Our entry into Cape Town was rather spectacular! It seemed to be an echo of the entire trip. We had sailed through 3 big weather systems – the biggest being “The Bugger” and the scariest being the one that came out of nowhere and rounded us up three separate times with gusts above 60kts. While we’d known there was a last weather system to be endured before we reached Cape Town, we had all secretly hoped the winds wouldn’t peak above the forecasted 40 knots. They hardly did. However, in the small print, the liars snuck in that there would be 5 to 7 meter swells and while the wind over wave effect wasn’t  too bad (still whipping up spume and throwing it about), the swells really did come and they were every bit as big as the forecast said. We were up and down so significantly that a ruddy big oil tanker about a mile off our starboard side was only visible every 30 seconds or so (and hence my comment about technology – because we could see him on the chart plotted, but infrequently in real life).

Finding the buoys marking the entry channel into the harbor was also stupidly challenging. They are clearly marked on the chart, together with their light characteristics (color, flashes, timing), but we were almost on top of them before we could actually see them. I eventually spotted them from the cockpit, having climbed up on the winch pedestals while hanging on for dear life! Our plan was to head up the channel and try and get some respite from the seas by hiding behind the breakwater and then get the boat ready for docking. Breakwater be damned – frankly water just piled over the top of it shooting up into the air about 100 feet. It was like a fat man’s underpants trying to stop farts from spilling over.

We needed to get the main sail down, having earlier dealt with the head sail. There was a level of relief all around when the engine started first time without any problem, about 2 minutes before we entered the channel.  When it came to getting the sail down I’m not sure the phrase “well oiled machine” comes to mind, after all, we hadn’t dropped the main for almost 3 weeks, but we manhandled it down and got it tied up, all the while the boat was bobbing like a cork in a hot tub with the wind trying to whip the sail off the boat (we’d lost the port lazy jacks some days earlier, after one of the storm systems hit). With the main down, the skipper deftly squeezed the boat through the narrow entrance into the first of three basins that make the V&A water front.

Now, can someone help me here, because I’m truly ignorant – shouldn’t the A in V&A stand for Albert – where the V is for Victoria? Here it’s plastered all over the place as Alfred – is that right? Who the hell was Alfred and didn’t Albert mind that his bride was clearly holidaying overseas with a man who sounded like him, but wasn’t. Victorian values may not have been everything they are made out to have been! Late breaking news! Alfred was Victoria’s son – mystery solved – incest!

Anyway! Once inside the basin the seas subsided and that afforded us some cover to get the lines and fenders on. Thomas opened the hatch to the fore peak where everything needed for docking was stored. The most important job we had allocated for when the forepeak hatch was opened, was to get the beer into the freezer, which was in the forepeak and to do so as we set the lines, giving us about thirty minutes of freezer time to chill the beer. Because Thomas was going to be primarily concerned with getting the lines and fenders up and into our hands on deck, we allocated the beer cooling to one of us – Juan in this case. As Thomas popped his head up and pushed the massive metal hatch up for two of us to latch back, Juan moved forward to drop down the ladders and get to his job. The importance of his role cannot be overstated. However, Thomas was blocking Juan’s entry and here we were in a howling gale, pouring rain and trying to get the boat ready to dock in an alien place in the pitch black. There is always some tension associated with docking, and these were extreme conditions. Asking Thomas to move to allow the beer run to continue might be a request too many. Thomas is a serious and safe seaman. However, the entire event came to a conclusion when Thomas announced “The beer is in the freezer,”and thus showing his ability to juggle multiple important priorities. 

The fenders for a boat this size aren’t your mamby pamby white and grey leisure boat sort of fender – these are massive buggers, one being obscenely round and big and red, weighing a ton and, because of its shape, it provides massive windage and here we were with massive winds. Once on deck it took me sideways at a rate of knots and I had to wrestle it down using my entire body weight! Now – why would the weather cooperate when it didn’t need to?! So as we prepared the boat to dock – the heavens opened going from nastily heavy rain to a deluge of water falling in massive, heavy drops and of course, the wind chimed in and we got a proper good soaking. I hate sailing – it’s stupid! 

No sooner we’re all the lines and fenders secured and frankly, admired by the first mate Thomas, when the skipper declared – change of plan, move them all to the other side. Dutifully, we obliged – well what are you going to do when you’ve travelled 3,729 miles to get somewhere and all that stands between you and the end – are the lines and fenders being on the wrong side. We moved them. It continued to rain!

The boat is owned by the infamous ocean sailer, Skip Novak, who made his name racing in the Whitbread around the world races (now the Volvo) and later as an expert in high latitude sailing. He is a character and we eventually got to meet him the day after we docked, but what you need to know for now is that he has his network of old sailing buddies, one of whom owns the boat yard right in the middle of the inner basin at the V&A. It is the only undeveloped site around the waterfront and likely worth multiple millions. Manuel owns the boat yard, but not the real estate. Manuel is a very large, round looking man with a character to match and he had sailed with Skip back in the 70’s an 80’s. He had a huge 120 foot motor cruiser stuck on the end of his pontoon and we were to raft up to this mammoth vessel, which would dwarf our sail boat, but provide a good place for us to rest.

With the rain throwing it down and the darkness of the night almost total, we eased into the middle basin where we saw our berth for the night for the first time. At first glance it looked like a simple ferry glide into the wind to gently nuzzle up against the big bugger that was sat there. As we drifted in, we could just see that this vessel had a bow line out at 90 degrees – which meant we had very little margin of error at the front, otherwise we would snag that line. What we didn’t spot was the very black stern line which came out at 90 degrees to the back of the boat. Black line, black water, black night. The skipper gently put us right on our target and Thomas climbed onto the mother yacht and started to take lines from us and tie them on. Other than a security guard who was on board, the boat was empty.

There are a few things to point out about tying a boat up. First, there are two different sets of lines – the obvious ones that you tie up the bow, stern and mid ship which basically stop the boat moving off the pier (in this case our pier was the big motor cruiser), and then there are Spring lines, which are used to stop the boat moving forward or backward and they go from the boat directly forward or aft to the peer –  so stopping that zig zag kind of action. So that means you can have 6 or more lines connecting a big boat like ours to wherever you want to attach to. The second thing you need to know is that whenever you have more than one sailor involved, you will have more than one view of where these line come from and go to. We had eight sailors and therefore at least eight declarative opinions. In fact, each of us had multiple views – so opinions abounded.

Consequently, once we were initially tied up, then the “more secure” options were shared and all of a sudden, lines and fenders were being swapped out and the boat was moved forward and back wards. Remember that stern line coming off the motor cruiser – neither did we and guess what happened – yes it snagged onto our propeller. The engine stalled. The skipper let forth with a string of cuss words, individually suggesting frustration, collectively indicating we were done docking this boat. All the while, the rain, it poured!

I dropped down the three steps from the cockpit into the pilot house, undid my life jacket and nodded at Juan, who asked “Should I do it Nick?” I nodded back! He went down the boat to the forepeak and retrieved the beer. As the first can popped, the first alcohol for any of us for 21 days, even the most ardent of spring line provocateurs switched their mission form active docking mode to inclusive drinking mode. Dave, our excellent skipper was still shacking his head at the thought of once again having to clear the prop (which we insisted he didn’t and in fact Skip Novak adopted my earlier plan B and called Acme Divers who came the next day and in less then three minutes freed us up – no, they weren’t really called Acme!). It was now after midnight, and the six unpaid crew were all ready to dig in for a while, regardless of the impending early start to complete immigration and customs. Dave and Thomas ducked out at about 02.30 and the rest of us shortly after 03.00. We had moved on from beer to red wine – a case of which had surfaced the evening before, to allow me to get some flavor into a three bean chili with only onion and meat, three cans of beans of dubious provenance , no chili power, instead Tabasco! Ernesto, our resident Human Rights Lawyer from Colombia, kept disappearing down the boat returning with bottle after bottle, insisting that no one move “I have more gifts for you!” Sharing to the end!

It was slowly dawning on all of us that we had actually just successfully sailed one of the ugliest stretches of water in the world, The South Atlantic Ocean and survived it. Not a single one of us would have listed loss of life as a possible outcome at the start of the journey. We were on a big boat with an experienced skipper (who was only 31, but who’s head was certainly much older and who has crossed the Atlantic 12 times already, two on this boat on these seas). This boat successfully made this delivery voyage every year. Last year it only sailed for 2 of 20 days – no wind. This year we sailed on 20 of 20 days, with the engine assisting on a couple. Last year they hadn’t even smelled a weather system. This year we had the lingering after taste of numerous! We’d all sat and stood in that very pilot house that was now our party venue – and watched the wind gauges zip up to 70 knot gusts, burying the entire boat in swirling water – and individually thought – “What if we go down here?”

I’m sure I’ll reflect and share after a little time, but the reality is I don’t know whether I would have done this trip had I known the specifics of what did happen. Knowing it could happen versus it would happen gave me leeway in assessing the practical realities of the thing. However, I have now done it and I am so very happy I did. I learned to live in close proximity to a bunch of 5 guys who I didn’t know from Adam, but who I depended on on a daily basis, to not screw up on their watch and allow something life threatening to happen. 

I also got to know them in a uniques way, and they are all unique. Edgar, the Intensive Care Consultant and ship’s quack. Juan, the young, questioning and effervescent Colombian real estate lawyer. Tig, the enigmatic Canadian doctoral data collector. James, the sailing nut and technocrat who could reduce anything down to a level of detail that made all things a lengthy discussion. And lastly Ernesto, the urbane Human Rights lawyer and academic who had the silliest laugh, a growing English vocabulary and a ready word in whit and wisdom. We’d been herded like children at times, by Dave, our young, but highly qualified skipper, who could switch in a heart beat from friend to boss and who was always switched on and engaged in every aspect of managing the boat – inside and out. Lastly, Thomas, the workhorse seaman who intuitively knew what should be happening and was quick to point out when it wasn’t. He is a philosopher and journeyman – quite the combination.

Let’s not forget Pelagic Australis – she is just an out and out enigma. She looks like a sailboat, but behaves more like a tug boat at times. She sits proud under sail and threatening under engine. She rolls like a rocking chair and she’ll hurt you if you don’t pay attention to her movements – bruises to prove it. Never touch one of her sheets without thought and commitment. These are not your normal sail boat tensions and power levels. If you take a sheet off the winch, you better have your hands the right way round and your core engaged – she will pull you, even in a light breeze. In the end we could all work her, but it took time. You better pay attention and be quick if something doen’t move the way it should – it means there’s a jam and if you try to keep grinding through it – it will lead to terrible consequences (we lost the lazy jacks – just saying)!

Thank you to you guys who bothered to read this stuff and sent through comments of support. It was most comforting to know you were there. Alice Bear did a wonderful job of editing and posting and then feeding back the comments. She had to deal with the limitations of a satellite connection.  

Finally, thank you to the wonderful Bernadette, who once again patiently put up with me – as we stretched our relationship across an ocean and squeezed out thoughts and words through a short phone call with a lengthy atmospheric delay making spontaneous discourse an impossibility – functional only.  

So here I am sitting on the docks in the V&A Water Front, writing this last piece (probably!) and thinking how grand life is to be here in Cape Town waiting for Bernadette’s plane to arrive later this morning and with the prospect of having drinks tonight with my sailing buddies – and not a three hour watch insight!

We took a much bigger boat and sailed an infinitely bigger and angry ocean and learned to drink real man’s coffee and even eat an egg sandwich I hadn’t made, but I still can’t live with curly hairs sprouting from my eye brows – there are limits.

So what’s next……

Pip pip