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Every winter, yachts leave New Zealand to cruise the South Pacific Islands. This year Victoria Cruickshank made her first offshore cruise with partner Stephen Prinselaar in the 38ft catamaran Parallel Life: the journey became the destination.

PARKING SPACE can be at a premium. Avoid blocking in other cars or trailers. If all the trailer parks are taken, you may need to de-couple the trailer and use two car parking spaces. If parking beside the road, stay off private property and make sure the rig is well off the road.

STEPHEN: The low pressure system that spiralled its way east off the coast of New Zealand, closely followed by a high system wallowing across the Tasman, gave us the kick-start north. We had planned our departure six months before to coincide with Victoria’s six weeks’ annual leave. Now we were on our way: although cool, it was a good weather window in which to cover the 1200 miles to Vava’u, in Tonga’s northern group of islands.

Parallel Life was sporting a brand-new Evolution mainsail which seemed to give us an extra gear as we strode along with one reef in the main in a solid 25-knot wind. When we cleared Cape Brett, large white-capped seas accelerated us to speeds that demanded a second reef and a further reduced jib. We settled back to around 10 knots but the rushing waves made for a nerve-wracking cacophony in the saloon and we were making rapid progress before the lighter airs of the approaching high caught up to us.

VICTORIA: I had done a lot of coastal sailing on Parallel Life and I felt comfortable on her, but that changed once we cleared the coast. Objects that had sat happily in their places for two years suddenly wanted to leap around the saloon. The noise was terrific and the approaching darkness amplified everything. Stephen was excited at the boat’s performance, but I was a little scared.

STEPHEN: At about midnight on the first night we were still accelerating to well over 10 knots down some of the waves, so we lowered the mainsail into the stack pack and reached under jib

only – after all, we were in cruise mode so no need to push hard.

With the butterflies back in their case we were still making 5 to 8 knots, but the lower speed increased the apparent wave action from the stern quarter. At around 2am, in the glow of the stern light, I watched through the closed doors of the saloon as a large, white-haired grand-daddy wave reared up and barged squarely into the cockpit. We’d been pooped.

VICTORIA: My first night at sea gave me lessons in anxiety, fear, hope and strength, as well as a heightened compassion for passengers who fly with me most days in my other life as a flight attendant. Stephen reminded me what it was like for him to be sitting on an aeroplane at 36,000 feet, feeling the turbulence with cold, sweaty palms and then looking to the crew with their smiles, doing their jobs as though it were perfectly normal.

I would involuntarily exclaim every time a wave thundered beneath. At one point Stephen said, “You’ll have to stop saying that every time because there’s going to be a lot of it, and don’t worry because it’s normal. The crew break before the boat does.”

Having noted Victoria’s apprehension, I asked if she’d

like a lesson in heaving-to. I was interested to see how the boat would ride. It was a simple affair to winch the jib across on the opposite tack and secure the wheel. The cat sat bowing politely to the waves and the violence of pounding seas ceased – sort of.

At dawn, everything happens in a new light. Releasing the hamstrung jib and returning to our rhumb line, we broad reached under jib for two days as the southerly squeeze persisted and the seas remained big. It was beautiful sailing, maintaining 5 to 8 knots.

VICTORIA: With Stephen’s guidance I took on the navigation, plotting our positions on the paper chart on the saloon table. I loved seeing our track and how the wind influenced our progress, something I couldn’t visualise looking outside. We ate well, discussed weather and sail plans, slept a lot, read, watched movies on the laptop and stared at the never-ending show through the wide-screen windows.

STEPHEN: On day three and approximately 350 miles out, the wind and seas had eased but were still directly behind us. We replaced the jib with our spinnaker, colour-coordinating with the blue sea and sky. Bands of light low cloud sprinkled us with light rain, bringing rainbows into our cockpit.

At around 3pm, I was on the bow when I heard a growing rumble like a cascading wave, but smoother: jet-turbine smooth. An air force Orion roared past, 30m above the boat.

VICTORIA: It was like a scene from Pearl Harbor. Even though we were three days out, they’d be home in a couple of hours. It made us feel safe but also broke our solitude.

STEPHEN: We joked that our banks had sent out a search party having seen the mad rush on our credit cards before we left and then… nothing. Most days provided a highlight: an escort of dolphins, the graceful flight of seabirds, or the constellations spanning the night sky. Progress was encouraging, but still required constant vigilance for running repairs, especially in the light airs which jostled the boom remorselessly, whereas heavier winds exert a constant pressure on sails and fittings.

One morning, 900 miles out after a week at sea, Victoria turned on the little AM transistor radio that had belonged to her dad – a classic piece of retro with holes punched into a neat leather case

“An Air Force Orion roared past, 30m above the boat.”

over the speaker and a dial that whistled like a tui searching the airwaves until it honed in on a far away song.

Suddenly we heard Paul Henry on his morning show. We were so excited, we fired up the satellite phone and sent off an email introducing his two new listeners.

VICTORIA: On the seventh day a brisk 20-plus-knot wind built up a lumpy sea that had me dreading a repeat of our first few days. After our emotionally charged morning hearing Dad’s wireless, we decided to try the power of us and asked the universe for SE 10 to 15-knot winds for the day. Within 10 minutes that’s exactly what we got: perfect sailing. That afternoon dolphins came to play between our bows.

Suddenly there were fewer days ahead of us than

behind and we expected to see land at dawn. The second reef we had in was fine for the near 30-knot gusts, but in the lulls, the sail was slapping and useless, so we dropped it. The invisible seas and relentless banging and crashing between the hulls punished our senses. VICTORIA: My early morning watch was coming to an end at 0430 after a horrible night with an agitated sea and gusty winds. But I was determined to be the first to see land so I let my captain sleep until daybreak and there it was: a pyramid peeking out of the new light.

“Land Ahoy!” I said and then louder until Stephen awoke.

STEPHEN: It was the volcano Koa, standing 1046m. We hugged, we laughed and we cried.

We had been reluctant to arrange regular communication en route in case we had missed a sched and caused unnecessary worry but now we sat-phoned our families to ease their concerns.

Landfall was still 120 miles away so we raised the mainsail, still with one reef in, and romped upwind at 9 knots. A constant spray flowed over the leeward bow. In darkness, we hove-to in the lee of the island group and positioned ourselves five miles off to await our last sunrise at sea.

VICTORIA: As we sailed towards the entrance dotted with sugarloaf islands and breathed the smell of wood smoke from village cooking fires, we saw a plume of spray and surge of white water in front of us. There was a curve of black back, then another: a leisurely pod of whales to escort us in. It was the perfect arrival.

Until recently, it was never my dream to sail an ocean. I have travelled the world extensively, but at sea I discovered a new part of the world and the people. Sailing two-up into the unknown brings a curious combination of anxiety, excitement, adventure and holiday that changes forever how you see yourself and your old life on land. B