DAYS ON A SACRED PASSAGE

Hugh Clay

(The account of Aratapu's passage home from Hobart, Tasmania, to Plymouth, England, via Cape Horn, Panama, Nova Scotia and Labrador won Hugh the Royal Cruising Club Challenge Cup, their premier award. Reading his account of the first part of the voyage it's not hard to see why.)

This sketchy log is wildly unrepresentative of nine months sailing. The Editor has set a strict limit on length, so I'll trust you to add your own lyrical prose and fill in the gaps. When we join the story I'm sitting in an office in UK. Aratapu (which means `sacred passage' in Maori) has been laid up for two years in Tasmania while I've been earning some money.

August 7 1992: Runcorn UK

My request for a year's unpaid leave has been turned down, so I've just handed in my resignation. The PC is being used to produce a plan titled Aratapu's Homeward Voyage: an outline plan only, and probably very overambitious while the world map on the wall is being used to measure (inaccurately) the distances from Tasmania to UK. From time to time, I pen a quick note to gullible friends asking them to join me (in Panama on 23 May 93, for example). But as you'd expect of someone who first went ocean cruising with Willy Ker OCC in Assent, the planned route takes in the colder climes and the crinklier cruising grounds, with six weeks in the Chilean channels and a month in Labrador, not to mention a planned cruise in company round Cape Horn with Assent over Christmas.

1 November 1992: Launceston, Tasmania

The plan had us leaving Hobart today. So much for Christmas in Tierra del Fuego. I had expected a busy month fitting out, but after a month the boat is still a shambles. Thank goodness I've got splendid helpers in Ross Ingamells and Mandy Beecroft (who both sailed round New Zealand with me in 1989-90), and Mandy's family. The new diesel tank is to blame: I measured to the millimetre the space behind the engine for a new 55 gallon tank, but I didn't measure the hatch. Once we'd cut out the cockpit floor to get the tank in, I found I could get at two other jobs I'd always meant to do. We moved the rudder from the back of the keel to a small vertical skeg and replaced the cockpit floor in stainless with drains forward, as the old aft drains used to fill up the cockpit at speed. With skilled welders on hand we also added a piece to the front of the keel to give it more bite to windward. The wonders of a steel boat! We haven't started on the rest of the jobs -- stepping a new mast, and putting in the new galley, cooker, diesel heater, furling gear and sails. There's so much new gear we need to go to sea to stop me spending more money.

27 November 1992: Beauty Point, near Launceston, Tasmania

At last we're sailing, on the shakedown passage to Hobart. Great excitement yesterday when I spotted Blackjack OCC sailing in, and Mike and Pat Pocock have spent the day helping us get away. The whole contents of the Beecroft basement has been moved aboard, and Aratapu is well below her marks already. What will she look like with all the fresh stores, water and diesel aboard?

8 December 1992: River Derwent, Hobart, Tasmania

We actually cleared Customs four days ago, and dropped downriver to escape the distractions of Hobart while we stowed ship and sorted all the problems revealed by the shakedown. Mandy, the only person foolish enough to volunteer to cross the Southern Ocean with me, is looking a bit apprehensive at leaving home. I'm nervous and excited, my mind racing over all the things we should have done. The D'Entrecasteaux Channel looks lovely in the evening light, as we motor out to sea. More prosaically, we're tramping yellow paint all over the boat, as we only got round to painting the decks yesterday.

14 December 1992: Tasman Sea -- 488'S 159°11'E

Disappointing progress, with a lot of calm so far. Still we're now running before a gale under staysail only, with some quite muscular seas. She's just broached when the lashing on the self steering block gave up, putting the dorade vent under water and shooting solid water over the saloon bunk. I don't think the mushroom compost (a gift from Mandy's mum) will like dousings of salt water. The engine controls are leaking water from the cockpit onto my quarter berth, so life is distinctly unfunny.

18 December 1992: Carnley Harbour, Auckland Islands

We thought these islands were uninhabited and a nature reserve, so were surprised to see a little cruise ship steaming in. It turns out she's full of birdwatchers, and under the command of Gerry Clark whose amazing bird research voyage round Antarctica in a 28ft cutter is told in his book The Totorore Voyage. We went aboard briefly and the radio operator kindly relayed a message home, but we didn't get much time to pick Gerry's brains.

We had an interesting time getting in here, with a north-westerly gale up the stern and some very vicious seas as the depths reduced from 3500 metres to 150 metres in fifty miles. A couple of waves broke straight over the stern but she shrugged them off good temperedly. The ironbound west coast of the Aucklands looks incredibly bleak -- I'm not surprised the clippers bound for the Horn were afraid of piling up on it. I had to hand-steer when another broach destroyed a block on the vane gear, and then the engine died as soon as I fired it up, so we had to beat in here through the squalls off the big wooded mountains. It seems I didn't tighten the fuel filler cap after painting the deck in Hobart, so we've got a fuel tank half full of seawater. Still at least it's snug in here with the heater going and we've got time to tackle the post-Tasman jobs list.

Christmas Day the First: 50°15'S 179°50'W

Yes, we crossed the Dateline today, so we get another Christmas Day tomorrow. But I'm afraid we haven't got any more presents, even though Mandy's mum filled a bunk with surprise parcels. Mandy was toasting the day in at 0100 with licorice and red wine (what a waste of good Yalumba cardboard Shiraz!) and despite lengthy preparation, nothing could make tinned chicken for Dinner anything more than bland.

I wonder where Assent is today? Probably in a snug Chilean anchorage with Willy slaving over a primus, with glass close to hand, while the Ormerods engage some Fuegian natives in fluent Spanish banter. A pity we're not there with them.

At 1800 it falls flat calm, so we both go to bed -- not quite what I expected in the furious fifties.

29 December 1992: 52°45'S 166°30'W

I've just heard Aberdeen Coastguard announcing a forecast for the North Sea fishing fleet on 2182! Earlier on we heard British Steel II calling the Chathams, and tried to call, but no luck. We're reaching fast in a smooth sea. The satnav still tells us the Great Circle course to the Horn is 150°, but we're heading 105° to avoid getting too far into iceberg country. We seem to be getting a lot of easterlies, mixed with calm spells, so progress is not too good.

We've worked up a good obstacle course to get rid of excess energy, from galley to loo round heater without touching chimney pipe or floor.

4 January 1993: 56°49'S 148°29'W

We're half-way, closer to Cape Horn (2530 miles) than to Hobart! But I don't believe we're beating across the Southern Ocean: it's blowing east-north-east and we're being pushed further and further south. It's foggy and cold and there are more birds around, so we must be close to the Antarctic Convergence. We got the Sony shortwave receiver working and are now avid World Service listeners, but even I drew the limit at the football results on Saturday. New Year's Day was calm again, so we both got another full night's sleep.

10 January 1993: 57°33'S 127°40'W

I've just spotted our first berg, a big tabular berg which makes the sizeable swell look puny. We've been watching out on radar, but now we've also got a continuous deck watch going for bergy bits. It looks like we'll be in berg country for another three days or so. We're both dog tired. It's been blowing south-west force 7-9 continuously for four days and the seas are enormous, though there's little vice in them. Everything's damp and clammy, but hot water bottles are wonderful.

15 January 1993: 56°34'S 110°5'W

This is our third day of almost complete flat calm. The gale lasted five days in the end, then dropped to nothing in twelve hours. We've been sitting here frustratedly looking at the pilot charts showing 0 percent calm for this area.

More seriously I've filled the engine with seawater. I've got a valve on the back of the engine to stop water backing up the exhaust into the engine. I ought to drain the exhaust before opening the valve, but I've got out of the habit as I've never found much water to drain. This time there was plenty, and lots of it ended up in the cylinders. I can't move the injectors, so I've been pumping out the sump and pouring warmed oil in regularly. We'll have to do without an engine, rely on the Ampair towed generator for juice, and hope for the best.

1800: Wow, a breeze, and we're up to 5 knots!

25 January 1993: 55°56'S 76°59'W

It's about time we were there! We're both fantasising about food (fresh meat for me and salad and ice cream for Mandy). Yesterday morning Mandy got soaked at the galley by a rogue wave breaking into the cockpit and through the storm cover down the hatch. Her bunk was also soaked and it was pure luck that her bunk cushion and sleeping bag were forward airing, and escaped.

We wiped out the gooseneck in an unintended gybe at the beginning of this gale two days back. Mandy was trying to wake me to help reef as it blew up, and the vane gear couldn't cope with a rogue wave. It was a big bang: the block on the preventer sheared at the becket (5mm stainless) and now the 12mm stainless plate in the gooseneck has a 90° bend and we can't set the mainsail. The seas round here are a bit unfriendly, maybe because they think we're getting close (300 miles from the Horn). We're actually heading for Bahia Cook on Tierra del Fuego to try and get in before the next blow.

My sense of adventure could do with a refresher course, preferably consisting of a week asleep in a snug anchorage.

29 January 1993: off R Yendegaya in the Beagle Channel

0100: It's a clear starry night, and the mountains and glaciers of the Cordillera Darwin make an impressive sight to port. Aratapu's stern wave is breaking loudly and there's a deep throbbing from the Chilean navy tug that's towing us at 10 knots or so.

We actually sighted land thirty-six hours ago, a big thrill. I spent the whole of last night beating (under trysail and full genoa) into Bahia Cook in a zephyr, and just got into Brazo del Suroeste when this tug appeared from nowhere, told us we were in a prohibited area and towed us up to the main shipping route at Timbales. Mandy spent a quiet day sailing and admiring the glaciers while I slept. The tug reappeared in the evening and offered us a tow to Puerto Williams. At least it's calm and Aratapu's built to take the strain of being towed above hull speed.

9 February 1993: Puerto Maxwell, 12 miles north-west of Cape Horn

0130: We're sitting out a big gale, and a ship reporting in to Hornos Radio on VHF has just reported the wind at force 11. Aratapu is lying to two anchors in a sheltered corner of this wild, barren natural harbour, though it doesn't feel sheltered in the screaming squalls. It's probably a good thing there's not much land to windward or the gusts would be more ferocious and not as constant in direction.

We got in here thirty-six hours ago, just as it blew up. The weather was very pleasant as we rounded the Horn (east to west), with good views of the rocky pyramid. After the obligatory photos we beat north-west as the weather turned nasty alarmingly fast. It was a minor epic getting two hooks down in deepish water, clear of the rocks in this sheltered corner, but I was glad they were set well in when the real squalls started. At 0200 I went to sleep with the dubious reassurance of the radar on watchman firing up every five minutes. Our only fright was the crash made by the juvenile albatross that ran into the shrouds, fell on deck and flounced overboard. Since then it's been a continuous round of Scrabble, reading, eating (especially the Christmas cake left by Assent), (moderate) drinking and lots of sleeping.

We've become sleep junkies over the last week, but at least we got the gooseneck straightened (sort of) and the engine repaired in Puerto Williams -- the Navy engineer just removed the injectors, turned over the starter motor till the water was all over the cabin, replaced the injectors and started it up! Our only problems were with the Navy who play mother hen with all yachtsmen and were very difficult about our zarp' (permission to navigate). So we're only cleared as far as Punta Arenas: I hope they're more reasonable there.

11 February 1993: 54°16'S 64°59'W, off east coast of Tierra del Fuego

I thought I'd be immune from seasickness after the Southern Ocean, but not so! Beating into this short sea is murder, and Mandy looks worse than I feel, which is saying something.

16 February 1993: Punta Arenas

I just ran aground on the shoal Tilman hit in 1955 during the `shambles of Mischief's departure'. All the fishing boats have just moved from one side of the jetty to the other, and so we've anchored off. Good to see Robin, Ian and Pete, who have been waiting a couple of days for us, but the boat seems very crowded with 150 percent increase in personpower. The advantage is that the shopping and chores are almost complete, but negotiations with the Navy seem to be taking just as long. At least we seem to be close to getting a zarp' allowing us to go a bit off the beaten track.

The Magellan Straits seem to produce a gale every day, which held us up at the First Narrows where 6 knots of tide running into a gale made for interesting seas. We caught the night tide through both Narrows, escorted much of the way by lovely Commerson's dolphins, and just got in here as the gale blew up again.

20 February 1993: Bahia Brookes

`Rugged grandeur I had hoped to find; certainly nothing so exquisitely lovely as this' (Shipton). This place deserves all the superlatives.

It was a bit rugged yesterday as we chugged up to the head of the fjord, with the tops of mountains shrouded in cloud and the huge glacier fronts looking rather forbidding. There was some breeze up there, so I dropped the crew with cameras and hoisted a modest amount of sail which soon proved too much when the mountains fired off a salvo of williwaws. Aratapu really smoked along amongst the brash ice.

We found a quiet sheltered anchorage for the night up a side fjord and had a good walk ashore. This morning we woke to a new world, with 6000-7500 foot mountains all around us, crystal clear in a cloudless sky. We just had to motor up to the head of the fjord again, where we found the huge circular panorama of glaciers and mountains perfectly reflected in mirror-calm water, and Aratapu pin-head small in the midst of it.

More prosaically we're enjoying our food, with superb meat from Punta Arenas (kept fresh on glacier ice), and some different veg (even though the Australian cabbage, onions, potatoes, apples and oranges are still going strong).

22 February 1993: off Pta Mai Mai Mai

We've just had a humpback whale dive under the stern. I thought we were keeping our distance, but it suddenly surfaced between us and an island, headed straight for us and dived under the stern. I think I've got a picture of an impressive amount of dark barnacled whaleback.

The weather is still superb, and the cloud's just cleared from the corniced twin peaks of Mt Sarmiento, 7330 feet of pure driven snow. So we had to stop for another photo of `Aratapu and mountain'.

24 February 1993: Bay with no name, Seno Pedro, off Magellan Straits

Mandy and Robin are triumphant about catching a spider crab (centolla) -- delicious! You can see why the local boats send divers down after them (the skipper on deck nonchalantly hand pumping air down to an old brass diver's helmet, like a Tintin cartoon).

Today we went through Canal Acwalisnan, an uncharted channel (with an unexpected shallow narrows, and strong foul tide) through the middle of the islands. It's named after the Indian who revealed its existence, as we read in Bridges' Uttermost Part of the Earth, a fascinating account of the Fuegian Indians early this century).

27 February 1993: Playa Parda

Bathing in the stream here was memorably cold (appropriately as Tilman anchored here in Mischief). I was the only one foolish enough to submerge completely, while Pete and Ian just flanelled tentatively. Robin looked de rigeur in mid-stream in two pairs of ski socks, seaboots and nothing else: he claims he just can't live with cold feet.

This country is less spectacular, but well described by sailing authors from Cavendish (1587) to Slocum, Tilman, David Lewis and Hal Roth. They all seemed to make slow progress against horrible weather, so maybe we should be glad our problem is lack of wind, and drizzly overcast weather spoiling the views. We had a great walk yesterday in Bahia Ventisquero, which Davenport in Waltzing Matilda (1951) raved about.

28 February 1993: Canal Smyth

Intrigued by distant splashes which turned out to be a mass of jumping dolphins. As we approached they tagged along, while the energetic ones are still jumping. We all continually just miss the perfect photo. They seem so full of the joys -- they must be as pleased as us to see the sun for the first time in a week!

It's been a long day, getting to the west end of Magellan Straits and turning north into the Channels proper. We've passed a couple of ships, with pilots calling us up on VHF to make sure we keep clear. Considering the number of wrecks on the rocks here maybe they are right to worry.

1 March 1993: Paso Cubillo

Getting too big for my boots. There's a warp round the prop! We've got quite slick at dropping a stern anchor and putting the bow over the rocks to put warps ashore, but tonight it all went wrong. Mandy has volunteered to clear it, on the condition that coffee and malt are waiting on her return.

We had a good walk and watered ship at Bahia Isthmus this morning (recommended by Assent).

5 March 1993: Calvo Inlet / Peel Inlet

Perfect views of great country. Well worth the detour to see the glaciers of Peel Inlet, where Tilman landed to cross the Icecap. Last night we were anchored two miles behind the glacier front as shown on our 1963 chart, with a colony of fur seals close by to keep us awake. The weather cleared this morning for superb views of the 6000 foot mountains and up 9000 feet to the icecap. The ice in Calvo Inlet is pretty thick (as always?), so we shunted gently as far as we could, and are now moored up to a big floe just off the glacier Tilman climbed. Robin had the very British idea of supping a dish of tea on the ice, but it was less than lukewarm by the time crew photos were taken. I've just been off in the dinghy and Aratapu looks in her element amidst the floes, with Tilman's glacier behind.

9 March 1993: unnamed bay off Canal Pitt

This is our third day galebound and I half feel we should just go sailing. It hasn't been unpleasant in this very protected hole between islands on Isla Chatham. We've been playing fiercely competitive games of cards and raising a substantial fug in the cabin, with the heater (warming water for washing or cooking the prawn crackers) and the oven (cooking the next culinary delicacy) both going full blast.

We had a pretty disturbed night after our day in Calvo, in an exposed anchorage with the barometer dropping like a stone. We left at first light, and felt the full force of williwaws off the mountains -- one got her moving under staysail alone at 8 1/2 knots in flat water so it must have been well above 50 knots. The worst of the blow didn't materialise until thirty-six hours later but it's so sheltered in here it's hard to tell.

12 March 1993: Puerto Eden

It feels like it's been raining for ever, and one wooded mountain looks much the same as another in thick Chilean drizzle. This place is fun though: lots of mussels smoking, wood chopping, dogs, children and wizened Indians (nice to see some people for a change) amongst ramshackle old tin huts. And flitting round the bushes are green humming birds, which charm all those not trying to catch them on film.

As we've been doing an absurd amount of motoring we're filling every can up with diesel -- embarrassing that we make so much more progress motoring in a calm than beating against the prevailing northerlies. Just as important, we're filling up with Gato Negro, the very potable Chilean red wine (sold in milk cartons at a milk-type price).

It's getting colder: new snow on the mountains most nights, and last night air temperature below freezing, even though the water is far warmer.

14 March 1993: Isla Byron

It's hard to believe naval history was made in this dismal spot: in 1741, HMS Wager was wrecked here after losing touch with Anson's fleet in a storm off the Horn. The crew mutinied and took the ships' boats south through the channels and Magellan Straits, then north to Brazil, while the officers were rescued by Indians and taken north by canoe to the Spanish colony on Chilo'. We're in Bahia Speedwell, named after Wager's longboat, on Isla Byron, named after Midshipman Byron, grandfather of the poet who wrote a book about the splendid fiasco.

Today we detoured to look at rockhopper penguins and chicks (recorded by Gerry Clark much further north than seen before) on a swellbound rock to seaward. The others didn't volunteer to emulate Totorore's crew who landed, climbed the precarious rock bridge, and rugby tackled a penguin for further study!

18 March 1993: off Canal Darwin, 45°22'S, 75°5'W

At last we've stopped headbanging to windward. We always knew the passage round Cabo Tres Montes would be a pig, but we've made a real meal of it. Things were looking good as we crossed the infamous Golfo de Penas, but as soon as we poked our nose round Cabo Raper it blew a hooligan, and we retreated (too far to leeward, so we had to beat back to Surgidero Stokes). As Ian's got a plane to catch we pushed out at the first sign of a lull, and have been headbanging slowly into the current, northerly force 6-7 and a foul steep sea. Dolphins were playing round us last night like phosphorescent torpedoes between the breaking crests.

19 March 1993: Pto Chacabuco

Annoying interview with the Port Captain who's worried we changed our original route plan to drop off Ian here. He was about to send the police after Ian because he hadn't had his passport checked before leaving the boat! Still it's a nice quiet spot, and has a HOTEL for showers and a meal (which Robin is shouting to celebrate his birthday).

22 March 1993: Caleta Chiguay, Canal Puyuguapi

We were expecting deserted hot springs, but someone's built a hotel and is charging us $5 for our bathe. But as it's still raining we've got the springs to ourselves (or did the scruffy crew put off the well-groomed guests?).

26 March 1993: Estero Huildad, Chilo'

I'd forgotten how soothing a rural landscape can be. It's good to see fields, hedges and farm animals again. Chilo' is a lovely contrast to the rugged south, though there're always the snow capped volcanoes to the east to remind us we're in Chile.

We had a hectic landfall on Chilo'. First we lost and retrieved an oar just as it blew up to northerly 7. Then after dusk in heavy rain (the rain dripping off the tri-light to port looked like wine), we were reaching too fast towards a gap the chart showed as 1.5 miles wide but by radar measurement was only 0.7 miles wide. If I hadn't had the gismos I wouldn't have worried, or more sensibly would have stood out to sea again. In fact the chart was wrong, not me (thank goodness), and we had no problem getting in.

30 March 1993: Puerto Montt

Ugh -- shopping and more shopping. Nice to see the odd trading boat still sailing in, but far fewer than in Hal Roth's day. It's been flat calm for a couple of days, and we nearly ran out of fuel on the way in. Pete had to shift the diesel feed onto the tank drain and we added paraffin to eke out the dregs.

Puerto Montt actually has a rowing club, but the only sculler I saw out was having difficulty avoiding the pelicans, who took not the slightest notice of him bearing down on them.

Don't eat sea urchins -- I ordered them last night and the first taste nearly had me retching.

2 April 1993: Isla Abtao, Canal Chacao

I liked this place as soon as I saw the farmer hitching up his cow to tow his dinghy up the shingle beach. It's a wonderful clear evening, with mellow light intensifying the colours of the yellow open boats on the beach, the rust-red farm buildings and the deep blue sea, with volcanoes and snowy mountains to north and east as a backdrop. Mandy was adopted by some piglets on our walk ashore, and they followed her up the beach in line ahead while their mum seemed quite happy to act as a perch for a hawk.

We can see right out through Canal Chacao to the open ocean. We'll catch the morning tide out, then it's 550 miles to Robinson Crusoe Island. We won't starve -- the boat's more loaded than when we left Australia (if that's possible).

5 April 1993: 38°S, 76°W (approx)

Wow, she's motoring. There's nothing to this trade wind lark -- just get five miles offshore, hang up some canvas (or rather, two big genoas on the Profurl) and let her run off 150 miles a day without human interference! We deserve this after all the headwinds in the Channels. It's even getting warm enough to enjoy being out in the cockpit.

7 April 1993: Robinson Crusoe Island

Just had a stiff climb 1800ft up to Alexander Selkirk's lookout, where Robin acted the shipwrecked mariner scanning the horizon. The south of the island is an impressive moonscape, bare and volcanic, but the downwind side must be wetter, with plenty of vegetation. Bahia Cumberland is a nice sleepy village, with firecrown humming birds flitting around the incongruous relics from First World War warships (presumably from the German cruiser Dresden sunk here by the British in violation of Chilean neutrality) and pretty open lobster boats anchored in the roadstead. Good to see Assent's name in the port Captain's book, a month ahead of us.

Hope the passage to Galapagos is as easy as the last 550 miles, I'm enjoying lazy sailing.

Postscript

My typo-rate is increasing rapidly, so I'll stop there for now and keep the remainder of the cruise (a rush through the Tropics to fogless Labrador) for the next issue of Flying Fish. (I'll hold him to it. Ed.)