Tamarin Bay sunset session -- alone

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

Hello from Africa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ultra-remote villages in the mountains

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Mozambique boatyard

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

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

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

Thanks,

John & Kara