Crossing the Indian Ocean - Mauritius to Durban Days 11 &12

Durban days 11-12

Day 11 Miles to go:  644 nm

So, you've got to ask yourself, what else can go wrong on Nine of Cups' infamous passage across the Indian Ocean? We certainly have been giving that question some thought ... between repairs. We didn't have to wait long before we had an answer. As David was taking a reef out of the main, the port reefing winch parted from the boom. I had the camera ready for another reason, but the "oh, shit!" look on his face as the winch came off in his hand was a true Kodak moment. Surely, Neptune is rolling on the ocean floor and getting his jollies about this one. David was able to re-attach it and it will be fine till we reach Africa. In the meantime, the repair/maintenance to-do list for Durban is lengthening much faster than we're sailing at the moment.

Rippled grey skies have been with us for several days now. Terns and white-tailed tropic birds wing by every once in awhile, mostly at dawn and dusk. They're noisy and announce their presence rather loudly, but so far none have stopped off for a rest or a chat.

And what's this? Winds, albeit light, in our direction with a helping current? It can't be ... We are gob-smacked!  Despite the change in winds and a little overnight motoring,  it all came too late to help our daily mileage ...  a whopping 68  nm.

A carton of milk evidently tipped over in the fridge unbeknownst to us until the sour stench about knocked me off my heels when I went to get milk for tea this morning. It's an effort to unload the fridge underway, but the stench-incentive made it a necessity. We got it all handled, washed out and wiped down with vinegar and re-stowed and did an inventory as well. I really need to use up those limes I bought in Mauritius.

Day 12 Miles to go:  546 nm

There's a two hour time change between Mauritius and South Africa which we haven't bothered with yet. The sun is rising closer to 0700 now and, correspondingly, setting later in the day which is kind of nice. The skies have been clear and sunny with nary a cloud to be seen in the pale blue sky ... sort of like daylight savings time. The barometer has been rising slowly and steadily. Unfortunately the winds have remained light, except when they're on the nose! The current forecast calls for another day of light winds, then stronger winds from the west ... our intended direction.

The crossing of the Mozambique Channel has been and continues to be a slow one. I look at the chart plotter at the beginning of each watch and it seems we've barely moved at all ... because, of course, we haven't barely moved at all. These usually lazy sailors are grasping at any wisp of wind that blows by.

We've been doing lots of reading and writing. David's working on a promised article for Good Old Boat. In addition to the passage blogs, I've been working on our holiday newsletter and have started an outline for a new book. We're staying out of trouble, but getting a bit antsy to get into port and start whittling down the to-do list which, if you've been following along, is getting rather unmanageable.

We've given up hope of getting to Durban by Thanksgiving. Now, we're hoping we make it by Christmas.

We’ll eventually get there! Promise! Continue on our long passage to South Africa.

Crossing the Indian Ocean - Mauritius to Durban Days 9 & 10

durban days 9-10

Day 9 Miles to go:   821 nm

Midst all my griping about weather and currents the past few days, a curious thing happened. As I was was sitting in the cockpit contemplating major topics like life and what we were going to have for dinner tonight, I spotted a furry moth flying over the solar panels and fluttering his way directly towards me. Wherever could he have flown in from? We're well over a hundred miles away from the closest land.

He whizzed by my nose, flew around my head once and then dove below, under the closed cockpit slider. He was very deliberate in his actions, as if he knew exactly where he was going and had a mission. This seemed all too much like Lassie communicating that Timmy had fallen in the well. I was compelled to follow.

It took awhile to find him. He had that grey/brown camouflage coloring going for him and the lighting below was none too bright. As if to say "Here I am!", he fluttered up again and lighted on the white mast. David was snoozing peacefully and didn't look to be in any distress; he certainly hadn't fallen down the well. I scooped up our winged visitor ... felt him wriggling in my hand ... and let him go outside with an au revoir, off you go.

No dice. He was back in a second, much like our stubborn booby hitchhiker of a few weeks ago. He determinedly darted below. I followed, but couldn't find him. I can only conclude he's tired and needs a rest or has heard I've got a couple of woolen sweaters below, prime for munching. Obviously, the passage is getting to me, huh?  ;-)

The going is slow under continued grey skies. We are still caught in the clutches of the adverse current and our choices are to go west or south to evade it. To the north about 100 miles is Madagascar and, of course, east is where we've come from. So far we've obviously not been successful in breaking its grip on us. Nine  days at sea and we're not quite half way there, but close enough to have Half Way Alfredo for dinner. The grey skies have greatly reduced our solar power intake and we've had to crank on the engine an extra hour or two each day.

About 0230 on my watch, I heard a light flutter and saw a shadowy wisp of wings fly over the starboard rail. The moth gave up on a free ride aboard Nine of Cups ...  he could fly much faster than we were sailing.

Day 10 Miles to go:  712 nm

Change of watch at 2100. I snuggled down in the sea berth. It's been chilly on night watch and the blankets were still warm from David's nap. David was letting out a bit more jib. I could hear the furling line go out and then the winch, trimming it up ... and then a lot of fluttering and luffing ... much more than expected. The flashlight beam bounced around on deck. My "what's going on?" question brought an unexpected response. "The jib halyard has parted!"

I turned on the spreader lights to get a better look and there dangling in the wind was part of the jib halyard, all frayed and parted. We managed to furl the jib. David let out the staysail and I went back to sleep. Repairs are always best kept till the morning light, if possible. Something to noodle about all night long.

The light winds continued till there was barely any wind at all. Not good for sailing, but good for taking down the jib and replacing the parted halyard with a spare one. I woke up groggy; David was ready to tackle the repair. The jib came down easily in a great mass on the foredeck with David's guidance. He cut off the old halyard and attached the spare using a halyard hitch (Clifford Ashley's Book of Knots comes to the rescue again!). We were set to go. Well, not quite.

David had noticed some chafe on the starboard sheet at the clew. It made sense to take care of it now. He shortened the sheet by a foot, whipped it and reattached it to the jib. Now, we were ready to go. Well, not quite.

I was at the bow, ready to guide the jib up the furler and noticed the collar on the furler foil was loose. David grabbed his tools, went forward and tightened it up. Good to go. Well, not quite.

Back in position at the bow, I noticed the orientation of the furler looked odd. Now what? David came forward, gathered more tools and set to work again. He discovered the furler cage had somehow worked loose and he wasn't sure what caused the misalignment, but he fixed what needed fixing. NOW ... We were ready to hoist the jib get underway again. Really!

We are just entering the Mozambique Channel. Pretty much out of the cyclone zone, but still at risk for South Africa's notorious Wild Coast "south-busters".

Continue on to Durban with us on our Indian Ocean crossing.

Crossing the Indian Ocean - Mauritius to Durban Days 6-8

 

Day 6 Miles to go:  1006 nm

The past few nights have been very clear, so stargazing has taken up chunks of my night watches. My favorite constellation, Orion, is directly overhead when I take over the watch at midnight. I always greet him like an old friend "Hello, Orion!", and figure he's standing watch with me. I admit to talking to stars, the rising moon, the rising sun and a planet (usually Venus) quite regularly. They don't answer, but they're good listeners. Talk to other cruisers, this isn't all that abnormal.

The rising moon usually gets a lot of attention because although I know it's going to be rising in the eastern sky, it nearly always startles me when I first see it. Bright lights on the horizon at night are usually ships. The moon does a kind of head-fake thing, showing herself, ducking behind a cloud, and then bursting up from the pitch black horizon, all bright and yellow and huge. I invariably do a double-take, get a tiny adrenalin rush and then sigh, "It's only the moon." I chide myself because I'm fooled like this quite often. David admits to the same thing ...  startled by a stealth moon.

The weather forecast isn't all that encouraging for the next 24 hours. Southwest winds (those would be nose-erlies once again) and big southerly swells 17-21' (5-6 m) probably remnants from a nasty low way south of us. Don't worry about what you can't control. Just be ready for it. Heaving-to might well be in our future.

Day 7 Miles to go:  1001 nm

A grey sky and another darned adverse current greeted me on my 0600 watch. We figure the island of Madagascar causes all kinds of errant eddies and current deviations even though we're more than 100 miles offshore.We're finding them all, it seems, and you can only imagine our frustration as we watch our speed and mileage drop by a knot or more for hours at a time. The wind was steady from the NNE at 15 knots.

The sun rose, but hid himself behind a mottled sky. Patches of washed-out blue showed through every once in awhile, but were gobbled up quickly by massive grey clouds that portended a crappy day ahead. How many shades of grey are there?

Around 1500, the wind died. We had dead calm and black clouds gathered in tight thin bands before us. Trouble ahead. Maybe just a squall, but based on the forecast, probably not. We reefed the main and pulled in the staysail and waited. It didn't take long. As fast as you can say, "Here it comes!", the wind switched to the south with a mighty vengeance and climbed to 30 knots. We tacked. Waves built quickly and crashed on the bow. We were close-hauled once again and the ride was miserable ... tough on Cups and tough on the crew.

We hunkered down below, both cuddled up on the starboard settee with the iPad and remote instrument control on the saloon table in front of us. It was too nasty to read. We dozed. It was too yucky to even chat. We each took a Stugeron in hopes of staving off the dreaded mal de mer. By 1800, with waves continuing to build and Marcie succumbing to seasickness, we hove-to. The noise subsided almost instantly and life below became somewhat tolerable. The wind gen was having problems and while Marcie attempted to sleep away the nausea, David attempted to fix the wind gen issue. After over an hour, with David hanging precariously over the rail, he was successful. Marcie was not. We decided to wait it out and remain hove-to. Dinner was easy enough. I'd prepped it earlier in the day. David took over the cooking ... a meal for one. I was down for the count.

We hove-to all night long. Marcie mostly slept. David mostly didn't. Heaving-to is like parking the boat in the middle of the ocean using the mainsail and jib in counterbalanced positions ... not to be confused with Marcie's type of heaving. Cups just floats over the waves. Comparative to the bucking, rolling and pitching we'd been experiencing, this was heaven. Typically, when hove-to, Cups drifts a half knot or so each hour. Aided by the strong SSW wind and the east setting current, we found ourselves drifting northeast 3-4 knots/ hour. All those hard fought miles and we were drifting backwards!

By 0600, we were ready to tackle the winds and seas again. The winds had lessened a bit to the mid-20s, but were still howling from the SSW. The waves were 12-15', but at a  12-second period, so tolerable. It was grey and raw. The sea was all churned up and foamy. The wind lopped the tops off the waves like a guillotine. David adjusted the sails ... a double-reefed main, a reefed jib, a little staysail ... and we pointed Cups in the right direction again, looking to recover those lost precious miles and make some forward progress.

The morning mileage tally told the sad tale. We'd sailed a paltry 83 miles in the last 24 hours ... 32 miles backwards and only 5 miles to the good. Just for kicks, David calculated days remaining in the passage at today's average speed, a whopping .2 knots/hour. 5002 days! For sure, I haven't provisioned nearly enough. If only we could walk on water, we'd get there much faster.

Day 8 Miles to go:  923 nm

The sky has remained grey and the wind is a constant blow from the southwest, but seems to be slowly lessening. The barometer is rising slowly. Perhaps the worst has passed by. We've not transmitted or received SailMail in the last day or so, but our 2-day old forecast indicates this weather should move on to plague some other sailor in about 24 hours. We're hoping it's still accurate because we're watching the clock.

The going is still slow. The 1-knot counter-current still has us in its grasp and why wouldn't it? We're sailing the same track we did yesterday and at Noon today, we still have 13 miles to go to make up for our lost mileage yesterday. (Note:I just re-read this and thought "Boohoo, poor Marcie, is feeling sorry for herself." Nah, don't think that at all. This just gives a picture of what living aboard and sailing is like ... some good, some crappy. Just like life, in general .. not all beautiful sunrises and sandy beaches.)

As I sit in the cockpit, getting knocked about by the wind and waves, but still comfortable enough, I daydream. No reading or writing possible at the moment. I think of luxurious, hot showers that wash away the salt and grime of a long, hard passage. I think of the pleasure and relief when Nine of Cups is berthed and her dock lines are secure and tidy in the Durban Marina. I think about roasting a small turkey that barely fits into the galley oven and that will cost us a small fortune, but we'll buy it anyway. I think about shopping for all the things that will make our Thanksgiving a particularly special and traditional occasion for us, like cranberry sauce and a pumpkin pie. Just the shopping excursion itself will be a pleasure. I conjure up all these images and more, and while the waves are crashing over the bow and the wind shrieks through the rigging, I can't help but smile at the things we sometimes take for granted.