Watt Sailing Adventure: The Bight

I have never been fond of numbers. I don’t like them - they don’t behave as I expect them to – they add up to different things each time I do the same sum, they dance around on the page, mocking me in their apparent orderliness. People have long told me that numbers are reliable, true, exact and logical – but they have never been that for me! Words – yes, I prefer them – they are distinct – always mean the same thing, and even if they don’t that just adds colour and interest to our lives! I like that words allow us to communicate with each other and convey ideas, thoughts and feelings.

Unexpectedly though, on this journey, numbers, have become my friends.

We left Esperance on a sunny, clear Saturday – a week ago today. Motoring out we were expectant, a little nervous and excited about what was before us. Sailing across the Bight was, since we first arrived in Albany to begin our new life as sailors, the bit that had to be done to get to the part we were really excited about.

The weather on our first day out was sublime. Clear blue skies, water that rushed past us, as excited as we were that we were on our way, winds that blew just the way we wanted them to. We sailed and chatted, read, ate, slept and generally soaked up the excitement that we were off! That night, as we put a reef in the main sail and settled down for the night we felt so thankful that we had the assistance of the wonderful Bob McDavit, our weather router, guiding us and advising us of what to expect all along the way.

Bob had told us that we would pass through a front on our third day. We awoke that morning to a messy sea state, roll-ey uncomfortable waves full of chop and disorder were all around us. It was a little disheartening but we knew it wouldn’t last too long so it was all about just managing and riding it out.

It was 5am. Peter was finishing his last watch for the night and I went to make some coffee. When I came back up on deck I found Peter at the helm, steering. ‘I’m not doing this out of choice,’ he began. ‘The auto-pilot has stopped working.’

I looked at the sea state and how hard he had to work to keep us as even as possible in the midst of the chop and asked how bad it looked.

My heart sank at his explanation. It looked to him as if it was totally broken. Something to do with the gears. I didn’t know all the details, but I know Peter well enough to know that he had assessed it and thought through all the possibilities. We had our Sayers self-steering rig attached and while we hadn’t used it yet, I guessed that as soon as the sea state settled down we would be giving it a go.

It was mid afternoon when the sea state had calmed enough for Peter to give me a basic lesson in steering to the compass course so he could go out to the back of the boat and get the self-steering rig set up.

He came back sooner than I had expected.

The part of the rig that attaches to the rudder was gone. And had snapped off the part of the rudder it was attached to with it.

My heart, already struggling with the breakdown of the auto pilot, sank completely at this news.

All we could do then was to steer the rest of the way by hand.

Now that may not sound too big a thing. Steering. Helming. Being at the wheel. All good yachty things. But we still had four days and four nights to go, over 400 NM and the forecast that I was the most concerned about still ahead – 4 – 7 mt swell for 3 days. I couldn’t imagine how we could possibly steer through such big seas, even for a short time, let alone days, by hand.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you realise that you chose the right person? A moment when you think, yes, this time I got it right?

Well I had one of those then.

In the midst of what felt like the end of all our dreams, there was Peter at the helm again, singing. Saying it was all good. Buoyant. In a confidant, we can do this frame of mind.

What an amazing man.

From then on it was all about managing. Our biggest issue was to minimise fatigue.

Two hours on, two hours off, that was the plan. I was worried that I would be able to manage when the sea state was calm, the winds low, the weather easy. But how would I go when it was otherwise?

I spent the afternoon practising. I had my first two hour turn when the sea swell was low and the wind playing happily with us and grew in my confidence. Yes, I could do this.

It soon became apparent to me that it was just a numbers game. We had to steer to the compass – keep the yacht on the right path by watching the compass needle, turning the wheel this way and that adjusting as needed. Like the auto pilot had done. In a relatively short time the numbers on the compass became my focus. Keeping us pointed right was all I could see. Fortunately for me this remained true when the next morning the sea state was somewhat different and a bit scary to look at! I found that it didn’t really matter! All I could see were the numbers on the compass – all I could think about was keeping us on course. The movement of the boat faded – the sea state faded – it was all about watching those numbers.

I made games of it. How long could I hold us exactly on course without fluctuation? Could I do better than three seconds – ten seconds – a minute.

After several days, when it had begun to be wearying to keep up the effort, other numbers joined it to assist. The longitude and latitude numbers that kept changing and telling us that we were making good progress, the speed and wind speed numbers that told me we were doing well. As we recorded changes in our day-log I found myself watching these numbers closely as well and marking their changes as if they were a team of combatants in a race and we were slowly winning!

Soon it was all about numbers. Numbers were keeping us on track, numbers were keeping me focussed, numbers were becoming my friends.

We steered by hand for four days and four nights. Two hours at a time. And in the end I learned that I can steer well. In fact an amazing thing happened to me as I was at the helm after a while. I think I bonded with the boat.

It’s funny really, thinking about it now. Before having to steer I felt more like an audience member when we were out sailing – a passenger even. Now, well now it’s different. When I got behind the wheel I felt so much more a part of it. Like I had something to give that was needed.

On the last evening, as we were approaching the coastline of the Eyre peninsula, the children commented that I was like a back-up auto pilot. What a compliment! When we looked at our course on the ipad navionics that we use for navigation, there were my straight lines alongside someone else’s more wobbly ones! Yes, I had found something I could do well in this sailing adventure! And numbers helped me do it!

By dawn, this morning we had Port Lincoln in our sights. It was a few more hours before we were tied up at the Lincoln Cove marina, thinking of showers and breakfast and uninterrupted sleep and no longer having to watch that compass needle and hang on to that wheel! My hands are sore and my arms ache like I’ve spent days at the gym but we made it! Yes, there was a moment when it all seemed so hard, when I did feel despair, but with good management, we didn’t get too fatigued, we did keep positive, and we did make it all the way without further mishap. And now that’s it. We sailed across the Great Australian Bight. We earned the right to call ourselves sailors.