Well! How long it’s been. I get a little sad sometimes, thinking about this blog… It was a little bit of a lifeline while I was out sailing – A little place to put all my thoughts that built up after miles of sailing. Unfortunately now, I’ve hit land, and while the thoughts still pile up, they’re not necessarily anything to do with sailing!

So what have I be doing anyway? Oh yes! I did get some sailing in a couple of months ago, quite unexpectedly… I flew to Palau, returned to Melbourne, and then flew back to Palau, to help deliver a boat to Darwin. It was a mighty long, and mighty hard trip. We sailed (or rather, motored, burning close to 600 litres of diesel), against the winds and currents for two weeks. Several engine failures later, a few hair-raising moments and a couple of pirate scares off of Indonesia, we arrived in Darwin, Australia. This was my second entry into Australian waters by boat, and also my second time across the equator:

The sailing was pretty extraordinary… It was also the longest distance I’ve ever sailed with others aboard, which was a very different experience to being alone. I dare say, harder… We sailed close to shore for a few days, right amongst the Indonesian fishermen. At one stage we even sailed through a small straight, just 1nm wide, at the top of Papua New Guinea. To the left and right of us were small subsistance living communities, as enormous tankers took advantage of the water way:

Some nights we were surrounded so tightly by small fishing vessels, it was virtually impossible to sleep. The curious ones would come close by, and scare the daylights out of us… Flare guns at the ready, minds churning with self-defence tactics… Thankfully curious was all they were, and through the waters we sailed with little outside trouble.

So other than that brief month of sailing, there is little other news to report on the personal voyaging front. For avid followers, you will already know I moved to the countryside, and am working away at my own business… We (re)launched two projects in the last two weeks -Neverstop Pedalling, an online bike store, and our web hosting company Serversaurus…

SV Harmony still lies at rest in California… Awaiting her owner (me)… How and when I will ever scrounge the money together to get there, I’ll never know (perhaps buy a bike, or change your hosting provider! Plug plug!) … However, I guess when the time is right, it will all come together.

A massive congratulations to Adam who recently completed his first solo transpac – I finally have someone to commiserate with about sailing small vessels alone, across that stretch of from SF to HI… We both concurred: Yes, it’s possible, but…

Jack continues to work on the documentary about my voyage, however, from my understanding, the creation of the documentary is just as financially crippling and difficult as the voyage itself… ! We hope it will screen in European film festivals this year, but as to if and when it will be available to buy as a DVD or stream online – I have no idea. This is Jack’s film, so it will be up to him as to how it’s distributed…

I will be archiving this site as we know it soon, and replacing it with a new site which will allow me to just generally blog about sailing – At the moment, the layout and construction of this website is for a voyage which is now complete: It will still be at Bigoceans.com, however I’ll move the current incarnation of the site and start afresh… What do you guys think?

Cheers! Nick

I woke this morning to the news of Abby Sunderland. To be honest, in amongst the Jessica fanfare I had forgotten she was out there on her Open 40 trying to beat a record… When I was in Hawaii, I had fanciful dreams of selling Constellation and using the money to charter the boat ‘Wild Eyes’ which Abby is currently floating around in, for a transatlantic. The broker soon stopped talking to me, and I couldn’t figure out why – And then Abby appeared with that very boat!

So of course, the web is now awash with commentary on child sailors, irresponsibility etc. In success these ‘kids’ are heroes, in failure their parents are maniacs and terrible people. There is little point in harking on about this, the plain fact is, there is a sailor stuck down in the southern ocean right now, and my only question has nothing to do with age, boats or parenting: It’s simply: Why is she in the southern ocean in winter? After some searching I found her last known position, and mapped it against Tony Bullimore who capsized in a similar area. At least he was down there at the right time of year, 1200nm from where Abby is now:

Australian rescue services always get the task of looking after these waters… In fact, said services have just sent a Qantas Airbus down there to sweep over her. In 1997 when Tony Bullimore was down there as part of a race, he and a French sailor were picked up, the story as follows: “The Royal Australian Navy launched a rescue mission for Bullimore and another capsized competitor, Thierry Dubois. Bullimore was alive and managed to survive in an air pocket in the upside-down boat in pitch darkness, having lost his food supplies – his only food was a bar of chocolate. On January 9, Thierry Dubois was rescued by an Australian S-70B-2 Seahawk helicopter embarked on the frigate HMAS Adelaide. Adelaide then proceeded further south to where the Exide Challenger had been located by a RAAF P-3 Orion. Adelaide dispatched an rigid-hulled inflatable boat to the Exide Challenger where crew members knocked on the hull. Hearing the noise, Bullimore swam out from his boat and was quickly rescued by personnel from Adelaide. HMAS Adelaide then returned both Dubois and Bullimore to Perth.”

The estimated cost of this rescue was six million dollars. However, rescue costs are difficult to calculate, and while Webb Chiles might not agree with a pickup, I think she should be at whatever financial cost.

Criticism is so easy from an armchair. She’ll be terrified right now, but thankfully the boat she’s in is nearly unsinkable… Five watertight bulkheads, a hull loaded with foam designed for the very ocean she is in. I have no idea why she is sailing where she is right now, however this is what she’s experiencing:

It’s a calculated gamble to sail anywhere, at any time, but we can lessen the potential negative outcome of that risk, by succumbing to natures seasonable characteristics…

It’s winter in the southern hemisphere, and even at the best of times, it’s the world’s most terrifying ocean. Whether you’re 16, or 55 years old is irrelevant.

nick.

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.]