South Atlantic- 3X

It was somewhere in the South Pacific that I encountered an emergency of such great magnitude that it threatened to bitterly sour the second half of the voyage. I was running out of an essential supply of popcorn and all that I could do was to push the boat as hard as I could, reach Mumbai as early as possible and check into the nearest theatre for the earliest movie. Not underestimating the severity of the situation, the boat clipped along the entire width of the South Atlantic with an average daily run touching 180 nautical miles, twice breaching the 200 mile mark despite sailing with a torn genoa.

Although it had been my strategy to sail conservatively and escape the Horn as uncorrupted by the sea as possible, I had calculated the second half of the voyage at a limping pace to cater for all the damage that the boat might sustain. But when we made it around the Horn virtually unscathed it was time to put that extra sail up and have some stretch marks on it to show for a fast passage. Having crossed the Atlantic thrice and twice respectively, the boat and I were stepping into familiar territory. The Mhadei’s first crossing was during the solo circumnavigation venture of Cdr Donde and it happened in the same month in 2010. A year later, in January, the boat was racing from Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro attempting its second crossing with Cdr Donde at the helm and a crew of three others which included yours truly.

My first mission after taking over as the skipper at Rio was to retrace the voyage of Pedro Alvares Cabral, a Portuguese navigator who discovered Brazil when he sailed too far West in an effort to follow the wake of Vasco da Gama into Calicut and haul in a cargo of spices. Five hundred eleven years later, I set sail from South America to India, just as Cabral had, crossing the Atlantic and then clawing up the Indian Ocean.  The crossing of the Atlantic was attempted with Lt Cdr Gautam Khajuria as sole crew as we drove the boat across the ocean towards Cape Town through some severe weather that kept us occupied with upwind sailing conditions for the first three weeks out of four and becalmed thereafter. We tore the main sail only to replace it in an operation that lasted seven hours on the mast and thirteen hours recuperating, and sprang a leak in the propeller shaft that had us pumping out water every three hours for almost four weeks. The rest of the returning fleet fared much worse with one dismasting, one sinking, many broken spars, even more sail tears, and a lost rudder. All in all, it had been a sailing similar to that of Cabral five centuries and eleven years ago, with almost similar weather and similar strength of fleet, except that in doing so I left a track across the Atlantic that had almost begun to spell out my name. And again, like Cabral, everything about the voyage was pushed towards anonymity in the end. 

The 12th of February was a day of celebration on account of two occasions. It was on this day in 2011 that Cdr Donde had handed the boat over to me in Rio de Janeiro atop the Sugarloaf overlooking the Atlantic with two simple standard navy issue terms – “All yours”. More importantly, on the same day the boat had turned four in the Navy and crossed (coincidentally) the longitude of 4deg West in doing so. It was perhaps more than coincidence that she was inducted into the navy on the 200th birthday of Charles Darwin and, again coincidentally, followed him centuries later to many of the places he had sailed to including Brazil, Falklands, South Africa, Mauritius, Australia and New Zealand. Two days later, on Valentine’s  Day, the boat and I breached the Prime Meridian for the fourth and third time respectively and entered the Eastern Hemisphere from the west. Valentine’s Day also marked the end of some intense lovemaking the sea had begun three days ago that had left love bites for posterity. Winds constantly pushed 50 knots with waves that rose easily to 20 feet and more. The boat could be brought under control only by reefing the mainsail to slightly larger than a handkerchief. Despite my best efforts sleep remained elusive for the three days and I woke up to a nagging headache on Valentines. Perhaps, that was the cue the sea had been waiting for.

The sea on 12 Feb

Up Next- Cape of Good Hope

One Hundred Days of Solitude

It took about two days for the boat to span the short expanse of the Atlantic between the Horn and Falkland Islands. While the passage was hastened by strong breeze, it made me count every moment of it. Well before the sunrise of on the 28th of January the boat suddenly spun out of control and unlike other times this was not a case of the autopilot going into standby mode. Winds suddenly shot up to 40 knots and more with gusts frequently crossing 55 and the boat went out of control thrice before I decided to go for a sail configuration I have never tried before- a heavily reefed mail with a part furled stay sail. It seemed to work well. All of a sudden she made light of the six and eight metre swell and generous breeze and became a well behaved lady all over again. In fact, below decks she was as steady as a rock and one could not tell the fury that raged outside. Ironically, I began to enjoy the day because the sun was still up and there was no trace of clouds in the sky. Despite the chill in the air, the sun gave out warmth and the thermometer began to register temperatures above 10 degrees in a long while.

In the afternoon the RT crackled and I could hear out someone calling out to “Indian sailing vessel”. It turned out to be a British C130 which flew out of its way to exchange customary pleasantries. They carried out three low level flypasts – one aircrew to another, one wing to another- and the beast displayed its low level flying skills and waggled wings to draw attention. The Mhadei in turn bobbed about in the free ocean in acknowledgement. As night settled I tried inching closer to land and sight Port Stanley before heading into the vastness of the Atlantic. Sadly, winds shifted and I was forced to shape a course that took me 60 miles west of Falklands.

The boat from C 130 and vice versa

Passing Falklands brought me memories of the short visit I had made to the islands to help Cdr Donde with his stopover during his solo circumnavigation. It is a topography of wind swept terrain whose trees have been blown away by gale after gale, a land whose population boasts more than 700,000 sheep, many varieties of penguins, seals, sealions, dolphins and various wildlife, where the soil of peat catches fire and is used as such in ovens as fuel, a place that is littered with road signs reminding motorists that penguins and sheep still had right of way. Its remoteness can only be gauged by the solitary LAN Chile flight in and out of the islands each week, a fact that led me to conclude that crime rate would peak on Fridays so that criminals could fly out on Saturdays. It was only when I visited Port Stanley that I came to know that crime was a word that was confined to dictionaries amongst its 3000 odd inhabitants. I did take time off to tour the Falkland Islands battlefield guided by a Captain from the Royal Army  and after Cdr Donde’s departure I made use of the long wait for the next outbound flight to take off to Sea Lion Island for a day’s stay. Flying FIGAS (Falkland Island Government Air Service) was an experience in itself with a landing in an island called Bleaker and, thanks to the intervention of the governor’s wife, a sortie in co pilots seat of the Islander.

Sea Lion

The 5th of February of 2010 was spent in the Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic, a day when the governor’s wife invited me home for tea. Two days later, I gifted myself a visit to Pablo Neruda’s home in Santiago, the La Chascona that was built for his secret lover Matilda Urrutia.  In 2011, I was back in the South Atlantic celebrating the day on board the Mhadei on our way to Rio with a crew of four. Special on the menu was freeze dried ice cream dowsed with single malt followed by an excuse from middle watch. Then I was not the skipper yet. A week later I was in Rio on a tram to Corcavado to pay visit to the Redentor. Two years later, I was back in the South Atlantic celebrating my 34th birthday at 34 degrees West with another packet of freeze dry strawberry ice cream. It only got better this time because being the sole crew I had access to an Apricot crumble, fresh apples, kheer, halwa and many more delicacies in addition. The boat celebrated the day with a 24 hour noon to noon run of 205 miles and the sun stayed out for two days in a row travelling across a cloudless sky. Greetings came from all time zones of the world spread evenly between the 4th and 5th and many came in verse. Some wished me in their time zones, some in my own time zone and many mistakenly wished me on the 4th because of the time travel across the International Date Line.

La Chascona and the Redentor

Fresh apples after 3 months at sea- courtesy Clea

By the 9th of February, we had completed one hundred days of solitude at sea. The boat and I had sailed more than 15000 miles by that day, rounded two out of the three great capes and met the challeneges of all three oceans as well as, if not better than, any other boat or crew. Despite minor set backs and misadventures along the way, the boat and skipper are as lively as the sea. At the time of writing this blog, we are in such state of preservation that if the navy were to ask me to continue sailing eastward to the Horn for another rounding I would gladly accept the order as if it were a reward. But first I need to pop up north for a while to warmer seas and have my first shower in more than three fortnights.

Up Next- Three crossings of the Atlantic

Around the Horn

A representation of the Horn- Urmimala

"The geography of the sailor is not always the one of the cartographer, for whom a cape is a cape with its longitude and latitude. For the sailor, a great cape is both very simple and extremely complex, with rocks, currents, furling seas, beautiful oceans, good winds and gusts, moments of happiness and of fright, fatigue, dreams, aching hands, an empty stomach, marvelous minutes and sometimes suffering. A great cape, for us, cannot be translated only into a latitude and a longitude. A great cape has a soul, with shadows and colors, very soft, very violent. A soul as smooth as that of a child, as hard as that of a criminal

~~Bernard Moitessier~~~

Sometime in September last year when I was asked to finalise the exact dates of passing cardinal marks, 26th of January seemed a possible date for the rounding of the Horn. But as any yachtsman would know, sticking to the exact ETA at the end of almost three months in a wind driven boat is a task that is next to impossible. The Mhadei, however, would have it no other way and after crossing the International Date Line on the last day of last year, she decided to round the Horn on the Aquarian date of the 64th anniversary of the Republic Day of India, the 225th Australia Day and the 35th wedding anniversary of my parents. At 01: 45 PM in India and 03:15 on the deck watch, the Mhadei carried me across the longitude of Cape Horn twenty miles to its south marking the end of our passage through the Pacific, through the Chilean SRR, and of Leg Three and crossed us over to the Atlantic, into Argentina’s SRR and into Leg Four of the voyage. A moment later I hoisted the national flag on the backstay which was followed by the flypast of albatrosses and cormorants and a steam-past of smiling dolphins. The flag was a happy flag to be fluttering free in fresh breeze so far away from mainland India and its colours contrasted well with the dark shades of the sea and sky. The waves literally chanted lines from the national anthem- उच्छल जलधि तरंग (chanted by the waves of the Ocean).

Flying the Flag- a mile south of Cape Horn

A little after crossing the longitude and the flag hoist, I gybed and headed towards Cape Horn for a closer look and I went as close as a mile and a half. But it lifted its veil of fog and low clouds only briefly- enough for a glance but not enough to make a good picture. The Horn wanted it to be a moment shared only between the two of us, I presume. In that instant, the Cape spoke to me through the words of Lynn

My name is Horn
Come shake my hand
And say hello to me
I welcome all who pass me by
With open arms and stand
Because I know they must do it
Because I know they can

Do not fear me

Drink deeply from the waters
That lap across my feet
Your thirst is quite unquenchable
Your spirit incomplete
My name is Horn
Come take my hand
And let me cool your heat

Do not hide from me

Drape a shawl across my back
The one with colours three
The breeze will catch its gentle flow
To set those demons free
My name is Horn
Come hold my hand
And rest a while with me

The Horn behind a veil of fog and clouds

More celebrations were in tow – DFRL helped me prepare kheer and a packet of biryani for lunch which are luxuries given the fact that I have been out at sea for so long and considering the circumstances I am accustomed to now. In keeping with my promise, a bottle of Desmond Ji agave was opened and the Sea of Hoces was offered a generous swig which immediately seemed to soothe its nerves and calm its waves. The next swig went to the boat and the rest was equally divided amongst all crew that mustered on deck. Offended at not being offered anything  the Horn tore the genoa and claimed a camera when the boat crash gybed and the main sheet entangled with a Go Pro.

Once the ceremonials were dispensed with, I made calls to the three men who had conned me into undertaking this voyage with their boisterous talk, many tales and assurances- the godfather, Admiral Awati, the mentor. Cdr Donde and the boatbuilder, Ratnakar Dandekar- and congratulated them because each one of them is party to this successful rounding many times more than I am. Admiral Awati had a verse ready for the occasion

Ayyo, Tharavad of Valliara in the country of the Gods

Thy scion Abhilash sails MHADEI fair, over seas seven

Across the tempestuous ocean nether, from West to East

Past the great Capes

To conquer watery space

Of our Earth

To the greater glory of Bharat.

On the day we proclaimed a Republic, good and free

Twenty sixth of January two thousand one three

MHADEI and Man will pass the Horn

Many a gallant sailors nemesis and thorn

And show the flag to the rock and albatross

To say that Abhilash was there that day in

Celebration of a nation expectant

Of greater glory upon the seas, at the Horn

Eastward Ho! to Hope, the last, final mark

Before turning north into the Ocean Indian

And home to where it all began

On prime November the year before

Twelve and two thousand to complete

His tryst with destiny.

He, Abhilash, will then seek the blessings

Of the Almighty in the Tharavad

Of Valliara. So be it, says I who started it all.

 

Isla de los Estados

The weather cleared by next day and I woke up in the Atlantic to bright sunshine, rising warmth and a craggy island lying supine to the port as if it was consolation for not sighting the Horn. The charts called it the Isla de los Estados  and placed it in Argentina. On the other side of the horizon I made out a mast and I quickly called her on the radio to find out that she was called the Erica XII and that they were on their way from Ushuaia to Antarctica. The voice on the radio was that of a woman and listening to one after 88 days at sea reminded me of the aroma of fresh food, clean cotton linen and warm heated floors.

Erica XII

That is the story of how I rounded the Horn and became a Cape Horner. I will not have a medal on my chest to show for it, but you will know me because in keeping with the ancient traditions of mariners I will wear a ring of gold on my left ear ( a very special someone has already bought one) and keep my feet on the dining table during every meal.

 

Up Next- The Third crossing of the South Atlantic.

PS. Many people mistake the rounding to be the most difficult part of a voyage and liken it to the Everest of sailing but it is not so. It is never about the moment of rounding or the moment of sighting but the rounding itself is a significant milestone in years of effort and toil and at times a euphemism for it.

In the meantime a brave set of women adventurers from the Indian Army climbed the Mt Everest- the Cape Horn of every mountaineer. Many congratulations!

Another Pacific Week

-

“There are no laws beyond the 40s, no rules beyond the 50s and no god beyond the 60s.”

Egged on by some formidable winds we sailed so far south this new year as to touch 58.5 degrees latitude, farther south than any Indian has sailed so far alone or in company, as the deity knocked on the territory of godlessness. There was mild anxiety similar to all the firsts in my life- the first solo flight, the first solo sail and the first venture below the 40s. But whatever fear I had was unfounded because the sea is the same in every latitude, except that in the 50s its boiling rage is much colder. It is the sky that is different. With the sun refusing to set (as I infer from colour of the sky because I have not seen the sun itself in a while) the sky passes from the twilight of dusk to the twilight of dawn before it is day all over again and there is enough light all night that I can walk about the deck without a torch. It has been overcast ever since I remember stepping into the Pacific making me wonder how our forefathers navigated hereabouts without a heavenly body to shoot and fix their ships.

Navigationally, the fortnight saw the passing of a few important milestones. On the 09th of January I crossed the 10000 mile mark becoming the first Indian to sail that much distance solo and without any stops. A few more days later we passed Point Nemo, the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, making us more than 2000 miles away from any land to the East or West. In the morning of the 18th we passed the longitude of 108 degrees West, the ante meridian of the port of departure, Mumbai, marking the passing of the geographical mid point of this voyage.

But it is the Horn that will be a true middle point in every other sense because at this mythical cape we would have crossed two oceans, ended our southern transit, and commenced clawing upwards exchanging latitude for temperature and replacing the fear of ice with the far greater inconvenience of squalls lying in ambush. I will be making use of the occasion to thank the providential opening of the Drake passage forty odd million years ago which established the kinship of the Atlantic with the Pacific in the south – an event of such importance that this voyage would not have been possible without its occurrence. Past the Sea of Hoces where the Antarctic hangs like South America’s thought bubble I will commence the homebound journey and it will be home revolutions through familiar territory from then on.

And it will be home revolutions because the water maker has quit and I am left without any means of producing fresh water until I reach the tropics where every passing squall will be treated like  a reservoir. I have about 300 litres left, good enough to see me home safely but not in luxury. Baths are ruled out till I hit warmer climates because there is no provision to heat sea water and I suffer from an odour that has no name to it except an inescapable and nauseating feeling that I often encountered during my brief stay in Ratnagiri or while passing the Sassoon Docks of Colaba . Taking bath in a sea at 6 degrees towards the beginning of the year has possibly been the biggest misadventure in this venture and I must wait another month or more before the sea is warm enough. (The only and ignorable distinction that I achieved with this act of foolishness is that I have bathed in the waters of the Atlantic, the Pacific and the Indian Ocean.) I have stopped rinsing utensils with fresh water anymore and if ever I do, I drink it.

UP Next- Rounding the Horn- the Everest of Sailing

PS- This blog would be incomplete if I were not to make a mention of Swapnali Dhabugade and her team. Sometime in October, she and Mugdha surprised me by travelling all the way from Mumbai to see the boat. We were in the thick of work and I could afford her only a couple of hours to explain things. She was so awed by the project that she has started an awareness program in Mumbai which aims at taking Sagarparikrama to schools.  She started off with a plan, a presentation and drafting in volunteers. In less that one month’s time it already seems to be on its way to becoming a resounding success going by the enthusiasm with which they have been greeted. Kudos to woman power!

A Tall Stick

It seems that the boat ran out of coherence with her luck when she time traveled back and forth at the Date Line because ever since she has been dogged by minor issues. It included running into two windless patches and a brand new data card for the charts of South America that tended to send the navigation system into indecision. While the former had a telling effect on the boat’s average speed in our crawl across the Pacific the latter ended up as a minor irritant necessitating the opening of the folio of paper charts for South America. What caused the matter of much adventure though was a rogue line that parted.

On the 11th of January in my time zone, which was a day that India had already spent, I woke up to see the easy stow in an unusual position with one of its holding lines parted and trailing in water. Another look at the mast confirmed that I was about to live through one of the most demanding days of this voyage yet. The main line holding up the easy stow had been pulled right up to the second spreader requiring a mast climb in the middle of the South Pacific to hitch and get the rogue line down.

I have never been up the mast at sea save once during her voyage to Colombo almost four years ago when we realised that we did not have a halyard to hoist the national flag of Sri Lanka. With a crew it is a simple business- you get into a harness which is tied to a halyard and the crew winches you up and gets you down and all you need to do is shout commands in a loud and clear voice. Solo sailors, though, usually use a mountaineering equipment specially adapted for yachts. It doesn't make things easy- merely possible. And then sailors usually wait for the exact day when they would want to climb with just the right amount of swell and just the right amount of wind to hold the boat stable. When our climbing gear arrived from Europe I had silently hoped that I would not have to use that equipment ever.

But what will be will be. With just one solo climb in harbour which was more apology than  practice, the 25 metre mast looked way taller than it was ever meant to be. Nothing helped- the winds were light and not enough to hold the boat steady even though a sail was hoisted and the swell at 3-4 meters was the usual leftovers of a South Pacific gale. It wasn’t the best day to go up but when you do not have a choice, procrastination is automatically ruled out as an option.

Going up all alone was a first for me. I prepared by brushing teeth (to enjoy my own conversations better), changing into some clean clothes (for you don’t want to be caught dead in some smelly ones), gulping a can of Red Bull and discarding all  outer layers of clothing. Rigging the lines took only ten minutes but it was only when I had pulled myself up a metre or so that I realised that it wasn’t going to be as easy as depicted in the video advertising the climbing gear. The travel to top took the better part of an hour and despite my crashing into the mast often it suffered no harm. It  in turn reciprocated with a coldness that burnt the extremities of my fingers.

It was exciting at the top. You could see a larger portion of the world although it amplified your solitude and you could finally ignore the flying of albatross that until now had been a distraction. It was colder and the mast tended to move at 30 kmph speeds because the boat’s rolling motion was exaggerated due to the height . An unexpected gift of the perch on top was that it put me in touch with my spiritual side because physical strength alone was not enough to keep me there and I invoked every god, deity and saint I remembered including, and chiefly, my own namesake. The only solace in the entire affair was a blue hole in an otherwise overcast sky that let some warmth through.

On my way up, the tail line that I carried got entangled in the radome and it was only after half an hour of struggle that I managed to free it, bend it to the rogue line and prepare for the descent which was a far greater struggle than the climb. Two days after the incident, as I write the blog, memory of the details is fading but what I do clearly remember is the message from the Chief of Naval Staff on the New Year’s eve that repeated in my mind through the adventure-

“Your mission continues to be perilous, requiring both physical vigour and resilience. There will be situations which will demand meeting challenges head on and calculated risks to an extant, beyond what one encounters in normal life. It is under these circumstances that your years of training and maturity will stand you in good stead and drive you forth to success.”

It scares me to watch the video at times but I can clearly see that I have come a long way from what I was when I had joined the Navy, hardly able to climb a stationary rope or swim across the width of a 25 metre swimming pool. I am sure we all have.

It is not as bad as it looks!

Up Next- Preparing for the Horn

2012- A Double Leap Year

 

We weaved through the sub Antarctic islands of New Zealand in the hope of catching a glimpse of land before being hurtled into the vast desolate seascape of the Pacific. Far from sighting an island, I could not even see a cloud that could be attributed to the presence of land nearby. By the 30th of December we had passed New Zealand signifying the beginning of the third leg of this circumnavigation. The last patch of land had been left behind on our 4000 mile long passage across the largest water body in the world.

As I did so, I shouted a big hello to my brother and Mariette in Auckland, and to all the residents of Lyttelton whose acquaintance we had made during Cdr Donde’s stopover. Most of all I will miss the god-fatherly presence of our agent, Peter Rea, master mariner and yachtsman, and the good humoured Merve who had lent his yacht to see off the Mhadei as she left, and George from my hometown who has been working in LPC for over a decade. The “little town with a large heart” (as Cdr Donde calls it) is home to a very warm and generous people. It was here in New Zealand in 2009 that I had touched snow for the first time at Aoraki, and made use of the layover at Auckland during the transit back to India to visit the gun turret of the Achilles (which later became the first INS Delhi) installed at Davenport. It was a pilgrimage of sorts to visit a turret that had seen action in the Second World War in the Battle of River Plate against the Graf Spee and  later on in the liberation of Goa from the Portuguese. While Admiral Awati served on the old INS Delhi, I did so in the second ship of the same name.

Visit this link for more pictures of New Zealand.

https://picasaweb.google.com/107226194295094703484/Nz02?authkey=Gv1sRgCJW_lfGZxu6JvwE

 

 

Two out of three winters of the Mhadei’s short life has been spent negotiating a passage through the Southern Ocean. In the first year of her commission, she was skippered by Cdr Dilip Donde around the world on the first solo circumnavigation attempt by an Indian. In the second year, she found herself taking part in a trans-Atlantic Race from Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro followed by a solo passage to India. 2011 had been the only aberration as she spent the winter resting in Indian ports after 60,000 miles of sailing. With plans firming up for a non stop solo circumnavigation, 2012 promised to be the most exciting year of her life yet. For that very same reason, the year held a special significance for all those associated with the boat and the project.

Two days after New Zealand we bid farewell to 2012 with the meagre resources I had on-board- a packet of halwa and the other half of a bar of Bourneville that had been saved from Christmas. Six hours later the Mhadei strode across the International Date Line for the second time in her commission and entered into the Western Hemisphere from its west causing a confusion in dates that was worse than the cacophony of unsynchronised clocks. A short lived 2013 was struck off the logbook and 2012 was raised from the dead to serve its last day again which it did begrudgingly. The bilge pump quit soon after I had made the first entry of the day in the log  and then the raw water pump of the generator disintegrated. I replaced both with on-board spares and was boiling water for dinner when the boat lurched throwing me across its width to the leeward and scalding me with hot water. When 2013 arrived again at midnight, I heaved a sigh of relief and made my first new year resolution- never to resurrect a dead year.

But the appearance of the new year so close to the 180th meridian did have its record side - I became the first Indian to welcome the new year before crossing over to the other side to become the last Indian to see off the old year; we had two new year celebrations; the first appearance of 2013 lasted only six hours which afforded me the unique opportunity of holding on to a new year resolution for the entire year of six hours. The question that vexes me though is the extra day that I have lived and  if I must advance my birthday forever by a day.

2013 was seen in by gale force winds that saw wind speeds picking up to 52 knots at one point. Here is a short video shot as India was ringing in the new year at midnight.

 

 

 

 

 

Wishing India a very happy new year!

The best New Year’s gift this year has been the article in Nat Geo Traveller India. Pick up your copy if you already haven't!

PS- After spending 64 days at sea covering more than 9000 nautical miles, Sagarparikrama 2 is into her third leg. You can also follow the progress of the voyage on Facebook (www.facebook.com/www.mhadei.co.in) or on twitter (@abhilashtomy). National Geographic Traveller India publishes a monthly article on Sagarparikrama2 which comes with some splendid writing and photography.

 

 

Next Up- Point Nemo

Into the Endless Pacific

A crowded Indian Ocean

A Desolate Pacific

At first it appeared that I would be sailing off the face of the earth. But then, two days after Christmas as we passed through the Sub Antarctic Islands of New Zealand, the enormousness of the Pacific opened itself unto us. Straddled on the other end by the Americas, wide enough at its widest to be almost half the size of the earth and large enough to swallow up all the landmass of the planet put together, its sheer size has meddled with the minds of followers of this voyage who are newcomers  to the world of oceans and charts and all things nautical. Named by Ferdinand Magellan during his circumnavigation, the Pacific offers its unparalleled solitude and desolation as we cleave our way towards Cape Horn.

Sometime on the 23rd December, we hit the southernmost point in the voyage so far. The Mhadei and I sailed along the 53rd parallel for day  and slowed down to let a system brewing north-west of us pass. Christmas eve turned out the way it should have. A mild breeze blew and it was enough to keep the sails full and the boat moving eastward at the exact slow pace I wanted it to. In the forenoon, the sun was not only up but shining upon us heating the boat to more than 10deg Centigrade for the first time in days. I put on music, made something out of freeze-dri vegetables, washed it down with a can of Mirinda and bit into half a slab of Bournville that had been saved for the occasion- all sitting outside in the sun. It carried a laxative effect well into Christmas which turned out to be a rough affair for reasons including weather. As I began heading northwards, we caught the tail of the passing system and the freshening breeze crossed 30knots soon after it was noon in the boat. The sky remained overcast and the winds did not subside until the following noon. But when the day had passed we discovered our Christmas gift- a 24 hour run of 201 nautical miles unpacked under a sun whose intensity remained unmitigated by clouds even after three days.

Indian Ocean grey...

...and the Pacific blue

From the grey colours of the Indian Ocean to the blue of the Pacific has been a welcome psychological change. I shot a few pelagic birds in the excitement, pilfered a packet of biryani out of January’s rations and turned a course towards Snares Island in the hope of catching the first glimpse of land after 58 days at sea. Sadly, as the wind swung, we missed it by 33 miles (in a nautical life it is the same as the breadth of ones hair). I even tried a hand at fishing but the line came back without violating the EEZ of New Zealand.

28th of December saw a surreal morning because the watches had lost their synchronisation. I have the necessity to maintain three time zones- UTC, IST and Zone Time. To do that, I use as many instruments as I can including GPS time on the electronic chart, two clocks, my mobile phone, laptop, a partly serviceable wrist watch and the INMARSAT phone. Due to frequent changes in time zones and the consequent necessity to readjust clocks, on the 28th of December I woke up to the cacophony of  clocks announcing a major disagreement between themselves. The local clock read 10:00 AM which meant that I was a couple of hours late for rendering the morning report- a feeling akin to waking up at 10:00 AM to realise that you had a flight to catch two hours back. It took me almost half an hour to gather my still drowsy wits and decide on the time because I wasn’t too sure which clock to trust. Half of them- the laptop, wrist watch and the local clock- were simultaneously wrong in their own ways. In a way it was of no consequence because in a solitary existence time is what you make it out to be. What would have gone haywire though is my communications with the rest of the world because for me the only role time plays is that of a synchroniser. I could keep a tag with the help of my beard which has sanction to grow at a pre ordained rate but I don't have time for all that.

I have learnt my lesson-

“Correct clocks are all alike. All incorrect clocks are incorrect in their own ways. The Mhadei’s timekeeping could be in turmoil.”



Souls of departed seafarers

UP NEXT- The International Date Line and a Pacific New Year

PS- Despite our distance and relative insulation from the goings on elsewhere in the world, news does percolate in. The passing away of "Nirbhaya" has left a telling gloom in the boat. May her soul find the peace that was denied to her in the last moments of her life. And may we never forget how valiantly she fought till the end.

Furious 50s- “Bash on Regardless”

An occlusion dealt headwinds and caused us to sail southwards much before I had planned thrusting the furious 50s on me as it went. The welcome began with 30 knot winds that soon picked up to 45 and the usual swell from south west. While the hammering went on and I reached top speeds of 16 knots surfing down some steep waves, I had a message from Admiral Awati. Bash on Regardless- it read. Pretty encouraging words and the 50s are all the more reason I need them. Irrespective of who was bashing whom, the boat and I escaped without much injuries.

Heading south, in a way, had solved a question which followers of the voyage have been pondering over endlessly. At 50 degrees south, and about a couple of hundred miles off Tasmania, that isn’t really a question anymore. Bass Strait would be a huge detour. As I passed Tasmania over the weekend, I could safely say that I had my Bight.

New Zealand is only a hop across from here but in between lies a minefield I would not want to step into. A low is moving from my north-west to cross our route south of New Zealand. It conceals more than 50 knot winds with waves added to taste. After due consideration, I have decided to slow down and accord it right of way. I am planning to dig myself into a windless hole for a day or so and pay the attention that equipment and rigging has been asking of me. And then, I too am entitled to a Christmas vacation, some carols and possibly a movie and popcorn.

21st of December was winter solstice. It marked the end of the southern transit of the sun this year putting an end to all the Mayan-Calendar-End-of-the-World jokes that have been doing the rounds. I wasn’t really worried, but after I threw the stone calendars out, the boat has been significantly lighter and livelier. Till now the voyage has been a race into the sun, sailing south as it went south, seeking a path through the weather that its passage cleared up. But from now on, almost for another month till I round the Horn, our paths will diverge with the sun heading northward while we go further down till at least 56 degrees. That makes it all the more important that I get to the Horn on the appointed date from where I will be free to follow the sun and head back to India.

At 50 degree south I am closer to the pole than to the equator. The temperatures too have been plunging southward and at the time of writing this blog, it hovers between 7 and 10 degrees during the day. It is becoming impossible to touch any steel fitting or walk on deck barefoot because the chill it sends up at times appears to burn. Anyone can read my thoughts now because they seem to condense in the air as thought bubbles. Showering, that ubiquitous consideration, is becoming a well planned ritual, not for shortage of water but of warmth. I will chance the plunge when I am becalmed.

This transit has been my second association with Australia, in a manner of speaking. I had visited Fremantle in 2009 to help with Cdr Donde’s stopover as his sole shore support and Man Friday. Located at the mouth of Swan river, Fremantle is the port town of Perth. With a maritime museum resembling an upturned hull, anchors and buoys strewn along pavements and motifs of the America’s Cup adorning its walkways, Fremantle comes across as a very tastefully designed maritime town. It is no wonder that it has inspired the likes of John Sanders, the eight time solo circumnavigator. The acquaintances we made during our stay- Pat and Fred, Pip and John, and Shruti among others-  continue to be ardent followers of this voyage too.

Click here to have a peek into the town through my lens. https://picasaweb.google.com/107226194295094703484/Freo2009?authkey=Gv1sRgCLut3qHU1_TegQE

Up Next- PACIFIC

Under Down Under- A Time for Anniversaries

After the last lashing we on the 6th, I decided to stick to 40 degrees south for a few days and head into lighter winds that were promised in a trough of high. It was quite a peaceful time despite the 3 m swell from South West that has been rocking the boat since I don’t remember when. The swell is long and hardly perceptible, but in very light winds it can cause enough damage to the rigging. It was because of that that I took off all sails in the end and set up the A3 which somehow seemed to stay full and survive well.

On the 10th that we passed the longitude of Cape Leeuwin decreeing the end of the first leg which had been psychologically marked out from Mumbai till the first of the three great capes. The second leg is from here till New Zealand marking an entry into the South Pacific.

The break had been very much needed. There were issues with the boat that needed attention. More than anything else, it was the generator’s turn this time which threw up oil pressure warning at a much less leisurely rate than ever. It would shut down after ten seconds of running and, definitely, it was not the cooling system that was causing the problem. Although the indicator said that oil level was within limits, I decided to change the engine oil and prematurely carry out a 300 hourly servicing. When the problem still persisted I got in touch with shore based technicians who figured it was most probably a sensor issue. They gave me a method to work around the problem. I did not have to follow through all the steps though- just cleaning the sensor lead sufficed.

I took advantage of the lull to do some housekeeping and after all the effort the boat looked very much like a cadets mess right before the divisional officer’s inspection. (Well not really…it is still very much a naval mess inside.) To my surprise I found bird feather all over the boat. It did not take a lot to figure out that the  sleeping bag had been leaking down! A couple of times I made some very rudimentary pinacolada (virgin, of course) and once I fried canned sardines for dinner. It was also a time to have a shower and do the laundry, both of which were not terribly necessary despite the gap of almost a fortnight of abstinence. I have read somewhere that Mongol warriors under Chengez Khan never bathed and the layers of grime on them insulated them well from cold. I might buy that theory because on Wednesday I was sweating in the Southern Ocean . It has been days since I have seen the sun and the low overcast sky does nothing to make matters any better. The temperature has been in the range of 15-20 degrees and that of water is well below that. Therefore, for each shower I need to run the engine to heat water through its system of heat exchangers.

The season of anniversaries and celebrations has just begun. It was on 12 Dec 2008 that her hull floated and her bottom tasted salt for the first time.  Congratulatory messages first came in from the core team of Admiral Awati, Cdr Dilip Donde and Ratnakar Dandekar because it was only these three who were aware of the significance of that date. Ratnakar went on to remark that Dutta Jayanti had fallen on that day four years ago and it had been a full moon night. Even I had been unaware because I had joined the project almost four months later in 2009. Nevertheless, I ended up unknowingly celebrating with pinacolada under an unusually bright and sunny sky.

Coincidentally, at noon on that date a year later Cdr Donde had taken her out to sea after casting off from Lyttelton port on his solo circumnavigation around the world. A couple of days later, on the 14th the Mhadei crossed the international date line for the first time marking the longest day in her life. She celebrated  the launching date this year under the Great Australian Bight and her position at 12:12:12 on 12/12/12 was recorded in her log for posterity. 

In the December of 2011, she was paraded along with the naval fleet at Mumbai for the Presidents Fleet Review a day after a postage stamp commemorating her exploits was released by the President of India. I wonder how many of the followers of this blog have it in their collection. I, for the nomad that I am, do not have one.

With summer setting in and weather opening up this part of the world is seeing a deluge of racing boats. The Sydney- Hobart regatta will be on next week. Jeff, who is racing, has asked if I would be around in that area at that time. Although I am still deciding whether to go through the Bass Strait or not, there are very little chances of running into him given the fact that I will be almost crossing New Zealand by that date. Behind me at this time,  the savage fleet of Vendee Globe is devouring miles at the rate of almost 500 a day on their single handed non stop race around the world. Catch their positions on this link http://tracking2012.vendeeglobe.org/en/ At least for a while, I have been leading their pack!

When will it be that we have an Indian taking part in the race?

Meanwhile, here is a song I enjoy listening to often.

Up Next- Pacific

She is Home

When I left harbour, there were many who wished me fair winds and following seas. All of a sudden it all seems to have literally come true. We were in the neighbourhood of the roaring forties on the 6th of December when the winds went from a whisper to a roar. BVS reported 35 knot winds and 6-7 metre waves, and BVS, from my experience, is never to be distrusted . Before the last light of 5th was out, I had already deployed the stay sail and taken in three reefs on the main in anticipation of the blast. But when it hurtled onto us on the 6th, it claimed its first wicket early in the morning when the padeye of the runner block parted. A couple of hours later the wind vane autopilot gave up with a line parting and I had to take off the stay sail too. We were, even with the modest amount of sail that we carried, hurtling downhill at speeds topping at 14 knots at times.

  There was so much spray around that the winds were literally fair and the sea was following us with a club in hand and badgering us each time we were looked back.  The tops of waves would get ripped off and carried away in the breeze and it would cover the sea to such an extant that there was more white than blue. Yet it was more beautiful than monstrous and I felt like I was in a real ocean where the waves had a tinge of patent blue atop its crest that you wouldn’t find anywhere else. Waves would pile upon each other, at times lifting us on top and showing us a remarkably unhindered view of the world around, and in valleys it would seem as if they had gobbled up the sun and the sky. These are waves that constantly alter the topography of the planet without being reported in any atlas. It was a warm welcome by a cold ocean. The Mhadei was in her elements. Even with nothing more than a “Cutty Sark” of a sail on her, she was scudding along at a lively pace, gobbling miles at the rate of almost 200 a day. We have begun to run the eastings down.

It was almost at the same time that the great white albatross made an appearance. It would fly about as if it was the calmest day in paradise. They have their little ones in tow at times. The brown ones too are never far away either.

 

 

In between all the maelstrom, I had a touching message from a follower who lives in Detroit. Madhura Chitnavis-Marathe wrote about her field trip with a group of senior citizens in the city. The last stop was the Mariner’s Church which reminded her very much about the boat and her lonely sailor. She did not miss the opportunity to send me some beautiful images of the church which she asked me to “accept as online blessings”.  I don’t pray but that does not mean that I don’t believe in the prayers of others. Click here http://marinerschurchofdetroit.org/history/ to know more about its interesting history.

In the aftermath of the first true gale of this voyage, winds died leaving behind horribly tall seas that did not do justice to the calm. That period is almost as uncomfortable as the gale itself. There is not enough wind to hold the sails in place but the boat rolls about so much that everything thrashes about. Inside the boat, things that did not stay within their assigned places found further company as more came crashing out of their locations. The melee below decks spoke well of the turmoil boat had been through the last few days.

Meanwhile, here is a video that I had made a few days into the voyage. I just put it up. Its a tour of the insides of the boat. Its very spartan and I am putting it up for all those who haven’t seen a boat at all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0S_sU8NdYs

 

It has been 37 days at sea in the company of ourselves. The boat’s tracker- Mandar- has diligently kept pace with us and plotted as we went. At the time of writing of this blog, we have done about 5100 nautical miles on ground and are about to enter what is called the Australian Bight.

 

 

Up Next- Under Down Under. The Australian Bight