A plot twist

A lot can change in a week.

In Coffs Harbour last Wednesday morning, all that mattered to us was the weather. I got up early to check the latest BOM charts, forecasts and overnight observations. The wind was still coming from the south, but it was light, less than 5 knots. If we left soon, we could motor until it backed to the east and then the northeast....That was what we talked about over breakfast, I remember. It was a crisp clear morning last Wednesday, a lovely morning.

Today I was woken early by the clang and clatter of rubbish trucks on Darling St. It didn't occur to me to go to the BOM website. I could see the sun was shining and I knew from the radio that it would rain later on - which it has. I haven't thought about the wind, either its strength or its direction. Other things are bothering me - like how tired I am, for example. It's not just that we've been physically active, taking loads of stuff off the boat and re-organising the house and garden. I'm finding that "normal" activities like conversations around the kitchen table with more than one other person or driving to the supermarket exhaust me, chafe my tender nerves. Embarrassing, really. Yachties live quietly - not unsociably, but quietly. Re-entry into city life, I remember from last year, knocks you about. Thank goodness for the kids (Claudia, above, seemed genuinely delighted with her Vanuatu island dress). They forgive us our oddness, I think.

Panacea is tied up just along from Kukka in our marina for a few days, and Agnes and Bertil are watching our metamorphosis from yachties to city slickers with some amusement. "Look at you, you're are wearing a skirt, and nice shoes, and a jumper that won't keep out the wind," Agnes told me this morning. Yes, I opened my wardrobe and found these clothes, and masses of others, in it. But I haven't yet had a haircut. When that's done, most outward traces of the woman I have been for the past five months (the woman below, coming home from the sea) will be gone.



Pity.
I like being that woman. She'll make another appearance, but it won't be for a year or so. We've made some decisions which will keep us off the water for a while.

We have decided to put Kukka on the market.

Why?

Well, it's complicated.

These past two wonderful cruising seasons on the east coast of Australia and in Vanuatu have given us a taste for the cruising life. We want more, much more. We want to go further, and for longer.

Kukka is a very very fine boat, and we love her to bits. We'd gladly go anywhere in her. She sails like a witch (Alex's phrase) and she's so well set up now that when we dropped by the comprehensive ship chandlery in Noumea, neither of us could think of single thing we needed to buy (and believe me, we were in the mood for shopping after several months away from the temptation of retail honeypots),

However, she presents a couple of issues for us. The most important is the bed in the forepeak (V berth, is its correct name) and the way it works, or rather doesn't work, with Alex's creaky back.


Alex was last in the queue when spines were handed out, or so he says. His back (which was operated on 20 something years ago) is chronically stiff, and from time to time it gives him serious grief. In Vanuatu, for example, he twisted it lunging for the wind generator p0le when it popped a bolt (we were under sail at the time). He manages his pain in a common male way, by slurping back painkillers and anti-inflammatories, and retreating into himself. He spends a lot of time on a mattress. But on Kukka, though the mattress in the marital suite is very comfortable, the space up there is awkward and painful for him to climb into when his back is wracked with muscle spasm. It's easier for him to rest and sleep on the sea berth in the saloon (he stayed there for four weeks after the wind generator episode). While we could adapt and improve other things on Kukka to help him in bad back times (for instance, we could install an electric winch in the cockpit), we can't change the configuration of the V berth. It is where and how it is, and for most people that would be fine. It is for me, but I like to sleep with Alex!

If we're going to change boats because we'd like a different bed, we've decided we could also do with a bit more space. Not a whole lot, but an extra two to five feet in boat length would give us appreciably more volume down below without adding much to the degree of difficulty of sailing and maintenance. I could have a bigger galley. I'd like that. And if we're going to buy another boat, why not do so in Europe. and start our next adventure from the Mediterranean? You can see how this idea took root quickly once the seed was sown.

We're not quite sure how we're going to market Kukka yet. She's a rare bird in this part of the world, and we need to make sure she is seen by those who appreciate the quality of her build. Obviously, we need to tidy her up after this voyage. We'll get on with that soon, once we've surfaced and stabilised after re-entry.

Watch this space, as they say.

Homecoming

My eyeballs are scratchy, and I'm really not sure what the state of play is with the skipper. There's a minimum of conversation on Kukka today. We're home, or as good as, and that takes some getting used to.

We're tucked in behind North Head, at Store Beach. We know this pretty cove like the back of our hand. It was a favorite family lunch spot during the many years our sailing was confined to Sydney Harbour by the twin responsibilities of raising children and earning a living. The swaggering boys on their over-sized plastic powerboats and the day sailors steamed in at about 11 am and now, as the sun falls out of the western sky, they're pulling up anchor and heading back down the harbour. That used to be us. Now what are we?



We made our break from Coffs Harbour shortly after noon on Wednesday. There was next to no breeze, but a promise of northerlies to come. That was good enough for Kukka and for Panacea (pictured above with one of the many usual suspects prowling the east coast). On the basis of a southerly change forecast for Saturday evening, we agreed to bypass the stopover at Broken Bay and sail straight through to Sydney. If that meant arriving at night, so be it.


Panacea, a Najad 39, is a pretty yacht, very similar in style to Kukka, though with more freeboard. We kept pace with her most of the way, give or take a couple of miles. Here she is en route - we love to photograph our friends' yachts, knowing what pleasure it will give them to see themselves in the mirror.

We came in through the heads at 2 am under a full moon. I'd like to say it was unbelievable, romantic and so on, but the truth is that Alex and I were a bit frazzled (understatement). So today, we're lying low. The city is there, we can feel it as well as see it. Panacea, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, came alongside this morning for a chat before setting out down the harbour. For Agnes, who hasn't been to Sydney before, the prize for coming this far south was always going to be sailing past the Opera House. She couldn't wait any longer to claim it.





For us, picking up the lines on our marina berth means the end of the voyage, or rather, the end of this voyage. That can wait until tomorrow.

Whaling and gnashing

How many times have I wished the weather were otherwise! This morning I sit at the computer with my cup of tea, looking over my shoulder at a perfect morning with a bare whisper of wind and clear blue skies. Kukka creaks on her mooring lines as she moves back and forth with the turning tide. It’s time to be gone from Coffs Harbour, but this damn weather has us boxed in.

There are two weathers, you see. There is what’s outside, and then there's what’s on the BOM (Bureau of Meteorology) website which I crawled out of my warm bed at 6.30 am to check. It wasn’t beyond hope that the cold front would have sped up overnight, was it? If I didn’t look, I wouldn’t know, and if I didn’t know, then perhaps we would miss another opportunity to go…

For five days after we got in from Noumea, we stopped ‘looking at weather’ - by which I mean, the regular monitoring and endless conversation about weather charts and forecasts. We settled into the loveliness of being still. What did it matter if it was blowing a gale outside? We weren’t going anywhere, and it was snug inside the boat (Swedish boats have wonderfully decadent diesel heaters). One very rainy day we went to the movies in Sawtell. A couple of mornings we had coffee and breakfast out. I stopped making bread because there is an interesting bakery in Coffs (K-pane Artisan Bakery). I walked up Muttonbird Island (pictured below) to watch the whales in the distance. Whales, in my experience, look much, much better from a distance.

But then on Sunday, we felt the tug. The rain had blown over, the sun was shining, and we’d thawed out in all senses. We had had enough of stillness. Just a short 230 miles of coastal sailing from here to the safe-as-houses refuge of Broken Bay, and from there a mere day sail to Sydney. Let’s do it! We pulled up the weather charts and decided they looked good to go. So we told the marina office we were leaving at dawn the next day, and paid our bill. Then, for goodness sake, we went ten-pin bowling with Panacea (Alex, below, had a style which out-classed us all)). Too easy, as Australians say.

What was I thinking? When have we ever been able to move down – or up, for that matter – the Australian east coast without paying our dues to the weather gods? On Sunday night, as if some malevolent sprite were monkeying with the BOM forecasting tools, what had been a sweet-as-pie forecast turned mean-mouthed and sullen. Winds blowing from the south were predicted down the coast the following day. Add to that a southerly swell of 2 metres. Oh no, said Alex. No way we’re sailing south into southerly winds and a southerly swell. We canned our departure. And then, as if to spite us, as the day progressed, the wind blew harder and harder from the north-east. I could have cried from frustration.

With hindsight (who needs it?), we should have gone on Sunday morning, as the yacht below did.

We’d have had two days of strong north-easterlies and slipped into Broken Bay just ahead of this pesky cold front. But we weren’t thinking weather on Saturday. I was flat out like a lizard in the weak spring sunshine, deep in the stranger-than-fiction lives of The Mitford Girls. Alex was pottering, doing boat jobs, his favorite. We’d relaxed - and we’d skipped our devotions to the weather gods. We hadn’t been watching their shifting shapes, following their bulges and their ridges and their toothy menace. We deserved to miss a turn, in other words. Sailing – or rather, long-distance cruising (for what we do is different from day sailing, and has nothing in common with racing) - is a game of patience. The weather always wins but if you are patient, you can take a few points off it. Did I mention that patience isn’t my strongest suit?

So today I’m back to my familiar agitated, pre-voyage self. The next BOM weather chart comes out mid-morning, and the four-day charts appear between 2 and 3 pm. Those are the ones I trust most because a human being, as opposed to a computer only, has had a hand in producing them. The way things are looking, we won’t get out of here until Thursday. Wednesday at a pinch. We’ve got to wait for this next cold front to pass through. In usual run of things, it will be followed by north-easterly winds flicking down from the next high. You see how boring I become when I’m ‘looking at weather’? The Mitford girls wouldn’t have stood for it! But there’s no easy ride for the neglectful sailor. You have to earn your fair winds.

It's a wrap

Yes, we're home and hosed, done and dusted - and I'm struggling to hold onto the last wisps of elation, the magnificent (emotional) high that you ride into port on after an ocean passage. Here's how I remember the final two days, the ones we'll file under 'rite of passage'. First, take a look at this dial.



You'll notice two bits of information. The needle points to 120. It means we were sailing with the wind at 120 degrees on our port side. Very nice angle. Lovely angle. The digital figure reads 44.4 knots. It refers to wind strength - not "true" but "apparent" wind strength. To get true wind strength when you're sailing with the wind behind you, you add your boat speed. In this instance, we were travelling at 6 to 7 knots, so the wind was over 50 knots. Not so nice. Not so lovely. But the very fact that Alex was able to take a picture a few minutes later (the clever electronics system archives maximum wind strength for a limited period) means something too. I had gone down below to get the camera from its secure spot. It was possible to move around the boat. He had balanced in the companionway for long enough to retrieve the figure and push the shutter button. That means we were sailing in a comparatively controlled fashion, in big winds and over walls of water. It's almost impossible to take a good picture of waves - they always flatten out - but here's our best attempt to capture the size of the swell. We'd been warned it would be over 5 metres. It was.







We took five days and 20 hours to sail from Noumea to Coffs Harbour. That's quick. However what we felt so proud of on that first night in port, when we toasted our achievement with fine Tasmanian champagne, was not our speed but our boat and the trust we have developed in her. For about 36 hours (on days 4 and 5) the easterly winds flicking off the edge of that fiendish high pressure system kept up their howling assault. I could tell how hard the wind was blowing from its sound just as soon as by looking at the instruments. A sustained gust of 35 to 40 knots batters your senses. "Shut up," I shouted at the bully wind, more than once. By contrast, I didn't need to look at the dial to know when there was a "lull". Yes, only 25 knots. Blessed silence.





For her part, Kukka kept her course, on a reasonably even keel, taking the awesome swells in her stride and allowing us to sleep, to eat and to maintain our sense of humour and make considered decisions. Sure, she slipped up a few times, the technological prowess of the autopilot overwhelmed by the volume and motion of liquid mountains. The confusion, rather than the height of the seas were her main problem. Very strong winds whip up waves on top of the swell, and they also set up cross currents which catch a boat broadside and throw her - and her personnel - about. It's quite something to be sitting behind the wheel eying off a wall of water which is foaming level with the lifelines (the stainless steel wire around the edge of the deck) and feel its impact as it slams into the hull and sends the boat spinning. The worst of these side-kickers lifted me off my bottom and tossed me into the bimini - not far, because almost immediately I disabled the auto-pilot, stopped Kukka from rounding up further and hand-steered her back onto course before re-engaging the autopilot. That wave threw Alex out of bed (we had no lee cloth up, the angle of the boat being so constant that there was no danger of rolling out). Thankfully, with one exception when the cockpit was awash, these troublemakers didn't wet our feet.

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Alex has never sailed his own boat in seas like that before. He'd never had to make the kinds of decisions he made on this passage. From my perspective, he didn't put a foot wrong. He trimmed the sails so that the boat had enough momentum to keep going forward and yet not so much speed that she lost control. We carried a main and a jib, both very heavily reefed. There were a few times when she rode down the face of a big swell and the speedo spiked, but mostly it was steady as she goes.

Night time was more difficult because there was no moon, and in the total blackness all you could pick were lines of white foam. When the gale first blew in on Sunday, Alex contemplated sleeping in the cockpit during my night watch. But after we'd been going a few hours, after 35 to 40 knots had become the norm, he saw how well Kukka was keeping her course, and he put his trust in her and in me. He went below to sleep, and I decided not to wake him when my watch was due to end. He'd hardly slept in the previous 16 hours. "I'm too wired", he said when I suggested he go below during the day. I, surprisingly, have overcome a life time of sleeping incompetence, and have become a reliable cat-napper. He slept for five hours at a stretch that stormy night, and I jollied myself through my extended watch much as I imagine a long distance runner does, giving myself a goal, then pushing it out. I was bundled up in wet weather gear, boots, beanie and harness, and tethered and alarmed and god knows what else. We're very particular about our safety on Kukka. There really wasn't much to do except keep concentrating. Kukka was doing all the work, but if she slipped up, I had to be ready to take the helm and/or let out the main.



What Alex feared most was breaking gear (the picture above is Alex contemplating the size of a wave with definite damage potential). He told me later that he really began enjoying himself when he realised that while breakage was possible it was not as likely as he'd feared, given how well Kukka was coping. As for me, I was mesmerised by the sea. You cannot imagine how beautiful such huge swells are, especially when they begin to split open at the crest and for a second or two the light shines through and exposes a blue as breathtaking as that of lagoon water. But while lagoon water laps soft, and warm, this open water crackles like ice, cool and hard blue, like Bombay Sapphire gin. Above the swell, tireless seabirds swooped and circled on the wind eddies. I don't know anything much about birds, but they were quiet company, our only company out there. We saw no other boats until we reached the shipping lane off the Australian coast, and it wasn't until we were coming into Coffs that we met dolphins again.

The most dangerous place on the boat was down below if you were on your feet. We don't have a return bench in the galley, and on port tack, it was very hard to keep your footing. There's not enough to hang onto. I have bruises in many soft places. Alex however took the biggest beating. He was standing braced against the galley bench when one of those evil cross-waves struck, and threw him hard against the nav station,dislodging some fine joinery in the process. Ouch!

We took enormous amounts of water over the boat. Alex has just today discovered deepish water in the stern lazarette (storage area). Water had entered through the lazarette cowl ventilator which he had left open and angled, as it transpired, to our weather side. But inside we stayed dry. Only a few drops through the centre hatch above the saloon when a monster wave dumped on top of us - and Alex blames himself for not changing a seal he knew wasn't quite right. Otherwise, nothing. No buckets, no damp bedding, no soggy books. Got to love those Swedish boat builders. "It's like a nursery down here," Alex told me, as he peeled off his layers in preparation for sleep. Toasty warm it was, and best of all, quiet. "Has the wind stopped?" he asked. I checked the dial, just to be accurate. 30 knots. Not really stopped, per se.

By Monday afternoon, as Bob McDavitt had predicted, we began to notice that the "lulls" were lasting longer, and we were picking up some great current which pushed us south. Here we are very early on Tuesday morning (below) and, yes, there it is, ahead and to starboard, the coast of NSW.





Fast forward. As I mentioned in the previous post, the entrance to Coffs Harbour was running a big swell for our arrival. Volunteer Marine Rescue advised us that waves were breaking across the entire entrance and that we should look for a pattern in the sets before we attempted to enter. Alex was a surfer before he became a sailor. He surfed up and down the east coast for about 15 years. He knows about patterns and sets. As he lined up Kukka between the breakwater and Muttonbird Island, I admit I was anxious. The surge around Muttonbird was fierce. The waves were crashing ugly against the breakwater too. The entrance suddenly loomed, very narrow and very immediate. I looked behind, calling the breaking waves like a sports commentator. He chose his moment, and we were through. Then there was a big wave breaking behind us and we were off, riding its white water - Alex saw 14 knots on the clock.





Agnes and Bertil from Panacea were on the marina courtesy wharf (pictured above), waving madly, as we came into the inner harbour. It was so good to have friends who'd been tracking our voyage there to take our lines. Agnes brought us bread and ham, knowing that we'd have our fresh food impounded under quarantine regulations. Last night, they joined us for dinner on board Kukka, and we opened the bottle of Veuve Cliquot we'd kept chilled since Noumea. We celebrated friendship, and Swedish boats (their Najad 39 is pictured below in an anchorage we shared on Pentecost, Vanuatu), and life on the water, for better and for worse.



We're out of the worst of the weather, but Coffs isn't a big harbour, and even today there's spray billowing over the breakwater. We're waiting for weather - again. Monday and Tuesday look good at this stage for continuing south to our second home, Broken Bay (or Pittwater, as we call it, though technically we don't go into Pittwater proper but into the Hawkesbury River). Our plan is to stop there for a few days, to let ourselves down gently before we go through the heads of Sydney harbour and in doing so, return to our other life, our city life. There are big changes afoot for Kukka once we get home, but more of that another time.

Coming up for breath

Kukka arrived in Coffs Harbour at about 8 am yesterday. Plenty of time, you say, in which to post something on the blog. True. My apologies to the four and a half people (do I exaggerate?) who have been waiting with baited breath for news. I've been aware of your need, but strangely, we've been doing other things

Once we'd cleared in with Coffs Harbour's all-in-one-man quarantine/customs/immigration band, we lodged Kukka in her "pen" (as they call a marina berth here) then set to cleaning her, the dirty washing and ourselves, in that order. We phoned the family. Then it was time to eat. We forgot about sleep. Eating and drinking are high on our list of life's pleasures. Cafe Fiasco (yes, that's its name), a more than decent decent Italian restaurant located, rather unfortunately, on the rim of a traffic roundabout, was recommended to us last time we were in Coffs (thanks Destiny). We ate and drank lavishly. We felt immensely good about ourselves and about our achievement. I'm not sure how we got home. I think we walked.

Today has vanished. Tomorrow is the day I tell you about The Rest of the Passage. For now, please make do with these shots of Kukka coming into Coffs Harbour. They were taken by the crew of Lavinda, a Hallberg Rassy 38 (so much like our 0ld much-loved boat Andiamo) which left Coffs for NZ four hours after our arrival. Kate and her skipper were scoping the sets of waves coming through the harbour entrance. We were surfing them.

Feeling it like Moitessier

There's got to be an upside to riding towards a high of 1045 (that's a Bloody Big High) in persistent rain. I've forgotten for now whether we're in a trough or a front. Alex has explained to me so many times, but the weather....ah, the weather.
Shall I tell you about it?
Overnight the wind built steadily and is now blowing 25 to 35 knots. That's hard. Today it's expected to build even further, gusting over 40 knots, and we'll enjoy these testing conditions pretty much until we arrive in Coffs Harbour. ETA 48 hours from now if we can keep course, and keep up our speed.
We're averaging 5.5 to 6 knots, which is very respectable in seas of 3 m (oh yes, they are going to built too - our weather guru Bob McDavitt sent us an update last night, and a figure of 5 point something metres popped out of the right hand column. I shut my eyes). The seas are the problem. They push Kukka around a bit. But the thing is, she's a gem. She's sailing right through this crappy weather with barely a wimper. The autopilot hasn't had a hissy fit (as it occasionally does), and down below, she's as snug as a beaver's hut (I'm thinking, for whatever reason, of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe - remember Beaver?).
The master trimmer, Alex, is having the time of his life. He's got a heavily reefed main and jib out, but he's just let out a bit of mainsheet. Gotta keep that speed up. Up in the cockpit now, he's completely drenched, but he's not looking in, he's looking out - at the direction of the seas, the balance of the boat, the clouds. Don't make me come down now to have a sleep, he pleads (well, not quite like that, but that's the sense of it). He's been "on" watch since 3 am. I slept from then until 6.30 am, and now, at 8 am, well, he's feeling like Moitessier, he tells me. He's really into the boat.
I'll have to make him sleep soon because, as I tell him sternly, my survival depends on you. I do my watches - I sit in the cockpit in my wet weather gear, observing the wind, boat speed, course etc, checking the horizon, writing the log, but I know my limitations. If the shit hits the fan, I wake Alex. He acts intuitively. He calibrates in seconds what I take minutes to figure out. While I'm on watch, I listen to the iPod or read a book (I've got The Mitford Girls, by Mary Lovell, on the go now - their world could not be further removed from mine, which is perhaps why I can tolerate all their nonsense). Alex rarely reads on watch, or listens to music. He's concentrating on the boat.
So we travel along. The hours are not long. I've had better days at sea, much better in fact, but we're getting there, we're moving south, coming home. I was cold this morning when I woke up. I've changed the cotton blanket on the sea berth for a doona. I was wearing shorts when we left Noumea, but I've put them saway and pulled out the Icebreaker and trackpants. Weird how this can still be fun.

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Morning grace

We've woken (or rather, I've woken, being the person allowed to sleep from 3 am to 6 am) to overcast skies. The breeze stayed away last night, and though it's building now, it is still light-ish and the seas comparatively flat (the computer is almost level). Hallelujah! We turned off the engine at dawn and are sailing with a genoa and one reef in the mainsail. With an easterly of a pleasant 15 knots, we're making over 7 knots - "oh, seven and a half, Mary", Alex calls down to me (if you don't know why he calls me Mary, don't ask!). That's about what we've been doing overnight with motor and sails, but so so nice not to have the chug of that very useful engine.
To celebrate with us, a pod of dolphins has been playing around the boat, a baby one with extra energy to flip its tail, the big grand-daddy dolphins like submarine shadows until they do that thing they do, gracefully arching and diving in pairs or threesomes. Awesome to watch.
Last night's treat for the moon-deprived sailor was phosphorous in the surge, great chunks of it, or so it seemed, splashing out of the bow waves which Kukka throws up with each forward motion. It was like watching magical shiny spangles on a net dress, or Christmas lights in the dark.
I've got one more loaf of bread in me before the pitch of the boat becomes untenable, I hope. Better get going on it.

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All's well aboard

How many times have I heard the above phrase on the Namba.net over the cruising season? It's shorthand for, "don't worry about us". There are things you might not want to know, but the important thing is, we're ok.
Alex and I are preparing for our third night at sea. So far, so good. Our first afternoon out of Noumea was boisterous (another euphemism for very very windy with big seas), but the Big High moved off NZ during that night and by morning we were off the hook. The seas were still lumpy, but yesterday was great sailing. Early this morning the wind died, and since then we've been motor sailing. If that sounds like a cop out, believe us, we're loving it. We've had the sails up, and as the sea has flattened out, we've been making great speeds. In the first 48 hours we covered 300 nautical miles, and on Friday evening we're ahead of schedule.
However, we're heading south as fast as we can because there's another Monster High moving towards the NSW coast. While we know we can't avoid it, we'd like to spend as few days battling with big winds and big seas as possible. The probability is that the wind will wind up in a few hours and be honking by midnight. It's predicted to keep honking.
I've been cooking up my own storm in the galley today. I don't plan on cooking much between now and our first meal in the safety of a harbour on the Australian coast. Tonight we ate royally - chicken breast cooked with veges in the oven, baked potatoes and green beans. You could see the different items in the bowl. Luxury. From tomorrow, it will be vege stew. Only I know what's in it!
We've both had good sleeps today. I've read John Banville's The Infinities in the past 36 hours. We've had showers on the back deck, and made a pot of coffee to wash down the plum tart I bought from La Vieille France bakery in Noumea. When weather permits, you can have really get into holiday mode in the middle of the deep blue ocean! So, clean, well-rested and well-fed, we are as ready as we can be for what's forecast to hit us. Alex has checked the rigging, we've got the grab bag in order, and all the other things you do when you know you've got some tough conditions ahead. We hope to make a landing at Coffs Harbour by Tuesday morning.

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Au revoir

Kukka is leaving the marina.

At least, I assume she is. Alex is doing the rounds of customs, immigration and harbour master - again- and I have been to the market and the bakery. I've set up the starboard sea berth, the bed we'll share, but not together, for the duration of the voyage. I'm hard-boiling eggs, remembering a piece of advice Alisa from Pelagic gave me. I don't have time to cook anything else. Last night, as far as I was aware, we were not going today. But this morning we are. It's been a fraught week. The weather hasn't been playing ball, but then again, why should it?

We have a passage forecast from the NZ weather man Bob McDavitt. We have a ton of weather information saved, and we've got access en route to computer-generated weather files (gribs) and email. There's nothing dangerous out there, we believe, so while others have waited for, and been granted better weather "windows" for setting out to Australia, we think we'll be fine. Alex is calm, and clear in his mind. What else can you ask?

I now know how to post a blog while we're at sea, using Sailmail, the HF radio email service. I'll try to do that, if weather permits.

So unless you hear more from me today, we're on our way to Coffs Harbour, or perhaps Sydney or Bundaberg, if....Well, you know the story by now.

I'm nervous this time, more nervous than last time - my first time - because I know a little of what I'm letting myself in for. But I'm keen to get sailing, and Kukka is a good boat.

Weather twitter

There’s been only one topic of conversation on Kukka for days. Weather. I don’t intend to bore you with the details - that’s a privilege we keep for ourselves. But the consequence of our new obsession is that Kukka is still on the marina in Port Moselle.

Some of you will roll your eyes, and diagnose a case of analysis paralysis. You may be right, but forgive us. We’re learning, forecasting marine weather is a ridiculously complex science (black magic, some say) and the seas we want to cross - the Coral Sea and the Tasman - are unforgiving to those who don't pay enough attention to the fine print.

Over the past week there’s been a strong streak of stubbornness in the weather systems too. A big fat high pressure system has been sitting stolidly in the middle of the Tasman, refusing to do the decent thing and move on. New Caledonia is on its outside edge. I couldn’t have told you this until quite recently, but now I know that if you’re on or near the rim of an intense high, expect gale force winds. However, if you’re in or near the centre of the system, all is sweetness and sunshine.This is the same high bringing glorious spring weather to you lovely people down there in New Zealand. But for us, who are trying to sail south, this monster high is a pain in the butt. Big winds whip up the seas, and even the lagoon’s usually flat waters are churning and running a swell. as we could see yesterday . We were up in the hills behind Noumea, making the long march back from the botanical and zoological gardens, an expedition designed to relieve weather-workshop tension and to exercise under-used body parts (the birds were nice too).




It was Sunday, a day you’d normally expect the lagoon to be thick with sails. But except for a few boats bravely hanging onto moorings in the lee of Ilot Maitre there was not a yacht in sight. Extraordinary (the picture below is the backside of Noumea, showing an important reason why this tropical island still belongs to France).

We’ve had a couple of opportunities in the nine days since we arrived in Noumea to leave for Australia. We were serious about going last week – on Thursday morning we organised our clearance to depart with customs, immigration and the harbour master. We felt good about our decision. We’d done our homework, we thought. We were all set to go on Friday morning. But on Thursday night, with Agnes and Bertil on Panacea already 10 hours into their voyage to Coffs Harbour via Lord Howe Island, we opened the computer for a final look at BOM’s (the Australian Bureau of Meteorology) 4-day weather forecast. It stopped us in our tracks. How could we have been so stupid? We’d been so intent on tracking the progress of the high, and making sure that we caught it at the right point to ride it down to Coffs that we’d completely overlooked the vital fact that the pressure at its centre was building to a very scary number. By Sunday it was forecast to be 1040. That’s not a friendly high, not at all.

We called the whole thing off, and spent the weekend immersed in….the weather. Our next planned departure was this morning. We’d even gone so far as to get Bob McDavitt, the NZ weather guru involved. He sent us through a detailed passage forecast last night. It sounded do-able. But you know, when we looked outside this morning, it didn’t look or sound right at all. The sky was threatening, the wind roaring through the rigging. The local marine forecast predicted winds gusting 30 to 35 knots where we were going, south of 20S. So, again, we pulled the plug. By today we were well in breach of the law which require you to exit the country 24 hours after getting clearance to go (though in practice there’s a three day period of grace). I was stressing about this – bad memories of past encounters with immigration authorities in Paris. So Alex went by himself to explain away our continued presence on French soil, and came back with a smile on his face. They couldn’t have been nicer, he said. The harbour master even phoned the captain of a ship on its way to Noumea from Brisbane to ask him what conditions were like out there. The response – he’d had gusts of 35 to 40 knots overnight.

We’re feeling for Panacea. Agnes and Bertil have a good boat, and they’re experienced sailors, but no-one enjoys being beaten up by the sea. They abandoned their plan to go to Lord Howe after the first day, and by last night had abandoned going to Coffs too. They’re heading for Bundaberg, further north, trying to avoid the nasty weather between Brisbane and Sydney. Agnes says they’re not feeling sick anymore, and in any case, she needed to go on a diet. These Swedes are tough.

We’re waiting for better conditions. That might not be possible. We have a deadline, albeit a loose one – it would be good to be home by the beginning of November. The weather always has the upper hand, but if we’re patient enough, we’ve been told, we’ll eventually find the “window” we’re looking for.

Meanwhile, I’m relying on another Swede, Steig Larsson, to help me through. Patience is not my strongest suit. I get crotchety. I chafe in my cage. I need distracting. I’ve been keeping the third book of his Millennium series for just this occasion. Something to take my mind off the weather, when it’s good for me to do so.