The
anchorage was not what I expected. The boat pitched all night to
the short chop and very fresh onshore wind. I kept waking up, sticking
my head out of the hatch into the dark night to check our position.
Were our anchors dragging? Every yachties nightmare. The mangrove
swamp directly to leeward seemed ever closer in the darkness.
Anchored as directed on 'the flats' off the Caribbean
end of the Panama Canal was a very long way, in more ways than
one, from the pretty West Indian island of Bequia we'd left just
a ten days and 1100 miles behind. Steel band music like Yellow
Bird was still in my head.
But a grey morning revealed a vast grey/brown featureless
anchorage. Cursing, I set out to row our Avon dinghy, with Julie
in the stern, the couple of miles dead upwind to the far distant
Colon Yacht Club and semi-civilisation. We eventually arrived
at the dock, seemingly out of nowhere, our one good set of shoregoing
clothing soaked with spray. The heavily built and armed security
guard with reflecting sunglasses was deeply suspicious. He reminded
us this was US territory. My smooth talking or maybe it was Julie's
low cut t-shirt, won the day however and he allowed us to land.
Next problem, how to arrange for The Aegre to traverse the Canal
without an engine?
In the Yacht Club bar we soon met
up with other yachties who delighted in telling us horror stories
of small yachts breaking loose in the lock turbulence and being
smashed against the walls or crushed by a freighter in a lock.
But we found some friendly faces too, other yachtsmen we had met
along the way. One of these was pleased to see us too. Singlehander
Tom Blackwell had just arrived too aboard his 55ft GL Watson ketch
'Islander' and immediately invited us to transit the canal lashed
alongside his boat. He needed us too as line handlers when passing
through the locks. It was a deal and we were soon arranging to
be 'measured'.
Classiified as 'Two Tons' we successfully passed
through the Canal in a single day alongside Islander with no fuss
or damage whatsoever.
You can take a look at the Miraflores
lock in action today via a webcam. Click on the panorama above.
Our first impressions of the Pacific were of cold,
almost icy water and huge 18ft tides, in stark contrast to the
balmy Caribbean we had left only hours before.
Already late in the season, we were anxious to
be on our way. A quick shopping spree in Panama City saw us quite
a bit poorer but the proud owners of, at last, a proper chronometer
(a genuine Bulova Accutron watch at a big discount, this was before
quartz clocks were available) and a new (second-hand) main compass.
But it was frightening walking around in Panama city. We felt
very small and vulnerable in this reputedly very dangerous city
and were relieved not to be mugged.
Thus
equipped we set off across the Pacific, heading west for the Marquesas
nearly 4000 miles away to the west, with possible stop at the
Galapagos Islands, a mere 700 milkes out from Panama. While we
wanted to visit the latter, we had been unable to procure a visa
in the time we allowed, and believed the Ecuadorians authorities
were discouraging yachts.
With 18ft tides and very light winds, our departure
needed to be carefully timed. Leaving at 6am on 14th March we
caught the ebb, and slowly sailed out into the Gulf of Panama,
wafting down a lengthy marked channel and counting off the poles
one by one. I was awed by what we were setting out to do. This
was no cruise down to the south of England, nor a winter's jaunt
to the West Indies and back. Ahead of us the Pacific seemed vast
and empty. There would be no help here. Every tank, bottle and
saucepan was full to the brim with fresh water. Every cranny in
the boat filled with supplies. We had a food for a hundred days
or more. Spare line, sailcloth, paint, kerosene, lime juice, fish
hooks, charts, torch batteries, spare timber, three or more of
every spare part we could think of.
The
light wind easing us out into the Gulf of Panama we knew would
be both a blessing and a curse. From our Pilot Charts we could
see there was commonly no wind at all here at this time of year
whilst the Humbolt Currrent sweeping up the west coast of South
America from the south could negate any progress southwards out
of the Gulf.
Starting in 9 degrees North, we needed to get down
to 3 degrees south to pick up the SE Trade Wind at this time of
year, about 750 miles south, bucking the Humbolt current every
day. We carefully plotted a course to try to use the Equatorial
Counter Current swinging down from the north, and initially made
good progress due south. But then we felt the full force of the
Humbolt. After a full day's sailing we'd find our lattitude unchanged,
whilst we crabbed westward towards the Galapagos.
Every day seemed hotter as the sun went right overhead.
We soaked our clothes in seawater to keep cool. We juggled the
rig to use every catspaw to make way south. The slightest ripple
from the bow was greeted as success. Now far offshore, every noon
I'd shoot the sun and then announce if we'd made any effective
way south over the last 24 hours. We crossed the Equator at least
three times, only to be pushed back north as the faint breeze
fell overnight.
Meanwhile we were being carried westward and I
bagan to think we should alter course to sail north of the Galapagos,
between Wolf and Pinta Island. We were in danger of being swept
through the islands by the current, with perhaps little control
over the boat.
Periodically the eery silence of the still ocean
would be broken by the sound of breaking water, like the rapids
in a river, and we'd slowly pass by or though an isolated area
of small waves breaking on themselves. We believed this was the
result of an upwelling of cold Humbolt Current water meeting with
the warm water of the (weakly) opposing warm equatorial current
coming down from the north.
Mostly
the water seemed icy cold but full of blobs of life. An ocean
of minestrone soup. With just nine inches of freeboard we were
always so close to it.
My light weather sailing skills improved. Dipping
my finger I learnt to delight in the slighest ripple. But it paid
off and inch by inch we worked our way out of the windless Gulf
of Panama. But still it took us three weeks of night and day attention.
Then slowly, but un-mistakenly, we started to feel the gentle
cooling arms of a north easterly breeze, gathering us up, easing
into our mainsaill, giving us a touch of heel. The first gentle
snore from the forefoot breaking the silence of the near still
ocean.
We gambled, and decided to use it to sail south
south east to where we wouild surely pick up the SE Trades. If
the wind failed we would be swept through the middle of the Galapagos.
I imagined being wrecked on a deserted shore.
But the wind held and the danger passed.
Unfortunately our weeks of drifting in the cold
Humbolt Current meant that no longer did The Aegre have a nice
clean bottom. Already I could see and feel a thick growth of gooseneck
barnacles, growing by the day.
In the light south-easterly these reduced our daily
runs to 60 miles and also badly upset the balance of the rig.
Now we found that we could only sail off the wind with the jib
boomed hard to windward and the helm hard to windward and the
mainsail reefed. We moved weight aft to alter the trim (rice,
tinned food, anchor, chain and fresh water) and this helped a
bit
Becalmed again I decided to go over the side with
a scrubbing brush and give the hull a clean up. With Julie on
shark watch I donned a mask and set to. The water was incredibly
blue and clear but around me large dorado circled menacinlgy.
Scrub, scrub scrub. The boat was rolling a bit and it wasn't that
easy. I noticed the lengthening trail of barnacle particles extending
deeper and deeper and out astern, disappearing into the vast depths,
the white particles glinting in the sun as they slowly sank. Scrub
scrub scrub. It was hard to concentrate. All those eyes peering
at me. The barnacle trail now disappeared into the distance far
astern and below. Scrub scrub scrub. What if something a lot bigger
than me chanced across it, and opening its mouth swam up it? Was
I to be the cherry on the top of this particular cake?
"I'm
coming back on board Julie!" Getting to the Marquesas slowly
suddenly seemed the more attractive option.
So most of the barnacles stayed. The self steering
could hardly cope and increasingly we were forced to hand steer.
An unwelcome and unaccustomed chore.
The weather deteriorated. Our nights became battles
with flogging sails as sudden vicious squalls came out of the
blackness, forcing us to reef, and then were gone. But their frequency
increased and for a week or more grey skies and heavy grey seas
became the norm. The bonus was rainwater which we collected from
a polythene sheet strung across the cockpit. This together with
plentiful fish eased the pressure on our stores.
About 30 days out from Panama our Gaz blowlamp
(used for lighting the kerosene primus stove) failed due to unexpected
corrosion. One thing we hadn't really anticipated, there seemed
so litle to go wrong. We had a little methethylated spirit on
board to preheat the fuel vaporiser and reduced the use of the
cooker to just once a day. No more welcome cups of tea at change
of night watch. We searched the boat for alcohol and found a small
bottle of paint thinner, a bottle of an evil spirit from the Canaries
and another from Panama. After that it was Glenmorangie whisky
from Scotland or Bob McInness's rum from the West Indies. We hoped
it wouldn't come to that.
Slowly the weather improved as the fresh SE'ly
trade wind prevailed. Our daily averages picked up to 75 miles
or so. Meanwhile a large shoal of dorado swimming alongside, just
a few feet away and close enough to touch, provided a constant
source of interest (especially at night) and food via the speargun.
I put the new chronometer and some calm clear evenings
and nights to good use by teaching myself to take and plot accurate
starsights. Once I applied myself I found it surprisingly easy
in these most favourable conditions. I was able to take five sights
to draw five intersecting position lines on the chart. Increasinly
these would vary by less than 3 miles, giving me confidence at
least in my consistency, if not accuracy.
The fresher winds and speed brought complications
too. The seats of both our oilskins split within two days of each
other and even with taped repairs we found it near impossible
from then on to remain dry in a fresh breeze or heavy rain. We
soon developed salt sores which made sitting down most uncomfortable
. Rubbing in Vaseline helped but keeping dry was the only real
answer.
About two months out from Panama, and three hunderd
miles out from the Marqueseas we saw Frigate birds a sure sign
of nearing land after the vastness of the ocean. We had been 62
days at sea since leaving Panama and had become very aware that
the normal surface of this planet is not land but ocean, and of
how empty of shipping much of it is.
Despite keeping a constant 24 hour lookout, we
had seen only four ships during this whole time. One of these
had seen us and altered course, signalling us to ask if we needed
help. It slowed and came steaming along, parallel to us, early
one evening. We signalled back that we were fine and to (please)
keep clear. (To minimise chafe sailing day afer day we set up
guys, preventers and all sort of other devices to hold our rig
in place with the minimum of movement. Changing course when set
up like this was a major undertaking). The crew and apparently
some passengers lined the rail and gave us a resounding cheer,
as they accelerated past, and on into the distance in the gloom
of the evening. As we finished our preparations for another black
night we imagined them sitting down to a three course dinner,
perhaps the only other people for a thousand miles.
My
navigation plots crawled slowly across our chart of the huge eastern
Pacific. Inching closer to the tiny specs that were the Marquesas
we decided to go first to the island of Hiva Oa. We were a bit
worried about making a landfall as there were few reliable lights
or radio beacons among this group of islands. Hiva Oa had none
at all. But still if we were to sail into the best anchorage in
daylight we thought we should be close to the unlit eastern end
of the island before dawn. A frightening prospect after so long
at sea.
According to the Chart we were closing with this
small and still invisible island. A series of sun, star and planet
sights showed our progress matched that shown by Bob MacInness's
ancient log, still spinning away on the end of the line, now more
than 9,000 miles out from Scotland. We were experiencing little
current and progressing as expected. At midnight I confirmed the
course to pass a few miles to the south of the eastern end of
the Island before dawn and passed everything over to Julie as
she came on for her four hour watch. The bow wave, swishing past
a quarter of an inch from my ear, soon sent me to sleep as it
always did.
About
3am Julie called me and coming on deck I was immediately aware
of a deeper shade of blackness on our starboard bow. So the island
really did exist! It had been a long passage from Panama. We had
been out 65 days during which we had sailed 4,200 miles.
The dawn crept up to reveal the heavily forested
island just a few miles to starboard. There seemed to be no sign
of habitation at all. I thought about Herman Melville's account
of life here 'among the cannibals' in the 1840s described in his
book Typee.
By
midday we were anchored in the sheltered bay near Atuona, the
main village on the island. We joined just one other yacht there
and worried about the fluky winds in the anchorage. We decided
to stay aboard the boat for another day until we were really sure
the anchor was holding firmly. Or were we, after so long at sea,
just reluctant and nervous to leave our precious boat and home?
It almost seemed dis-loyal to leave her. Meanwhile we were visited
by people paddling pirougues, keen to trade fresh fruit for anything
from jeans to .22 shells and cosmetics. It was hard not to feel
just a little bit like Captain Cook.
On going ashore that day in early 1974, we found
Hiva Oa everything we ever imagined a South Pacific island to
be. With no hotels or tourists, the people were warm and friendly,
their hospitality almost overwhleming. We gorged on fruit, fresh
bread, and friendly people. We visited Gaugain's burial place,
high above Atuona, where we sat peacefully, reflecting, looking
out to the south over the vast blue empty Pacific before us. I
thought I could stay there forever.
But somehow the itch to move on came back. I scrubbed
the bottom of The Aegre which restored her normal 
sailing
ability and we spent three weeks cruising these beautiful island
before heading for Tahiti, now a mere 700 miles away to the south-west.
Between the Marquesas and Tahiti lies the northern
end of the Tuamotu Archeplago, a mass of coral reefs and strong
currents, the final resting place of many a good vessel. We were
faced with the choice of sailing around the western end or going
through the middle of them. Wishing to see some of these remarkable
atolls, and always ones for the bold decision, we chose the latter
route.
400
miles out from Ua Pou, we were approaching the outlying atolls
of Manihi and Ahe. As these consist of near submerged reefs, their
highest point being palm trees growing at sea level, they aren't
too visble far away. But Manihi came up on our horizon as expected,
the palms looking like a line of distant pinheads on the horizon.
From there we set a course to Arahia, expecting
to see it about about an hour after first light the next day.
Unfortunately we experienced an unexpected southerly current and
about 0445 suddently realised that instead of being 11 miles of
the western end, we were about a mile off a reef and heading straight
for it! Talk about a 4am panic! As we desparately altered course
and beat offshore I did some rapid plotting on the chart and came
to the conclusion that for the last three hours we had been experiencing
a strong current in the exact opposite direction to that indicated
by the Pilot Book and for which I had been allowing.
Another twenty minutes on that course and we would
have become permanent residents of French Polynesia. That night
we surely used up another of our nine lives.
The
next day we sailed down the narrowish channel between Arahia and
Apataki atolls and then round the western end of the Kaukura atoll.
I sat on deck eating the last of our pamplemouse (wonderful sweet
grapefruit from the Marquesas) as we sailed down this magnificeent
channel, bounded by tiny atolls on the reefs on either side. We
imagined ourselves on 'Desert Island Discs'. But it was nerve-wracking
too and as the dusk fell and we emerged again into the open ocean
again we heaved a huge sigh of relief and set a course for Tahiti,
a couple of hundred miles to the south.
The
wind slowly fell and we were eventually becalmed for 24 hours
off Tahiti's Venus Point. a good time and place for reflection.
But the next day a light breeze came up just before dawn and sent
us flying in through the pass in the reef, with our full rig,
making as grand an entrance to Papeete as a 21ft boat out of the
North of Scotland could.
Many friends on yachts were there to welcome us
and a big celebration followed. But the stern to berthing arrangement
and the adjacent town centre were not to our liking and we soon
moved The Aegre around the lagoon to the faraway quiet backwater
of Punaauia where we hauled her out onto the beach with the willing
help of other cruising yachtsman and a block and tackle. It seemed
idyllic
However
even in 1974 the bureacracy in Tahiti aspired to dizzy levels
of awkwardness. A looming problem for us was the expiry of our
registration as a fishing boat. The previous owner had her registered
in Lerwick in the Shetland islands (well to the north of mainland
Scotland), as LK92, and we had simply maintained that. But it
was due to expire. We mailed an application to renew it, wondering
just how many other Lerwick registered fishing boats there were
in the South Pacific. The eventual response was disappointing.
Our claim to be undertaking 'exploratory fishing' was rejected.'Some
people have no sense of humour' we thought, as we wondered just
how we'd go with officialdom having no official registration.
Undeterred we spent 10 busy weeks in Tahiti, much
of it on giving The Aegre a complete overhaul. At the same time
I got work on the construction of a 40ft steel sloop, earning
some needed money, but slowing down our own refit.
My palm shaded workshop looked out over Moorea
and seemed a long way from Scotland, which we had
left only a year before. But time and the season were creeping
on. We were now thinking of sailing to New Zealand and were concious
of the approaching hurricane season. Could we get finished and
back afloat again in time to sail this season? Should we stock
up with food in (very expensive) Tahiti or wait till the next
stop in the Cook Islands? What about our badly chafed mast? And
would the planking survive drying out on the beach? How could
we officially leave without being an officially registered vessel?
Meanwhile there was another glorious sunset over
Moorea...
In Part
9 of the story, we depart from Tahiti, heading west south
west for the Cook Islands. But then it all goes horribly wrong.
If you'd like to discuss
any aspects of this story, or ask the author any questions, please
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Discussion Area.
