As we sailed south from San Christobal there was a light easterly wind, so we kept it on our quarter with full sail. It took a while to get Bluey to self steer in the light conditions, but once she was set up it was very pleasant sailing. We were sailing through what looked like a slick of plankton. We hoped to pick up the equatorial current, which in places flowed at over twenty miles a day, but there was no sign of it.
The first five days we made excellent progress in ten to fifteen knots of wind and little or no swell. Some days dolphins came to visit, in schools of dozens. They would jump out of the waves as they approached so they could see where we were and then took turns riding our wake. We videoed them and sat on the bow until they left us.
For a day or two the wind piped up to a solid fifteen to twenty knots, and we made 156 miles in one day. As we travelled I tried to resist the temptation to count down the miles, and we folded the chart so that we couldn’t see our destination. It was just so far away. We were making great progress, though, and the conditions were good.
One morning, as I rinsed my bowl over the side, I noticed that there were tube-like creatures attached to the hull. Day by day the tube barnacles got longer and longer, and we went slower and slower. We had not redone our bottom paint since Florida, and there were large areas of unprotected hull for the barnacles to fasten to, as well as the foot or so of wet area above the waterline. When it was calm I tried to scrape them off with the broom, and I considered jumping in with a scraper, but we were a thousand miles offshore by now and it was a daunting thought. Our daily totals came down to below a hundred miles a day.
The wind by now was directly behind us, and a lot of the time was less than ten knots. We were sailing wing and wing, with the main tied out one side and the Genoa poled out the other. I tried our spinnaker and we moved faster until there was a bang. I stuck my head up to see my new spinnaker unzipping down the side seams. I had bought it second hand, and it had been weakened by the sun. We were back to our normal running rig.
Each morning we listened to the other boats on the SSB receiver, and wished we could respond. The passage was very hard on the emotions for some crews, with plenty of tears, doubts and worrying. We were not the only boat with barnacles, and Ian had actually dived in to scrape some of his off during a calm. We were the worst because we were missing so much bottom paint.
One morning we heard the story of Russ’ Tartan 27, called Hueglig. During the night his mast step collapsed. He had to cut away his genoa to save the mast. Because he was a single hander he put out a call on the SSB for help, and was surprised to hear that Clive and the family on Golden Sovereign were twenty miles behind him, despite being twice the size. That was very fortunate as Clive was an engineer by trade, and very good at fixing things. Clive sailed to Russ, launched his dinghy at sea, and helped Russ brace the mast and then shorten each stay to hold it in place. They then took him over to Sovereign for a hot meal and a beer. Russ was off again.
As we sailed away from the South American mainland the swell built. Every half hour or so the genoa would collapse and then fill with a bang. I regretted that we had not set up a twin jib and pole arrangement. We checked the pole ends often and moved the sheets occasionally so that they didn’t wear in the one place. The wind continued to die until the main started to slat as well. We finally dropped all the sails except the nylon drifter, which kept us moving but wasn’t powerful enough to make much speed with the barnacles on the hull. Finally the winds filled in again and we made more progress.
We were never very hungry and lived mostly on breakfast bars, cans of vegetables and beans, canned ham and stews, canned fruit and decaffeinated tea. When the weather was good Alison would make a more elaborate meal including fresh vegetables, if the boat was rolling a lot we just snacked.
If the wind was moderate and the sun shining I would fish. We typically caught skipjack tuna between two and three feet long, which is a lot of fish. Once we caught a nice mahi-mahi. We would pan fry the first lot, make a curry or stew for the next meal, and tried to preserve the rest using vinegar and salt. Normally by this time we were tired of fish anyway.
We got to know how the boat would react to the various conditions. In light conditions sailing downwind was comfortable below, with any side swell resulting in a gentle rolling. In these conditions she would sail well for an hour or two, then the swells would conspire to push her around into the wind and the mainsail would crash inside out. If we were quick we could release the windvane and steer her around, if not we needed to release the preventer to let the pressure off the main before coming back on course. This would not have happened with twin jibs.
As the wind strengthened the authority of the steering increased and the gybes stopped. Going downwind the boat would roll quite a lot, and you could feel her accelerate down the swells then slow in the troughs. If the wind was from quarter or beam she would roll a lot, with the angle going from about five degrees towards the wind to twenty degrees to leeward. She would fall off the occasional square wave with a crash, but we made good progress in these conditions.
If the wind got very strong she was thrown around more, and life aboard was tough. We braced ourselves where we sat, and often sat or lay on the floor. With each big swell the stern would lift and the boat would surf for a while until the wave passed us, then the nose would lift and the boat would slow until she caught the next one.
Sleep was always difficult, and we sat three hour watches around the clock. Sleep became a priority and whenever we were off-watch we tried to get at least a nap. I started with the 5am – 8am watch, and would often let Alison sleep in while I got the shortwave weather reports. I had a morning nap then Alison slept in the middle of the day. I tried to get another nap in the early afternoon, then we ate at 5pm. The hardest times to stay awake were my 11pm-2am watch and Alison’s 2am-5am watch. Alison was good at staying up late at night, I was better in the early morning. Our sleep was always light and we would wake instantly if there was an unusual noise.

* * *

We were about half way. Alison was on watch in the early morning when there was a loud bang. I ran topsides and asked her what it was. It was very dark, and as we shone the torch up on the rig we could see that the mast was swinging back and forward a bit, and the forestay seemed loose. I went forward and looked over the side at the bobstay, the wire that holds the bowsprit down. I had repaired it in Trinidad, and I thought maybe it had failed. The bobstay was slack. We took a halyard forward to the bow as backup to hold the mast up, and furled the genoa, putting up our storm jib to balance the boat. I went back to bed but didn’t get any sleep. We didn’t have enough sail up. The boat was only sailing at less than three knots, and if we couldn’t fix it we were in trouble. At that rate it would take another four or five weeks to get to land.
As soon as it was light we were both up for a better look. I put on a harness and went over the side to check the bobstay out. It looked like the wire had pulled out of the fitting about an inch, so I got an anchor chain and shackled it into place to replace the wire stay. I was nervous being in the water so far from land. As I cranked the turnbuckle tight I expected the forestay to tighten, but it didn’t. The bobstay was not the problem, which left only one thing. Our forestay was broken. The repeated flogging had work-hardened the stainless steel wire and then fractured it. The mast was being held forward by the front edge of the sail, and when I loosened the halyard a little the whole genoa and forestay started swinging around.
By this time I was very worried and Alison was in tears. We had not seen a single ship and even though they could not have helped us we felt very alone. The isolation, the fear, and the worry about the boat all combined to be almost overwhelming. Seeing Al so upset in turn upset me and there was a hollow knot in my stomach as I tried to comfort her and let her know that things were not too bad while I silently beat myself up for not re-rigging the boat before we left. We sat on the foredeck and talked it through for a while. I told Alison we could fix this and we made a plan. Then we got to work.
The first step was to see where the problem was. I climbed the mast while it swung from side to side, climbing while it was steady at the end of each swing, and hanging on for dear life while it moved. As I got higher the motion was more extreme. When I got to the top I could see that the wire stay had completely parted where it left the Norseman fitting, and the halyard was chafed and looked ready to break. There was just the top fitting and a small length of wire still attached to the mast. I removed it and got the hell down from there. Next we removed the big pin holding the bottom of the stay and the roller furling unit to the bowsprit, which I promptly dropped overboard. We then attached a line to the base of the sail so that we could control it. Alison slowly lowered the halyard while I tried to lay the stay and sail assembly on the deck, but the shrouds were in the way, so in the end we had to lower it all into the water, then pull it back along the side deck. The sail was soaked with water and became very heavy, so it took all our strength to lift it back onto the boat. Alison was amazing, running around on the pitching deck to adjust lines and helping pull lines, as well as getting tools while I worked. An hour or two later the sail was down and tied to the lifelines.
Our next challenge was to fix the stay. We didn’t have a spare, a lesson I have now learnt the hard way. You should always carry a spare for the longest stay on the boat. Fortunately we had removable Norseman fittings, so I cut off the broken section of wire and put the fitting back on the old wire. I sealed the fitting with 5200 polyurethane and set it aside to dry, and called it a day.
That evening Alison and I had a drink for the first time in weeks. We talked it through again. I talked about my fear that this would put her off cruising for life, and that all the books we had read said that the bad memories fade in time and the good far outweighed the bad. Alison ensured me she was not jumping ship, but that she didn’t like the long passages and probably never would. At that stage I hated them too.
Morning came, bright and fairly calm. It was time to refit the forestay and sail. It looked huge where it lay tied along the side of the boat and hanging off the bow. We sat and planned out our actions, then stopped the boat and began. Alison hauled the sail up by the halyard while I tried to control the bottom as it dipped into the water again. Then I climbed the mast again. I spent almost an hour trying to reattach the stay while I swung back and forth in the swell. It wasn’t working, so we reconnected the bottom to the bowsprit first with a spare half inch bolt. This time when I went up the mast the sail was steadier and I could get the pin in. I went over the side to replace the jury rigged bobstay with the correct one. While I tightened everything up again we held our breath that it would all hold together. It did. We poled out the genoa, raised the main, and we were off again. Alison made a hot cooked dinner, and we had a rum each in celebration.

* * *

For the rest of the passage we kept close watch on the repair, checking with binoculars that it looked ok and regularly checking the rig tension. We did not allow the sails to flog anymore, sometimes going up to thirty degrees off course to keep the sails full. The winds continued to fill in. We came to suspect each creak and tap, but at the same time we knew that we had proven we could make serious repairs while underway. The barnacles grew to be over three inches long, and really took there toll on our speed. We averaged 3.5 knots most days, making 80-90 miles a day.
As we sailed on we started to become more positive despite our poor progress. During the day we read books in the cockpit, every quarter hour getting up to look for ships. There was never one there. Sometimes I found myself staring at the ocean for hours, thinking about anything and everything. At night we sat watch below, only coming up to check for lights. I would lay in the dim red light of the night light listening to the shortwave, at first to the BBC world service, then later to Radio Australia. One night there was a telecast of the Australian Rules football. Home was becoming more relevant again after being away for more than seven years.
On the 22nd day I plotted our location and found I had to unfold the chart. We were less than six hundred miles from land. Then I went up for a look around, and looking back I saw a sailboat, the first ship of any sort we had seen for weeks. I got on the VHF and hailed them, asking them to call in to the morning call with our friends and let them know we were OK. They got through, and it was great to hear everyone say hello to us even though we couldn’t respond. It was a little depressing to hear how far ahead some of the boats were. We were four or five days behind most of them.
While I sat watch at night I reflected on the passage. We were quite a distance behind most of the boats. At the same time we had lost a couple of days to the forestay, and the barnacles were slowing us down dramatically, so if we had done the bottom and not had the breakage True Blue would have been up with them despite our smaller size and heavy displacement. I resolved to re-rig the boat, replacing all the wire. Our sails were showing signs of wear, and when the weather was calm we went forward to re-stitch the main where it was chafed or splitting. The genoa had split a little too, but the stitching from the UV cover was stopping it going any further so we just taped it up. In the future we would keep the same boat but maintain her better, using strong materials and new sails to reduce the chance of breakage. The key was to have a simply equipped boat but have the primary equipment in excellent condition.
In the morning the winds had picked up again and the splits in the genoa had extended. We had to repair them or the whole sail would tear. There were about six foot seas running so the ides of pointing into the wind to change the sail was not attractive. I decided to do a downwind drop. We pointed directly downwind and put the genoa behind the main, letting it all the way out. Alison let go the halyard and I started pulling the sail down. I soon found that I had to be out on the bowsprit to pull the sail from its track, and I was being dipped in the water on the bigger waves. The foredeck of a small boat at sea is not always a pleasant place. Alison came forward to help and gather the sail together, then lash it to the lifelines. We pulled out the spare genoa and it was Alison’s turn to feed the sail into the foil while I pulled it up. Finally the job was complete. We pulled the big sail back to the cockpit and had a rest. On the next watch Alison started sewing up the split seams. It felt good to be pro-active, and throw off the tendency to just sit back and hope. I tried to knock some more of the barnacles off with the broom that afternoon, but they were too tough now.

* * *
Every three hours we marked our position and despite knowing it was a bit of a trap we started to count down the miles to our arrival. The trouble with this is that the progress seems excruciatingly slow and I always found that it was better to try to enjoy the present rather than dwell on the trip ending. On the 25th day we were only three of four hundred miles from the Marquesas, about ten percent of the trip to go. The weather was pretty good with an average of fifteen knots from behind. That morning I got the weather and it warned of local squally conditions, but the area they gave was about the size of Australia so we didn’t worry too much about it. As the day wore on, though, dark banks of clouds formed to the south and moved our way. They formed a solid black wall, and a rising ground swell told of big waves to come. I was on watch and reduced sail, putting two reefs in the main and winding the genoa in to half its size. The cold wall of wind and rain hit, coming from the south, and the boat tipped right over then span on her axis, totally overpowered. Alison ran up from below and helped me drop the mainsail altogether. We put up the mizzen sail and decided to heave too. The wind was incredible, blowing at storm force and the seas were building quickly. The tops of the waves were picked up and thrown through the air. We furled the genoa altogether, pulled the mizzen in tight and put the rudder into the wind, then put a couple of feet of genoa out the wrong side of the boat to stop her tacking. The boat immediately settled and we went below to wait. Alison had by this time had enough, and wanted to know what we had done to deserve all this. It was also hard knowing that most of the other boats were already in port. The seas were huge, and some broke over the deck, finding the gaps in the hatch seals and wetting the cushions and blankets, but after a while we could tell that the boat was happy enough heaving too in the conditions and we could relax.
The wind dropped to about thirty knots and it was time to start making progress again. We put some main up and rolled more genoa out, but as the upper seams of the sail became visible I could tell that it was damaged. The upper two seams had split altogether. I rolled the sail up so that they were not exposed and poled the sail out. We were amazed that even in these winds we could only go three or four knots because of the barnacles. As we entered every trough the boat just stopped. We were sailing, though, and not too far from shore. That night we shone the large flashlight on the sail every half hour or so. It held up. The wind settled and the seas fell.
In the morning we went forward to check the sail and saw it would have to come down. The area we could use of it was not enough to drive the boat at a reasonable speed in normal conditions. The wind was still around twenty knots, but I figured we could change the sail in the conditions. We grabbed the newly re-sewn main genoa and set to work.
This time as we dropped the sail a big wave slewed the boat sideways to the swell and with the sails so unbalanced the self-steering was unable to hold her straight. The genoa filled and tore right across the top, then down the side of two of the panels. It was pretty much ruined. We got it the rest of the way down and set the staysail but it couldn’t keep us going in the lighter conditions with all the extra drag we had so we knew we needed to put the big genoa back up. After a fight we got it most of the way up but the cord along the edge of the sail wouldn’t feed into the track properly. It took over an hour to finally get it right, and I was dipped into the water most waves while the sail rose inch by inch as Alison cranked the halyard. Finally it was done, and we had a complete, repaired foresail again.

* * *

We listened to the SSB receiver in the morning. Russ on Hueglig had broken his forestay in the storm, and had to cut away his genoa altogether. He also lost his spinnaker pole, and was motoring in. It sounded like he’d had enough. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if Alison was not there during the passage, and Russ was a sixty year old on his own.
The wind stayed between fifteen and twenty five knots. It was as though having the repaired genoa up again had broken the back of our troubles, and our mood lifted as we sailed on at our reduced speed. The watches passed without mishap and we started to feel some satisfaction about having come so far, as well as fear that something bad would happen at the last moment.
On the morning of day 28 we saw land. I woke Alison up and showed her. I was elated as we sailed along the coast of Hiva Oa. The mountainous island looked wild and romantic, rocky cliffs rising steeply from the sea and giving way to dark green jungle at the top. About ten miles from the harbour I decided to start the engine. I turned the key and nothing happened. The waves breaking into the cockpit had ruined the wiring at the ignition key. Our elation evaporated. First we tried to call other boats to let them know we might need a tow into the harbour. We raised a boat and immediately felt better because we had the worst case covered. I opened the engine and turned the motor by hand, then bled the fuel system for good luck. Then we got a short piece of wire and hotwired the engine. It turned over but didn’t start. Alison got the WD40 and I sprayed it into the air intake while she hotwired the starter. The engine started to fire on one cylinder, then two. Alison took over the bleeding and spraying while I cranked it over, and finally the engine ran.
We left the motor running as we sailed the last few miles to the harbour entrance. I finally put it in gear, and as I increased power the boat shuddered and engine revs fell. We limped into the crowded harbour. Ian dinghied out to meet us and show us where and how to anchor. We dropped our main anchor and then rowed out a stern anchor to hold us into the swells. I finally killed the engine. We made it.

* * *

IT was wonderful to be in the Marquesas, one of the most revered sailing destinations in the world. It was easy to see why. A rich jungle on the mountains gave way to a town perched on the foothills. Instead of fences there were hedges of hibiscus and mango trees lined the streets. There were no tourists around. We were anchored in a narrow bay that had a beach at its end, with a river flowing into it. A low swell ran directly into the bay and broke onto the sand. Kids played in the surf but never went very deep. We heard that the bay was well known for its tiger sharks. Anchored nearby were Golden Sovereign, Déjà vu, Acacia Spray, and other boats we knew from Panama or the Galapagos. We were immediately invited over to Sovereign for a drink or ten.
Russ was still out there and while we sat in the cockpit we listened to his progress reports as he motored in. He made it in before dark fell and came over to join the party. He looked beat. Russ had been cruising on his boat for almost twenty years, and if he had found it tough then Alison and I were justified in feeling the same way. We talked into the night about our passages. We started to make plans to fix the boats. Of the fifteen boats we knew who were making passages from Panama that month, four broke forestays. I had gone up our mast again for a look and saw that at least four of the nineteen strands of ours were broken again. Russ had some spare wire he could sell me and we made plans to help each other replace our forestays in the next few days. We discussed twin forestays, and how they made it hard to tension the rig but made running downwind easier.
There had been some big fish caught on the passage, and they got bigger as the night wore on. We were told that the tube barnacles just fell off when the boat was anchored. I couldn’t believe it. Perhaps we could have just heaved to for a day when the wind was very light and got rid of them, and been here days earlier. Still, in all we sailed about 3300 nautical miles, (over 6000 km) in 28 ½ days, beating our 100 miles per day planning speed, and we had suffered no injuries or illness worse than Alison’s initial seasickness and a lot of anxiety. The boat broke, but all boats break on occasion, and we fixed her. Not bad.
We also tried to remember it is the same ocean as Magellan and Cook sailed (and they were on hundred foot ships, not small boats). It is tempting to say- ‘it must be easy, lots of people do it.’ It is not. If you are planning to sail at jogging pace across the biggest ocean on earth with a crew of two on a 32 foot boat you had better be prepared for some hardship. That’s why it is an adventure, right?