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March 12, early-tern time
Awoke at dawn at the sound of birds. The loudest and largest bird was the the lithesome blonde clattering along the floating jetty again, having just left a large catamaran to go to the Club Mykonos showers. From my bed on the open deck I watched sea-birds taking off from the surrounding hills or wheeling about the swaying masts. Our yacht's stern swung gently on an arc of about 10 degrees.
An hour later the news came via a radio speaker on deck: South Africa were 124 runs for no wickets against England in the World Cup semi-final. And the South-Easter was blowing at near-gale force.
"It looks like we won't be moving today," said Cap'n Henton Jaabeck.
Then its mutiny, I thought, for I intended, at some time late in the day, to get out of my sack and find a television set on which to witness SA's Famous Victoree which the (SA) cricket commentators were already discussing.
Also, Craig and Cheryl were moving so fast, they were back in Cape Town by car before the sun reached the yardarm. For the rest of us, breakfast in the cockpit, listening to the Melbourne cricket. As the sun beat down, duty called, and I hosed myself and Thor's deck. So shipshape and spicspan was she after this expert wash that I refused to let aboard Barry, Nicky or Lerie, returning from windswept beaches and things, until they had taken off their shoes and emptied all pockets and combed the sand out of their hair.
At noon we moved to the Club Mykonos conference centre bar, and stationed ourselves in front of those gathering to witness the promised Famous Victoree. We consoled ourselves at the bar as South Africa moved from certain triumph to certain defeat.
Lunch aboard, and then I organised my first deliberate afternoon sleep in years. Took the fore cabin, vacated by Cheryl and Craig. Sunny, dry, still - and as comfortable a reading room as one could find. A book on "The Changing Past" (an anaylsis of the interpretations of SA historians) was almost as stimulating as the beer and lunch.
Awoke as the sun went down and joined Nicky and Lerie at the Club Mykonos Health Centre where there were hot saunas, cool splash pools and cold showers. Warm dinner followed; and an early hit-the-deck.
This day had provided the kind of excitement and sea-adventure and challenge which we seafarers dream about. Friday the 13th, sailor's delight
The news: 40-knot, Force 8 gale blowing directly from Cape Town where we were supposed to be heading. Cap'n was organising a Kombi to come up the coast and take us back; leaving the yacht where she was berthed.
While in the showers on land, Barry came to tell us the skipper had changed his mind. Henton believed that the broadcast gale warning was wrong. It must be yesterday's forecast. . . the barometre was dropping.
We hurriedly set sail at 10 am. Crossed the bay in a North-Westerly direction at 7 knots. Smooth sailing on a lee shore under the bows of the Great Eagle. But round the corner the seas were big, blue and covered in white foam. Naval PTBs were bouncing on the high, steep waves. There were great breakers on either side of us as we steered between the island and the southern shore. And interesting seas ahead.
Once, but only once, the bow dipped so deeply into the oncoming waves that we shipped water over the forward hatch - the spray reaching halfway up the mast. The mainsail, close-hauled, and the "Japanese Sail", at 2400 revs instead of 2700, were our only power.
We set a 185 degree course, straight into the wind, and straight for the eastern rocks of Dassen Island, and Table Mountain beyond.
Cup o' Soups, and much snacking and tea- and coffee-drinking all the way today. Seas lessening rapidly - but increasingly choppy. Try reading, but suspicion of nausea instantly arrives. Clearly not a good book. Lerie must have been drinking very heavily last night, because she now has that greenish tinge which I know so well after particularly hectic celebrations. I give her a whole pill, and she curls up and sleeps for hours.
Pass Dassen Island at 2.30pm, still motoring. A school of dolphins has been waiting nearby to greet us. They leap ecstatically in all directions. Several of them actually do back-flips; even double-somersaults above the waves! Some complete their aerobatics by returning to the water tail first. The school goes by in a great flurry, but six detach themselves from the mob, and race with the yacht, weaving among themselves as they zigzag under the boat. They seem to enjoy being right under the bow as it smacks down after cresting a wave. We can almost touch them if we lie on the deck and lean over. Fearing some-one's vomited sea-sickness, they suddenly depart.
At about fifteen hundred hours the auto-steering comes on duty for the first time. 'Invisible George' is a slacker, but he does a better job staying on course than any of us. Barry and I complimented him several times and patted his invisible shoulder.
"Perhaps he was the helmsman of the Marie Celeste," Barry speculates. George says nothing.
We sail passed Ysterfontein, Bokbaai, and the romantic towers of the nuclear plant. George is about to take us down the channel off the eastern shore of Robben Island when an instant South-Easter suddenly hits us - blowing 25 knots and rising. We raise the foresail and tack to starboard. George is not so smart after all.
The wind dies as suddenly as it rises; registering less than 10 as we resort again to motoring. It is strangely calm as we reach the North-West point of the island. . .a surprisingly green, wooded, rocky-edged island. The wreck of a great racing yacht lies, high and dry, five metres above the surf; the folly of one of Cape Town's famous yachtsmen who once forgot Robben Island was there.
As the sun sinks, Devil's Peak, Table Mountain, Lion's Head, Signal Hill, the Apostles, the Carbuncle all rise up to embrace us. They present a grand, almost awe-inspiring sight in that setting.
At nineteen forty five hours the day finally dies, and Cape Town sparkles in her own lights. As we approach the winking, red portlight, the night is so still we can hear a band playing on the waterfront. Worse, we can hear singing, interrupted by short blasts of protest from the sirens of small ships manouevring around us.
Once inside the breakwater we are too busy getting shipshape, pulling down and reefing up sails, to observe the harbour scene.
In time we discover that if half the crew desist from reefing up while the others are pulling down, we're going to get home sooner. Then comes the incomprehensible berthing ballet routine, with some crew throwing ropes into the water; others failing to find them, and others falling about on the green-slime floating planks. Tying up takes some time, but I am a patient man. The extra ballyhoo of this terminal stop allows the hardest workers to finish off the final stocks of beer and whisky. Brilliant timing, in fact.
The rigours of our storm-tossed voyage are marked on the flushed weary faces of the crew. The damage to our vessel reflects the perils we have faced. A fender has disappeared, lost somewhere in the deep! We stare at each other in wild surmise. Some suspect I have stuck the missing fender up my jersey. . .but that's beer. Nature has taken its toll (on the valiant yacht, you understand).
We stagger ashore, cram our gear into Nicky's car and drive to Craig and Cheryl's home where red wine, rich brown bread and smoked snoek await us.
Too exhausted from the voyage; too marked by the perils of the deep to contemplate sleep; we drive back to the Victoria and Albert docks which, at 11 pm are packed with people (escaping no doubt from Forries-on-the-University-Hill). Beer, oompah bands, disco and finally to bed at 2.30am, too dog-tired for the Dog Watch.
So marks the end of the epic West Coast cruise by those of the family who think they can swim.
"Cannot believe we could experience so much wind in March," said the Cap'n.
For me, and I hope the rest of the crew, it was as near-perfect, I suppose, as it is possible to be.
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