Chapter 15: South Africa

 

Passage to Africa

Sailing away from an island lying in the trade wind belt is usually not the most pleasant part of an ocean passage. An incessant, oncoming swell wraps around the isle, and converges in its lee, where it collides with itself - coming from both directions. This constructive and destructive wave interference creates confused seas that extend miles downwind. To compound matters, the land protruding abruptly from the sea creates wind turbulence in its lee, creating fluky and light airs that hamper a yacht's sail drive.

Even so, miles away from Reunion we endured an unpleasant night, due to a lusty wind cutting broad on the port bow. But by morning the spanker had moderated to an ideal 15 knots and backed to the quarter.

The following six days proved some of the best sailing we had experienced. As we lounged about the topsides in idle reverie while basking in the sunshine, we easily dismissed the fact that we were plying the virulent Indian Ocean - except that the sea bore that unmistakably somber dark undertone.

Annette proved herself a worthy crew member. She allowed Jenny a respite from the galley, and treated us to her superlative French cooking. She did not sleep through a night's sail change, but would dutifully arise whenever she heard us working on the foredeck. Best of all, though, she augmented our watchkeeping, and therefore afforded us an extra portion of sleep. Moreover, Annette tutored us in the French and Spanish languages. In exchange, I introduced them both to the rudiments of celestial navigation.

Many members of our Indian Ocean Rum-Line group had put to sea again, and had reactivated our ham net. So we enjoyed our twice daily scheduled radio contacts with those who tuned in. As a contingency we exchanged our respective positions, and Josh dutifully related his weather forecasts each morning.

Comitan had departed two days ahead of us, yet during our third day we overtook her. I grew suspicious of Josh's navigation when that night his masthead strobe crossed before Suka's bow and disappeared over the horizon to our port quarter. We were heading south-west, and Josh and Heidi were presently sailing south-east. Later, Heidi related that at the onset of darkness Josh would simply reduce sail and retire below, never mind that the self-steering gear was not working properly.

The following morning Josh reported a position that was not even in the proverbial ballpark, and this alerted us to the possibility of his tiring to the point of imperiling the vessel and crew. But no doubt thanks to Heidi's energizing cooking and to the successive days of superb weather, Josh continued pressing on, if slowly.

The southern tip of Madagascar is a place most sailors try to avoid. The reason is that a sea mount extends from it, far away to the south, and this interacts with the South Equatorial Current to produce seas which can be rough in the extreme. Moreover, the prudent mariner stands well clear, in the event that a south-westerly gale should arise, and limit the sea room against Madagascar's lee shore.

After steering for a point 160 miles south-east of Cape Sainte Marie, Madagascar's southernmost promontory, I then laid a course directly for Durban, this in increasing winds and roughened seas - boisterously unpleasant conditions that prevailed for the ensuing 36 hours. But then the sea began settling and the wind grew oddly light. In comparison with our averaging noon runs of 135 miles, we traveled only 80 miles that day.

We were concerned about Josh, who was due to round Madagascar, so I asked if I could examine his sextant altitudes and times. Dave Pirie aboard Moongazer and I began daily checking Josh's celestial calculations by radio, and we also plotted his dead reckoning positions. Our figures indicated that Josh was doing fine over the long haul, although his steering was not accurate on a daily basis.

The powerful Agulhas Current can set one far south while approaching Durban, so we now steered a course toward Richard's Bay, 88 miles north of our destination. Now November 2nd, nine days after departing Reunion, and incidentally on Suka's second cruising anniversary, we stood some 200 miles from Durban, while progressing well in a 20 knot north-easterly under double-reefed mainsail and jib. The sky was heavily overcast and a light drizzle had set in. I did not realize this at the time, but such conditions near Africa's south-east coast portend an impending south-westerly gale. The glass was probably falling like a rock, but I had eased my guard and was not paying attention.

A furious gale

At 2 am Annette called below, waking me. She reported that "the sky ahead is really black, and that it's starting to rain." She asked me to come outside and have a look. This is why the skipper does not sleep well on a run such as this; something always needs tending. The wind is strengthening, necessitating a sail change; the radioman of a passing ship is hailing, expecting a reply - or we need to radio him; or the sat-nav has produced a needed position, the plotting of which is of great exigency. And I was to stand watch for the next three hours. This time it was: "It's starting to rain."

"OK, if it starts raining hard just come belowdecks," I admonished.

"Ray, it is raining hard," Annette implored, "and I think you'd better come have a look."

"Just come below and close the hatch until it passes," I advised. She scurried belowdecks just as a blast of wind trounced Suka onto her ear, as though an atomic bomb had exploded not far away. I hesitated, hoping the squall would pass, but the piercing gale only intensified, and by then Suka was moaning and kneeling on her larboard beam end. "Jenny and I need to drop the sails," I announced. "Annette, you'd better stay below."

Reaching out, I attached my safety harness to a jack line, and once outside I found that the night was as black as the inside of the proverbial cow. The tempest thrashed my oilskin jacket with a vengeance; it howled in the rigging, and flogged the sails fearfully. Suka was laboring; the seas were crashing into her hull and catapulting over her. Rain mixed with this spray drove horizontally, and immediately soaked me through. I slid back the companionway hatch and requested someone to turn on the spreader light.

A bright light came on, revealing in utter chaos the ketch lying overpowered. Jenny groveled out the companionway and clipped her safety line. The tremendous jouncing required us to hold on with all our mights. "OK," I hollered above the unimaginable din, "let's get the jib down." We had doused this sail so many times that the motions had become ingrained, so fortunately we each knew what to do. Protected by her safety harness clipped slidably to a jack line, Jenny crawled forward and bravely climbed out onto the bowsprit. Once there she clipped a secondary safety line to the headstay, and signaled "ready." I uncleated the jib sheet, which had been stretched bar taut. As it eased, the sail began flogging violently, making a sound like thunder. When I released its tension altogether it aligned itself away from the tempest and stood stiffened like a giant slab of plywood. At that, Suka overpowered her self-steering rudder and hove to automatically.

Hastily I crawled forward to the mast, and eased the halyard. Incredibly, though, the jib refused to come down. It remained erect despite the absence of halyard tension, and save for a few foot's width all along its leach it did not seem to be flapping much. I joined Jenny on the bowsprit, and together we clawed the jib down the stay. Then we wrestled the sail as though it was a bronco about to be branded. With all our strength we scooped it under us, then we climbed onto it in an attempt to hold it down. Astonishingly, though, for all our weight we were not supported by the wooden catwalk, but by a large bag of compressed air - such was the wind's pressure. After tying gaskets around it, and tightening them one at a time, we finally managed to subdue the sail; then we unhanked its luff from the headstay and jammed the uncompliant, sodden beast down into the forward hatch, and onto Suka's formerly dry forecastle cushions.

Next we turned our attention to the mainsail, which was taking a real beating. One of the reefing lines had pulled out and had torn the sail as it went, but we did not notice this because of the commotion. Jenny released the halyard while I sheeted home the boom, then after easing the topping lift we man-handled the flailing boom-end into the cockpit, and lashed it securely. Flaking the sail back and forth over the boom proved impossible, so we frapped it as best we could using a dozen gaskets. Then I disengaged the self-steering vane, and folded it back.

Strangely, the seas were diminishing despite the gale's amplifying ferocity, and I soon guessed why. Initially the wind had struck from the north-east, but it had shifted to south-west, and in backing or veering (I have no idea which) it had knocked itself down. Anticipating storms like these, we always kept Suka battened down and storm ready when at sea, so topsides there were no remaining tasks. Thoroughly sodden, we retired belowdecks.

Throughout the next several hours the wind decreased imperceptibly and the seas developed considerably, but not to the point where lying a-hull seemed dangerous, and where I would have bore away and run Suka a'quartering downwind. Nevertheless, as the occasional wave pounded Suka's hull she shuddered, as did her crew.

Although we felt anxious, we were not afraid. Laying tightly snugged, the brig was riding the storm adroitly, and by now I considered her seaworthy and able to withstand these gales. A few weeks later, though, we met a couple who told us that a similar storm had assailed their sturdily built ferrocement ketch, in nearly this location, and that a rogue wave struck the sailboat and rolled it 360 degrees. Remarkably, the yacht sustained but little damage.

Lying on the starboard lee bunk, again with plans to catnap, I wondered how long the gale would last. One day? Two or three? But the nap soon proved infeasible; the girls were now seasick, and the responsibility was therefore mine to tend the watchkeeping, to monitor the sat-nav and the radio, and so forth.

Dawn was beginning to pigment the mountainous, frothy horizon. Was it my imagination, or was the wind moderating slightly? At least the rain had ceased, so I opened the hatch, reached out, and clipped my harness into a jack line. Egressing like an astronaut, I emerged into a shrieking seascape of spume-flung turmoil. The waves were colossal. With the passing of each, Suka climbed up, up...and up, then wallowed down into the next gaping trough. "She's a great ship, this little brig," I thought aloud.

The gale was moderating

And now I was certain the gale was moderating, so I turned the helm hard a-lee, and Suka responded straightway by gibing onto the reciprocal heading. Then I steered a course that put the wind onto her quarter, and Suka's knot meter needle swung to 4 knots. This seemed laudable progress considering that the ketch stood naked of sail. Moreover, the wind pressure in the bare rigging was sufficient not only to drive her, but to heel her well over and prevent her from rolling severely.

The wind moderated gradually, and around 9 am I called belowdecks for a storm staysail. With this underarm I crawled forward along the heaving, pitching, and rolling deck. I bent the canvas to the inner forestay, and in 15 minutes had the tiny sail flying smartly. With this, Suka ground among the gnarly combers at hull speed.

The companionway hatch drew back a few inches and a hand presented a half-full cup of steaming coffee. Braced with feet against the well, and clinching the cockpit coaming with one hand, I sat absorbing the solace of the morning brew. I reasoned that since Jenny had managed to make coffee, then the worst of the storm must be past. Two hours later the girls emerged dressed in oil skins, and working together we bent the storm jib to the headstay. Our noon run that day was 118 miles, which seemed remarkable considering our having lain a-hull for six of those hours.

By evening we had set the reefed mizzen. The seas were now too ponderous to take on the beam without risking Suka's untimely demise, so I held the north-easterly heading.

The next morning the wind blew from the south-west at a greatly reduced 25 knots, to which Suka scurried along dressed smartly in her working canvas. We were now free to lay a course for Africa. But as we had deviated far off route, our sailing direct to Durban was now out of the question. We would soon reach the vicinity of the infamous Agulhas Current, where safety dictates that one press hard toward the nearest port of refuge under threat of the next gale in the unending succession. So we laid a course instead for Richard's Bay.

By afternoon the wind had fallen light, and before long the ketch was flopping heavily in a dead calm. The gale had spent itself. Motoring toward the coast, eventually we collected a light breeze from the north-east. We closed with land after dark, a whopping 158 miles north of Durban.

We found the shipping lanes busy with freighters. As we crossed the lane, readings from my hand-held compass indicated that one particular ship bearing down on us would pass well ahead. The radioman called us repeatedly questioning our intentions, but apparently he could not comprehend my answers - perhaps, in retrospect, as I was speaking English too rapidly. Finally I hove to for several minutes, showing the opposite color of the masthead light to indicate that we had given way, and this appeased the fellow. It's too bad, I thought, that the captains of all big ships are not as concerned about the wee yachts.

Sailing before a stiff north-easterly while being shoved along by the powerful Agulhas Current, we traveled over the seabed at nine knots. And as Suka drove southward throughout the night, her watchkeeper sat bundled in several layers of clothing, as the air chilled.

Reaching the entrance to Richard's Bay in a 30 knot north-easter, we entered and berthed alongside the designated customs and clearance wharf. We had traveled the 1,450 miles from Reunion in 12 days.

Richard's Bay

Richard's Bay, South Africa

After obtaining clearance we steamed to the Zululand Yacht Club, and rafted alongside one of the dozen visiting yachts. There, Keith and Marion, Tenacity's crew, presented us with a cold bottle of champagne, and subsequently we did the same for the next arrival in our group.

Without fanfare, adventurous Annette set off for parts unknown (subsequently we kept in contact for the next few years). To everyone's relief, Josh and Heidi reached port several days later.

Kruger National Park

A few days later we rented a car and eagerly began the 400-mile drive to Kruger National Park, planning on reaching one of its camps before closing time. Jacques and Madeleine Moreau, fellow yachtees who had also recently completed the long Indian Ocean crossing, occupied the back seat. They had dearly wished to visit the park, but were rather lacking in means, so Jenny and I had invited them along as our guests.

After the long passages across the vast ocean, where we had seen little - excepting a few flying fish and an occasional bird - we found the activity of speeding along the N2 highway singularly thrilling, and the scenery itself spectacular. Initially the two-lane, paved road passed through thick jungle, and once we had to slow for a score of vervet monkeys scampering across the road. Farther on we passed through farming districts; some bore fields of lushness, but most were overgrazed and somewhat bleak. Primitive villages dotted the hillsides, and little cylindrical dwellings, called rondavels, were practically everywhere. These were usually mud walled and thatched roofed; occasionally some were painted; and rarely, some were roofed in corrugated sheet metal. In a few instances a derelict car stood parked outside, having displaced the traditional oxcart. Indeed, the people were impoverished, yet here in the rural districts, away from the hideously overcrowded "locations," the blacks appeared reasonably content. They so greatly outnumbered us, however, that we could not help but feel somewhat out of our element. Even so, we had been told that if one's car were to break down out here, the whites were apt to speed by in their fancy automobiles, and local blacks would be the more likely to lend a helping hand.

Natives stood along the roadsides vending their wares, which typically they extended at arm's length to cars speeding past. They were selling fruits, vegetables, and unappealing dried fish, as well as an interesting variety of woodcarvings, pottery, and baskets. We stopped at one of the many roadside stands, and this proved something of a mistake; for folks began competing with one another with an enthusiasm that suggested a genuine paucity of customers, and we suffered the brunt of their ebullience. After buying a basket of papayas we pulled back onto the highway, equanimity happily regained.

Farther on we passed through mile after mile of timber farms burgeoning with relatively fast-growing conifers. These were vibrant, all standing in tidy rows, and each was slated for the maws of the pulp mills.

The scale of the landscape was gargantuan and impressive. Moreover, the scenes changed dramatically from location to location. The land was one of strong contrast. Generally, the highway led through expansive country backed by colossal mountains. "Can you believe it?" I mused incredulously. "We're in Africa!"

Characteristically, mariners are a willful and independent breed, accustomed to having their own way, doing their own things, and agreeing with their own thinking. As such, their sharing the confines of a small car on a multi-day tour of the outback can be a recipe for a situation. We had witnessed more than one dusty carload returning to the anchorage from such a trip, the members of each family feeling that their personal autonomy had been violated. Happily, though, Jacques and Madeleine were proving themselves to be ideal companions. Seated demurely in the back seat, while evidently enjoying the excursion, they seemed perfectly content to allow Jenny and I to deal with any problems. Madeleine habitually rolled her own cigarettes, and the stunted and wrinkled stub of a butt planted squarely in the center of her face was practically her trademark. But without a word on the subject she politely refrained from smoking while inside the car.

Remarkably, these folks had been on their present voyage some 17 years. Since meeting them in Darwin we had shared many anchorages with Ludmaja II. More extraordinary characters would be hard to imagine, yet they seemed to live in the present moment, keeping their past experiences largely to themselves. While driving along, I remembered aloud that at Reunion Island the authorities had been leaning heavily on poor Jacques, and I now asked him about the outcome. By way of background, within its territories, French law requires that all yachts of the flag carry a standard inventory of safety gear. In theory this would seem fair enough, but in fact many French yachtees judged the bulk of the required gear, not only outrageously overpriced, but mainly of academic value only. Ludmaja II had been at large for so many years that, understandably, she did not carry many of the required implements; so when she steamed into Reunion the officials fined Jacques heavily and demanded that he purchase the requisite gear. Jacques explained to us that although he knew about the requirements beforehand, his dwindling finances dictated a visit to a French territory of departmental status in order that he might collect his modest pension.

At the same time, another Frenchman in our acquaintance was enduring much the same predicament. "Why should I," Michel Martin had demanded of me incredulously, "sailing single-handed all the way from France, be required to carry a horseshoe life buoy? If I were to fall overboard, who do they think would throw it to me?" Michel had taken his story to the editor of the local newspaper, who then deemed it suitably controversial for publishing. As a result, his plight evaporated seemingly into the nebulosity of the bureaucracy.

Jacques related his having chosen a different option. One dark night Ludmaja II simply stole quietly out the harbor. Her skipper had not so much as paid his port dues, for having done so would have alerted the authorities to his purpose. Perhaps not wishing for another dose of public scorn, the authorities may have elected to turn a blind eye. "But soon after we set sail the wind died!" Poor Jacques related with a sheepish grin, prominent in my rear view mirror, "and we sat there for two very frustrating days in plain view of the port. We'll go back to France," he said, "but not until we have given them five years to forget about this."

Kruger Park

We had driven some eight hours when we reached one of the entrances to Kruger Park, at a place called Malelane. After checking our reservation vouchers, the ranger reminded us that we were to be in our chosen camp by 6:30 p.m. In the visitor's center we purchased a few guidebooks to help identify whatever wild animals might present themselves.

Kruger Park is a wildlife sanctuary of no little renown. Yet as I turned off the paved roadway a short ways into the park, and drove slowly along a narrow gravel lane, I wasn't expecting to see many animals until the following morning. At least the vegetation and the topography were interesting. Suddenly, four robust beasts bolted from the underbrush and rumbled across the road, and I had to jam the brake pedal to keep from bowling them down. Judging by their scabrous appearance, one might have carbon dated these creatures to at about 120,000 BC. While they snorted about combatively, I jumped from the car to snap a photograph. However, my egress startled the creatures, and I received a few snorts and a mighty stab in my direction. Straightway I lurched back into the vehicle and slammed the door. At that, the excitable beasts slashed indomitably back into the bushveld. Clearly, my stepping outside had been construed as an act of aggression. But what were these gnarly creatures?

Jacques, Madeleine, and Jenny were thumbing wildly through the books. "Warthogs!" Jenny exclaimed. "`Somewhat repugnant in appearance with tusks and massive knobbed heads, these pig-like animals never hesitate to put up a relentless fight.'" Hmm...a good incentive to remain in the car, as per the park rules."

Interests kindled, we drove on, and soon came upon a chicken-like bird. "Crowned guinea fowl" instructed a reader from behind me. A moment later we saw a pair of vervet monkeys sitting in the branches of a roadside tree, then we passed by a herd of impala: beautiful members of the antelope family. Next we met with a yellow billed hornbill, a bird equipped with a large curved beak. At that point we decided to begin listing creatures observed.

Driving on, we encountered a leopard tortoise meandering across the road. Then came members of the antelope family called waterbuck sauntering through the nearby brush, and baboons watering at a creek. We sighted massive buffalo, brilliant, glossy blue starlings, several striking Burchell's zebra, a herd of wildebeest, and a few gnu (buffalo-like but somewhat smaller, and with sideways curving horns).

Within the span of half-an-hour we had become staunch enthusiasts of the African wildlife. Clearly, we had not expected to see such a variety of creatures, nor at such close range. Because the bushveld grew thickly, it permitted us to sight only those animals that happened to be close to the road, and surprisingly, the game did not seem to mind our intrusion - as long as we remained in the car. When we encountered animals standing on, or near the road, they would usually amble away, although not with any sense of urgency.

What struck me most was the animals' vibrancy. Unlike the comparatively insipid condition of creatures captivated in zoos, these beasts appeared almost healthier than life. And just to think that in their natural setting, they were participating in the same dynamic interaction between predators and prey, carnivores and foragers, as had their progenitors for no doubt millennia. In Kruger Park, as in other National Parks in South Africa and neighboring nations, the wildlife is protected from the senseless and appalling slaughtering at the hands of unconscionable trophy baggers. Poachers, however, remain a serious problem. But generally, man here is no longer a hunter, and as such, he no longer plays a leading role in the interaction. The animals here seemed to realize this, generally, and their comparative lack of fear toward cars carrying humans made the visit to the park an unforgettable experience.

Kruger Park is immense, about the size of the country of Denmark according to one brochure. One hundred ninety miles long, it is home to some quarter million animals. And within the park are 15 zoos, each about a city block in size and enclosed around the perimeter with a sturdy chain-link fence. At 6:30 p.m. the gates to these zoos close and the Homo Sapiens are penned in for the night. The zoos are called "camps," and because lions and cheetahs hunt nocturnally, it is considered unsafe for a succulent human to be found outside the camps at night.

Reaching the fenced-in camp called "Crocodile Bridge" before the armed guards locked the eventide gates, we paid the equivalent of $9.00 per couple for a pair of thatched roofed bungalows. Then we visited the little store, which among other comestibles sold generous bags of elephant jerky for 5.75 Rand, and cans of ground water-buffalo meat for R2.75.

After the passing of night, dawn signals an end to the predatory forays, whereupon the beasts are as likely as not to lay down within sight of a road. With the onset of the first car, though, they may move away into the veld. As such, the occupants of the first car to happen along are likely to encounter by far the most game. At 4:30 am the gatesman let us out, and indeed, we were first. However, in accordance with predictable human aggressiveness, minutes later a few spirited drivers passed us, doing far in excess of the 25 mph speed limit. Even so, we enjoyed a most fruitful morning of sightings. We had not traveled a mile before encountering half a dozen buffalo crossing the road. These striking creatures are massive and reputedly short tempered; and of course we allowed them the right of way.

After bypassing a group of giraffes, we met a solitary bull elephant. Members of this species can show their ornery temperament, and this one seemed determined to substantiate the image. He refused to allow us to continue along the road. When I drew the car near, in defiance he began scraping at the ground, sending dust flying and shaking his head as though preparing an attack. And despite the fact that this time I had not emerged from the car, the enormous beast charged. I snapped the transmission into reverse and stomped the gas peddle.

There was nothing for it but to concede his territorial imperative, and as we waited in the immediate distance, along happened another car. Predictably it passed us by, and the driver hazarded an attempt at bypassing the elephant. But this attempt was also noticeably hyphenated. Having anticipated the outcome, I had the camera at the ready. As the car backed full speed astern with its tormentor in hot pursuit, we found the episode hilarious.

Next we observed that elephants are not ecologically minded, as the big fellow was taken by a desire to nibble the roots of the nearest tree. He simply leaned on the tree and knocked it over. After the brute had demonstrated his obvious physical superiority, he eventually stood back and allowed us to proceed.

Driving on, we began to realize how remarkably camouflaged were some of the animal species. Driving past them unnoticed seemed to be a regular occurrence, as evidenced each time one of my passengers would spot some creature out the aft window. So Jenny and I were glad for the keen eyes of Jacques and Madeleine, who assisted our sightings from their vantage in the back seat.

We toured the park three more days, sighting dozens of additional species, including white rhino and lion. In all, we drove some 400 miles of dirt roads inside the park; even so, we did not reach beyond the park's southern quarter.

Photo Essay ...

Back at Richard's Bay we reverted to walking as our principal means of locomotion. The shops stood a considerable distance from the yacht club, but local Afrikaners were likely to stop and give us a lift, even though we did not extend our thumbs.

Suka lay rafted alongside the wharf at the Zululand Yacht Club, where fresh water and electricity (220 volts at 50 cycles per second) were available. The presence of a nearby electrical outlet was indeed a luxury, but it felt odd having access to the colossal electrical potential but with practically no device to plug into it. We did, however, apply our orbital sander to Suka's aging brightwork with a vengeance.

On a regular basis, terrific south-westerly gales threatened to lay the place flat, as for a day or two the ferocious storms would constrain the crews aboard their various yachts. The sailboats were rafted to the wharf four and five deep, and in such a storm the boats would grate heavily against one another. Those lying against the quay suffered the brunt of the other tempest-blown yachts. And the crews of the sailboats lying against the wharf were troubled all the more as the eight foot tides rising and falling often displaced their fenders.

Seemingly an endless stream of remarkably heavy-footed yachtees and their guests tromped across Suka's topsides at all hours of the day and night, using her as a bridge as it were, to reach their sailboats. To our dismay, Suka's lifelines and stanchions were occasionally used as ladder rungs. Such were the cramped conditions inside the little basin. Otherwise, life in Richard's Bay was pleasant. The yacht club was a most congenial place to idle away an evening, particularly during the weekly barbecues. The environs provided ample spaces for our morning jogging forays, mainly along dirt roads leading through thick brush, replete with various exotic flowers, birds and other wildlife. Most noteworthy were the large Bird-of-Paradise trees, and of course the cute little Vervet Monkeys.

"Don't be in a hurry leaving for Cape Town," came the frequent reminder, and practically everywhere we went, people would tell us of the dangers of sailing South Africa's coastal waters. Nevertheless, after lingering in Richard's Bay a month we were anxious to begin the 90 mile jaunt to Durban. However, the weather patterns were now dictating our itinerary: we planned to depart at the tail-end of a south-westerly buster, and to travel with utmost dispatch in hopes of reaching Durban before the onset of the next gale.

South Africa receives my vote for the free world's most inconvenient gunkholing, not because of its appalling coastal weather and inaccurate forecasts, and not because of her dangerous seas or lack of coastal shelters. An even greater inconvenience lurks here: unbridled bureaucracy. At each port along the way, frustrating and lengthy check-out procedures were mandatory. We were nearly ready to depart; the latest gale had finished laying the place on its proverbial ear, and was slowly moderating. This was the appropriate time to start the checking-out procedures, seemingly designed to discourage, even to humiliate, the outbound yachtsman. The tale begins by relating that the buildings housing the customs, immigration, port captain, and harbor revenue officers stand about ten land miles from the yacht basin. A local yachtsman kindly drove us to the individual offices. Our next requirement was to complete a form theatrically designated as the "flight plan." On it, one listed a superfluity of seemingly irrelevant information, then drew a picture of the vessel, depicting the location of its name. This impressive document was only the beginning, and the whole process was trying.

Richard's Bay to Durban

Tenacity, Shambles, Ludmaja II, Suka, and a local yacht whose name I don't recall, were ready to set off together for Durban. As the gale slackened in earnest, the mosquitoes beset us in hoards, so Jenny affixed makeshift screens to Suka's ports and hatches. Then on this night of November 31, the local skipper signaled that the group's departure was imminent, as the south-westerly had slackened appropriately. In turn, each yacht radioed Port Control for final permission to leave. Jenny and I loosened our dock lines, and began milling Suka about the small turning basin awaiting the others. Soon, five masthead lights were progressing one behind the other through the intricate channel. The local vessel, whose skipper was familiar with the shallow channel, had generously assumed the lead. To avoid running aground, we planned to follow the yacht ahead until we gained deep water. And in this we succeeded, if only just.

The darkness hampered our depth perception. Showing only their masthead lights, each yacht ahead was not easily perceived from astern, and although our leader must have been creeping through the channel steadily, the yacht second in line would move a little too slowly for a minute or so, until its skipper realized his error and increased his speed in order to compensate. The third vessel was making essentially the same delayed reactions with the yacht ahead of it, and the effect only amplified itself as it transmitted back through the line. Suka was last in line, and I found myself alternately reversing full power to avoid slamming into the yacht ahead, and gunning the engine in order to close a rapidly widening gap. Eventually, the cavalcade reached open water, and inasmuch as none of its members ran into each other, or ran aground, we deemed the departure a success.

Having escaped the boisterous Indian Ocean a month ago, we now recouped it, only to find its seas bulbous and nauseating. Clearly, we had lost our sea legs. The wind was zilch; a light drizzle fell; and initially Suka bucked a heavy adverse current, probably a giant back-eddy in the Agulhas' southwesterly flow. But these effects lessened as we motored farther off-shore. Each sailboat went its own way, some holding closer the dark shoreline, others seeking the relative safety of the offing. And as such, the masthead lights of our companions soon dispersed into the blackness of night.

Making her way purposefully as her engine droned with reassuring steadiness, for an hour the little brig rolled heavily, side to side. Then a south-west breeze sprang forth and allowed us to make sail, and this greatly ameliorated the disconcerting rolling. We motor-sailed throughout the night, gazing at a forlorn coastline void of lights save for a beacon at so-called Port Durnford. Also, we stood well seaward, against the probability of an inshore set. Miles off-shore hereabouts, the 100 fathom curve is where the Agulhas Current is purportedly the strongest. Yet while following it we detected little favorable drift.

Dawn found us 15 miles off-shore plying the 100 fathom curve. The south-westerly might have been heralding the assault of another gale, so with land now illuminated we moved inshore seven miles. As the day progressed, the wind increased and veered nor-west, as we had hoped, and thus it propelled the brig happily along the coast throughout the afternoon.

We traveled full tilt in hopes of reaching Durban's harbor before nightfall, and eventually, while peering directly into the late afternoon sun, we perceived a number of huge ships anchored directly off-shore. These undoubtedly indicated the whereabouts of the harbor entrance. While approaching closer, we sailed into a regatta of some sort. The local yachts were out for an afternoon's disporting, and this lively event lessened the seeming gravity of our plight.

Durban

 

Outside the entrance to Durban's harbor we handed the sails, and while I steered, Jenny radioed port control to request entry: permission granted. This procedure, incidentally, was designed to prevent an untoward encounter with any large freighter that might have been departing. At 4:30 p.m. we motored across the capacious harbor and reached the anchorage fronting the Point Yacht Club, where port control had directed us to anchor. Suka was the first arrival of the five yachts from Richard's Bay, and within the next few hours the others had all made port as well. Jacques situated his Ludmaja II surprisingly close to Suka, and an immigration officer soon boarded us with the necessary clearance paperwork.

Well after dawn the following morning, a disconcerting bump came at the hull. Jumping to, I found that the breeze had gone slack, and that Ludmaja II and Suka had grown a little too cozy. While Jacques fended-off from the deck of his ketch, I started our diesel and backed away. Then Jenny broke free the bower and we moved to the opposite row of anchored sailboats. Ready to venture ashore, we radioed the launch, and when it arrived we paid the one Rand (50 cents) a person fare.

After wandering about town awhile, we landed back at the wharf for an interesting round of conversations with various friends. Among them, Rick and Connie Flewelling had arrived aboard their Carina, and they related enduring a harrowing storm a hundred miles off-shore Durban. A gale had struck with such ferocity that it threw Rick from the cockpit and into the sea. He hauled himself aboard only to be washed into the drink on the other tack. Carina is a Lapworth 24-footer and her intrepid crew had been cruising her for 13 years, averaging what they estimated to be 6,000 miles per annum. Their cruising philosophy was to keep the yacht simple, and wherever we saw them - for example as we were en route to some chandler or repair shop - Rick and Connie were likely to be relaxing and enjoying life, almost reveling in their lack of instruments or mechanisms to repair. Carina's ratio of displacement to crew weight was so small that Rick could hardly go forward on deck without putting the ship alarmingly down by the bows, so he had designed and built a roller furling headsail to ease some of the typical difficulties of ocean voyaging. Moreover, the yacht was so small and shoal drafted that it also served as their dinghy.

Having apprenticed with Polynesian divers for two years, Rick was by far the best spear-fisherman in our group of skin divers back at Cocos Keeling. Ironically, however, at those lovely shoreside barbecues he had contributed little to the bill of fare. Somehow, the hideous gray sharks sensed Rick's underwater prowess and seemed to follow him like buzzards. We other divers could prowl around largely at will, unheeded, but whenever Rick was about to move in on his intended prey, his daylight would darken in the shadow of some aggressive shark eager to steal his speared prey. Once, feeling rather sorry for Rick, five of us divers surrounded him, facing outward, in an effort to fend-away the gray sharks, so that he could shoot a fish. But, again, as Rick was about to squeeze the trigger, a gray easily dispersed us bodyguards, and Rick returned to the anchorage empty handed.

After a maitre d' had extradited Jenny and I from the Point Yacht Club's restaurant on the basis that our shorts did not meet with the establishment's standards, we stood again at the wharf talking with friends when suddenly I noticed that the wind was shifting. This meant that, with only her bower set, Suka would be misbehaving amongst her fore-and-aft moored neighbors. And indeed, after riding the launch back to the anchorage we found our ship encroaching upon the personal space of a local yacht. Hastily we inflated the dinghy, then Jenny rowed a stern hook aft. With that set, I easily winched Suka into position.

As an aside, Suka did not have a roller furling headsail for a few good reasons. Back then, they were not very reliable, and were well known for un-furling in a tempest. And when that happened, they were very difficult to get down. So difficult, in fact, that many a roller furling headsail simply exploded. And when that happened, the ship itself went out of control. But even if the furled headsail stayed rolled up, it added a great deal of windage in vicious winds, as compared to a bare wire forestay. And when lying to, more windage aloft means less safety. No roller furling on Suka meant that we could always dowse the headsail no matter how strong the wind, and raise something smaller to balance the boat. And this was a tremendous safety feature.

Durban is a large, modern city with all the amenities deemed necessary by the crusty sea rover. Laundromats, grocery stores, restaurants, movie theaters, and well-stocked chandleries were all within easy walking distance from the basin. Moreover, the Point Yacht Club offered visiting mariners a free berth at their famous International Jetty, which unfortunately was at the moment wretchedly overcrowded. According to the system, new arrivals were to displace those that had been there the longest. The jetty could accommodate perhaps 25 yachts rafted alongside the quay six or seven abreast. Additionally, a few hundred local vessels lay to adjacent moorings, tightly ensconced in a basin protected by a breakwater. Beyond that, and exposed to the immense harbor, was the dreaded "anchorage" to where visiting yachts woefully displaced from the jetty lay in exile. Reputedly, the problems with this anchorage, where Suka presently lay to her bower and kedge, were its exposure to the expansive harbor; the dredging of its seabed that had rendered its holding tenuous; and the encompassing perimeter aft comprising steep-to sand bars. Naturally, then, we would endure our first Durban-bound buster with some trepidation. As the storm unfurled, indeed, some of our neighbors dragged slowly astern while their decks bustled with the frenetic activities of their crews. We stood by all the while rather mystified that Suka's anchor was holding so tenaciously.

Having endured the gale, we began reflecting that our vessel's transmission had been overheating of late, weeping a few drops of fluid from its vent and occasionally failing to respond straightway to my engaging its reverse gear. Fortuitously, the city featured a Borg Warner shop, so I deemed it prudent to avail of such an improbable circumstance by delivering our transmission to the mechanics for inspection. However, because of the heavy influx of cruising yachts this time of year, the haul-out facilities proved fully booked, so reluctantly we arranged to move to the crowded jetty.

As we were soon to discover, though, we had set the bower onto a shallow sand bar, and this apparently at high tide. As I motored slowly ahead while Jenny hauled aboard chain, Suka's keel gently grounded. The present circumstance was easily remedied by a rising tide, and by our grinding in the stern warps, which reversed the vessel off the shoal. However, we could not now position the ketch over her bow anchor. From the dinghy I struggled mightily, trying to lift the anchor, but apparently it had fouled some object. Eventually, at the sight of us grappling about, Tommy came to lend assistance from his Ni Singa. The three of us labored into the morning, hampered by a stiff north-easterly that bounced us disconcertingly. Eventually the tide rose enough to allow me to maneuver Suka over the fouled anchor, and with that we were able to apply substantial leverage. With a great deal of effort we managed to winch the bower nearly to the surface, where we found that its fluke had ensnared three large mooring chains. That explained why the anchor had held so remarkably firm during the previous buster.

With the bower free at last, we began hauling aboard the stern warps. Alas, one of the kedges was also fouled. Winching it out of the water, we found it embraced neck-in-neck with an identical model, whose shank and chain directed ones attention astern, to a vessel in the second row of anchored yachts.

Our brig's eventual arrival at the International jetty concluded her first Durban ordeal. However, we soon learned that the ultra-crowded conditions at the Jetty did little to bring out the best personality traits among some of the residing international flotsam. Nerves here seemed to be as strained as were the mooring lines that positioned each yacht to its unwilling neighbor as its only means of security. That night a petulant ex-boxer who owned the vessel next to ours, poked his head into Suka's hatch unannounced, and demanded "Move your boat." The onset of the next gale in the interminable progression was at hand, and this Dutch fellow felt that when our mooring lines tensioned, they would chafe against his steel hull. I went outside and apprised the situation once again. Granted, the paint on a steel hull is its only protection against corrosion, yet contrary to this fellow's mandate I was reluctant to shift Suka forward, because the gale might have then shoved our ketch's vulnerable bowsprit against the stern of the larger yacht directly ahead. I related to the Dutchman that I doubted my lines would touch his yacht, that I would keep a sharp eye on the situation, and if necessary that I would then adjust them appropriately. Apparently the chap was not accustomed to having his mandates brushed aside, for he reacted by threatening to cut our lines should they so much as touch his boat.

The gale soon struck with characteristic brutality, and Jenny and I lay the night in our bunks listening to the howling tempest and to the VHF radio, which had come to life with the harrowing events befalling the unfortunates out in the anchorage.

Removing Suka's Transmission

With the gale spent, and with the steel boat's paint unbreached, and with Suka's mooring lines left mercifully intact, we spent a full day removing the transmission. Fortunately for us, after we had unbolted a few pieces of ancillary equipment, the drive shaft slid back far enough so that our disturbing the engine mounts proved unnecessary. The only real complication, then, was that the weight of the transmission was compounded seemingly a hundredfold by its awkward inaccessibility. We levered and blocked, levered and blocked, again and again. Then once we had the mass of machinery where we could grip it, ours was the straightforward task of hauling it topsides and lugging it onto the jetty while short-stepping across the decks of the two inside yachts, and into the bed of a shop mechanic's awaiting truck. Twenty four hours later the repairman returned with the reduction drive, having fitted a new set of seals after finding nothing amiss with its internal components. Jenny and I lugged the awkward chunk of metal back over lifelines; across decks bestrewn with laundry buckets, coiled ropes, anchors and chain; around cats and kitty-litter boxes; over more life lines; and finally into Suka's cockpit. And after we had painted the machine, gravity assisted our reinstalling it. By noon the following day the ketch stood fit for passage-making once again.

Jenny and I remained at the jetty for 10 days, and were about to shift the ketch to the anchorage when the decision was made for us. Purely by happenstance I stepped outside to find our inside neighbor, Peter, aboard his Canadian yacht, Sitter, unceremoniously releasing our spring warps. Five other yachts lay rafted outside Suka at the time, so effectively this fellow was casting off six vessels in one throw. Because Sitter's engine had been inoperative for more than a month, Peter had been allowed to remain at the jetty for an inordinate length of time. But having been banished at long last, apparently he was at this moment venting his furious indignation.

Cast adrift without warning, we converged headlong into Durban ordeal #2, which lasted but a few cumbrous moments. Hollering a warning to our outside neighbors, who began bestirring themselves, I leapt below and started Suka's engine, then Jenny helped me untie from the fleet of rafted-yachts-adrift, and we backed away. Others followed suit, and altogether the crews of eight yachts relegated themselves to the anchorage that morning.

The wind was blowing 15 knots out of the north-east, initially requiring that we set a stern anchor in order to align the ketch's bow to the forthcoming south-westerly buster. With a dinghy load of rode, Jenny pulled the stern hook out over the shallows, while I motored Suka around aimlessly. Then after dumping the kedge by the board she drifted downwind paying out line. She handed me the rode's bitter end, which I then rove through a stern chock and wrapped around a primary winch, and voilà , Suka lay to her stern anchor. We made fast another line to this same rode, and easing it far out, we allowed the yacht to drift downwind another 150 feet. There, we deployed the bow anchor. Then while Jenny paid out bower chain, I winched the brig stern-ward and into position. Lastly, I rowed a second kedge forward, at a angle to the one we had already set.

A Capsized Dinghy

In the initial throws of the ensuing south-westerly, one of the yachts near us, Lady III, began dragging. Her French crew, Claude and Renee, wisely decided to row out a secondary bow anchor. However, the wind had already whipped a hefty chop, which thwarted the couple's most concerted efforts at making headway aboard the clumsy inflatable. Tommy of Ni Singa motored to their aid with his hard dinghy. When the celestial awards are handed out for helping others, Tommy will take the gold. However, this particular morning fate was not listing in his favor. The hard dinghy was bearing the weights of Tommy, Claude, Lady III's anchor and its heavy all-chain rode, so the little boat was grossly overloaded. They managed to maneuver it into position, but as Claude was about to lower the anchor, a wave capsized the dinghy and sent it directly to the bottom. "I yelled for Claude to drop the anchor," Tommy explained later, "but he doesn't understand English - so we went down."

I jumped into Suka's Avon and rowed frantically to the scene. By the time I arrived, another yachtsman, Nick of Reremoea had hauled limp Tommy into his inflatable. As I mentioned earlier, Tommy could not swim, and having wallowed in the unforgiving brine for several minutes he found himself in grave difficulties. But once we had delivered him and Claude safely aboard Lady III, Renee began reviving the pair with blankets and hot chocolate.

Using a grappling hook, Nick and I began dragging the area, but with no success. Eventually though, a small quantity of petrol appeared at the surface, indicating the dinghy's general whereabouts, and before long we snagged something lying in the murky depths. Whatever we had, though, was too heavy to lift. In retrospect, this was most likely due to the dinghy's impinging weight of chain. Another obliging neighbor donned his scuba gear, swam to the scene, and bravely followed our grappling line down into the murky depths. After a concerted effort, the three of us had managed not only to salvage the dinghy and motor, but to set Claude's anchor as well.

A Bona fide Buster

Meanwhile the wind had intensified. A few hours after Tommy and Claude's saga, the hapless fleet was busily riding a bona fide buster, which this time was of considerable magnitude. Suka lay to a forked pair of bow anchors, but as luck would have it, the blow came not from the direction I had anticipated - in line with our main bower, but instead from fine on the port bow - in line with our backup 35-pound CQR. This rendered our main anchor unserviceable, such that the tempest began bulldozing the brig laterally toward her well secured neighboring yacht. The howling wind plowed the angry seas three and four feet high, and these oncoming combers crashed into Suka's prow and sent heavy onslaughts of spray dashing the anxious faces of her crew. The little CQR braved the storm with remarkable valor, until suddenly a gust broke it loose. At that, Suka spun helplessly to starboard, and came within inches of clouting her neighboring sailboat. Undoubtedly the two hulls would have inflicted mutual damage as they bounded wildly in the heaving seas, had not the respective crews staved-off mightily. During an unexpected lull, Suka finally sprang away, but the skipper of her neighbor failed to release his grip on our rigging in time, and after spanning the ever widening gap bodily, his feet planted on his vessel, and his hands grasping ours, lest he take the plunge he jumped onto Suka. "Welcome aboard," I bantered.

As the situation grew increasingly demanding, the brig slipped into her Durban ordeal #3. As a precaution, Perkins was ticking over at the ready, so with our secondary anchor a'dragging I grabbed the helm and motored the ketch forcefully into the wind. This relieved some of the strain from the little CQR, but it did not move us ahead. Nevertheless, the tactic prevented our smashing into our neighboring sailboat, and our dragging closer to the sandbar, which loomed menacingly a few hundred feet astern. After an hour's motoring in situ I managed to ease Suka close enough to her neighboring vessel so that our guest could disembark, incidentally while wearing my oilskin (later retrieved). Thereafter, I continued motoring into the blast for another hour and a half.

Late in the evening the gale subsided, leaving the many wearied crews free to retire belowdecks, to celebrate half-heartedly what remained of Christmas Eve.

Meteorological Portends

The weather along South Africa's eastern seaboard is notorious in its severity. This is hardly the place to simply grit one's teeth and obliviously put to sea. Remarkably, though, skippers who would not dream of tempting fate by departing port on a Friday, recklessly would set sail without heeding the meteorological portends - only to find themselves agonizing in the teeth of the next gnarly tempest. We watched this happen more than once. By studying the attendant weather patterns, though, we found that we could usually anticipate the gales. The dominating meteorology is a result of the endless band of extra-tropical depressions, somewhat evenly spaced and moving eastwards across the upper 30 and lower 40 southerly latitudes. The African landmass extending southward interrupts this flow, which has swept the southern ocean for many thousands of miles from the tip of South America and beyond. Our African land mass intrudes into this flow, and so creates stupendous eddies, which can result in extraordinary barometric gradients. Thus, coastal lows are spawned in the vicinity of Cape Agulhas, from where they drift north-eastward along the coast, to subjugate Durban, Richard's Bay and points beyond. It is these coastal lows, then, that are the miscreants.

The following cycle can be observed locally: A light north-east wind intensifies, sometimes to gale force. Then it will switch direction and blow from the south-west, an event sometimes hyphenated by brief calms. After many hours of virility the strong south-westerly gale or storm-force winds will slowly moderate, leaving brief calms. Then, the cycle repeats, with a period of perhaps three to ten days.

Planning Our Departure

Planning our departures from South Africa's southeastern harbors was a matter of leaving port the moment a south-westerly gale had spent itself. This timing should allow us the most suitable weather before the onset of the next south-westerly. The local yachtsmen have evolved a simple yet effective method of predicting the onset of the next gale, based largely on the changes and values of local barometric pressures. Exercising acumen in following these principles can pay big dividends, I reasoned, even though the study of the weather is often viewed as Quixotic. Perhaps harboring the naive impression that "it couldn't be that bad out there," the more heedless sailors made untimely departures. This attitude is no doubt engendered by stories of the many who have "lucked-out," and enjoyed flawless weather rounding the Cape. And granted, during the more favorable months of December to March the storms can be interspersed with extended periods of fine conditions, such that a pleasant passage around the infamous Cape of Storms is entirely possible. But also, skippers are well known for basing their departure decisions on the often erroneous predictions and charts fabricated by the "met" bureau, whose reports I had noticed were often blatantly in error.

Suka's weather fax was producing atmospheric pressure charts three times a day, as broadcast from Pretoria. From these we learned a great deal, watching the general isobaric patterns moving about. However, we also noticed that the data was often inaccurate. At times, what the charts depicted as our local weather, and what our atmospheric conditions actually were, differed enormously. In particular, we saw a lag of sometimes days between a major meteorological event and when the met office finally depicted that event on their charts.

Despite Jenny's and my all-embracing desires to flee Durban, the conditions offshore were not proving amenable to sailing. Discussing the situation with Keith Fletcher of Tenacity, he proffered what seemed sagacious advice: "Do your own thinking," he said. "Regardless of what everyone else does, make decisions based on your assessment of the situation." I was soon to apply this wisdom to great advantage.

The morning after we had enjoyed a pot luck dinner aboard Nikki, the sky looked promising and the fax charts indicated widespread flawless conditions. Jenny and I spent four hours checking out with the authorities, and I telephoned the local met office and learned that the experts were now predicting a few days of fine weather. That afternoon we were standing on the wharf talking with friends when a Customs officer appeared and asked if Suka was still scheduled for departure. I replied that she was, and he came aboard and issued us final clearance. This spectacle triggered many of the others to jump onto the bandwagon, and soon they were obtaining their clearance papers as well.

Departure from Durban #1

The following morning, as the previous buster had mitigated, eleven yachts departed, Suka being tenth in line. But once outside the protected harbor, I was surprised to find the wind blowing fresh out of the north-east, and that wisps of high cirrus were beginning to foment their omens in the southwestern sky. I sensed trouble. Despite the favorable information gleaned from the fax charts and the met office, the conditions seemed the classic harbinger of the next buster. Yet having spent so much time in Durban, Jenny and I were now more than anxious to continue, and the thought of resubmitting ourselves to Durban's labyrinth of petty officialdom was of itself incentive to press on. As I stood at the helm watching the fleet sprint aggressively away under full press of sails, Keith's advice came ringing back. "Forget the others, think for yourself."

I shared my apprehensions with Jenny, and she offered to support whatever decision I thought was best. So with indescribable reluctance I swung the helm about, and, tail between my legs so to speak, I motored back into the port. Inside the harbor we met departing yacht number eleven on its way out. Jim and Liz aboard Michael Stuart throttled back, maneuvered close aboard, and asked what was the problem. "Bad vibes," I related. "I think there may be another south-west gale brewing out there." Nevertheless, they decided to press on, following the others. We wished them well, then returned to the International Jetty, where we found plenty of space. Those remaining were indeed surprised at our untimely return, and the consensus only amplified my acute misgivings. A powerful urge within was taunting, "come on you coward, go for it!" yet my judgment whispered "stay."

Before long, Michael Stuart came put-putting back to the jetty. "Bad vibes," Jim proclaimed. "Besides," he capered, "I have a tennis match tomorrow." Responding to Jenny's radio call, an official came and checked us both back in.

The next morning dawned clear and beautiful. The fleet was no doubt a hundred miles along the coast and charging ahead, and I, quite obviously, had been terribly mistaken. As the morning began wearing on, I felt increasingly like crawling into a hole.

The gale suddenly struck Durban with such ferocity that people who were out enjoying the warm sunny morning were seen hanging onto any immovable object that offered support. The wind's fury was literally staggering. My any distinction for having been right, though, was far overshadowed by the concern I felt for our friends who were out there taking a hammering.

The storm wailed unabated throughout the day and long night, and the following morning various and sundry stricken yachts began limping back into port, having endured the night running before a 60 knot tempest, which had blasted them bare-poled back to Durban. The fastest outbound yacht was the first to return: the Germans Eric, his wife, and four children aboard their Nina had covered nearly 200 miles, and had nearly reached the next port, East London, before the gale had struck. Ludmaja II was the last in, arriving with a full complement of blown-out sails and a few choice explicatives from the French sailor's working vocabulary inscribed in Jacques' weathered expression. Most of the departing yachts returned, and we could see two masts standing beyond the breakwater; a pair of skippers had wisely anchored in the lee of the breakwater in order to avoid the requirements of checking both in and back out with the officials. Incidentally, while passing by on his way from Richards Bay, ol' Josh was one of them, having hired a competent local skipper to help deliver Comitan to Cape Town.

Two nights into the storm, the conditions were again on the mend, and I was looking for another chance to depart. That afternoon Jenny and I hiked to the offices of the port authorities, where again we checked out. Also, I telephoned the airports at Port Elizabeth and Cape Town, and learned that at the moment their weather was fine. Our skies were thickly overcast and drizzling, though, so I then telephoned the local met office. An engineer explained that the rain was not an indication of poor weather to come, but was the result of warm tropical moisture-laden air meeting the cool ocean air, and condensing.

Departure from Durban #2

At 10:30 p.m. the wind ceased. "We're going now," I told Jim, who came on deck when hearing our diesel engine bestir. "On a night like this?" he asked incredulously. "It's dark! It's raining!"

10:45 p.m., December 29:

In the blow's aftermath the seas were yet tousled, so in light airs we motor-sailed topsy-turvy through the persistent slop. Holding land some five miles abeam, we navigated using the sounder and by taking compass bearings to various headlands and to the occasional beacon. Again, the Cimmerian coastline seemed desolate.

Michael Stuart and Crypton had departed Durban an hour after we had, and by taking a broader track seaward they had found stronger current. By daybreak they had overtaken us. The day was one of gorgeous weather; mid morning we silenced the engine and filled the sails on a broad reach.

East London

As we approached East London the following afternoon, , the barometer was once again sliding past 1011 m.b. on its descent. The other two yachts elected to press on, but a sense of prudence suggested that we duck into East London. So we motored into this harbor dredged from a river, and made fast alongside a tug, near a bridge. The 250-mile jaunt had gone without a hitch, and had featured north-easterlies for most of the way.

Quark lay rafted alongside a few other yachts, and Charlie (the diesel mechanic) and Jeanette had been living here in East London several months after having sailed directly from Mauritius. Through the grapevine we had learned that these two had reported enduring a pair of severe gales a ways offshore, the worst storms these well seasoned seafarers had ever encountered. But troubles far enough in the past are no longer viewed as so appalling, so "We had a pretty good trip across" was Charlie's current abridgment. He had landed a job as an industrial refrigeration mechanic, and reported that the boss had extended him the use of a posh apartment and a Mercedes. "Sure beats picking tomatoes for a living like we did in Bundy!" he exclaimed.

New Year's Eve, the East London Yacht Club invited us visitors to attend their upcoming gala festivities. But the club's facilities stood a considerable distance from the yacht basin, and anyway, Jenny and I were much in need of sleep. So wearily, we turned in.

The following morning we enjoyed a leisurely walk through the town's deserted streets, understandably quiet on that first day of 1985. Presumably most of the locals were now dealing quietly with the standard ailments incurred in their ringing-in of the new year.

The barometer lay relatively low but was holding steady. I telephoned the airport met offices at Port Elizabeth and Cape Town, and both gave a reassuring synopsis: there were no known coastal lows away to the south. So at 5 p.m. we decided to sally the 135 miles to Port Elizabeth. East London's check-out procedure on a New Year's day consisted simply of my radioing Harbor Control for permission to depart. "Permission granted," came the reply, "and have a good trip."

In superlative conditions we filled away, and throughout the night followed the 50-fathom contour, some seven miles off-shore. As before, the somber coastline appeared largely unpopulated, and we navigated strictly by depth sounder with an occasional reassuring position fix complements of the sat-nav. By morning the wind grew light and we motor-sailed past Bird Island and across Algoa Bay. Much to our delight, inquisitive seals came frolicking playfully close alongside, while a host of sea birds wheeled and turned as though ushering us ceremoniously toward Port Elizabeth.

Port Elizabeth

We entered the port at 2:30 p.m. Because the little yacht club marina was now filled to capacity, Harbor Control directed us to tie alongside the tug Clarke, moored idly to the wharf. This suited us perfectly.

For the record, those present included Spirit of Victory, Michael Stuart, Fair Joanda, Nina, Crypton, Elefant from West Germany, Cabane III from Finland, and a few others. And there among the group sat Comitan. We were relieved to see that ol' Josh Taylor had arrived safely.

The next day a south-westerly gale ripped through the harbor, buffeting Suka viciously against the sturdy tug. But we had grown accustomed to this sort of abuse, and had acquired a couple discarded auto tires to use as massive fenders, first serving them with old ropes so they would not blacken the hull. Leaving Suka secure, we joined the cruising group ashore, and spent a most pleasant evening at the yacht club, happily removed, for once, from the clutches of the stormy sea.

Why Not!?

During our second day in Port Elizabeth, while the buster howled, we were surprised by a familiar, large ketch motoring into the harbor, her skipper securing her to the wharf aft of Suka. We stared incredulously at the Dutch yacht Why Not!?, single-handed by our friend Leen Verkaik. The last we had heard was this boat had been dismasted in the Indian Ocean, that Leen had suffered a back injury, and that he had eventually reached Rodriguez Island where he planned to spend a year effecting repairs. Yet astonishingly, here he was; and both he and the yacht obviously stood in good stead. Talking with him, we learned that this was his first landfall after a 30-day passage from Mauritius. After Leen had rested a few days we invited him aboard for dinner and to hear his story.

While building his prodigious ketch, Leen had taken the brunt of much scoffing from friends and relatives. "Why are you doing this?" they implored. "Why not!?" Leen would reply. "It's better than getting square eyes from watching television." Leen related his having departed Christmas Island a few days after we had. As he was single-handing, he had decided not to risk entering Cocos Keeling, despite our urging him to hail us by radio so that we could dinghy out and pilot him in. One night, several hundred miles west of Cocos, and while we were safely inside the lagoon, a dwindling gale left Why Not!? rolling heavily in big seas without benefit of a steadying wind in her sails. Leen noticed that all four lower mainmast shrouds had loosened. The stayband, where they attached to the mast aloft, was apparently slipping. He tightened the turnbuckles enough to alleviate the snubbing. Then a few hours later the yacht's violent rolling caused the stayband to give way, and the mast fell with a mighty crash.

Why Not!? was a steel-hulled 47 footer, and her solid wooden spar was massive. Like an aged spruce tree it had snapped above the deck. However, its upper end was still suspended from the triadic stay, attached to the mizzen masthead. Thus, the top of the main masthead dangled a few feet above the deck, and was swinging back and forth mightily like an erratic pendulum. In short order it swept the topsides clear of anything standing in its path. For three days Leen struggled to regain some order out of the chaos. Then came a particularly large sea that heaved the stricken yacht while her skipper worked aloft on the mizzen. He lost his grip, and because he was not wearing a safety harness (for after all, the yacht was not moving through the water) he plummeted onto the cabin top, injuring his back.

Not to give in, Leen patched himself up, and continued working throughout the next days and nights. Eventually he managed to lash the main mast at an incline against the mizzen mast, and to jury-rig a sail plan that then carried him across the vast Indian Ocean. He reached Rodriguez 60 days later. However, while making his landfall the engine refused to start. As the vessel stood bereft of adequate sail power, Why Not!? soon found herself on the reef. Never mind, she was strongly built of steel, and the islanders soon towed her off with only a few scratches.

After stepping ashore, Leen telephoned his son, who had lent a hand building the vessel in Holland. The son then amassed the necessary repair materials and with them boarded a jetliner. Meanwhile, dead batteries charged and engine started, Leen motored to Mauritius, where with his son, he ingeniously repaired the giant wooden mast. This he did by butting the ragged ends together, placing a massive stainless steel collar around them, and then pumping epoxy under pressure through grease zerks. Moreover, Leen had salvaged all the rigging intact, and was able to use it without modification by carefully maintaining the mast's previous length.

Two arduous months later, Leen - one tough hombre - set sail for Port Elizabeth. Indeed, Why not!?

Tugboat Blue Jay

Jenny and I became friends with the four-man crew of a tug residing near Suka. One day they invited us on their usual morning tour of duties. The Blue Jay normally acted as a pilot, leaving her much larger sisters to do the actual pushing and shoving. As a ship neared port, Blue Jay would proceed to the fairway buoy for a rendezvous, where she would then come alongside the new arrival. Typically, a long rope ladder was lowered over the ship's topsides, and the African Piloting officer, whom we were now delivering, climbed up, hand over hand, and boarded the ship. If the ship happened to be departing instead, the process was reversed.

Our 7 a.m. jaunts with Willie, Bernard, Michael and Eddie aboard the Blue Jay became something of a morning ritual: "going to work" we termed it, for if we failed to appear on time, they were likely to come calling for us. Often, as the tug returned to the harbor (when the pilot was no longer aboard) Jenny would assume the vessel's helm, and I found it amusing that after a few days, little attention was paid to her steering. These Afrikaners certainly were personable, and they could not seem to do enough for us. They drove us on sightseeing tours, gave us lifts to fetch groceries, and once delivered us to fill a propane tank. Moreover, of the 20 or so yachts lying in port, Suka was the only one supplied with an electrical cord, fed from Blue Jay's cabin.

Comitan

We had last seen Comitan's skipper Josh Taylor in Richard's Bay. The manager of the yacht basin there, Bruce Hancocks, was well experienced in sailing the South African coastline, and he magnanimously took it upon himself to see that Josh reached Cape Town safely. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Josh would be pressing his luck to its virtual limits by tackling the passage round the infamous Cape, either alone or with Heidi. Here in Port Elizabeth, then, Bruce told me the story of their journey thus far. It seems that after he and Josh had departed Richard's Bay, Bruce had hand-steered for a considerable number of hours before finally asking Josh to assume the helm, so that Bruce could rest belowdecks. A few hours later Bruce emerged, to discover that land had disappeared altogether, even though Josh claimed to have fastidiously held the proper heading. With the conditions arousing his suspicions, Bruce decided to close the coast. Comitan's compass indicated that shore lay to starboard, but Bruce could not correlate that with the way the seas were moving. He felt that despite what the compass indicated, Comitan was presently heading north-east, traveling in the wrong direction. Against Josh's protests, Bruce turned the yacht around and then reset the sails. A few hours later, indeed, they sighted land ahead. This was when they first discovered that, inexplicably, Comitan's compass card sometimes flip-flopped. Nevertheless, they had barely reached the Durban Harbor breakwater when the buster hit. Wisely, they rode the gale at anchor rather than enter the harbor and subject themselves to the tempest of clearance procedures and the inner harbor turmoil. After the buster they sprinted for Port Elizabeth, where they sheltered for two days during the next south-westerly, poor Josh all the while protesting that Bruce was being overly domineering. Then the day after I talked with them, they set off for Cape town.

Haul-Out

Suka needs to be hauled out of the water for a long-overdue bottom scrubbing. Little Michael Stuart with her shortened mast had passed Suka one day out of Durban, and had further impressed upon Jenny and me the need for this haul-out. We telephoned ahead to Cape Town's yacht club, only to learn that the marine railways there were fully booked. The ways in Port Elizabeth were available and inexpensive - no doubt because they were rickety beyond measure. So with some misgivings Jenny and I visited the slipway's manager and paid for a haul-out. If we should need a ladder, the chap informed us, it would cost extra.

After a few scruffy workers had winched Suka recklessly up the rickety ways and onto dry land, Jenny and I set to scraping and sanding away most of the old bottom paint, without the benefit of power tools, which were unavailable here.

Midway through our first day of work, a black fellow happened along and asked rather emphatically for employment. "To feed my family," he implored, taking a sheet of sandpaper and setting to work. The sight of the black employees of the Port Authority hanging idly about had not bode well with us. "How much do you charge?" I asked skeptically.

"One Rand an hour."

That was the equivalent of a mere 50 cents US per hour, so I said "OK." That afternoon, Cecil Mongezi performed the work of any three men stateside. He was a member of the tribe Xhosa, a word pronounced by first clicking the back of the tongue and then quickly saying "closha." Despite repeated attempts neither Jenny or I managed the pronunciation.

Cecil showed me his credentials, which the law required all blacks to carry. Also as required by law, Cecil lived in one of the "locations" far from town, where the blacks were kept away from the cities as much as possible. On the days he elected to come looking for work, Cecil would board the bus at 5:30 in the morning, then once at the train station he would endure a lengthy train ride to the outskirts of Port Elizabeth, from where he would then walk the remaining miles into town. The round trip fare was the equivalent of 33 cents US - nearly an hour's wages, should he be so fortunate as to find a day's employment.

When the afternoon had spent itself I presented Cecil with his pay, along with a well earned bonus, and invited him to return the following day if he cared to work again.

That night a noise awoke Jenny and me. I climbed the companionway ladder to find a couple of gooks milling around Suka, obviously casing her. Discovering my presence, they ran away.

The next day Cecil returned, and the three of us resumed our work. The time spent in Cecil's presence passed quickly, as our new friend enlightened us with his perspectives, and as we plied him with unending questions. That afternoon, Bernard, one of our white, Afrikaner friends from the Blue Jay, came by to apprise our progress and to wish us well. I hardly knew what to expect when the two factions met, but to my amazement Bernard began speaking with Cecil in the Xhosa language, and in friendly, relaxed tones. "It's like this," Bernard explained to Jenny and me. "Our problem is not that we don't like blacks, but that the majority of them don't care to work in any way, or even to treat their fellow man with respect. They fight and steal from each other like you wouldn't believe." (Cecil lifted his shirt to reveal four stab wound scars.) "With their numbers and behavior, they must be kept away from the cities as much as possible; otherwise they would overwhelm us. The problem is insurmountable and we're doing what we can under the circumstances. Your man Cecil here is different. He works hard and acts responsibly, and I am not prejudiced against his color. And this is what the world fails to understand about we South Africans." Indeed, Jenny and I were learning not to judge people by whatever common misconceptions prevailed back home.

After we had worked hard throughout the morning, Jenny fixed a hearty lunch; but Cecil would not stop working. "Not hungry now, eat later," he demurred. I think this was his way of showing us how important the job was to him. That evening I invited him back for the third and final day of bottom work, and with enthusiasm he said that he would return. However, the following day he failed to appear, and to this day I shudder to imagine how his fellow tribesmen might have relieved him of his windfall pay.

That afternoon the yard staff relaunched Suka by simply letting go. At that she accelerated down the ways at a shuddering speed, only to smash stern-first into the sea. But when at last Suka lay again safely afloat, I felt a tidal wave of relief at no longer having to worry about her falling sideways off that frail cradle.

We were ready to begin the 188 mile jaunt to Mosselbaai, weather permitting, which it was not. Unlike Durban, though, Port Elizabeth was a most pleasant place to find oneself waylaid. So we used the storm-bound confinement - and then some - to best advantage. We visited a snake park and the Pearsons Hothouse Botanical Conservatory; both were within walking distance of the small harbor, and both most interesting. The crew of Blue Jay arranged for Jenny and me to take a personal tour through the colossal container ship Waterberg, replete with an elevator to reach the bridge, and two mammoth, three-story-tall engines.

On another day, Willie, a crewman of Blue Jay, invited us for a drive through the countryside and then to his home for a braai, the South African customary barbecue. We met his wife, two children, and his black maid who worked for moderate wages.

The Ostrich Ride

Jenny and I joined John and Virginia Houk from Joggins on a trip in a rental car to visit one of the ostrich farms, near a place called Oudtshoorn. After a pleasant drive into the hinterland, we toured the facilities at length. Here, we learned, the birds are raised commercially for their meat, feathers, eggs, and so forth - in much the same manner as cattle elsewhere are exploited. After the tour, our group of perhaps 30 was ushered into an arena and afforded the opportunity to actually ride one of these gangly creatures. Oddly, Jenny and I were the only volunteers. Bravely, Jenny went first.

A black fellow, one of the two professional "ostrich jockeys," selected a bird from a cluster of a dozen standing by, and while holding it in place, his assistant plopped a sock over its head. Jenny climbed aboard, bareback. The sock was removed and the ostrich commenced prancing around obediently for a few minutes. The ride appeared to be enjoyable.

Then came my turn. Unintentionally no doubt, the staff provided me with a rather ornery bird. The sock was placed over its head and I climbed on. However, I could not seem to grip the creature, and kept sliding down its hind quarters. Because of this, I began to suspect that the ride might not be enjoyable. Nevertheless, the attendants admonished me to grab the thickly grissled base of the wing roots, and to lock my knees over the bird's bulbous drumsticks. And this I did, although largely without effect. Before I could seat myself more securely, one of the attendants removed the sock and the beast shot away. In the accelerated moment I lost grip on the wings and grabbed instead the bird's long, supple neck. This appendage proved worthless for clinging onto; it felt more like an overgrown wet noodle, for it afforded not the slightest support. To say the least, I was for those moments wildly out of control. What amazed me was that my body weight hardly slowed the powerful creature, and more so, how suddenly the bird could skid to an abrupt halt. At this, my momentum carried me forward, but my clinging to the feeble neck had no effect. My brief ride terminated as I catapulted into the air and landed in a heap, dust swirling about what seemed like a crater I had plowed.

Humbled, I rose, brushed myself off, relieved to find that all working parts still functioned. The onlookers were incredulous - especially Jenny, who despite my explicit instructions to photograph my ride, had merely sat there mouth agape. No damage had incurred to man or beast. However, it must be noted that there were no further volunteers for ostrich riding.

The jockeys saved the show by staging a valorous hundred-yard ostrich dash. They steered by gingerly grasping the creatures by their necks, and physically pointing the heads in the desired direction of travel.

Departure

Upwind of the yacht basin stood a titanic bulk-ore ship loading facility. During our seventeen days in Port Elizabeth, this plant had been exuding black dust, some of which now coated Suka's rigging, as well as the rigging of the other long-term yachts. The weather began showing signs of improvement, but before we could depart, this boatswain needed to clean the ketch's masts and stays. Innumerable times during our voyage the mast steps proved advantageous, and this was certainly one of them.

Mossel Bay

We departed Port Elizabeth January 19, 1985 at 5 p.m, and after rounding Cape Recife encountered a light wind fine on the port bow. This necessitated our motor-sailing for the initial fourteen hours. Then for the next twenty hours we enjoyed 20 to 30 knot winds from astern.

Three a.m. on a moonless night, five miles out of Mosselbaai, (Mossel Bay), the barometer was falling unpropitiously and the wind had diminished to a whisper. Our timing could not have been better. We groped our way into the small Mosselbaai harbor as sudden headwinds lashed out. We were thankful to have reached this port in time to elude the next gale.

The blow eased after 18 hours, so we departed after having indulged in much needed sleep. The storms were less intense in these southerly regions, and the sailing was not as dangerous because the Agulhas Current had deflected away from the coast. Moreover, south of here a boat can duck into a few anchorages that might afford refuge against a south-westerly blow. Accordingly, I suppose, the port officials were less stringent in their checking-in and -out requirements.

Vleesbaai

After beating into 10 to 15 knots of wind for five hours, we closed the coast and anchored in a place called Vleesbaai. This was a calculated maneuver designed to remove us from civilization for a day or so, and it certainly accomplished that. Remarkably, the nearby village showed not a single light after dark. It obviously lacked electricity, and we wondered how many more darkened villages we had passed during the night.

The following day we were enjoying the tranquility at anchor when a pair of Afrikaners paddled out in surf kayaks. I asked if they commonly saw yachts anchored here. "Yeah, one did, what was it... 2 years ago," came the reply.

At any rate, we found it remarkable to be lying at anchor in a quiet bay so near the infamous Cape of Storms.

At 1:30 that afternoon the wind began backing, and sending an increasing swell rolling into the bay. Soon the anchorage would be untenable; however, this was the specific indication we had been awaiting, as it heralded favorable sailing conditions to come.

We weighed anchor and put to sea as the French yacht Lady III happened to be sailing by, and in her company we proceeded. Over the Ham radio waves we learned that several cruisers were coming on strong, astern of us, having departed Mosselbaai the moment the wind had shifted.

Cape of Good Hope

Rounding the Cape of Good Hope

At dawn the following day, in a southerly wind of 15 knots and in the company of albatross on the wing we rounded Cape Agulhas, Africa's southern-most promontory. As had been the case with our turning Australia's Cape York, this was indeed a momentous occasion. Standing some 10 miles off-shore, at a latitude of 35 degrees we had reached our voyage's most southerly range. To our tropically acclimatized bodies the air felt penetratingly frigid, so while wearing oilskins over several layers of clothing, I adjusted the steering vane to stand a course west by north-west. The Indian Ocean lay astern.

A few hours later, aboard his Spirit of Victory Julio began whooping into the radio transmitter. "We've rounded the cape!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "Today is a day of rest; and we sail only with the mizzen." This explained why he and Lola had not passed us by. The day was most certainly not one of rest for the crew of Suka, though, for with the vicissitudes of the local weather patterns in mind, and now in stronger wind, Jenny and I were sailing harder than we had ever sailed, making 7-1/2 knots.

Late in the afternoon, having rounded the Cape of Good Hope, which lies some 83 miles west-nor'west of Cape Agulhas, we were steering north with Cape Town in our gun sights. Then at midnight, about eight miles from the harbor entrance, we began experiencing a wind blowing with increasing vehemence. Fortunately for us, the tempest was off-shore, but its strength overpowered even our double reefed mainsail, so Jenny handed that, and I motored Suka ahead under bare poles. The tempest was from abeam, so spume and driven spray arced overhead with each sprawling comber. Between powerful gusts I steered shoreward to reduce the fetch, ever weary of standing in too close and collecting any off lying rocks, obscured in the darkness. The temperature had plummeted, such that we now wore practically every piece of outer clothing we owned. So encumbered, we felt like seagoing Eskimos.

The weather phenomena we were experiencing was the classic Cape Town sou'-easter that forms the picturesque "tablecloth" cloud that hunkers over the historic landmark Table Mountain. Unknown to us, rather than enter the harbor in such powerful wind, with local knowledge it is preferable to anchor off-shore at an appropriate place largely shielded from the wind. And in fact we passed through a few protected areas of total calm. Had I known what trials lay in store, I would have stood off in one of these calm areas, and awaited daylight.

Instead, we proceeded to the harbor entrance and radioed Port Control, who dispatched a pilot boat on our behalf. The entrance was beset with vicious and nearly impenetrable headwinds. Spray lashed our faces, minimizing visibility and soon drenching us through. Each time I tried to power Suka into the vehement blast, a gust would slew her bow away, and she would lose way. After several attempts, with Perkins roaring we finally managed to claw into the harbor between the stronger gusts.

Once inside, we were aghast to find ourselves subject to a most dangerous lee shore - the harbor's inner breakwater, which was being bashed continually by fearful combers. Had Perkins died, we might have hoisted the storm trysail, which we had hanked to its own mast track but still bagged and with its sheets attached. In order to make way under trysail, though, we would also have needed to hoist a storm staysail. And we obviously lacked the sea room, and therefore the time, to accomplish these tasks. Perhaps I could have steered Suka, coasting bare-polled, back out the entrance; perhaps not. Otherwise, we would have deployed an anchor, even though the odds were against its finding purchase on the dredged harbor seabed. Our pilot either could not, or simply would not respond to our radio calls, and he kept his vessel impatiently well ahead of us. Obviously, he was not offering a towing service. Clearly, I had placed Suka in a grave predicament, and could only hope that Perkins continued to run.

By the time we had powered well into the harbor, Perkins was overheating. But the gusts were mauling us with somewhat less vengeance, so I throttled back a trifle. While I stood wielding the helm, Jenny scurried belowdecks time and again to clean my eye glasses. In the process, we covered the one mile distance from the harbor entrance to the yacht club in one hour and fifteen minutes of concerted effort.

As we neared the yacht basin, the pilot motioned us with his spotlight to proceed into the crowded yacht marina. Such a move would have been madness, for inside was a complete lack of maneuvering space. When the pilot realized I was refusing to follow his direction, he rescinded and led us a short ways back and around into a ship basin, empty of ships and surrounded with high concrete walls. From there he left us to our own devices.

At the far end of the basin, in the direction from which the outrageously fierce wind was blowing, were three yachts laying to bow lines secured to massive, shore-side bollards. If we could somehow attach a line to a similar bollard, our troubles would be over. However, in such fierce wind one does not simply saunter in between other yachts and step ashore. The chop was bouncing our vessel like an overgrown rocking horse, and one caress of her bucking bowsprit to the immovable concrete wharf would have spelled instant dismemberment. Compounding the problem, as I eased Suka carefully toward the wharf, the black of night prevented me from discerning exactly where the tip of Suka's bowsprit ended and where the hard lip of the implacable concrete wharf began. Moreover, Jenny was understandably afraid to leap ashore, especially considering that the high-walled basin was unequipped with emergency ladders, with which a hapless swimmer might have crawled out of the water. Three times I attempted easing in, and three times I failed to land my crew member ashore.

Anchoring was not an attractive alternative, considering that the holding might have been poor. So the remaining option was to side-tie to a wall paralleling the wind. For indeed, one of these walls featured a huge, rubber ship-fender suspended from chains. I maneuvered near, and the mate jumped onto this fender and secured a bow line to it. But Suka was pitching so wildly that when her weight fell against the line she pressed against the fender so hard that a bowsprit shroud parted with a loud bang! Above the blast I hollered for Jenny to untie the line and to jump quickly aboard. I could not leave the helm, and therefore I could not leave Jenny ashore.

The basin afforded Suka the barest rudiments of maneuvering space, so I stood off, and mentally prepared another attempt at motoring to the windward wall, and at somehow fastening a line to one of the bollards. Spirit of Victory nosed into the basin, suddenly making the basin seem extremely crowded. "Get ready, Jenny," I yelled against the shrieking wind. "We're going in. But first, jump below and clean my glasses again; I can't see a bloody thing!"

I powered toward the windward wall, steering for the gap between two of the yachts. Then I eased the throttle at the last possible moment, hoping that our speed and distance were correct. By the grace of God they were, and Jenny bravely leapt ashore and threw a line over the bollard, to which Suka immediately fell back on. The time was two o'clock in the morning, and the ordeal was over - almost.

Being nearly twice Suka's length, Spirit of Victory lacked maneuvering space within the basin. Thus, her skipper Julio had but one chance at securing a mooring. However, he had an advantage - me, standing ashore and ready to accept a bow line. He charged toward the wall, and at the appropriate moment his wife Lola tossed me a bow warp. But Spirit had a little too much way on. While I was busily securing his line to the bollard, the vessel's bow bumped against the concrete wall, although not hard enough to damage the boat. However, as the ship bounced rocking-horse fashion in the surge, Lola fended-off the wall mightily, and in the process she became entangled and received a painful arm injury. Subsequently, a doctor diagnosed her injuries as torn ligaments, and advised her to wear an arm sling for the ensuing three weeks.

Cape Town

The gale persisted another 24 hours, during which time Suka remained safely moored leeward of the wall. Then a few mornings later, when the sky dawned clear and calm we moved the ketch into the marina at the hospitable and congenial Royal Cape Yacht Club. There, the manager had generously assigned us a berth, and by happenstance the one adjacent the Hiscock's former yacht, Wanderer IV. This was particularly momentous because I had garnered most of my sailing and cruising knowledge from Eric Hiscock's wonderful books.

With Suka safe and secure, that evening I treated my lovely companion to an exquisite lobster and champagne dinner, celebrating our safe crossing of the Indian Ocean, and our rounding of the Cape of Storms.

We remained in Cape Town for ten days. During that time we repaired the broken bowsprit shroud, purchased a new, custom mainsail from a local loft, bought a new pair of eyeglasses for each of us, and effected a number of repairs aboard. Meanwhile, we found it remarkable, ambling the placid and cosmopolitan streets of Cape Town, entering a magazine shop, picking up an American weekly news magazine, and reading of the hostilities and insurrections reportedly besetting harried Cape Town. One could only commend the reporters for their acumen in capturing on film these events; they were certainly keener observers than were we.

Wilfrid and Pat

Our optometrist, Wilfrid Hain, happened to own a yacht moored also at the RCYC, so we found much in common to talk about. As a result, he and his girlfriend Pat invited Jenny and me for a sight seeing drive, and soon the four of us became fast friends. For three days they regaled us with sightseeing tours of the Cape's bucolic environs, and typically after each day's jaunt we would land at their favorite restaurant to sample the cuisine of Wilfrid's homeland, Austria. Our hosts not only provided us with an insight of Cape Town life, but they left us feeling we were almost a part of their families.

During one of our drives, while exploring the Cape Peninsula, Wilfrid stopped the car and allowed a few wild baboons to climb onto the hood. "They're begging for handouts but watch your eye glasses," he cautioned, "and close your windows," Later, at one of the hundreds of roadside public picnic areas he struck a campfire using a bundle of wood purchased from a roadside vendor, then from the car's trunk he withdrew a hinged metal gridiron and from a cooler a variety of meats. Soon he was tending a sizzling and tantalizing meal that comprised chicken, T-bone steaks, chops, and a delicious spicy sausage called boerewors. Watching the sunset over the expanse of the South Atlantic, we enjoyed the traditional Sunday afternoon braai, or barbecue.

On another day, Wilfrid and Pat accompanied us in the cable car ascending Table Mountain, and at the summit we admired the stupendous, oceanic views. At our feet were furry little animals called hyraks.

Then later that afternoon we drove with Wilfrid and Pat far into the country and stopped at a few farmer's stalls, where Jenny and I bought boxes of fresh fruits and vegetables for provisioning Suka's larder for her forthcoming Atlantic crossing.

Departure

People often ask what was our favorite place visited during our global voyage, and typically they are surprised to learn that second only to Cocos Keeling, which most folks have never heard of, we cherished South Africa the most. This is a powerful land, compelling and full of dissimilitudes, interesting sights, and a great many genial people. How reluctant we were to be leaving it so soon.