Passage to New Caledonia

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On her first watch of the night, The First Mate notes in the log that at 2300, we are abeam North Cape. She only knows this from the GPS, as we are too far out to see any lights, not even the blinking light of the lighthouse beacon. Even so, she knows we have left New Zealand in our wake. The next blinking light we should see will be Phare Amedee, the lighthouse which marks the channel through the reef into New Caledonia.

One does not time a passage based on the phases of the moon, for it is the state of the weather that counts. However, when a full moon just happens to coincide with one’s passage, one can count oneself blessed. As the sun sets on our first night out, a bright, round, full, beautiful moon rises. All night long, this wonder of nature is going to be with us lighting up the darkness around us, making everything much friendlier. No monstrous sea creatures will be crawling unseen on our decks!

This first night out, unfortunately, ended up a bit more challenging than either of us wanted or expected. For most of the afternoon, we had sailed briskly along with winds in the teens and forward of the beam. The winds began increasing after dark and were almost 20 kts by midnight. With one reef in the mainsail, Avante was under a fair amount of sail and flying along at about 9 kts. For the remainder of the night and into the morning, rain clouds crossed our path several times. Normally, these rain clouds are more pain than problem. Winds pick up, rain slashes down, the ocean gets boisterous and then they pass. We did luck out in that we missed the slashing rain most of the time because we ended up skirting the outer fringes of the clouds. Still, the strong, gusting winds caught us anyway, and the increased load on the rudder proved too much for the autopilot. The first time the system disengaged on us, we were caught by surprise. Fortunately, it was at the end of a watch when we were up and about the cabin. Feeling that something was wrong, we jumped up to investigate. As we did, the boom crashed over to the opposite side of the boat. No longer under the control of the autopilot, the bow had swung through the wind. The Captain, quicker to the wheel, took command and put the boat back on track. Our next concern was whether the autopilot would reset or not. It did with no problem. Good, but why had it disengaged in the first place?

Just three weeks earlier, on that fantastic sail we had upon returning from Great Barrier Island to the mainland, the same thing had happened. With full mainsail up and winds in the low 20’s and the boat heeled at 20 – 30 degrees, there was a lot of force on the rudder. Added to that was the drag caused by Avante‘s barnacle-encrusted bottom. We figured that it had all been just too much for the autopilot to handle, for it then worked just fine when we were in calmer conditions. It is beginning to look like the autopilot’s refusal to work then was not just some flukey event.

We just might have a recurring problem, for it happened again while The First Mate was supposed to be sleeping during her 3-hour break between watches. Lying in bed in the aft cabin, the chug-a-chug sound of the autopilot hydraulic arm moving the rudder can be heard. The First Mate could not help but be attuned to it. Suddenly, there was silence. Springing out of bed or, more correctly, crab-crawling backwards out of the low-ceilinged aft berth, she yelled to The Captain that the autopilot was off. Sitting at the Nav Station, he was able to quickly reset the autopilot right there, and it went back to work steering the boat. That in itself was a good sign. If there was a problem with the system itself, it would not have engaged as readily.

For the rest of the night, every large rain cloud that passed put us on edge. Usually the autopilot held, but not always. With no particular pattern to account for this equipment failure other than when more stress was being added to the system, we had no advance warning. Though there are failure alert lights on the control panels, they are dim. One almost has to be looking at the instrument itself to note the flashing.

First nights on passage are not meant to be easy. The body has to get accustomed to the schedule. It has to be alert and functioning when it wants to be stilled and asleep. Still, last night was more fraught than usual. Sleep of any kind between watches alluded us, for, whenever those winds increased and the seas got bouncy, we could not help opening one sleepy eye and tuning into the motion of the boat, the sails and the chug-a-chug of the autopilot.

Sunday, May 19th – Winds remain in the teens but have moved slightly aft. We sailed along quite comfortably all day averaging 7 – 8 knots, and with no stress on the rudder, the autopilot functioned just as it should. Noon to noon, we did about 170nm. Not bad considering we did not have wind for the first few hours yesterday!

We have been spending a great deal on Avante in the last 2 years getting her in top shape for an intended major passage to French Polynesia. This year we decided to spend a bit upon the crew to make sure they, too, are best prepared. New life vests were ordered, and are they ever state of the art! Our old vests were exceptional when they were new, but that was 18 years ago. Over time, we had updated them by adding on GPS and satellite locators, but these additions hung on the jacket and were cumbersome to activate, especially when that had to be done in the first few shocking minutes of falling overboard.

By late afternoon, winds have settled down to 8 – 9 knots. We discuss putting in a second reef in case we have a night like last night, but decide that with the forecasted calm conditions, we will sail on with just the one reef. As predicted, it is a quiet night with winds slowly lessening. Shortly, before 0400, a minor rain shower hits us. At first the winds start to rise, and then as the cloud veers away, it sucks the wind with it. With sails now flopping uselessly, we furl the jib, center the main, turn on the motor and plow on into the night. After sunrise, when the winds increase to 12 knots, we eagerly put out the sails only to have the winds drop within the hour. Back on goes the motor. Every sailor will tell you that putting out the sails as the wind picks up is often the “kiss of death”. Sometimes it is best just to leave things alone!

Monday, May 20th – The Captain announces over his morning hot chocolate that we are 300nm into passage. Not bad – 1/3 of the way in just 44 hours! Our bodies are getting accustomed to the routine of only getting a few hours sleep at a time. Both of us feel refreshed after a quiet night with no issues. Under motor again and with the boat only slightly rocking, The First Mate makes a real breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast and juice. Eaten at a level table. What a treat! Another treat is that it is warming up. We’re heading north, closer to the equator. Each nautical mile brings a little more warmth. The First Mate has shed a layer of fleece, and The Captain is in short sleeves.

Shortly after noon, we once again have enough wind to sail, but that, too, is short-lived. Back on goes the motor. As forecast, by late afternoon the wind is light and has moved almost directly astern. These would be ideal conditions to fly our spinnaker, but that is something we learned through trial and error and a few mishaps not to do with just the 2 of us. Instead, with the mainsail now flopping uselessly, we drop the sail and give up on the idea of sailing. The motor stays on, and we keep thrumming steadily along on into the afternoon and evening.

Tuesday, May 21st – 0730 – Like death and taxes, weather changes are inevitable. Listening to the morning offshore weather forecasts broadcast on SSB radio by a couple in Gulf Harbour, New Zealand, we learn that we should be delighted with our decision to go to New Caledonia and not to Fiji or Tonga. With the widespread, benign weather window, many boats did as we did and chose to leave. However, it is not an uncommon pattern for cruisers to first visit Tonga or Fiji and then cruise west with the trade winds to other Pacific Islands like New Caledonia before heading to either New Zealand or Australia at the end of the cruising season. Not far off the rhumb line to either Fiji or Tonga lies Minerva Reef, two mostly sunken rings of coral with narrow entrances and coral-strewn lagoons where cruisers love to stop for the uniqueness of it all.

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All the boats currently on passage anticipated relatively easy crossings to their various destinations, but then a tiny disturbance developed out near Fiji and turned into a nasty low with heavy rain and high winds. Those boats which left ahead of us and had stopped in Minerva Reef to visit have found themselves stuck there waiting out this weather. For those who left when we did, the suggestion that they ought to stop at Minerva Reef is being proffered. They are told that the weather in and around Fiji and Tonga is and will continue to be “snotty” with high winds and rain for up to a week. Those already at Minerva Reef and those planning to arrive can expect to shelter there for a number of days. Shelter is probably not the right word to use. With 25-knot winds blasting over the shallow coral rings from the ocean and anchored in a coral-strewn lagoon with no easy emergency retreat, the word shelter is only used in comparison to being out in the open ocean. We do not envy them nor do we wish to be in either Fiji or Tonga where many of our cruising friends already are. We have sat out weather like this, stuck mostly in a steamy boat, for days on end. It is no fun.

So much for weather forecasting! Though the science has gotten much better in recent years, still Mother Nature does with the weather what she wants, when she wants. Fortunately, we are heading to New Caledonia and are well west of this low and should have smooth going all the way and beautiful weather when we arrive. Looking at his weather charts updated via satellite, The Captain states that we should have another day of motoring until the wind increases.

After the radio net, The Captain announces, “We are halfway there!” Only 450nm to go 😊

Not every day has tasks to do, but today two items need attention. To prevent gastric upset of the engine, we need to feed it. Two 50 litre auxiliary containers of diesel fuel will be siphoned into our port tank. The other chore is to move the hydro-generator from the starboard side of the boat to the port side, for winds should gradually be changing directions sometime this evening. So far, they have moved from SW to S and are gradually moving to the SE. When we finally get back to sailing again, the hydro-generator with its energy-creating propellor needs to be in the water on the lower side of the boat.

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Wednesday, May 22rd – 0400 – Upon waking The First Mate for her watch, The Captain informs her that we are 300nm from Phare Amedee. 2/3 of the way to our destination in 88 hours! Woohee! Winds picked up shortly after sunset last evening and have been in the low teens throughout the night. We have been flying the jib to give us some added lift as we motor on.

If we were on a very long passage where we did not have plenty of fuel, we would have the engine running less. At this point in the passage, we have plenty of fuel, and we want to keep our speed up. We want to arrive in time to clear Customs and Immigration before they close early Friday afternoon for the weekend. Otherwise we could be quarantined on the boat until Monday morning. Another factor in our decision is the possibility of unsettled weather moving in on us. That low by Fiji is not supposed to move our way, but then at the beginning of last week, the passage to Fiji and Tonga was supposed to be trouble-free. Look at what happened! Thus, though we would much prefer to be under sail, motoring right now is just fine with us. On we thrum.

It is an uninspiring morning with grey overcast and intermittent rain showers. There is also a heavy swell which is making life a bit uncomfortable on the boat. Wedged into positions to keep our bodies from rocking, we’re in an alert/not so alert state as the boat motors through the water with that autopilot keeping us on track until, as happens so often on a boat, suddenly, out of nowhere and for no apparent reason, the rope holding up the boom, the topping lift, fails. Clunk! The boom is now sitting on the top of our dodger rubbing back and forth on the canvas. Fortunately, the lines holding up the sail bag add some support for the boom. We can see one end of the failed rope swinging below the top of the mast, and the ragged end of the other is heaped on the cockpit floor. It was an old rope and had apparently been rubbing on something and chafed through. Replacing that rope is just not practical at the moment, for to do so The Captain will have to be hoisted up to the top of our 75-foot mast, and in these rocking seas, no one would want to do that unless they absolutely had to do so. The boom, however, must be raised and secured. How to do that? We will use the main sheet halyard to secure the boom even though dedicating that halyard as the topping lift will now make it harder for us to use the mainsail.

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The Captain predicts the sun will be out in an hour. Looking around at all the grey mush, The First Mate wonders what he is seeing that she isn’t. An hour later: no sun, continued grey skies, occasional rain and flukey winds causing the jib to flop around. Tired with listening to it suffer, we furl the jib and continue on under motor alone. “What happened to that sun?” silently asks The First Mate.

A dreary day dissolves into a dreary evening. With the heavy swell coming in from the SW, Avante is rolling from side to side making walking around ungainly as you lunge from one hand hold to the next. The only thing good about our present condition is that we are making good speed. Not being slowed by headwinds or by oncoming waves, Avante is averaging 7 knots under motor. Winds are in the low teens and now coming from almost directly behind us. Sailing would be very slow on our present heading. At the present rate we are covering the ocean, and we should be arriving at Phare Amedee sometime after midnight tomorrow. Several more hours to Nouméa will see us anchored. We can easily clear in with Customs and Immigration before the weekend. We are going to keep on motoring.

Thursday, May 23rd – 0400 – Looking up as she climbs on deck for the start of her watch, The First Mate is surprised to see stars. At 0100, at the end of her previous watch, clouds were everywhere and the brilliant moon was just a hazy, obscured light. There’s the Southern Cross just about to disappear below the horizon. Almost 10 years cruising the Southern Hemisphere and she still gets a thrill every time she sees it, for depending upon the rotation of all those celestial bodies up there, the Southern Cross is not always visible. It is truly a joy to her when it is.

For the next 3 hours until the end of her watch, the sky stayed clear, and when the sun rose, it illuminated a blue sky dotted with white, puffy clouds. This is what she considers a typical South Pacific Island day, except we’re not quite yet on any island. Patience! Our spirits, though, are lifted with the sun and warmth and with the exciting fact that, as of 1100, there are only 80nm left to go to that waypoint at the lighthouse.

On the 0730 weather broadcast, we learn that friends of ours who left for Fiji a week before we left are still cooling their heels at Minerva Reef. They stopped to visit on the way and got caught by the bad weather. Here it is Thursday, and the best hope for anyone’s departure is Monday. They will probably be anchored out in the middle of the ocean, staring at that ocean, for over 10 days! It is a good thing these boats are all going to the islands now and not returning to either New Zealand or Australia. Going to the islands, we usually have plenty of food, as we can bring in plenty of meat provided all is commercially labeled as coming from either of those 2 countries. On our return to either New Zealand or Australia, we all try to have our food supplies near empty because all meat will be confiscated, along with any fresh produce, eggs, honey and a variety of other things. Thus, though they may be out of fresh veggies by now, they can at least dive into those freezers of meat, and they can always catch a fish or two out there.

0800 – Wind has picked up after dawn to 15 – 18 kts from ESE. We raise the jib and our speed increases by half a knot.

1800 – 30nm to the lighthouse!  The First Mate takes the 1900 – 2200 watch so The Captain can get some sleep. He’s the one who needs to be most alert tonight, as we will be going through a reef passage in the dark. This is something we normally try to avoid. We much prefer daylight when we can see the reef. However, we know this one is accurately charted, and there is an excellent range using the lighthouse to help keep us on centerline.

1930 – The moon has been rising later and later on passage. It will not be around until after 2200 tonight, hopefully in time to shine us through the pass. In the darkness off the starboard bow, a faint glow can be seen on the horizon. The lights of Noumea, New Caledonia! With the binoculars, The First Mate can now pick up the rhythmic cycling of the lighthouse beacon of Phare Amedee. Does she ever admire those ancient mariners! Even knowing where to look just before darkness fell, there was no sign of land, nothing. Here we are just 14 nm off the great reef that creates the wonderful lagoon below Nouméa, and nothing of this reef can be seen or heard. How did those ancient mariners get around in totally unknown waters? From the crow’s nest, in this darkness, nothing can be seen. Many did run aground. It is amazing to her that they all did not do so. Even with the lighthouse and the well-marked channel we will be following all the way to Nouméa, it will be a relief to be safely anchored. (Sh-h-h — the angst is building.)

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Turning onto the “centerline” drawn out from the pass, the wind is now abeam. The Captain decides that it’s time to furl the jib and slow the boat down. Just as he begins, the wind barrels in at 25 knots. Where did this come from? In the dark without the moon, we were unaware of the rain cloud bearing down on us. Quickly, with rain now coming down, we get the jib furled. Closing in on the pass, this tempest is not what we need. How long will it last? We dare not enter the pass until it passes. Is it here to stay for a while or will it shortly pass? Where is that moon anyway?

We continue on hoping for the best but being prepared to abort if things don’t improve. They do. Rain stops, wind abates and that moon rises into the night sky. The First Mate takes over the helm and using the lights of the range markers, keeps the boat on the centerline into the pass. The Captain monitors progress on two different GPS charts and watches our depth. The last mile seems to take forever, but finally, we are through the pass with no problem. Turning left before Phare Amedee, we motor north across the lagoon toward Nouméa harbor.

Friday, May 24th – 0100 – We have been in Noumea Harbor many times over the years. We know the approximate locations of boats on mooring balls, and with the moon and the lights from the city, we can see their dark outlines on the water. We find an empty spot just outside of the entrance to the marina. Dropping anchor, backing down on it to check its security, we are here. Passage done!

900nm in 5 and 1/2 days – not bad, though it was a boring passage. Even The First Mate, who sees nothing wrong with motoring on passage, thought this amount of motoring excessive, but who really is to complain? We crossed this stretch of ocean in a timely manner, avoided any major weather, and arrived with no damage to boat or selves. Safe and sound and ready to begin exploring beautiful New Caledonia.