Epic sail St. Helena to Grenada

Wednesday 3^rd June, in the middle of the South Atlantic, one week out of St. Helena.

Disaster! One week into the transatlantic trip and we lost a sail this morning. We've been in light winds most of the time so have had our beautiful colourful MPS (like a spinnaker), Gayboy, flying and pulling us along at fabulous speeds (I've seen the instruments claim we're doing 7 knots in 6 knots apparent of wind) for the conditions. This morning there were lots of squalls around but the overall forecast was for winds up to 15 knots so we (foolishly) decided to leave the sail up. Then in a squall Rover's steering wasn't quite up to it, the boat heeled and the clew of the MPS dragged in the water ripping the bottom strip most of the way along the foot. Panic stations!!! Not fun. Not fun at all. Thankfully we retrieved the sail without further damage to it, the boat or ourselves. So now we're back to the old fashioned poled-out genoa. Lesson learned (won't forget that one for a while). As an apology, the Universe has been giving us winds much stronger than forecast so far today so we're still moving along nicely as discussion in the cockpit has turned to the possibility of acquiring a furling gennaker or code zero sail.......

Up until today it had all been going swimmingly. Last Monday week we were planning a departure for the following Saturday until, during a lazy lunch ashore, we discovered that there wouldn't be any wind on Saturday. Right. Not leaving Saturday then. We then had a choice between leaving on Wednesday (in two days time! And the satphone is still hiding somewhere among all the newly arrived containers on the wharf!) or having to wait until at least the following Thursday. So, eager beavers that we are, we decided to try for Wednesday. A frantic couple of days followed; last minute grocery shopping (minus the Thursday farmers' market), desperately trying to hunt down the satphone, finishing up all the online business (Australian accommodation, flights, boat insurance etc. ) and getting ourselves and the boat ready for off. All the while saying lots of goodbyes as we bumped into people around town. 

Is the satphone maybe in one of those boxes?

The supermarket queues get a little crazy when the ship brings fruit and milk.

So after a last lunch (an attempt to celebrate Karl's birthday amid the hustle), finding and testing the satphone, completing the departure paperwork and saying goodbye to the harbour-master and ferry boat driver we set sail at sunset. Phew. The other yachties were at the yacht club (Wednesday evening being the only day other than Sunday that it opens, we had planned to be there for Karl birthday drinkies) and they called up on the VHF, passing the radio around to everyone to say goodbye and wish us fair winds. Then we sailed away watching the little sparkly lights of St. Helena slowly disappear.

A sunset farewell to St. Helena

And here we are in the middle of the Atlantic heading non-stop straight(ish) for Grenada. The 1^st of June was the beginning of southern winter so we haven't quite managed an endless summer but it is still warm and sunny here at 10 degrees south. The 1^st is also the start of the hurricane season in the North Atlantic so we'll be watching the Caribbean weather carefully as we approach. We've settled back into shipboard routine, I've learned what Quidditch is and also of the existence of the prochlorococcus (a tiny sea organism that makes oxygen, is probably the most numerous creature on the planet, between all of them they make 20% of the atmosphere's oxygen and they weren't discovered until 1986 – how have I not heard of this until now?), the fresh food hasn't run out yet and neither of us has killed the other. We passed south of Ireland on May 29^th, that felt a bit weird, I was on night watch when we passed directly south of Tuam. Otherwise there's not a lot out here, we've seen two ships on the electronics and one in real life, one flying-fish flying and one dead on deck and a couple of birds (flying). That's it. Nothing else. Very quiet part of the ocean.

Life at sea

Wednesday 10^th June, 200 miles east of Fernando do Noronha, Brazil.

Week number two, breakage number two. Oh yeah. A couple of nights ago on my watch there was a loud bang, so loud it even woke Karl up and got him out of bed – not an easy thing to do. After making sure we hadn't sprung a leak or lost a rudder we discovered the problem – the telescoping mechanism on our pole had broken. So now we have a short pole. A short pole means a smaller sail area which means we go more slowly (yes, even more slowly still...). So the current tally stands at

Coral Sea: one mainsail and one bow-roller

Gulf of Carpentaria: one self-steering mechanism

Indian Ocean: one pole mast car

The much feared Cape Agulhas: nil

South Atlantic: one satphone, one MPS (sail) and one pole

South Atlantic I declare you the clear winner, you are The Champion, you can stop now.

Otherwise it's been a good week. Winds have been light but fairly steady, it's been sunny, it's getting warmer and warmer as we head north and there's still hardly any life or traffic around. There've been beautiful moonrises this week with the full moon rising shortly after sunset. And we've had two little celebrations. One for passing the first 1000 miles – that one earned us Margaritas (I had a couple of limes that needed to be used up, what was I to do?) in the afternoon. And one for passing longitude 26 degrees 52 minutes West. That's the longitude directly opposite Mooloolaba (or our antipodean longitude as Karl seems never to tire of saying), so we've come half way around the world (from a longitude perspective at least) and from now on as we keep heading west we're on our way back to Australia. That one earned us a breakfast rum (as responsible drinkers we did make sure to line our stomachs first with some chocolate).

Half way around the world

Breakfast rum

The fleet is now six with two boats ahead of us and three behind, the big question being whether our headstart over the fast boats will keep us ahead of them all the way to Grenada....watch this space.

Another interesting phenomenon since Karl's had long hair – we're seeing strange little tumbleweeds blowing around...

Wednesday 17^th June, 300 miles east of the Amazon river mouth.

We're in the northern hemisphere! Woohoo!!! We crossed the equator last night around midnight. I was on watch but I got Karl out of bed and propped him up in the cockpit with some rum so we could celebrate the crossing. It's not everyday you cross the equator at sealevel. In fact I only remember once before being at the equator, in Equador. And if it weren't for the fact that we're Irish living in Australia, and tend to fly back and over the equator at the drop of a hat, it would probably seem like an even bigger deal. Of course in seafaring tradition it is a big deal. If it's your first time crossing you must pay appropriate respect (which tends to include personal degradation) to Neptune in a ceremony directed by a crew member who has already crossed the equator. There being only the two of us and both novices we were kind to each other and restricted the ceremony to Karl dressing up like a demented, hydrophobic Neptune and us sharing our last bottle of good South African sparkling wine with the good Neptune. Hopefully that does the trick.

Crossing the equator

Karl's interpretation of Neptune

My interpretation of an equator-crosser (liquorice pipe is essential)

So, week three, no breakages! And, week three, longest ever passage! And, week three, no-one's killed anyone yet!

Dare I say it's been a pretty good week. We went hunting some good winds and that paid off and we've had some great sailing. We've made it to the coast of Brazil so in a way we're sort of across another ocean. We spotted land – the very dramatic Fernando do Noronha islands. We had originally (in a pre-covid 19 existence) planned to stop there so Karl could get barrel in what is apparently some of the best surfing in the world. But alas now we just gazed at the islands on the horizon (the first land we'd seen in two weeks), listened wistfully to friendly-sounding voices chatting in Portuguese on the VHF and kept on going. Sigh. And since then we've been pottering up the Brazilian coast. So we've been seeing some ships again now, lots of them on their way to places in the US like Baltimore, Galveston (sing along now...) and New Orleans. Which all seem like very exotic destinations when we're used to Asia and Africa. We've had two bird friends visiting the last few nights using us as a rest and toilet stop. I can't say the odour of eau de guano is something that enhances my night watches and I'm pretty sure Karl isn't enjoying washing down his solar panels every morning but the little feckers are very hard to discourage. My maniacal cushion-waving in their direction has had no impact. Karl said he even physically pushed one off the bbq and yet still they hang around.

I think this might be the actual bird he pushed off the bbq

At least the squalls we've been having have helped with the cleanup. We've really had some extremely refreshing squalls now we're in the tropics proper. Karl's been standing by with shower gel in hand waiting for the rain to start so he can rush out and shower. Just for the thrill, there's plenty of water in the indoor shower.

Squall!

It's been a big week for celebrations. We've had the equator of course. Also my birthday which prompted a pretty successful trial of getting out the cockpit table and having a platter of cheese and meats and pretending to be civilised. And we passed the 2000 mile mark. Karl's “it's party time” Hawaiian shirt has gotten a good bit of wear this week.

Food not sliding off the cockpit table at my birthday party

Wednesday 24^th June, 150 miles north of the Suriname/French Guiana border.

Right now we're sailing (OMG, sailing!!!), under a sail that's not flogging, powered by wind, moving in a forwards direction with reasonable speed. This might, just might, mean we have emerged from the Doldrums this morning. Touch wood.

Week 4. Doldrums week. Now I actually really get the metaphor – wow can it be morale-sapping. A quick intro to the doldrums for the unfamiliar coming up, skip to the next paragraph if you're not interested. In the South Atlantic we have the beautiful, consistent southeast tradewinds that blow pretty much constantly from the southeast. In the North Atlantic we have the northeast tradewinds that blow pretty much constantly from the northeast. In the middle we have a mess, otherwise known as the Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), but basically a mess. In ye olde days of yore sailing ships could spend weeks lingering here waiting for wind while the crew developed scurvy and plotted mutiny. Not so different then...

A field of seaweed, mid-ocean.

Our first week in the North Atlantic has been interesting. One thing I noticed was the water changed colour. At first I thought it was related to the outflow from the Amazon but it's been consistent. The North Atlantic is a dull grey-green instead of the glowing, deep royal blue of the South Atlantic and Indian Oceans. And of course we've had doldrums weather. To paraphrase Tolstoy each day is unpleasant in its own way – sunny and stinking hot, sunny with some clouds and squalls, grey and windless with squalls, rain interspersed with squalls and all the while we've had wind, no wind, wind, no wind. Weather perfectly formulated to make sails flog and nerves (and sails) fray. And the weather forecasts? Don't get me started! Complete works of fiction. We check all available American and European model updates daily, that's six updates every day and every single one of them manages to completely avoid reflecting anything resembling reality. Quite an achievement. Now we're using them to at least know what's definitely not going to happen. So overall we've been kept busy. Constant tweaks of direction and sailtrim, engine on and off and on again. Sails up and down and up again. And then just as you've made yourself a cuppa – SQUALL.

Life at sea

We squeezed in a couple of celebrations (got to keep morale up). The 3000 mile mark, our longest passage so far, and the solstice. We thought we were marking the summer solstice but now I'm not so sure given that we're in a bit of a solstice no-man's land here: north of the equator but south of the sun. Does that make it a winter solstice? Or eliminate solsticiness altogether? Anyway, we enjoyed a very peculiar sunset with a pale, silver sun shining through what may or may not have been (according to my meteorology book) altostratus cloud making it look more like the moon. We thought perhaps it signalled the end of the world. Then the next day we had The Epic Megasquall. We'd been motoring in no wind so thought “great, lets get some sail up and make use of the wind from this squall”. Fools. We battened down the hatches, closed up the cockpit, donned our rain jackets and got ready to enjoy a bit of sailing. Then BAM! 30 knots out of nowhere. Quickly followed by 40 knots out of nowhere and the last we saw on the instruments before manning our battle stations was 44 knots apparent from behind with 8 knots of boatspeed on top of that. That's ugly maths. Of course our little electronic autopilot wasn't up to it so Karl took the helm while I reefed like a crazy person watching our forestay vibrating madly and just waiting for it to go thwang like a breaking guitar string. Once we got some sail in Gráinne settled down beautifully (I swear she was actually enjoying it) and took it all in her stride but we still ended up hand steering for nearly two hours before getting a chance to change Rover's light-wind vane so he could take over. Thank you North Atlantic for a little taster of real sailing but I'll just go back to pussy sailing now if that's alright. In fairness it was a very impressive sight, and all the squalls have been really quite beautiful, with the seas flattened by the driving rain and spray flying and dark moody grey sea and sky. So I think the moral of the story is watch out for that altostratus! Oh, and reef early and deeply. And the thoughts “my, that's a very, very dark squall” and “let's get some sail up and make use of this wind” should not go together.

Karl's hands after two squally hours at the helm

But we lived to fight another day and we're still plodding up the coast of South America. We've finally got the (seemingly unending) coast of Brazil behind us but still have the Venezuelan pirates up ahead. Grenada is tantalisingly close but still a good few days sail away so we're trying not to get too distracted by trying to remember whether or not Grenada has a microbrewery.

Life at sea

Monday morning 29^th June, St. George's, Grenada.

We're in the Caribbean! We came into the quarantine dock yesterday evening and now we're waiting for our covid 19 test before (hopefully) being let loose on the population of Grenada. First impressions have been good. A very green, tropical-looking island that smelt really strongly of sweet flowers as we approached. Officialdom sufficiently organised and sensible that we have written confirmation from the Chief Medical Officer that we are not required to undertake further quarantine and the Health Officer on the dock this morning was aware of this (he had a copy of the e-mail! They can make sensible decisions AND communicate with each other.). The decision that we have to wait for all the people (77 today) getting out of quarantine to have their test first – let's not dwell on that. It gives me a chance to write.

We have arrived in the world of facemasks

So, 32 days from St. Helena. Not bad going at all I'd say. The last week was pretty uneventful overall. Pretty much the first night we were in Venezuelan waters we saw pirates. Well, we saw a small boat about two miles away that wasn't on AIS (the electronic boat display system) and this led to a small flurry of excitement since we'd forgotten about the existence of other boats. We got the radar on and peered at it for a while and finally decided it was most probably a fishing boat. Whatever it was it wasn't interested in us. And we had no further bother from Venezuelan pirates. We got a few days of great wind in the northeast trades towards the end of the passage. We'd gotten used to leaving hatches open in the calm conditions and one day it was just that bit rougher and a wave broke over us drenching me in the galley and covering everything in seaweed. I guess we'll find out how resilient the “marine” stove is in the face of actual ocean.

Weed dumped on deck as well as in the galley

And the squalls followed us for ages after we were out of the doldrums! Just to torture us I think. Our arrival yesterday evening was slowed a little by unexpected counter currents around the south of the island so we didn't make it in until just after sunset – another night time arrival in a strange port even though that's something we never do. But it was fine, a nice quiet Sunday night, and we tied up without too much bother despite Karl deciding to try an untested (and always doomed to failure) new technique to position the boat while I got the final lines on ashore. I turned around after securing the midship and bow lines, ready to grab the stern line from the deck, to find Karl had swung the stern right out. Out of reach. I managed to pull him back in (he had the cheek to tell me afterwards that it was ok “the stern did start to come back in”) close enough for him to throw me the stern line. Stern words were exchanged. So after some rum, some dinner and a full night's sleep in an actual bed we're chomping at the bit to get tested, immigrated, customised and start exploring.

Monday afternoon

Correction. Grenada is not immune from less than logical decision-making. It turns out we have to wait for the results of the covid-19 PCR test (very yucky nasal, actually not even nasal – that swab went right through to my brain, and throat swabs) before we'll be allowed ashore. Can't be too careful about the risk of those hardy viruses that can hide for two months on a covid-free island and then survive a month long ocean passage. It's funny really because we must be in a tiny minority of people who have never had any exposure at all to the virus – we have never been in a country where there were cases. We're like the anti-virus.

Anyway, we're back in quarantine until the results on “Wednesday evening maybe” island time. But we're quite practised at this now. And an extra day of recuperating and relaxing never goes astray. And it's a new view. And we have new local radio to explore – lots of upbeat party music and lovely Grenadian occents mon.

We have also taken advantage of this imposed relaxation to celebrate the fact that, having returned to the Caribbean, Gráinne and Rover have completed their second circumnavigation. What a team. Thanks for having us along for the last couple of legs.

And we know that Karl has definitely become a sailor to his core after I overheard him talking to his father on the phone and saying “over” after each sentence.

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