His name is Jordan, and he left Oregon last year, to drive around America with his dog, shoot video, think about sailing, and maybe prove to some people (and probably himself), that he’d make an interesting story & an interesting individual to support his ultimate aim of leaving the docklines, on the dock.

“So today I wake up in my broken van out front of Cat Womens house. Nora chases the cats for a while and I get a hot shower. Later we stroll down to moss landing, about a mile from Sally’s. I talk with the Harbor Guys, they’re cool. They have slips available, they don’t run credit checks, and can get me in whenever I’m ready. Now I just have to come up with the slip fees and deposit, much cheaper than Monterey Bay Boat Works. Still lots of money for a guy who just bought a boat, and broke a van…”

He has 180 videos on Youtube from his adventures so far, and I hope he keeps up the video and writing – I’m looking forward to watching the transition from the road to the water… Aboard his Pearson, in Monterey Bay…

And if you’re curious about the title of this post, it’s an old Twitter update from Jordan – The fact he cares about the library elevator being broken, is because he’s paralysed from the waist down. Check out his website here…

See you on the sea sometime Jordan!

Nick.

Modern maritime piracy thrives in the confluence of bottlenecks, poverty and borders. Geographical bottlenecks like the Malacca Straits force international commerce to pass through specific, extremely narrow passages, as alternative routes are economically and/or environmentally unfeasible. The Malacca Straits funnel extraordinary amounts of traffic: Estimates place 70,000 to 94,000 ships a year (averaging 300 ships a day) through one of the world’s narrowest, and most vital shipping channels; in parts just 1.7 nautical miles wide. Acute economic disparity between Indonesia and Singapore provides the incentive to exploit the transport of wealth as a resource.

Batam, one of the nearest major islands to Singapore, and certainly the most developed, was intended to rival its neighbor to the north as part of what became known as the ‘growth triangle’. Initially claimed by General Suharto as his vision during the Konfrontasi, Batam’s industrialization was realized under the control of B. J. Habibie (Suharto’s successor). However, while Singapore grew into a powerful economic force, Batam floundered in political corruption; lofty dreams of financial freedom turned into ecstasy dulled depression, and criminal indulgence. Thousands of Indonesians from throughout the archipelago flocked to Batam’s lucrative promises, leaving behind rural families to support through opportunity in the boomtown.

The Jodoh district is regarded as the seediest district in the tourist town of Nagoya on Batam Island. Locals are frequently warned not to spend too much time there. This is the center for sex tourism, karaoke, dance clubs, massage parlors, and is known for the frequency of murder after dark. The relatively clean well lit main street, Jalan Imam Bonjol, cuts through the center of town. People walk along the largest and nicest hotels, among the super malls and shopping centers. The secondary streets just off the Jalan, however, are far less lit, and the pedestrian population lingers in the shadows. Throughout the day, small groups of men sit atop whatever is available, chatting in the shadows against the buildings, on the street corners, and in the kedai kopi. In the afternoon shadow of the Harmoni Hotel, cast along a back street which houses numerous pubs and parlors, the regions mariner population gathers to drink coffee or tea, gossip, and network for possible employment on the next ship. The name of the kedai kopi I was given was no where to be found. An article written by Peter Gwin for The National Geographic mentioned the coffee shop behind the Harmoni Hotel. Mentioning this to my local host who works for the shipping industry, she told me the name of this coffee shop was Kopi Indah, and that it was a well known sailor coffee shop, as well as a hotbed of activity. Arriving behind the Harmoni Hotel I discovered that the (in)famous Kopi Indah was no more… I walked into a camera shop and asked the people inside where Kopi Indah was located. ‘Here… But it is finished. Closed up.’ Later I was told with a degree of distain that the Chinese bought up the land from the landlord, and turned it into the camera shop which I had wandered into. Asking one of the ojek drivers on the corner where I can find the pelaut (sailors) of the area, he responded, ‘Here? Everyone.’ He then continued to ask what I was looking for: girls, a pub, alcohol? ‘Tidak’, I responded, ‘Saya mau minum teh saja.’ No… I just want to drink some tea. Eager to help, another ojek driver jumped up, grabbed me by the arm, and directed me to a kedai kopi around the corner across the street from the camera shop that used to be Kopi Indah. This is as close as I can get.

The kedai kopi was partially obscured by the only partially open heavy metal garage doors. It is common practice during the month of Ramadan to obscure the interior of any facility that provides food or drink during the fasting hours of the day. Slinking through the narrow opening, I entered into a small coffee shop. There were a handful of men sitting at different tables on opposite sides of the room with four tables empty in between. On the left were a couple of men from the island of Sulawesi. On the right hand side of the room the men were from Java. Each group was engaging in their own respective conversations. Pungent sweet smoke from clove cigarettes filled the air, leaving a thick, oily residue on the baby blue walls. I sat down at one of the vacant middle tables. A television perched over a small dividing wall between the kitchen and the dining room. The television set was tuned to an afternoon news station which announced a new mosque to be built in the neighboring town. I paid close attention to the news. When the owner of the kedai kopi came from around the corner, I asked him if I could have a teh susu. The novelty of a foreigner speaking Bahasa Indonesia interrupted both conversations…

One man lingering outside, upon hearing I was a sailor and a credentialed captain, pulled up a chair next to me and started offering jobs. He pulled out his cell phone, showing me the contacts he had: Chinese, Indian, American, British, Malaysian, Indonesian & Singaporean. He said if I wanted, he could get me a job, and suggested after a while that I follow him back to his place. There is an unnerving frequency with which one finds instant friends in the Riau Islands. Circumspect and cautious, yet after a little pressure I agree to follow him back to his ‘place’ to discuss ‘business.’ I’ve been chatting up the kedai kopi for a couple rounds of teh susu and, I am curious to see where this lead may take me. Between the two of us, and away from crowds, the conversation moves beyond the introductory elements and into more serious talk of the regional politics, of borders, of money, and opportunity…

Piracy in the Straits is a very calculated numbers game. The violence, the theft, the reporting of attempted attacks and boardings to law enforcement agencies; the insurance premiums before and after attacks levied on shipping companies, the amount of ships that pass through the Straits; all of these numbers are calculated at every point, and by every agent. In the Riaus, it’s all business. There are no separatist movements here, religion has nothing to do with it; there is a strong element of smuggling, but not for the purpose of stoking civil unrest. It is simply business.

My friend continues to press me about getting a job through him. He tells me that I can make a couple hundred Singaporean dollars a day as a captain with my credentials. He calls up an associate in Singapore and puts me on the phone with him. I explain that I will not be able to accept work any time soon; that I will be leaving Batam within the week. He tells me that a buleh like me can get these jobs because I am credentialed. The Indonesian seafarers are unable to get jobs which they are otherwise suitable and well trained for, because they lack the official credentials. Credentialing requires an extraordinary amount of money and time which prevents the Indonesians from acquiring them… Thus, the international regulations on security and certifications have progressively set up a new kind of border, one intended to create order and delineate jurisdiction, but one which, like its geopolitical cousin, seemingly encourages, (if not helps) to create motivations, therefore fostering piracy in the Straits…

-Pikey.

If you’d like to discuss this more (perhaps Pikey will answer some questions…)

Check out the forum on this post here.

If you’ve got something interesting to write about, let me know!

I sat near Aggie Grey’s hotel, watching. It was not high ground, and in hindsight, not the most intelligent of decisions. I guess the feelings I experienced were those of people watching fires approach their homes. To go or stay? I watched the harbour recede several times, but with every surge, the danger seemed to lessen. Eventually Police drove by and said they would arrest me for disobeying orders, and demanded I seek higher ground. So I went to the third story of the hotel and waited. I had my laptop and desperately wanted to get online to see some real data. The hearsay was absurd, with nobody having any real information. Internet access across the island went down, and so I waited… Eventually things seemed to go back to normal, and the hotel gave us free breakfast… I walked into town, and was told to leave again – The town was deserted, except for what seemed like potential looters loitering around. I returned to the hotel and waited. No taxis, no people, no internet, and my visiting parents were on the south of the island, staying virtually at sea level in palm huts. Eventually data networks came back online, and I researched the USGS and other government sites for real data. I saw where the earthquake pulse came from, and realised the south of the island would have been most affected. Many locals said there was no damage on the south, but the reality is – It was chaos and no one had any idea what was happening, and with no major media, there was no real news. I attempted to call the resort of my parents, only to get a disconnected line. I returned to the marina, and heard the south was devastated… I ran to my local friend, and we immediately drove south. Everything seemed relatively normal, until we got to sea level. The wave had come at least 150ft inland. Driving along the dirt road to the remote resort, it was clear the water had come in high. Local houses and boats were trashed, rocks strewn across the road. We talked to locals who said everyone had been evacuated to the local church, and so my parents were found safe, but bruised and shaken. While we can pack up and leave, our condolences go out to the family of Virgin Cove Resort, who must now return to lost homes and businesses.

The large reef that surrounds most (if not all?) of Western Samoa offered some protection to the wall of water that hit my parents. The palm huts they were staying in were run down, as my dad was swept into the jungle, across volcanic rock. My mum sought refuge above a cistern as water rushed around her. They were interviewed by an Australian newspaper – Online here.

Thanks to the generous Aggie Grey hotel, and also to Bruce, the regional sales manager for Virgin/Polynesian/Pacific Blue – Who gave up his personal room and drove my parents to the airport this morning at 3am.

I am trying to figure out a way to assist here with Australian aid workers, but, it seems nearly impossible to figure out how to help here… There must also be remote islands who have suffered and will not receive help… If anyone knows aid organisations that are accepting volunteer help, please contact me.

And so now… Constellation and I have experienced tropical waves, towering swells at sea, dodged hurricanes, earthquakes and tsunamis.

And we’re still not home yet.

Nick.

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 6x8ft 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)

Right now, I’m getting quotes and trying to organise the somewhat complex overland trip that has to happen this year. I expect to be trucking Constellation sometime in April, and for myself to be over on the west coast for when she arrives – This is for a scheduled departure across the Pacific in May or early June… Right now I’ve been getting quotes from uShip.com, and the best one so far is around $3,500. If anyone is familiar with hotshot trucking, or has any contacts in the industry who might take a backhaul west, please let me know. I need to confirm a trucking solution very soon, to ensure everything goes to plan.

Much work remains to be done on Constellation, however I hope to get 90% of it done before going overland. With the generous support of Mike Acebo who runs runs the Greenport Brewer Yacht Yard, Constellation has been under his care ever since I first docked way back in June/July of 2008. Mike and everyone at the marina has been exceptionally generous, and we’re also hoping to re-do Constellation’s rig, and install a furler on the foresail before leaving New York. Without the support of Mike and the Brewer yard, there is definitely, and absolutely no way I’d be moving on this year across the Pacific. So, if you’re ever on a boat in Long Island, be sure to visit Brewer Yacht Yard in Greenport and say hello!

In other news, Lee Winters has successfully made it across the Gulf of Mexico. I watched his position closely over the last week, and this evening he managed to jump behind an island in Mexico before the wind picked up too much. Lee’s expression of ‘crying for the first time in his adult life’ and the elation you can detect in his latest blog post, brings back tremendous memories of my own sailing last year… Simon has also just made it across the Atlantic ocean alone, from the Cape Verde islands – He hasn’t updated his map yet, however I know he’s quite happily anchored in St Lucia, the Caribbean!

The feeling of achievement, relief, sadness, and pure joy after a long distance passage alone, is nearly incomprehensible to someone who hasn’t done it, yet I can assure you that both Lee & Simon deserve a really big pat on the back. Congrats!

Nick.

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

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.

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.

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.

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