RTW Leg 12: The Pacific (part two)

We were visited by a helicopter today. I heard a strange noise, looked up and there it was. It wasn’t quite a Robert Duval Air Cav moment, more Flipper on a Saturday morning TV. Remember the helicopter? It was a floaty one that would assist Flipper in saving troublesome kids from all sorts of watery difficulties. This floaty helicopter appeared out of nowhere, circled low around us like a child’s ride on a fairground carousel, exchanging enthusiastic waves and then of it went from whence it came, back over the horizon, leaving Lucy and I with only the noise of the wind and the waves to contemplate.

Our floaty helicopter visit. We think a tuna fish spotter from a fishing ship.

STOP PRESS, News just in. 200 miles a day barrier broken by Broadsword. 24hr run 0500 Tue to 0500 Wed with 204 nautical miles. Skipper jubilant.

Dismasted Blue Beryl was 110 miles to our north and we decided to go and give support and assistance. It adds around 20 hours and 140 miles to our journey but we could not pass them by with a clear conscious. Alex on Blue Beryl sends us text messages by sat phone with his position, course and speed. I can then estimate his position far enough ahead of this to give Broadsword time to close the gap, and steer a course for that point. We make the decision to go at 0800 in the morning and arrive in the vicinity the following day, late in the afternoon.

Homing in on Blue Beryl.

But where are they? One can usually see a sailing yacht with full sails up from five or six miles away, further at night with navigation lights, however, this boat has been dismasted, has no sails and in two-meter swell is hidden from view when in a trough. It’s like trying to find a jar of anchovies in a large supermarket, you know it’s there somewhere, but try as you might, it’s not for finding. Eventually, we spot them, close in and make radio contact by their hand-held VHF, we discuss how to transfer the two jerry cans of fuel to them and then we just chat and get to know each other. Lucy has prepared a little pack to cheer them up including; a sketch of a sea lion, a book, a commando comic (they were on our side), two mint sweets, a packet of ginger nuts, and our emergency VHF antenna. We sail alongside and it all becomes a bit emotional. This is the first boat we have seen in over two weeks and the first people in nearly three and we are in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and we are here to help. It’s a joyous moment and one that we will cherish for many years to come.

Blue Beryl and their amazing jury rig

We are both tired and a little home sick. It’s now five months since we have seen our children and we miss them very much. Life is never easy for children, regardless of age, there is always one challenge or another that they have to work through and surmount. Our job as parents is to be there when they need support, encouragement and sometimes just a chat. This makes what we are doing difficult, not being there for them. Lucy is finding this particularly hard.

Its a whopper! Our first fish.

Hallelujah. We have caught a fish. Thank god. I was staring down the barrel of shame and humiliation for crossing the world’s biggest ocean and arriving at the other end…fishless. This is what salvation looks like; palpable relief, tangible jubilation and pride restored. But also, it is sad. This magnificent fish is landed wearing a well-tailored jacket of bright, vibrant, iridescent colours but on death, the life visibly withdraws leaving behind a dull monochrome shadow of its former self. Lucy made ceviche to start and seared dorado on a bed of rice and peppers for main. Delicious. A few days later we caught a hapless Tropic bird. Our lure is like a squid and, like a squid, skips just under the surface and our poor bird could not resist the temptation to have go. Thank fully it had not taken the lure in its mouth but had hooked its chest. It was heartbreaking reeling her in, but after unhooking and releasing her, she flew of with a Mel Gibson squawk “FREEEDOM”!

The hapless Tropic Bird with its long slender tail feather.

Engine trouble, the moment has arrived that I was dreading. I refer the honorable reader to my previous dispatch, “I’m not good at fixing stuff”. Inevitably, I am learning that necessity is the mother of invention and I am learning. Step one; check the obvious. Oil level, alternator belt, coolant levels, sea water filter, water out the back, all “check”. Step two; reach for the manual. I discover unbeknownst to me, there is a second oil tank, one for the “sail drive” reverse. The dip stick is completely hidden with the only access afforded by a small hatch in the guest cabin just about big enough for the head of Sumatran pigmy to squeeze through. As a former prop forward, contortion is not one of my strong cards, but when there’s a will there’s a way, I recover the dip stick and its as dry as an Egyptian mummy. Now, this might account for the small oil leak that remains undiagnosed despite two mechanics tasked to find its source and both returning a perplexed “dunnie no”. Step three; top up oil. I have a 50ml syringe and if I stretch and bend and groan loud enough, I can just about squirt oil into the dip stick hole. Repeat eight times, that’s 400ml for those of you who failed maths O-level. You know who you are.

Another day wakes up

We inched closer to The Marquesas. These islands are the eastern most of French Polynesia with Hiva Oa and Nuku Hiva as the principles of this volcanic archipelago. Nuku Hiva is our port of entry and perhaps the most well know thanks to Herman Melville’s semi auto biographical fictional masterpiece “Typee”. Tommo and Toby dessert their ship and seek out the friendly Happer tribe for subsistence. However, they are aware the island is also home the violent Typee tribe who are nasty cannibals. They find and are welcomed by a tribe but don’t know which one it is. And thus, the story unfolds. I mean, what were they thinking? Absconding onto a small island knowing full well that its home to a bunch of violent, hungry, blood thirsty cannibals? They deserve to be eaten. Nevertheless, it’s a good read.

Another day put to bed.

And this is the day that we will arrive in Nuku Hiva. For the last two days, I have been worried that we won’t arrive until after dark and whilst its not a no no, I’d rather not enter a busy unfamiliar anchorage at night. Why invite the risk unnecessarily? Plan B is to pull into Ua-Huka which is around 20 miles earlier, its not a port of entry but if we raise our yellow Q flag and don’t go ashore, we should get away with it. The Q flag is the Quarantine flag, which you still fly on arrival into a port until you have cleared customs, immigration and port authorities.

As it happens, we have had good wind for the last 48 hours, 20kts gusting 25 and we make up time. Its exciting, the last few miles under full sail with strong winds urging us on. I feel like Ellen MacArthur coming into Les Sables at the end of the Vandee Globe and imagine thousands of sailing fanatics cheering us in, flairs popping, fog horns sounding, press boats gathering around our hull, escorting Broadsword the final mile and as we drop our anchor, I’m standing at the bow holding two burning bright red flairs, one each hand, in a victory salute with methuselah of champagne being sprayed over my head by my proud and doting wife, first mate, best friend Lucy. Well, we can all dream a little. Our achievement is small potatoes. If Dame Ellen is a Spud u Like baked potato overflowing with tuna mayo and melted butter, then we are a slither of skin of the same potato. That’s a fair comparison. Nevertheless, when we see land it’s a shock, its crept up on me, I wasn’t even looking. I was on the side deck sorting a halyard out and looked up and suddenly there it was, this huge mountainous island right there and I shout down below to Lucy “LAND HO!”

Land Ho! Ua Huka capped in cloud. Day 20, we arrive.