NZ for junkies
Having converted her 26ft Bermudian sloop to a junk rig, Annie Hill puts it to the test with a 500-mile Tasman Sea passage
There are two types of sailors in this world: those who dislike junk rig, and those who have sailed with it. I gave my Raven 26, Fantail, a junk rig, not only because I believe it to be the ideal cruising rig, but because I simply couldn’t tolerate sailing a ‘pointy rig’ anymore.
After fitting the junk rig I replaced the forehatch with one that let in light without water, built a folding dinghy and a made a self-steering gear. And I gave Fantail a quick paint job, completing her transformation from white Bermudian sloop.
However, now that my boat was so satisfying to sail, I was feeling frustrated at the limitations of my local cruising ground – Tasman Bay at the top of South Island, New Zealand. I was based in Motueka, and apart from a couple of anchorages to the north and a few more around Durville Island at the north-east end of the Bay, the only other cruising ground was the Marlborough Sounds, which – like most glaciated valleys – tends to have deep anchorages and gusty, unreliable sailing breezes. Plus I don’t like motoring.
So I decided I should take myself and my little ship to the best cruising ground in New Zealand, that area of North Island that lies between Cape Reinga in the north and the Mercury Islands in the south.
Most Kiwis wouldn’t consider taking a 26ft boat singlehanded on such a passage. Apart from New Plymouth, which is only safe to enter in fine weather, there are no reliable harbours from the time you leave Tasman Bay until you are safely around Cape Reinga, and even then it’s a further 80 miles to secure shelter at Whangaroa Harbour. Although I have sailed tens of thousands of ocean miles, it had always been with another person. Like most sailors I am, perhaps unduly, apprehensive about strong winds – though New Zealand has a welldeserved reputation for sudden changes in the weather.
Friends suggested I take crew, but I preferred having only myself to worry about. For a while I wondered what I was doing. Why was I sailing north just when I was really starting to enjoy my life at Motueka? I felt lonely at the thought of days coping on my own and frightened in case I couldn’t. A fine dose of self-pity. So then I thought about being able to cruise Great Barrier Island, making new friends and all the interesting boats I’d encounter. It all sounded a bit more sensible then.
Northward bound
I left on a Thursday in mid-February and a fine breeze filled in, sending us bounding along up Tasman Bay. I fretted about keeping away from Farewell Spit, where several yachts have stranded, and gave it such a good berth that I never saw the lighthouse. Once into Cook Strait, the wind picked up until we were doing 6.7 knots at times, but Fantail seemed very happy. The self-steering was coping easily
and although the motion was quite wild, all was well. Easing winds were forecast but followed by gales on Sunday, so I pressed on to get away from this notoriously stormy area. Later on I caught the updated forecast but, irritatingly, it didn’t mention sea area Raglan, which was the next forecast zone north.
I’d had a glass of wine to celebrate rounding Farewell Spit and when I was convinced that the mast would survive the night, the sail wasn’t coming apart, nothing had come adrift and Fantail could cope with F5, I decided to have another one. Suddenly, I felt hugely relaxed and contented. We were making splendid progress and I wasn’t even worried about shipping: I’d seen nothing since I left Tasman Bay and was now in a largely untravelled part of the ocean.
After dinner I climbed into my usual forward berth. At the best of times I suffer from insomnia, so wasn’t worried about falling into a deep and dreamless slumber. I got up regularly to look for ships, but saw nothing until we were off Cape Reinga, three days later. With the bottom washboard fitted against the occasional wave, I could easily wriggle out to scan the horizon.
At 0845, 24 hours out, the wind down to F3, I put a fix on the chart: we’d made 113 miles. Good going! My ‘chart table’ is a piece of 1⁄2in plywood, which sits at the head of the starboard quarter berth. Sitting on the companionway step I can easily work at it.
With such a gentle motion it was easy to make breakfast. The cloudscape was straight from the Tradewinds, with neat lines of small cumulus; I felt at home. The ocean breathed with the slightest of swells. In spite of my easy-to-handle rig, I tend to worry about bad weather, hating the noise, discomfort and turmoil it brings, but for once I felt relaxed. The thought of another 300 miles single-handed was exhilarating.
By mid-morning the wind had died away and we were ambling along at about 2 knots. My noon fix put us 60 miles west of Cape Egmont, further off than
I’d intended. I considered my tactics: I didn’t want to linger offshore too long, so if the speed dropped below 2 knots I’d start motoring. But in the afternoon we found a light westerly, which in due course went south and stayed with us all night. After cooking and eating dinner, I sat for a while with a glass of wine, watching my little ship take herself happily north.
Gybing in the small hours
Again I turned in at nightfall getting up at intervals to look around. The wind picked up a little and I altered course a couple of times. The self-steering was working perfectly. In the small hours we had to gybe. It was so painless, it took me about 5 seconds: how I love the junk rig! After two days we’d made a satisfactory 190 miles. The breeze stayed around F2 and we pottered along at about 3 knots, enjoying the benign weather. The glass was steady and I had no immediate worries. I tuned into National Radio on AM for a long-range land forecast, which promised northerly winds for Tuesday. I hadn’t much chance of getting to North Cape by then. In the afternoon, I read in the hot sun, but when the wind died completely, I started to motor. It was a shame to spoil the tranquillity, but I didn’t want to push my luck by staying out
‘In the small hours we had to gybe. It was so painless, it took me about 5 seconds: how I love the junk rig!’
longer than I needed. I stopped the engine for the night and enjoyed the familiar sound of the parrels, squeaking quietly against the mast.
A fix at 0300 on Tuesday told me we’d been heading too far west. I managed to get another land forecast, which implied bad weather on the way. We’d been sailing close-hauled at about 3.5 knots, but a long way off course. The barometer was still steady, there was no swell, but we were still 50 miles from Cape Reinga. So at first light, not wanting to get caught out at the top of North Island, I started the motor so that we could lay our course. With the sail sheeted hard in, we were soon making 4 knots in the right direction. As it turned out, this was a lucky decision: the barometer gave no indication of the gale that would arrive on Thursday.
Flying fish surprise
We plugged on all day and I blessed the autopilot: the wind-vane gear doesn’t like motoring. I read in the saloon and just after lunch sighted land. It was quite a shock and a part of me was disappointed.
Weird, huge sand dunes climbed up behind Ninety Mile Beach, looking like distant, golden glaciers. And distant is how they stayed as I kept well away from Pandora Bank, but in such calm conditions, I did move my waypoint closer to Cape Reinga, outside the overfalls shown on the chart. Even 10 miles offshore, however, we still spent several hours in quite disturbed water. Not a place to be in bad weather. Later, I saw the most enormous flying fish I have ever seen: at least two feet, with long, wide ‘wings’. I hadn’t realised they lived so far south.
At 1630 Cape Reinga was finally abeam and we could alter course, but the wind had veered to east-north-easterly. There were still plenty of tidal eddies about and progress was slow, but the Bukh diesel engine carried on chugging happily away.
I’d hoped for dramatic scenery, but it was now overcast and nothing looked very exciting. By 2100 it was quite dark, which is why I didn’t see the fish floats that Fantail sailed over. I heard them just in time to put the engine into neutral. Thankfully, the prop comes out of the hull rather than dangling off a P-bracket, which could easily have fouled them or been damaged.
Just over an hour later the wind had backed sufficiently for us to lay our course under sail. The engine was stood down and it was blissfully quiet. North Cape came abeam at 2330, and as there was no-one to whom I could relay this astonishing news, I had to be content with congratulating myself. I was pleased, too, that I’d come up the west coast: after seeing nothing for days, suddenly there were fishing boats, freighters and a cruise liner. I gave the land a good berth and at midnight, finally altered course towards the south: 132°. I opened the quarter bottle of bubbly that I’d been saving and drank toasts to my boat and to my friends who’d helped us get here.
I hardly slept at all: apart from the presence of ships, I was excited at the imminence of a safe arrival. I was, perhaps rather absurdly, pleased with my decision-making and navigation, considering the latter was by GPS.
Daybreak arrived reluctantly at about 0700. We were scooting along nicely, but there was a threat of more wind to come, later confirmed by the marine forecast. A huge school of dusky dolphins leapt and bounded in front of us, full of life and joie de vivre.
I had the small-scale chart of North Island, and a cruising guide with large-scale charts of Whangaroa Harbour, a somewhat inadequate combination for a tired sailor. Whangaroa isn’t that easy to find in grey, murky conditions. The sea was rough, the wind shifted back and forth though 40° or 50° and was steadily increasing. Neither the wind vane nor autopilot could cope, so I was having to hand-steer.
As I sailed along my carefully plotted course, all I could see ahead was solid land. I went below and checked my position and my course, but back on deck there was no hint of a harbour. Belatedly I got out a magnifying glass and examined the chart, discovering an island off the harbour mouth, too far offshore for the cruising guide’s charts and directly in our way. I hadn’t seen it, hidden among pencilled waypoints, a light symbol and blue soundings. I carried on with much greater
‘Suddenly, there were boats everywhere, the sun broke through and the harbour looked beautiful’
confidence and soon saw a number of launches coming out from landward.
Whangaroa is entered by a narrow channel and with the wind so fluky I didn’t reef in case it was as calm inside as it looked from the entrance. This wasn’t the brightest move.
Tricky entrance
As we approached the entrance, the waves steepened dramatically, and the wind increased sharply. For once Fantail was difficult to steer and the swell was breaking rather impressively on either side of the entrance, which looked about 20ft wide.
As we raced in at about 7 knots I feared Fantail would take over, and leap onto the rocks awash to starboard. In spite of our speed, it seemed to take an age to get through the entrance. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as we swept into the harbour as the swell vanished and the sea flattened.
Suddenly, there were boats everywhere, the sun broke through and the harbour looked beautiful. I made for Totara North, dropping three reefs in the sail so I could take a breath and look around. Sports fishing boats were heading out and typically weird Kiwi yachts were scattered about, with strange additions abaft their cabins, and eccentric-looking dodgers.
The indented anchorage at Totara North was quite crowded, but Fantail doesn’t require a lot of room. I anchored quite close inshore, in a gratifyingly shallow 4m. When I stretched out the chain under power, I was still well off the beach.
By the time I’d tidied up and washed the breakfast things, the rain and wind had arrived in earnest and I was glad to have got in when I did. Gusts funnelled down the hills, but the anchorage was a secure one. I looked around and tried to take it in: the passage perilous was won and I was safely at anchor in North Island. I opened another little bottle of bubbly and let myself relax and enjoy my achievement. In truth, I felt a huge sense of relief that we’d managed to make it before the gale came; but the last few miles had made me realise that the rig was a complete success. The three months and $2,500 converting her, (see PBO Summer 2018) had both been well spent.