We left our anchorage in Hawkes bay after unwrapping our runaway rope from around the propellor. Well, Garth unwrapped it. He sent me down first, because he didn't want to get cold or wet, but for some reason after growing up near beaches I'm now scared of deep water. Maybe it's the sharks, or the rips, or the sense of impending doom that comes from living in Australia. Or perhaps just my mothers voice ringing in my ears telling me not to go out further than I can touch, but I don't like being out of my depth without a board or flotation device. So that and the fact that the water was so murky I couldn't see the side of the boat through the water meant I had to eventually give up, and Garth went in the next day when the visibility was better. Rope off, lesson learned. It's a lesson I would have preferred to learn in warmer waters, but at least we've nailed that one straight off the bat.
The anchorage we stayed at was terrifying - it was the only place we could get to safely before the wind picked up, and it wasn't too bad that first night when we anchored under sail and got to bed at 4am. But the next night as we sat out the storm the waves were so rocky and the boat was tipping over so much that things were falling out from the top shelves and flying around the cabin while we tried to sleep. That was frightening.
We had one day of lovely sailing when we left - really light winds, a bit of motoring, not much of a heel - we just idled along. I was on watch when the sun came up and we were just floating along at 3 knots while everything was peaceful and quiet - that was lovely.
And then we spent the rest of that day tacking back and forth into head winds as we tried to get around East Cape. We were going back and forth and not making up much ground, which was horribly frustrating.
Then as we got closer to the cape the wind started howling, and things got exciting again. We rounded the top and ducked in between the coast and East Island, then had to start heading out to sea because the wind was coming from an annoying direction.
We got into rockier swells and the waves started breaking over the bow, throwing quite a lot of spray over us in the cockpit. Garth sent me downstairs to eat dinner out of the spray, which instantly made me feel ill. I went to grab a Piahia bomb, but the bag had disappeared and Garth couldn't remember where he had put it... So I cuddled up in the cockpit under a wet blanket as the rain started, preparing myself for a long, cold night of not being able to go inside. Now I welcome being cold and wet if that's the worst thing I have to worry about.
I did the first shift, then we swapped and tacked back two hours later, realizing we'd hardly made up any ground. The boat really hates going upwind with the combination of sails we had up, but the wind was too strong to put up bigger ones.
So it was my turn to sleep. I curled up in the rain on the low side, shivering as the night got colder. Just as I was starting to doze off, a giant wave came up into the cockpit and completely engulfed me. I don't mean there was a bit of spray. I mean an entire spa bath full of water got dumped on top of me, with force. That was unpleasant. That was also the last time I was dry for 4 days.
The weather only got worse from then on, with a continuous barrage of waves smacking against the boat and spraying everywhere. Every few minutes there was another rogue wave that would land on our heads and fill the cockpit again. We were so overpowered that the low side was completely under water, with our toerails way below the waterline. We were on such a lean that some of the waves just shot over us and went straight out the other side because the other side was straight down - if we hadn't been tethered on we could have very easily been washed overboard. So that's scary.
We had a few hours of that - constant waves landing on our heads, strong winds and tacking back and forth trying to make some headway but not really getting anywhere. The wind picked up to 40 knots and there was water everywhere - when I tried to sleep downstairs I thought the boat was just going to disintegrate with every crash and bang, because it was being thrown around so violently. I would look up at the companionway with every big wave that came over, and water was literally pouring inside through the cracks in the hatches. It was like a square waterfall, with water rushing down in a thin veil along the lines of the hatch. Let me be clear - the boat is pretty solid. It doesn't really leak. But there was so much water being dumped in such a small space at one time, it had to go down into the boat because it couldn't run off fast enough. After that we stopped doing shifts, probably because it was too wet to bother trying to sleep. There's definitely a big difference between 40 knots behind us and beating into 40 knot headwinds - wind feels a LOT stronger when you're facing the brunt of it head on. If we had been going downwind, it probably would have felt like a gentle breeze.
I thought our rigging was going to get ripped off - everything was rattling and the boat was taking a beating, so we decided to try and anchor in Hicks Bay, just round the corner from East Cape. We spent a quiet two hours sitting together in the rain, with waves smashing us as we strained to see the light on top of the bay. We were trying really hard to stay as high as possible in order to make it without tacking, which made the sails continually flap in the wind as we went just a bit too far. It sounded like thunder. Both the wind and the rain were getting heavier as we were getting closer, and we could only just make the light out through the rain.
As we got nearer Garth had to go downstairs out of the rain to follow the charts on his phone, although I don't think it's a coincidence that this was the last time his phone was working. I was steering into the wind and rain, straining to see the light as we got closer and closer to the cliffs we were trying to anchor next to. I had to throw all my weight on the wheel, turning it with both hands, and couldn't for the life of me keep the boat in a straight line. Garth was urgently screaming directions, leading me to believe that if I didn't keep the boat in a straight line to 5 degrees we were going to crash.
I ripped my hood off to see better and my clothes got absolutely drenched inside and out. The rain was horizontal, and flying straight into my eyes with enough force to hurt. The light I was aiming for kept disappearing in the rain, and occasionally for a time I couldn't see anything so I would just hope that I was still steering in the right direction. My straggly hair was drenched, blowing around me like it was some kind of possessed sea monster, clinging to my face then being picked up by the wind to fly around for a while before sticking to my face again. I was pretty sure we were going to die, but didn't have any time to think about it - I was just trying to keep going towards the light. Every time Garth opened the hatch to yell directions at me through the rain, a torrent of water made it into the cabin.
You know those deep sea fishing shows, where there's guys on deck struggling to pull up lines when giant waves smash into them from the side and they get washed across the deck, desperately trying to cling onto something for dear life? They're slipping and sliding all over the place, yelling at each other through the rain, they can't see anything and there's water bashing into them from all angles? That.
We had to get right up next to the cliffs to find the safe anchorage, all cuddly and close. Going near those cliffs in 40knot headwinds was the scariest thing I've ever done, especially considering I couldn't even see them. The light I'd been following turned out to be a boat with a much brighter light - the light on the cliffs was dull and constantly getting lost behind the rain. I couldn't even see the outline of the cliffs in the darkness, all I could do was squint into the night sky to try and keep enough water out of my eyes so i could follow the light.
I really wish I was exaggerating here, adding some artistic flair to make the story more interesting. But I'm really not. If anything I'm under emphasizing the danger of the situation - It's been a few days since we got onto dry land, so the urgency and the fear that were racing through us at the time have faded.
We eventually got in next to the cliffs, and gave up pretty quickly. The wind was rising, we were being blown towards the rocks and the anchorage wasn't very protected. So we had to make the dissapointing decision to head back into the night, because we were safer in the middle of the ocean than right next to rocks in strong winds with an unknown amount of fuel left.
We continued on for a day or so in those conditions, freezing cold and wet. We didn't eat, barely slept and the entire boat was drenched. We were sleeping in wet blankets in the aft berth, and only just started to warm up before we had to swap shifts each time. My feet were numb for days. I wrapped them in a towel when I got into bed but it didn't help as much as I would have liked. I almost fell in the drink a few times because I couldn't feel the boat under my feet.
By the next night the rain had stopped and the wind was starting to ease. I was on watch huddled under a wet blanket when a ship came into view. I figured out what it was and where it was going pretty quickly, then went back to staring at the sky. I kept an eye on it and thought it was getting a little bit closer, then very quickly it went from being on the horizon to RIGHT next to me. It was a huge cargo ship, and it pulled up very close, going in the same direction. I called Garth, then visually lined it up with our boat and spent ages making sure we weren't on a collision course. We weren't about to crash and they seemed to be going parallel to us. But it was RIGHT there. I'm not sure if you've ever been close to a big cargo ship, but if you think of it in terms of fish this guy was a whale and we were a little bait fish. He wouldn't even bother opening his mouth to eat us, and we could easily get sucked inside his jaws as he swam past.
Then he started flashing his lights at us. A big, bright spotlight on the top of his mast. He flashed 5 times, which generally means 'Wtf are you doing?!?' or 'maybe you shouldn't do that.' So that was disconcerting. Garth turned on the VHF, which was off to conserve power, and turned on our deck lights to make sure he knew where we were. He also tried to tell me that they were probably just turning. I'm assuming that's because he's forgotten all his light signals. Turning to starboard is 1, port is 2, operating engines astern is 3, and 5 flashes is definitely 'what on earth are you doing!?'
I should have put the rule into play that voids anything somebody half asleep is saying, because Garth told me not to radio them. Just as I was about to do it anyway, the ship turned and disappeared into the night really quickly. In the opposite direction. Which probably should have alarmed me, but I was so happy to not be run over I just calmed down, hooked the windvane steering back up, and tried to relax. Then an hour later we heard somebody on the VHF calling Maritime Radio, but it was really crackly and half of it cut out. Then near the end of the transmission I heard 'Heartbeat.' Uhoh.
We called up Maritime Radio and it turned out that our spot tracker had fallen down and stopped working around East Cape. So we had disappeared off the radar. Ian and Mike were so worried about us they contacted Maritime New Zealand and asked all ships to keep an eye out for us. Even in the middle of the ocean our parents still managed to track us down! I understand why they were worried though, the sea was rough, the wind was intense and it was a horrible ordeal. Unfortunately we just couldn't get to the spot tracker to reset it, which you have to do every day or so. So this is a notice to everyone - don't panic if the tracker stops working for a while! But you're allowed to worry about us around East Cape, which I only just found out is notoriously dangerous and well known around the world for being horrible. Eek!
We had probably one day of nice winds, although we were still beating into them. The miserable weather and freezing cold were lessened by a day of relaxing with music playing in the cockpit. Our darling Josh bought us cockpit speakers as a wedding gift, even though he'd already bought us a gift and he was a massive help with the wedding. Then like an angel he installed them in a southerly at night while he was sick, and Craig hooked them up for us. So we have music!
But then the next storm struck. Mother Nature obviously didn't care that we had only just gotten our first period of warmth in days, even though we weren't totally dry yet. I've learned a few things on this trip - one of them is that if you put wet weather gear on and then become completely immersed in water, the wet weather gear doesn't work. And then stays wet for days until it stops raining and the sun comes out. We had one day of no rain, but no sun or warmth to be seen. So everything was still wet and cold. The next storm only lasted one night, and the rain started just as we swapped shifts. There was really heavy rain and the sky was full of lightening - at one stage Garth poked his head down and said 'if I get struck by lightening, remember that I love you.' That was not as comforting as he had intended it to be. He stayed out in the rain for 6 hours, waiting for it to stop so I didn't have to get wet again. That is why I'm never letting him escape my clutches.
We eventually made it to Whangarei, after one final day of sunshine and loveliness. I had been throwing up at one stage because we didn't eat for two or three days, so we welcomed the food and showers and warmth that came with dry land. We did 6 loads of washing and made a huge list of things that broke on the trip. I'll be happy if I never have another passage like that, and the whole thing was miserable and frightening. But once you're out there you can't do anything but sit in the rain shivering for two hours, then sleep for two hours, then do it again. You can't turn back or jump off. And no matter how horrible it is, once you're on dry land you forget very quickly about what a nightmare it was at sea, so don't think twice about doing it again. I am very, very glad to be leaving these cold and angry waters behind us for a warmer alternative, and hope the trip to Fiji isn't quite so eventful.
We're planning on leaving as soon as the boat is fixed and the weather is good, most likely on Monday. Cross your fingers for us!
Xxx Monique
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.