tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59066490219515327512024-03-14T01:46:36.286-07:00Orca's LogOrcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-1574403343548540462014-11-09T09:38:00.000-08:002015-01-04T09:47:58.231-08:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MaeLzyf8JL0/VF-jqrBGBTI/AAAAAAAAAqo/CqfSLnMDauI/s1600/alaskan_boatyard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MaeLzyf8JL0/VF-jqrBGBTI/AAAAAAAAAqo/CqfSLnMDauI/s1600/alaskan_boatyard.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Alaskan Boatyard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hello Friends,</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPhzkwkHRNQ/VF-jtoOCXiI/AAAAAAAAAq0/GH48TcW1q3s/s1600/dawes_glacier.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPhzkwkHRNQ/VF-jtoOCXiI/AAAAAAAAAq0/GH48TcW1q3s/s1600/dawes_glacier.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a> Spring came abruptly to
Alaska. Seemingly overnight, the understory erupted in the fresh,
verdant green of deciduous foliage. A sleep-muddled bear fell
through the roof of a Juneau house into a child's birthday party and,
in Sitka, a grumpy grizzly wandered the streets preying on dogs while
taking generous gunfire from the locals.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Leaving Sitka was a
bittersweet occasion, but the weather was fair and the endless
wilderness beckoned. Several consecutive going-away celebrations
left us a little groggy, but the brisk spring air pushed <span style="font-style: normal;">the
boat</span> slowly north. Kara's brother, Nathaniel had joined us
for a brief sojourn, a rather inexplicable occurrence given that his
last visit had consisted primarily of large, wicked seas and a
terrifying collision with a humpback whale in the southern Indian
Ocean. Not knowing any better, he considered the sea conditions in
the Gulf of Alaska just fine, if a little chilly, as we worked out
way up the outside of Chichigof Island.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePBZQSmlMng/VF-kM-vdabI/AAAAAAAAArc/5RAVh7lVi_Q/s1600/further_back.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePBZQSmlMng/VF-kM-vdabI/AAAAAAAAArc/5RAVh7lVi_Q/s1600/further_back.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Chichigof Island,
incidentally, is renown for having the highest population density of
grizzly bears on Earth. Kara, of course, wanted to hike daily and so
I'd borrowed a 12-gauge shotgun. I was under no illusion about
stopping a charging bear—or even my ability to locate the gun's
trigger under such circumstances—but I hoped it would make loud,
presumably bear-scaring noises. This theory proved fantastically
incorrect; the bears we encountered were decidedly unperturbed by
gunfire and I started to worry that, just maybe, the more curious
were coming to investigate the unfamiliar noises. Their reactions to
our presence ranged from imperious disinterest to nervous retreat,
and after several peaceable encounters I stopped worrying.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzV_xVjhr2Y/VF-j1S0IscI/AAAAAAAAArA/u0QjWu_waEI/s1600/fishing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzV_xVjhr2Y/VF-j1S0IscI/AAAAAAAAArA/u0QjWu_waEI/s1600/fishing.JPG" height="320" width="238" /></a>As the last grocery store
faded astern, Kara's role as provision-shopper began to evolve. In
the course of her endless quest for fresh food, wild mushrooms,
greens, and berries gradually supplanted their storebought
predecessors. She perfected her salmon-trolling technique, and there
were several halibut dramas; the largest catches were tremendously
muscular and impossibly difficult to subdue, even after being hoisted
aboard. The ensuing cockpit battles all culminated in an abrupt,
deadly silence, the clank of a gore-spattered anchor dropping from
Kara's shaking hand, tears leaking through beads of sweat as she
grappled with the harsh realities of wresting food from the
wilderness.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In July, we entered the
inside passage through Icy Straight. In the late 1700's, the first
European explorers reported the area unnavigable, choked with ice,
and named it accordingly. Other, recent sailing publications advised
caution around large bergs. We sailed through with a sharp lookout,
but the ice had vanished. We kept <i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">pointed
east</span>—deeper into ice country—and finally the first bergs
appeared. The sea became deceptively peaceful as we spiraled further
inland; the waterways tightened, cliffs soaring. Four times daily,
the twenty-foot tides struggled to squeeze through narrow passages
and in places the currents ran at 15 knots with large standing waves
and tumbling, house-sized ice cubes.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-69CmH1n_r0A/VF-j1LqsR7I/AAAAAAAAAq8/oeNnIL33oUs/s1600/fords_terror_anchorage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-69CmH1n_r0A/VF-j1LqsR7I/AAAAAAAAAq8/oeNnIL33oUs/s1600/fords_terror_anchorage.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ford's Terror</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was
feeling sluggish and the swirling tidal currents had us at their
mercy. Her bottom was dirty, but the frigid glacial waters left Kara
disinclined to dive the hull to scrape the vigorous Alaskan
growth—with twenty hour days, the marine ecosystem was booming. We
gave ourselves a crash-course the use of the Alaskan boatyard; I
drove </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">aground at
high tide. In an hour, she was high, dry, and ready for paint. </span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With a clean bottom, we
sliced decisively through the currents. <i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">pushed</span>
even deeper into the fjords than should have been possible; our
nautical charts, last updated in 2009, told us we were buried beneath
five-hundred vertical feet of ancient tidewater glacier. Finally,
miles further inland, we sighted the Dawes glacier. Cracking ice
echoed louder than thunder, and hundreds of tons of ice cascaded from
the face. The slabs rained into the sea, explosions of spray
rocketed hundreds of feet up, and the entire waterway sloshed
endlessly. Floating bergs scraped, crashed, collided, broke, rolled,
and groaned.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EHzKhGShy6U/VF-j5UqmrnI/AAAAAAAAArQ/gfLhjPnhROw/s1600/powerboat_at_dawes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EHzKhGShy6U/VF-j5UqmrnI/AAAAAAAAArQ/gfLhjPnhROw/s1600/powerboat_at_dawes.JPG" height="320" width="205" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Powerboat at Dawe's Glacier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But even floating in this
raw, roiling granite basin <span style="font-style: normal;">surrounded
by the awesome power of the ice, it was obvious that something even
bigger, even more tremendous, was conquering the glacier's hold on
this land. The ice-scars on the valley's smooth walls, like high
water marks, were thousands of feet up. Plants—even lichen—had
yet to colonize the fresh rocks and scree adjacent to the glacier,
and meltwater roared from a hundred waterfalls. This glacier was in
full retreat.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">We
turned south, pushing through a slurry of shattered ice and into
Canada. The salmon vanished at the border, unable to spawn with
their home streams choked by the muddy runoff hemorrhaging from from
clear-cut logging operations. Signs of civilization began to appear;
boarded-up sportfishing resorts, networks of logging roads, and
industrial salmon farms where desultory attendants shoveled pink food
pellets laced with antibiotics into vast pens of imported Atlantic
salmon (without a steady diet of artificial dye, farmed salmon
fillets would be grey and unmarketable).</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Three
hundred miles into Canada, the first vacation homes appeared—at
first just tiny cabins. As our latitude decreased, their size and
density exploded until, finally, we re-entered the U.S. at Friday
Harbor on San Juan Island where the water's edge is an impenetrable
wall of five-story condominiums. The adjacent tiers of mansions had
swelled to include every conceivable inch of waterfront space, and
'no trespassing' signs were ubiquitous. Somehow, throughout the San
Juan Islands, it is common practice to market exclusive access to the
tidelands, resulting in a beautiful coastline of forested beaches
almost entirely owned—and fiercely defended—by private
development interests. They made it abundantly clear that little
</span><i>Coconut </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was not
welcome ashore, and our excitement about exploring the islands
withered.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0K2TZD42Y34/VF-joXoPe3I/AAAAAAAAAqc/ZPr4pfEAwN4/s1600/DSCN3127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0K2TZD42Y34/VF-joXoPe3I/AAAAAAAAAqc/ZPr4pfEAwN4/s1600/DSCN3127.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Missing Glacier?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">With
the notion of finding a berth and a job for the winter, Kara called
each of the fifty marinas in Seattle. Confronted with lengthy
waiting lists, large insurance minimums, and a general distaste for
live-aboards, </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
seemingly of her own volition, turned west, out into the Pacific and
was swallowed by a dense fog. She emerged fifty miles off San
Francisco Bay, where her course began to angle east and we soon found
ourselves on a course for Thanksgiving with our families in Monterey.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks
to everyone who bought a copy of the book, and especially those
twenty-seven friends and strangers who contributed to the 4.8 star
average on Amazon.com.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fair
winds,</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
John &
Kara<br />
<br />
Find us soon on<br />
https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MAGEJp0toIo/VF-jqYHidmI/AAAAAAAAAqk/N-ZJ_XjKtm8/s1600/at_anchor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MAGEJp0toIo/VF-jqYHidmI/AAAAAAAAAqk/N-ZJ_XjKtm8/s1600/at_anchor.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a><br />
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-85898212342283490902014-06-08T10:04:00.002-07:002014-06-08T10:04:44.341-07:00Book Release<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TnizBo0r1vc/U5SWSv-V2VI/AAAAAAAAAqM/mDwsZCFpSRQ/s1600/DSCN2353_pana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TnizBo0r1vc/U5SWSv-V2VI/AAAAAAAAAqM/mDwsZCFpSRQ/s1600/DSCN2353_pana.jpg" height="151" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitka, as seen from across the Sound at the summit of Mt. Edgecumbe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="moz-text-html" lang="x-unicode">
<div dir="ltr">
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
Hi friends,</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
Just a quick note. The <i>Orca </i>book is
now available from Amazon in both paperback and e-book formats at $8
and $3, respectively. The book-jacket summary is below. </div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> The
inspiring and hilarious true story of an unworldly twenty-two year
old California surf punk and his faithful girlfriend who tire of
their parochial and drama-filled home town. They decide to buy a
thirty foot sailboat and disappear. </i>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>They must
overcome spectacular nautical ignorance and defeat a cunning sabotage
attempt by safety-conscious parents armed only with a shoestring
budget and an unshakable sense of humor. Once on the high seas,
unexpected enemies and incredible allies soon propel little </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Orca</span><i>
across the Pacific and into the unforgiving Southern Ocean. Before
long, the crew realizes they've gone too far downwind: in order to
return home, they must sail around the world. Nothing will ever be
the same.</i></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
It is a 290-page novel
that seeks to entertain as it informs. If this sounds interesting,
please follow this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Orca-John-A-Pennington/dp/1499319797/">link</a>
or search for 'Orca sailing' from Amazon's website. Positive reviews
greatly appreciated!</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
<br />
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
Thanks again,</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal;">
John & Kara</div>
</div>
</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-40979274860644161612014-02-13T14:07:00.003-08:002014-02-13T14:07:49.248-08:00<div class="moz-text-html" lang="x-western">
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OudbaPY_pQs/Uv1AdXQUo7I/AAAAAAAAApg/Ud0xgh9JfB8/s1600/DSCN1684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OudbaPY_pQs/Uv1AdXQUo7I/AAAAAAAAApg/Ud0xgh9JfB8/s1600/DSCN1684.JPG" height="70" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Hello Everyone,<br />
<br />
Even though it's only February, it seems like worst of winter is
behind us. Kara is ecstatic.<br />
<br />
We're told that a winter in southeast Alaska is often longer and
darker than many areas further north because of the perpetual cloud
cover. The occasional glimpses of the dim, watery sun held no heat
and Kara could stare into it, unflinching, for hours. <i>Orca's</i>
cabin was murky for three months, daylight's presence only betrayed
by a greyness in the southern sky and the blazing cabin lights that
pierced noon's gloom. Periodic snowfall covered the hatches,
exacerbating the situation. For a while, Kara was acting strangely,
shoveling snow off the deck hatches during a blizzard and mumbling
about digging for the sun. Our Sitkan friends said she was SAD.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tQbwn9eTtf0/Uv1AcsrCD1I/AAAAAAAAApk/G0vLc1evcWE/s1600/DSCN1566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tQbwn9eTtf0/Uv1AcsrCD1I/AAAAAAAAApk/G0vLc1evcWE/s1600/DSCN1566.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Seasonal Affective Disorder is prevalent here—weeks of
incessant rain, sleet, snow, and months of thick cloud weigh heavily
on the town's collective psyche. Super-doses of synthetic vitamin D
seem to help, though others swear by a therapy of sixty minutes
staring into a lightbox from a foot away. We compromised by
stringing white Christmas lights around the cabin, and Kara's mom
bought her a new kerosene lamp. Kara keeps the sunlight-gold brass
immaculately polished with religious dedication.<br />
<br />
The learning curve has been steep. We scrambled to get <i>Orca
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">hooked up to city electricity in
October, when the last electron trickled out of our solar panels. In
November, a cold snap solidified the dock plumbing, and we hadn't
filled </span><i>Orca's </i><span style="font-style: normal;">water
tanks. By December, Kara was experimenting with her contact lenses,
which had frozen solid in solution, to determine if they were still
serviceable after careful thawing—they were. In January, Kara
learned to wear a hat between the shower and </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">when
her wet hair froze into a helmet of disarrayed spikes during the
commute; the fishermen were greatly amused. We made extensive
modifications to our chimney and fireplace, which has been burning
non-stop for four months. Though the distinction between diesel #1
and #2 still eludes me, #1 seems to flow better when the temperature
plunges. The battle against moisture and condensation is uphill and
futile, though the whisper of ice along the hull no longer keeps us
awake on cold nights.</span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-b_ldjpaXE/Uv1AebEDUpI/AAAAAAAAAp0/BO2bZlVyFMc/s1600/DSCN1702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-b_ldjpaXE/Uv1AebEDUpI/AAAAAAAAAp0/BO2bZlVyFMc/s1600/DSCN1702.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a> </div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
The Sitkans seem to take all this in
stride; they just don't know any better. Surfing and—stranger
yet—snorkeling are inexplicably popular wintertime activities
involving slabs of neoprene and the requisite waterproof flashlights.
A huge turnout for outdoor ultimate frisbee in torrential 33-degree
sleet and 30-knot winds during the afternoon night is not unexpected,
and a great way to meet the locals.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
We stumbled into an acquaintance with
David, a ballerina and the self-designated ice-tester at the town
lake. He skates wearing a life jacket and falls through often, but doesn't seem to mind. His 24-year-old brother is the local
political celebrity, the house representative for SE Alaska, an
ultra-marathoner, and mountaineer who climbed a 22,000 foot high
mountain to measure it's precise elevation trigonometrically for a
school project. Together they maintain a tradition of midnight winter-solstice naked harbor swims.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QSBOFFIN37U/Uv1Ae0Pnq0I/AAAAAAAAAp4/eUa_GFzxopU/s1600/DSCN1717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QSBOFFIN37U/Uv1Ae0Pnq0I/AAAAAAAAAp4/eUa_GFzxopU/s1600/DSCN1717.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>Little Abby was once trapped in her
car seat, strapped into the family SUV on a camping trip as a
rampaging brown bear tore off the tailgate and climbed inside. Her
parents watched powerlessly from afar as it ate through much of the
food but left Abby unharmed. Afterwards, her mom, though shaken,
opted to continue the vacation on reduced rations.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
Dave was recently hospitalized when a
bird flew into his window. The bald eagle had a wingspan of seven
feet and the impact turned the window into high velocity glass spears that
stuck, quivering, into his flesh.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
Taylor is a frisky 23-year old blonde
who runs the local aquarium. She says sea otter makes excellent
soup, whale meat is best stir-fried and, when pressed, reluctantly
admits to fighting off a twelve hundred pound brown bear using a
chainsaw ("I'm just glad my old Stihl started on the first pull!").
Away at college for the first time, she was forcibly removed from
her Seattle dorm by an angry mob of vegan roommates after she
mistakenly grilled a slab of self-slayed elk in the communal
cookware. She still doesn't understand what she did wrong.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1v9cu6RK2Tc/Uv1Ac25ZsfI/AAAAAAAAApo/1Ho7tTtCB3g/s1600/DSCN1633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1v9cu6RK2Tc/Uv1Ac25ZsfI/AAAAAAAAApo/1Ho7tTtCB3g/s1600/DSCN1633.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
About three weeks ago, the winter
precipitation gave out with a final gasp—eight inches of rain in
eight hours. Ever since, the sky has been blue and the sun seems to
pack more punch. Though the temperature hasn't sallied above
freezing in two weeks, everybody is outside in shorts, skin
translucently white, squinting, sun-dazzled, and smiling. They say
we're through the worst, and a good thing too.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k5SLyJYZODE/Uv1AcEkS4fI/AAAAAAAAApU/ftG3bAXrIIY/s1600/DSCN1463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k5SLyJYZODE/Uv1AcEkS4fI/AAAAAAAAApU/ftG3bAXrIIY/s1600/DSCN1463.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
This winter's project has been to
write a book about <i>Orca's </i>voyage. Given the awful weather and
our quest for any excuse not to venture outside, progress was almost
inevitable. The rough draft includes some Orca Update text but is
mostly new material with an emphasis on the personal—and often
humorous—side of our misadventures. Does anyone know a publisher
who might be interested in having a look?</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
<br /><br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
Thanks again,</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
John & Kara</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
S/V Orca</div>
<div style="font-style: normal;">
Sitka, Alaska</div>
</div>
</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-49667775757163093782013-11-04T17:13:00.000-08:002013-11-06T16:22:16.437-08:00<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lsn38CNYmqw/UnrastskIbI/AAAAAAAAAn0/zDKCzveYV4A/s1600/DSCN1050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="56" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lsn38CNYmqw/UnrastskIbI/AAAAAAAAAn0/zDKCzveYV4A/s320/DSCN1050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
With the emotional
Hawaii send-off astern, we resolutely beat north against 25 knots of
NE trades. Aunt Abby's tropical bouquet, still lashed to the bow, met
green water regularly for three days and the flowers gradually eroded
away to a few desultory nubs.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VjvhkfcM80M/UnhCZsztFxI/AAAAAAAAAng/-hYyoXJxFpk/s1600/IMG_0829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VjvhkfcM80M/UnhCZsztFxI/AAAAAAAAAng/-hYyoXJxFpk/s200/IMG_0829.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise at sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As we neared the
edge of the tropics, the North Pacific weather situation remained
unfavorable. The semi-permanent high-pressure area responsible for
the prevalent NW wind in California was unusually and stubbornly
camped way out on the dateline, leaving <i>Orca</i> with a poor
choice between headwinds and calms. On the fifth night, as expected,
we coasted into a brick wall: 600 nautical miles without a breath of
wind. <i>Orca </i> floated
perfectly still surrounded by the absolute silence of outer space;
the stars, planets, milky way, and moon indistinguishably reflected
by the ocean's invisible surface. Sweeping raindrops occasionally
brought reprieve by disturbing the microorganisms at the water's
surface to lead a pulsing wave of phosphorescence over the ocean.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5tHSewit9ZU/UnrbvtTmCaI/AAAAAAAAAo0/TmeMrg1lBRA/s1600/IMG_0837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5tHSewit9ZU/UnrbvtTmCaI/AAAAAAAAAo0/TmeMrg1lBRA/s320/IMG_0837.JPG" width="320" /></a>The ocean became mirror calm, without even the ubiquitous
long-period swell. The horizon disappeared into the sky and even
standing became difficult, balance tricky. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ixgFDONTVNM/UnhCW0qxPOI/AAAAAAAAAmo/xBnLLAcEGtk/s1600/DSCN0964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ixgFDONTVNM/UnhCW0qxPOI/AAAAAAAAAmo/xBnLLAcEGtk/s320/DSCN0964.JPG" width="239" /></a>Drifting with a now-familiar cluster of plastic flotsam, we baked in the day's heat
and reveled in the night's magnificence for a week. Finally, a
fitful breeze riffled the water's surface from the NW. The sails
filled, barely, and we crept forward shadowed by curious Minke
whales. Passing Oregon's latitude at 1,100 miles offshore and free
from coastal upwelling, we stood night watch in shorts, and then a
tee-shirt. Crossing 50N, the temperature plunged and the air became
cold, hard, as clear and brittle as crystal. If anything, the stars
blazed brighter. Closing the Alaskan coast, an undulating curtain of
eerie green light rose in the north until dawn revealed the towering
glaciated mountains, volcanoes, and endless tree-lined fjords of
Baranof Island. We puttered into Sitka Sound in a dead calm,
appropriate to a 27 day passage in light winds and calms.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LEOMuMnUC2I/UnhCXyAlCbI/AAAAAAAAAm8/8uZF_xgUeX8/s1600/DSCN1310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LEOMuMnUC2I/UnhCXyAlCbI/AAAAAAAAAm8/8uZF_xgUeX8/s320/DSCN1310.JPG" width="102" /></a>If South Africa
was the wildest place we've been from a socioeconomic standpoint,
Alaska has been the wildest in the true sense of the word. Sitka,
little more than an outpost of 8,000 people clinging the edge of an
island 70 miles off the mainland coast, is the ex-capital of the
state and the fourth largest 'city' in the Nation's largest state.
One can walk across it in 15 minutes.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This isolation
results in a rare breed of people, reminiscent of the New Zealander.
In the village south of Sitka, seven houses were broken into by
grizzly bears in a single night last week. We asked why people
didn't board up their windows and the response was "its easier
to replace the window than the whole wall." Last month, the
start of deer season was no secret. Headless carcasses hung from the
rigging of boats in the harbor, dripping and swaying as they were
efficiently disassembled. With such a low population density, the
hunting rules are generous to the point of being ludicrous: in some
areas, ten wolves per day--unless in self defense. Californians will
have trouble imagining a scenario in which its necessary or even
possible to survive an attack by more than ten wolves, but it's
something Alaskan law takes in stride.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HKTjlTFbyBg/UnhCYZUKaZI/AAAAAAAAAnA/SyjDyyMK_7Y/s1600/DSCN1406.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HKTjlTFbyBg/UnhCYZUKaZI/AAAAAAAAAnA/SyjDyyMK_7Y/s200/DSCN1406.JPG" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting Cold</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h4bzPqDm0Vo/UnhCZ5QXosI/AAAAAAAAAnU/F5cr8L03n-U/s1600/IMG_0984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h4bzPqDm0Vo/UnhCZ5QXosI/AAAAAAAAAnU/F5cr8L03n-U/s200/IMG_0984.JPG" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salmon in the river</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RWfKqjnA9Jw/UnhCWgLVc-I/AAAAAAAAAmk/T45iAqb8R2g/s1600/DSCN1006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RWfKqjnA9Jw/UnhCWgLVc-I/AAAAAAAAAmk/T45iAqb8R2g/s200/DSCN1006.JPG" width="200" /></a>The season is
changing rapidly. The last salmon carcasses have rotted to skeletons
and the bald eagles are restless. Every ten days another hour of
daylight is lost and the nights grow cold. The rain has turned to
sleet and hail as the snow creeps ever further down the mountains.
This morning there was a thin layer of ice on the water around <i>Orca</i>
and at high noon, the puddles stayed frozen. People are buttoning up
and the town is pulling together for mutual support through winter's
cold and darkness. Every night, it seems, a new community event
debuts featuring scalding coffee, brightly defiant lights, thick
hearty stew, a roaring cedar fire, banjos, bagpipes, Tlingit drums,
knitting for the old and dancing for the young. And through it all,
at a much deeper psychological level, Kara and I are still wondering
just what, exactly, we've gotten ourselves into.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJ95zXe2tRE/UnhCYVojgdI/AAAAAAAAAnE/-89w0jKp97o/s1600/DSCN1421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="70" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJ95zXe2tRE/UnhCYVojgdI/AAAAAAAAAnE/-89w0jKp97o/s400/DSCN1421.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowy Gavan Hill View </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-73874936682812416342013-09-05T15:25:00.000-07:002013-09-05T15:25:17.334-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BbTm30aulDQ/UikCyoFe2GI/AAAAAAAAAlg/wntdhisHZL0/s1600/orca_through_the_mountains.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="70" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BbTm30aulDQ/UikCyoFe2GI/AAAAAAAAAlg/wntdhisHZL0/s400/orca_through_the_mountains.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through the mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Hello friends, <br /><br /><br />We apologize for the long silence, we have been very busy.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pzVIdSnKxuU/UikC__gCw0I/AAAAAAAAAmU/KmlihhtadSU/s1600/volunteer_crew.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pzVIdSnKxuU/UikC__gCw0I/AAAAAAAAAmU/KmlihhtadSU/s320/volunteer_crew.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faithful transit crew</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />As we retired from the western-most bar on the Atlantic, we were feeling very nervous about our Canal transit. The air hung heavy, expectant, and still around us; the seasonal onshore trades that had been long been holding the temperature and humidity to the low 90's had died, and millions of bird-sized dragonflies flew unerringly west through the marina. Howler monkeys rumbled in the jungle, and as we stepped aboard, a boa constrictor uncoiled menacingly from behind the steering wheel. We would be glad to move on.<br />
<br />The Canal Authority requires a minimum of five people plus a pilot aboard any boat transiting the canal. On the morning of our transit, Orca was still short. We put the word out, and the sailing community responded. A french doctor, an American home insulation consultant, and an Australian sailor--from a boat even smaller than Orca—each volunteered the two days to get us into the Pacific. A dozen used car tires lashed around the rail for extra protection, and four hundred feet of dockline completed our preparations. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J6JrjWi0Ga8/UikC0DZdL8I/AAAAAAAAAl0/RHEdDO7dzvs/s1600/flooding_the_chambers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J6JrjWi0Ga8/UikC0DZdL8I/AAAAAAAAAl0/RHEdDO7dzvs/s320/flooding_the_chambers.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flooding the chambers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />A heavily populated Orca puttered out of the marina, meeting a pilot boat on approach to the first set of locks where we shipped two pilots—one in training. Now overloaded with seven people aboard we rafted to a pair of fifty foot sailboats and nosed into the first lock chamber. It seemed very narrow and impossibly tall, the land-side figures manning our lines along the rim scurried about like ants. The gates boomed closed behind us, while ahead, sixty vertical feet of rusty riveted iron held back the weight of Lake Gatun. At mast-top height, water trickled from the seam between the double doors. A cruise ship was maneuvered carefully into position at an adjacent lock, its waterline fifty feet above our heads. Orca suddenly felt tiny, smaller than she ever had at sea. The massive submerged valves were opened and suddenly the water was churning. A Honda-sized whirlpool boiled past, the water rising quickly. Our triple <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-55WmdoMhVIA/UikC_3gAj1I/AAAAAAAAAmY/lCPakxUD4EA/s1600/sitting_still_works_up_a_sweat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-55WmdoMhVIA/UikC_3gAj1I/AAAAAAAAAmY/lCPakxUD4EA/s320/sitting_still_works_up_a_sweat.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooling off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
raft-up surged and twisted, and Orca's cleats and blocks took loads from all three lurching boats, lines bar-tight and creaking under the strain. Elevator-like we rose surprisingly quickly, all of our volunteer crew glistening sweat as they worked to keep the lines tight and the boats centered. After three repetitions, we emerged onto the lake, where the pilots quickly directed us to our night's mooring. They cruelly left us with a stern warning against swimming: man-eating caiman, a variety of alligator in the 10-12 foot range. The temperate and humidity were both pegged in triple digits. Steam rose thick from the jungle. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_Q5UfdKXDg/UikC3PYiujI/AAAAAAAAAmA/9BlExvVYuYM/s1600/sharing_the_road_on_the_lake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="189" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_Q5UfdKXDg/UikC3PYiujI/AAAAAAAAAmA/9BlExvVYuYM/s320/sharing_the_road_on_the_lake.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sharing the road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />We dove in, hell with the caiman. Underwater, we felt a change in ambient viscosity but, disappointingly, no reduction in temperature. We suffered an endless night and were glad to run up the rusty diesel at 4am to pick up a new pilot for the lake crossing. Lake Gatun began as a misty, muddy, and muggy jungle swamp. Vines hung over the water, and monkey and toucan calls pierced the haze easily above the dark mirror water. The feeling of prehistoric, unnerving timelessness seeped again and again through our crew, intermittently interrupted by brightly colored panamax freighters 80 feet high and 1,000 feet long tearing out of the jungle and fog at 17 knots to send wakes washing over Orca's deck. Eventually, we emerged into a long and unnaturally straight channel, lined with huge dredging machinery battling the continuous mudslides along either bank. Orca followed the cut and sailed blithely through a mountain range, into the locks, and out into the Pacific.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QdJXhiqIWa8/UikC7q_ApwI/AAAAAAAAAmI/GDH7xHWq-2Q/s1600/sunset_at_sea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QdJXhiqIWa8/UikC7q_ApwI/AAAAAAAAAmI/GDH7xHWq-2Q/s320/sunset_at_sea.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pacific Sailing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />We love the Pacific, but it takes experience in the other oceans to fully appreciate it. Only in the Pacific could we depart Panama and have 47 days nonstop smooth sailing to Hawaii. We sweltered our way south, out of the gulf of Panama. On day five we brushed past the cold Humboldt current flowing up from Cape Horn. I even felt a bit of a chill during a rain squall once, and brewed a hot cup of tea – the first in nearly a month – and while huddled around it Kara noticed the thermometer had plunged into the high eighties and even braved a sip herself.<br /><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aub3WrT5uGA/UikC0RjdqWI/AAAAAAAAAlw/EGikwkiPfa8/s1600/arrival_in_honolulu.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aub3WrT5uGA/UikC0RjdqWI/AAAAAAAAAlw/EGikwkiPfa8/s320/arrival_in_honolulu.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honolulu arrival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Kara insisted we sail a conservative course to Hawaii, incorporating an extra 1,000 mile loop south to avoid the burgeoning North Pacific hurricane season. Over the next seven weeks, we watched several tropical storms and a full hurricane blossom along the more direct route, and I had to admit that it had been an excellent decision. On day 27 we crossed our 42 month-old path between Mexico and the Marquesas. Orca had sailed around the world.<br /><br /><br />By day 46, Mauna Loa was close but still lost in cloud. The city lights on Maui, low and golden between rainsqualls, crept along the rail. We entered the notorious Molokai Channel, finally rounding Diamond Head in a balmy 12 knot breeze. Kara's resident Hawaii family met us on the docks, reaching through the cyclone fencing and razor wire coils of the quarantine zone. U.S. Homeland Security officials held us while working tirelessly to ascertain the threat level our homebrewing equipment constituted and its possible effects on <br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e0sgqynYNGU/UikC0jLum2I/AAAAAAAAAl4/69HWkjpWn2U/s1600/seabirds_near_land.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e0sgqynYNGU/UikC0jLum2I/AAAAAAAAAl4/69HWkjpWn2U/s320/seabirds_near_land.JPG" width="251" /></a></div>
national security. When they released us, I stepped onto US soil for the first time in almost four years. A friendly yachtie lobbed us a pair of icy Budweisers, the cans proudly emblazoned with the stars and stripes.<br />
We'd scarcely managed to get the boat attached to the dock when we were whisked away. Apparently, while Orca was at sea, a fly-in welcoming committee had formed among Kara's Californian family, reached critical mass, and snowballed to include extended family and beyond. Visitors were pouring in from all over the country, entire airplanes must have been booked. We were bounced from hug to handshake, house to hotel, and drinks to dinner to desert until the next thing we knew, Aunt Abby was lashing a tropical bouquet to the bow pulpit, Uncle Bart was singing Aloha 'Oe, and cousins were lei-ing us as we set out into the dregs of Hurricane Yasi on the final offshore leg of our journey: passage to Alaska.<br /><br /><br />Thanks to all, especially Kara's family who took such good care of us during our stay on Oahu.<br /><br /><br />John & KaraOrcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-2196807242913516432013-05-02T10:02:00.000-07:002013-05-02T10:02:05.935-07:00Orca Update 35<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_8Y8AmrDTY4/UYKXdznf_lI/AAAAAAAAAlE/_nYe4vZ21Kc/s1600/parental_route.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BhMOvfHgG-s/UYKXkko3MBI/AAAAAAAAAlM/T_iI0lYsD2A/s320/sparrowhawk_overlooking_the_anchorage.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kestrel overlooking a BVI anchorage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BhMOvfHgG-s/UYKXkko3MBI/AAAAAAAAAlM/T_iI0lYsD2A/s1600/sparrowhawk_overlooking_the_anchorage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a>Hello friends, </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Our time in the
Caribbean is nearly finished, and we still haven't recovered from the
culture shock. We arrived in St Lucia to find <i>hundreds </i>of
boats anchored in Rodney Bay. We took a spot in the marina for a
night and were perturbed to find the smallest berths—and smallest
prices—available were for 50-foot catamarans; when we slid <i>Orca
</i>in there was still room for a half-dozen more 30 footers<i>.
</i>After clearing with customs, immigration, the port captain, and
extracting ourselves from the clutches of the very persistent street
merchants, we moved into the bay. Kara was anxious to stretch her
legs ashore, but the first two beaches we attempted to land on were
staffed by security guards who came running to demand money. Our
third attempt was successful, but only because we promised to stay
below the tide line. Kara got her first walk ashore--after 27 days
at sea--knee deep in the shore-break.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TiyBEMT1k7E/UYKXa1L2FjI/AAAAAAAAAk8/tyysA2HFu4Y/s1600/fruit_seller_boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MmhgHLhTukA/UYKXRxXX3YI/AAAAAAAAAks/nKIUSLYq9kE/s1600/coconut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MmhgHLhTukA/UYKXRxXX3YI/AAAAAAAAAks/nKIUSLYq9kE/s320/coconut.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coconut makes a beer run</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
The second thing
we did in St Lucia was find internet for news from home. We were excited to digest all of our mail, but nestled in amongst
the well wishes was a bombshell: along with Kara's sister, her
father—none other than the revered Pastor Johnny himself—was
dropping into St Lucia for a surprise visit between sermons. And
yes, he would be staying aboard, in <i>Orca's </i>five-star luxury accommodation. My first thought was: where am I going to hide 10
gallons of booze? Kara's first thought: thank God we finally fixed
the toilet.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We were a few
minutes late meeting them at the airport. Pastor Johnny, brandishing
a stack of chocolate bars, was battling to hold off a platoon of
aggressive taxi drivers. Robyn remained unmolested; fresh from a
long sunless winter in foggy Humboldt, she had cunningly camouflaged
herself by remaining motionless against a white sheet-rock wall. The
taxi drivers slunk away when Kara told them we knew about their dirty
little secret: St Lucia's inexpensive bus system.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtJ76fdqqxw/UYKWQfLeT0I/AAAAAAAAAkY/LIjztkl--Bg/s1600/BVI_lobsters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We quickly
realized that, with resort security keeping us off the beaches, the
boat was very crowded. Our collective sanity would require a whole
lot of snorkeling. The unfortunate side effect was that, by day two,
our guests were sporting severe--possibly terminal—sunburns. This
affliction in turn required vigorous application of cold beer and
margaritas—strictly for medicinal purposes. After a week, we put
our guests on a plane in a blizzard of skin cells and <i>Orca </i>set
sail for the next rendezvous.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XwqazWymi1E/UYKXV2CF9sI/AAAAAAAAAk0/ARM4_JhW7X4/s1600/daily_sailing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XwqazWymi1E/UYKXV2CF9sI/AAAAAAAAAk0/ARM4_JhW7X4/s320/daily_sailing.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keeping pace with the parents</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Months ago, in a
uncharacteristically daring show of bravado, my parents reserved a
36-foot sailboat in the British Virgin Islands. Their lack of experience was causing a spike in parental anxiety as the charter
date approached, so <i>Orca </i>arrived a day early and found a
lovely anchorage within spitting distance of the charter dock. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--fRLxwRceOA/UYKWELdy3GI/AAAAAAAAAkI/U67CA0nQk5I/s1600/7.TheRealDeal.RaftingUp.DSCN9896+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--fRLxwRceOA/UYKWELdy3GI/AAAAAAAAAkI/U67CA0nQk5I/s320/7.TheRealDeal.RaftingUp.DSCN9896+copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
We loaded Tim and
Ann onto their boat and Kara skippered them over to Peter Island. We
installed them next to <i>Orca, </i>where I imagined they would relax
for the remainder of their trip—but the parents had other ideas.
Nearing 60, they seemed to have more energy than most 3 year olds;
swimming five times daily, snorkeling morning and evening, hiking
miles up hot dusty roads, and sailing for hours—often slamming
relentlessly to windward—each day. They "did" the BVI in
a flurry of activity that left the <i>Orca </i>crew listless and
exhausted in their wake. At the end of their visit, they sashayed
through customs and sprang lightly onto the ferry, putting in a solid
30 travel-hours to arrive home at 3 A.M, in time for a cup of coffee
and a surf before beginning the 8-hour workday. We slept for three
days.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-udlR9jAtXT4/UYKWMYeujHI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/Sz7IJrv48Pk/s1600/9.WaterLife.DSCN9873+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-udlR9jAtXT4/UYKWMYeujHI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/Sz7IJrv48Pk/s320/9.WaterLife.DSCN9873+copy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Third snorkel of the day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Recuperation was
slow process, but eventually we felt strong enough to set sail toward
the Panama Canal. We gave the hostile Venezuelan shoreline a wide
berth. Skirting the Colombian coastline we were twice overflown by
unlit propeller planes at mast height—either drug runners or
anti-drug patrols—before we reached Panamanian waters after 1,100
miles.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Panama has a
monopoly on canals. On arrival, the Port Captain wanted $200.
Immigration wanted another $220. We waited five days (at $50/day) in
the marina for the Panama Canal Authority to send someone to verify
that our thirty foot boat was, in fact, less than <i>fifty </i>feet
long—for a fee, of course. Another $1,000 reserved us a spot in
the locks, but we're required to have at least six people aboard.
Bodies are available for hire--for a hefty fee, of course.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtJ76fdqqxw/UYKWQfLeT0I/AAAAAAAAAkY/LIjztkl--Bg/s1600/BVI_lobsters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtJ76fdqqxw/UYKWQfLeT0I/AAAAAAAAAkY/LIjztkl--Bg/s320/BVI_lobsters.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Transiting the
Canal takes two days. On day one, a group of sailboats uses the
three Gatun locks to climb nearly 100 feet from the Atlantic to an
artificial lake. After spending the night, we will use the four
Miraflores locks to descend into the Pacific. Each lock is a
thousand feet long, a hundred wide, and are primarily designed for
freighters. When they are flooded, the turbulence and wash generated
by the enormous volume of injected water is said to be the greatest
single danger to a small boat. To lift <i>Orca</i> up to Lake Gatun
and lower her into the Pacific will require the release of over fifty
million gallons of lake water. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wj4zjQuv3NI/UYKXL2dwENI/AAAAAAAAAkk/6nscLpOub7I/s1600/DSCN9659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wj4zjQuv3NI/UYKXL2dwENI/AAAAAAAAAkk/6nscLpOub7I/s320/DSCN9659.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<i> Orca</i> is
roughly scheduled to lock up to the lake on Friday, May 3 at about 1500 and
lock down into the Pacific at about 1000 California time the
following day. You can watch our transit live at
<a href="http://www.pancanal.com/eng/photo/camera-java.html">http://www.pancanal.com/eng/photo/camera-java.html</a>.
On arrival in the Pacific, it is customary to toast the 30,000 men
who lost their lives in the construction of the Panama Canal.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Thanks again,</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
John & Kara</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-49066771980517940802013-03-09T16:06:00.000-08:002013-03-10T09:40:33.162-07:00<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hello from the Caribbean!</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LXL1ubWPbiY/UTvEDVdlY4I/AAAAAAAAAik/uLTk30WfuBw/s1600/a+081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" jsa="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LXL1ubWPbiY/UTvEDVdlY4I/AAAAAAAAAik/uLTk30WfuBw/s320/a+081.jpg" width="320" /></a>We were leaving Cape Town. After a day of departure paperwork involving only five visits to officials in distant corners of the city, we were permitted to depart. The weather forecast looked excellent as we sailed out in a benign Cape Doctor zephyr; just 38 knots on the anemometer—calm compared with the usual 50 or 60. The weather was slow to warm with the frigid north-flowing Benguela current keeping pace beneath us. Ten days out of Cape Town, the first flying fish began to crash into the cabin and we shed our jackets. As we crossed the Prime Meridian, the wind settled to ten knots from the ESE, where it stayed for the next four weeks. Feeling strong, we blew by Saint Helena, a spire of volcanic stone in the middle of the South Atlantic made famous as the place of Napoleon's exile in the late 1800's.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dzvJ53gw1VQ/UTvF45P4GzI/AAAAAAAAAi8/zI2maYWBx0Y/s1600/b+056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" jsa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dzvJ53gw1VQ/UTvF45P4GzI/AAAAAAAAAi8/zI2maYWBx0Y/s320/b+056.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">black triggerfish on Ascension</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Four weeks out of Cape Town, Ascension Island appeard on the horizon. Despite the lofty name, the island is more of the desolate-pile-of-rubble variety. A small USAF base maintains an airstrip for refueling fighter jets on trans-Atlantic missions and serves double-duty as emergency landing for troubled commercial airliners. The millitary also runs a desailinization plant to generate fresh water for the soldiers, which we had hopes of sharing. After nearly a month at sea, we had used 27 gallons of water, exactly half our supply. Even so, before leaving Cape Town, we'd contacted the authorities on the island asking permission to stop for 30 gallons of fresh water. We submitted our information for the required background checks and were eventually given the green light. We would be allowed up to three days on the island but only between 8 am and 9 pm each day.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We anchored in the dubious protection of the tiny island, next to a floating pipeline for transfering jet fuel ashore. Big eight foot swells rose under the boat and crashed onto the jagged lava coast. Orca rolled mightily. We'd only been settled for a few minutes when we discovered that A.I has, essentially, a one-species ecosystem. The situation is natural and was recorded in journals by square-riggers hundreds of years ago. Regardless, Orca was quickly, entirely, surrounded by a sea of six-to-eight inch triggerfish—only the black variety. We launched the dingy and began the long trek ashore. Rowing through the triggerfish was like rowing through watery soup.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NjFdeYJHMJ8/UTy3XjaB5nI/AAAAAAAAAjs/xEPkNloxdK0/s1600/a+141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NjFdeYJHMJ8/UTy3XjaB5nI/AAAAAAAAAjs/xEPkNloxdK0/s320/a+141.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not sure what would happen if you got tangled up in this big guy...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A beach landing was obviously out of the question; the shorebreak was a raging caldron of sandy spume. The only jetty on the island was a twenty-five foot high brick of concrete poured onto a shelf of black lava. We left the dingy on a string of dilapidated local skiffs tied like Christmas lights to a line anchored about 30-feet off the jetty. After swimming to the pier, a timely surge allows a desperate grab at a knotted rope hanging down the concrete face and slippery climb to a staircase. Once ashore, we were confronted not with the high-security military situation we expected, but with a cadre of dock-workers lounging in the shade of a gutted bunker drinking beer at 10 am on a Monday morning. They offered us a beer but we declined, conserving our wits for a possible millitiary interrogation. We reported our presence to the local authorites—a cherub faced officer who was delighted to see fresh faces and sincerely apologetic about the port, immigration, light, and water fees we were going to have to pay for even our short stop. He was a fount of island information and was so excited that it was impossible to be angry. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BbFnfJ4KiPY/UTvEaeSzGGI/AAAAAAAAAi0/L7NdmIhLOdg/s1600/b+036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; height: 243px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; width: 321px;"><img border="0" height="239" jsa="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BbFnfJ4KiPY/UTvEaeSzGGI/AAAAAAAAAi0/L7NdmIhLOdg/s320/b+036.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">black triggerfish following the dingy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
We followed his advice and watched the sunset from the beach that evening. As the sun flashed green at the horizon, a dozen giant green sea turtles began to climb laboriously from the ocean. Keeping very still, we let the 550 lb behemoths climb around us to dig their egg holes. They left tracks in the sand like 8-foot wide tractor tires and, stumbling back in the dark, Kara nearly dissapeard into a nest hole. The next morining began early with a startling banging on the hull. I thought perhaps we'd come adrift and Orca was on the lava but investigation revealed 1,200 pounds of oblivious mating sea turtle, their shells bumping the hull. The turtles were friendly and curious, hovering around the boat most of the day. They added a new thrill to snorkeling; they preferred to inspect swimmers at about a six inch distance. We would have prefered ten feet or more.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As we left Ascension Island, I did some mental math; I just couldn't help myself. All told, we had payed almost $3-a-gallon for fresh water. Kara reminded me that, during the next 3,200 miles of sailing into the remotest parts of the Atlantic's watery desert, we might find ourselves willing to pay many times that. We decided to cut Kara's luxurious hair off to save water on the this long passage; we estimated we could save up to 250ml per shower this way.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DVUu-kGPkOI/UTvJiNyzprI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/64suJm_ex6o/s1600/b+115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" jsa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DVUu-kGPkOI/UTvJiNyzprI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/64suJm_ex6o/s320/b+115.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">smooth sailing in the South Atlantic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We quickly picked up the 10-knot SE trades again, and ticked off the next thousand miles to the equator. 900 miles west of Nigeria and the Ivory Coast, we left Africa's newest pirate problems well to starboard. In the center of nowhere, flashing schools of mahi mahi rode the bow wave for hundreds of miles, catching the flying fish Orca spooked. We dried salted tuna strips from the rigging. Eventually, all of our fishing lures were destroyed, the hooks all straightened, the plastics and wood all mangled, the reels all spooled. A blue marlin the size of a canoe followed us for hours. We sailed through zooplankton blooms that tinted the ocean a cloudy salmon color. Neon pink man-of-war jellyfish the size of corn tortillas drifted past. Pilot whales and vast dolphin schools visited; sea life was unabashedly vibrant.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then we reached the doldrums, the area just north of the equator where the north and south Atlantic trade winds collide and spiral vertically in an area of dark, brooding, sweltering and windless weather with towering castles and battlements of purple cumulonimbus, thunder, lightening, and rain. Torrential, biblical rain. We were battered by enough marble-sized raindrops to fill the tanks every minute. An innocuous fold in the mainsail instantly filled with 20 gallons. The scuppers were overrun, Kara panicked—she couldn't breath on deck. The surface of the ocean seemed to be reaching up to the clouds. Lightening flashed so bright it didn't matter if our eyes were open or closed—we only saw red. </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In a way, the heavy rain helped us through. The friction of big raindrops through the atmosphere causes cold downdrafts below each thunderhead. When these hit the ocean's surface, they spread out as weak breezes which we used to pick our way through the doldrums. After only a single night of light air, we ghosted into the north Atlantic trades and blasted off towards the Caribbean, closing the Brazillian coast as we put six consecutive 145 mile days in the bank. Even so, it took us over a day to pass the 175-mile wide mouth of the Amazon river.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tjrtwY-FLU8/UTvEQs538dI/AAAAAAAAAis/u4rM-fftL2w/s1600/a+154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" jsa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tjrtwY-FLU8/UTvEQs538dI/AAAAAAAAAis/u4rM-fftL2w/s320/a+154.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">exiting the doldrums</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Twenty-seven days out of Ascension island, we anchored behind St Lucia in the Caribbean. We had two Cape Town onions, an orange, and an African pumpkin remaining. The water tanks, thanks to the rainy doldrums, were full. The bow and stern, where our sailing wake rode up the hull above the antifoul, were crusted with three-inch gooseneck barnacles, but a few coats of varnish, and some elbow grease should put Orca back in top form.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YUHsRJbRIw4" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QUnQwd-t_mc" width="420"></iframe>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-29831371956367011812013-03-09T14:12:00.003-08:002013-03-09T14:12:41.091-08:00<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hello from Cape
Town!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJk78hw50Uc/UTYAuPlPvXI/AAAAAAAAAg8/n7N7iU4I8T0/s1600/IMG_0379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJk78hw50Uc/UTYAuPlPvXI/AAAAAAAAAg8/n7N7iU4I8T0/s320/IMG_0379.JPG" width="244" /></a> With the boat
safely parked in Zululand, we set out to explore the bush. Well—not
really. The surrounding landscape is a rolling, green and lush, and
completley tame. Every square inch is covered in eucalyptus timber
farms, cow paddocks, and villages—but we were heading for the
famous Hluhluwe and uMflozi game reserves. These reserves, along
with Kruger, are Zululand's main tourist attractions; essentually
large areas partolled by anti-poaching squads where the natural
ecosystem is allowed to function free of human influence. The
rangers don't give non-poaching visitors much thought—a small sign
at the entrance depicts an elephant overturning a car, but this
warning leaves you totally unprepared for the reality of the
self-service, self-drive, unfenced, and unsupervised park.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g0oL0Evtbbw/UTYA0kTu5jI/AAAAAAAAAhE/6q2RkXdZWII/s1600/IMG_1773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g0oL0Evtbbw/UTYA0kTu5jI/AAAAAAAAAhE/6q2RkXdZWII/s320/IMG_1773.JPG" width="320" /></a> As we rumbled over
ten feet of electrical fencing laid across the road—to keep the
lions from raiding livestock outside the park—a marvelous
transformation took place. Instead of a biological landscape
entirely composed of cattle and people, we found ourselves in an area
of incredible density and diversity. In the first kilometer we saw a
flock of playful yellow weaver birds, a herd of nervous impalas, a
troupe of mischevious baboons, a hungry warthog, two grumpy white
rhinos, a herd of watchful buffalo, and an arrogant elephant. Life
was <i>really</i> <i>happening</i> here and the environment man had
created for himself outside the park suddenly seemed sterile,
depleted, and monochromatic.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nkufeac9s4g/UTYBAS1C7gI/AAAAAAAAAhg/00HlhY5xOmg/s1600/lionscreengrb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nkufeac9s4g/UTYBAS1C7gI/AAAAAAAAAhg/00HlhY5xOmg/s1600/lionscreengrb2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The limited size
of the game reserve can support only a handful of apex predators—the
lions. We didn't spot any in the big park, so we decided to cheat a
little. A lion breeding program nearby keeps a dozen lions in a
smaller paddock, enclosed by what seems like a ludicrisly high
electrified fence. The ranch makes limited money selling cubs to
zoos, so, to suppliment the beer fund, the rangers let tourists drive
into the lion cage. Again, a small sign warned "No soft-top
vehicles. Close all windows, lock all doors. Keep moving." The
implication that the lions might rip the top off the car, or that
they knew how to open unlocked doors to reach the tasty morsels
within, was not lost on us. Once inside, the restive lions came to
investigate the car and we realized the 30-foot high electric fence
and warning signs were not ridiculious at all. Their paws were the
size of dinner plates and they could go from a lazy sprawl to a
light-footed 30 mile-an-hour lope instantly.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsQ8gJdiRY4/UTux-15OcoI/AAAAAAAAAiE/QovPtXLY5tc/s1600/the_tablecloth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsQ8gJdiRY4/UTux-15OcoI/AAAAAAAAAiE/QovPtXLY5tc/s320/the_tablecloth.JPG" width="320" /></a>After two days in
the game parks, we drove back to the boat. South Africa is the only
place we've been where one can watch hundreds of white people drive
Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches, and Maseratiis past millions of black
people living in self-built mud huts. After we sailed from Richard's
Bay, we entered a stretch of coast torn by poverty and racism. The
only 'white-safe' places to stop were the yacht clubs, the last
bastions of apartheid. The first club we stopped at huddled behind
fencing installed by their friendly neighbors—a Mercedes Benz
factory—and the last club had <i>three </i>sequential security
gates with 24 hour gaurds walking the dock. The occasional
white-affluent neighborhoods are embroiled in a
have-to-keep-up-with-the-Joneses arms race of towering walls, rows of
barbed wire, coils of razor wire, electric fencing, steel spikes,
cameras, and motion sensors. The safest neighborhoods are protected
by a communal system of 20-foot electrified steel fences, high-tech
motion detectors, and special-forces army vetrans. "Its so
safe, kids can even play on the street here," one South African
boasted to us. The fact is, the tiny white minority feels like it's
in hostile territory and with the huge economic disparity, the advent
of democratic elections, and their past abuses of the native
Africans, they probably are. South Africa is a raw place, but its
not all bad. With the new black government still finding its footing
among the huge socioeconomic and racial issues, there hasn't been
time for the lawmakers and court systems to litligiously excise the
ideas of common sense and personal responsibility. Its only in a
country like S.A. that one is allowed to drive their Avis rental into
a lion cage. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nVeiWdF99Qc/UTYBDUhBVlI/AAAAAAAAAho/OedrA-yBJ4o/s1600/SA_Penguins.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nVeiWdF99Qc/UTYBDUhBVlI/AAAAAAAAAho/OedrA-yBJ4o/s320/SA_Penguins.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W643Ov_3fhw/UTYAr7tsi2I/AAAAAAAAAg0/8SLU7gAzhqo/s1600/Kara_contemplates_the_atlantic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="56" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W643Ov_3fhw/UTYAr7tsi2I/AAAAAAAAAg0/8SLU7gAzhqo/s320/Kara_contemplates_the_atlantic.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We arrived in
Simon's Town for Chirstmas. This little port huddles in a tide pool
just twelve miles from the Cape of Good Hope in some of the most
consistently blustery condions we've seen. The docks, which drift
around alarmingly, are losely chained to granite bolders which <i>seem</i>
able to hold the hundreds of sailboats in the consistent 45 knot
winds. Miraculously, it was calm on Christmas morning. Santa
brought a big sack of dried raw antelope meat--<i>billtong—</i>and
an anti-baboon slingshot, which you definitely need. There are bands
of maurauding monkeys living in caves on the cliffs behind town.
Originally, they only harassed hikers and picknickers, but recently
they've started breaking into the mansions to raid for candy bars.
In response, homeowners hired guards with paintball guns to patroll
the streets and drive the monkeys back into the hills. The smart—and
now very angry—baboons now retaliate by throwing rocks, and the
resulting pitched battles are a common hazard along the hiking
trails.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7RsG_Ui-Ejo/UTuzAqKQ7_I/AAAAAAAAAiM/DwH12vzCU0o/s1600/cape_of_good_hope.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="56" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7RsG_Ui-Ejo/UTuzAqKQ7_I/AAAAAAAAAiM/DwH12vzCU0o/s320/cape_of_good_hope.JPG" width="320" /></a>Kara, of course,
was dead set to go for her family's traditional Christmas hike—which
was why she'd sprung for the slingshot. We set off, up a trail into
the towering cliffs above town and soon wandered deep into a box
canyon terminated by a waterfall. It was a lovely spot, with not a
baboon in sight. We were feeling pretty comfortable after an
undisturbed hour when the snap of a twig echoed down the cliffs.
Kara's head snapped upward, quickly followed by her drawn weapon. A
half-dozen surprisingly large baboons were creeping down the cliffs
around us. It was a coordinated ambush, designed to drive us from
our picnic. The chief monkey's yellow eyes flashed agressivly and he
let out a powerful rumbling bellow, displaying yellowed fangs. Kara
loosed her rock and tossed the slingshot to me, asking for covering
fire while she gathered our things. The baboons returned fire and we
beat a hasty retreat under a withering hail of rocks, with the
monkeys following along the canyon's rim just out of slingshot range.
Our cowardly run back to the the boat was only slightly delayed by a
five-foot cobra crossing our path, at which point we briefly
considered a retreat back to the baboons. Safely back at the boat,
we decided to put the traditional hike on hold until next year.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sttUDGi81OQ/UTuzLkbAGmI/AAAAAAAAAiU/O7OJpKGSgk8/s1600/cape_point_light.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sttUDGi81OQ/UTuzLkbAGmI/AAAAAAAAAiU/O7OJpKGSgk8/s320/cape_point_light.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xOgqAU6cK9w/UTuzNlsmOjI/AAAAAAAAAic/NZXQcQgpQSU/s1600/friendly_atlantic_skies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xOgqAU6cK9w/UTuzNlsmOjI/AAAAAAAAAic/NZXQcQgpQSU/s320/friendly_atlantic_skies.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Orca</i> is
sitting low in the water. We're looking at 55 days to the Caribbean,
with little or no opportunity to ressuply en-route. Among other
things, 60 cans of tomatoes, 50 packages of noodles, 12 bottles of
rum, 10 pounds of cheese, 30 pounds of potatoes, and 60 gallons of
water will sustain us over the next 5,500 miles of sailing. Leaving
now, we expect to arrive sometime in March.</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-2508623884322040412012-11-18T05:04:00.001-08:002012-11-18T05:04:08.822-08:00Kara's bonus Africa pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pIl_-8ch9HE/UKjY6rCpg-I/AAAAAAAAAfo/8oaH8-qV23o/s1600/IMG_9130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZXwr4NgGqU/UKjYp9lhisI/AAAAAAAAAfI/JgV72Tl3aOo/s1600/IMG_8880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZXwr4NgGqU/UKjYp9lhisI/AAAAAAAAAfI/JgV72Tl3aOo/s320/IMG_8880.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The reed-hut construction crew is expecting an important delivery in on today's ferry in Mozambique</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On Safari...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Q_LFjQ1NYM/UKjYuKDwKgI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/6Y1vqW71s5M/s1600/IMG_8972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Q_LFjQ1NYM/UKjYuKDwKgI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/6Y1vqW71s5M/s320/IMG_8972.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An angry elephant surprises the intrepid travelers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J81_MFcSZyY/UKjYyJfAJVI/AAAAAAAAAfY/nZfgDwQ7jrY/s1600/IMG_8985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J81_MFcSZyY/UKjYyJfAJVI/AAAAAAAAAfY/nZfgDwQ7jrY/s320/IMG_8985.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having successfully terrified the cowardly tourists, Mr. Elephant swaggers away jauntily.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qrcuHRf0rrk/UKjY1rwzrqI/AAAAAAAAAfg/yVqcZNjqpJE/s1600/IMG_9062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qrcuHRf0rrk/UKjY1rwzrqI/AAAAAAAAAfg/yVqcZNjqpJE/s320/IMG_9062.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Zebra's know they're beautiful and strike self-flattering poses along the roadside -- in only the best photoghraphic lighting conditions, of course.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pIl_-8ch9HE/UKjY6rCpg-I/AAAAAAAAAfo/8oaH8-qV23o/s1600/IMG_9130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pIl_-8ch9HE/UKjY6rCpg-I/AAAAAAAAAfo/8oaH8-qV23o/s320/IMG_9130.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The buffalo don't take any guff from anyone. They hate the annoying tourists.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--RLWHPUi2l4/UKjY9ef-kKI/AAAAAAAAAfw/lViv9cLQSYA/s1600/IMG_9149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--RLWHPUi2l4/UKjY9ef-kKI/AAAAAAAAAfw/lViv9cLQSYA/s320/IMG_9149.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The giraffes are friendly and curious -- but not very smart. What's that over there?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9QWMeoVG7x0/UKjY_1FyIXI/AAAAAAAAAf4/x7F3Vu-jonw/s1600/IMG_9199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9QWMeoVG7x0/UKjY_1FyIXI/AAAAAAAAAf4/x7F3Vu-jonw/s320/IMG_9199.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They come to check out the car but are easily distracted by a tasty roadside attraction.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-26yU7SbwL6w/UKjZDI1XKOI/AAAAAAAAAgA/SzSQvGCOAxw/s1600/IMG_9296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-26yU7SbwL6w/UKjZDI1XKOI/AAAAAAAAAgA/SzSQvGCOAxw/s320/IMG_9296.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rhinos are selfish and lazy; they let the buffalo stand guard duty during the heat of the day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jROAo5Ad2wo/UKjZGJtSeuI/AAAAAAAAAgI/rmcfV5grrmg/s1600/IMG_9360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jROAo5Ad2wo/UKjZGJtSeuI/AAAAAAAAAgI/rmcfV5grrmg/s320/IMG_9360.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hippo kills more humans than any other mammal. He warns us to stay away.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x7wKbr_2pIs/UKjZKH2TWOI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/ExKRzJN3BAo/s1600/IMG_9373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x7wKbr_2pIs/UKjZKH2TWOI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/ExKRzJN3BAo/s320/IMG_9373.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quick demonstration scares off even the stupidest camera-toting travelers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-13609645958607305622012-11-10T00:13:00.002-08:002012-11-10T00:13:25.872-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QKF541EJDoc/UJ4JIy-Cs3I/AAAAAAAAAeI/mEZxWqACg9M/s1600/lonely_sunset_session_at_tamarin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QKF541EJDoc/UJ4JIy-Cs3I/AAAAAAAAAeI/mEZxWqACg9M/s400/lonely_sunset_session_at_tamarin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tamarin Bay sunset session -- alone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Warning, some of the following material may not be suitable for concerned parents!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hello from Africa!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mXyU3CdsFN8/UJ4JPmHUNDI/AAAAAAAAAeY/RkjrQqVi2Zk/s1600/mauritian_sunset.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mXyU3CdsFN8/UJ4JPmHUNDI/AAAAAAAAAeY/RkjrQqVi2Zk/s320/mauritian_sunset.JPG" width="213" /></a> 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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s1bhgSp9cII/UJ4JNUlG9fI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/EFW6xOworuQ/s1600/looks_bigger_from_up_close.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s1bhgSp9cII/UJ4JNUlG9fI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/EFW6xOworuQ/s320/looks_bigger_from_up_close.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"unfortunately, you're here in the dry season"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lVpgwHmpZMk/UJ4JgqrAFnI/AAAAAAAAAew/PYhk9vq9nhs/s1600/standard_reunion_island_swimming_hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lVpgwHmpZMk/UJ4JgqrAFnI/AAAAAAAAAew/PYhk9vq9nhs/s320/standard_reunion_island_swimming_hole.jpg" width="320" /></a> 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 <i>through </i>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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N1A_jMrt6zs/UJ4JYfqOs-I/AAAAAAAAAeo/cx3qYT8wrpI/s1600/remote_villages_of_mafat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N1A_jMrt6zs/UJ4JYfqOs-I/AAAAAAAAAeo/cx3qYT8wrpI/s320/remote_villages_of_mafat.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ultra-remote villages in the mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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 <i>and</i> 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." </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Va8T0E_vSv0/UJ4JCTsMsJI/AAAAAAAAAeA/NnQ41WwimlU/s1600/col_du_taibit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Va8T0E_vSv0/UJ4JCTsMsJI/AAAAAAAAAeA/NnQ41WwimlU/s320/col_du_taibit.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. <i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> At 90
degrees of heel, </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'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 </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> 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. </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> 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 </span><i>Orca
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-An-lUBahesU/UJ4JTz31qPI/AAAAAAAAAeg/XKCNZHfVhB4/s1600/mozambique_boatyard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-An-lUBahesU/UJ4JTz31qPI/AAAAAAAAAeg/XKCNZHfVhB4/s320/mozambique_boatyard.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mozambique boatyard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> 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 </span><i>five
knots</i><span style="font-style: normal;">—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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks,</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
John & Kara</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-75555379222694944522012-09-14T23:52:00.000-07:002012-09-15T00:20:20.498-07:00Orca Update 31Orca Update 31<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BryD9NjyLXU/UFQdCdJVQsI/AAAAAAAAAcM/gnfwqT_rkK0/s1600/DSCN0301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BryD9NjyLXU/UFQdCdJVQsI/AAAAAAAAAcM/gnfwqT_rkK0/s320/DSCN0301.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Direction Island Anchorage, Cocos Keeling</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--44MDbzDICI/UFQd1cHIToI/AAAAAAAAAco/-WJHe_GxK0g/s1600/DSCN0536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--44MDbzDICI/UFQd1cHIToI/AAAAAAAAAco/-WJHe_GxK0g/s200/DSCN0536.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Windward Side of Rodruiges</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h_zuqITdKIo/UFQfZ6WDCKI/AAAAAAAAAdo/-RTpIOOSUSY/s1600/skiprNet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h_zuqITdKIo/UFQfZ6WDCKI/AAAAAAAAAdo/-RTpIOOSUSY/s200/skiprNet.jpg" width="191" /></a>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.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-28YjrUys9eU/UFQfLrGpY3I/AAAAAAAAAdY/xwHI8Wu_ctM/s1600/IMG_7931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-28YjrUys9eU/UFQfLrGpY3I/AAAAAAAAAdY/xwHI8Wu_ctM/s320/IMG_7931.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Australian government burning refugee ships</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FDnNtF0wehE/UFQdUz0KP9I/AAAAAAAAAcY/facGE3uasUE/s1600/DSCN0355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="149" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FDnNtF0wehE/UFQdUz0KP9I/AAAAAAAAAcY/facGE3uasUE/s200/DSCN0355.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alone in Kara world</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-siVmbyt6z5o/UFQe4Ee_yQI/AAAAAAAAAdI/47qEbbDJluo/s1600/DSCN0677.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="157" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-siVmbyt6z5o/UFQe4Ee_yQI/AAAAAAAAAdI/47qEbbDJluo/s400/DSCN0677.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hermit Island, Rodruiges lagoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e8jPgploNkM/UFQfF7ro2JI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/73tfg4SdT5g/s1600/DSCN0692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="181" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e8jPgploNkM/UFQfF7ro2JI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/73tfg4SdT5g/s320/DSCN0692.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goatherd with the million dollar view</td></tr>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zHZceA9LXes/UFQfVrWzT7I/AAAAAAAAAdg/jVzLf897tfE/s1600/IMG_7963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="140" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zHZceA9LXes/UFQfVrWzT7I/AAAAAAAAAdg/jVzLf897tfE/s200/IMG_7963.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunting octopus in the Rodruiges lagoon</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yn9r7yDxh04/UFQejZHRxHI/AAAAAAAAAc4/FOFArYpAJxs/s1600/DSCN0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yn9r7yDxh04/UFQejZHRxHI/AAAAAAAAAc4/FOFArYpAJxs/s200/DSCN0603.JPG" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kara and the big tortouse</td></tr>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rodruiges's Port Mathurin</td></tr>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/RmzdMfHDE50" width="420"></iframe>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-54624683768433199392012-08-17T00:55:00.001-07:002012-08-17T00:55:27.283-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nathaniel in Port Denison</td></tr>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hello again and
welcome to the 30<sup>th</sup> Orca Update.</div>
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</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzIAqkq34yo/UC3282984hI/AAAAAAAAAbY/K-eWcIZsLts/s1600/IMG_7855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UzIAqkq34yo/UC3282984hI/AAAAAAAAAbY/K-eWcIZsLts/s320/IMG_7855.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beachcombing in Shark Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2NTDJYxSiDQ/UC33EyRo-SI/AAAAAAAAAbo/66ZxV1dQZns/s1600/rock_climbing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2NTDJYxSiDQ/UC33EyRo-SI/AAAAAAAAAbo/66ZxV1dQZns/s320/rock_climbing.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shallow water soloing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ChlZJO5BL3I/UC33A-zvfEI/AAAAAAAAAbg/xM4lBx-ECfY/s1600/IMG_7891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ChlZJO5BL3I/UC33A-zvfEI/AAAAAAAAAbg/xM4lBx-ECfY/s320/IMG_7891.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lobster & rum cookout</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. <i>Orca</i> 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 <i>Orca</i>, 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 <i>Orca </i>the<i> </i>next week.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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 <i>Orca </i>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.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J1UVoO2LxFY/UC33McEhBlI/AAAAAAAAAb4/oHKrMre3qF4/s1600/the_night_of_the_whale.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J1UVoO2LxFY/UC33McEhBlI/AAAAAAAAAb4/oHKrMre3qF4/s320/the_night_of_the_whale.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outward bound with SV Shaddow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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 <i>Orca's
</i>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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aclWSmQJxts/UC33JgFVY9I/AAAAAAAAAbw/C7Xq0Jw75AU/s1600/shark_bay_shoreline.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aclWSmQJxts/UC33JgFVY9I/AAAAAAAAAbw/C7Xq0Jw75AU/s320/shark_bay_shoreline.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one didn't survive The Whale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks!</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
John & Kara</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Carnarvon, WA,
Australia</div>
Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-51152846369437316142012-05-04T01:19:00.001-07:002012-05-04T01:20:32.168-07:00<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vVbyNqbauGc/T6OMHZZUGWI/AAAAAAAAAY8/cVrzUfI1vkI/s1600/DSC01635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="127" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vVbyNqbauGc/T6OMHZZUGWI/AAAAAAAAAY8/cVrzUfI1vkI/s400/DSC01635.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Esperance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Someone, possibly myself (although now
it seems like someone else must have made the decision), talked us
into sailing <i>under</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Austalia
to reach the Indian Ocean.</span> 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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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 <i>didn't</i>
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, <i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CtUIRj9oyvI/T6OMUNdp1yI/AAAAAAAAAZc/M8mLj19vWHw/s1600/IMG_7261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CtUIRj9oyvI/T6OMUNdp1yI/AAAAAAAAAZc/M8mLj19vWHw/s320/IMG_7261.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> 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 </span><i>lowest </i><span style="font-style: normal;">windspeed
for that night and (2) supported the </span><i>highest</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
deadily snake population density on the planet. </span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were glad to be
done with the Straight.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VM-z-j7y5Zc/T6ONkzbFhmI/AAAAAAAAAak/mYVZVHX92fA/s1600/DSC01726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VM-z-j7y5Zc/T6ONkzbFhmI/AAAAAAAAAak/mYVZVHX92fA/s320/DSC01726.jpg" width="167" /></a></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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, <i>real</i> teeth set in
smooth tight skin and topped by <i>real </i>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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oLZplSAiQhM/T6OQqecSGWI/AAAAAAAAAbE/JczyyiJj3cw/s1600/IMG_7239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oLZplSAiQhM/T6OQqecSGWI/AAAAAAAAAbE/JczyyiJj3cw/s320/IMG_7239.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Big One</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. <i>Orca </i>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, <i>Orca </i>hove-to, bow to weather. Again huddling
below, we felt our rise and fall, trapped in an elevator.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-azTsAbBsAeQ/T6ONt6xAgqI/AAAAAAAAAas/ShWgfQ-fYnM/s1600/IMG_7192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-azTsAbBsAeQ/T6ONt6xAgqI/AAAAAAAAAas/ShWgfQ-fYnM/s320/IMG_7192.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kangaroo Island glass off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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, <i>Orca</i>
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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And they did.
<i>Orca</i> 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. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-woQll_dQxFc/T6ON4uS7S-I/AAAAAAAAAa0/OKmMOFkQYjw/s1600/DSC01648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-woQll_dQxFc/T6ON4uS7S-I/AAAAAAAAAa0/OKmMOFkQYjw/s320/DSC01648.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Southern Ocean Winds put to good use</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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 <i>Orca </i> 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.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7Mg3aMyQHM/T6OPuynge9I/AAAAAAAAAa8/vtYhnzXW9gs/s1600/DSC01718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V7Mg3aMyQHM/T6OPuynge9I/AAAAAAAAAa8/vtYhnzXW9gs/s320/DSC01718.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corella Cockatoos invade Orca</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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. </div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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!</div>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-79467586498324890192012-04-03T03:22:00.006-07:002012-04-03T03:32:52.858-07:00Orca Update 28, Part IITrue to the forecast, it bl<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kymf8cOrq3Q/T3rQUvfAhzI/AAAAAAAAAWY/SGoRHnSLm5A/s1600/orca_in_lower_right_corner.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kymf8cOrq3Q/T3rQUvfAhzI/AAAAAAAAAWY/SGoRHnSLm5A/s320/orca_in_lower_right_corner.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118930917492530" border="0" /></a>ew 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. <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dRIdR5xfbdE/T3rQUWekpzI/AAAAAAAAAWI/3ANGuvOm6JU/s1600/Orca_Bones.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dRIdR5xfbdE/T3rQUWekpzI/AAAAAAAAAWI/3ANGuvOm6JU/s320/Orca_Bones.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118924204779314" border="0" /></a>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 <i>Orca</i> 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 <i>pounds</i> of octopus per per<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nmfJWczWftM/T3rP3cobPSI/AAAAAAAAAVo/tKsfOw4MBJs/s1600/IMG_7170.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nmfJWczWftM/T3rP3cobPSI/AAAAAAAAAVo/tKsfOw4MBJs/s320/IMG_7170.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118427640511778" border="0" /></a>son per day. The thought of eating a slimy mountain of octopus daily didn't help with the now-chronic seafood overload.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Yw-FbhLOJ0/T3rP2lUuR0I/AAAAAAAAAVE/W44_1ztLjdU/s1600/albatross_below_tasmania.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Yw-FbhLOJ0/T3rP2lUuR0I/AAAAAAAAAVE/W44_1ztLjdU/s320/albatross_below_tasmania.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118412793923394" border="0" /></a>, 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.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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 r<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U6uA8444qR0/T3rP3MV6d2I/AAAAAAAAAVc/vG55JB_1Oh4/s1600/early_morning_on_bruny_island.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U6uA8444qR0/T3rP3MV6d2I/AAAAAAAAAVc/vG55JB_1Oh4/s320/early_morning_on_bruny_island.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118423267899234" border="0" /></a>azor's edge of stone and a natural dogleg is the entrance to Port Davey.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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 <i>Orca</i>, there was a an unusual lack of aquatic activity; it wasn't just the chilly tempera<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-foBj2qzqlWY/T3rQT_QzFWI/AAAAAAAAAWA/YuPRxCVj580/s1600/orca_alone_in_red_waters.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-foBj2qzqlWY/T3rQT_QzFWI/AAAAAAAAAWA/YuPRxCVj580/s320/orca_alone_in_red_waters.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118917972989282" border="0" /></a>ture that made the dark waters seem unwelcoming.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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 re<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pf_ndHTDTs8/T3rP2-8NXnI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/eNIch1j0WP0/s1600/DSC01436.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pf_ndHTDTs8/T3rP2-8NXnI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/eNIch1j0WP0/s320/DSC01436.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118419670425202" border="0" /></a>main 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. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5dHDja-CXRE/T3rQU2Ie0WI/AAAAAAAAAWg/g4qYNJ3JoRg/s1600/southern_ocean_gale.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5dHDja-CXRE/T3rQU2Ie0WI/AAAAAAAAAWg/g4qYNJ3JoRg/s320/southern_ocean_gale.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118932702056802" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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 emptyin<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MeQkTNrOIP4/T3rP3oP8pGI/AAAAAAAAAVw/Hq1r8D1X0xw/s1600/mount_rugby.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MeQkTNrOIP4/T3rP3oP8pGI/AAAAAAAAAVw/Hq1r8D1X0xw/s320/mount_rugby.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727118430759068770" border="0" /></a>g 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 <i>per month</i> of take-home pay—if they survive.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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.</p><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2pw5kTVa72g" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-81399110348273092162012-03-08T20:36:00.005-08:002012-04-03T03:21:40.665-07:00Orca Update 28 Part I<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ebOmSYFLD2I/T3RFMetCAnI/AAAAAAAAAUs/cKjWFLCA85U/s1600/rozelle_bay_sydney.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ebOmSYFLD2I/T3RFMetCAnI/AAAAAAAAAUs/cKjWFLCA85U/s320/rozelle_bay_sydney.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725277106997428850" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Hello world!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Its been a while, but we're back to civilization with some stories to tell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> 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 <i>inside</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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 bouncin</span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vx45RXjPVpA/T3RFMEqOe-I/AAAAAAAAAUc/QP3QcwbEEaU/s1600/opera_house_new_years.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vx45RXjPVpA/T3RFMEqOe-I/AAAAAAAAAUc/QP3QcwbEEaU/s320/opera_house_new_years.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725277100006341602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal">g 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.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> 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 </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal">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.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> In the morning, we washed the ash off our decks and solar panels and put to sea, relieve<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hNVdo6x9p0w/T3RFMjRKfRI/AAAAAAAAAU4/YSncsryDzR8/s1600/sydney_harbor_traffic.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 205px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hNVdo6x9p0w/T3RFMjRKfRI/AAAAAAAAAU4/YSncsryDzR8/s320/sydney_harbor_traffic.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725277108222721298" border="0" /></a>d 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.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal"> In the 18</span><sup><span style="font-style: normal">th</span></sup><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">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, </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8QRLlbRFjJc/T3RFLy2ngRI/AAAAAAAAAUU/SgW6mvtsghY/s1600/old_toms_cove_in_the_21st_century.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8QRLlbRFjJc/T3RFLy2ngRI/AAAAAAAAAUU/SgW6mvtsghY/s320/old_toms_cove_in_the_21st_century.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725277095226474770" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal">usually </span><i>sans </i><span style="font-style: normal;">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;</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> 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.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> 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. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> 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.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal">On that note, we left.</p><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iNMKD-iY5Tg/T1mJXrCdN6I/AAAAAAAAATg/yaYUZ3pSph8/s1600/IMG_6863_greyscale.jpg"></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L2WLY_UOYFg/T1mJW9xQkHI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vC9Ha6nRi44/s1600/img_6168b.jpg"></a>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-9419958853214405302012-03-08T20:07:00.006-08:002012-03-08T20:24:34.051-08:00Orca Update 27<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8eScl9AItA8/T1mFBtr5lRI/AAAAAAAAASo/4hZ39ggN1ic/s1600/trapped_in_iluka.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8eScl9AItA8/T1mFBtr5lRI/AAAAAAAAASo/4hZ39ggN1ic/s320/trapped_in_iluka.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717747466413643026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Merry Christmas!<br /><br /> It still scares the crap out of us to row ashore and see a 5-foot monitor lizard lope across the beach. Even the metropolitan reptiles are huge; walk down the street to check the surf and you're likely to see a 3-pound skink slither off the path. Luckily we havent stumbled upon any death adders, Sydney funnel-web spiders, or box jellyfish—yet.<br /> At the rum distillery in Bundaberg, we picked up another unsus<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pKMEfHWMR9I/T1mFBPrY_zI/AAAAAAAAASQ/uBig0CvFW8U/s1600/soldier_crabs.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pKMEfHWMR9I/T1mFBPrY_zI/AAAAAAAAASQ/uBig0CvFW8U/s320/soldier_crabs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717747458358443826" border="0" /></a>pecting vistior/victim from Monterey, Brian, and set off down a the coast. The southern Queensland coast is a fascinating place—for sand enthusiasts. We ran down the Great Sandy Straight, a shallow estuary behind 'the world's largest sand island'. The 'world's tallest sand dune' loomed unimposingly in the distance. Moreton Bay is about the same size as <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NW6AbEuXClQ/T1mEQjCtrlI/AAAAAAAAARo/408cc3yc6Io/s1600/navigating_sandy_straight.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NW6AbEuXClQ/T1mEQjCtrlI/AAAAAAAAARo/408cc3yc6Io/s320/navigating_sandy_straight.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717746621742952018" border="0" /></a>Monterey Bay, but is full of sand—the average depth is a sandy 6 feet. From Moreton, we went 10 miles up the Brisbane river and found the world's roughest proteced anchorage (river-ferrys send 3 foot-waves bouncing endlessly off concrete riverbanks). We also discovered perhaps the world's dirtyest river when we stepped off the dingy into the waist-high ferry wake shorebreak. The water seemed unnaturally viscious as a used condom swirled languidly around my ankles. A plaque on the riverbank blamed ancient aboriginies for the poor water quality (yes, it really did).<br /> All sarcasm aside, we did meet some of the world's nicest people in Brisbane (they seemed to be the world's best-dressed as well). There's a city-run mooring field in the middle of downtown where a close-knit liveaboard community is happy to pay the world's cheapest downtown riverfront housing costs. For $10 a night we tied up and went from boat-to-boat watching fireworks and the city lights, hitting the pub <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UgcWaZ63-1U/T1mEQ-oHOJI/AAAAAAAAAR0/lFDKA3xj7-0/s1600/rainbow_lorikeets.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UgcWaZ63-1U/T1mEQ-oHOJI/AAAAAAAAAR0/lFDKA3xj7-0/s320/rainbow_lorikeets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717746629147572370" border="0" /></a>with our new Ausie friends. We put a thouroughly unwashed, unshaven, and un-laundered Brian on the train later that week. He was all smiles at goodbye but Kara thought she detected a hint of relief in his sigh when he left us on the sidewalk. Despite close quarters, Brian can now claim status as the only Orca-visitor to have survived the full duration of his trip aboard.<br /> Our Brisbane contacts Dr. Bruce and Francis took us home and cleaned us up, prescribing four days of hot showers, wonderful food, and a big fluffy bed at the Gold Coast. After the full surf-tour we stopped at the petting zoo where Kara fell in love. Adorable little kangaroos peeked from mom's pouch, big liquid brown eyes staring up, pert doofus ears, head cocked just so, little paws reaching, waiting to be scratched beneath the chin, pink little toungue flicke<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P85ItOq-osU/T1mEQdW7JaI/AAAAAAAAARU/FASgZLfLqnQ/s1600/brisbane_story_bridge.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-P85ItOq-osU/T1mEQdW7JaI/AAAAAAAAARU/FASgZLfLqnQ/s320/brisbane_story_bridge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717746620217107874" border="0" /></a>ring around your fingers...<br /> That night, back on the water, we had dinner aboard Australian sailboat: steak, yummy! Kara gobbled the rare treat with gusto, mumbling compliments to the chef around a mouthful of greasy meat. Our host was pleased, "Oh good, I'm so glad you like kangaroo steak, many Americans don't."<br /> A single tear ran down Kara's cheek as she pushed her plate away.<br /><br /> We were off down the coast again, into yet another 40 miles of sandy inland waterway. Working the tide, we made Bum's Bay for Thanksgiving. Kara made her now traditional an<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eAiB71Qslw4/T1mEQmYQ_eI/AAAAAAAAARc/Y6I49YicvIk/s1600/google_earth_sandystrait.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 263px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eAiB71Qslw4/T1mEQmYQ_eI/AAAAAAAAARc/Y6I49YicvIk/s320/google_earth_sandystrait.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717746622638652898" border="0" /></a>d somewhat infamous stove-top pressure cooker turkey mystery log surprise, which might be described as something approaching a thigh-thick, (possibly) turkey sausage. Its probably available in your local supermarket if you dig down at the unlit back corner of the last freezer in the aisle. Despite such adversity, we proclamed the feast a sucess and put to sea again. We landed in Iluka, at the mouth of the Clarence river. Downtown consisted of a corner grocery store, a bakery, a single doctor, and a combined pub/liquor store. The life-blood of the village was commercial fishing; every evening the throb of big diesels filled the anchorage as the fleet of colorful trawlers put to sea. When the weather was foul, the crews filed into the pub where each crus<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vbdESj6PENU/T1mERA7gEMI/AAAAAAAAASA/mp_PxIE819I/s1600/sand_enthusiast.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vbdESj6PENU/T1mERA7gEMI/AAAAAAAAASA/mp_PxIE819I/s320/sand_enthusiast.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717746629765763266" border="0" /></a>y salt ordered his usual and mumbled about global climate change and how it was back in the day.<br /> And the weather was bad, 30-40 knot southerly winds and awe-inspiring thunderstorms. We were trapped in port for 3 weeks by contrary winds and big breakers across the rivermouth. The saving grace of the place was a wave in the protected lee of the northern rivermouth jetty, where a side-wash A-frame peak blew offshore most days. At double-overhead and above the wave was a nearly unsurfable beast, bodyboarders carrying the day in hideous wide-open sand sucking barrels marching down the beach. At more managable size, a few of us s<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8WIG9mGLiUU/T1mFBSQfC8I/AAAAAAAAASc/Ujza0sD8h1A/s1600/southerly_change.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8WIG9mGLiUU/T1mFBSQfC8I/AAAAAAAAASc/Ujza0sD8h1A/s320/southerly_change.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717747459050900418" border="0" /></a>urfers were able to hold our own by sheer force of will.<br /> Finally, the wind is set to change and the sun to emerge. We're hoping to make Sydney in time for Christmas and the famous New Year's fireworks display. With a 2-knot boost from the East Australian Current we might still make it!Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-60970294828749106562011-11-08T22:44:00.000-08:002011-11-08T23:22:55.642-08:00<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">G'day Everyone!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> By October we were ready to leave New Caledonia, but the inevitable surprise weather system shut down the trades and left us with four days of light <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GuNv7T1F1Ms/TrokW_lixPI/AAAAAAAAAQc/J4VM8vmPOR0/s1600/IMG_5341.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GuNv7T1F1Ms/TrokW_lixPI/AAAAAAAAAQc/J4VM8vmPOR0/s320/IMG_5341.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672886658071184626" border="0" /></a>wind—time to get into all sorts of trouble! Easily distracted by a favorable surf forecast, we set out from Noumea and sailed a dozen miles out to sea in search of the outer reef. We let the anchor go behind a reef in the middle of nowhere at Passe Dumbea. An excellent left; Cloudbreak with a heavy west bowl and a steep takeoff way up the reef. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The following day we ran 30 miles down the lagoon to Passe St. Vincent where civilization fades away. In the binoculars we could see a pair of local skiffs anchored near a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aHRmeizsOdM/TrokXjf_y5I/AAAAAAAAAQk/E7GDzXLgGZk/s1600/IMG_5474.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aHRmeizsOdM/TrokXjf_y5I/AAAAAAAAAQk/E7GDzXLgGZk/s320/IMG_5474.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672886667711597458" border="0" /></a> suspicious bend in the reef. As we drew near a set rose up, draining off the reef and grinding around the corner in geysers of spray. Two local surfers sat wide, a respectful distance from the impact zone. I pulled <i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">along side wearing my friendliest smile and asked permission to surf with them. They frowned and began a rapid flow of French, deciding whether to chase me off. The tide of the argument turned when Kara appe</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UY4YFBBOVRY/TromEUvQD2I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/MyWVgKUnfq0/s1600/DSC00812.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UY4YFBBOVRY/TromEUvQD2I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/MyWVgKUnfq0/s320/DSC00812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672888536354787170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">ard on deck in her skimpiest bikini, and soon the locals were all smiles and thumbs-up. Anch</span><span style="font-style: normal;">oring was a challenge, depths rising precipitiously from 300 feet to 3—which explains why the wave appears out of nowhere. With Kara jockeying the throttle, I siezed an anchor and dove the coral cliff amongst delicate colored fronds of pristine sea life to wedge the grapnel under </span><span style="font-style: normal;">a respectably sized brain coral. The surf wasn't more than 8' faces, but very challenging, and the conditions were perfect. It was also quite shallow; all three of us ended up in standing on the reef in ankle deep water at least once during the session. After the tide switch, we moved around the corner and Kara had a delightful surf: long, clean, overhead and peeling.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> We stayed too long. After our second session, the sun was already dipping toward the horizion and we were still 10 miles from the island at a very exposed anchorage. In this remote region of New Cal the charts were spotty at best and at n</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VLM1cOvmn30/TrokW7j7ULI/AAAAAAAAAQI/lBDWVqdpMpo/s1600/IMG_5318.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VLM1cOvmn30/TrokW7j7ULI/AAAAAAAAAQI/lBDWVqdpMpo/s320/IMG_5318.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672886656990662834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">ight, the clearest water in the world won't help you see an uncharted reef. We'd nearly made it back to the mainland when the depth sounder bounced from 200 feet to 3. </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> went tearing onto a reef, plowing a swath through </span><span style="font-style: normal;">fragile coral formations before grinding to a halt. With the tide turning and twilight nearly gone, we were stuck fast; engine and sails were no use. Coils of line and our trusty grapnel went into the dingy, which Kara rowed out into deep water. Running the line back to winches on </span><i>Orca, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">we brought the rode to guitar-</span><span style="font-style: normal;">string tension. Over the next hour, Orca slowly slid off the reef, an inch at a time with each swell, untill finally we reach four foot depths and we were afloat again. Thick fiberglass is amazingly tough; damage to the hull was minor; antifoul scoured away but only a few scratches through the underlying gelcoat. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> With the hull still mostly intact and trades returning, we were off to Australia. The lowlight of the passage was day five with 30-40 knot winds, 20 foot seas, and a spirit-sapping drizzle-fog. In the vicinity, the Great Barrier Reef compresses the ubiquitous coastal cargoship traffic into a two-way corridor 5 miles across. Lost in the troughs of the swell, fog, and drizzle we could see almost nothing; the situation was like the old videogame Frogger, where the player's frog tries to cross the four lane freeway in heavy traffic by jumping foward and back between lanes. I always seemed to lose, my frog pulped. We sailed forward, backward, left and right dodging 300 foot freighters and supertankers, spray pounding from their bows, flying the length of the ship and blanketing the wheelhouses. The </span><i>Sagitarius</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Leader</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> came so close enough that we could clearly see their selection of huge radar arrays: none spinning, all turned off. No response on VHF either. If they don't even have radar on in busy</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LGQgsVzSLag/TrokXuSPo6I/AAAAAAAAAQw/j1_H1pnae-o/s1600/IMG_5514.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LGQgsVzSLag/TrokXuSPo6I/AAAAAAAAAQw/j1_H1pnae-o/s320/IMG_5514.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672886670606705570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;"> traffic, thick fog, and big swell, no wonder freighters never see poor little </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! To improve our spirits, a big wave broke over the transom, rolled over the cockpit, and slammed up against the companion way. We'd left the hatch cracked for some air, and the South Pacific came firehosing in and drenched the cabin. One of our radios was knocked out; we scrambled to douse it in denatured alchohol to flush out the seawater.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Safely to the Bundaberg rivermouth, we cleared customs and watched kangaroos on the riverbanks. After spending the requisite small fortune at the local chandlery, we've continued up the shallow river with the high tide and are anchored just off the famous rum distillery, where steam billows from tall chimneys and, when the wind turns, the air smells of brown sugar and yeast.</p><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/v1ipnn66wTU?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="560" frameborder="0" height="315"></iframe><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZtOqQuNK6iI?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-60064563411578964512011-10-21T15:24:00.000-07:002011-11-08T23:31:00.074-08:00<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Bonjour!</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> With the Parents off to the States, it was time to take our leave of Whangamata and sail 200 miles North to Opua and the Customs/Immigration office. But, our very last boat project (ha!) was to inspect and re-seal the huge machine screws securing <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T8VF1y21zGQ/TqHzMXsFB5I/AAAAAAAAAOc/JqQaxx3E0pE/s1600/IMG_4535.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T8VF1y21zGQ/TqHzMXsFB5I/AAAAAAAAAOc/JqQaxx3E0pE/s320/IMG_4535.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666077200051668882" border="0" /></a><i>Orca's </i><span style="font-style: normal;">rigging to the hull</span><i>; </i><span style="font-style: normal;">the ensuing quest qui</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ckly took a en</span><span style="font-style: normal;">tertaining turn. To spin the shafts without stripping the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">head, we needed to find an exceptionally large </span><span style="font-style: normal;">flat-headed screwdriver; the one I alr</span><span style="font-style: normal;">eady had was </span><span style="font-style: normal;">impressive but innefective—the blade had broken off. Uncle Dave and I drove to ten different stores. At each, I whipped ou</span><span style="font-style: normal;">t my well-endowed b</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ut now </span><span style="font-style: normal;">impotent driver and, attempting to keep a straight face, told them I needed it bigger. At every shop, the clerk dea</span><span style="font-style: normal;">dpaned either "That sounds like a personal </span><span style="font-style: normal;">problem," or, "I saw a commercial for just that issue on late night television". Eventually, we ascertained that we al</span><span style="font-style: normal;">r</span><span style="font-style: normal;">eady had the biggest in Auckland, and, after much thought, were able to circumvent the dysfunctional tool.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> We were feeling pretty happy about inspecting those screws when, a week later, we found ourselves beating to the north across the NZ's notorious Colville channel in gusts to 50<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sSJGIRGYlxY/TqHydsV3xhI/AAAAAAAAAN8/5SefvulyJ2k/s1600/DSC00656.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sSJGIRGYlxY/TqHydsV3xhI/AAAAAAAAAN8/5SefvulyJ2k/s320/DSC00656.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666076398141818386" border="0" /></a> knots. Ducking into Port Fitzroy on Great Barrier Island, we were shivering cold, damp, hungry, and salty. We pulled into Smokehouse Bay where there's a public wood-fired bath. The ingenious arrangement was plumbed to a freshwater spring and consisted of a small cabin, insulated hot water cylinder warmed via a heat-exchanger in the wood burning stove. We chopped driftwood with the provided axe and soon the blazing fire produced 50 steaming gallons in the chipped porcelin bathtub. Since we were deep in the off-season, the island was desert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zhLlonts7N4/TqJ0fAmv1vI/AAAAAAAAAPE/7Wx4DyIYsR4/s1600/IMG_4572.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zhLlonts7N4/TqJ0fAmv1vI/AAAAAAAAAPE/7Wx4DyIYsR4/s320/IMG_4572.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666219357272790770" border="0" /></a>ed; even the fish had their guard down; we concluded our stay with a dinner of snapper, kawai, oysters, cockles, and mussles.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Fully revitalized, we felt read</span><span style="font-style: normal;">y to tackle the Customs officials. If you recall, th</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ey had jumped us through many hoops when entering the country—the most oustanding was the $5,000 deposit to rescue </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> from customs impound. They had been attentativly beaurocratic, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">proffering many papers for numerous legally binding signatures when taking our money—but now, having been good little sailors by leaving the country on time, we were entitled to a refund. Naturally, the sympa</span><span style="font-style: normal;">thetic officials in Opua said that they may or may not be able to return the money depend</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ing on what the upper-level paperwork looked like that was filed by nameless, faceless Senior New Zealand Customs Officials, and submitted to the equally nebulious Senior Bankin</span><span style="font-style: normal;">g Officials, of whic</span><span style="font-style: normal;">h the Regular Old Customs Officials—our friends and allies—had no control over. Our buddies would do their best but they were ve</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ry sorry because, furthermore, the Regular Old Customs Officials were not permitted to submit preliminary paperwork on the situation until ten days after </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">had sailed away, putting lil' old Kara and John well out into the Pacific where we'd be powerless to object to any funn</span><span style="font-style: normal;">y business on the international banking scene. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> We were escorted by an albatross and a handfull of dolphins on a fast but uncomfortable passage to New Caledonia, little more than a French mining outpost. The only city, Noumea, is shrouded in multicolored smoke billowing from the s<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1mcdjERuJrk/TqJ0fa-g7QI/AAAAAAAAAPU/C-sGij_sRWw/s1600/IMG_5073.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1mcdjERuJrk/TqJ0fa-g7QI/AAAAAAAAAPU/C-sGij_sRWw/s320/IMG_5073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666219364351798530" border="0" /></a>melters. The mountains, once covered in regal pines and ancient kauri trees, have been stripped of vegetation, slashed by roads, torn by strip mines. Each gash and gouge bleeds deep red earth into the ocean as the naked topsoil sloughs from nearly every hillside.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Despite this, New Caledonia is a delightful place. The climate melds the best of all worlds—warm water, turqoise lagoons, tropical reefs, and palm trees somehow coexist with cool dry air, tall scrub covered mountans, and endless sunshine. The island claims t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-is5ao_PE64k/TqJzNksQvGI/AAAAAAAAAOs/zLOOy-DgANs/s1600/IMG_5184.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-is5ao_PE64k/TqJzNksQvGI/AAAAAAAAAOs/zLOOy-DgANs/s200/IMG_5184.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666217958210321506" border="0" /></a>he world's second most extensive tropical reef system—the largest is Australia's Great Barrier Reef, where we're h<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mr0i_SI0Vso/TqHydx-nxJI/AAAAAAAAAOE/qKVzqAUg3PY/s1600/DSC00771.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mr0i_SI0Vso/TqHydx-nxJI/AAAAAAAAAOE/qKVzqAUg3PY/s320/DSC00771.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666076399654913170" border="0" /></a>eading next—and a magnificient variety of terrestrial and marine life. We sailed miles up the Baie du Prony, a network of desert fjords, hotsprings, and cool mountain streams. Then out into the motu-strewn lagoon where there are entire atolls snared in reef. The lagoon is large enough to be a playground for whales and measures 50 ocean miles across in places, some of the islands along the fringing reef ridiculiously tiny and remote. We stopped at several. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> On one, the ringing whitesand beach was completely devoid of human footprints but the sand was scored with hundreds of sinous grooves leading from the water into the bush. We wandered up into the scrub and stumbled to a horrified halt as the leaves around our feet rustled with dry scrapes and slow rustles. Red-and-black and white-and-black coral snakes wer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1TAv1XI1v-M/TqJzNm_y9LI/AAAAAAAAAO4/Ki2ghQPD2x0/s1600/IMG_5210.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1TAv1XI1v-M/TqJzNm_y9LI/AAAAAAAAAO4/Ki2ghQPD2x0/s200/IMG_5210.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666217958829126834" border="0" /></a>e everywhere. Like a horror movie, each way we turned revealed a snarl of snakes--under rocks, passing over a root, draped around branch, dangling from a rock ledge, or coiled beneath a log. We both squealed like little girls and tiptoed back to sand. The snakes are highly venemous but classified as "non-agressive"; we might have found out just how non-agressive they really were if we'd stepped on one. Kara had nightmares about sea snakes climbing up the anchor chain and dropping into her bunk that night. We slept stuffy with all ports closed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> A small limestone island we anchored at had a posh resort, completely abandoned. We wandered the deserted buildings being retaken by the jungle, unnerved by the sight of abandoned luggage, TV's, stereos, computers, boats, a forlorn german shepard left behind and delighted to see humans once more. The <i>Mary Celeste</i> of four-star resorts. The dog had survived for months by drinking rainwater caught in the swimming pool and plunging off the docks into the lagoon to catch fish like a pelican.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> By this time, we were really wondering if our NZ customs money had come in, so we sailed out to the Ile of Pines where a hotel was rurmored to have internet access. Of course, the money had not arrived in our bank account (and was long overdue by this time). We called our liason at the customs office, but her voicemail said she would be vacationing in Dubai for the next 3 weeks. We called a different customs officer; also out of the office. We called the 24/7 NZ customs 800 number hotline many times across two days to hear endless ringing. At this point, we<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Cmxuf89naQ/TqHzMG72o7I/AAAAAAAAAOU/AD4tg9iGgXg/s1600/DSC00853.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Cmxuf89naQ/TqHzMG72o7I/AAAAAAAAAOU/AD4tg9iGgXg/s320/DSC00853.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666077195554431922" border="0" /></a> seriously began to wonder if the entire NZ customs beaurocracy was on holiday, courtesy of the <i>Orca </i>deposit. We eventually found real people and, after a few hours of Skype, we had it all sorted out.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As for us, we're faced with the difficult decision to either sail down to Australia, where we will no-doubt be sucked into a second beaurocratic vortex, or to stay in the tropics through the summer cyclone season and face the possibility of a naturally occuring, but equally inconvienient, meterological vortex. Given the choice of being at the mercy of 200 knot hurricane-force winds or Australian Customs/Immigration/Health/Quarrantine/Agriculture/Termite inspections, fees and proceedures, we choose the latter, but just.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Untill next time,</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">John & Kara</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">SV Orca</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Ile des Pines, Nouvelle Caledonia</p><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/68oc3fK7Ut4?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-55069551236336185682011-08-07T17:30:00.000-07:002011-08-07T17:35:10.775-07:00Orca Update 24<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hi Everyone!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> By June, with major boat projects behind us, we were ready to tackle the Tasman. Unfortunately, there were two things holding us back—the Tasman Sea in the middle of winter is not known for its balmy weather, smooth seas, or fair winds. The second was that Tim and Ann, the Parents, were scheduled for a visit of a rather worrying duration—four weeks. In the dead of winter, with fifteen hour nights, intermittent flurries of marble-sized hailstones, and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--D3nSVa4DFs/Tj8usogwAuI/AAAAAAAAAN0/jLTjUSn7j60/s1600/storm_moves_in.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--D3nSVa4DFs/Tj8usogwAuI/AAAAAAAAAN0/jLTjUSn7j60/s320/storm_moves_in.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638276602815054562" border="0" /></a>unbroken grey skies, there would be a formidable span of quality time together.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We picked them up on a frosty Monday morning. As we crested the Coromandel mountains, the Parents, in equal parts horror and fascination, remarked on the numerous waterfalls, rock-slides, and trees actively cascading onto the road. The tropical foliage thrashed wildly in 40 knot gusts, shaking loose a thin coating of frost and small drifts of hailstones—a combination of elements that inspired additional shock and awe.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> By the time we arrived at the rented cabin, the Parents had lapsed into the kind of dazed silence you'd expect, having just realized that they could have gone to Fiji instead. Making the best of it, they explored the little cabin. There was a notice that said, in true Kiwi fashon, yes, the house sometimes shakes alarmingly, but don't worry about it. She'll be alright, mate. Then the wind increased from 40 knots to 50, and the house did indeed shake alarmingly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> There were two small space heaters, which seemed incredibly inadequate against the fierce onslaught of weather. The Parents were not convinced it was possible for a civilization to exist under such conditions without the outhouse-sized forced air furnaces of California. It wasn't until we drove them into town that they truly grasped<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HFeVYwXUHu4/Tj8usdZAyHI/AAAAAAAAANs/VZbzfHfRlWU/s1600/leaning_into_it.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 197px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HFeVYwXUHu4/Tj8usdZAyHI/AAAAAAAAANs/VZbzfHfRlWU/s320/leaning_into_it.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638276599829809266" border="0" /></a> the hardy nature of the New Zealander. I pointed left and right, driving down the main street. Here you see an old man, shorts and a tee, leaning into the rain with an protective arm across his eyes. There you see young mother, tank-top, pushing a double-wide stroller with infant twins aboard, wool blankets lashed across them. Oh look, the stroller is too wide to fit in the coffee shop, she's left the kids out on the sidewalk. They'll be 'right, mate.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> First, the wind blew onshore, East at 40 knots. One morning, we woke and the wind was blowing offshore, West at 40 knots. The 5-day forecast called for heavy rain and winds of varying direction but constant velocity—all 40-50 knots. After a week cooped up, the Parents decided a road-trip was just what they needed. We drove into the storm, keen to see the sights. We hit Mount Ngarhoe (cast as Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings). Kara, stepping over hail- and snowdrifts to the edge of the parking lot, pointed vaguely in the direction the peak should be, but the stinging rain and icy cloud had reduced the view to a few leafless shrubs clinging to life in the gravely soil along the road. We visited a thermal river for a soak in the hot springs, but with lightening striking the nearby hills and dark pregnant skies, the threat of flash flood never really receeded from our minds. Then we drove the length of the Surf Highway, around Mount Taranaki (also hidden in frozen fog), to check the waves. As we pulled up to the surf at Raglan, a wayward shaft of<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQEJ11LkSvg/Tj8usfvAk8I/AAAAAAAAANk/ukQESKqeVMo/s1600/a_shaft_of_sunlight_breaks_thru.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQEJ11LkSvg/Tj8usfvAk8I/AAAAAAAAANk/ukQESKqeVMo/s320/a_shaft_of_sunlight_breaks_thru.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638276600458941378" border="0" /></a> sunlight briefly passed over the car, causing great excitement. As we fumbled for our cameras, it faded and left gunmetal skies and an ocean ravaged by storm-force onshores and 25 feet of sloppy windchop. A bit disillusioned by the road trip, Mom took the wheel to give driving on the left a try. We had a brief but thrilling detour down the wrong side of the street, one set of tires cruising across a lawn and the other in the street, the axels spanning the sidewalk. Then, after an abrupt halt during which Kara explained the vagaries of having both steering wheel and traffic in the new and exciting orientation, Mom drove with more success.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> By the end of their trip, the Parents were masters of down-under driving. Unfazed by the double clockwise multi-lane roundabouts, they negotiated the approach and dropped themselves off at the airport's curb. Happily, they'd somehow decided that New Zealand was good fun afterall, and when asked about their trip they'd say things <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UyDixfjIUTk/Tj8usNOJhpI/AAAAAAAAANc/j09LAvX29fk/s1600/50_knots_of_onshore_meets_waterfall.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UyDixfjIUTk/Tj8usNOJhpI/AAAAAAAAANc/j09LAvX29fk/s320/50_knots_of_onshore_meets_waterfall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638276595489277586" border="0" /></a>like "it was meterologically thrilling." We saw them through security and waved goodby with Uncle Dave, Aunt Maryanne snapping pictures to the last. Despite (and, in a way, because of) the weather, we had a uniquely enjoyable visit with them, one I'm sure they will never forget.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> With our filial duties discharged, we are now ready to go to sea. Spring is just around the corner—in fact, the weather has been beautiful for almost two weeks now. We plan to have a leisurely sail up the east coast of New Zealand to Opua and then head back to the tropics. After a brief stop in New Caledonia, we'll head for Australia's Great Barrier Reef and then south, clear of the tropics by December cyclone season.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Thanks!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">John & Kara</p>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-46405787811507817582011-06-09T16:34:00.000-07:002011-06-09T17:14:06.761-07:00<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Hello all!</p><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The last two months have kept us very busy. <span style="font-style: normal;">We'd two major boat maintence tasks t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">o perform. The first was a new coat of bottom paint. </span><i>Orca's </i><span style="font-style: normal;">30-month-old coating had l</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ost much of its effective toxicity; long strands of growth were looking comfortable on he</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hxiE8igTRDM/TfFgjjijvmI/AAAAAAAAANM/ai4ri9pbq2o/s1600/DSC00270.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hxiE8igTRDM/TfFgjjijvmI/AAAAAAAAANM/ai4ri9pbq2o/s200/DSC00270.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616376374259596898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">r hull. The second was to replace the cables which hold up the mast. This job is supposed to be done every 10 years, but our suspicions were that </span><i>Orca's </i><span style="font-style: normal;">rigging was probably twice that age.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> We pulled into the slipway and the yard boys tossed us lines. A strap </span><span style="font-style: normal;">went around the mast and up to a crane, we detached all the rigging and pop, off came the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">mast. We loaded the mast onto a stretch trailer and sent it off to the rigger's shop. Then a pair of weighted straps were lowered under the keel. W</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ith</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> the roar o</span><span style="font-style: normal;">f powerful diesel engines, a cloud of black smoke, and the whine of hydraulic pumps, </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was lifted from the water.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The yard manager was apologetic when he informed us that the only space availiable was adjacent </span><span style="font-style: normal;">to the freeway. We soon discovered a charming sequence of events as each semi-truck went roaring by. First, a low vibration would rush </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jxywLKwAZdo/TfFaIvdcyPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/GrVSlIA_Ldw/s1600/IMG_3818.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jxywLKwAZdo/TfFaIvdcyPI/AAAAAAAAAMk/GrVSlIA_Ldw/s320/IMG_3818.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616369316533160178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">along the ground into the boat, giving us just a bit of warning before </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">would</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">shudder in her cradle, reeling from the pressure wave. Hot exhaust fumes swirled by in a momentary blizzard. It was great incentive to get on with the job and get back in the water.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The usual course of events for re-antifouling a hull is to wet</span><span style="font-style: normal;">-sand the old and slap on the new coat of paint. Unfortunately, we found that somewhere, back down in the geology of </span><i>Orca's</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> onion-skin pai</span><span style="font-style: normal;">nt buildup, one layer of paint was not adhering to the previous layer, bring the whole stack off in chips and flakes. We decided to do the job properly and scrape the hull back to factory conditon—unpainted gelcoat—and start over. And thus began 10 days of intense physical labor, first with </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BdReTBCK1JA/TfFa2xSWoxI/AAAAAAAAAMs/i9hbbGG-eUo/s1600/IMG_3878.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BdReTBCK1JA/TfFa2xSWoxI/AAAAAAAAAMs/i9hbbGG-eUo/s320/IMG_3878.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616370107297473298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">carbide scrapers, then with 36-grit disc sanders. We ground through two dozen layers of antifoul paint, and discove</span><span style="font-style: normal;">red the signature Cape Dory factory blue about a quarter inch down. Signature Blue dust was resistant to even the most vigorous scrubbing and we lived like Smurfs for a week. The work was particularly distasteful for Kara, who'd been raised with BPA-free waterbottles and organic produce, because we finished each day covered </span><span style="font-style: normal;">head-to-toe in intensely toxic waste. Drinki</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ng beer with the boys in the yard, they would nod sagely at our skin tone. Carefull, they'd say. Make sure you cover up. Last two times I scraped back, I ended up in hospital with copper poisoning...</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Arguably, it w</span><span style="font-style: normal;">as all worth it as we rolled the first beautiful coats of new paint ont</span><span style="font-style: normal;">o </span><i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s immaculate egg-shell hull. We buffed and waxed to a high sheen above the waterline, and had a new vynl name and hailing port printed up for the transom. We also spent </span><span style="font-style: normal;">several days working on the mast, completely dissasembling the entire structure. After checking each bolt, replacing many, we reassembled and attached the new wires the rigger had prepared for us. After three wee</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KYbSZRXc3yg/TfFbNkXdHeI/AAAAAAAAAM0/B3dv4LHpwsM/s1600/IMG_3890.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KYbSZRXc3yg/TfFbNkXdHeI/AAAAAAAAAM0/B3dv4LHpwsM/s320/IMG_3890.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616370498966199778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">ks on the hard, we splashed on a Friday morning, re-stepped the mast, t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">opped up on fuel, reattached the boom, ran up the sails, and escaped up the coast to Whangamata. Just in time too; Kara had bo</span><span style="font-style: normal;">oked a visit back to the States and was due to fly out the next day.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Dropping Signature-Blue-Kara off at the airport, she was clearly in need of at least a month of recovery. I rated my chances of ever getting her back near those for getting struck by lightening.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> During the lonely weeks that followed, long-lost Uncle Dave and family opened their house and lives to me. S<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uiaAQ574eOY/TfFgBvimFkI/AAAAAAAAANE/6gCCa7rSvdQ/s1600/DSC00247.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uiaAQ574eOY/TfFgBvimFkI/AAAAAAAAANE/6gCCa7rSvdQ/s320/DSC00247.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616375793365423682" border="0" /></a>oon, I was tagging along to work with U.D, where we discovered a mutual love of coffee. Somehow, it never ceased to amaze U.D when we wouldn't arrive at the job site until 2pm. But we only stopped for coffee four times! he'd lament. One particular job-site was a high-roller corporate headquarters with a fully equipped kitchen, sporting a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art expresso machine which necessitated frequent, lengthy coffee breaks. With caffeen roaring in my ears and hands trembling, I could barely raise the fifth double hazelnut/carmel mochachino to my lips.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_HTPKrCD8ao/TfFbzaLI9dI/AAAAAAAAAM8/NZZgitrWxKA/s1600/IMG_4053.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_HTPKrCD8ao/TfFbzaLI9dI/AAAAAAAAAM8/NZZgitrWxKA/s320/IMG_4053.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616371149065221586" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Heading into May, the start of the southern winter, the temperature began to drop—more hot coffee was <i>not</i> the answer. I phoned up Kara and put in an order for a diesel heater for <i>Orca</i>. Amazingly, at the end of May, not only did Kara return, but she was toting two massive boxes filled with a heater and all our favorite goodies from back home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BQXlikFia-w/TfFg45Rds0I/AAAAAAAAANU/8OctsS1iI50/s1600/DSC00229.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 112px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BQXlikFia-w/TfFg45Rds0I/AAAAAAAAANU/8OctsS1iI50/s200/DSC00229.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616376740870730562" border="0" /></a>. We spent three days installing the heater, gritting our teeth as we spun up a 5-inch hole saw to cut through <i>Orca's</i> deck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As we send this off, <i>Orca </i>is in the best condition she's been in since she left the factory floor 33 years ago. We're not sure where we want to take her next, but we find that there huge freedom in knowing she's once again capable of crossing any ocean on the planet.</p>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-51526657211127480252011-04-03T20:56:00.000-07:002011-04-03T21:28:20.205-07:00Haul Out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ox5jyyv75_c/TZlDRUVHWuI/AAAAAAAAALE/WunjaLfWy4Y/s1600/IMG_3774.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ox5jyyv75_c/TZlDRUVHWuI/AAAAAAAAALE/WunjaLfWy4Y/s320/IMG_3774.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591574377151290082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WG613q7bCxY/TZlDRNcuS3I/AAAAAAAAAK8/v06j3-JErIw/s1600/IMG_3765.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WG613q7bCxY/TZlDRNcuS3I/AAAAAAAAAK8/v06j3-JErIw/s320/IMG_3765.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591574375304153970" border="0" /></a><br />In preparation for haul out and new rigging we took of <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwLreX3fMVM/TZlIfmgMw7I/AAAAAAAAAL0/TcdJVM54e4w/s1600/IMG_3788.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wwLreX3fMVM/TZlIfmgMw7I/AAAAAAAAAL0/TcdJVM54e4w/s320/IMG_3788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591580120105927602" border="0" /></a>the sails and boom. Not a good look for our seaworthy Orca.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8v2Kgx8Gpw/TZlFOmL11pI/AAAAAAAAALU/aCBHxLnizgQ/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S8v2Kgx8Gpw/TZlFOmL11pI/AAAAAAAAALU/aCBHxLnizgQ/s320/IMG_3795.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591576529427879570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kfXEcUCMfLA/TZlHOEgnM2I/AAAAAAAAALk/NnkleP94zLI/s1600/IMG_3816.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kfXEcUCMfLA/TZlHOEgnM2I/AAAAAAAAALk/NnkleP94zLI/s320/IMG_3816.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591578719411450722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WcBsNZ_qTBI/TZlHN1WUfuI/AAAAAAAAALc/OSLRbiIVyxQ/s1600/IMG_3811.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WcBsNZ_qTBI/TZlHN1WUfuI/AAAAAAAAALc/OSLRbiIVyxQ/s320/IMG_3811.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591578715341749986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q1Lp1nwqtvY/TZlHOQyApwI/AAAAAAAAALs/Eksu8Inof8E/s1600/IMG_3822.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q1Lp1nwqtvY/TZlHOQyApwI/AAAAAAAAALs/Eksu8Inof8E/s320/IMG_3822.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591578722705647362" border="0" /></a>As life with boats always goes there was more work to be done than we expected.Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-71106231920752347742011-03-31T11:39:00.000-07:002011-04-03T20:56:49.474-07:00<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Orca Update 21</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hello from Tauranga!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As we left you last time, we<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hSDD2Wvf6kU/TZVD60tnlXI/AAAAAAAAAJc/Pu5y_NqPGnA/s1600/travels%2Bwith%2Bdan.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hSDD2Wvf6kU/TZVD60tnlXI/AAAAAAAAAJc/Pu5y_NqPGnA/s320/travels%2Bwith%2Bdan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590449190311794034" border="0" /></a> were just pulling into the Marina here in the Bay of Plenty. Time and again, we've been warmly recieved in ports frequented by blue-water sailors. Tauranga was no <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3zo2nQ2kAZ0/TZlBSvOva3I/AAAAAAAAAK0/9YmVdTP2s3A/s1600/P2260155.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3zo2nQ2kAZ0/TZlBSvOva3I/AAAAAAAAAK0/9YmVdTP2s3A/s200/P2260155.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591572202528926578" border="0" /></a>exception: A day after arriving, a stranger had aranged a free ride to Auckland for us with a friend-of-a-friend.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So just like that, we doubled up docklines and said goodby to <i>Orca</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. A ri</span><span style="font-style: normal;">de with yet another quirky boatie brought us to Un</span><span style="font-style: normal;">cle Dave's house, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">where we were welcomed. Cousin Daniel, who builds houses for a living, encouraged us to leave behind our ocean lifestyle for a weekend and follow him on "a little adventure." Sure, sounds like fun. On Thursday, Dan left instructions for us to pick up "a bit of gear" from a friend. We drove over, and the heap of gear waiting for us was our first hint that we were in for a bit more th</span><span style="font-style: normal;">an we </span><span style="font-style: normal;">barganined for. Mountain</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> bikes, harnesses, miles of rope, carabeaners, miner's h</span><span style="font-style: normal;">elmets, life jackets, wetsuits, a kayak, sleeping bags, crash helmets, and overalls. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> At this point, another unsuspecting victim joined the expedition. Marc arrived from<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y98GOdEBKSo/TZVROu1zhTI/AAAAAAAAAKs/uipyTQ6atao/s1600/IMG_3418.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y98GOdEBKSo/TZVROu1zhTI/AAAAAAAAAKs/uipyTQ6atao/s200/IMG_3418.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590463825984062770" border="0" /></a> Monterey for a visit. He had a pile of surfboards and a keen hankering for jucy left pointbreak, but Dan told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was going to be a just slight detour on our way to the beach. Leaving surfboards behind, we loaded up and sped off into the night. Around 10, we pulled over and drifted off to sleep in the van. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> We were abruptly awoken at 6 a.m. as the van careened from paved onto dirt road. Dan, who doesen't seem to need any sleep, had been up before light checking the caving gear. Just before dawn, he decided it was high time to get the show on the road and snuck into the driver's seat. We pulled over at an innocious-looking pasture in the middle of nowhere. Dan, illuminated by a magnanimous glow of generosity in the morning light, told us he was taking it easy on us since it was day one. We even had time to wolf a quick bite of breakfast. Tomorrow, we won't be geting such a late start, he promised.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Outfitted with long underwear, fleece, woolen caps, overalls, and miners helmets, we lept the barbed fence. We stopped in a depression, near a blackberry bush. We were here! But what was here? We expected to walk around in a cave for a few minutes, ooh and ahh some stalagtites, and jump back in the van. But then what was all this gear for? Dan whipped out a laminated sketch, handed us another copy. It was important, he reminded us, that we<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bZsThEFeWY4/TZVEO_YwY0I/AAAAAAAAAJk/Z9zZ5PwLwYU/s1600/a%2Bcave.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bZsThEFeWY4/TZVEO_YwY0I/AAAAAAAAAJk/Z9zZ5PwLwYU/s320/a%2Bcave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590449536774464322" border="0" /></a> all had maps—incase he didn't make it. The sketch was a tangled and confusing network of dotted and solid lines. There was some text too, names like "The Birth Canal," and "The Long Squeeze." Dan gestured toward the blackbery bush, and told us to climb in. At the base of the bush was a dark muddy crack leading 12 feet straight down, about 10" wide. I looked at Marc,a big strapping young buck of 6'3 with broad strong shoulders and size 14 sneakers. I wished him luck, and we slithered in. You won't find any tourists down here, Dan promised.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> After a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GUiZYg604qQ/TZVFokVfFTI/AAAAAAAAAKE/VcZzvzQ8lfI/s1600/first%2Battempt.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GUiZYg604qQ/TZVFokVfFTI/AAAAAAAAAKE/VcZzvzQ8lfI/s320/first%2Battempt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590451075701216562" border="0" /></a>n hour of twisting and turning down into the cave, Marc was thinking that this was the worst surf-trip he'd never even dreamed of. At least 100 feet underground, he was deep in "The Long Squeeze," about 20 feet into the tube with a twisting 15' remaining before it opened up again. He was also stripped down to his underwear. Dan figured undressing would help to minimise his size and give maximum freedom of movement. Marc was covered in mud, eye wide with his constricted breath misting before him as Dan coached him through the contortions necessary to pass "just a bit of a kink." Helpful phrases like "bend your spine over backwards!" and "try not to breath!" echoed down the tunnels.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> After that, things opened up and we joined an underground river. The rock formations were fantastic: white collumns, brown spires, flowstone, waterfalls, cliffs and beaches, all underground. When we emerged hours later, exhausted, bruised and sore, we were deep in a forest and it was pouring rain. A short hike brought us back to the van, where Dan appraised our sorry state and decided that about 3 hours of rock climbing was just what we needed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The rest of that day was a blur, but our brains o<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bH-dvJk-bzE/TZVJ2_cg-2I/AAAAAAAAAKk/HVmbntswIco/s1600/dancam1%2B%2528233%2529.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bH-dvJk-bzE/TZVJ2_cg-2I/AAAAAAAAAKk/HVmbntswIco/s200/dancam1%2B%2528233%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590455721543138146" border="0" /></a>nce again began recording memory around 6 a.m the next morning, as Dan guided the van towards the mighty Tongariro River. It'd been raining all night, so he figured this was a good time for "a quick river float," which he thought should wake us up effectively. Dan doesn't believe in coffee. We piled in rafts and were swept off down the muddy, swolen river. 2 hours and 60 rapids later, we were fully awake as we loaded the raft for the drive back to the van. Since we were already quite wet, there was a nearby underground river network Dan thought we should explore. We squeezed and splashed through a new cave, keeping the glow worms company. Our guide noticed we were exhausted to the point of being delusional, so, having no map of this cave, he took the opportunity to pretend we were lost, dropping comments like "is it just me or does the water look higher to you, mate?" </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V9haMQBUIKQ/TZVGQvxZ-3I/AAAAAAAAAKM/NXASMv3dogM/s1600/volcanos.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V9haMQBUIKQ/TZVGQvxZ-3I/AAAAAAAAAKM/NXASMv3dogM/s320/volcanos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590451765965880178" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The following morning when Dan rousted us, it was pitch black. He told us we were going for a 20 km tramp over some volcanoes, so dress warm. Steam filtered out of the black and broken ground as we moved across the summit and down the backside of the volcanic ridge. Well down the backside, Dan turned around to "pop back over," grab the van, and pick us up on the other side. When we finally stumbled into the parking lot, Dan was bouncing with impatience for the next adventure. Since we were hot, sweaty, and stinky, we drove back to the Tongariro River, grabbed a coil of line and we jumped back in for a bit of canyoning. The short definition of canyoning is traveling down a section of river, on foot and in the water, that has too many waterfalls for a raft or kayak to run. I only hazily remember two things from that afternoon. The first is Dan telling us to jump in the river, float through this next set of rapids, but be careful to stop at the end as there is a 60 foot waterfall just around the corner. The second is when we jumped off a cliff which was high enough that when Marc didn't clench his lips on impact, the water in his mouth split his upper lip away from his gums. Back at the van, Dan peered inside his mouth, decided that the doctors probably wouldn't be able to stitch him up anyway, and off we went.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> We've only touched on about half of the activities we did with Dan—but that's because we only remember half. Mostly we recall the mornings, before the daily exhaustion began to take its toll. Our firm belief is that the only reason we survived is because Dan had to go back to work on Monday. To recuperate, we left Dan behind and drove to the beach. The<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S6eLvqPLzM0/TZVGQ7Eu8HI/AAAAAAAAAKU/3Otcx2blozY/s1600/shipwreck%2Bbay.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S6eLvqPLzM0/TZVGQ7Eu8HI/AAAAAAAAAKU/3Otcx2blozY/s320/shipwreck%2Bbay.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590451768999735410" border="0" /></a> culmination of our search for surf was at Shipwreck Bay. With the help of two wooden boards and an hour's careful driving and pushing, we got our sedan out through the tide pools to the surf. The double overhead waves were smoking around the point and they just kept on going. On the biggest day, we marked out on the beach how long our rides were. We used the car's odometer to measure the distances, and found that we were getting waves over a mile long. After our fourth session that day, we felt like we were back with Daniel—exhaustedly euphoric.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> By the time the swell was spent, it was time for poor Marc to move on. Originally he'd planned to continue to Austrailia, Indonesia, and Fiji in his search for waves. He'd arrived in NZ in top physical condition, ready for anything, but now he was sporting two injured knees, a split lip, and a bad gash to his hand. He was exhausted and having a hard time with side effects from antibiotics he was taking for his wounds. Marc flew home to recuperate, with plans to pick up his trip in a few months when he's recovered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Sorry this has dragged on so long, b</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RW5nFtyiSQQ/TZVHb6RtYsI/AAAAAAAAAKc/i-M9NyqxXP0/s1600/whangamata.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RW5nFtyiSQQ/TZVHb6RtYsI/AAAAAAAAAKc/i-M9NyqxXP0/s320/whangamata.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590453057275912898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: normal;">ut even so we've had to skip over so much: another canyoning trip, going deep inside a ca</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ve network of WWII gun turrets. A crazy drive out in the boonies to a strange hospital for Marc's hand. Mountain biking, two days of perfect surf at the Whangamata Bar. A long drive and all night vigil on </span><i>Orca </i><span style="font-style: normal;">for the Japanese Tsunami. Lots of hot springs, museums. Two nights with Cassandra, when we speared enough fish and gathered enough abalone for a feast for ten, later cooked by Mike, a chef at a five star resort.</span></p>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-29906952805553699732011-02-27T19:54:00.000-08:002011-02-27T20:31:10.101-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wzYbp2HzCT4/TWsipAcKJYI/AAAAAAAAAHM/przMCdC2nJM/s1600/IMG_2533.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wzYbp2HzCT4/TWsipAcKJYI/AAAAAAAAAHM/przMCdC2nJM/s320/IMG_2533.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578590651316577666" border="0" /></a><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Orca Update #20</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Last time, we were just heading into Whangeri to re-supply. 12 miles up the river, we found the marina was overflowing with boats, rafted 3 deep along the town basin. Since the marina was full, we tied up alongside a wooden jetty across from town, ran across the street to the busy supermarket. We filled our cart, dashed across the boulevard and bounced out to the dock<span style="font-style: normal;">. We loaded up and shipped out. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> We'd only made it a few miles down the river when our weather maps began to look a bit ominous. A sequence of cyclones were forecast to wander down from the tropics. The first few were relatively weak, but even so, all that week we lay at anchor, with winds gusting to 50 knots. As each storm moved over, the wind would clock through 360 degrees, but dead calm when the center passed over. The wind and rain swirling off the hills would catch us at different angles, <i>Orca</i> slewing about. The barometer cycled through a range of 30 millibars, down into the 980's and back up past 1010. Waves were washing over the freeway in Auckland but we were safe and cozy. The first blow was exciting. The second was entertaining. By the third, we were going stir-crazy. Trapped below during the last storm for 3 days straight, we had severe, terminal cabin fever. We cleared out the cabin and played exercise videos, sweating to the oldies.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> When there was a break between storms, we dashed out to Great Barrier Island, just off the coast of Auckland. The island sports a fickle but excellent river mouth surf-spot. Cyclone Wilma, the biggest yet, was due in just 36 hours, and she was pumping out swell. We hustled over to the unprotected side of the island to snatch a surf. The waves were pushing double-overhead, hollow, howling offshore winds, and fantastic. We anchored outside the lineup, so it was hard to tell how big it was—at least that's what Kara said afterward. She was a maniac; taking off on the biggest waves of the day, free falling down the face. She would rip a big bottom turn and shoot off down the line. When the spray cleared, the guys in the lineup were buzzing. “Holy crap, did you see that?” “That's my kind of woman!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> An hour later, the swell was even bigger, out of control. The latest weatherfax showed Wilma 250 miles NE of New Zealand, central pressure 950 millibars, winds over 100 knots, and heading right for Great Barrier Island. Nerves jangling, we pushed <i>Orca</i> hard, motor-sailing around to the west side of the island where the best anchorages are. Since <i>Orca</i> is small and doesn't draw much water, we were able to tuck up into the head of a deep valley. Along with a couple of other sailboats, we started preparing a day early, positioning our boats and anchors to best advantage against the low spots in the steep hills, where the wind would likely be coming from. We anchored and re-anchored 3 times before<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JrzlqMxZjE/TWsjEuklnQI/AAAAAAAAAHU/6CaLEH43uok/s1600/IMG_2571.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7JrzlqMxZjE/TWsjEuklnQI/AAAAAAAAAHU/6CaLEH43uok/s200/IMG_2571.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578591127556431106" border="0" /></a> both of us were satisfied--two storm anchors on separate lines, one all chain, one half nylon. We kept our last anchor and chain aboard, in case we had to abandon the first two and re-anchor during the storm. Then, we celebrated: it had been 1 year--to the very day--since we left the dock in Moss Landing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The eye was forecast to pass at 4 am, so it wasn't until evening when the weather started. It was muggy—80 degrees and misty. The mist turned to drizzle, then rain, then hard rain. A deluge. The nearby weather station recorded 2 inches of rain per hour, all evening. The water in the anchorage turned muddy brown, but still there was no wind. It started to get dark, we gave everything a final check, lashed down everything on deck, dogged the hatches and...and suddenly there were big powerboats pouring into the anchorage. They came it fast with big wakes, drinking beer, stereos blaring. They plunked their cute little toy anchors down all around us. The skipper of the sailboat next to us, who'd also been struggling with numerous heavy anchors all morning, looked over, rolled his eyes, and shrugged. What can you do? The rain slowed, and the first puffs of wind riffled the water's surface. We read and tried to get some sleep.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> By 2 AM the wind was screaming through the rig and gusts were buffeting from different directions. The barometer bottomed out, the wind shifted directions and redoubled. Most of the load passed to our second, more powerful anchor. By 5 a.m. that anchor line was straight as a bar and thrumming like a guitar string, stretching off the bow almost horizontal. It was impossible to move against the wind and the rain in the air was salty—spray lifted off the water in the cove. We were out on deck with flashlights warning people away from our ground tackle: boats were dragging anchor all over the anchorage, motoring around in the dark at full throttle but only half in control, blown around as each blast hit.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I had two flashlights out, one illuminating each anchor rode, when the biggest gust hit. It came off the hills from a new direction, thrashing the trees like mad. It turned the water white, lifting spray off the waves and rolling like a cotton ball across the anchorage. I wrapped myself around the windlass. <i>Orca</i> staggered, heeled over, rail in the water and ports awash. In the cabin, things came lose and crashed about. Lines creaked and groaned through <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgvqUysoAqs/TWsjh6zUMGI/AAAAAAAAAHc/bJ-fbrEE1cQ/s1600/IMG_3175.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgvqUysoAqs/TWsjh6zUMGI/AAAAAAAAAHc/bJ-fbrEE1cQ/s200/IMG_3175.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578591629055635554" border="0" /></a>the fair leads, the nylon stretching and absorbing the shock.. The anchors held. A powerboat drifted by in slow motion, 30 yards away, anchor out, no one at the wheel. Back in the thick of the anchored boats, there was chaos.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> That was the last serious gust. We don't know how windy it got. The nearby weather station stopped reporting after 70 knots. A newspaper article claimed gusts to 110 knots. When dawn illuminated the now-quiet anchorage, the layout was completely different—half the boast had shifted overnight. People were zipping about in dinghies, chatting, apologizing, exchanging information if they'd collided. We tried to pull up our anchors but they dug in too deep. We winched the lines up tight, vertical, and waited for the tide to rise and the mud to ooze. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rjC8Gd2bgVw/TWskW-RwfeI/AAAAAAAAAHk/fqpZtqPAnSU/s1600/IMG_2964.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rjC8Gd2bgVw/TWskW-RwfeI/AAAAAAAAAHk/fqpZtqPAnSU/s320/IMG_2964.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578592540521692642" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Eventually we got them up. We spent a few more days in the West side of the island, hiking and fishing, and then a few more on the East side, surfing and enjoying the settled weather. We're now a bit down the coast, in the Bay of Plenty at Taurunga. We'll catch a ride up to the cousin's house in Auckland next week.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"></p>Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-42851980743862279252011-01-13T17:24:00.000-08:002011-02-27T21:05:09.472-08:00update 19Happy New Year from Whangarei, NZ!<br /><br /><br />After leaving Opua and the Ba<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-oJYg418I/AAAAAAAAAHA/vsncH6raBik/s1600/Out_of_the_woods.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-oJYg418I/AAAAAAAAAHA/vsncH6raBik/s320/Out_of_the_woods.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561848943978534850" border="0" /></a>y of Islands behind, we were anxious for the Big New Zealand Potter Family Reunion to begin. Kara's parents, older sister, and nephew were flying from California. Her younger brother and sister had been hiking on NZ's South Island and were flying in from Christchurch. Aunt Abby was flying in from Honolulu. We'd been in the South Pacific and mostly out of contact. Despite the logistical difficulties, the plan was for everyone converge in Auckland December 2nd.<br /><br />Kara's family have been known to be a bit emotional at times, so the streets of Auckland were probably not the best place for the first meeting. Passers by gave us sympathetic looks, plainly wondering who had died as tears puddled on the sidewalk. Kara's younger siblings, fresh from backpacking the South Island, had transformed from two two clean-cut models of personal hygiene into something a bit more woodsy: over the next few days they spent a great deal of time picking twigs and leaves out of their hair and maintaining their dreadlocks against the onslaught of shampoo and conditioner. Mother was not entirely thrilled.<br /><br />We spent two blissful weeks with the family, hiking, surfing, fishing, and catching up with each other. Having been sitting on the boat for the last year, we had trouble keeping up with the hiking, but we eventually learned how to walk in a straight line again. We plied them with our home brewed beer, which was such a big hit that when it was time to go, they cleaned out the local supermarket and loaded their suitcases with enough raw material to yield 80 gallons of beer. Again, mother was not entirely pleased.<br /><br />Eventually it was time to go. The goodbye lasted over an hour, in the rain, on the street – again. When everyone was all cried out, they climbed in the car and drove back to the airport, and we lost ourselves in boat work for the next two weeks. For Christmas, we caught a ride in “the Whale” back up to Shipwreck bay for a few days of surf – glassy, well overhead. On the way back, Kara went for a soak in some exceptionally stinky hot springs. The rotten<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-oJHT3MbI/AAAAAAAAAG4/KsSwp011_fU/s1600/orca_and_friends.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-oJHT3MbI/AAAAAAAAAG4/KsSwp011_fU/s320/orca_and_friends.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561848939360498098" border="0" /></a>-egg scent lingered on her for days, which was a bit unfortunate as we spent the subsequent week sealed up in Orca during heavy summer rains.<br /><br /><br />Up to this point, we had yet to encounter the long lost Uncle Dave Pennington, who had slipped out of California sometime in the late 70's or early 80's, moved to New Zealand, and now—reportedly—lives in Auckland with his wife and three boys. I'd only met him once, when I was 12. Our plan was to meet him just up the coast for New Year's where an email hinted we could catch him and the family camping on the beach – how hard could it be?<br /><br />When we pulled into the appointed bay, we were greeted by hundreds of tents on the beach. Between Christmas and New Year's its a kiwi tradition to trade the crowds and comforts of the city for—well, crowds and comforts. The massive tents were packed in so tight that in many places you couldn't walk between them. Inside cloth houses one finds couches, TV's, 4-post beds, refrigerators, showers, and sinks: all the amenities of home. We picked o<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-nrC7id9I/AAAAAAAAAGw/hH47jTr1P5E/s1600/sandy_bay.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-nrC7id9I/AAAAAAAAAGw/hH47jTr1P5E/s320/sandy_bay.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561848422788659154" border="0" /></a>ur way through the tent city looking for the mythical Uncle Dave. With no cell signal, we had some detective work to do: we didn't know what he looked like, what kind of car he drove, anything at all, really, except his name. We started canvassing the neighborhood. Eventually we found someone who had actually spoken to the mysterious creature, but they remembered only sketchy details of the encounter: he drove a green van towing a silver boat, there may have been a dog involved. By New Year's eve, we had half the tent town looking for green-van-silver-boat and still hadn't found him. We had a lovely evening anyway with a couple of sailors from Amsterdam and their Kiwi family who had been helping us track the elusive Uncle Dave. It was a true New Zealand New Years, celebrated in a sheep shearing shed on a green pasture surrounded by big tents filled with full-sized home appliances.<br /><br />Eventually we cornered him. He had avoided detection by driving a silver van with a green boat, but we forgave him his deception and were soon re-meeting family. They gave us a crash course in NZ – we had marmite, learned Maori history, and were “chuffed” to learned “heaps” of “wicked” kiwi lingo, "eh?" We spent three days with the Pennington's before the wind came up and drove us out of the bay to find better shelter. We're now anchored in the mouth of the Whangarei estuary waiting for the tide to take us into town.<br /><br />Thanks!<br /><br /><br />Kara and JohnOrcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5906649021951532751.post-32042716371686010872011-01-13T17:11:00.000-08:002011-02-27T21:09:41.858-08:00update 18
<br />
<br /><meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.1 (Win32)"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hello from Tutukaka, NZ!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Well, we finally escaped Opua. We just got a little too comfortable with the showers & laundry and before we knew it a month had passed – guess we have a different sense<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-kpOrlTiI/AAAAAAAAAGo/RdUUNZsjlnM/s1600/thanksgiving_day_sunset_in_opua.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-kpOrlTiI/AAAAAAAAAGo/RdUUNZsjlnM/s320/thanksgiving_day_sunset_in_opua.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561845093048340002" border="0" /></a> of time now. There was plenty to keep us busy though. We'd only been in the country a few days when we hear wild yelling and hooting outside the boat – it was Don & Kim, the dynamic beer-brewing/surfing duo we had met 3,000 miles back in Raiatea,. They were burning doughnuts in their dingy in excitement; seems they'd rustled up a some transportation. It turned out to be a not-very-sexy looking van. This would have been a big setback in CA, where surfers pride themselves on the size of their truck and the shinyness of their chrome step-sides. Don & Kim's van, however, is a box with wheels, riddled with rust holes. It took a pry-bar to get the rear door open, most of the exhaust system had rusted away, there didn't seem to be any seatbelts, the headliner sagged onto your head, the undercarriage was held together by bits of galvanized wire and zip ties. But “The Whale” was not chosen at random, for (1) it's Japanese – <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-kLJbracI/AAAAAAAAAGg/jhPvSvlCUYs/s1600/parking_lot.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-kLJbracI/AAAAAAAAAGg/jhPvSvlCUYs/s320/parking_lot.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561844576243378626" border="0" /></a>very light for its size; (2) the engine was mounted in the center of the van – weight distributed evenly to all four tires; (3) its a turbodiesel – few electrical components to give trouble in the salt water; and (4) it has true 4WD. In short, with the tires half deflated and the transmission in 4-low, there's no beach it can't conquer. So, before we really knew what had happened we found ourselves kidnapped, plowing over sand dunes miles from the nearest road with nothing but our surfboards, wetsuits, a package of noodles, and 20 liters of homebrewed beer. We were off to chase the swell and offshore wind across the North Island.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Surfing in NZ is a bit different than back in California. Instead of houses and roads crowding the coast, vying for every penny of that “million dollar view”, there are almost no houses and very few roads branching out to the coast—even in the 'crowded' Northland. The only reasonable surf tripping strategy is to find a road to the coast and, at the ocean, turn left or right down the coast, off-road. Then, in 4WD, one must duck through forests, plow over sand dunes, splash down the beaches, and bounce over the rocky outcrops and cobblestones. Once the ideal wave has been located, set up camp, preferably above the high-tide line (you only make that mistake once). In general, the wave quality seems higher than California, and there are very few surfers. The attitude among the locals we've met is “I sure am glad you guys are here, I get tired of surfing alone. Also, can you pull my car out of the sand before the tide gets too high?” In fact, we only saw a handful of other cars, mostly on 90-mile beach (which is a bona fide national highway) In fact, 90-mile has an enforced speed limit and a few other traffic laws. Unfortunately, you only want to take this highway on low tide when there's not much swell, otherwise its underwater. “Honey, can you pick up dinner on the way home from work?” takes on new excitement when one can stop in the middle of the freeway to dig clams or surf-cast during the commute.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We made several trips with Don & Kim, surfing both the Tasman and the Pacific. The highlight of the trips was camping on the beach and surfing at Shipwreck Bay, which resembles a left-hand Santa Cruz. A 5-mile long (mostly) sand bottomed pointbreak picks up the powerful SW swell coming out of the Tasman. (Oddly enough, these are exactly the same SW swells that we surfed in California and Baja.). At Shippy's, there are 7 or 8 surf spots along the point, and when there's enough swell, they link together for a remarkable ride. The wave type ranges from fun Pleasure-Point to super-hollow slab, and the prevailing wind is offshore. If your tetanus shots are up to date, you can surf by the rusty iron shipwreck protruding from the water just off the beach.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So, after much surfing and only a little beer drinking, it was with calm weather and minimal swell on the forecast that we finally left Opua. A sunny sail out of the Bay of Islands put us in position to make Whanga<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-j3gfUyqI/AAAAAAAAAGY/sejBQiV1E3g/s1600/over_the_rim_at_whangamumu%25282%2529.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__2tBAeuHe08/TS-j3gfUyqI/AAAAAAAAAGY/sejBQiV1E3g/s320/over_the_rim_at_whangamumu%25282%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561844238835305122" border="0" /></a>mumu harbor, a flooded volcano caldera just to the south of Cape Brett. The coast is rugged and cliffy, like Big Sur, but with no houses or roads. Most of the beautiful bays and harbors are accessible only by boat. We spent two nights anchored in the flooded crater, where we had access to a well-exposed surfing spot by hiking over the southern rim to the next beach.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We're now a few miles further South, in Tutukaka Marina, to meet up with Kara's family for a long-awaited reunion. Its been over 11 months since we've seen them. In the meantime, we've come up with some figures to sum up our trip from CA to NZ:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">distance traveled: 9,600 nautical miles</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">time away from home: 11 months</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">nights at sea: ~70</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">nights spent at a dock: 1 (Mexico)</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">days at sea with 12'+ seas: 5</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">days at sea becalmed: 4</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">days wasted on bureaucracy, including port captain, customs, agriculture, immigration, health clearances, etc: 25 </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">longest time between 'real' showers: 6 months (Mexico to Fiji)</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">scariest moments: riding in car in La Paz (nearly hit by a bus), crossing street in NZ (also nearly hit by a bus)</p> Orcahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05185154911983140829noreply@blogger.com0