Our Moitissier Special

We left North Minerva Reef almost 24 hours ago and embarked on stage three of our journey from New Zealand to Fiji. Minerva offered us an excellent anchorage for three nights in the middle of the ocean, while we waited for more favorable winds to develop, caught up on some sleep, and Devon made more delicious bread. We shared the anchorage with 3-4 other boats on their way to either Tonga or Fiji, also here for the same reasons. It’s a bit like a well-known oasis in the desert, where travelers following long established trade routes stop for rest and recuperation.

Just prior to our departure from Minerva Reef, Anson climbed the mast twice to check the rigging; he addressed a chafe issue where the jib halyard exits the top of the mast and declared everything else shipshape. We unround the anchor chain from the small coral heads around which it had snaked. Anson, in the water with a mask, directed us which way to go. Devon was in the dinghy near Anson to provide a quick exit option should the 4 meter tiger shark spotted the day before decide to make an appearance. It didn’t. Then we took off.

The first day of this stage has gone well, though we did have to motor five hours yesterday evening (after a several-hour long spinnaker run). Then the southwest wind filled in and the rest of the night, until Kim’s watch, was pretty fast squall sailing with full jib and double reefed main.
I call this blog Our Moitissier (sp?) Special because aspects of our journey from Opua resonate with the approach to sailing of the legendary French sailor Bernard Moitissier. One of his most well known accomplishments was to be the first to circumnavigate the world, non-stop, single handed, in the highly publicized race sponsored (I think) by the British newspaper The Globe in 1968. Famously, rather than sail back to England to receive the accolades and public recognition (and probably prize money as well) that were his due, Moitissier just kept on sailing. Having completed one circumnavigation, he chose to eschew the limelight, follow his own compass course, and continue west to round Cape Horn a second time, eventually reaching French Polynesia, where he spent quite a bit of time over the following years. His point, as described in his book “Tomata and the Alliance,” was that for him, sailing, being at sea, was in and of itself a rewarding experience, which could sometimes be of equivalent (or greater?) value to actually reaching a destination. Certainly sailing alone, nonstop around the world and then choosing to keep on going, is an extraordinary illustration of that perspective.

Our journey to Fiji from Opua has been extraordinarily long. Our dear friends Diego and Marina did it in 6.5 days at the beginning of the month. We’re on day 16, with probably two more days before arriving. The vagaries of weather combined with our inability to motor into headwinds and seas account for the length of this passage. As with sailors of yore, we pretty much have to wait for sailable wind. We’ve been most fortunate to do this at Raoul Island and Minerva Reef, where we spent three nights at each place. Our vulnerability to the weather has lengthened this journey way beyond our initial expectations. Had we remained attached to a reasonably fast passage we would have gone loony with frustration. Instead we’ve adopted a more process-oriented approach and this has brought with it a bountiful share of Moitissier-like benefits associated with the highs and joys of sailing, of being at sea for days on end. The star-studded night watches that we all have been awed by (including Devon, who began standing watch on this trip), the hours-long spinnaker runs that we’ve been privileged to enjoy, the extraordinary immensity of the ocean, with its varying moods and unforgettable deep blue color, the ways in which the four of us must work together to keep the ship and us running and in good order – these are all unique and marvelous experiences that we will have for the rest of our lives. Accepting and appreciating these gifts of passage making are some of the ways in which, perhaps, our attitude towards this journey resonates somewhat with Moitissier’s philosophy.

But lest I be accused of being a ridiculous romantic, let me also repeat the adage that a fast passage is a safe passage because the longer one is at sea the greater the likelihood of gear breakage or injury. And we have not gone unscathed. We’ve ripped our light spinnaker, possibly beyond repair, our auto pilot stopped working last night, and Devon’s finger got knocked by a winch handle during a hurried spinnaker douse yesterday. Fortunately, in the scheme of things, these are non-essential issues – we have a second, heavier chute, our wind pilot (not the auto pilot) is our primary steering method and Devon’s finger is fine this morning. However, a closed isobar tropical depression packing strong wind and rain is forecast for Fiji Sunday, May 26 (Fiji time) and we definitely want to avoid being at sea when that arrives. So we need to cover approximately 300 nautical miles before Sunday noon, which should be no problem under current and predicted wind conditions. In fact, we will probably get there sometime Saturday – so all is good. The happy anticipation of landfall will certainly far outweigh any desire to keep on going, but that’s ok because this journey has taught us more about the joys of being at sea.

A bit more about Moitissier:
He had an interesting childhood, growing up in French colonial Viet Nam, where his father was an importer and merchant. It’s compellingly described in Tomata and the Alliance. He also wrote other books, including one about the circumnavigation, which I’m looking forward to reading someday.

Several events have been organized to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his epic circumnavigation (this year). I believe The Globe is organizing one of them. Interestingly, in France organizers have put together a commemorative solo circumnavigation rally capped at 50 boats of less than 50 feet in length. It’s already fully booked. In the spirit of Moitissier’s approach, the rally has no winners, awards or prize money; the idea is to solo sail around the world for the sake of it. Sadly, one of the key organizers of the event was lost at sea last year (I think) while crossing the Atlantic, but the event is nevertheless proceeding.

Mark
21 degrees 49 minutes south; 179 degrees 37 minutes east

Day one out of Raoul anchorage had us sailing on a close reach in 9-10 knots of wind, then motoring in the night when the wind died. The next morning we set the spinnaker at first light and milked the light airs for every bit of speed. The wind steadily backed, so we ran downwind on port tack, then jibed and ran on starboard tack, switched to the asymmetrical spinnaker for a reach, doused it for a squall, raised it back, doused it at dark, and flew the small drifter reacher until the wind finally died. It was a busy day. Anson crashed early after all the foredeck work, and I took an extra watch, as handling lines and steering is easy work in light air sailing. With the wind finally gone at 0300, Mr. Perkins carried us forward again.
During our morning weather check by email and SSB radio, we once again heard contrary news. Light winds, then head winds, and no sweet spot to Fiji. Another trough is passing through our route, disrupting the flow of the trade winds and bringing a bit of nasty weather to boot. Instead of continuing to hunt and peck for wind, motoring slowly in the night, and dodging squalls, we opted to change course for Minerva Reef.

By heading north we were sailing close to the wind again, enabling us to make the most of the light air. We had another night with a few hours of motoring, but this time the wind came up at 0300, and I had the joy of a magical light wind sail for dawn. Being in the present is easy when the boat slips along at 4-5 knots in a breeze of equal strength. Today we raced the sunset, and when the wind lightened and backed we motorsailed for a few hours to ensure we could enter the pass into North Minerva Reef with good visibility. The wind veered for the final hour, letting the sails power us forward, so we turned off Mr. Perkins and slipped through the water hearing only the sound of the waves crashing on the reef’s coral shores. The pass was clear of breakers, the current a mere 1 knot, and our entrance surprisingly easy, despite my anxiety-laden visions of our boat lifted by a freak wave onto the coral shores.

So here we sit, anchored in the middle of the ocean, waiting for a trough to pass, the trades to fill in, and eager to explore this extraordinary reef in the midst of a vast sea. Kim
23 degrees 37.1 minutes S, 178 degrees 54.7 minutes West

Day one out of Raoul anchorage had us sailing on a close reach in 9-10 knots of wind, then motoring in the night when the wind died. The next morning we set the spinnaker at first light and milked the light airs for every bit of speed. The wind steadily backed, so we ran downwind on port tack, then jibed and ran on starboard tack, switched to the asymmetrical spinnaker for a reach, doused it for a squall, raised it back, doused it at dark, and flew the small drifter reacher until the wind finally died. It was a busy day. Anson crashed early after all the foredeck work, and I took an extra watch, as handling lines and steering is easy work in light air sailing. With the wind finally gone at 0300, Mr. Perkins carried us forward again.
During our morning weather check by email and SSB radio, we once again heard contrary news. Light winds, then head winds, and no sweet spot to Fiji. Another trough is passing through our route, disrupting the flow of the trade winds and bringing a bit of nasty weather to boot. Instead of continuing to hunt and peck for wind, motoring slowly in the night, and dodging squalls, we opted to change course for Minerva Reef.

By heading north we were sailing close to the wind again, enabling us to make the most of the light air. We had another night with a few hours of motoring, but this time the wind came up at 0300, and I had the joy of a magical light wind sail for dawn. Being in the present is easy when the boat slips along at 4-5 knots in a breeze of equal strength. Today we raced the sunset, and when the wind lightened and backed we motorsailed for a few hours to ensure we could enter the pass into North Minerva Reef with good visibility. The wind veered for the final hour, letting the sails power us forward, so we turned off Mr. Perkins and slipped through the water hearing only the sound of the waves crashing on the reef’s coral shores. The pass was clear of breakers, the current a mere 1 knot, and our entrance surprisingly easy, despite my anxiety-laden visions of our boat lifted by a freak wave onto the coral shores.

So here we sit, anchored in the middle of the ocean, waiting for a trough to pass, the trades to fill in, and eager to explore this extraordinary reef in the midst of a vast sea. Kim
23 degrees 37.1 minutes S, 178 degrees 54.7 minutes West

Our beautiful plan for making easting, then making tracks to Fiji on a northwesterly course, disintegrated as the forecasts began to show Northerly winds where NE had been predicted. We were crestfallen. Our options were to bash into wind and seas, tacking our way north (no fun at all!), keep going east in hopes that we’d be able to pick up favorable winds forecast on that route (but with the forecast twice failing us, that seemed a bit much to wager on), or sail to Raoul Island in the Kermadecs and wait for favorable weather. The Kermadecs won, so off we sailed on a NW course to Raoul Island, finally having fresh, favorable winds for a short window. Anson hand steered for the fun of it, making 7 to 8 knots, as we close reached our way to these remote islands controlled by New Zealand. We arrived at dawn, set the anchor, and enjoyed a deep rest in the lee of a volcanic island. New Zealand is graciously allowing us to stay here until the adverse northerly winds abate, but, due to an outbreak of Myrtle rust and fears of more introduced pests and diseases, the island is in lockdown mode. No going ashore for us, but a reprieve from what would be a hard and frustrating passage.

So, what do we do on a boat at anchor with no watches to stand and nowhere to go? We keep on working on Anthea of course! Anson set out with almost religious fervor to tweak Anthea’s rig and complete projects that he had been thinking about for many months. We have more beautiful spectra splices and loops popping up by the day, and the forward end of the spinnaker pole is now laced in protective leather, preventing the abrasion of metal on metal for those unpleasant moments when the pole is on the forestay before being winched into position. We serviced winches and sheaves, re-positioned blocks and lines on the windpilot to address chafe, rebuilt the port and starboard navigation lights, cleaned up some electrical wiring, and checked Mr. Perkins’ vitals. Devon baked fresh bread yesterday and has two loaves in the making now. For the two nights we’ve spent here, we’ve enjoyed a movie after dinner each evening.

When topsides, we peer over the edge of the boat into clear blue waters and look for the Galapagos sharks which seem to be quite curious about our presence. Six or seven of them are often swimming by, their four-foot-long brown bodies swishing elegantly from tail to head as they seek something from our hull: Handouts? Communion with other species? Hopes for fish sheltering in our shadow? We haven’t seen any other fish species here, despite the islands being a marine reserve. This is a stark contrast from Poor Knights with its teeming life visible from the boat at anchor; perhaps the sharks have eaten everything in sight, and the remaining fish cower among the rocks near shore. The cold temperatures, the school of sharks, and absence of other beauties have kept us from donning wetsuits and exploring under water.

Unfortunately, there’s no beautiful weather window coming up, but nothing dangerous popping up either. When the southerly winds blow, which should be Friday morn, we’ll need to leave. At that point we’ll hunt and peck for wind, motor when we must and until our fuel runs short, and slowly make our way to Fiji. So we’re safe, ridiculously productive, and yearning for Fiji. Kim
29 degrees 16.75 minutes south and 177 degrees 53.8 minutes west
PS Another night passed before posting this blog. Board games after dinner this time. Now it is noon NZ time on 5/17, and we’re setting off in a southerly breeze. We’ll be hunting and pecking for wind most likely, but so far there’s nothing scary on the horizon. May that continue! 740 miles to go.

On Friday we pointed high all day and into the night, when blissfully the winds backed to the north. Anson re-lead the sheets and we bore off ten degrees, pointing directly towards our windward waypoint. Unfortunately, this good news came with the jolting reality of pointing directly into the short period wind waves. For two hours in the middle of our Friday night we pounded forward, dead on course, with the occasional wave lifting us on top of its steep edge and then slamming us down, pouring water over the decks and jolting those sleeping into fitful wakefulness. We finally cleared the cobwebs from our middle of the night thinking and bore off five degrees to the south, letting Anthea slip alongside these road bumps of waves, now only occasionally lurching forward, rather than bashing and pounding. We’ve kept up this strategy, pointing without pounding, and now the decks get occasional dousings, and we enjoy a sweet, gentle sail in winds in the 7-,10 knot range.

The light winds, combined with the short period seas, lead to a slow passage, averaging 5 knots. If we focus only on the goal of Fiji we’d be desolate right now, as our unusual upwind route is doubling the journey and slicing the speed. But the conditions have been blissful. Clear skies and gentle weather are easy on the body and the boat, letting us savor our surroundings, rather than steel ourselves against the elements.

We are surrounded by the sea and the skies, watching them change: from the golden and salmon light of sunrise, slowly revealing the pale blue of the morning sky; on, through the deep blue of the afternoon skies, offset by white clouds on the horizon, matched in intensity by the brightness of the deep blue ocean waters; slipping into the red skies of sunset with brilliant gold painting the undersides of cumulus clouds low on the horizon; and then to the clear night skies with billions of stars above and phosphorescent waters shimmering green and white below.

Nights are magical aboard. Last night after dinner, for a few precious minutes we turned off the navigation and instrument lights and folded the bimini back to reveal the dark night sky, devoid of any light pollution. Orion sat low in the Western sky while the Southern Cross shown brilliantly across the southern quadrant. The milky way was like a stream. Devon contemplated the odds of other lifeforms far, far away, reflecting that each star offered the possibility of a solar system with life unknown. Two evenings ago, Anson watched brilliant phosphorescent trails on his watch. The wind rose to 15 knots apparent, and as Anthea’s speed stirred the ocean, he saw visions of nebulae in the fluorescent green webs and sparkles within the wake-filled water. Last night Mark watched the waning moon rise: first the tips appeared like two distant lights, then they merged into slanted cat’s eyes, and as the crescent revealed its full form, wave silhouettes danced across the orange cup, balanced on the horizon. On my watch the moon changed from a delicate gold to silver as it climbed through the sky, its trail on the water transforming as well. At dawn a veil of thin stratus swept across it, and somehow the moon took on the light blue of the morning sky. Each of these moments are gifts, rare and treasured.

We still have 100 miles to go before we tack and head for Fiji. If the weather was poor and conditions were rough, we’d all be wishing we were snug in a harbor in Opua, waiting out storms and looking for a weather window. But the sweet, gentle sailing, along with the gifts of the sea and sky, have made this windward passage a journey without regret. Kim
31 degrees 04 minutes south, 176 degrees 14.5 minutes at 8:50 a.m. on 5/13 NZ time
PS wind beginning to veer and strengthen – now we’re scooting along at 6.5 knots at a course of 70-75 degrees