Leaving Australia

I'm in Margaret River, Australia today, where I've been for the last five days. This two week stay in Australia has been so different from the other stopovers, for several reasons.

First of all, having the time to spend one day doing anything not boat related was impossible in France, Brazil, or Africa. Here it had been anticipated for the last year.

Secondly, Fremantle feels as much like a home to me as there is in the world at this point. The story (and photos) will have to wait until later. I'm on a dial up connection here (was surprised to find they still existed) and it's taken far too much of my time here to simply add titles, photos and videos to the Africa-to-Australia entries. But I have, and so it might be worth going back to see the images associated with anything you might have already read over the last month or so.

We leave here tomorrow, Sunday, at 5:00 a.m. At 9:00 a.m, after a long drive, I'll be back on the boat to work hard for the next two days. Tuesday morning, New Year's day, our next race begins in Fremantle's Swan River as the keynote event of an annual river festival.

For now, however, I'm going to savor what bit of warm sunshine and even warmer fellowship I've got here on land while I can.

Signing off until I'm back out at sea.

The last few days before Australia

"We've just rounded Rottnest Island...Fremantle is on the horizon, just a couple miles away. These last four days have been the roughest of the 22 days it took us to get from Durban to Australia."

With the noise of the wind and the limitations of my digital camera's ability to record a movie, it might be difficult to understand that the above is what I'm saying a few moments into this six minute video (sporting a 22 day old beard that was shaved two days later).

The rest of the tale being told should be aurally and visually obvious.

Everyone knows I can't dance

Here's proof, recorded in the Southern Ocean midway between Durban and Fremantle:

Thanksgiving Safari

Unlike the voyage between Brazil and South Africa, where I often enough had the time and comfortable enough conditions below deck to write about the Brazil stopover, this last voyage between South Africa and Australia was not as conducive to working on a computer.

Not only was the boat heeling at 30 degrees most of the time, the hull was often pounding through wave after wave and dropping with a heavy thud into the troughs behind them. Sitting at an angle on the narrow bench in the Nav Station, trying to type on a keyboard that wanted to slide left, then right, then left again didn’t inspire as much devotion to story telling as I might have otherwise felt.

This story of my Thanksgiving Safari, then, will be picture heavy and word short. The story of my Christmas and New Years here in Australia will have to wait until I get to Singapore in a few week’s time.

The heavy toll the sea took on our boats during the sail to South Africa dictated that our seven days in Durban would be busy ones. Due to this and other personal demands, Carrie and I realized on Thanksgiving morning that our only chance to see anything beyond the marina would be over the next 24 hours. Rather than find the best restaurant we could for a Thanksgiving dinner that night, as we’d long planned, we decided to see what kind of a safari we could privately arrange in those 24 hours.

The closest game reservation to Durban was a 45 minute drive away. When we called to make a reservation for one night, we were told that the only available accommodation was either camping or the honeymoon suite.

A few hours later a cab driver dropped us off at the honeymoon suite; a thatch-roofed cottage buried in the bush a few miles from the Welcome Center and only restaurant.

It was beautiful and certainly seemed like something we'd expect to find in Africa. It did have running water, though lighting was only candles or gas laterns. Carrie was happy enough with this.

A few odd sounds as the sky darkened did cause a bit of anxiousness but…

…we were happy enough in our ignorance.

I built a fire in the pit but it wasn’t long before we noticed the abundance of two-inch long millipedes and their penchant for climbing anything they could, which meant they’d eventually fall, often onto you. Carrie draped herself in a blanket to ward them off.

Millipedes climbed the interior of of the cottage walls as well, so Carrie never shed the blanket, even during our Thanksgiving feast (pickup truck delivered and slightly cold, as earlier arranged with the restaurant).

Carrie spent the night in a chair underneath her blanket, too wary of the millipedes that would periodically drop on the two beds (a honeymoon suite with two beds did make one wonder about the nature of South African marriage). In the morning, we found grazing animals all around us.



Our cab driver returned at 8:00 a.m. as arranged and, after we treated him to breakfast at the Welcome Center's restaurant, he gave us a private tour of the range and all the animals to be found.

By lunchtime we were on our way back to the marina, where Carrie and I spent the remains of that afternoon and the next day, Saturday, engaged in final pre-race preparations. She worked on her field of expertise, the bow...

...and I worked on mine: below deck engineering. Inevitably this means dealing with malfunctioning heads.

The next morning, the race to Australia was on.

Antipode

[photo posted in Fremantle December 28th]

Position 36 24.88S 104 51.04E. I've brought an inflatable globe on the boat with me that, from the beginning, I've marked with our position each day at noon. I've also added an 'X' on the spot just to the south west of Australia which is the antipode, i.e., the opposite side of the world from the area in Northern Virginia that has generally been my physical and spiritual home for the last 40 years or so.

Sometime between yesterday and today we passed with 150 miles of that point. I am truly, therefore, on the opposite side of the globe from what had been my home. I grew up there. I raised a daughter there. Now, however, I'm homeless.

I currently live on this boat but I won't return to Virginia once this voyage is done. Next up for me are plans with my Spanish friend German to recreate Homer's 'Odyssey' on a boat we'll prepare together. This will take six months (perhaps three in preparation in northern Spain and three actually doing it in Greece).

After that, sometime in the winter of '09, my intent is to build a simple dwelling somewhere with my own two hands. Just exactly where has been THE question for quite some time. New Zealand has long been my dreamland out of habit. Northern Spain (German's area) is a new possibility, but it truly could be anywhere the spirit and people seem right.

Where the next antipode to my home will be remains to be seen.

Airing Out the Laundry

[photos posted in Fremantle December 28th]

Position 39 07.72 S 092 46.97 E. Typical. One reason I withheld bringing out the dry suit was that it was buried deep in the cubby holes beside our bunks we use to store our gear. Coming off watch in those rough seas, it took all my energy just to undress and crawl into my bag. Once I went through the effort of digging it out and wearing it-you guessed it-it's sunny and shirt sleeve weather now. The deck is awash not with water but clothes drying out.

Drysuit

[photo posted in Fremantle December 28th: here I've learned that I can pull the neck seal of the drysuit up over my mouth and inflate it like a balloon, much to the amusement of the entire crew]

Today, for the first time, I actually put on my dry suit; a one-piece completely sealed goretex unit that isn't much different than the one I use to scuba dive in the winter. It has integrated water-proof socks, tight rubber seals around the wrists and neck (it takes a while to ignore the strangling sensation it gives you) and no other place that water could enter. Its one zipper crosses my chest from upper left to center below the waist. Most zip upper left to lower right, so my suit makes me the envy of all the other men wearing dry suits, as they take a fair effort to get on and off and only mine allows me to urinate without taking it off.

Now that I've finally broke out the dry suit, it will probably turn sunny and warm.

Happy as a lark down here (now above the 40th parallel so technically back in the Indian Ocean). I'm so happy, in fact, that I'm wondering if someone who's spiritually in tune with me has their finger on the 'Happy' button.

Haven't shaved in two weeks so now my usual sign-off emoticon of

=B^)

is now

=B^)=

Nadir

[video posted in Fremantle December 28th]

Position 40 35.17 S 84 27.69E Two days ago our southward arc to find the best winds reached it's nadir at 41 degrees and 21 minutes South. We are now arcing back up to Fremantle's latitude.

In just that much time one can tell the difference. Last night was the first night I wore fewer layers (six top, three bottom) than the night before (seven top, three bottom). Two nights ago I even considered a fourth layer on my legs but instead just stood up and did knee bends to keep them warm. Today, though it's still entirely wet (waves crashing over the full length of the boat at random intervals), I can feel the return of warmer climes.

Our Southern Ocean experience (so far at least) was probably tame by most standards. High winds? Yes. Rough seas? Not really. Huge trains of massive swells that could hide oil tankers? On the Brazil-Africa leg at 36 degrees south just before we reached Africa, yes, but here? Nope. Last year one boat reached 28 kts. surfing down such a wave while under a spinnaker but the biggest number we ever saw on the instruments was 13 kts. while on a beam reach (apparent wind at an angle of 90 degrees) in 25 kts. of wind. Fun...but not what some of us had hoped for.

I shouldn't be too hasty, though. Even though all weather forecasts predict we'll finish this leg in fair comfort, we could of course be surprised (and delighted).

In the Southern Ocean

[photo posted in Fremantle December 28th]

Position 40 00.001 S 55 20.543 E.
We're HERE...in the southern ocean!!! I just got off watch 45 minutes ago at 8:00 p.m. but refrained from going to bed, knowing that we'd drop below the 40th parallel within the hour. Above me on deck, people are lifting a few cheers and back slapping before getting back to the business of sailing this boat in high winds.

That unusually warm weather I wrote about a few days ago? Gone. Long gone. It's cold enough that when I go back on watch at midnight, I'll have three layers on my legs and five layers on my body and two layers on my head...but no gloves. You just require too complete a state of dexterity in your hands to limit them with gloves. You keep your hands in your pockets and pull them out bare when you need them.

I'm off to bed. It will be cold up there tonight in the 20+ knot winds we're experiencing so I'm going to savor my sleeping bag while I can.

Personal GPS

[photo posted in Fremantle December 28th]

Position 38 14.45S 49 30.37E

I have my own personal GPS with me. This morning as I got off watch at 10am and went to bed, I turned it on and learned that Durban was 1000.64 miles behind us, with Fremantle 3254 miles in front.

Each time we sail, putting that first 1000 miles away is a key moment for us. It makes these immense distances we're covering at such a slow pace seem so much more conceivable.

Right now, those next 3000+ miles seem even more immense than usual. After blistering along at 10-12 kts for the first few days in high winds and rough seas, right now we are limping along a less than one knot in calm seas with flapping sails in little wind. Even though we are as far south as we've ever been, today some of us wore shorts and Anna, the hardiest of us all, even had bare shoulders. "This is the Southern Ocean?" we mocked.

No, not yet. It begins theoretically at 40 degrees south.

The Color of the Ocean

[photos posted in Fremantle December 28th]



Position 32 50.713S, 036 13.911E. I sat up in the bow this morning, facing the stern with my back leaning up against the pulpit, letting wave after wave that had first been split by the bow pour and spray over me (dry and comfortable inside my oilies). Firing away with my camera, I marveled at the beauty and power of the sea. Even a picture won't describe how incredibly blue an offshore ocean truly is but when you see (and feel) the V of the bow beneath you slam down and slice a temporary view into it, it's breathtaking.

People who've ventured out here with us on this particular leg most likely share my unique appreciation of not only surviving but actually thriving in a potentially hostile environment. Some 200 of us have ventured beyond what is comfortable to get a rarely glimpsed view of one aspect of this amazing earth. Slamming through increasingly colder waves at a 30 degree heel for the next three weeks, we're on our way to the Southern Ocean, an ocean that doesn't actually exist in any reference other than the minds of ocean racing sailors.

Maybe it won't translate in the telling of the tales to our friends and family but in our minds, we know?and that is enough. We've seen that true color of ocean blue that most of you never will, and would never believe from merely our words. You had to have been there.

Happily, we were and still are.

Preliminary Durban Report

The above photo was taken at our arrival at Durban at around 4:30 a.m. on the 18th. None of us had more the two hours sleep in the previous 24 hours but, of course, you couldn't tell from the photo. Below is a picture of Carrie's boat's arrival about ten hours earlier. She's quick to point out that she hasn't showered in 11 days or slept in two in that photo (click on it to see it in hi resolution) but, hey, that's life on a boat.



I'm grabbing just a few minutes at an internet cafe to grab these pictures off the web and post them with a few thoughts but the full story of Durban and Carrie's and mine Thanksgiving in the bush with animals all around and millipedes dropping off the ceiling all night will have to wait until I compile the photos and compose the text at sea, then post once I'm in Australia.

Australia, I should note, is a key destination for me. Not only am I very familiar with it, having spent seven intense weeks there last winter in support of Sir Robin's race, but I also have a dear friend there, Gay (read back to the Croatian and Austrian trips last July) who lives literally two blocks from where our boats will dock. Since it's a full two week stay, incorporating both Christmas and New Years, we as a boat have decided to rent a house. Quite amazingly, with the assistance of Gay, we've found a house that will actually house all of the 15 or so people we'd want it to, again only a few blocks from the marina.

Australia, then, will be the closest thing to a home port any of us will have on this 10 month, 35,000 mile voyage.

Okay, back to the boat to get it ready for tomorrow's departure. Somebody's broken the toilet and, as the below decks engineer, it's my job to fix it. I'll be up to my elbows in you-know-what for the rest of today.

Ah...sailing.

Brazil Report

[written at sea, uploaded in Durban, South Africa]

I know I’ll keep returning to this theme over the course of these 10 month at sea: it’s not about the sailing or even the voyage itself. As with everything else, it’s about the people.

I first met Claudia in June of 2004 at the Women’s World Hang Gliding Championship in Austria, where I was the ground support for a Norwegian pilot and she was the official translator. Fluent in seven languages, she’s currently working on her eighth.

Claudia had planned to join my 30 day trekking and climbing expedition to Nepal that fall but a knee injury forced her to withdraw from the trip, much to our mutual disappointment.

Claudia currently lives in her native Columbia. I can’t recall when it was that I first suggested she join our Brazil stopover. Perhaps it was a year ago, perhaps less. After all, I said, Columbia and Brazil are neighboring countries.

I later realized the geographical equivalent would be for me to ask a friend living in Montreal to visit me in San Diego since, after all, Canada and the U.S. are neighboring countries. In European terms, it was if I’d asked a Moscow friend to visit me during a brief stopover in Casablanca.

In retrospect I can’t believe the audacity of my suggestion but glad I am that I did suggest it for, not much to my surprise but certainly to my delight, she picked up the idea and ran with it.

Too numerous are the details of all the effort she put forth between the day I made my suggestion and the moment I first glimpsed her in the darkness late in the night on October 18th as our boat approached Salvador’s dock. The feasibility of her visit was still up in the air when I sailed out of Liverpool and the last chance we had to talk on the phone (on a connection so bad she had to repeat everything three times…and I still didn’t get all she was saying), she assured me that one way or another, she’d be there.

Our boat was still one hundred yards out when, in the hazy glow of dim dock lights, I recognized her (mostly from the silhouette of her thick mane of black hair) amidst the crowd of Clipper Ventures employees and other friends from other boats who had already finished the voyage. Leaning over the rail of our boat as far as I dared, I thrust my right arm out and silently pointed at her, my gesture firmly locked in happiness. The form I suspected was her lifted her arm and pointed back at me. We held that greeting a few moments until I pumped my fist in delight as I dropped my arm.

How that moment felt after a year of planning and then at the end of a 4300 mile/25 day ocean voyage I can only leave to your imagination.
Our skipper had already radioed ahead to the race organization and learned that the customs officials were content to stop by in the morning to deal with the paperwork, so I knew I needed only to wait for the lines to be secured before I could leap off the boat. Finally, after I saw the skipper step off the boat to greet race officials, I made my way down and hopped the short distance to the dock. Claudia stood amidst a group of people who included perhaps five fellow racers whom I normally would greet with a hug in such a moment. Only in later reflection did I realize I had plowed through and past them like a bowling ball going through tenpins as I reached for and eventually wrapped my arms around Claudia.

Everyone on my boat knew who she was. Months before I had mentioned to the race organization that I would have a friend who was professional translator fluent in Portuguese in Brazil and perhaps did they need her assistance? The initial response was luke warm but as organizational difficulties emerged in the 11th hour, requests for information on how to contact her made way out to our boat as we neared Brazil. She’d been doing light work for them until I arrived.

When we met that summer of 2004, our friendship began in earnest when, one evening as I was about to buy her a glass of red wine, she decided to turn the tables on me and bought me a glass. It was a small act, but one that came to symbolize our friendship.

Claudia had been there since the 10th, even though it was unlikely I would arrive before the 16th. She had assured me that, with or without me, she’d be having a great time in Salvador. Besides, she mentioned, she’d be scoping out places for us to enjoy together once I was there. On the dock that night, still full of the moment just experienced, I told her that we could do anything she wanted in whatever free time I had but there was just one thing that was my first priority.

"Does it involve the color red?" she asked with a smile.

Don't you just love it when someone significant to you gets it…gets you, truly understanding just what it is that means the most to you and how you think. While our crew gathered at the dockside bar to drink the first beer, we bought a bottle of red wine to toast our friendship and to commemorate the beginning of our friendship that evening long ago.

As she had to fly back early on the 21st, our arrival late on the 18th gave us only two full days together, days that would be completely filled with urgent post-race work and pre-race preparation. We had discussed this over the months before she came and she said she’d be happy simply to be there and to pitch in. Few of us on our boat had realized just how envied our boat would come to be by having our own private translator.

The following night, both of us having spent the entire day working together on the boat and doing a reconnaissance run to the local grocery store (where she translated countless labels as we prepared our full shopping list), our first moment of free time was spent walking the streets of the old city in the darkness. It looked so beautiful that I’d planned to come back sometime in the day to re-photograph the same scenes in daylight but that chance just never arose. It was a very hectic week of boat maintenance and preparation.

Perhaps the highlight of the entire stay in Salvador (other than my sighting of Claudia on the dock as we arrived) occurred late on that night’s stroll. After having spent more than an hour walking around the old town, we returned to a bar on a corner with perhaps ten plastic tables set up on the ancient cobblestone streets. It was around 1:00 a.m. We ordered two glasses of red wine, asking for a local vintage. It came in two juice glasses. Lifting it to my mouth, I was struck by how distinctly it smelled like grape juice. Tasting it, it seemed to be grape juice mixed with vinegar. It was so bad it was funny, so we drank it any way.

As the time past and the tables around us emptied, the proprietor would remove them from the street. Eventually, by perhaps 2:00 a.m., the only table remaining was ours. Thinking a hint was being made, Claudia asked if they would like to close down. On the contrary, they assured us, they were happy to remain as long as we wished.

Until 3:00 a.m., then, did Claudia and I enjoy our private street party, talking and enjoying yet a few more glasses of the amusingly horrible wine as the time passed.

Our boat had come in seventh. By the time Claudia left two days later to return to work, all ten boats had arrived.



In the days left before the race began anew, we all continued our exhausting schedule of boat repair and preparation. We did not finish the final act—stowing 35 days of food in various corners of the boat—until 10:00 at night on the 23rd.

A short night’s sleep, breakfast, a final glance over the boat, and we slipped our lines at 9:00 a.m. to prepare for the noon start. Carrie’s boat was moored next to mine and our departure was so hurried that she and I only had the time to lean across our respective guard rails to share a brief and angled shoulder to shoulder hug and a light peck of a kiss.

We crossed the starting line in second behind Nova Scotia but soon passed them. We spent the next several hours leading the fleet out into the open ocean.

In truth, I was happy to go. It seemed it would be more restful on the sea again. Moreover, Salvador ached with bittersweet memories of the huge difference Claudia’s visit had made to me.

In the not too recent past, someone who I would have thought had the chance to know me well said in passing, "…and I know that you always want to be the hero and…"

I never caught the next thought. I was too shocked by those words. Is that actually what I project? Or, worse, is that the truth? I would have summed myself up as merely always wanting to make a difference, something I’d consider entirely different. One seems self-oriented, the other hopefully is not.

Claudia was grateful and even a bit surprised by my deep appreciation of the world of a difference her presence in Salvador was making to me. I tried to explain to her that at a minimum I felt she was an inspiration for me to aspire to in the kind of friend I wanted to be to others. I also hoped that she was a mirror, showing me what I was to others as well. The difference she was making to me by the abundance of her exuberant energy, deep sense of support, dedicated perseverance, and unconditional enthusiasm was exactly what I would want to be to others…the kind of friend I’d thought I’d been aspiring to be all my life.

Recently a new friend who’s had only the barest opportunity to know me at all nevertheless saw fit to commend me for the sense of unconditional love I projected. I was shocked again, but this time happily so. Is that actually what I project? Or, better yet, is that the truth? I certainly hope it’s what I offer but how could she have discerned that so quickly?

Do I seek to be a hero? I pray not.

Do I, like Claudia, offer the gift of friendship in the deepest and fullest sense of the word, taking such personal delight in seizing the opportunities to make whatever difference I can?

I truly hope so.

Africa!

Position 34 42.38 S, 24 02.95 E

Fifteen minutes ago, sipping coffee not long after I arrived on deck after breakfast, I got to the first to shout, "Land ho!" after 21 days at sea. The watch long on deck had apparently been too sleepy to notice the clouds on the horizon weren't clouds. It's still 525 miles and 3-4 days to Durban, depending on the winds.

I'll get to a cybercafe when I can (not before two days at least) and I'll post many pictures.

What I miss the most

Position 29d 52m S, 14d 40m W.

It only occurred to me earlier today that we've long ago left the tropics. It makes sense, though, since the decision of what to wear for the night watches has gone from whether or not to wear a jacket to whether to wear 3 or 4 layers...and perhaps even a wool hat.

I've found myself pondering just what it is that I miss the most due to this life at sea for a year. Other than good coffee, it's the freedom to engage in endurance excerise, such as biking for five or six hours at a stretch.

Back in Virginia some of my happiest times were all day bike rides with Bill and Dana or perhaps even the Glam Squad (Maria, Nancy, and Dori; gorgeous all). These five friends and others were part of a gathering of triathete friends with whom I'd swim 3000 yds at the crack of dawn three times a week and do either 15-20 mile runs or 70-90 mile bikes on the weekends, sometimes both. The feeling those friends and those times would give my soul, both from the fitness derived and the fellowship found either on the road or at Starbucks afterwards, was the true wealth of my time in Virginia.

I have many new friends from the time spent preparing for and doing this voyage, yes, and some who no doubt will be eternal, but that group of triathlete friends was 15 or so years in the making. Eric, Barb, Dr. Chris, Gail, young Matt, Cindy, Brad, Laura...I miss them all.

The spiteful wit of the weather

Position 25d 33m S, 24d 36m W.

[photo posted in Durban November 20th]


We have a sail called the wind seeker. It's designed for very light winds and is so frail that it can't be flown in anything stronger than 6 kts. We use it to 'threaten' the wind, i.e., if the wind has dropped and isn't filling the normal headsails and if you go to the trouble to drop them and raise the wind seeker, the here-to-fore weak winds, just to spite you, will more often then not suddenly rise to well above 6 kts.

I was thinking about this because, certainly due to my mentioning the beautiful weather yesterday, it has just poured and poured buckets for the last 24 hours just to spite me.

We don't really mind that much. If nothing else, it washes off the salt that's accumlated on the deck fittings and also rinses all the salt and grime off the exterior of our foul weather gear.

The interior of our 'oilies' is another matter. That won't be addressed until we reach Durban.

At the Helm

Position 24d 03m S, 25d 35m W.

[photo posted in Durban November 20th]


The entire fleet has hit the high pressure system everyone was trying to avoid so our 200+ mile days have dropped to 60. Even so, the weather is beautiful with cool and breezy days sun-drenched enough to be shirtless yet comfortable, and nights full of dazzling stars and fair temperatures below decks.

A few days ago, in my priveledged position of Director of Uploaded Media* I sent in a photo accompanying someone else's diary entry that highlighted the diarist but also featured me at the helm during the race start, leading the entire fleet out into the Atlantic (for the first few hours at least). I can't begin to imagine where on the Clipper Ventures web it can be found--their logic confuses me--so you'll have to dig for it yourself.

*In addition to Director of Uploaded Media, I'm also Directer of Universal MacGyver-type Maintence and Emergency Repairs, i.e., DUM and DUMMER

Leaving Brazil

Position 19d 51m S, 33d 52m W.

It's 2:30 a.m. on Saturday and we left Brazil at noon on Wednesday. Aside from the first two days there, where the intense post-race clean up and normal repair efforts were accompanied by the utterly delightful presence of my Columbian friend Claudia (a fellow hang glider pilot fluent in seven languages who'd flew from Columbia to Brazil just to share those two days with me...bless her...and also help all our crew and even the entire race organization with language issues), the rest of the stopover was an exhausting and never ending effort to prepare for the next leg. I was, therefore, content to leave.

It seemed that we only felt prepared (and just barely) late, late on the last night, mere hours before slipping our lines at 9:00 a.m. Wednesday morning. Once back on the water, it seemed almost peaceful to fall back into familiar routines. I'll have pictures of the stopover to post here once we're in Durban.

We're headed south of the direct course to Durban to avoid the high pressure systems (and therefore low winds) that typically form on what would be the shorter course. In the end, it's worth it to add a few hundred or even a thousand miles to go faster over all. It's cooler, which makes sleeping easier, so I feel rested and content. My face and arms are as tanned as possible but that might fade in the next weeks.

Ah! Finally in Brazil

We arrived in Salvador on Thursday, four days ago, and we leave again for Durban, South Africa on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. I´d been sending updates from our boat on our extremely limited (and temperamental) boat´s e-mail system but now see that only one of the three I wrote made it to the blog, so I´ve just now manually put them in.

I think I´ve figured out the e-mail problem and can keep friends and family better informed on this next leg. Time is short today but hopefully I can get something more substantial here before we sail Wednesday morning. Suffice it to say, I am doing very well, having a great time, and am utterly pleased with our boat, crew, and skipper.

More later, I hope.

(The photo above is from an e-mail a fellow Uniquely Singapore crew member just sent to me from Singapore. It was taken last August during our our final training weeks. I was up in the mainsail...reefed, which gave me pocket to sit in... removing an old and outdated sponsor´s sticker.)

Below the equator

Position 01d 39m S, 34d 14m W. Note that the latitude is south, not north. This morning we crossed the equator. Though I've trekked back and forth across it numerous time in Ecuador, to cross it by sea for the first time is a significant thing to sailors. We escaped the doldrums two days ago and are now on a fast (10-11kts) though relatively smooth upwind tack straight to the finish in Brazil. We should arrive there on the 18th after 25 days at sea.

Heading for the doldrums

Position 09d 07m N, 26d 57m W, just north of the doldrums, headed for what we think is the narrowest part, hoping to avoid our experience near the Canary Islands (drifting in no wind for 3 days and covering what felt like only 20 miles). The wildlife has been spectacular; whales breaching only 50 yards away, daily dolphin shows, flying fish so plentiful that many strike our boat in the dark. A few have actually hit people. I knew this voyage would be hard, and it has been...quite…but I’m quite relieved to find how quickly I’ve been able to adapt.

3700 to go

Position 37d 48m N, 13d 10m W. By tonight we will have sailed 1000 miles, with 3700 remaining to Brazil. Last night was as different from the previous night as possible. Instead of ripping spinnakers, snapping mainsail sheets, booms crashing across the deck, and no sleep for anyone, it was a stable spinnaker run on good seas under utterly brilliant moonlight. I spent my fair share of the 3-7am watch at the helm. On a 68ft boat with an 80ft mast hoisting a spinnaker bigger than any house I've ever lived in, it was a challenging and even intimidating task, but it was also exhilarating. The boat plows through the water and occasionally surfs down the huge waves that are rolling the same direction we are sailing. Standing at the helm on a starlit night, leading this 46 ton mass of fiberglass and Dacron through wind and waves, it's amusing to remember being so intimidated by my 14ft catamaran years ago which, in respect to this boat, seems like a paper airplane compared to a 747. How good it is that we are able to grow.

Ripped Spinnaker

Position: 40d 21m N, 010d 28m W. Last night at sunset we passed the northwest corner of Spain and now are on a generally straight run (depending on the cooperation of the wind) to Brazil. The middle of the night found us with a ripped spinnaker and a few other breakages that, at the time, seemed intense and quite the handful in the dark but by the morning we'd repaired everything on deck and are sewing up the spinaker. It's truly a good crew i'm with.

Landfall in La Rochelle, France

Everyone should be so lucky as to have hugs like this waiting for you at the end of a journey, particulary one on the sea.

Yesterday we arrived at La Rochelle, France, the site of our first stop in this race. Sian, above, is a new friend who's boat we actually beat in our first race but who ended up docking just before ours. She was, therefore, amidst the crowd on the dock to greet me.

When one of the official photographers took a picture of our embrace and we both were so delighted with it, he graciously asked for our e-mail addresses and sent us both a copy.

I should note that at the moment of that embrace, neither Sian or I had the chance to shower for the previous four days but, at times like those, it doesn't really matter. Then again, had the weather been more conducive to fewer layers, perhaps it would have. When we land in Brazil, we will be wearing shorts and a t-shirt...or perhaps less. Perhaps there I won't receive as many hugs from friends on other boats as I did yesterday.

Tonight is the first chance I've had to find an internet cafe to post. Where to begin?

How about here: the official website for the race is http://www.clipperroundtheworld.com/.

Within it, you'll find this page dedicated to my boat, Uniquely Singapore.

At this point, all the video, photos, and blog entries on it are of my doing, though I'm hoping to get others involved in photos and blog entries. Officially I'm the videophotographer and our boat's sponsor, a new marina in Singapore, has paid the extra bucks to allow our boat to send back video by satellite from the sea. Any video you'll see this entire race is something I created. It's exhausting work editing video with a limited laptop in a cramped navigation station on a heeling boat while exhausted from the work of sailing amidst a continually interrupted sleep pattern, but I'm glad I've been selected to do it.

Our race down from Liverpool ranged from tacking duels in a river channel in the pouring rain (just out of Liverpool) to limping along at 1 kt in a near windless sea with La Rochelle still 120 miles away. As the forecast left no hope for wind and we all had schedules to meet, it was annouced in the middle of Wednesday that the race would end at midnight that night. One boat (happily it was Carrie's boat Qingdao) was one mile behind us at that point, limping along just like we were. Holding them off for seven hours didn't seem like much of a problem but in the end, they beat us by 176 yards after 500 miles of sailing. They got sixth place. We got seven.

That amounts to an extra half a point for them in a race that has 145 points up for grabs, but it will certainly be bittersweet if that half point comes back to haunt us.

Then again, it's all fun in a sense. Both Qingdao and Uniquely Singapore were full of happy words, hugs, and respect for each other when we docked side by side in La Rochelle last night, having motored the last 120 miles in.

It's midnight here and I've skipped dinner to write this. Hopefully I'll be able to post something from the sea during the four week voyage we have to Brazil beginning in 36 hours.

I'm off to bed.

Dolphins, Snowden, and Liverpool

Our fleet of 10 boats departed their (and now my former) home in Gosport on September 3rd and sailed up to Liverpool to position ourselves for the race start on Sunday, the 16th, eight days from now.

We arrived at Albert Dock in Liverpool this morning. I'm at an internet cafe with an annoyingly sticky keyboard but this be how I'll be updating this blog from here on out. My laptop is storage. I'll figure some way to include pictures in the future but for now it's just words.

The sail up had two notable moments for me. On the second night I had the 2:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. watch. When I shook my slumber off as I climbed the companion way steps, I was happy to note that the sea was bioluminescent that night, with each tumbling crest of any wave carrying a vaguely shimmering glow. The last time I'd witnessed this was in October '06 while sailing north from Spain back to England. That night I'd had the most incredible experience at sea in my short sailing career, something I've written about before: Midnight Dance of the Bioluminescent Dolphins.

An hour into the watch, while taking my turn at the helm, I glanced at the trickle of glowing light falling off our bow wake moving away from us on both sides and thought of that October night. As I did, a lone dolphin's body, shimmering in bioluminescence perhaps one meter below the surface, caught up with the focus of my gaze and then surfaced with a gasp and dropped back down into the water, trailing a torpedo-like wake of light.

"Dolphins!" I shouted and everyone spun on their seats to look. In only a few moments, ten more dolphins appeared and gave us all a replay of that show from last October. For everyone on board except myself, it was a new experience.

What was new for me, however, was that when I went below at 5:00 a.m. to sleep, I heard them through the hull next to my bunk. I feel asleep to the squeaks, clicks, and whistles of dolphins as one might do to the sounds of a forest or field at night on land.

The next morning we sailed up the coast of Wales, passing through an area of the Irish Sea that I had seen from the top of Mount Snowden in Wales on Christmas Day of 2005. Cyndi and I had chosen to leave London and spend the holiday weekend in a bed and breakfast in Wales. Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales at 1085 meters, was only a half day's walk and climb from our cottage so we built an appetite for our Christmas dinner by climbing it. It was exactly two weeks later that I stumbled upon the Clipper Ventures booth in the London Boat Show and was inspired to begin the decision process that has lead me, twenty months later, to begin this amazing adventure by sailing through the very body water I had gazed upon from that mountain top more than a year before.

Sailing by a few days ago, I'd set my handheld GPS to indicate the direction and distance of Mount Snowden's summit. It was covered in clouds as we passed the point nearest to it, but I still felt some sense of coming full circle in an unexpected way. Not to be deterred, with a sense of spiritual purposeI gazed into the appropriate section of clouds that my GPS indicated. Not much later the sun set and it grew dark.

The Andromeda Galaxy is high in the sky this time of year, making it as visible to the naked eye as possible. Clinging to the happiness and significance my Snowden moment, I pointed it out to all on my watch, explaining to them that they were looking at light two million years old. Such a concept never fails to awe me. My crew shared the sentiment.

Now we are in Liverpool, truly wedded to our boat and at home with all it entails. There's much work still to be done, of course. I have today off, but the next seven days will be busy.

I'll try to write again before we sail. If not, I should be able to post thoughts directly from the boat at sea. We have limited internet access by satellite.

Final Boat Preparation

All ten boats are rafted up in the marina a few hundred yards from my house, full of bustling people such as myself fine tuning the rigging above decks and anything anyone can think of below decks.



Among the many tasks being undertaken, all lines (ropes) are being replaced, which is an immense job.


On Carrie's boat, Qingdao, she's been busy at work doing her part. In fact, she's doing more than her part.


I don't know how many times I've looked over and noticed that it was Carrie who was doing something productive while a group of men stood around her being useless. Here she's refurbishing a winch while several men of her crew try to figure out if she's doing it right. She's done many, they've done none, and yet they insist on "helping."




I stepped over onto her boat to add to the confusion and she grabbed my camera from me.


In the end, though, it was her hands getting greasy while the rest of us just watched.


In this week I've spent three separate days attending day-long classes in the three specialties I've been assigned; boat engineer (engines, generators, water makers, toilets, etc.), video photographer (schooled in how to compress and download videos while at sea to meet sponsors demands), and here, in the photo below taken in a classroom, radar.

This was a fascinating class, where we used two PC's to simulated both a radar screen and boat functions to operate in realistic conditions in the English Channel and used our radar's software to predict probable collisions to calculate the best evasive maneuver.


Back on my boat, the other RTW's (Round The Worlders) worked on other aspects of the boat and rigging. There's enough to do to keep us busy a month but we'll wrap it up to depart Gosport on Monday, two days away. We'll do a bit more in Liverpool for a week before the actual race start but here it's easiest where we have all the tools and supplies we need.


This blog entry marks a transition of sorts. Tomorrow morning I'll put into storage whatever I'm not taking on the boat and whatever I've not thrown or given away. This includes my laptop. From now on, then, my blog entries won't contain any photos. What ever I post will be just by text from the boat limited at-sea internet capabilities or from some internet cafe in various cities.

There'll be official websites with pictures and even video (of which I will be behind the camera most of the time) but it will be generic in nature, not personal from me.

This is it, then, in a sense. Being such a visual kind of person, I can't imagine communicating without images, but I've got no choice for the time being.

Good night.

Leonid Birthday

The Leonids are historically the most spectacular meteor shower, peaking with a truly spectacular storm every 33 years or so. Probably the most well known Leonid event occurred in 1833, with an estimated one hundred thousand meteors per hour.

This image is a 19th century representation of what it looked that night in 1833.

The 33 year cycle varies. In the year 1999, people were expecting the best, but it never came, nor the next year, nor any after that. Perhaps we'll have to wait until 2032 or 2033 to witness a significant storm again.

This meteor shower has been on my mind because the shower of positive thoughts and energy coming my way lately has almost been overwhelming.

Over the year I've spent here in Gosport, I've been blessed with a growing sense of appreciation from the entire Clipper Venture organization, who seem to view my enthusiasm to get as involved as I could with a bit of both amusement and appreciation. My being here has worked well for them (lots of free and happy labor) and very, very well for me.

Further more, in these last few weeks, good feelings have come from far and wide, from people I know well and from people I've yet to met. I've felt immersed in good feelings all around.

-A few weeks ago I wrote a summary of all the events that seem to reveal the encouraging sense of unity developing during my first full week of sailing with my crew mates in this race. I posted it on our group site and was met by numerous responses of gratitude that I'd expressed openly in words what many had been feeling in their hearts.

-I threw two videos together from some low grade footage I'd made from those adventures at sea, posted it on the internet, sent out the address to my crew and a few other friends, and since then have been inundated with praise from what seems like every sailor I know (and don't know) here.

-I passed on a bit of praise a friend made about a mutual acquaintance and was later immensely gratified to learn I had unknowingly met an important need by doing so.

-I counseled a future ship mate I'd yet to meet about a few concerns and was rewarded with personal praise of such strength that I'm too shy to record it here.

On and on it seemed to be going, like a 33 year cycle Leonid shower of good will and good faith.

I'd thought it couldn't get any better but my birthday on August 27th proved me wrong. It began a few days early with a touching card from a new friend I've met here in England, telling me how much my own life inspires her to have the courage to seek the life she wants. Monday morning, the 27th, I was finally permitted to open a birthday package of delectable edibles I'd received from Australia two days earlier. I also found a pile of small gifts and a card from Carrie waiting for me on my computer.

After breakfast I went down to the boat to work and was rewarded with a cards and simple gifts from three separate people on my own boat. From various boats around me in the marina, both skippers and crew I knew would shout "happy birthday" across the docks. Carrie, it would appear, had told everyone.

E-mail birthday wishes came from Australia, England, the States, Russia, and even Columbia in South America.

Coincidentally enough, a new fountain of praise poured in on the 27th from people who had no idea it was my birthday. The previous day I'd written an additional summary of the reasons I felt a good sense of a team building within the group of my boat's crew that I'd just finished a second week of sailing with, and posted it on our group's site. Overnight words of gratitude poured into my computer for once again expressing what others had felt but hadn't known how to say, leaving me with an additional list of spiritual gifts to add to the day's already burgeoning tally.

To end it all, after Carrie and I had spent the entire day working on our respective boats in the mad rush to finish preparation for the race, she whisked into the house and, still wet from her shower, energetically whipped up a birthday dinner for me.

Certainly I feel loved, not just by one but by a shower of people. James Taylor's Shower The People You Love With Love has always been my theme song.

Things must be coming full circle.