The sailing thus far, has for the most part been idyllic. I say for the most part, because the last 48 hours have verged more on the miserable scale of things than anything else. Passing 160 nautical miles (around 300km) south of New Caledonia, I decided to ask the weathermen how they thought the stretch of ocean spanning onwards to Australia might play out over the next seven days. It had always been my intention to skirt close to New Caledonia in case the weather was going to be foul – I don’t think I’ve heard of a single pleasant crossing to the mainland as yet… In fact, I came across three other boats headed to the east coast of Australia, that were going all the way to Vanuatu, and crossing from there to Cairns to avoid this very crossing.

The weathermen told me to expect winds between 30 to 40kts (60 to 80kmh) within the next 24 hours. I was so disappointed, as the day had started so perfectly – We were literally flying (a relative term…) on a flat, grey sea. Alas, things worsened as the afternoon took over, and I lessened sail with every gust. Before long, Constellation was shipping green water over the deck, and progress was futile. By 6pm I hove-to (stalled the boat), and lay below, listening to the crashing, and watching as waves rose through the companionway. I get a shiver down my spine when the wind hits a certain note, at sea, and now even on land. There is an equally nervous feeling in my stomach when the foam begins to streak across the surface of the water. The physique of the ripples change in shape to a hard chine, creating a louder ’slap’ with each connection to the hull.

I slept on and off through the night, until all at once, we were hit so incredibly hard by a breaking wave, things that had never fallen out of their places, flew across the cabin. Immediately after the hit, there was a loud hissing sound, and with alarming calm, I heaved out of bed to assess with my feet how much water was entering the boat. I noted there was no water as yet, and made a mental checklist of what I needed to get to abandon ship: Grab bag (containing offshore flares, flare gun, EPIRB, and some chocolate. Actually no, there is no chocolate, I ate it in a fit of despair…) and lifejacket. I then made another quick mental note to get my survival suit because I didn’t trust the liferaft. As all this was going through my head (the time-scale was milliseconds), I reached for the red navigation lamp, so I could see, but not destroy my night vision, and saw to my amusement and relief, there was in fact no water at all entering the boat, or even a hole in sight. The hissing was from a self-inflating lifejacket that had had its release cord caught on the wet locker clothes hook, and sprung to life when the boat jerked.

This might all seem overly dramatic to you, but the sailor leans a great deal on his or her sense of hearing: An almost sixth sense develops and notes every single sound that is deemed ‘normal’ on the boat – Anything that deviates from that list is immediately cause for great concern, and even in a deep sleep, one is often alerted to any acoustic change in the environment. I remember a similar incident in the Atlantic, when a flying fish flew through the hatch, and lay sputtering and flapping on the cabin sole – To my dimly awakened state, it was the sound of the electrical system short-circuiting…

Fortunately today, things have calmed down, and my frayed nerves are regenerating with each cup of tea. I have decided, and I must apologise to Brisbane, that I will in fact be sailing into Coffs Harbour – The northern most entrance into NSW where I can clear customs and quarantine. This decision is based mostly on the fact that my trajectory seems to naturally be pointing me that way, and also it appears to be a much easier entrance than Brisbane, or even Sydney: Just a simple breakwater on the coast, and a buoy to hang off of and await clearance. I am trying to sail home, and in a fit of anger a few posts ago, I declared Brisbane was it – But, I’ve come this far; I will sail as planned into Melbourne, and land hopefully in Docklands Marina. I hope to see some familiar faces there… Ones ready to stay up all night and paint the town red. I think I’ll call the party ‘Shore Leave.’

And so, we soldier on, 14 days out of Tonga. I don’t like to predict my landfall, because there are many things which hinter progress (namely, weather), but, with 550nm to go, it would be nice to be seeing land within five or six days…

My recent posts have been rather anguished. I’ve been in a very odd state of mind, there is no doubt about it. Someone left a comment on my last post saying I was sounding more and more like Moitessier. And he wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing… Well, having recently watched Deep Water (maybe not the best film to be watching at sea…), at least I was not likened to Crowhurst! There is a certain something that happens when you place yourself in solitary confinement: You often wonder why you’re torturing yourself. However, the quirk is, in this form of torture, there is always the possibility of experiencing something divine, and simply told, that’s why people do it. I don’t necessarily mean a spiritual divine; the simplest things at the oddest moments can make their ranking: Days of hard weather, and the taste of coffee in a dwindling swell can be enough to light the spark. Anyway, I’m out here now, after 778 days of voyaging – It’s the finishing leg to Australia, and my little handheld GPS is pointing right towards that sunburnt continent where I was born.

Hauling up the anchor in Vava’u was miserable. I could barely muster the strength to do it. It was a perfect day, the wind was blowing south east, and I’d just spent two really nice days with my new friends Rob & Sarah at anchor – Spearfishing, talking, drinking local rum, and all those good things that can be done in the company of others. Not only was I hesitant about leaving for a potential month of solitary confinement, but my time in Vava’u had actually been quite social: I met a few young sailors with their own boats (a rare sight), compared notes with a couple nice fellow singlehanders, and even had a connection through a friend of a friend at the infamous and great Aquarium Cafe. The ‘cruising community’ was quite large, maybe the biggest I’ve been part of so far. I seem to have sailed a very different route to everyone else, and often just out of season: Many of these sailors had met months ago on both sides of Panama.

After the first 24 hours of sailing, my worries disolved into the sea ahead, and the wind switched direction. I beat into a light south west wind for a few days; but frankly, I didn’t care – I was so happy to have broken my spell and let go of everything. The weather at these latitudes is much cooler than most of my Pacific sailing thus far – At long last I was able to lay in my bunk and enjoy readng again. The heat previously had been so much, the sweat so prolific, all I could do was feel my brain melt and my organs evaporate. Now, I was back! And with such a catalogue of great books, my confinement finally produced some cerebral activity beyond that of trimming sails and eating cans of chilli.

Two days ago, to my great excitement, Constellation and I found ourselves on the exact opposite side of the planet to England. We had sailed so far west of Greenwich, we were now east of it. I remember crossing zero degrees longitude, with Johannes Erdmann as we tried to sail to Hamburg. I watched in wonderment as the GPS slowly ticked over to 180degrees 0minutes 0seconds. In a flash, it was gone, and the seconds of longitude began to decrease, as the unit started the countdown back to zero degrees.

Of the books I’ve read so far, the book by food critic Ruth Reichl has been the most torturous. The finest food on this dry ship, is three cloves garlic and two miserable looking tomatoes. As I read about lobster risotto, or latte cotto, a light lemon custard served with marinated berries, my mouth flopped open and vowed never to sail again. So I got to the chapter on a Japanese sushi restuarant, and decided to go fishing.

Thanks to Rob and Sarah, my fishing knowledge doubled (from nothing to something), and they even donated several lures to my cause. So, listening to music in my bunk, I hear the the handline spinning. I jump outside and catch the 400 pound line with my bare hands, cleat it, and watch in wonderment as the largest Dorado I’ve ever seen is jumping a mile high into the sky. I was trying to catch Sashimi for one, but instead I had caught enough for an entire restaurant. Constellation literally slowed down under the power of the fish. Terrified, I rolled in the genoa to make battle.

With the fish swimming under full thrust, I couldn’t hold it, even after I put on a pair of gloves. So I decided to let it tire, and watched miserably as it thrashed about. All I could think about was that this was tantamount to killing an entire cow for a single steak. So I decided to catch and release, if only I could get the damn thing near the boat… Eventually I could reel the fish in, but, due to my poor knowledge of such things, the fish sounded, and came up on the other side of the boat in an instant. I tried to let slack out, but it was too late. This thrashing enormity broke the line on the keel, and vanished, forever to have a very large pink plastic squid stuck in its mouth. And so, I decided fishing once more, was not for me, and read a book on Alexander Von Humboldt: “… Yet what we feel when we begin our long-distance voyage is nonetheless accompanied by a deep emotion, unlike any we may have felt in our youth. Separated from objects of our dearest affections, and entering into a new life, we are forced to fall back on ourselves, and we feel more isolated than we have ever felt before.”

nick.

(Thank you everyone for your SMS messages and nice comments to my posts. I receive them all out here. And to answer your questions, no I haven’t seen Jessica Watson, but, I think we are probably very close to each other right now. My radio has terrible range, and we could pass within 20miles and not see each other… But, it’s nice to know she’s out here, and I have a good feeling that she’s going to take the record from Jesse, with gusto.)

This time two years ago, Constellation was strapped to a dock in The Netherlands. The town, Monickendam, just north of Amsterdam, is known for its smoked eel, pretty bridges, and superyacht production. Now, we are free in the south Pacific, on a beam reach doing 100+nm days, headed for Western Samoa. The trip out of Hawaii to Palmyra Atoll was frankly, miserable. It included some of the most oppressive heat I’ve experienced, the worst calms, days of heavy seas and winds, and generally was an awfully slow and trying voyage…

Watching the GPS, and looking at the compass, I noticed a disparity 50nm short of Palmyra. Almost 2kts of equitorial current was pushing us east, and with no wind, waking up every morning was depressing, as we were pushed further and further away from landfall. Eventually we struggled within 31nm of the Atoll, and I decided enough was enough: The mighty Yanmar was doing the rest of the work. Unfortunately through a set of circumstances I’ve yet to fathom, the engine was full of cream coloured oil.With the help of John out of Brewer Yacht Yard, in Greenport Long Island, satellite email, and my books, it was ascertained the water must have come in through the exhaust, or through the seacock. I spent dizzying hours with my head in the bilge, draining the oil into water containers. Putting half a litre of fresh oil back in the engine, I started her up, and noticed no new water. I let the oil warm, drained it, and filled it up again, and we were off. I have to say, that little Yanmar is an extraordinary engine.

With wide-eyes, Palmyra Atoll was approached from the East, with distant waves crashing at sea on reefs, dozens of new birds, palm lined beaches, and strange military structures abound… At last, land was found in the middle of nowhere. On channel 16, I called Palmyra Station. Amanda, the Fish and Wildlife representative and refuge manager, answered with excitement – Yes, Constellation was finally here! Having no idea who, or how many people were on the Atoll, I was suprised with the amount of radio traffic, as Constellation rounded the top of the island, and skirted reefs to the infamous channel entrance. Not sure of who or what to expect, it was even more suprising to be given an escort through the channel by Brad, the marine operations manager. Brad had us anchor just off of the main station, whch was an encampment of small bungalows, mess hall, generators, science labs, satellite dishes, sheds with tractors, and even the world famous Palmyra Yacht Club.

Invited to dinner on the first night, the sight of freshly cooked and crumbed Ahi (tuna), vegetables, and other delights not found on a boat (especially mine, where absolutely no fish have been tempted by lures…), all the pain of getting to the atoll was gone in an instant. Special thanks to Franklin and Amanda for the invitations, and to Anthony for possibly being the worlds most isolated chef.

Palmyra Atoll has quickly become the most interesting, beautiful, and unusual place I’ve visited on my entire voyage. It has always been my dream to visit places that may otherwise be impossible to gain access to by any other means of transport – And being allowed to visit the now privatised island (owned by The Nature Conservancy) was a great highlight. Thank you to The Nature Conservancy for keeping the island open to sailors, and also many thanks to the Fish and Wildlife Service for ,handling the details and particulars of our visit. I can’t embed photos while at sea, however all my photos of Palmyra are online here

And so now, just 465nm from Western Samoa, I am also in the southern hemisphere after nearly exactly two years en route to Australia. Jeff, thank you for the French champagne to celebrate 0 degrees, however I must say, it was room temperature, and room temperature on the equator is, well… Hot!

For now, I’m going back to lying on my bunk, as sweat drips into my eyes, and the large tradewind seas toss Constellation around like a piece of driftwood… It’s beautiful and special out here, but it’s also tough going.

Nick.

The voyage so far has not been exactly as I expected. But I guess there in lies the problem: Expectation… As mentioned in my last post from out here, the wind shadow created by the Big Island sheilded us from big seas and strong winds, yet the shelter didn’t last long before Constellation was flying amongst rather large walls of water. Eventually things calmed, and then calmed a little too much, until the big sea remained, and the wind disappeared… Being becalmed is hard enough, but being becalmed in a swell is enough to want to make you jump off the ship. The wind did return, went away, returned, the sea flattened, and I watched DVD’s to pass the time, with stars reflecting on a glassy ocean.

Surrounded by odd weather systems, and Tropical Storm Hilda hovering around to our east, the weather as I’ve been trying to explain has been unpredictable, and frankly not what I expected. Not to mention the fishing: Are there any fish left, may I ask? Or have the great Tuna clippers drained the Pacific? I’ve seen the pictures in Kontiki, as Thor hauled fish after fish aboard: I’ve hauled nothing aboard except an empty line. Not only have I not seen fish, I’ve not really seen anything at all. Not a ship, not a plane, just a few bits of rubbish, and a coconut drifting by.

There is however, no point displaying disappointment in all this, because it is what it is, but I guess I just expected steady trades all the way down to Palmyra, and a fish or two to keep my cans of beef stew unopened… And so, with 280nm to go, the wind is predicted to shift right onto my nose, and I have no idea when we might make landfall…

For those interested, I’m in the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) right now, which is a band of strangeness (yes, I am a meteorologist…) hovering near the equator, creating hot, humid and squally conditions. It’s too hot outside to enjoy the cooling breeze, and down below it feels like the chart table is melting and my mind is turning to mush. There is no escape… And yes, I have seriously considered redirecting to British Columbia.

[Sorry folks, this should have gone up a few days ago, but it got spam-trapped for some reason. - Marty.]

After many months of preparation, trucking Constellation across America, re-assembling her in California, and finally setting sail, it’s nice to finally announce that I’m 223nm (approx 440km) offshore, en route to Hawaii. No great speed records will be set on this voyage, having left on the 8th of June, it is now the 11th, and progress is meagre, to say the least (I expect at this rate, no better than 30days). The winds are light, and the Pacific is calm… Constellation is overloaded with gear, provisions, and water, and so light air sailing is definitely not her forte. ‘Windy the Windpilot’ tries her best, but I find myself jumping in and out of my bunk to re-adjust, and trim to keep up our slow pace. It’s the afternoon now, and the pace has ‘picked up’ from being becalmed all night, to trudging along at 1.5kts, and now we’re pushing 3kts at best. Of course, the worst thing about this progress is not so much the lack of it, but probably the racket Constellation makes in the process. The normal sailing sounds of a boat underway are calming, even if they’re just as noisy; the trickle under the hull is the sound of progress… However, the banging of the masts internal halyards, wiring, and flapping of the mainsail are enough to make you go mad. There is nothing I can to, which just exacerbates the problem, and so I glumly read and fret about the banging sail, which I refuse to pull down, due to the severe rolling that would occur without it raised to balance the boat. It’s bad for the sail, and probably not so great for the rig, but I just can’t bring myself to put up with a rail-to-rail roll which happens when under bare poles, in a small but still active ocean swell.

My sail out of Half Moon Bay was idyllic, with my friends whom I wrote about in my last post, coming all the way back down from San Francisco to visit and escort me out. I spent the week waiting in Half Moon for good weather, and it coincided with their visit. Rob, Ted, and Adam sailed with me for around 10nm offshore, before pairing off and leaving me to my devices. It was a nice foray into the multi-day tack I had setup, and as they petered off behind me, so did the coast of California. Being left alone, I slowly became mildly seasick. This always happens, and it doesn’t help that it’s been nearly a year since my last sail when I landed in New York. For the next 36hrs, I didn’t eat or sleep, as my nerves adjusted and my ear got used to the roll of Constellation: At 26ft, and weighted down, Constellation ‘hobby-horses’ about, and so I then begin to wish I had another 10ft of waterline to lessen the motion. Of course my wish never comes true, and so I remember we’re out here doing it, and we get back to dealing with our respective environments; mine of feeling ill, and Constellation’s of generally being a rock-star Contessa 26.

As I sit in my bunk, writing this, a tiny squall is overhead creating a ruckus in the sails, and a slight chill. The water of the Pacific is that gorgeous blue, akin to the Atlantic before one hits the gulf stream. I’ve spent the day reading, and fault finding an electrical problem with my tri-light, which I’ve finally repaired, in the usual & aesthetically unpleasing, but entirely utilitarian manner which Constellation has become used to.

I feel quite at home here, but I must say the Pacific has an aura of a vast and empty desert, quite unlike the Atlantic. The Atlantic ocean always felt like a ‘working ocean’ to me – A vast watery highway of trade and bustle. Even if I only did come across three tankers on my crossing, it just somehow felt different. I have no logical reasoning for any of this, but what’s a blog post without an expression of unfounded feeling…

So as I drift rather than sail, (which could possibly end up being be my hallmark maneuver) closer to home, I can’t help but feel somewhat melancholy about friendships made, and friendships now abandoned. In ‘A Voyage for Madmen’, Peter Nichols talks about the driving factors behind the men who raced in the first Golden Globe race – A race nonstop and singlehanded around the world; the first of its kind. He classifies the archetypal solo sailor as being driven by ‘imagination, self-discipline, selfishness, endurance, fear, courage, and social instability’. I don’t really call myself a solo sailor, and wouldn’t for a second put myself near the likes of the men that raced, however Nichols’ characterisations do ring true to an extent, and I think the Pacific will be a nice time to reflect on all the things that have put me here, and kept me going. I sometimes feel like I’m driving an old car around the world, and people run up to give me a push, whom I thank, and then roll on. I’m hardly on the ‘home stretch’, as technically we’re only half-way, but for some reason, there not being a continent between myself and Australia, makes this piece of water a better place to contemplate such questions.

And what better place to have such lofty thoughts, than in a 26ft boat with 6×8ft of livable space, and a sunning lounge of similar proportions (the cockpit)!

Nick.

(My position on the tracking page has been updated, and the messaging page is back up for those who feel the urge to send a cheeky message)

Thank you very kindly to all the supporters of my Bridge Project, I really appreciate it (as does Oxfam Australia). I don’t quite have enough to purchase a bridge, but there is still lots that can be done with the money at the Oxfam Unwrapped store – So I’ll transfer the money out and go on a charity shopping spree in the next few days. Across the Atlantic I had no idea if I’d raised more than $50, and thought the idea might fizzle, however I was happily suprised! Thank you once again.

The two podcasts that went AWOL when the site went down (days 24 and 30) can be played here:

Day 24
Day 30

I have a few photos on my Photos page, however as I said, my camera broke pretty early on – I have a video camera on loan from Jack, which I took some photos with, but it’s really for video, not for stills!

A regular but sorry sight! Kamikaze flying fish on deck

Also a fairly regular sight – Line squalls.

Windy the Windpilot, rocking it for 2700nm across the Atlantic. Look Ma, no hands!

The last photo is at Port St Charles, Barbados, at the clearance dock for immigration/customs and health. You can’t tell, but there was swell surging around the breakwater, and poor Constellation was being crushed. I put tons of lines on after that photo, and high-tailed it out of there to the anchorage after the paperwork was done with.

Check the few other photos I have (but I have tons of video, although I don’t have a fast enough computer to extract it!!) here.

And last but not least, are the the days from 15 – 30 of my crossing. As I said earlier, the quotes are from books I was reading at the time.:

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Day 16

I.am.bored.

“We seem to be born to be dissatisfied” -Steiner

Day 17

Felling a little stir crazy and impatient now, with still at least 12 days to go, assuming wind stays as is. Thinking way too much… It’s impossible to stop all this mental junk coming into your head and invading your thoughts. On land you can distract yourself. Here there is nothing, but to battle it in an mental arena. Except *I* (or is it the id?) always lose…! Days, nights and weeks are all one. Or none. I ate jelly beans for breakfast.

“God growed us up till we could wear long pants, then he licensed his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town… Don’t be lookin up at the sky for no help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers.” -DBC Pierre

Day 18

I found some old cough drops in my jacket pocket. I don’t have a cough, but they taste good. The first tanker I’ve seen in two weeks steamed past today, and was picked up by the radar detecter. We did 125nm today.

“Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of the years, spend every minute of their lives travelling” -Basho

Day 19

Hairy sail change at dawn… At least the water is warm now, because I got an involuntary shower, the bow dunking heavily. But the boat is happier now, not have so much canvas up. Swell is annoyingly choppy, and we are doing 5.5kts under my smallest Jib (one before Storm jib). I would be intrigued to know exactly what speed the wind is at the moment… We did 135nm today (our record).

“We live as we dream; alone” -Joseph Conrad

Day 20

Very bad day. Squall, then contrary winds. Boat rolling around like crazy. Curled up in my bunk, bracing myself with knees and back just to hold me still. It’s difficult to explain, but there is this little thing underneath your psyche out here all the time, which is silently aware that some things are just chance. No matter how good you are at sailing, there is always the possibility you will be hit with bad luck, and this is a thing that goes over in your mind out here when you’re alone. You suppress it 99% of the time, but today, I guess I weakened up. I feel like crying, Ellen McArthur style, but what I’m doing is nothing in comparison so I don’t. Much’o extra respect for her.

“See, it’s a brave man that weeps!” (Starbuck exclaims to Ahab) -Melville

Day 21

Three weeks. Two more ships picked up on the radar detector. Today I feel much better. We’re still rolling a lot, but that’s life. My noodles are balanced on a washboard, on my lap. I raised more sail to ensure we did the minimum 120nm/day quota. I think we are in good shape to make landfall in eight days. Night fell with an ominous squally horizon. Reduced sail just before dark.

Day 22

Increased sail this morning, and cleaned the deck of flying fish. Man, they get everywhere! Today is as was yesterday, as was the day before, yet one day closer to land….

“I’ve neer been lonely. I’ve been in a room. I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful beyond all, but I’ve never felt that one other person, could enter that room and make a difference. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with, because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude.” -Charles Bukowski

Day 23

I have a bit of a sore throat today, which I suspect is the result of 23 days of bad food. The wind died down a bit today… Argh! I’m not sure if we’ll do our 120nm today. I found a rusty old can of tinned Tesco Rice Pudding in the caverness depths of Constellations storage crannies. Great day! The Genoa is flogging in the light airs. This annoys me.

“No, I must lie alone
Till it comes for me;
Till it takes the sky, the sand
And the lonely sea.” -Thomas Pynchon

Day 24

Woke up again with a sore throat. I also feel tired. Rummaging around I managed to find a bottle of expired vitamin C tablets. I overdosed. Last night a flying fish some how landed in the cabin, and buzzed around the floor. I was asleep, and dreamt of short circuiting wires. All of a sudden I realised it was a localised sound, and thought the boat was short circuiting! And then I looked down to see a smelly fish on the floor – Still flapping, I picked it up with the frying pan and hurled it out the door. I estimate the wind to be blowing F3 now. This is frustrating, because it’s consistent, and I’m concerned we’ve simply hit the belt of light-airs. But, it’s a perfect sunny day, and the swell is much less, so I can’t really complain.

Day 25

We have really slowed down now… Doing around 90nm/day. Some parts of the day I am frustrated by this, others I’m non-plussed. The only problem is, I’m really running out of nice things to eat! (’Nice’ being a relative term…!)

“Without serious storms my small ship of fate sailed through the sea of life; and if on the occasion it took the wrong course, then providential navigation steered it back in the right direction”. Xaver Scharwenka

Day 26

Ok, now speed is really frustrating me a lot. Forget the zen stuff, I’m fucking annoyed. I decided to try out a goosewing configuration with the rig, which all up took 35 minutes to put up, including the time to dismantle my previous setup. I smashed my elbow raising the mainsail, and it’s bleeding and really hurts. I jumped around on deck yelling profanities for quite some time, remembering soon after my sore throat. Which is worse now. Finally up, it turned out to be useless. The swell simply kicks the boat sideways, and we gybe. I thought maybe we’d get away with it, but no… I should have trusted my instincts. Now I have to put everything back. We’re doing a whopping 3kts, and now the wind keeps changing, so the windvane sends us off course. Already three squalls have blown over, leaving behind a windshadow, and rain. I suspect it’s these squalls hovering around that have been playing with the wind. Every morning I have such a feeling of urgency, and glancing at the GPS ‘To Go’ field makes me furious at our slow progress. However, by mid to late-afternoon, my anger subsides, and I don’t really care if we have another 1000nm’s to go. Mornings are for impatient youth/evenings for more gentlemanly thoughts/and aspirations.

“Let others bemoan the maliciousness of their age. What irks me, is its pettiness, for ours is an age without passion… My life comes out all one colour.” -Kierkegaard

Day 27

At our current pace we’ll be in Barbados within three nights! Why am I complaining about progress again!? It won’t be long before I start feeling nostalgic about this whole voyage… A tanker steamed past me last night on the starboard side. I gave it a solute and went back to bed. As you know I always salute cardinal buoys for guiding me away from dangers – As such, tankers should be thanked, for not running you down! It’s hot in here… I spent the afternoon listening to Jeff Bucky bootlegs.

“Waiting for joyous tomorrows, is what kills joyous todays.” Raoul Vaniegem

Day 28

Closer, closer! It’s Friday, we’ll be in port by Sunday. I know it. I feel i’ll be stuck on the boat till Monday though due to customs clearance… Maybe I’ll sneak ashore though, during the night, just to make sure a place to stand that doesn’t pitch and roll actually exists.

“Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very edge of despair.” -Bertrand Russel

Day 29

I was hoping to break the 30 day barrier by arriving today, but I still have 24hours to go! Nevermind. I’m so happy, I virtually done it… It’s strange though, I don’t feel particularly excited, or even anxious right now. I guess now I’m just so used to being out here…

“For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure.” -Emerson

Day 30

Wow, it’s done. I arrived at 14:10 in Port St Charles. I docked on the fuel birth, and stood on land. It was an incredibly odd feeling. I had to see Customs, Immigration and Health before being allowed back on my boat… I went out and anchored in Six Mans Bay. The water is warm, there are kids playing on the beach, the sand is white, and I just can’t believe it. How beautiful; great day.

“The concept of freedom has two aspects; the first concerns the individual, who is free to do as he pleases; the second, more important, has to do with sharing the fruit of our free actions with others.” -Lucrezia De Domizio Durini

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nick.