Trial by Tasman - a delivery tale
''Just as I finished, there was a ominous lull and then an oncoming freight train roar. The boat was picked up, smashed down on her side and flick rolled through 360 degrees.''
Ann Waring
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Lindsay Wright reflects on a memorable trans-Tasman delivery trip
'The boat's in great shape,' the owner assured me, 'we've raced it every weekend for the last ten years.'
For a start, I automatically mistrust anyone who calls a boat 'it.' Using the impersonal general usage pronoun means that that person views their vessel as a mere chattel. It means that they've missed the preternatural link between boats and people; the spiritual aspect of boat husbandry that has been part of human contact with the oceans since primordial time.
Of all humanities' creations, boats have changed least. Since the second wave of seafarers discovered that a pointed log moved through the water better than a blunt log, the basic shape has remained unchanged; sharp at the leading edge.
So too has the affection real sailors feel for the vessel that's keeping them alive in the completely alien environment that covers 75% of our planet. People who experience the spiritual bond that forms between sailors, their boats and the sea have a different attitude towards their boats. They buy the best gear, not the cheapest. They take pleasure in caring for their boats themselves - and getting to know every centimeter of her.
To weekend racing yachties, a boat is just another piece of gym equipment. They throw their gear aboard, hoist sail and thrash the boat around the course, motor back to the marina, have a few beers and go home. Equipment is replaced as it breaks, proactive maintenance is generally zilch and, when the boat is worn out, it's replaced by a newer model.
This owner had relocated to Auckland after several years doing business in Sydney and wanted his Yamaha 33 delivered across the Tasman. I knew the marque, the Yamahas are production built in Japan out of fiberglass to a Dick Carter design and are capable little boats in the right hands.
I quoted a price, bearing in mind that it was mid winter and the boat was small and the owner readily agreed, which straight away made me think I should have doubled it.
Next I rang an old mate, Grant (Digby) Folley, to see if he'd like to come along. He's the sort of bloke you want to be with on a tough trip at sea. He knows boats, as a boat builder, fisherman and sailor, is tough and imperturbable and good company. 'Yeah,' he said, 'sounds like a bit of fun.I'll be into that.'
Midwinter in the Tasman can be pretty rugged and at least 30 - 40 % of the 1300 nautical mile passage would probably be sailed in gale or storm conditions, but the prevailing winds are from the west and we'd be heading east so we could look forward to a fast passage.
The owner, in business suit and tie, met us in Auckland and gave us money for expenses. 'Best thing I ever did, coming back to New Zealand,' he enthused. 'This would have cost me twice as much in Sydney,' and he slapped the dashboard of his Japanese import Mercedes Benz.
A few hours later we were standing on a marina pier in Sydney looking down at the boat. She didn't look too bad from the outside; the topsides (between waterline and deck) were a bit chalky, but that's just cosmetic and the deck gear was all good quality and worked okay. We rummaged around in a cockpit locker for the key and let ourselves inside, sat down and quietly appraised the boats condition.
The lower shroud chainplates were affixed to plywood gussets below the deck, Water had run down the rigging and rotted the plywood - they'd have to be replaced. The 12 horsepower Yanmar engine, under the vee berth forward, was rusty and didn't look like it had been maintained for years - it would need a full service, new fuel filters and clean fuel tanks. The batteries were dead flat. The seacocks were bronze gate valves, seized open or closed and covered in green verdigris. They would have to be replaced.
We opened all the hatches and the little yacht seemed to give a sigh of relief as the air and light flowed through her. Next we dragged the bagged sails on deck and down to the adjacent car park. There was a fair selection, as you'd expect in a raced boat, but they were all well used and some would need to be treated very gently.
Like a lot of yachts that only go from marina to marina, there was a shortage of spare rope and cordage and just a few rusty tools in a box below the sink.
'Where do we start?' Digby laughed.
Over the next few days we overhauled all the winches, freed and lubricated blocks and sheaves in the rigging, checked the rig out completely and applied chafe gear to the spreaders, drained and cleaned the fuel tank, cleaned and greased the propeller shaft bearings, serviced the engine and gearbox, changed the oil and fuel filters, scrubbed and aired the boat out and thoroughly checked her structural integrity.
On the third day the owner rang. 'Have you left yet?' he demanded. 'What the hell are you doing? - I thought you'd be well on your way by now.' I patiently detailed what we were doing. 'It was in perfect order when I left it,' he blustered.
Next we hauled her out of the water at a local boatyard. All the seacocks, and quite a lot of the plumbing were replaced, with new stainless steel double hose clamps to replace the rusty, or non existent, old ones. We used the yard's workshop tools to cut new plywood gussets, fibreglassed them in and refastened the lower shroud chainplates. Loose keel bolts were tightened. The lower rudder gudgeon was almost completely flogged out so we had a nylon spacer made for it. The batteries, which wouldn't hold charge, were replaced. Then, for no other reason then that she was out of the water, we gave her a fresh coat of antifouling.
'What the hell are you doing over there?' the owner asked tersely over the phone. I patiently explained that Digby and I were taking a small yacht across the Tasman in the middle of winter, our lives were on the line, and we wouldn't be leaving until we were happy with her seaworthiness. 'Nothing wrong with it,' he countered grumpily, 'I did a race on it the weekend before I left Sydney.'
We spent a day sailing on Sydney harbour, tried all the sails out and dropped in on a local racing fleet to see how we matched up. 'What d'you reckon?' I asked Digby. 'Fit for purpose,' he smiled.
The next day was a Thursday. With a promising long term Tasman forecast obtained from the local coastguard, we filled the fuel and water tanks and jerry cans then motored down the harbour to clear customs. 'Sorry fellas,' the customs officer shook his head, 'we can't let you leave the country 'til we get an export permit from the boats owner.'
So we motored back up the harbour, rang the owner, got his fax number and faxed him a copy of the blank Australian Customs Export Permit form. By about mid afternoon he had faxed the filled copy back and we motored back to the customs office. 'Weelll.you've left it a bit late in the day for us to issue a permit,' the officer shook his head doubtfully, like we'd just asked him to re-write the bible before tea time, 'come back in the morning and we'll see what we can do.'
Friday is a bad day to depart on an on an ocean voyage. It's an old superstition among seafarers but, like throwing plastic overboard, it's best just not to do anything that might rile Tangaroa, if you're heading out into the Tasman.
So we kicked our heels in Sydney for one more day, pottered around improving the boat, plotting and re-plotting courses across the Tasman and calculating likely ETA's. A good run to Auckland would have been eight days, we could expect 10 - 12 days under normal conditions and 14 days would still be tolerable. Anything over that and we may as well be walking.
The permit was issued and customs cleared Friday afternoon so we anchored down near the heads and snoozed until midnight and Saturday before making sail and heading for New Zealand.
The huge anticyclone that had made a Thursday departure so favourable was still there but had tracked south a little to give us about 10 knots of south easterly. We didn't mind, she was a windward boat and soared over the low ocean swells while we lolled in the cockpit yarning. By morning, Australia had disappeared astern and we made steady progress eastwards on a dying breeze.
For a few more days we nursed the boat eastwards in light air and then the barometer plummeted. The sky turned the colour of bruised liver and a tangible feeling of menace chilled down around us. 'Whew man..I'd say we're in for a hiding,' Digby said nervously. We took the two spinnaker halyards and fastened them to the forward mooring cleats for extra support for the mast, dropped the mainsail in a steadily building south easterly wind and did the same aft with the mainsail halyard and topping lift. We lashed the mainsail tightly to the boom and lashed it on deck and double checked everything inside the boat to make sure it wasn't likely to come adrift, then made a big pot of stew to keep us going through the blow.
By now it was blowing quite fresh, close to gale and we reached off to the north east under a storm jib. All night the wind steadily rose until it shrieked through the rigging and sent fusillades of salts spray scything across the deck. We took turns about steering and attempting to sleep. At around about 0200 I engaged the autopilot and shot below to fix our position on the chart. Just as I finished, there was a ominous lull and then an oncoming freight train roar. The boat was picked up, smashed down on her side and flick rolled through 360 degrees. By the time my overtired brain had caught on that we were upside down we were upright again. I staggered up to where Digby was sleeping on a squab on the saloon floor.
'F***,' he asked, 'what happened?' Small geysers of seawater sprung from holes in the mast, letting out water which had filled the mast while she was upside down. The 20 litre jerry cans of fresh water and fuel which we had stowed under a bunk had come out and bombarded Digby where he lay on the cabin sole and several litres of water which had come in through the hatch sloshed around in the boats flat bilges.
As we stood, stunned, looking at the debris there was another ominous lull and another freight trains roar. 'Hang on,' I yelled as tens of tonnes of raging seawater smashed into our starboard side, flung the boat bodily sideways and rolled her through another 360 degrees.
'F*** this,' Digby yelled, 'we'd better run off.' I jumped to the cockpit, fighting through the flattened canvas dodger and flicked the autopilot off. Everything seemed to be okay, the mast still weaved crazily at the black sky, among the roiling clouds and I pulled the tiller to ease her off the wind and eased the storm jib sheets as she settled to her new course. Big black seas tumbled and crashed around us but the brave little boat bobbed among them like a resting seabird.
I saw a kerosene lamp flare into life below deck, the hatch slid back and Digby's head appeared. 'Doesn't look too bad down here.doesn't seem to be any water coming in,' he said drily, 'fancy a cuppa?'
Within a few hours we'd sponged the bilges out and got the boat back to normal, if a little soggy. The only victim seemed to be the HF radio, which hadn't worked that well anyway and most importantly, the hull, rig and steering seemed to be okay.
For another 48 hours we ran with it, in exactly the opposite direction to where we wanted to go, but alive and, eventually, exhilarated by the wild conditions.
Two weeks of easterly wind in the Tasman, in mid winter, is almost unheard of.but we had 'em; from storm force to gentle zephyr. We considered alternative landfalls to suit the wind direction; Nelson, Wellington, New Plymouth, Manukau. We burned most of our fuel supplies in the still weather, leaving a small reserve to motor up Auckland Harbour or through any coastal calms.
The main boom broke in half due to metal fatigue caused, I suspect, by years of over zealous weekend sailors grunting on the vang tackle. We rigged a bridle for the mainsheet and flew the sail loose footed where it seemed to be more effective, off the wind anyway.
Finally, 14 days out of Sydney and 136 miles north of New Zealand, we decided to tack and head for the stable door. Our new direction should have taken us west of Cape Reinga but as we progressed southwards the wind freed us until the brave wee sailboat forged past North Cape on a broad reach with a bone in her mouth.
We whooped and slapped her flanks, urging her on, like cowboys whipping their horses. Further south we hoisted a spinnaker and settled back in the cockpit, drinking the last of the duty free wine and counting off the coastal lighthouses as they passed in the dark. Moonlight sparkled across the water and we told sea stories, joked and laughed as the ocean passage tensions eased out of our bodies. We carried the spinnaker shy almost to Bean Rock then peeled down to a genoa for the beat up the harbour just as the days first sunlight swamped the scene.
I called Auckland harbour control on the VHF radio to arrange customs clearance. 'Aahh - there's a few people here who'll be pleased to see you,' the operator said, 'you were posted as missing a few days ago.'
New Zealand's cheerful; and efficient customs people met us at Kings Steps in the harbour and, formalities completed, we motored over to the allocated berth at Westhaven marina, tied the boat up and packed our bags.
Then we sat in the cockpit, basking in the sun and soaking up the blessed quietitude that comes with the end of an ocean passage. Nothing moves, there's nothing to be done and the job is over. There's also a reluctance to leave the boat you've come to know and respect - every boat's a good boat at the end of the trip. It's like the final leavetaking from an old friend you've shared many adventures with.
A car scrunched into the gravel car park and the boats owner bustled down the wharf; harassed and sweating. He stopped beside the boat and ran his finger round inside his shirt collar. 'Oh,' he said, 'I see you've broken its boom.'
by Lindsay Wright 
Cottesloe, WA
