Rock and Roll, Baby! - Passage from Vanuatu to Australia

Picture: the calm before the storm

In September 2022, we embarked on a sailing journey from the quaint town of Mylor in Cornwall, UK, with the ambitious goal of gradually making our way to St. Lucia in the Caribbean to join a fleet of adventurous sailors and circumnavigate the world. The weather was rough when we set sail in September and we had to change our plans and sail to France instead of straight to Spain.

As I was sailing towards the coast of Australia heavy weather hit again.

Heavy weather sailing

What does it feel like to sail in heavy weather? It's a combination of various factors, such as wind speed and direction, wave height and direction, time period between waves, strength and direction of the current, and visibility.

On this last leg between Vanuatu and Australia, we encountered horrific conditions. The entire fleet was on edge, declaring this to be the most challenging passage since we left St. Lucia. With wind speeds reaching up to 40-50 knots, equivalent to Force 8-9 on the Beaufort scale, and accompanying waves towering up to 5 meters, it was a formidable experience. Surprisingly, since both the wind and waves were coming from behind, it was more pleasant than we had anticipated. The wind was so strong that even with a tiny headsail and a main sail the size of a napkin, we were able to maintain a speed of 6-7 knots at times.

Picture: red colour is never good on the weather forecast

One of the key indicators of heavy weather is the sound of the wind. It howls, screams, roars, and rips through the sails and rigging, creating an eerie and intimidating atmosphere. Misty, our boat, handled the conditions admirably. There was never any doubt about her ability to navigate through such weather. It's always the people on board who complicate matters, with their basic needs like eating, using the washroom, sleeping, and moving around the boat becoming nearly impossible and quite dangerous in weather like this.

Video: are you getting seasick?

The passage from Vanuatu to Australia covered a distance of 1150 nautical miles, with the last 120 miles taking us above the Great Barrier Reef via the Hydrographers Passage. This narrow pass, only one mile wide at its narrowest point, posed a significant challenge. Our support team sought advice from local sailors, who strongly advised against crossing under the circumstances we faced, especially at night. (Of course Misty sailed through the pass during night.)

On the charts, it appeared as though we needed to navigate between islands, but there were submerged coral reefs that remained invisible until you missed your bearing and hit the ground immediately. We had to manoeuvre against the wind, and at one point, the boat was going upwind, against the current, with the engine revving at two thousand RPM, yet our boat speed was a mere 1.8 knots. We had to maintain this direction for 21 miles. Every boat in the fleet agreed that this was the most challenging passage we had encountered since the beginning of our journey. Some experienced sailors even claimed it was the most difficult passage they had ever faced, and we're talking about individuals with tens of thousands of miles under their belts.

The unfortunate sailors

One of the boats in our fleet had a terrifying experience. My friend Karen, who was on board, wrote a blog about it. We were trailing behind them by 20-30 miles, listening anxiously on the VHF radio as the drama unfolded. They sent out a Pan Pan message to the coast guard after they started taking in water. By the time they reached the marina, half of their boat was submerged.

Picture: our friends arriving to Mackay after their nightmare

Here's a quote from Karen's blog:

"As darkness fell, the helicopter wanted us to evacuate, but we turned him away – while we were holding the water level constant, we were staying with the boat."

If you're interested in the full story, you can read it here: LINK TO THE BLOG

I'm grateful to have been a part of this final leg, a story to add to the collection of tales from our journey. However, it also marks the end of my sailing adventures for a while.

The Last Night on Misty

Picture: Mackay harbour, my last port for now

I spent the entire day cleaning and distracting myself with Netflix, trying to avoid fully comprehending the fact that an important chapter of my life is coming to a close, while a new one begins. It's both exciting and scary at the same time.

I vividly remember the day I arrived in Lagos, Portugal, to meet Misty. It was just her and me; nobody else was there. It was a sunny but cold day in October. I felt incredibly special and fortunate to be there, and after stocking up on groceries, I spent several days without even stepping ashore. Over time, I learned to understand Misty and her moods simply by listening to her. She became my home and vehicle, carrying me halfway across the world, and now I must leave her behind. I wanted to ensure that she was in better shape than when I found her, so I spent the day cleaning and polishing. She has weathered a bit, particularly in this salty environment, with her wooden parts darkening due to the wet, humid air. Nevertheless, she remains beautiful—my beauty.

Picture: Misty is happy

As I prepare to sleep in the v berth for the last time, I'm unsure if I want to succumb to slumber just yet. I want to delay the inevitable and remain awake and present, prolonging the end.

Now, I find myself officially off the boat, waiting at Mackay airport for my flight to Brisbane. Of course, it's delayed by five hours, and in the meantime, there was a security breach that led to the evacuation of the airport. The adventure never stops.

Picture: me at Mackay Airport

In the coming weeks, I will continue publishing blogs about my experiences over the past nine months, so stay tuned!