The Rose: SailBlogs

The Rose Fiji Crossing

Patricia Gans — Wed, 08 May 2013 12:22:00 -0400

Dear Friends and Family, This evening I couldn't wait to climb into my soft cozy aft cabin bunk for my 2 hour rest preceding my watch. We had just finished a glorious day of perfect 12 knot breezes and the free flying blueness of our colored sail dashing across an otherwise abandoned sea-abandoned that is except for the booming life below its surface. Just as a windswept cloudscape plunged red into the ocean silhouette at sundown we were befriended by a pod of whales. First one quietly sleeping 40 foot giant breathed lazily at the surface un- phased or unaware of our proximity as we surfed silently down a swell not a stone's throw away tugged onward by the breeze. Looking back we saw another rushing toward it as though to waken it to our passing. Soon groups of two and three and five swam along with us criss-crossing our bow, as dolphins are more apt to do, spraying us with their fishy breath blowing not a boat's length from our reach. Mesmerized we stood at the rail following with our eyes the whale prints where the oily, broiling water lay smooth over their backs just beneath the surface or behind them where they had surfaced and submerged. Were there five cavorting about us and circling back repeatedly? Or were there fifty passing us in curious groups of threes and fives? We wondered. For over an hour they swam with us. Darkness came and once dinner was done and the kitchen cleared I eagerly anticipated reconvening with the whales in my dream life. Climbing under the soft blankets I turned instinctively athwart ship in line with the sailboat's down-wind, following-sea, rolling lumber. I close my eyes and feel the big belly of the boat like a big whale belly streaming through the water. The rolling motion becomes the huge buoyant whale body swooping and pressing into the surrounding sea. Gurgling wake tickles like bubbles rolling down huge sleek smooth sides. Swimming with whales as a human in the deepwater blueness of the sea is impressive. It requires the whales to be quiet and still in their magnitude waiting and willing to meet us in our almost motionlessness and comparatively inept sea state. But swimming with them, in them, in dream is to feel their powerful weightless force barreling through their ocean world with ease. I felt them all around me as I dreamed. I felt their awareness of me as we swam. On waking I stepped out into the dark cockpit to take the watch bedazzled by the sky overhead strewn with rivers of stars glittering down toward a blurry dark horizon where indigo universe merged with inky sea. The Southern Cross was trying to lose herself in the crowded Milky Way but the pointer stars Alpha Centauri and Hadar announced her like a neon marquis. The Clouds of Magellan, two nearby galaxies, hovered half turned away, without comment, bright smudges in the crowded black emptiness. Across the way Orion reclined Romanesque on the horizon stopping to consider momentarily perhaps his never ending pursuit of the Pleiades across the heavens. Beneath me the mysterious sea tossed and sighed throwing up chunks of bioluminescence. The stern rose and rolled. A wave broke unexpectedly at our stern or perhaps it was two swells meeting and rising in summation and I wondered what it is like to be a whale in the darkness of seemingly endless black water beneath a seemingly infinite starry sky, insignificant and minute in all that surrounding magnificent hugeness. Perhaps it feels just like I do only from the other side of the mirror-like interface of sea and air. Our hulls dip down into their world as their backs dip up into ours. And the whales delineate the sphere of my consciousness, just out of view like touchstones in the void beneath me and around me as we continue to slip through the night on the back of the wind between sea and sky�... We are on our way to Fiji sailing right into a nasty Mother's day low but for now all is well and beyond magnificent. Much love, Pat and John and Jake S/V The Rose May 09, 2013, 10:42 UTC, 22:42 local time 30 deg 06 S, 175 deg 45 E (View Post...)

In the yard, On the hard...

Patricia Gans — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 04:13:00 -0400

Today, since we are stuck on the hard (out of the water) waiting for repairs, I am cleaning and organizing cupboards so we can be rid of things we don't need and find the things we do need. I am wiping everything down with white vinegar to stop mildew. I am taking stock of what supplies we have and what we will need. We've already waxed the hull and cleaned the engine and we've wire wheeled the rust from the anchor chain and anchors and repainted them. There's been work on the rudder and work on the steering and work on the rigging and new bottom paint and engine service. And none of it is finished yet so it is all in a state of complete chaos with stuff stacked everywhere so it is almost impossible to move�... So, this afternoon, I went running-well jogging actually-- winding along the shore thinking of all the running I did in the mountains of Colorado and how different it feels here on the north island of New Zealand. It's Fall here for one thing and they are suffering from a drought so the ground is all that dry-baked-mud end-of-summer packed-round-firmness and the sun is slipping to more of an angle as the days begin to shorten. Here I run through shady giant fern forests interlaced by in cuts of serpiginous shoreline so that first I am muffled in quiet whispers of breeze overhead in the tree tops and wrapped in green light through which tropical bird song echoes as my footsteps patter along softly over and down and around the rolling hills and knobby roots polished smooth by the foot tread of many wanderers. Delightful plank bridges lift me gently over seasonal creeks or alongside quiet pools down in the shadowy valleys. But just as I begin to dream into the fairy hollow enchantment of the forest, the narrow trail rises steeply to a ridge, tops the crest and breaks out of the ferns into brightness and low growing prickly gorse and sage bordering huge brilliant views of the Bay of Islands. The white capped chop on this breezy day is dotted with sailboats and rumbles with the growl of the hard working ferry and the rolling wake of a private motor yacht returning to harbor. I wind downward accompanied by the lapping of waves along a rocky oyster crusted beach and the screech of gulls complaining. The mangroves grow big as trees here along the tidal zones and at one point I rattle across a long stretch of wire wrapped boardwalk 3 feet above an expanse of mudflat interspersed with mangrove forest. The mud below makes little popping sounds as I pass. I stop to see what makes the sound but cannot discern if it is the sound of clam shells snapping shut or some other swamp creature clicking his claws or gnashing his jaws or just gas bubbles popping forth from the mud. Everything looks still. In the midst of the mudflat runs a brackish stream all the way to the bay and the trees thin along its course allowing a wonderfully fresh breeze to blow stirring the earthy stillness with the lively scents of salt and sea. The sun is warm on my skin along the beach sections and then flutters between warm and softly cool as I duck back into the leafy forest where the light dances dappling through wind rustled foliage overhead. The clouds are gathering. The gentle sunshine which accompanied the start of my run has faded with the smattering of mackerel skies coalescing directly above me while on the near horizon dark cumulus are gathering like race horses stamping and snorting at the starting gate puffing up bigger and bolder held at bay by some invisible ridge of atmospheric pressure but impatient to storm this way. In Colorado when I run, I feel like I can fly from mountain top to mountain top carried by the sunbeams. Here I feel like running low like a Maori warrior zig zagging from tree trunk to tree trunk cautious and watchful and being watched by something unseen. The feeling is a bit mysterious and a bit darker somehow but still beautiful. A few more days in the yard and the boat will be ready to "splash" and head back out to explore the nearby islands and by early May we will be on our way to Fiji and New Caledonia . I can hardly imagine that everything will find its way back to its proper place and tidy we will be. I can hardly wait. In the meantime, I can work most of the day and then I can run. All the best, Pat and John, S/V The Rose in Opua, Bay of Islands, Northland, New Zealand (View Post...)

The Rose rests in New Zealand

Patricia Gans — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 02:05:00 -0500

Dear Friends and Family, Human potential is an interesting thing. I often hear of situations which demand some bravery or presence of mind and hope that given the necessity of such circumstances I would remain calm and able to observe, experience, process and act with intention throughout the moment of difficulty. I work daily to develop my inner quiet and recognize it as my source of strength but of course without being in the fray regularly, one never knows. However after this recent experience I feel in a small way surer of myself. Originally faced with John's absence and our desire to get our boat safely from Tonga 1300 miles across open sea to New Zealand, it never occurred to me to take the boat myself across the potentially difficult crossing. I was searching for a crew to deliver the boat. But I was also conflicted about abandoning her to someone else's care. When I expressed my dilemma, I was unexpectedly and immediately offered aid from what would evolve to become a most excellent and experienced team. First to offer was a young cruising friend named Falcon who is the same age as my children far away in the states. He is strong, energetic, experienced and creative in his approach to sailing. He proved himself a great friend in his generous assistance and throughout the adventure. Second, offering the wisdom which only comes with age and also cruising experience was my Dad who on hearing of John's injury and flight to the U.S for surgery, without hesitation zoomed down from California with only 2 days notice to rush to my aid. And so it was decided that I, bolstered by their most excellent support, should bring the boat across myself-or rather as it turned out that we as a team would accomplish the deed. And it was one hundred percent as a team that we undertook the task. Initially when asked who was the captain we would shyly side step the issue but later I believe we all felt we practiced an evolving mutual respect for each member's area of expertise and generally worked from consensus. The adventure began with a windless sea so calm as to be mirror like in its reflecting of sun and cloud and even moon. For two solid days we powered across this silver blue surface marred only by the passing pumice fields. Then on the third day the wind began to blow and weather reports warned of an approaching low which was moving our way fast and building. Some boats in the loose ramada taking advantage of the narrow weather window for crossing between the gale season ending in October and the cyclone season starting in November turned back to Tonga now 300 miles behind us to flee the storm. We puzzled and problem solved and laughed and worked together in preparation for whatever came. Everything loose must be removed from deck. The solar panels had to be lashed down tight. The bimini also must be dismantled and tied down. Below deck as well everything must be carefully and securely stowed. Shells on display in a corner or a tea kettle off the stove could become dangerous missiles in rough seas. Some said the seas were 12 meters high. Others said the wind blew 60 knots. One vessel was lost at sea apparently struck by a rogue wave. Her injured crew was more than 18 hours in the water awaiting rescue. We saw 4 meter seas and up to 40 knots of wind made worse by the confused and lumpy sea state but made better by beautiful squalls sparkling in the back lighting of bright sunshine and even rainbows. The seas were rough enough that Falcon tied a thick line in my kitchen which I could use to tie myself to the grab rail freeing my hands for cooking and which I found myself also using as a belay line essential to fetch things from various cabinets within reach. At times I literally climbed my way hand over hand up the rope back to the kitchen stove which banged against the hull and my grab bar alternately at the full extent of its gimble. At one point I recall looking up from the cockpit to see an approaching swell, dark and hugely menacing, it's top whipped white by wind rearing high and vertical well over our heads just before it crashed solidly over into the cockpit flooding it and drenching all of us. At other times I watched in awe as opposing swells rising in summation caught the sunlight translucent in their narrow combined peak stretching skyward their tops shining bright and blue and clear. A leak in the mast kept the cabin sole treacherously wet and slippery which combined with the 45 degree angle and constant rolling and lurching made movement below deck almost impossible. Occasionally a tin of canned food would break loose from a cabinet and fly across the cabin. At one point my heavy cutting board took a sudden flying leap into the air as if levitated by some malevolent spirit and hurtled across the room luckily missing anything breakable before slamming to the floor. I had to be very careful that no knives were left unattended even for an instant while cooking. Dad emerged from the head with the toilet seat broken off in his hand and Falcon was drenched by a wave crashing through the head port-light which had until that time remained open. For 3 more days the seas were breaking over the deck and the wind was roaring while the boat charged bravely on and we took our turns at watch round the clock. The Rose sailed beautifully keeping herself just out of reach of the pursuing storm while some boats were blown 100 miles off course or blown back into the storm center repeatedly. Falcon especially drove her onward, tirelessly changing sail configurations and warp length or otherwise fine tuning to keep her pulling strongly but not overpowered which steadied the ride and kept us out of reach of the worst of the storm. Dad kept reminding us not to break the boat and so balanced the tugging exuberance of youth with moderation. As a team we had reviewed all the available weather information and decided early on a course south west directly to Opua, New Zealand rather than the usual and much anticipated stop at Minerva Reef followed by the usually advised westing. Through no fault of our own this decision put us in very good stead with the developing low which at one point threatened to become the first named storm of the season and certainly took on a disturbingly cyclonic formation on the weather grib files. Although the storm took an unexpected dive southward seemingly hot on our heels, we were able to stay ahead of her. Then mid-day of our last day as suddenly as it had all begun, the wind died and we lay still in a hush. We looked around as though waking from the influence of a dream or drug and picked up as though anew to complete the last leg of our journey. We made the crossing in a short 8 days rather than the expected 9-10 and although somewhat rummy with fatigue it was with bittersweet triumph that we pulled into the Bay of Islands on the next misty morning at sunrise --mission accomplished. In retrospect, perhaps the most surprising thing that happened was the realization that through the faith in one another engendered by our teamwork we could truly enjoy this difficult and stormy crossing reveling in the awesome and majestic power of sea and wind and nature. In fact Falcon and I both agreed that with a good day's rest we would be ready to turn right around and joyfully sail back into that glorious tumultuous liveliness again. Instead we turned ourselves to the task of buttoning up the boat so we could all return to other priorities-Falcon to repeat the crossing with his own family, Dad to return to Mom, tennis and clinic and I to make my way back to John and see what assistance I could be to his situation. Perhaps the most enduring mark left by this experience is the profound love I feel for the members of the team who touched me deeply in their willing support of my need for assistance and the manner in which they selflessly gave. Also I find woven into my inmost being a new appreciation and gratitude for the abundant richness of the varied and often unexpected experiences of daily life which sometimes blindside us but also nurture and enliven us. Often it is these events which we at the time least anticipate and least appreciate but which in the end catalyze our growth and change our lives. This has been one of those times. I am on my way home for the holidays with gratitude and love shining in my heart and All is well. Much love, Pat S/V The Rose in New Zealand safe and sound. November 16, 2012 (View Post...)