When I met Rune Monstad in the Canary Islands, he had cycled from South America right up into Canada, before flying to Europe, and is now en route north through Africa, as part of his bicycle circumnavigation. We had a lot in common in our attitudes about what we were doing, and were also equally dogged about finishing what we’d started. However broke, however tired and however angry, we both talked about the incredible generosity we’d encountered along the way, both grateful and suprised at how people reached out in all manner of ways. Rune couldn’t stop talking about how good America had been to him, and right now, I couldn’t agree with him more.

Here at the Brewers Yacht Yard in Greenport, people are helping me left, right and centre to get Constellation seaworthy again. A furler is being installed, my sails are being converted and repaired by Doyle sails, there is talk of a Furuno radar, new standing rigging, and a replacement boom. As a result of a frontpage article in the Suffolk Times (viewable here), I regularly get referred to as ‘Nick’ from people I’ve never met in town, with the article spurring on numerous invitations for dinner, barbecues, offers of assistance on the boat, wine from Long Island wineries, and even a recording studio offering to do a recording, based on the premise of the article mentioning I had a rusty guitar!

If all that wasn’t enough, recently a family motored into the Marina to meet me, holding up the paper to passers by, asking where I was. After a brief meeting, they were back the following week with a proposal: What if a party was thrown to raise money to truck Constellation across America? I was speechless, and I think all I could muster was a ‘Are you kidding? Really?’ I was bowled over by the idea, and within a few days, invitations circulated, the party had a date, and Constellation and I may just get across this great continent as planned! I’d been depressed over the enormity of the scheme, it all be very well to have an idea, but a whole other problem to make it happen. The cost of trucking a 3.5 ton sail boat from New York to San Francisco is no small sum, and sailing back to the Caribbean and through the Panama Canal is also no small feat… The Northwest Passage may be ‘open’, but Constellation told me in a dream, she was no ice breaker, and while Cape Horn beckoned (ha!), I’ll save those latitudes for the aluminium expedition ketch I spend too much time thinking about. So this party nears the end of the month, and with it brings great excitement at the thought of getting closer to solving the age old problem of getting into the Pacific from the Atlantic.

If it seems this blog may have become slightly neglected since I arrived here, I must apologise, it probably has, yet only for good reasons: Life has been full throttle, traveling in and out of the city from Long Island, visiting friends, relatives, racing boats, and generally having the time of my life. I’ve already said that sailing north from the Caribbean was a really good decision, but I have to say it again: Sailing north from the Caribbean was a really good decision.

I mentioned some months ago that I was going to Vancouver for a wedding, and that time has come. I’m terrified of doing the Best Man Speech, which is by far scarier than doing a solo transatlantic… All I can say is, it’s lucky I bought more than one bottle of Mt Gay Rum from Barbados; I’ll have to take mouthfuls of the stuff prior to toasting the the newlyweds, balancing a fine line between doing the speech in a pirate voice and actually not embarrassing myself nor the groom.

I haven’t been doing a great deal of sailing recently, so I hope my land based adventures are enough to keep everyone interested. Below are some photos of a trip to upstate New York:

Bailing

My brother and I

Rock jumping

My brother & Tracy

Next post from latitude 49.25 longitude -123.13.

nick.

At the scheduled rendezvous time, Tony showed up in his boat. I sat in my cockpit, expecting a sail boat to appear at the Coney Island anchorage, but low and behold, a twin hulled powerboat showed up, and Captain Tony was at the helm. Who is Tony? There are so many great characters who I meet along the way, you’re forgiven for not following this sailing soap opera’s list of top celebrities! Tony helped out with Commanders Weather forecasts, and also sent through weather updates and eddy coordinates (remember him? I do.) so I could actually make landfall, instead of spending my time as flotsam in the Atlantic, when all I really wanted was a bagel with cream cheese in New York.

So for the first time I met my weather saviour, and he’d now just offered to dedicate a day to following me into Manhattan to photograph my approach. As you can imagine, photos of yourself sailing when you’re singlehanded are most always impossible, normally achievable only by sitting in the cockpit and pointing the camera at yourself, which always makes me feel like Narcissus re-incarnated. As we motored along, I did 3.8kts, which is ‘August the mighty Yanmars’ current top speed (I think there must be something wrong…), and poor Tony in M/V ‘Sea Lion’ idled their twin 140hp engines and snapped a lovely set of photos, which I am incredibly thankful for:

Of course the highlight was anchoring outside of Liberty Island, which I thought would be impossible, but the reality is, you can get really close, and if you don’t mind the swell, drop the anchor and get the best view in town. As my plan was to go up to the 79th St Boat Basin, we didn’t stay too long, as it’s first come first served, and I really wanted a mooring for the night. I jokingly mentioned that Tony could more easily just tow me to Manhattan, to which he showed a funny grin and setup a tow rope. Constellation then proceeded to be hauled up the Hudson River at 8kts, the wind vane bracket disappearing under water, and Constellation creating a surfable wake.

At the Boat Basin, I was entitled to a mooring as far away from dinghy dock as possible… As I heaved my rowing oars back to land, a(nother) Canadian boat took pity on my back, and towed me in with an outboard. In a single day, both Constellation and Bob the Leaky Duck had tows! On land I managed to get myself so lost in the subway system, I nearly ended up back in Coney Island. My brother gave up on me, as I kept buying packets of gum for quarters, so I could try and call him. As my luck continued, I met an aspiring actress who loaned me her phone, and I eventually found my brother, who came all the way back to pick up his silly sibling who couldn’t navigate the subway (no GPS signal so far underground, and the stars are blocked out… That’s my excuse anyway.)

On Saturday friends came down to see the mighty Constellation, whom I brought into the marina for show-and-tell. Friends from Australia were in town, my uncle & cousin and my ‘mates in the states’ all came down to visit, which was most exciting; such social excitement after the great voyage!

Captain Tony wrote all my tides down for the next days voyage, and I set off with a ripping Hudson for Hell Gate. I met Phil again who had also sailed up from Atlantic Highlands, and we departed together. I was terribly lazy and just decided to follow him until we got into Long Island Sound; what a mistake. By the time I’d reached the Brooklyn Bridge, what can only be called a squall of gigantic proportions arose. I was so lazy, I hadn’t even bothered to look at a chart, as Phil disappeared in a dense fog, and I couldn’t figure out what was up, down, left or right. Eventually after numerous trips into the cabin, awash with rain after each trip dumped the water caught in my wet weather gear, I pinpointed where I was, as our speed mysteriously increased. By the time we’d reached mid-Hell Gate, Constellation and I topped out at 9.4kts over the ground, skidding from port to starboard in the currents, the tiller going back and forth to keep us going in roughly a straight line. A super yacht approached from the stern, doing the same ‘dance of Hell Gate’, overtook and honked in mutual appreciation for the British ensign (which she was also flying). (At least I think it was a honk of appreciation… It could have meant ‘get the heck out of my way!’)

By Long Island sound, a breeze showed signs of intensifying, and I launched the genoa. Ten minutes later a squall blew through, took the wind with it, and I motored along, in search for Tony, who had again offered to come out and meet me. We eventually crossed paths, and hooked up the tow rope again, it being 4pm with still another 12nm in front of us. Back under the power of tow, we powered through the fog, and arrived at Stamford Harbour, conducting a creepy fog-bound entrance, for which I was glad to be with someone who knew the area. I couldn’t see a thing, but Tony motored on, and eventually I was tied up at the Brewers yard - A very special thanks to Janie for providing a slip for two nights.

I spent two nights in Stamford with Tony and his lovely wife Eva, who showed such generosity, I’m still literally stunned when I think back to how wonderfully they helped me out. Provided with a comfy bed, delicious food, new clothes, provisions, parts and funds to keep me going, I’m humbled and indebted: Thank you so much Captain Tony and Captain Eva for your kindness.

As I left Stamford, I motored towards Port Jefferson, anchoring in the harbour for the night, refusing to pay $40 for a mooring. I was far away from town, but there was no way I could justify wasting so much money for a ‘permanent anchor’. It’s quite amazing how much ‘transients’ pay in America for overnight stays - I still don’t quite understand the economics of it when compared to Europe… I only paid that kind of money once, and that was in Dover, England, for a berth no less! The next day, I decided to cross the Sound for Duck Island, and motored across on a windless day. By the time I’d reached the middle, ‘August the mighty Yanmar’ blew a great plume of white smoke, coughed, spluttered and died. He was not to come back to life, and I proceeded under sail, incredibly annoyed to be stuck in another motorless situation. I dove overboard to check for rope stuck in the prop, yet there was nothing but a bit of plastic and a bunch of red jellyfish.

Proceeding under sail, the God’s shone down on us, and the winds increased. I had no idea what I was going to do should it die altogether… Sailing into Duck Island Harbour at night under sail, we managed to find other boats at anchor, and promptly dropped the hook. Excited by the thrill of sailing around without an engine in unknown parts of the world, I slept and waited until 12pm the following day for the winds to pick up. The sails up, anchor hauled in, we proceeded under sail for Greenport. Reaching ‘Plum Gut’ at a favourable tide, fighting for three hours against a SSW wind to get through. Eventually it was deemed impossible, and so the long route was taken around Plum Island, skirting the edges and risking passage through shallow waters to make up for lost time. Tacking back towards Greenport, a line squall showed it’s nasty head, and I refused to reduce sail in defiance. I wanted as much speed as possible to make up for this ridiculously annoying and lengthening passage. It wasn’t long before the rail was touching the water, and a gust almost knocked us over before I managed to release the mainsheet. As I made a tack, the boat seemed to de-power, as the sun drenched and tired genoa tore in three places. Slapping like crazy, caught on the port spreader, I had to knife the sail down and pack the remains into the forward hatch. Launching the #2 genoa, we got back under way, and slowly tacked all the way up to the Greenport breakwater. It was midnight, and we set course to sail right into the marina, sans everything (including an understandable chart of the tiny entrance). By great luck, a friend called, and shortly showed up with a powerboat, quite simply out of nowhere, hunting around for the Ghost ship Constellation, who had by now a fused bow light, and only the stern lamp still functioning. With all cabin lights on, I hoped we’d avoid collision and be found, which we were, and kindly towed to safety.

I haven’t really explained what I’m doing in these parts, but the fight for Greenport was made because I have a slip here for summer. I’ll be hanging about trying hard to figure out what’s next: Do I go back to the Caribbean for Panama? Or do I go through with the crazy plan to tow Constellation to San Francisco? Time will tell!

For now, I’m enjoying great company, and am ever thankful for making the right decision to come north. America has been fantastic to me, with so much generosity and interest in my trip, I can barely walk up the pontoon without someone wanting to talk to me, offering help, or offering to make me dinner.

nick!

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