Namibia to St. Helena

Thursday 19^th March, somewhere in the South Atlantic.

One week out of Namibia and having a slow day in light winds but at least it's sunny and fairly warm. We're in a particularly quiet spot where we seem to be the only life forms – no shipping, no birds, no fish (I saw one shoal of flying fish two days ago), hardly any night-time bio-luminescence and even the moon is about to desert us. Still, no Covid-19!

So we said our goodbyes to Lüderitz – had a last night at the yacht club with the crew of Tao 8 and a last night at the very warm, cosy and smoke-filled (from their fire, not cigarettes) Barrels for a final bit of gemütlicheit before we left. 

Me outside the Lüderitz Yacht Club

Our favourite supermarket, the food's ok.

The bit ships get a bit close while they're turning - see Gráinne just at its stern.

The departure paperwork was remarkably unremarkable but we did find a fish shop next door to the port office and couldn't resist a bag of frozen prawns. So we had prawns for dinner the first three nights of the voyage and lucky Karl got to have prawn dinner leftovers for three lunches too. Funny he hasn't felt like fishing so far. The first couple of days out of Lüderitz were bustling with lots of fishing boats to dodge and loads of seabirds everywhere. I even had one fishing boat call me up (and they NEVER use their radio) to ask if I was fishing or just steaming. I clarified that I was sailing and he said “Oh! Sailing.” And that was it. I think he was sussing us out as a potential rival closing in on his patch. And then.....nothing. There's nothing out here anymore. Karl's watch handovers are actually “there's nothing going on at all”. 

It's been overcast too with a late moonrise so the nights have been sooooooo dark. Absolutely black with no hint as to where the horizon might be hanging out. I found a new game on night watch – I realised that when you select by artist on our music player it defaults to playing all their tracks in alphabetical order, so as well as enjoying what's playing you get to guess what's next. Best when you have several albums by the artist and surprising how many songs aren't called what you think they are. I'm also back to reading my old friend Bernard's (Moitessier, sailing God) account of his trip from Asia to the Caribbean in the 50s. I had to stop reading when we all (us and Bernard) got to Durban so as not to let him get ahead of us. Now I'm catching up on his sail from Durban to Cape Town which was sooooo much worse than ours. He spent two weeks (the trip took us just over a week) bashing into headwinds and huge seas and stuck in worse conditions in order to avoid the risk of collision in the busy shipping channels. It really makes you appreciate our access to accurate weather forecasting and our ship-detection device.

We had St. Patrick's Day aboard in fine style. It was grey and overcast and occasionally drizzly, we wore green, played only music by Irish artists all day, had some stout (South African but quite good), some Flanagan's Irish crisps (South African but quite good, not Tayto though), some Fry's Chocolate Cream and to keep with the theme we had Thai green curry for dinner (the green-ness rather than the Thai-ness being the key point). Paddy's Day also marked the one year anniversary of Karl quitting a perfectly respectable job and starting to experiment with hairstyles.

The big excitement today is that we're approaching the Greenwich Meridian which we should arrive at tonight sometime and that means an excuse for a celebration (a.k.a. rum). Then over the next few days we'll be passing directly south of some of you in the UK which seems really strange and really far away from Australia to find ourselves all of a sudden. And then we'll have to battle with the challenge of charting our position in westerly longitudes which is all backwards.

Tuesday 24th March, Jamestown, St. Helena Island. Quarantined.

Well everything was going swimmingly until we crossed (fell of the edge of the earth at) the Greenwich Meridian. This happened overnight during Karl's watch and he didn't wake me up! Despite his talking about the whole event excitedly for days beforehand. So no ceremony was observed. And the next day our satellite phone died. To think this is pure coincidence would be foolish. 

So, yeah. No satellite communications: no weather forecasts and no e-mail. Now we barely use e-mail anyway apart from letting our poor families know that we're still alive but we've come to really depend on the weather. Thankfully this was a pretty good place in the world for this to happen if it had to – the weather here is very stable and there's no real risk of storms and no cyclones. But suddenly we were reacting to changes in wind rather than planning ahead for the changes we expected, a subtle but very big difference to quality of life aboard. And the cutting of the possibility of that tiny piece of e-mail communication with the outside world really did make you feel alone and vulnerable and gave a great insight into what it's been like for sailors for most of history when they just disappeared into the wide blue yonder for months and years at a time. So I'm guessing that the poor people following us on our satellite tracker just saw us vanish from the screen or freeze in the one spot or turn into some sort of icon of doom. If you did, fear not, we're alive and sorry for the trauma.

Once we adjusted to our new circumstances the rest of the trip was very pleasant – sunny, adequate wind from behind, swell from behind, slowish but steady progress but no fish. We had to do our usual slowing down trick to time our arrival for dawn rather than the middle of the night and we arrived this morning. St. Helena is another quite spectacular island with tall cliffs rising straight up from the anchorage. And the anchorage isn't in a protected bay or anything, it's just clinging to the side of a small rock in the middle of the Atlantic. The other international boats seem to be a friendly lot with two sailors coming to help us with the (slightly nightmarish) mooring, one calling up to help when Port Control were ignoring my radio calls and another paddling over to say hi and orient us to the island. And it's a small enough island that the local radio announces the daily specials at the restaurants.

The mooring field at St. Helena

So it seems the world has gone a little crazier over Covid-19 since we left Namibia. We had our first news from the BBC World Service today and it's the first day of the big shut downs in the UK and in South Africa. We've lost track of what travel restrictions are in place around the world but it seems that St. Helena and Ascension remain Covid-19 free and are screening all arrivals and enforcing self-isolation.

And now we're in an indefinite quarantine. The rule on the island is self-quarantine for 14 days after arrival. But we've already effectively been in quarantine for the 12 days it took us to get from Namibia and so expected to only have to serve two more days. But now apparently that's all up in the air and there are new regulations and everyone (including Port Control who tell us they are fighting our corner for us) is waiting for legal clarification. A French crew had finished their extra couple of days isolation this morning and were told they could go ashore but then turned back when the situation changed – so cruel! So now we just wait and see if anyone in power is capable of making a sensible decision. Our longer term plans are all up in the air too. We'll be here to serve out whatever our quarantine time is and then will have to wait for the delivery of a new sat phone which could take years depending on how much crazier the world goes in the next few weeks. Methinks it may be time to tackle those sewing projects I thought I wasn't going be able to get to and maybe finally learn to use a sextant and start my art and citizen science projects. And of course there's always Ulysses.

Saint FM radio (to which we're all anxiously listening waiting for the broadcast of a Covid-19 news conference) has just started playing a song that goes “Jesus loves me and the bible tells me so” …..it's going to be a long two weeks.

Sunday 29^th March. Purgatory.

Karl's daily count down to release.

Well it's been a rollercoaster few days. The can-we-can't-we-go-ashore debacle has flip-flopped each day since we got here. The general pattern seemed to be we'd be given the thumbs up for a certain day, then when the day arrived we'd be told there was a “meeting at the Castle” and we'd have to wait on a decision. Then they'd give us some version of bad news. Until finally yesterday (after yet another government meeting) the harbourmaster came by himself to let us know we had to serve out the full 14 days here in the harbour. Another victory for politics over science.

On the bright side it's now been 14 days since we went anywhere near another human being and we're not sick so I have (as the ship's Medical Officer) declared us a Covid-19 free zone. Also the harbourmaster and port officers have been really pleasant and supportive and slightly embarrassed about their government's policy. And the other boats in the anchorage have been offering their support from afar. We've had a pleasantly slow pace of life – a little boat work, a little reading, a little music, a little sunset drink and Karl's been cooking. 

Karl tinkers with the HF radio.

Now, how exactly do you use this sextant thingy?

Trying to remember how to do the celestial navigation calculation for the first time in two years.

It's much easier now that we don't have daily uncertainty about whether we can get ashore but I can't shake the feeling that by the time we've served our 14 days the policy will have changed again and we'll be stuck here forever. And as of now all future plans are completely up in the air waiting to see when countries will start to open their borders again. Still, if the world has to go completely mad there are worse places to have to sit it out.

A highlight of our time here was when the harbourmaster arrived one day with two boxes for us from “Hazel at The Consulate” (actually he stated rather accusingly “who's been in contact with Hazel at The Consulate?”, clearly forgetting that we have zero ability to be in contact with anybody). A mysterious benefactor, how very Great Expectations. We opened the boxes to find things like lettuce, fresh herbs, veggies, fresh meat and chocolate cake! It was like Christmas morning.

Surprise box of goodies!

Easter weekend, St. Helena Island, South Atlantic.

Freedom!!! No quarantine, no lockdown, restaurants and pubs are open, the sun is shining, the water is warm and the sparkling wine (courtesy of our Tuam Guardian Angel via our local mysterious benefactor) is cold. We've been officially checked in now for a few days and it's such a relief to have the certainty of being able to go ashore, stretch your legs, go to the supermarket and read e-mails. I know you're all having it much tougher being confined to your homes but it really is very difficult to have no means of communication whatsoever with friends and family or anyone beyond the range of our VHF radio in the mooring field. So now I'm happy and I'll stop moaning. And Easter comes with lots of opportunities for celebration for us: Easter Saturday is the 12^th (I think...) anniversary of Karl's brave marriage proposal, Easter weekend is the 5^th anniversary of our first infamous sail down to Tangalooma and Good Friday is the first anniversary of us moving aboard Gráinne.

Karl's bargain damaged egg for only two pounds.

So. Day 14 of our quarantine finally came to an end which is when we were told “Oh, sorry, did we say 14 days? We meant 15.” Pause, deep breath, exhale slowly. “Oh, and by the way it turns out you'll have to apply for special exemption from immigration because the borders are closed”. Patience and Tolerance. Patience and Tolerance. Patience and Tolerance. Day 16 dawned with some apprehension but, true to his word, the harbourmaster appeared in the morning with two gloved-up health officials. After a quick health questionnaire (the answer to “list all the cities you've visited or transited through in the past three weeks” was brief) and a temperature check we were invited to hop into the ferry (so exciting!) and go ashore. The health officials did make sure we sat as far away from them as possible on what is a very small boat. I get the distinct impression that we're being treated as practise for measures that will have to be put in place if Covid-19 makes it to the island. After a hairy landing in swell at the dock (which is kitted out with ropes to help you swing off the ferry, precise timing is key) we set foot on solid land for the first time in nearly a month. But it didn't feel solid at all, my land legs have deserted me completely.

Immigration, customs and port control were chilled and friendly and then, with a precious three-month entry permit stamped in our passports and a formal letter from the Governor?????? (stating we had permission to enter having completed our quarantine period), we were free to roam. Oh joy, oh rapture. We wandered out from the Port Control Office, past the cannons and moat surrounding it, down the road a bit, through the gate in the defensive walls and into the square by the castle. 

Karl walks through the gates to town.

What a fabulous little town. Castle on the left, church on the right, HM Prison just behind it, Georgian buildings, lots of Landrovers. And again one of those places that is small enough that no-one would dream of passing by another human being without saying hello. We went into the first place that promised internet, beer and food – Ann's Place – a lovely spot in the Castle Gardens. The pleasure of a month of e-mail and Facebook updates, cold beer and food cooked by someone who wasn't me.

Sadly, Karl had bad news from home so things have been a bit subdued overall. His mother, Eilish, passed away on our last day of quarantine and her funeral was on our first day ashore. He was able to get in touch with his family and to take part in the social media sharing of lovely memories of her life and her liveliness. She is sadly missed.

Eilish with Karl at our wedding.

Then we went on a pilgrimage to meet our mysterious benefactor Hazel at The Consulate Hotel. It's a beautifully atmospheric old spot which is so welcoming and helpful to visiting yachties. And it has WiFi too (Seeing a theme here? It's like back in the 90s when you first discovered the internet and found it endlessly fascinating.). After that all that was left was a tour of all the shelves of all the supermarkets in town and to snaffle a couple of bargain 5p Angel Delights. We went ashore again the next day, just 'cause we could. This time we walked up and down every street we could find and then launched into a pub crawl. The crew of two other boats (one with 11 crew on board) had gotten ashore for the first time that day and we kept bumping into very excited people. It was late on the Thursday afternoon before the Easter long weekend so there was a bit of a buzz around as we hit the White Horse (really proper old man pub) and the Standard (the Place to be Seen). The harbourmaster was at the Standard and came over to say a proper welcome and how glad he was to see us ashore.

Yesterday all the free yachties got together at a local spot to celebrate the arrival ashore of the four boats that had been freed in the previous two days. It was at the top of a hill with only 699 steps to walk up. It took me twelve minutes, the last five of which were pretty much spent in panic at the height (interesting fact: not so easy to propel yourself upwards while hyperventilating). What a great evening – gorgeous view, a chance to meet all the people we'd just seen from a distance and spoken with on the radio, a sprinkling of locals (both “Saints”, the real locals, and “TCs” - foreigners on temporary work contracts) and a group of French helicopter pilots who are working on a cliff stabilisation project at the harbour. And food that I didn't cook. At the end of the night (earlier we had voted not to arrange a special late ferry, later we voted to definitely arrange a special late ferry, later still we postponed the late ferry and finally we decided it was time to leave) we walked back down the 699 steps which didn't cause panic because it was dark and I couldn't see how high up I was but at the bottom I realised my thighs no longer worked and I developed some kind of weird John Wayne gait.

And now life it good. We'll just hang out here until our new satphone arrives (it's already made it from Auckland to Singapore, although the challenge of South Africa lies ahead) and some border somewhere re-opens. All the boats here are in a similar situation. The fleet is from the UK, US, The Netherlands, Switzerland, Canada, France, South Africa, Malaysia and Germany. They were generally planning on either heading straight back to Europe or to the Caribbean and then on to Europe or the US. Now everyone is just searching for a border that might be open to them depending on nationality of the boat and crew.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/karl_oneill/albums/72157719954505131