Kara's bonus Africa pictures

The reed-hut construction crew is expecting an important delivery in on today's ferry in Mozambique

On Safari...

An angry elephant surprises the intrepid travelers

Having successfully terrified the cowardly tourists, Mr. Elephant swaggers away jauntily.

The Zebra's know they're beautiful and strike self-flattering poses along the roadside -- in only the best photoghraphic lighting conditions, of course.

The buffalo don't take any guff from anyone.  They hate the annoying tourists.

The giraffes are friendly and curious -- but not very smart.  What's that over there?

They come to check out the car but are easily distracted by a tasty roadside attraction.

The rhinos are selfish and lazy; they let the buffalo stand guard duty during the heat of the day.

The hippo kills more humans than any other mammal.  He warns us to stay away.

A quick demonstration scares off even the stupidest camera-toting travelers.

Tamarin Bay sunset session -- alone

 Warning, some of the following material may not be suitable for concerned parents!

Hello from Africa!

Our week in Mauritius stretched imperceptibly into three. We broke from the yachtie pack and anchored in Tamarin Bay at the base of an extinct volcano. On display, a postcard left pointbreak wrapped around the base of the cinder cone. The heavy locals and crowd never materialized and we shared days of blissful weather, offshore conditions and smoking overhead surf – often alone.

We returned to the main port on Mauritius on an empty boat with empty stomachs. The town market in Port Louis may once have been open-air but hundreds of merchant's stalls have grown--almost organically--over the narrow alleys to enclose the sidewalks in merchandise. Dazed by the riot of colors, we walked in a crouch to avoid hanging octopus, tuna steaks, textiles, baskets, carvings, and 80 lb stalks of bananas. Farmers of every skin-color hawked their crops in three or four languages behind towering slopes of potatoes, citrus, pumpkins, and watermelon, always being careful to avoid an avalanche of pomegranates that could bury potential customers.

Fully stocked, we left the jungle, monkeys, market and Tamarin reef behind and set out for La Reunion about 100 miles to the west. This large island, strangely, has no natural harbors. When the sun rose behind us and cast its rays over the sea to the west, we understood; the island is a mossy basalt boulder. The rock rises abruptly out of the sea, quickly gaining altitude into the clouds. Rifts and chasms in the brittle lava lead under the thunderheads into the dark interior. On the coast, the few patches of land that are flat—and that term is used loosely—are dotted with small houses clinging to 45 degree slopes or balanced on razor-sharp treeless ridges. The streams on La Reunion all flow vertically, spending more time in free-fall than flowing like a proper river.

"unfortunately, you're here in the dry season"

We had the email address of a close relation—my dad's co-worker's sister's husband—who lives on La Reunion. Matheu and Cecile were excellent tour guides and hosts. They informed us that, regrettably, as they were still in the dry season most of the big waterfalls wouldn't have much water in them. However, they were able to show us around to some of the smaller cascades, which were terrifyingly majestic.

Matheu and Cecile also told us of a mystical lost world deep in the mountains. The interior of the island is an inhospitable jumble of mountain-sized basalt shards on an inconceivable scale—the result of an apocalyptic collapse of the original volcano crater. There are a handful of small communities clinging to tiny ledges—called islands—deep in the mountains, accessible only by multi-day hiking expedition. Supplies for these outposts are loaded into cargo nets and lowered by winch from helicopters.

Kara, of course, decided that a hike was just what we needed and so off we went. We opted to take a bus to the other side of the island and hike across the interior, a distance of about 40 kilometers, which should have been a two-day hike. We struck out and quickly found the trail to be almost entirely composed of stairs. Stairs carved from the stone, steel stairs on scaffolding bolted to stone faces, rickety stairs of wood, concrete stairs edged by re-bar and galvanized cable, stairs slimy with algae passing through waterfalls, and stairs leading to rail-less bridges with 3,000-foot vertical drops. It was a 40-kilometer staircase; the engineering involved in the trail's construction was amazing and the views were spectacular. We were too tired notice.

Ultra-remote villages in the mountains

Eventually the cliffs gave way to the ocean and we stumbled back to the boat. It was time to head to Africa. The trick with any passage out of the tropics is to time the seasons correctly. Ideally, a late-spring passage avoids the summer tropical hurricanes and the winter storms further south. Further complicating this particular passage are the hazardous waters south of Madagascar which are spotted with shallow sea-mounts and 3-knot currents which, according to legend, make this a high-risk area for rogue waves. A successful passage through this area will, hopefully, deposit you on the African coast in the powerful Agulhas current during a period of fair weather. This current runs to the south along the coast and is infamous for causing massive breaking seas when opposed by storm-force southerly winds—which are common. In this area, the official government charts warn that "abnormal waves of up to 20m (65 feet) in height may be encountered." 

 

There were about 40 other sailboats in La Reunion looking at the run to South Africa. The highly volatile weather of this region renders any weather forecast beyond 72 hours useless, so departure dates were decided in the same way as most lottery numbers. This 2-week passage is like playing Russian Roulette on a sailboat, and things already weren't looking good. A small patch of convection to the north of La Reunion spun up into a surprise early-season category-3 hurricane which was forecast to hit the island in two days. Larger boats with lots of diesel and big engines raced south to escape, while the rest of us put out extra dock lines. We caught a break when tropical cyclone Anais made a last-minute course change and swept off towards northern Madagascar to unwind over the cooler springtime ocean water.

We set out into the leftover slop from the hurricane's narrow miss and had a pleasant four days to Cape St. Marie, the southern tip of Madagascar, where the weather took a turn for the worse: three days of 35-45 knot easterlies. By the second day we had battled free of a 3-knot counter-current and were passing 30 miles south of a scattering of sea mounts. Passing below Madagascar, we had confused 20-30 foot seas and sustained 40 knot winds. The strange currents, seamounts, and general Indian Ocean nastiness were causing occasional waves to break heavily from unnatural directions. With just our storm stays'l sheeted flat amidships we ran 150 miles in 24-hours. At 2 a.m on a black moonless night, one of the large breaking seas caught up with us. It came from the south, at a right angle to the prevailing waves, and broke over the boat. Orca was knocked down, her mast dipping into the ocean. The boat was buried under whitewater, the dodger's panels were blow off, and everything not double-lashed was swept away. The companionway was securely closed but with the entire boat underwater, jets of the Indian Ocean flooded in every crack and joint at high pressure. The coffee grinder broke loose, flew across the cabin and smashed through a cupboard door.

At 90 degrees of heel, Orca's 4,500lbs lead keel had maximum torque and quickly brought the mast up out of the water. The cockpit was completely empty – everything, including all the sea water, had been dumped out. The rigging streamed wetly as the steering vane rose from the waves to put us back on course. Halyards and sheets trailed behind us in a yard-sale of odds-and-ends swept overboard. Down below, the splintered cabinet had allowed seawater into the main electrical hub and the harsh smell of burning electrics oozed from the ruins. Kara swiped a hand across the main switchboard and Orca fell into blackness. The sound of books and fruit sloshing in ankle-deep water on the cabin floor was barely audible over the howl of the midnight wind.

While traumatic, a knockdown is not inherently dangerous and is something we've planned and practiced for. The bilge pump, on a separate redundant waterproof circuit, automatically sensed the ingress of water and pumped it overboard. A handful of chem-glow sticks cracked and scattered about the cabin provided temporary emergency lighting. A super-pure solution of industrial alcohol rinsed the seawater out of the electrics before corrosion began and evaporated in minutes, quickly restoring power. We swapped the storm stays'l for a triple-reefed mainsail and hove to. Orca took care of herself while our adrenaline drained away. We put a call out on our single-sideband advising other sailboats of our situation and received invaluable emotional support—even if practical support was impossible. True to the volatile meteorological nature of the area, the next day was windless and the ocean glassy except for eddies and swirls of conflicting currents. Continuing towards South Africa, were were disheartened that the 'hard' part of the passage—crossing the Agulhas current—still lay ahead.

We were 380 miles east of Richard's Bay when the South African sailing community, in near panic, put out a call on the single-sideband warning all incoming sailboats to abandon any attempt to close with the coast and to run for nearest safe harbor. A deep low forming off the Cape of Good Hope was steamrolling northeast towards Madagascar generating 50-foot breaking seas with sustained winds of 55 knots. In a race to South Africa, the weather would beat us to safe harbor by a mere 6 hours. In the interest of survival, we turned Orca away from our goal and set a desperate course to the north. The South Africans said that, pushing hard, we could make it up obscure river in Mozambique twelve hours ahead of the storm. We set all sail.

Mozambique boatyard

Knowing nothing about Mozambique—except that their national flag features an black AK-47—we crossed the bar into the Inhambane River. Even though we were entering the country illegally, we were comforted to find ten other rebel sailboats, diverted by the single sideband transmission, already sheltering behind the sandbar. Most of the boats we'd never met, but they all had heard our transmission and greeted us with hugs, loving support, and cold beers. The shy locals, paddling hollowed trunks with bamboo poles, were astounded at the unusual sight of sailboats in the river. We weathered the storm at anchor, tucked into a safe harbor.

Three days later, we set out—again—for South Africa. We were headed south with the current in our favor but feeling bitter about the extra 600 miles of sailing and skeptical about the so-called 'powerful Agulhas.' We were shocked when we were swept away by five knots—that's the speed a fast run—of southbound current. Even becalmed, the coastline unwound before us and we were profoundly grateful to the SSB radio nets and our new friends in S.A. for warning us not to cross this river in 50-foot seas. We're now safely ensconced in Richard's Bay, South Africa, eating a jucy steak surrounded by new close yachtie friends on a restaurant patio that, four days ago, was a war zone. As the low passed, clay tiles were blown from the roof by storm force southerlies to fall three stories and destroy the metal railings of the dining area along the quay. The camaraderie of the sailing community continues to amaze us.

Fortunately, today the weather forecast looks excellent and all we have to worry about are the packs of marauding monkeys that, we are told, make it necessary—for safety--to walk to the grocery store in a group.

Thanks,

John & Kara

Orca Update 31

Orca Update 31

Direction Island Anchorage, Cocos Keeling





Windward Side of Rodruiges

We've put another 3,500 miles under the keel since the last update. We're now into the Indian Ocean, who's spiteful personality has dished out some of the toughest passaging conditions we've seen yet. This ocean is a swirling, angry mass of strong currents, floating garbage, and confused waves. We've dodged everything from floating trees to barnacle-ecrusted fishing nets, 50-gallon drums, and hundreds of slippers. It hasn't been unusual for us to battle steep whitecaps and 15' seas from every direction. These waves combine into breaking peaks or crash together sending spray and whitewater skyward; the surface of the ocean is constantly jumping, frothing, spitting and leaping. Orca is perpetually covered in salt spray—we had seaweed growing on deck when we arrived after one passage.

But the untamed Indian Ocean is also a place of great mystery and delight. 2,000 miles east of Singapore, the black spaces between stars filled with the white, green, and blue haze of countless distant worlds except where dark nebulae cast black shadows across the milky way. 2,300 miles due south of Bombay, a large meteor skipped across the atmosphere in brilliant flashes that lit the sea like lightening strikes. As we skirted below the pirate waters off Somalia, the sea life erupted. At dawn, the flying fish had to be swept from the deck to be sure of good footing. Flocks of squid flew down the wave faces like pelicans, their mantles flattened and tentacles splayed like a chinese fan to guide them through the air. We had escorts of dolphins and we hosted a dozen pilot whales in formation close around us.



Australian government burning refugee ships

After 1,300 miles of sailing from Australia we arrived at Cocos Keeling Island we anchored behind a palm-shrouded motu with a concrete jetty, a water cistern, and a swath of bombed-out World War II ruins. On another motu across the lagoon was the largest colony of Australian Border Patrol agents and attack boats we had yet seen. By some loophole in Australian law, refugees from Sri Lanka and Indonesia who are "in distress"—the ones who survive the 1,800 mile boat journey—are eligible for Australian social services and eventual citizenship. During our week stay, 5 small fishing boats between 30 and 50 feet in length arrived, each in various stages of sinking, and each packing between 30 and 60 battered people. The Border Patrol puts the survivors on a commercial airliner, soaks the fishing boats in gasoline and sets them adrift and aflame—otherwise the CKI lagoon would soon be filled with refugee boats. We were saddened but profoundly impressed by the courage it must have taken these people to attempt such a desperate journey for a better life.

Alone in Kara world

Another 1,800 miles of sailing brought us to the little backwater island of Rodruiges—a shocking contrast from the world of desperate refugees. A network of backyard gardeners, goat herds, beekepers, ranchers, and fishermen support the islands nutritional needs. An excellent public transit system, efficient and free social and health services, large open-air public markets, and a ready supply of cheap rum ensures that this island has the happiest population on earth. The mosty-African people live in modest cinderblock iron-roofed cottages but are fat, friendly and happy—and completely, unerringly honest. It was downright spooky.

Hermit Island, Rodruiges lagoon

We loved the bus system. Each driver had his own customized bus, hand painted in themed rasta motif. Mechanically, the busses were in questionable condition—particularly the brakes—but each had a high-end stereo blasting Bob Marley as the driver struggled for control on steep dirt switchbacks, slowing just enough for any pedestirans to leap aboard. At the end of each road the driver would downshift madly, pumping the brake pedal to stop from plunging into the emerald lagoon. At the beach he would kill the engine, put his feet up, crack a Guiness (the beer of choice on the island) and settle in for a siesta while we explored the countryside.

Goatherd with the million dollar view

The countryside was perhaps the only depressing thing about the island—it had been completely stripped in colonial times. At the 'museum' of endemic plants and animals, they had a large selection of displays, usually just a single precious bone or an artist's rendition based on early ship's logs for most species. Of 300,000 giant Rodruiges tortoises, none remain. Of the Solitare, a close relative of the Dodo--and nearly all other native bird life--none remain. Of the endemic stands of old-growth forest, nothing remains.

Hunting octopus in the Rodruiges lagoon

Kara and the big tortouse

With a full supply of rum, papayas, bananas, limes, and pomelo we set off for Mauritius, the main yachtie stop in the Indian Ocean at 450 miles off the coast of Madagascar. The island happens to be exactly halfway around the planet from Monterey; from here on we are homeward bound. Our plans are to spend another week here, then stop on Reunion Island before heading for Richard's Bay, on the East coast of South Africa.

Rodruiges's Port Mathurin

Nathaniel in Port Denison

Hello again and welcome to the 30^th Orca Update.

Beachcombing in Shark Bay

At Port Denison, midway up the west coast of Australia, Kara hopped a bus for the ride down to Perth airport for 40 days of quality family time back in the States. I, meanwhile, would skulk around in the PD harbor for the duration, with only my twelve gallons of homebrew and 40 packages of ramen noondles for company. Well, that's what I thought, anyway. The Australian personality has a well-known weakness for beer, and twelve gallons of it gives off some sort of quasi-gravitational field which the locals found irresistable. Before long I knew all six people in town, and each day slid by in an unremarkable malaise of comfortable similarity, good waves, new friends, and sunny weather.

That all ended when Kara returned. She'd brought Nathaniel, her little brother, along; he said he wanted a taste of the sailing life and the fates certainly provided it. Perhaps we all got a little more than we bargained for.

Shallow water soloing

Lobster & rum cookout

The night their plane landed, an extremely violent cold front swept through Western Australia—they called it a once-in-a-decade storm. Power was knocked out to much of Perth, lightening flickered across the sky. White-out conditions prevailed in Port Denison, with gusts to 70 knots. Orca was ready for storm conditions with double mooring lines and extra chafe gear, but other boats weren't so lucky. Many broke loose from their moorings and at 3am one unmanned sloop went flying by Orca, pushed by the sustained pressure of 50 knot winds. With a dingy rescue rendered impossible by the 4-foot whitecaps rolling through the harbor I threw on my wetsuit and dove overboard, striking out to save the other boat before she crashed onto the rocks. Scrambling aboard, I searched frantically for an anchor, the engine start switch, or any other way to avert disaster—unsuccessfully. I braced for the crash as a resounding boom set the mast vibrating and and triggered an avalance of gear down below. The cabin lights flickered, electrics knocked loose by the impact. I leapt overboard and scrambled up the rocks to where a few other live-a-boards had gathered. With the boat pinned to the rocks by the wind and chop there was little to be done; in a testament to the strength and durability of fibreglass the boat ground against the rocks for 4 hours in gale force conditions before being towed off—still afloat. This gave me some much-needed confidence for what happened to Orca the next week.

We loaded Nathaniel, now with a healthy respect for Australian weather, aboard and set out for Shark Bay, 250 miles up the coast. The leftover slop and onshore conditions made for fast but miserable sailing. Nathaniel was confined to his bunk, groggy and nauseous. At night, the cloud cover and new moon left us in complete darkness, the horizonless sailing causing even Kara and I to feel varying degrees of seasickness. The shallow offshore reefs along this coastline bend the seas in strange ways, and occasionally the refracted swells combine beyond an unpredictable and uncomfortable motion into breaking crests—one of which plowed into us amidships and sent several gallons of seawater cascading below. Nathaniel groaned and buried his head in his now-wet bunk. Kara slogged her way down the companionway from the filled cockpit and I took the watch. I was huddling in the dubious protection of the dodger, a trickle of cold seawater running down my neck, when there was a horrendious crash. The bow lurched several feet upward and Orca was quickly inclined, bow pointing upward at an unnatural angle. She ran up onto the obstacle and there was a second thud under the keel, the stern briefly lifted before we settled back into the water normally. The whole incident was over in a second.

Outward bound with SV Shaddow

I lept to my feet, eyes on our wake but could see nothing in the darkness. Kara wrenched open the bilge covers and reported no ingress of water. As I grabbed the wheel to feel for feedback from the rudder—hopefully we still had one—I glanced over the side and a whale, huge and terrifying in the blackness, spouted along side us, nearly close enough to touch. As we sailed out from amongst the pod of whales, invisible in the murk, Nathaniel groaned and rolled over in his wet bunk.

We diverted to a nearby anchorage and the following morning we dove under the boat to inspect the hull. Despite a distinct whale-textured impression in the antifoul paint near the bow everything was fine. Since Orca's keel was already looking rather battered below from running onto that reef back in New Caledonia, we were able to file the whole thing away as a great experience for Nathaniel, who let out a small snore from his wet bunk. We went back to sea.

This one didn't survive The Whale

Two—dare we say it?--nice days of sailing brought us to Shark Bay, during which Nathaniel gained his sea legs and stood several challenging night watches. Inside the Bay, the water was clear, the sailing smooth, and the weather settled. While sealife was plentiful, the land was spookily devoid of life other than stunted brush, skeletons, shipwrecks, and ruins. Vultures circled the sand dunes and sharks prowled the shoreline. Nathaniel was game to spearfish amongst the sharks, but the 8-foot venomous seasnake that snuck up behind him was more than he could handle; I've rarely seen anyone swim quite that fast. We ate lobster, fish, and a giant clam cooked on an open beach fire. We speared squid in the shallows, trolled for tuna, and Nathaniel battled a sizable black-tip reef shark before tackling it in the cockpit.

Time rushed by once we were safe in Shark Bay, and soon it was time to find a bus stop to send our guest home. Carnarvon boat harbor has no commercial value, and consequently the channel markers are in the wrong places and the entrance hasn't been dredged in years. Six feet of water, during spring high tide, is the most one can hope for and all boats run aground--several times—when entering. We bounced our way over the bar, packed up Nathaniel and sent him home. Six trips to the supermarket have topped up the larder and now we're off into the Indian Ocean.

Thanks!

John & Kara

Carnarvon, WA, Australia

Esperance

Someone, possibly myself (although now it seems like someone else must have made the decision), talked us into sailing under Austalia to reach the Indian Ocean. This is not a traditional sailing route; the ocean down there isn't traveled enough to merit a formal name. Its not the Pacific, nor the Tasman. Its not quite the Indian; perhaps it's the Southern Ocean or bordered by it. Maybe it's just a big storm-battered bay; 1,600 miles of hostile ocean and 2,100 miles of sand pounded flat by relentless swell. It was a morale-withering distance to cover with the southern summer closing down—four, maybe six weeks before the winter westerlies filled in.

Despite a forecast for brisk southerlies and big seas, once outside Hell's Gates the elements abandoned us to a confused chop and light air. Within hours we had an alarming increase in breeze from the East—the wind we didn't want funneling over the Bass Straight's contrary currents. The waves were building very quickly. By afternoon we'd taken in all sail except a scrap of mainsail and by sunset were intermittently overcanvassed. In the hole between waves the rig's howl was eerily subdued, Orca standing tall and upright in the shelter of the next looming swell. As each wave moved under us, the sail rose into the wind and when on the crest we'd be layed over, lee ports looking down into the sea. The Straight's notorious currents were having their say; the top third of each wave was steep and craggy with an unnatural hollow just beneath the white crest like a sunken black eye.

 

We were taking wave tops over the cabin, the boat in full submarine mode. We needed to reduce sail even further; Kara was quick to volunteer for the foredeck job. A marvel of poise under pressure, she efficiently brought us down to storm canvas despite the water on deck, waist deep at times. After that, we double-checked the steering vane and retired below to spend the night sitting on the floor, heads between our knees.

It was a rough start to this leg of our journey. We made it across the Bass Straight but were forced to pull into Portland, Victoria by morning to repair damage to the mainsail. Curious, we used the public library's internet to look up the weather records from the station nearest our position when we had our highest winds. We were shocked when Google revealed the closest island, New Year Island, had (1) recorded the month's lowest windspeed for that night and (2) supported the highest deadily snake population density on the planet.

We were glad to be done with the Straight.

Feeling well chastised and not a little humbled, we put to sea—still stubbornly headed west. We stopped on Kangaroo Island, where a salt named Glen took us aboard his timber crayfishing boat. He nursed our confidence back to life, fed us up (we were looking borderline malnourished at this point), placed his 'ute' at our disposal, and tipped us off about the broken shower at the campground—free unlimited hot water.

But Glen had another miracle in his hat. Like a magician, he roared off in his tinny and returned with no less than four young people! Each mythical creature had a barely detectable golden nimbus surrounding them, springing aboard light as blown sea foam. For the first time in months, we witnessed smiles of white, real teeth set in smooth tight skin and topped by real hair of varing non-grey shades. Unthinking, I grabbed the nearest elbow to steady the newcomers down the side deck while Kara, higher brain function still reeling, automatically offered to stow their canes, walkers, and antacid medications. The 20- and 30-somethings laughed us off, the dulcet sound of tinkling glass bells, and soon we were obliged to explain our shock. Thinking back, we listed all of the people under the age of 50 we'd met on boats. There was that singlehander back in in May of 2010. We'd heard rurmors of young couple in French Polynesia, also back in 2010, but hadn't able to find them. That was it.

The Big One

This is a well-recognized phenomenon and recieves heavy cocktail-hour discourse. The very oldest yachties claim it's part of a 50-year cycle—by year 2100 they fully expect to see youngsters at sea again. The rest of us are stumped. Despite an all-time low in boat prices, sailing is just not popular with the young crowd. Traveling is still hot—backpacking hostels are packed and campervans cluster around every public toilet. So why do they travel by air, bus, and train? Perhaps we found out several days later on our next crossing. 

The next stretch of coast is 500 miles of featureless whitesand beach backed by dessicated outback—not a single cove, harbor, or building. We put to sea with a checkered forecast—fair winds, a trough and cold front, fair winds. We perceived a potential advantage in the remnants of tropical cyclone Lua, which was forecast to join with the trough and counter the short period of westerlies. Orca departed into a pattern that was now becoming famillar; the Great Australian Bight is a place of weather extremes. One can expect either a light zephyr or full gale—there are no moderate windspeeds. We had the former during the first two days and the latter soon after. The change was fast: a mirror sea flooded by dark rushing textures, a roll of boiling purple clouds. Within six hours the swell was above the spreaders, Orca hove-to, bow to weather. Again huddling below, we felt our rise and fall, trapped in an elevator.

Kangaroo Island glass off

Until setting out across the Great Australian Bight, our sea-confidence had been built upon the myth that we were something, our boat significant. The waves and swell had been of comparable size and volume to our boat, we crested them bravely and purposefully, the bow neatly parting each. We could forecast the weather; computer modeling, satellite images, and real-time observations suggested predictability, cast the illusion of control. Now, for a second time in as many weeks we were besieged by forces outside our experience. Though these swells were not dangerous, steep or breaking like those in the Straight, they were bigger—we couldn't bear to look at them. Each had the footprint of a city block. Instead of slicing through, Orca labored up each swell and tumbled down the backside, weathering just one or two waves in 60 seconds. The temptation to stay below, pretending these swells didn't—couldn't—exist, was overpowering. We didn't talk about them, we didn't think about them. Maybe they would go away.

And they did. Orca took care of us, her sails and rudder balancing each other to keep the bow to winward without sailing forward. We hid below in denial. Twelve hours later, the sea was again smooth, broken only by disorganized patches, miles across, of strong wind. We got the boat moving, but the sailing was tough. Each blast of wind called for a different combination of sails; a three-hour watch might require six sail changes. All hands were called regularly, sleep was rare. Our eyes became sunken dark hollows. There was little time for cooking. 

Southern Ocean Winds put to good use

For nine days we pushed hard in these conditions toward the town of Esperance—the French word for hope. When we arrived, the people of Esperance recognized our battered countenances. They get a handful of boats from across the Bight each year; they were familliar with the symptoms. Within minutes they had Orca installed on a mooring, her crew showered and beered in the yacht club. We were whisked off to various member's houses every night for gourmet dinners. We were pampered and before long our eyes emerged from their caves and our ribs receeded. Human again.

Corella Cockatoos invade Orca

From Esperance it was an anticlimactic jump around Cape Leeuwin, the air very light, and up to Fremantle, Western Australia. The Fremantle Sailing Club is another traditional stop for battered Southern Ocean sailors for decades, and we were very excited to experience their legendary hospitality. Unfortunately when we arrived they turned us around and sent us to sea again. The Club's new policies require a minimum $10,000,000 boat insurance policy. The average marine insurance policy is voided by sailing more than 200 miles offshore or above 35 degrees south latitude, so we could see why the guest dock was empty. 

We're now in Port Denison, about 200 miles north of Fremantle in a sleepy little lobsterfishing village. The international airport is beckoning and Kara has a plane ticket to meet her new niece, Sparrow, in just a few days!

Orca Update 28, Part II

True to the forecast, it blew 30 from the North. We pushed the boat hard for 130 miles in the first 24 hours. With a trough moving in, the sky clouded over and a fog sprang up, the temperature dropping. We crossed into the 'roaring forties,' and pushed even harder to rack up a 145 mile day. At sunset, cold, damp, and tired we sighted land—sheer red granite cliffs, 500 feet high, spotted with orange lichen and stretching like castle battlements up into the fog. The charts were sketchy so we felt our way along. Finally the gap appeared like a missing tooth, giving access to the inland waterways of Tasmania. We ghosted through and a glittering emerald sea opened before us. A blast of warm melaluca-scented air heeled the boat, instantly turning our perpetual dampness to crackling salt crystals. The last tendrils of fog melted away in the dry breeze off the granite. It was the last time we'd face the hostile Southern Ocean for over a month.

Tasmania is a land of plenty. At our first anchorage we turned down a freshly-caught lobster dinner on one friendly sailboat because we'd already accepted an invitation aboard another (owning a vineyard tipped the balance in the latter's favor.) We also had a pile of fish aboard Orca we'd speared that morning—heavy going after the other meals. Kara pulled up the anchor to find a tangle of irritable octopus clinging to the anchor. We would have eaten him if we could have stomached the thought of more seafood. To be prepared for the future I checked the fishing guide and yes, they are very tasty, but, regrettably, as an unlicensed recreational fisherman Tasmanian state law imposes a limit of 450 pounds of octopus per person per day. The thought of eating a slimy mountain of octopus daily didn't help with the now-chronic seafood overload.

As we moved south through the inland waterways, we ran into all sorts of seafood trouble. First we OD'd on mussels, then raw oysters. We tried cooking the oysters but they wouldn't fit in any of our pots (“Tazzy oysters are too big to steam, you gotta put them on the barbie, mate!”). After a lively battle we landed our first red Arrow Squid. Kara found it to have an uncannily accurate surprise assault: a long-range jet of inky snot. With her face splattered in black mucus she grabbed the wrist-thick squid with both hands; the squid was game and grabbed Kara with all eight tentacles. During the ensuing battle, precision snot-shots went into the cabin, onto the sails, and then a particularly devastating vertical spout resulted in a fine rain of black goo over the entire boat. We wrestled the writhing mass into the pressure cooker and got the lid battened down. The pot stopped rattling and bouncing but when we naively cracked the lid, geysers of mucus erupted again. Kara had had enough; she lit the stove and calamari-ed him.

By this time we'd sailed nearly 150 miles without leaving the protection of the inland waterways, but that was about to end. To reach the ultimate in remote sailing destinations requires a 60-mile dash around the bottom of Tasmania. Forbidding grey stone cliffs stand watch over the clash of ocean currents boiling under a cloud of sea-birds. Enough trust in the charts sends you sailing right at the stone wall, weaving between frothing spires of solid rock. Its not until a half mile from the cliffs that another crack in Tasmania's defenses reveals itself: hidden behind a razor's edge of stone and a natural dogleg is the entrance to Port Davey.

Around the bend, the incessant Southern Ocean swells vanish. Craggy peaks of white stone thrust harshly from green meadows of peat. A few stunted trees and ragged melaluca bushes nestle in easterly-facing hollows for protection from winter's fierce westerly gales. A red-tinged waterfall mists gracefully into the harbor. We pulled beneath it and tied off to the cliff to let the clean freshwater dissolve the salt crystals and fill the water tanks.

The streams and rivers are tinted red by the abundance of tannin-rich grasses in the surrounding tundra. In the harbor, a layer of bloody freshwater lies like a shroud over the intruding salt, blocking out light even at shallow depths. Without photosynthesis, the ecosystem in the harbor falls into the realm of the deep-sea species. What's down in the inky waters? The poor lighting, remote location, and uniqueness of the environment means that nobody's entirely sure—new species are discovered regularly. On the Orca, there was a an unusual lack of aquatic activity; it wasn't just the chilly temperature that made the dark waters seem unwelcoming.

The land, at first glance, seems lifeless but the rock and low scrub supports an array of strange and rare species. Die-hard birdwatchers occasionally charter light aircraft to Port Davey in search of the critically-endangered Orange Bellied Parrot. Just twenty-one adults remain in the wild, breeding around the edges of the moorlands (we caught a glimpse of a juvenile). Some claim the Tasmanian Tiger still hunts swans, wombats, and kangaroos in the isolated river valleys. The last known Tiger specimen died in captivity in 1936, but unconfirmed sightings by Park Rangers and bush-walkers continue to trickle in. In the last decade $3 million in reward has been offered for a confirmed sighting, giving rise to a new breed of enterprising camera-toting tourists. Not many make it to Port Davey. Experienced Tiger trackers are easy to spot; they travel fast and light, carry no water and hike for days along the Port Davey ridge-lines. Their secret? A 6' length of garden hose. A bizarre species of freshwater crayfish lives under the spongy peat in a network of burrows—even at the tops of the tallest mountains. Their holes in the saturated soil are filled with fresh water like a sandy hole at the beach; thirsty bushmen snake their hoses down to the subterranean chambers and suck the water out.

Of course, there were plenty of poisonous things too. After several encounters Kara started tucking her pants into her socks, her shirt into her pants, and there was talk of duct-tape for the arms and neck. She never went ashore without pulling on her sea boots—even to go hiking. After a particularly close call with a highly venomous red-bellied blacksnake we decided it was time to get out of the bush. We traveled nintey-five miles up the west coast to Macquarie Harbor.

Here the land is much flatter and the state has managed a road to support a small tourist economy, but the lifeblood resides with the commercial lobster fishermen who use the harbor as home base. These legendary skippers and crew work the sheer cliffs on the exposed west coast of Tasmania, maneuvering battered steel boats into gulleys and cracks along the vertical coast in horrendous swell to lodge traps on submarine ledges and rocky outcrops—but that's once they leave the harbor. The only exit from Macquarie Harbor is the aptly named Hell's Gates, flanked by two granite spires fitted with small white lighthouses. In the narrow passage, the current flows out to sea at between 3 and 10 knots, depending on the flow of rivers emptying into the harbor. The sea-floor shoals rapidly to 10 feet, intensifying the current and causing the Southern Ocean swells to break heavily. In January of 1998 a coalition of lobster fishermen placed a Waverider buoy outside Hell's Gates to report waves height in an effort to make crossing the bar safer. Within weeks the buoy recorded 60-foot seas, the biggest swell ever recorded in Australia waters. Later, the buoy was ripped from its moorings after recording 75-foot seas in the early stages of another winter storm. We asked why anyone would risk lobster fishing on the west coast of Tasmania; the answer was that a deckhand averages $150,000 per month of take-home pay—if they survive.

We waited a leisurely four days for the swell to subside. Finally, the waves died to average heights, the buoy reporting in with a maximum reading of 'just' nine meters. We were going back across the Bass Straight and into the Great Australian Bight.

Orca Update 28 Part I

Hello world!

Its been a while, but we're back to civilization with some stories to tell.

We left Port Stevens and sailed past the main tourist attraction; the brochure called it 'the world's largest single dynamic sand mass'--really just another big sand bar. After a night at sea we pulled into Sydney Harbor and were astonished to find the seas inside the harbor were twice as rough as they were out in the Tasman. The number of mega yachts, ferries, jet-boats, tour boats and sailboats was beyond belief; the wakes from each of them bouncing endlessly off the cliffs and concrete sea walls combining into strange lurching waves that had us ocean sailors looking a bit green about the gills.

We anchored off the opera house for the New Year's fireworks. The show was as spectacular as only a booming mining economy could make it—no expense spared. Half dozen simultaneous displays surrounded the

harbor in addition to the rockets and geysers of fire launched from the bridges and skyscrapers in the city. A stunt pilot wove his plane through the masts of the anchored boats, and a parade of decorated tall ships circled the harbor.

In the morning, we washed the ash off our decks and solar panels and put to sea, relieved to be out in the relatively smooth waters of the Tasman again. Exactly 200 miles south, we pulled into the little town of Eden, the last town on the East coast. Aside from a small fishing fleet and the requisite freighter dock for loading lumber and ore, the town had little to offer tourists except a stranger-than-fiction whaling history.

In the 18^th century, while whaling ships hunted deep offshore waters, an industry of land based whaling sprung up. A few hardy and enterprising souls would camp out on a likely looking bluff and watch for whales; upon spotting a pod they would rush down into their rowboats and row like mad out to intercept, pincushion the whales with harpoons, tow the carcass back to shore to be rendered and stored until a trading ship came. It was very dangerous and intensely laborious. However, in Eden, the resident killer-whale (his name was Old Tom), saw that h

e and the humans were working toward a common goal. Once teamed up, a routine emerged and it was life on easy street for both of them. The big orca would wait offshore while the whalers drank rum and played cards on the beach. When Old Tom spotted some likely victims passing offshore, he'd rush into the beach and alert the sleepy whalers by splashing and slapping his tail just off the sand. The crews would pile into their rowboats and toss Old Tom a line; the killer whale would take the lines in his mouth and tow the boats out to the sperm whales at high speed. Then Tom would herd the whales up to the boats, harrying them from below to keep them at the surface in easy harpoon range. Under assault from above and below, the sperm whales would quickly expire. The whalers, in a show of trust and gratitude, would cut the carcass loose for Old Tom, who would take it down to the bottom to have his way with it while the whalers returned to the beach for a nap. After a few hours, Old Tom would return the carcass to them,

usually sans tongue (apparently a delicacy). Legend has it that the routine continued for many years until Old Tom's teeth became so worn down from pulling ropes that he could no longer eat;

ironically, he died of starvation. If you go into the Eden whaling museum, they have a complete Orca skeleton, which, they claim, is Old Tom's. Looking closely, you can see that his front teeth are quite sharp--but behind either cheek the teeth are worn down to little more than nubs.

We'd heard great things about Tasmania; in the back of our minds it had always been there—a remote and mysterious place where there were still harbors, mountains and streams wild and untamed. After much debate and several bottles of fortifying home-brew, we decided to go for it. We waited two weeks in Eden, the last stop on the east coast before crossing the notorious Bass Straight to Tazzy.

The Bass Straight has a fearsome reputation. The western entrance is exposed to the Southern Ocean; the closest land to windward of the prevailing westerlies is Cape Horn, South America. The Eastern entrance opens into the Tasman, which has a nasty reputation in its own right. The bottom shoals to an average of less than 200 feet, intensifying open ocean currents and causing unnaturally steep breaking seas. The wind funnels between the two land masses, reaching supernatural velocities. In addition there's a scattering of over one hundred islands and rocky outcrops throughout the Straight, and their names tell their own stories: Skull Rock, Black Pyramid, Devil's Tower, Cape Barren, Starvation Cove. There's a long history of shipwreck and tragedy, the most recent in 1998 when a fleet of 114 sailboats in the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race were slammed by hurricane force westerlies. 67 turned around and limped back to the mainland, a handful were abandoned and 6 people died.

Our goal, of course, was to have about 10 knots of northerlies, sunshine, and balmy weather for the entire 200-mile crossing. There were a dozen other adventurous boats with the same goal, collectively over a century of Bass Straight sailing experience. Impromptu weather meetings sprang up twice daily—over gallons coffee in the morning and then gallons of beer in the evening. Some of the more aggressive boats got anxious and went for it despite unfavorable weather, the older experienced hands urged caution—there was always a story to back up the advice. “I was hove-to for three days in the Straight back in '93; couldn't go out on deck—breaking waves over us from stem to stern. Rocks all around, whirlpools.” Finally, a forecast for two days of 20-30 knots from the north. Us remaining boats had a last weather conference aboard a 50' aluminum ex-race boat, one bulkhead peppered with Sydney-Hobart racing plaques, trophies. It was a pretty serious boat; a few nuts and bolts were protruding from bulkheads below, each as thick as your average broomstick. The cockpit was protected by a shatterproof windshield salvaged from a 18-wheel Mac Truck. The skipper gave a few last words of advice. “I've been across the Straight dozens of times, and I've learned a few things. Go as fast as you can. This is not a pleasure cruise, the weather will turn—it always does. Don't trust the forecast, get across and get the hell out of there. I crewed in the '98 race, the bad one. The weather turned bad in an instant, the forecast hugely underestimated the situation.” There was a moment of loaded silence, then we asked the question that had to be asked. How bad was it? “Hard to say,” she said. “The wind sensors were washed off the top of the mast pretty early on. Their last reading was 92 knots.”

On that note, we left.