A Change of Plan

With great regret we have decided that we will not to cross the Atlantic this year. Due to the storm damage in the Caribbean some of the islands now have no infrastructure, no facilities and in fact I believe that some islands will be unable to accommodate yachts for several years while they rebuild. So we have postponed our entry on the ARC until next year – on a Catamaran.  Yes that’s right, a catamaran.

The Next Episode

After an indolent summer last year in the Greek islands watching the barnacles grow on the hull and the anchor slowly rusting into the sea bed, we have decided, (or rather Fatty has conceded) that it is once again time to reach out for distant shores. So, after much consideration we have decided to cross the Atlantic on Juno for the third time. Just writing these words I feel my pulse quicken at the prospect of another ocean crossing. 

A Lifetime Ambition

What do you do once you have achieved your lifetime ambition?  25 years ago I decided that I wanted to buy an Oyster and sail across the world’s oceans; and last year, in the company of family and good friends that’s what we did.

Single-handed to Mallorca

It is not often that you find yourself completely alone.  We have all been at home alone for a weekend, seeing no-one, maybe a trip to the shops for  a paper. But even then the TV, the radio, and the knowledge that outside the door and at the end of the phone there are friends and family, and if need be, the emergency services.  But today I find myself sailing Juno alone from Sardinia to Mallorca. 

Ionian Sea

The anchor chain snakes over the bow roller and disappears into the deep blue waters of the bay; a long line from our stern is tied around an olive tree on the shore, holding us off the rocks creating a perfect swimming pool beneath the bathing platform. The screech of cicadas is the only sound in the heavy midday heat that has settled over the boat, snuffing out the breeze. We are anchored in Abelike bay on the island of Meganissi, in the Greek Ionian Islands.  We came for a swim and a short overnight stop; a week later we are still here.

Taormina

We slip quietly out of the port of Lipari just after dawn, our bow slicing through the flat, mirrored surface of the lazy morning sea.  The Aeolian Islands slowly merge in our wake, then fade and disappear into the haze.  We are heading for the Straits of Messina, a strip of water just a mile wide that separates Sicily from the Italian mainland, where the currents run fast between the Tyrrhenian Sea in the North and the Ionian to the South. We plan to catch the last of the south-setting current to push us down the East coast of Sicily to the famous hilltop town of Taormina.

Filicudi

A deep ravine cuts a jagged line down the steep slopes to the waters edge where a cluster of pastel-coloured houses nestle above the shoreline, each one framed in white stucco, a gallery of water colours on the shore.  

The new season starts

The mountains of Sardinia lie low on the horizon, the morning haze softening the harsh silhouette of jagged peaks and plunging cliffs; a single clump of white cumulus cloud hangs over the land, the only feature in the powder-blue morning sky.  As we leave our anchorage, a light wind pushes us slowly east towards Filicudi, an island in the Aeolian group, off the north coast of Sicily, where we plan to make landfall tomorrow.

Queensland, Australia

The wind has come up again; blowing over 30 knots as we approach Hydrographers Passage, the pass through the Great Barrier Reef.  We identify the westerly cardinal buoy and the tower marking the opposite side of the channel. This is the finish line for our last leg of the World ARC and we cross the line in the lead, around seven hours ahead of the nearest boat. As we close the pass we can see white water breaking on the reef and then we are though; inside this huge reef but still a hundred miles from the coast of Queensland.

Vanuatu

Silver threads of rain glisten in the glow of our deck lights as we ghost into Port Resolution bay. It is pitch black with no moon. We follow the waypoints on our chart to take us between the reefs and into the shelter of this deeply indented bay.  It is very unsettling anchoring in a shallow bay at night with no ambient light and reefs and shoals on all sides.  I kill the engine and the silence is profound.  This is the island of Tanna, in Vanuatu, devastated by a hurricane only a few months ago and we are here with much-needed supplies for the villagers.

Fiji

The ratchet on our big Penn reel screams as the strong monofilament line is stripped off at high speed. The rod arcs in its holder and the fish makes its first run. In our wake I see the distinctive bill of the famous blue Marlin, the king of game fish, thrashing in the water trying to throw the hook.

Tonga

The Kingdom of Tonga is an archipelago of 176 islands, of which 52 are inhabited. In 1900 Tonga signed a treaty of friendship with Britain and in 1970 Tonga became independent. The consequence of this is that it lives off its own resources without the colonial subsidies of most South Pacific Islands. But the great advantage is that its traditions and culture have been preserved without compromise and visitors like us can experience an authentic Polynesian experience first hand.

Niue

The weather is gorgeous.  The sky is overcast with a cool breeze blowing through the anchorage. Overnight we have had a blanket on our beds for the first time since the Canary Islands. I never thought that I would celebrate the cooler weather but here we are on the island of Niue with no hat, no sun tan lotion, and no perspiration. Bliss.

Pacific Storm

The next leg of our journey takes us to Suwarrow in the Northern Cook islands, made famous by Tom Neale, a New Zealander who wrote about his experiences living there alone for many years. Now it is uninhabited, an atoll famed for its wildlife, visited only by private yachts and manned for three months in the year by park rangers who will stamp your passport for a small fee.

Bora Bora

Rain lashes down as we beat upwind, ploughing into a big sea whipped up by the squalls that have been bearing down on us all day. We are sailing parallel to the reef where the swell from the south rolls in. Nine hundred metres deep, only half a mile offshore, this huge volume of water runs full tilt into the shallows and with nowhere to escape it thunders against the coral with a roar and rears up, throwing spray high into the air as it washes over the reef into the lagoon. 

Raiatea, the Pearl Regatta

We are in Raiatea, the spiritual capital of the Society Islands, 150 miles west of Tahiti and host of the Tahiti Pearl Regatta.  We enter the pass into the lagoon and dock on the quay in the small town of Uturoa. The central market square has been taken over by the regatta where coloured flags ripple in the breeze and earnest young assistants crouch at makeshift desks over Apple computers, taking our registration forms and our Pacific Francs, issuing us with fluorescent wristbands and T shirts. 

Tahiti

Our pilot book states that the southern pass into Papeete, the capital of Tahiti, is accessible at all times – other than when there is a big swell from the west.  We are now accustomed to the swell in the South Pacific; it normally sets from the south, but today - well today it seems to be coming out of the west and I estimate it to be between two and three metres – that’s quite big.  A mile away from shore I scan the horizon through my binoculars and all I can see is surf breaking. Now we are only a few hundred metres away and I can clearly make out the channel markers, and nearby, surfers lie on their boards, waiting to catch the waves – always a bad sign. I am thinking of aborting the entry when I see a catamaran enter the pass ahead of us. There is a gap between the waves and it slips through. We gather in the cockpit, point Juno’s bows at the middle of the pass and run the gauntlet.

Moorea

On watch in the early morning one can truly appreciate the slow and uplifting wonder of dawn. It starts with a faint light in the eastern sky; colour seeps from the horizon, spilling into the clouds, lilac at first, then pink and gold as the kaleidoscope revolves. As the first orange crescent appears above the horizon, the colours deepen and become rich and vivid. On the island ahead the dark peaks light up first, high above they are first to see the new sun; then slowly, the light spills down the eastern slopes, long dark shadows withdrawing into the deep green ravines cut into the hillside. The sun enjoys its first glimpse and now climbs quickly, increasing in power and splendour as it rises to create the new day.

Tuamotos, Fakarava South

We are anchored behind the reef, a million miles from anywhere.  A huge blood red horizon glows in the west, a scatter of black clouds drifts past like battleships; the sound of the surf on the outer reef is a muffled roar and on Juno all is still. The water is so clear that even at dusk we can see the reef sharks circling the boat. Between us and the ocean is a narrow strip of pink sand, dense with palm trees, a thin finger that stretches out and disappears below the dark surface. 

Tuamotos, Fakarava North

We approach the island of Fakarava at dawn. The passes into the Tuamoto lagoons are notoriously dangerous. As the tide ebbs, a huge volume of water flows out of the narrow passes in the reef, surging through underwater canyons, churning up the surface and creating standing waves as it collides with the inertia of the open ocean. We have done our calculations to arrive at slack water, just as the tide is turning, but as we approach the pass, the horizon is boiling with white water and breaking waves that run a mile out into the ocean.