We’d read about Indian Ocean high-pressure systems with no wind but seas still rough. We didn’t find that, however. The seas would smooth out and we’d sail along slowly. At night, white clumps of phosphorescence popped up in our wake. At one point we sailed for two days on smooth seas with barely enough wind to keep the sails full, doing 3–5 knots on the current alone. Our pilot charts are old – we’ve since learned that there’s an Agulhas Counter Current, which was not indicated. Another time the wind indicator showed 25 knots and we could hear the wind howling above us, but at deck level we had nothing and the sails flopped.

However, the trip was not a picnic and we hove-to for parts of seven days. Our Lifesling was washed off the stern rail and the cover lost – retrieving it was like pulling in a drogue. The radio antenna came loose from its attachment to the backstay, and I had to lash myself to the mast in order to winch Larry up to replace it. Then the masthead wind indicator and radar reflector blew away (we made a low-tech replacement for the latter out of a plastic bag filled with wadded-up aluminium foil). The wind generator, which supposedly had a regulator to prevent overcharging, overcharged and blew out. Winds would escalate from 20 knots to 40 knots in minutes, as though someone had flipped a switch, and the barometer went up and down like a yo-yo. When it was rough the seas were very agitated and, even though they weren’t especially high, they washed over the boat. New leaks developed, to join ones that we thought we’d fixed. We tried to re-caulk sail tracks and grab rails under way, but the worst leak – over the radio – turned out to be via a window (we finally learned in Fremantle). We never went south of 41°39’S on the leg.

We enjoyed our stop at Ile St Paul. As we approached, a French ship sent a boarding party over. They were looking for pirate fishermen and asked us to report any fishing boats that we saw, then asked if we needed anything. We’re always tempted to ask for a quart of ice cream at such times, but restrained ourselves. We saw very few ships on the entire passage, and none in that area. The island is a volcanic caldera with entry via an eroded portion of the wall. We could enter at high tide, but it was scary because the entry is not wide enough to turn around if one needs to retreat. Fortunately it’s not very long. The French have a building ashore with lines and supplies for mariners in distress. They have also put in a mooring, though we couldn’t check the lines or shackles on it. A drawing in the building indicates that its anchor weighs 125kg – we used it and set an anchor as well. Cruisers have made entries in a log left for that purpose and one wrote of 80 knot williwaws. We had gusty winds, but fortunately we were secure.

The island is home to rockhopper penguins and Kerguelen terns – both new to us – as well as Antarctic skuas, Kerguelen (Antarctic) fur seals (which we’d seen in South Georgia), and Amsterdam (Subantarctic) fur seals, which again were new to us.

A rockhopper penguin wishing he were somewhere else

The fur seals make an interesting variety of sounds: a cow mooing, a kitten mewing, barks, growls, shrieks, hoots, honks and snorts that were probably the inspiration for orc voices in the Lord of the Rings movies. One fur seal had a piece of fishing net around its flippers and was rolling in an effort to dislodge it. How we wished that we could help it some way! Weeks before, we’d seen a fur seal lolling at sea with its flippers in the air.

Heading northeast from Ile St Paul most of the bird life deserted us – only a few shearwaters circled behind. We don’t know if it was the weather or if we’d moved too far north for them. The last two weeks were awful. We’re not used to having seas crashing over the boat, even after crossing the Drake Passage and visiting South Georgia. These would hit the boat with a crash and run over the top. The leaks grew worse. The SSB radio died. We’d been maintaining a schedule with Alistair (ZS7MU) in South Africa on 14316 at 0630Z and 1130Z, and with Roy (VK6BO) in Fremantle on 14116 at 0300Z and 14318 at 1115Z. Roy reported us missing just before we arrived. Something to think about in the future – we’re sure that officials get tired of looking for people who show up a short while later. Perhaps they routinely wait a while.

The VHF Radio and Navtex drowned, the electronic self-steering died, and the wind steering paddle jumped its support gears a couple of times (which Larry fortunately was able to fix). We were in a big high-pressure area, in which we expected to have light winds and sunshine. Wrong! We had 25–40 knot winds, clouds, and really rough seas. Weather systems would form out of nowhere (our Weatherfax was still working), and bash through overnight. We’ve never reefed and un-reefed so many times. Even so, despite our frustration it could have been worse. A cruiser a week ahead of us was rolled to 130°. His mast stayed up but he lost his sprayhood and the radio antenna. Another cruiser lost his 47ft boat when she rolled, and was taken back to Cape Town aboard a container ship. We don’t know how far south he was.

As we rounded Rottnest Island we reported to Fremantle Harbour Control that we were entering the harbour. The harbour master notified the authorities and, following our progress on his radar, directed us to the Fremantle Sailing Club. We arrived at 2230 on 9 March. Four customs, immigration and quarantine personnel were on the dock and stomped aboard in their boots; 2¼ hours later they finally left and we were able to go to bed. Our visit to Australia had begun.