rest at anchor.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “We’re so lucky to be making it this far. They say if you can make Mossel Bay, you’re in a good position to wait for weather to round Cape Point. We might do this thing in two hops.”
“But have you seen this?” Nik held out a picture of Knysna, an idyllic brochure photo of a serene blue-green harbour on South Africa’s southern coast. “It looks so beautiful. We’re going to miss all these places,” he grumbled.
Later, I checked in with Roy.
“Peri Peri Net, this is the sailing vessel Green Ghost.”
“Good morning, Jenny, good morning, Jenny. Jenny on Green Ghost, go ahead with your position, go ahead with your position.” Roy had a habit of saying everything twice.
I gave him our position and asked, “We’ve got to make a decision here, Roy. We’re just off Mossel Bay, 220 NM to go to Simon’s Town. How does the weather look? Have we got another forty-eight hours before the front?”
“Keep going, Jenny, keep going, Jenny, keep going, keep going!” he yelled into his mic. “You’ve got the weather window of the decade, the weather’s going to hold for you, it’s going to hold for you, you’ll go all the way to Cape Town on this, you’ll go all the way to Cape Town!”
I hung up the mic, looked at Nik, and made my announcement.
“If you want to see Knysna, we can rent a car. This boat’s going to Cape Town.”
“Hard-ass,” he said, but he couldn’t argue with me – we were going to make it from Durban to Cape Town in a fast five and a half days. Like Roy said, it was the weather window of the decade.
Rounding the most southerly point of Africa, Cape Agulhas, and the sight of the more famous Cape of Good Hope, was a thrill for me. I recalled the stories of Bartolomeu Dias and his search for a trade route to India. When I sat in my grade school social studies classes, I never imagined that one day I’d be here at the cape on my own boat. It was the only one of the five great capes we’d round on our trip. It wasn’t just a point of land, it was a magnificent rite of passage, a seafarer’s coming of age. For us, it was the end of the long haul across the Indian Ocean and the threshold of the Atlantic, our home stretch.
“You’ve got to come up here and look at this!” I yelled down to Nik.
“I’m sleeping,” he replied.
“But we’re passing the cape. It’s amazing!”
“I’m sure it’s very nice,” he said, turning over in his bunk.
I was in awe of the place. Nik, not so much. He napped on his off shift as we passed the famous landmark. Me? I clipped on, stepped out on deck, and, with the cape as my backdrop, took selfies like mad.
Figure 4. Atlantic Ocean Route Map
CHAPTER 26
St. Helena
(February – March 2014)
It was hard to imagine that we’d never wanted to sail to Africa. The pirate activity in the Gulf of Aden had prevented us from sailing from Asia to the Med and forced our cruising route south. Africa, as it turned out, was nothing short of magic.
Africa had gravity. A coastline both dangerous and thrilling, a countryside exhilarating and enchanting, wildlife like nothing we’d ever seen before, and peoples with an origin so ancient, I felt a profound sense that I’d stood at creation’s ground zero. In Africa, I had warmed my soul at the hearth of humanity.
We set out to cross the Atlantic with our senses filled by Africa. Since arriving in Richards Bay four months earlier, we’d sailed for only one week. We were rusty, but our confidence upon departure was high. With no hurricane season in the South Atlantic (only one has ever been recorded in history), there was no angst over leaving too late or too early. Besides, we finally had seasickness licked, so the Atlantic didn’t threaten Nik the way previous oceans had. The Atlantic was a kinder ocean. With its consistent trade winds and fewer squalls, we were certain it would be a shorter, more enjoyable passage.
We were excited at the prospect of heading home. Being in the northern hemisphere would mean that our cruising season would be in Canada’s winter months and our off-season would be in Canada’s summer. We imagined all kinds of possibilities for home-based off-season fun.
So we allowed ourselves to believe that the Atlantic was the small one, the easy one. We didn’t consider the fact that it was also likely to be the most tiring. There were so few places to stop. Unlike the Pacific with its many island groups, or the Indian where we rested for a nearly a month in each of the well-populated islands we visited, our route across the Atlantic offered only three remote stops: St. Helena, Ascension Island, and Fernando de Noronha. We planned a five-day rest at each one.
On an excellent weather forecast that promised southeasterly winds for a straight week, we sailed out of Cape Town on a Wednesday morning in late February 2014. Dolphins saw us off and seals and penguins wave
d goodbyes as the beautiful backdrop of Table Mountain disappeared in our wake. With 1,750 NM to go to St. Helena, we settled in to enjoy the ride, expecting a two-week trip.
One day into the passage we downloaded weather files and saw that the weather forecast had changed dramatically. Rather than the promised southeasterly winds, we were to expect a bout of northwesterlies, the very direction we were trying to go.
Sunny skies became overcast and by late afternoon on day three we were motoring into light adverse winds. By nightfall, we were beating into it, heeled over, galloping over the oncoming waves. In the increasingly uncomfortable conditions, we got down to basics: sleeping (not well), eating (not much), and trying not to get flung off the toilet seat at the wrong moment (not easy).
Our four-hour watches had become habitual. I always took the midnight to four a.m. shift which probably sounds like the short straw, but it had its upside. By doing the graveyard shift, the other two of my three watches were in full daylight. This made sense because I did most of the food preparation at sea. On the eight a.m. to noon watch I would ready food for Nik when he came on at lunch. On the four to eight p.m. watch I would prepare dinner for both of us. I got the sunsets, Nik got the sunrises. We were used to it, but it was still tiring. Day by day, watch after watch, the bags under my eyes grew into a complete set of luggage.
The first half of the trip had been dominated by the weather patterns that affect the Cape area, which meant either too much wind or none at all. The adverse conditions abated by day five when we lost the wind altogether and then at the start of the second week, we found it again. Finally, back in the trade winds – consistent, moderate breezes from the south-southeast – we could sail directly downwind, with the sails set wing-on-wing, straight down the course line to St. Helena.
We’d seen few other vessels on the journey, so when a twenty-eight-metre fishing vessel crossed our bow, we were keen for a chat. Nik picked up the radio mic.
“Fishing vessel, fishing vessel, this is the sailing vessel Green Ghost, Green Ghost. Can you tell me if you are towing nets? Over.”
“No Eeenglish, Español, Español,” came the reply.
“Yo hablo Español,” Nik replied boldly.
I looked at him in surprise. He didn’t speak Spanish.
A torrent of Spanish came back at us and went on for a couple of minutes.
“That’ll teach you, Mr. Yo Hablo Español,” I said, laughing.
“Which one of my many expressions do you think would be an appropriate response?” Nik said.
“Hmm. ’Dos cervezas, por favor’ ought to do it,” I said, teasing him about his proficiency at ordering “Two beers, please.”
When the Spanish-speaking captain finally finished, Nik fessed up.
“Um, sorry, no comprendo.” Then he asked simply, “We go okay?”
“Okay. Si. Go okay,” came the reply. We could hear a chuckle in the responding voice and we carried on to St. Helena.
We’d been sailing under a dull grey canopy for more than a week. The overcast skies frequently showered us with smatterings of rain. The disappearance of both the sun and the moon was depressing and disorienting. With no golden orb arcing through the sky and no moon through the night, we had no astronomical touchstones to remind us that we were still on planet Earth.
On our eleventh day at sea, I caught a glimpse of the setting sun in a gap of clear sky at the horizon. It was a relief to know that the fiery yellow ball was still up there, that we hadn’t made a wrong turn and ended up on planet Water, where one might sail forever without ever finding a shore.
We sailed swiftly in superb conditions for the last stretch. Under sunny skies, in pleasant trade winds, we sighted sea birds and scattered flights of flying fish as we made the final miles north and west.
St. Helena was a fourteen-million-year-old lump of eroded volcanic rock in a remote part of the Atlantic. I imagine it looked godforsaken to Napoleon, when he was exiled here in 1815, but to us, after two weeks at sea, it was a beautiful sight.
The island slopes off steeply in all directions, providing no natural harbours. There was only one reasonable anchorage off the capital, Jamestown, on the leeward side of the island. Deep and plagued by strong gusts that came barrelling down the northwestern slope across the anchorage, it wasn’t ideal. Fortunately, the St. Helena government had installed sturdy moorings for visiting yachts which could be used at a charge of one GBP (British pound sterling) per day – a great bargain for the security they provided. We took one and settled in among the half-dozen other cruising boats already in the harbour.
There was a bit of a knack to getting safely on land. Despite being on the leeward side of the island, there was a notable swell at the dinghy dock. To assist those disembarking at the cement wharf, a crosspiece had been erected between two vertical pilings. From the crosspiece hung a rope three inches in diameter. The idea was to stand up in your bobbing landing-craft, grab onto the moveable rope, and swing yourself to the safety of the wharf. It involved a bit of coordination and there were some wet feet for those who missed.
When we finally did get ashore I had the worst case of sea legs. It was the opposite of seasickness. I was so used to everything moving that for the first day, I felt nauseated to be on solid ground where nothing moved at all.
“I could live here,” Nik announced (not surprisingly) as we strolled into town.
“I could too,” I agreed. “I’d rent a Georgian stone house, hide away in it, and write a book.”
“It looks like the perfect place for that,” Nik agreed.
We fell in love with Jamestown, where one-sixth of the island’s four thousand people lived. The Georgian buildings were so well preserved that a walk up Main Street was like walking through a living museum. Discovered by the Portuguese in 1502, the island had been Dutch (1633) and eventually became British (1658). The closely packed shops and buildings built alongside the island’s only continuously flowing freshwater stream formed a narrow linear settlement at the bottom of the steep-sided valley. With the stone walls, the fort Castle of St. John, St. James’ church, and the gun batteries on the cliffs, we felt as though we’d stepped back in time more than three hundred years.
We paid a local Saint (as the islanders referred to themselves) for a tour. Robert spoke English as both a first and a second language. When he spoke to us he was perfectly understandable, but when he spoke to other islanders in the local dialect, we didn’t have a clue what he was saying. He greeted his neighbours with an expression that sounded something like, “Yorride orwah?” which I later learned translated into “Are you all right, or what?” It was the Saints’ way of saying, “Hi, how are you?”
Robert had driven the local school bus for twenty-odd years and gave a great island tour, taking us to all the hot spots, including the place Napoleon spent his first night in exile, the cottage where he spent his next seven weeks, and the house where he lived in exile for several years before his death in 1821. Mr. Bonaparte got a lot of press on St. Helena. At times, it was a bit over the top. After seeing all the places he’d ever laid his head, we were also taken to see what was no longer his grave. The French wanted him back, so his body was exhumed and returned to France in 1840. Being dutiful tourists, we took the ten-minute walk down a grassy path through the woods and snapped a couple of photos of the place where Napoleon isn’t buried.
After a few days of fun stretching our legs ashore, we turned our attention to our onboard jobs. Nik always felt a rig inspection was important after an offshore passage, and ever since finding a broken clevis pin and the so-close-to-letting-go forestay when we arrived in Rodrigues on the Indian Ocean, he was hyper-vigilant about inspecting the rig after every offshore passage.
Nik got in the bosun’s chair and tied it to the main halyard. Using a winch, I cranked him up to the first set of mast steps, then kept the halyard taut as he climbed from there. He paused to inspect each of the attachment points where the standing rigging was secured to the mast. Now and
then he called out to me to lock him off at a certain position so that he could dangle in the bosun’s chair, hands free, to take a good look at the rig.
The forestay is a wire rope that goes up the front of the boat from the bow to the top of the mast and keeps the mast from falling backward. The backstay runs from the stern to the top of the mast and keeps the mast from falling forward. The shrouds are wire rigging on either side of the mast that keep the mast in column by restricting movement from side to side. All the stays are important of course, but at least with the shrouds there are two sets: one set that reaches to close to the top of the mast (uppers) and another set that reaches about halfway up the mast (lowers). It was at the upper shrouds where Nik paused for a long while.
“We’ve got a problem up here!” he called down.
“What’s wrong?” I yelled back.
“The tang on the port side is broken! Three mil stainless snapped like a potato chip!”
A tang is simply a piece of sheet metal that is used to attach the shrouds to the mast. Green Ghost has double tangs, so although one tang had broken, the assembly continued to keep the shroud attached to the mast. Still, we thought we ought to fix it. The shrouds were attached to the tangs and the tangs were attached to the mast with a large bolt. We had a small sheet of three-millimetre-thick stainless steel on board in our spares locker. All we had to do was unbolt the broken tang, take it ashore, and ask a local tradesman to fabricate a new one from our spare sheet metal. There was just one problem. We could not unbolt the tang. Over three days Nik tried everything. He tried anti-seize, he tried his propane torch, he tried some whack-it-with-a-mallet persuasion. Nothing worked. The bolt would not budge.
Green Ghost, Blue Ocean Page 23