Approaching Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey, I saw masts behind the breakwater, and hoped I was able to anchor in what looked like a nice, well protected place to park a boat after being at sea for 28 days. I really only chose this anchorage as my first landing point from Antigua because Stefan recommended it, and I didn’t have much other information on anywhere else. After the stress of being fog bound since 3am, I finally had some visibility, and so sat on the bow, the tiller lashed with a bungie cord. On arrival, I looped around three boats at anchor, trying to get a lay of the land, and then dropped the hook with 30ft of chain. I thought I’d be relieved, able to relax, but instead, I just started hopping around the boat in a mild frenzy. Already it seemed as if the past month was a distant memory. Birds, dorados, squalls and eddy’s had been replaced by trying to find the closest diner to get a Californian Deluxe hamburger and caesar salad with extra chicken. Phillip rowed over to congratulate me with a banana (’I bet that’s the first piece of fresh food you’ve had in a while!’) and a cold beer. I ate the banana and drank the beer in alternating mouthfuls, and borrowed Phillip’s dinghy to row into shore for the aforementioned feast.

The woman at the diner was flattered that she was only the second person I’d spoken to in nearly a month, and was equally impressed by my appetite. The burger was bliss, the salad enormous, and the root beer just as I’d remembered. The tennis was playing on a TV in the back, I flipped through the New York Times, and blended in perfectly with the crowd. For the first time on my entire trip, I felt a little smug, maybe even a little chuffed at how far I’d come. I didn’t feel a lot after the Atlantic; I’ll admit to being excited, but I didn’t have much of a sense of achievement. This felt somewhat different, and I celebrated with another mug of root beer, and three coffees each filled to the brim with those tiny little milks you receive a plate full of.

Buzzing up main street, Atlantic Highlands, I rang the 1-800 number you’re instructed to, regarding Customs & Immigration. Quietly I was rather amazed, that after all the hoopla concerning security, that I’d just sailed into US waters, rowed ashore and eaten American beef without a single person batting an eyelid. I was instructed to visit Port Newark to clear in, and walked back to the boat, wondering where and how to get there. There are two things you can’t survive without in America: A car and a cell phone. Public transport is not exactly as accessible as in Europe, and the Verizon public phones never work, if of course you can find one. Approaching the marina on the walk back, I decided to break my curiosity, and ask a man with his dog sitting on the bench. He looked at me quizzically, and instead of telling me where Port Newark was, barraged me with a long set of questions. I was a little confused, since I was the one supposed to be asking the questions. He then flat out refused to believe my story. As in, ‘I do not believe you sailed across the Atlantic in a 26ft boat, you’re lying’. Rather bemused, I sat down and took out my paperwork. Handing over my British registry certificate, he was still skeptical. He then asked for my passport, and showed me his badge: Of all the people on the planet to ask, I had just found an off-duty Special Customs Agent. I handed over my passport, and eventually he warmed to my story, and we introduced. He offered to drive me into Port Newark in the morning, and showed me his house, so I wouldn’t get lost the next morning.

Back on Constellation, my brother whom I hadn’t seen for over two years, rode a speed-cat over from Manhattan, and on epic row to the ferry dock, the Canadian yacht Mistletoe took pity on my plight, and offered me their motor dinghy. I zoomed over, found my long lost brother, and zoomed back. In the meantime, the lovely crew of Mistletoe put together a bag of beer, pasta, fruit and a huge freshly cooked steak of just-caught stripe bass. Catching up with my brother over beer and bass, I gave the grand tour of Constellation, which really isn’t very grand, and can be done by sitting on any of the bunks: As the Norwegians in the Canaries noted, the great thing about such a tiny boat is, you can sit anywhere while cooking, navigating and almost helming without moving from your seat!

The following morning, I rowed my brother back to the ferry for his return-to-work, and I ran up the street for my lift into Port Newark. My new friend in Atlantic Highlands absolutely took me under his wing, and caught me puffing up the street on his way to find me. We stopped at a roadside store for coffee and a Buffalo Donut, which was so incredible and utterly decadent, all I could mutter was ‘that was an impressive donut’, to which at a later date he could not help but recall in dapper Australian English, my ridiculous comment to his entire family at the dinner table.

Entering the large Customs & Immigration building in Port Newark, it turned out the man behind the desk and my generous host had long standing mutual friends, and so everything ran exceptionally smoothly, the fee waived and my cruising permit extended for a full year. After the quick clear-in procedure, I was dropped off at Newark trainstation to take a quick visit into Manhattan. As I exited the train near the World Trade Centre, I wondered what had just happened. Everything had been so quiet and distant for so long, and I’d just walked into one of the largest and most notorious cities on the planet. Like a stunned mullet, I walked up the streets and finally found a cafe with no one in it, and recuperated in the corner. A few more corners, and I was ready to go home.

I’d vowed to leave the next day for Coney Island, but on my row back, I suddenly remembered I hadn’t really slept properly for 28 days. I got back to the boat and passed out for 14 hours. The next day I swapped out a dirty fuel filter, and was invited for dinner by the Agent, resulting in a warm family dinner, which was nice to be part of after all the solo adventuring.

Photo by Tony Leigh

Motoring into Sheepshead Bay, Coney Island, through fog and across Ambrose channel, the ferris wheels and hotdog billboards not far behind me, a sailing instructor sailed past and offered to let me use the showers at the Miramar sailing club. The invitation was heartily accepted, and I finally had my first real shower since the Canary Islands, months ago. At anchor, a long lost friend and my brother visited again, at which we indulged in the small stock Spanish beer stores hidden in the bilge, and bowls of New England Clam Chowder with marinated mussels, from the famous Clam Bar on Emmons Ave.

I could get used to all this.

nick

After spending a few days in and around the muddy mangrove area of English harbour, I went on a long walk through some fenced off areas across the lagoon, got kicked out of some hotel grounds by security, and found the most beautiful decrepit house in the world:

I’ve put an offer in for $60 American dollars - They tell me the deal is pending…!

Constellation is that tiny boat you can see through the trees.

After my walk, I found a beautiful little beach:

I sat down for a few hours, and read Thor Heyerdahl’s wonderful Kon-tiki. I felt terribly guilty just sitting there on the white sand when Constellation was in need of preparation, however those feelings soon departed, as I began the construction of a raft out of flotsam and let it drift away in the bay.

Walking back, I wondered why I wasn’t anchored over on the other side of English harbour, where I could go swimming everyday. I’m told Lord Nelson woke up every morning, and promptly had six buckets of water thrown over him, for his ‘daily hygiene routine’. After that he drank a quart of goats milk, and then complained about the mosquitos of the previous night, loudly exclaiming “damn this infernal hole!”, so the entire harbour could hear. However, I’m sure as the day went by, even Lord Nelson must have grown to appreciate his surroundings again. So I decided for my hygiene routine (and, I must admit, I haven’t had a proper shower since Las Palmas in Gran Canaria, circa the 26th of March) - The closest I’ve come (under strict and self-imposed sweet water conservation rules) is the dumping of 2 litres squarely over my head - A mere three times since that fateful day in March. So, while I couldn’t afford, nor find a personal hygiene assistant, what I needed was a daily swim. I guess that explains why Jack left so quickly… Here is my public apology!

Really, that’s the colour of the water. Promise.

I edged up as close as I could to the beach, next to this beautiful Cornish Trader, owned by ex-merchant seaman Peter, from the white cliffs of Dover:

I swam over and circled his boat to check it out, thinking it looked like a beefed up Cornish Crabber, which I guess is exactly what it turned out to be. Built in 1979, Peter bought ‘Rainbow’ brand new, and upon asking when he crossed the Atlantic, he looked at me sheepishly and said ‘1989′. Ha! He’s been sailing up and down these islands and the East coast of America ever since. I think he was rather excited to have met an Australian, and kept mentioning the cricket (which was currently playing on his TV in the cabin). Unfortunately when it comes to popular sports, I know very little. He kept mentioning players and cricket grounds, and I nodded agreeably with everything he said, blissfully ignorant of how good a player Brian Lara really was.

As we sat drinking tea, an enormous Catamaran with fifty drunken tourists came speeding up to our private paradise, as if attempting to play ‘chicken’ with our stationary boats. It proceeded to beach itself in the sand, and let loose it’s store of pasty white tourists into the bay. After the noisy tourists left, a turtle swam by the boat, with what must have been fifty years of growth on its back. Someone should introduce him to International Antifoul.

During my daily hygiene routine, with a set of goggles on, I came across a pile of chain underneath my boat. I spent 20 minutes diving down to find each end of it, thinking it was probably a mooring. I was pleasantly suprised to find it had two stainless steel shackles on the end of it, and wasn’t attached to anything! It’s diameter was enormous, and weighed a ton - Constellation could probably anchor off the chain alone, with nothing on the other end! Getting the dinghy over, I hauled it up, to the suspicious eyes of the boats around me, who I’m quite certain thought I was a mooring thief. Not wanting to be labeled ‘The Great Ground Tackle Pirate of English Harbour’ (or rather, wanting to named exactly that, but afraid of its consequences), I dropped the chain and got back to my boat. At dusk I dived down and attached one end underwater to my existing chain, and will pull up my anchor when I leave, quite innocent of the fact that there is a loose 12mm length of chain attached to it. So, while I was worried about my lack of chain (remember, 35ft was all I could afford, at $2.76 a foot, duty free), I now feel confident Constellation could sit rock solid in full hurricane strength winds, and I could sit onboard cooking pasta, oblivious to the carnage and uprooted trees being flung past my port window.

I previously mentioned my camera had died on the Atlantic, which it had (it’s alive again after I hard rest it). I managed to take a few photos, and found this video looking to the stern of Constellation. Other than the footage on the video camera, it’s all I have, and sorry for not making it pretty or editing it - But you get an idea of what it’s like out there:

While this has all been going on, I’ve been chipping away at the tasks that need to be done on Constellation, and also spending a lot of time collecting information for my trip up to New York. I’ve been assisted greatly by several Americans and Canadians, and now feel much more confident about what I’m doing and where I’m going. Not having any almanacs or cruising books on the area, I was really at a loss of what to do - I felt grossly underprepared. Nevertheless, I now have an enormous amount of information, from tidal data, charts, and first hand information and advice for my trip into New York harbour. I’ll detail things a bit more in the post I make before setting sail. I said I was going on the weekend, but heck, can I have one more day in paradise before I break back into 40 degree latitudes? I think so.

Monday it is.

nick.

P.S Before I forget, I haven’t blown the money I raised over the Atlantic on electric winches or rum parties - Jack had the idea of attempting to raise the remaining $275 to buy a full bridge with my North American voyage of 1552nm. So that’s what I’m going to do - The $400 already raised is in a separate savings account with a rum lock on it. A ‘rum lock’ is a special option now offered by Lloyds TSB to poor sailors, smugglers and misfits.

P.P.S Thanks to everyone on the subscription list that responded to my ’spamming’ in order to test that things were working again. If you’re on the subscribe list, and are reading this but didn’t receive a notification… Please let me know.

Once again, Jack flew in from Berlin to St Lucia via Miami, to continue filming, and of course to use the work angle as a great excuse to fly closer to the equator, where the water is a blue like no other, and the mangoes are handmade in heaven. I was most happy to see a familiar face after the Atlantic, as admittedly I’d had a few small pangs of loneliness once I made landfall. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Sailing alone is not lonely, but walking through crowded streets and watching people with their friends and family in familiar surroundings is.

We both felt ceaselessly hassled in Rodney Bay, where one step onto land seemed to attract a taxi from nowhere, or attempts to sell ‘medicinal drugs’ (’hey mon, they call me the doctor!’). Unfortunately the poverty in this part of the world can be extreme, and one mustn’t forget that amongst the white beaches, leafy palms and comparatively meaningless endeavors like crossing oceans to find paradise, are conversely the everyday surroundings of the poorest of people, netting for dinner in shallow waters, or selling hats woven from coconut leaves to white tourists to feed families. The lines of trust also feel blurred, as you have to develop a new sense of authenticity to work out whether the fruit man rowing up to your boat on a broken surfboard, to sell you avocados who exclaims ‘welcome to paradise’, is just playing up for the stupid guy in the sailing boat, or whether he’s genuine. I still haven’t worked out the formulae, and am probably overanalysing the situation, when what I really should be doing is just getting back to watching the kids dive off the pier, racing each other back to shore, or swimming in the water myself.

Eventually I received an email notifying me that my Australian passport with US visa was waiting for me at the DHL Castries office, and we ventured into town. Before I continue, I’d just like to mention as a side note, that I’m screaming through the entire Antilles region because of DHL and customs Madrid: Their bureaucracy stalled me in the Canaries for two months, which was time set aside to explore this region further… It greatly disappoints me, and seeing the DHL lettering in Castries set off a wave boiling blood, as I walked past another stall selling johnny cakes and fried chicken, with the situation really dawning on me as to how much I was missing because of the entire debacle. That all being said, this blog post is being powered by the generous sponsorship from Andre & Intertoys, with each electron coming at you directly from the Caribbean sun, via 86watts of solar panels hanging off the boat, so not all is lost.

As Jack took a street shot in Castries, a man roughly my age approached, with a tiger tattooed on the top of his hand, dark sunglasses, wearing a bandanna and a NYC badged baseball cap. At first Jack and I looked at each other, as if exclaiming ‘do we run or tell this guy we don’t want to buy anything’, however we became somewhat perplexed when he took a genuine interest in the film, and seemed to exude an air uncommon knowledge on the topic. This street corner meeting turned out to be one of the most surreal experiences of my land-based voyages: We’d ended up crossing paths with a highly intelligent music producer and hip-hop artist, who took as on a whirlwind tour through Castries. The natural talent of a rap singer is an innate sense of urban poetry, so as we walked, this man spun off what seemed like an endless barrage of quirky facts, theories and odd word groupings, introducing us to his aunt selling Guyanian gold, his rasta friend selling everything, and a man owning a bizarre medicine premises called ‘The French Shop’, which sold magic powders and ancient tins of secret crushed herbs. Tiny glass bottles with labels which looked hot off the press circa 1950 crowded the shelves, another full of aerosols containing love potions and spray on good luck. Jack was only mentioning mountain voodoo the day before, and here we were, possibly at the source!

Our trip through Castries peaked as we became part of an elaborate prank at the St Lucian culture centre. As our man explained a recent Taiwanese donation to the centre, designed to help fund local cultural works, and it’s mysterious disappearance, we embarked on a mock documentary, posing as a BBC camera crew to shake things up. Jack and I were soon quizzed for business cards, however the quick thinking music producer evaded our discovery, by exclaiming that no one could talk to us since we were under signed contract! So standing there on the hill in the cultural centre, Jack and I looked at each other wondering whether we’d fallen into a black hole at The French Shop, or whether our realities had just morphed onto the set of a Richard Linklater film. Either way, Jack’s tape kept rolling, as we proceeded through higher meditations and conspiracy theories at an alarming rate, somewhat dumbfounded by this unique human discovery we’d made on the corner street of a ghetto in Castries, St Lucia.

St Lucia on the whole was rather weird, and I would suggest that sailors get away from Rodney Bay, and check out the more ‘real’ parts of the region. Too soon it was time to leave, charts were purchased, and Martinique was scratched off the list of islands to visit: I started to cull islands because charts were too expensive… Moving on directly to Dominica, winds were light and fluky, and I was struggling to make many miles. Eventually I made an anchorage that wasn’t much of an anchorage at all, with an odd NW wind blowing, I ended up having to take a buoy. I snuck into town without clearing customs because they were closed, and walked up the street amongst goats and chickens, purchasing the worlds greatest mangoes, and finding a hidden bakery with an assortment of strange flour-based goods. The next day strange winds were once again encountered, and I only made it to Portsmouth, at the northern end of Dominica, which was by no means a disappointment. Again, missing customs opening times, I snuck ashore in the dinghy, and walked up the street into town, as groups of men built like tanks hung out on windowsills and in trucks, as I dawdled along in board shorts and a red tshirt, feeling well out of place, and quietly wondering whether I was going to be beaten up for looking like the stupidest tourist in town.

Dominica

Dominica

Fortunately I survived Portsmouth, my fears entirely unfounded, as the sun set over palm trees walking along the beach, a bag of un-ripe avocados and passion fruits in my hand, wondering whether this entire experience was real or not. Hauling up anchor in the morning, the wind swung around to a light easterly, and Constellation finally barreled across the stretch of sea between Dominica and Guadeloupe, where the winds howled, averaging six knots in the day-glo blue Atlantic. Again, general strangeness was encountered in the lee of the island, and a 2kt current pushed us back to a small anchorage near Pigeon Island, complete with a lighthouse that looked as if it had been transported directly from Brittany, in France. A live band played onshore, pasta was cooked, and the following day 13nm was battled in continuing flukiness until the clear waters between Guadeloupe and Antigua were found, at which point Constellation took off like frightened racehorse all the way to the gorgeous English Harbour, Antigua. The sun had just set, with a full moon on the starboard quarter as August the mighty Yanmar powered us through the headlands into a natural harbour, fenced in with mangroves, full of megayachts and buildings of English charm. One can almost smell the hot tar and see the men working in overheating sail lofts from two hundred years ago, as much effort has been put into maintaining the harbour to an amazingly original state. Waking up, I’m greeted by a polished classic ketch from Bristol on the port side, and the Admirals Inn on the starboard side, surrounded by green flora and the morning calls of roosters hidden amongst the brush.

Guadeloupe

Guadeloupe

As wonderful and romantic as all this may sound, the seasons are rolling by, and I’m going north, to New York, as per my plan from some months ago. I really have no idea how things will work out once I arrive up there, but it’s always best to just keep going. It’s when you stop that the momentum is lost, and I feel that there will be some good opportunities, as well as friends and family I simply can’t wait to see, back in higher latitudes.

I’ve sketched an idea in my head that I’ll leave this weekend, either for Bermuda, or direct to New York. The advantage of a Bermuda stop is to wait for a good quality forecast for the remainder of the journey into New York, however I really am wanting to get there rather quickly… Antigua is an expensive region to be provisioning in, and don’t forget the voyage to New York is over half of another Atlantic crossing… It’s no walk in the park, and again, I’m low on funds, having some big problems with a bill from Germany which had been festering for an entire year, and resulted in an incredible outlay of money. I’ve rested this morning, and spent an hour in customs, so it’s time to start putting together a provision list, and also a list of jobs on Constellation before we depart.

moby nick.

So, what on earth have I been waiting for? Or is it all a big farce, so I don’t have to cross the Atlantic? Actually, no. I’ve been patiently (rather, impatiently!) waiting on two solar panels (yes, two!) and a regulator to arrive from Hamburg, courtesy of the very generous Andre, from ‘AJ van der Weiden thodn Intertoys De Symfonie‘, in Nieuw Vennep, Netherlands. Yes, truly, a Dutch toy store is helping me out! We discussed the options, and while a boatload of toys would have definitely kept me occupied on my crossing, what I really needed was some way to generate energy (other than with the engine) to keep things running on my long passage. Remember, I have an enormous home entertainment system, including Playstation, Desktop PC and 82inch plasma TV onboard - ‘August the mighty Yanmar’ simply couldn’t keep up with it all… But seriously, generosity out of nowhere astounds yet again. While I am actually waiting for the panels to arrive (for some reason they’re still in Madrid…), you can see it’s all been for a good reason, and I’m very humbled for the generous assistance from Andre, who approached me and has been very fun to deal with. For the boat sticker, we decided to make something a little different. Remember, the tag-line of the website is ‘Bigoceans, Tiny Boat’? - So we made a modified version:

If you’re in Holland, be sure to stop by and say hello to Andre in his store, and don’t forget to say hi from me! Thanks Andre.

I also had the opportunity to to put an Autosystems sticker on the hull, which was long overdue - Their support has been instrumental from the very beginning of my trip, and still continues today - Thank you so much!

Other than hanging off of the side of my boat trying to put decals on in strong winds (not recommended), my days have been passing rather quickly. I’ve been swimming a lot, and spending time with ‘Pirata Paul’ and friends (Sabrina in the middle, Hector on the right)

Paul has been at the core of making sure I don’t die of starvation, regularly inviting me over for breakfast and dinner. If he’s not being called Pirata (Pirate) Paul, he is otherwise known as ‘Master Chef’, and always manages to produce a veritable feast of home cooked food. Our conversations have also morphed into a very strange combination of languages. Beceause Paul is half German, and therefore speaks the language, we mix everything up to converse. So, with my limited German, and the (very) few Spanish words I know, we converse in a rather curious manner, where a sentence may be linguistically confused in three different languages. As an example, “I would like the boat in the corner” may become “Ich möchte (German) the (English) barco (Spanish) in the (English) ecke (German)”. I’m often the let-down in languages, and of course that sentence is actually broken in every language, but we still manage to communicate by all means necessary! Thanks Captain Paul!

Several days ago I met The American again. Remember him, the guy with the cargo ship which is used as a private vessel? Well, he invited me for dinner, and of course, I jumped at the invitation - Not only because it meant home cooked food, but because I knew it was going to be a night with many a stories to remember.

To begin with, I got the grand tour of his cargo ship. Inside was what one would consider a ‘normal’ kitchen. It was full of standard appliances - Microwave, fridges, freezers, gas oven and cooktop, including a large sink, bench and pantry. Coming from a boat where I can’t stand up, the kitchen alone was worth a visit… The captains room was of course… Just like a normal room, but instead of seeing trees when you woke up, you see a great expanse of ocean, or in this case (being in a commercial harbour) enormous tankers and ferries, only metres away. Down below in the engine room, was a 400 horsepower Detroit Diesel, large battery bank and hydraulic system to run the crane, all in a space larger than my entire ship. Inside the forepeak of the vessel, lay a full workshop, with plasma cutters, welding equipment, air compressors, workbenches and a three phase diesel generator. As you moved forward on the port side, there was an entrance into the cavernous cargo hold. As you descend the railed stairs, the enormous hold opens up, full of boxes and shelves, with what must have been a years supply of food. It actually looked like a mini-market, with rows and rows of tinned cans, and 20 litre containers of sugar and flour. At the very rear of the cargo hold, lay a Ford Fiesta, which is craned out on suitable occasions. Next to the Fiesta was a Ducati motorcycle, and a four wheel motorbike, surrounded by ten brand new washing machines, five sewing machines, boxes of boots, TV’s and other assorted appliances. It was phenomenal, and I was mostly speechless.

Basically, The American is a rogue trader. There is apparently a limited supply of whitegoods to the Cape Verde islands, and he takes advantage of the situation by importing these items on his own, which in turn funds the operation of his ship (the fuel alone costs 200euros/day). Wherever he is, if he sees a bargain, he’ll buy everything in bulk, with the possibility of selling it sometime in the future. While taking all this in, the water was on the boil in the kitchen, and we moved back up the maze of ladders, where he prepared bolognese sauce from scratch, and told me of his adventures.

As we finished the dinner, he had some ‘things’ he wanted to show me. After a brief minute, The American returned with an enormous stainless steel machete, and what looked like a black pistol. Excuse my French, but holy shit, for a brief second, I wondered if I was going into the huge deep freezer directly behind me. He took the machete out of the sheathe, handing it to me while commenting on the quality of the stainless blade. I was as you can imagine, somewhat taken aback; I’d just helped this guy feed dough through a hand-cranked pasta machine, and now there was a machete and a pistol on the table. After looking at the machete and agreeing it was nice stainless (actually, I have no idea what constitutes nice stainless… But I wasn’t exactly going to argue), he handed me the pistol. Now, I’ve shot .45 and 9mm handguns in a shooting gallery before, and this black pistol had the markings of a Beretta and was well built and heavy in the hand. The weight of a weapon is always what strikes you first, and this thing had all the hallmarks of a real gun. I was relieved to find out, after requesting to see the ammunition, that it was a ‘Luftpistol’, made in Germany to exact Beretta specifications and dimensions. In essence, it was an air powered BB gun. Relieved that I would live another day, his next ‘thing’ was a book of photos, which I thought would be a much calmer show-and-tell, full of photos of his former sailboats and dogs.

As the picture of his Dobermans on the next page showed up, he grabbed my upper arm with great strength, to which I nearly fell off the chair. Unsure of what on earth he was doing, he began explaining how a Doberman bites. As I relaxed my shoulder, he grabbed it again, scaring the crap out of me. Apparently, this second demonstration was to show that Dobermans were smart, and after biting the first time, wait until the victim relaxes before continuing their assault. Thankfully the Doberman experiment ended rather quickly, as I redirected the conversation to a pretty picture of a boat in his photo album.

Still with the pistol on the table, and the photos finished, he turned around and showed me a scar the shape of a small circle on his neck. “What do you think that is?” He asked… I said it looked like a bullet hole, which is exactly what it turned out to be. An attempt to rob The American in Bolivia, had resulted in him being without a doubt, the luckiest man alive. A headshot had smashed through his teeth, and continued on through the back of his neck, missing both his jaw and anything vital.

In normal circumstances, I would have thought he was pulling my leg. But there is no doubt in my mind, that The American was truly shot in the head by Bolivian muggers, and is by all rights the most insane individual I’ve ever had the pleasure (fear) of meeting.

nick.

If you’ve been reading regularly, you’ll know I’m stuck here in Gran Canaria waiting on equipment to arrive via the worlds most aggravating postal system. Obviously post is still delivered by horse, cart, and steamship… I’ve been expecting this stuff to turn up any day, and every day I’ve anxiously done my run-around, looking and worrying, and getting increasingly concerned. A friend offered to lend me a Gennaker (a large sail, like a Spinnaker) for my crossing, so I could speed across the Atlantic in 24 hours (no, not really), but unfortunately this package ended up becoming cursed, with couriers unable to find the pickup address, to getting stuck in a warehouse for lack of bureaucratic paperwork. In the end, I just had to tell the courier to send it back - It was becoming a very unfunny comedy of errors. If I had known from the beginning I was going to be here for a month or more, I guess I would have made an effort to actually do some interesting things. On occasion my anxious personality overrides everything else, and I can do little else but busy myself with concern. I could have sailed over to the other islands, done some more exploring here in Gran Canaria, worked harder on learning Spanish, taken up ocean swimming (!), or a myriad of other interesting activities. But instead, I just spent the last three weeks thinking I would be “leaving any day now”…

So this morning Paul came with me to the post office, to help translate my postal worries. Eventually after what seemed like at least 15 minutes of rapid-fire Spanish, the women decided to actually look into the problem, and finally found the last received information on the whereabouts of the item was on the 13th of Feb, in Madrid. She said it was on a container ship headed for the islands, and expected it to be awhile yet… So I finally resigned myself to just getting on with things, and letting the parcel arrive whenever it felt the need. Most people probably would have come to this conclusion somewhat earlier, but what can I say… I have accepted my fate, and started filling my day with interesting jobs and activities instead of needless worry. Over the past few days I have begun listening to Spanish learning tapes, dusted off my German book, and even begun listening to a 20 hour French course. I bought a cheap set of computer speakers, and mounted them in the cabin, which has been probably the greatest improvement to general living aboard so far. I’m also becoming acutely aware of my unique situation, and rather than waste my days away with impatience, I could really be more productive on many different levels, taking care of all those things I’ve been putting off.

In an attempt to do some exercise, The Austrian (now referred to as Chris) said I should come swimming with him. Sure I thought, why not, the weather is nice, and the office hasn’t called, so hasta luego, I’m going to the beach! I borrowed my next door neighbors hot pink flippers, grabbed my shorts (or rather jeans with the legs cut off), and we set off. After an incredibly lengthy walk through Las Palmas, finally we began to descend down to beach level, and resume the days swimming activities. As I stood there in my unevenly cut shorts, pink flippers on, about to jump in and act like an Otter for the next 20 minutes, Chris donned a special wetsuit, goggles, and informs the lifeguard that “he might be a while” and proceeds to vanish off over the horizon. As I stood there at waste level, tripping over myself, Chris had already vanished beyond the breaking waves and turned right, for his daily three hour swim! Some people like to sail away from land, and it seems others enjoy swimming where land is but a dot on the edge of the sky. Chris is one of those crazies I keep managing to attract (and hey, don’t say they’re mirrors!) who both pique my interest and test my human sanity detection circuitry. Chris is out here looking after a boat, which seems to have had one of the saddest fates I’ve heard. A German father and son team sailed down here, on route to a Caribbean circuit. The father stood out the front of the toilets here in the marina, smoking, and suddenly died of a massive and entirely unexpected heart attack. The trip was clearly off, the son going back to Germany, agreeing to let Chris look after the vessel until arrangements could be made. What a horrific end to the trip of a lifetime.

When you loiter around a place long enough, people eventually become familiar faces on the street. You start remembering the names of the little French kids playing on the dock, notice the recent German ship has a new crew, and people start asking you about your missing post or finally inquire as to what your name is. Two weeks ago I met Carl at the infamous Sailors Bar, after subconsciously noticing we were both out here alone. There must be an unspoken rule, in that there is a period of time in waiting before one makes the effort to strike up a conversation. Because sailing is so transient, sometimes it’s almost a fruitless exercise making any kind of connection with someone, because it’s highly likely they will be gone the next day, never to be seen again. Nevertheless I was glad to have met Carl, a singlehander doing a delivery of his former yacht to the new owner in Guadaloupe. We spoke casually on and off, but I recognised there was something more to him, and I was unusually disappointed to see him off yesterday. It was really an unexpectedly intense experience, as I stood on the pontoon watching him sail out through the breakwater, I really felt a pang in my heart for his undertaking. Not a feeling of fear for his safety, but really just a level of understanding in what he was doing, and even a glimpse of what was to come. There was such a quietness in the air, and even an early onset feeling of solitude to his departure; this act of a lone person sitting there in the cockpit of their boat, in something so small, about to voyage across such a great expanse of ‘nothingness’. I could sense his nervousness as I pushed his bow off the pontoon, even though he was highly experienced. I watched him sail out without glancing back, departing sans spectacle, as people nosily watched from the cockpits of their boats with disinterested looks, as another boat left the marina. The problem is, some boats are so incredibly different than others.

Out here you meet all manner of folk, but only very rarely do you meet someone who speaks not of theories, ideas or stories, but someone who only exudes their experience. These are the most exceptional people you can ever hope to meet, and if detected, must always be given all manner of questioning, in order to learn as much as you possibly can. Carl spent ten years sailing around the world with his wife and three children, but did the journey with immensity, surviving quite literally by his own wit and hard work, feeding his family at times with only fish and island fruits. He is the type of person that no matter what you did to him; whether you dropped him the desert, or threw him on a rickety raft in the Atlantic, he would survive and carry on with little fuss. I guess in a sense, this is one of the reasons I’m out here myself; to build the kind of character that is strong, experiential and effortless - An attempt to wash away those illusions we’ve encased ourselves in, whether we constructed them on our own, or had them thrust upon ourselves by others.

It would be nice if everyone who reads this, could spare a thought for Carl, because right this very second, he is out there alone, fishing, reading, tending to his vessel, wholly insignificant, and blissfully in the middle of nowhere; metaphorically like each and every one of us.

nick

It’s the 21st of Feb today, which means, in five days I will have been here for one entire month. I’ve only spent that long in two other places so far, the last La Coruna, and the one before that, Amsterdam. So far, Amsterdam/Holland was the most interesting place to be stuck. No offence to Spain, but I haven’t exactly been stuck in Barcelona or Madrid, which I think would both be pretty interesting places to spend a month. In La Coruna or Las Palmas, there is only so much one can do without a penny. I’ve done all the exploring I can, I’ve done all the park bench sitting you could ever want to, and I’ve sampled all the 50cent ice creams you can buy.

Lying in my bunk, I remembered back to my brief encounter with Montreal, back in 2004. I travelled up from New York City, and found myself in a city I couldn’t speak the language, wondering how I got there. Which is a lot of what I do these days… But I was so excited at the time, it felt like the train had gone across the Atlantic, and I really was in Europe. After eating a croissant and finding my Hostel, I explored the city like I always do: By walking and getting myself lost, and avoiding anywhere that might have tourists. As I did so, I learnt about the Quebecois, or more specifically, the strong undercurrent of locals who wanted to separate from Canada and become and independent country. I searched out these revolutionaries, but since all I could say in French was “Hello, Good Night, and I can’t speak French”, my investigations were severely hindered. Not to give up, I visited a small record store, asking for music on the subject, and bought a hip-hop CD which was supposed to be all about the fight. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word, but it had a nice beat track, and we all know how stupidly hip it is to be listening to French lyrics you can’t understand - It’s some weird anglo saxon thing. Anyway, I know, you’re wondering where the hell this can be going…

There I am, hobbling about my boat (shuffling around with my head down, because there is no standing headroom), when wondered if there might be an undercurrent of people wanting independence from Spain, here in the Canaries. I mean, look at the map - The Canaries are nowhere near Spain, and I can’t really imagine there is much economic importance for either country. Or maybe mainland Spain has a hankering for Canarian bananas, i don’t know. The Canaries surely make all their money from German tourists, requiring little if any handouts from the mainland.

So I went hunting for Canarian Revolutionaries. I started my survey with the people I had met, and they laughed at me. So i went to the marina office, and asked the marina guy. Now he fancies me, and thinks I have nice eyes. But, he does think the Canaries should be independent. “Great”! I thought, there is the possibility for leading a revolt! I had decided I would write up a manifesto on small vessel naval warfare, and test it out here in Gran Canaria. Since my gift to the Canaries would be to lead the naval arm of the fight for independence from Spain, I thought I would ask for naming rights of the islands. I think it’s a fair trade for my skills in sea based fighting. Other decisions will include the official language becoming a cross between Esperanto and Gomerian mountain whistling. I’ve been practicing my Gomerian whistling, and I can now understand myself. I’m not sure if it’s just me whistling, and then talking to myself, but it certainly feels like I’ve mastered the craft. If you think I’m just pulling your leg about the whistling thing, do your research. As for Esperanto, I’ve had a long standing love of this curious language, because it was such a brilliant but failed idea. All those old text books will be on eBay somewhere, so changing languages for the people should be relatively cheap. We will use all profits from the sale of German sausage on the islands to fund the new linguistic program.

Any good navy revolt must also involve an overland mission. This is to rustle the feathers of my overland detractors, and also to give Constellation an opportunity to be the first boat in history to do a Sea to Summit in honour of Timothy Macartney Snape. Remember, the tallest mountain in Spain, is on the Canarian island of Tenerife.

Here is the proposal for the order in which I will conquer the islands, and also my renaming scheme. I think some of you will recognise my naming format. As you can see, I had some trouble with New ACT. Back home in Australia, we had a similar problem with the original ACT… In this case, New New South Wales (more on that later) and New Victoria were fighting over who would be the capital. I made the executive decision to just build another island in the middle. In the design of New ACT, you can see that the island is a perfect sphere. All roads are also circular, and lead nowhere; it is a purpose built island for Government officials, and has no laws, a large red light district and is also the place where the New Years fireworks are launched from, for all the islands to see.

I made New Queensland the smallest, in hopes that it will curb the breeding of any possible political leaders. New Western Canaria is just far away off in the corner, New Northern Territory, is, well, North, and New South Canaria (which erm, isn’t south…) is quite large, because they will be the main grape growing producer, making crisp white wines, since it is the perfect climate for such beverages. New New South Wales was a bit of a naming issue, and I spent a lot of time thinking about it. In the end, I decided that it would be local law to abbreviate it as New² South Wales. New Victoria is central, easy to get to, and generally the best island of the set. What about New Tasmania you ask? Well, it’s the island everyone always forgets…

As the captain of HMS Constellation, I’ve also had to consider who may strike out against the revolt. I’ve done a lot of research, and believe the authorities of differing ranks, are so caught up in their own policing, that I should be relatively safe. I’m quite convinced that there are so many minor authorities (Port Police, Local Police, Guardia Civil, Minor Military Units etc) that they will all be looking after their own concerns, unable to comprehend the goings on of the revolution. Any thoughts of policing outside of the pre-described arena would probably result in some kind of bureaucratic hernia, considering the Spanish have a deep love of red tape.

At this stage, I only seem to have piqued the interest of the marina guy, and I think he has other things on his mind. But I will keep recruiting, searching and planning, unless of course the damn package I’ve been waiting for suddenly arrives. If that’s the case, I’m really just going to have to leave in a hurry. I’ll have a lot of time to hone my skills for the Australian War of Independence on this trip, so not all will be lost.

My apologies to the people of the Canaries, and also to non-Australians who probably don’t get this post at all. It’s really just to articulate how the mind wonders when stuck in warm climates, alone, with little to do. I get a ton of email saying “oh you’re living the dream”, or “you’re so lucky” etc etc. Which in some cases is right, but my god, I promise you it’s not all amazing. Some days I want just go into work, see a movie, see my long lost friends, drink overpriced coffee, or be a vegetable on a comfortable couch somewhere. I would never trade this for the world, but it’s certainly not easy at times, and it definitely is not an incredible adventure every day.

The Germans have a saying, that goes something like “may you always have a handspan of water under your keel”, which basically means don’t ground your boat. My saying is a derivative of the German one, and goes “may there always be at least six knots flowing beneath your keel”. I think for someone who has money, spending a lot of time in port, is an enjoyable thing. You can go do things, like see movies, buy books, spend loads of time sampling restaurants, go shopping etc. But for me, its becoming more and more about the sailing, than the landfall. I think back and almost regret (but not enough to actually really regret anything at all) doing all that damn coastal hopping. I had my reasons, but I’m beginning to think my route should have been: Amsterdam->Brest->La Coruna->Lisbon->Canaries. I don’t have the cash to be a tourist, I only have just enough to keep going… Funnily enough, it’s actually cheaper for me to be making progress, which is what I want to be doing anyway - I’m going to make a concerted effort from now on, to spend more time offshore, making heavy miles. Thankfully I have the Atlantic in front of me!

Nick.

(Happy Birthday Celeste).