Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, Part 1

Editor’s Note: Lin Pardey and her late husband, Larry, are legends in the sailing community both for their epic voyages in their two purpose-built cutters, Taleisin and Serrafyn, as well as the numerous books they’ve written that have inspired countless sailors to follow their cruising dreams. In 2020, Larry died after suffering from dementia. Now 80, Lin has never stopped sailing nor writing, and her latest book, Passages: Cape Horn and Beyond, reflects on all that has changed, and all that hasn’t, in her life as a sailor and a woman. SAIL is pleased to give readers a first glimpse of this new work in this excerpt and another to follow in our next issue.

Dreaming, But What Dream?

Reaching along at 6 knots. A white cresting wake rolling out astern. We are halfway from somewhere bound for nowhere as I calculate how much longer my fresh fruit and vegetables will last. I am utterly content, utterly unconcerned. That is, until the wake of a passing boat swishes against the hull and draws me slowly from my dream. But as I try to recall the details I am confused. What boat had I been sailing on?

I don’t open my eyes, hoping to recall some detail to give me a clue. I turn slightly in the bunk and a long arm reaches across my body and draws me against a lean, warm body. In my semi-somnolent state, this adds to my confusion. Now I slowly open my eyes. The misty blue interior surrounding me is unfamiliar, so unlike the mélange of highly varnished timbers I was expecting. But a moment’s reflection reminds me I have woken in this same cabin for most of the past three years. The same man has been lying next to me each time.

Now David and I have completed a highly satisfying sailing voyage together, venturing to the very southernmost tip of New Zealand, then north to Vanuatu and right around the whole Tasman Sea to return just in time to watch the America’s Cup racing near Auckland. Last night, after a brisk sail south we’d anchored near Motuihi Island to be in position to watch the racing teams when they come out to test their strange looking boats.

It isn’t until I climb out of the bunk and venture on deck that I begin to sense the genesis of the dream whose tentacles still grip my mind. This is the first time I’ve been at anchor here on Sahula, a few hundred meters off the long sandy beach fronting this park-like island. But it’s not the first time I have been here. It is the exact same anchorage Larry and I chose the first time we ventured into Auckland on Taleisin more than three decades ago. Ashore, absolutely nothing appears to have changed. The same definitely cannot be said of my life—nor me.

A Rough Start

“If this had been my first offshore passage, I might never have gone to sea again,” I stated as the two of us waited for our dinner to be served. My hair still dripped from the long hot shower I had taken as soon as we came ashore at the unassuming Royal Suva Yacht Club. I took a sip of frosty sparkling wine and chuckled as I continued, “I couldn’t imagine a worse re-introduction to voyaging.”

The weather window that had looked almost perfect for our passage north from New Zealand towards Fiji closed down soon after we set sail. Instead of the predicted moderate reaching winds hurrying us northward until we reached the trade winds, we had two days of cold, gusty 25- to 30-knot following winds with a wicked cross sea. This was followed by complete calms, then 35- to 40-knot headwinds that forced us to heave-to for 20 hours and abandon our plans to stop at Minerva Reef. And then, more calms. To add to my gratitude at now being securely anchored in Suva’s safe-feeling tropical lagoon after 11 days at sea was the accident that had occurred just 10 hours after we cleared the headlands of New Zealand’s Bay of Islands, and I, for the first time in six years, felt the restlessness of the Tasman Sea.

I had only recently signed on as full-time crew on Sahula. David Haigh, her owner, had anchored his 40-foot steel cutter near my home at Kawau Island 18 months before this voyage began. En route to completing the last leg of a 10-year circumnavigation, David planned to do a serious refit in New Zealand before closing his circle by sailing back to his hometown of Townsville in Queensland, Australia. The refit, and a bit of conniving by one of my friends, derailed his plans by almost a year. As our friendship deepened, I had spent six weeks on Sahula, helping David knock off one more item from his bucket list, sailing right around New Zealand to visit the beautiful fiords at the far southern reaches of this long, narrow country. Even so, I would not say I was completely familiar with his boat, a boat that is far different than those I had voyaged on for the previous 47 years of my life.

On the evening of the accident, we put two reefs in the mainsail, set the staysail then rolled in the Yankee. Sahula was on a broad reach, moving at 7 knots with 25 knots of wind. Despite the sloppy sea conditions, the windvane self-steering gear was holding her on a relatively steady course.

It was fully dark by the time David insisted on standing the first three-hour watch. So, I went below, spread out the bedding on the leeward settee, turned off all the interior lights, then climbed between the sheets.

Moments later a dish began rattling in the galley. I climbed out of the bunk. Aided by the bit of light coming from the cockpit, I began searching out the offender. The boat lurched as she tried to surf off a particularly steep wave. I grabbed for a handhold. My hand instinctively reached for the post I had used during 23 years of voyaging with Larry on Taleisin. Of course, it wasn’t there. In fact, there wasn’t a handhold in reach, not for someone just 4 feet 10 inches tall sailing on a boat outfitted for a 6-foot-plus, long-limbed singlehander.

I flew out of the galley, hit the corner of the chart table then crumpled to the floor. As I struggled to breathe the pain in my side was excruciating. Then I saw a swath of blood streaking down the front of the chart table. I screamed for David. He rushed down the companionway ladder, flicked on the light. He looked down to see he was standing in a pool of blood. Fortunately, the light immediately showed me the cut, a gash across the back of my hand, looked far worse than it actually was. What did concern me, as I lay as still as possible on the cabin sole wedged between the chart table and the navigator seat, was the pain running down my side and chest with each breath I took. My immediate assessment was, I have really screwed up some muscles.

David didn’t hesitate: “We are turning back. But first we have to stop this bleeding.”

“Grab a wad of paper towels, that will slow down the bleeding. Let’s just heave-to and sort this all out,” I insisted, trying to hide my embarrassment at having been so clumsy and also trying to hide the pain that came with each breath, each lurch of the boat. “Be a lot easier to bandage this up once we do.”

It took only a few minutes for David to furl the staysail, disengage the windvane, then tighten in the reefed mainsail. Sahula rounded smartly into the wind, began to slow right down and was soon laying far more comfortably.

Once my hand wound was held together with Steri-Strips from the ship’s medical kit and the bleeding controlled by a taped-on wad of bandages, David helped me climb back onto the leeward settee bunk. The tramadol pills started to kick in and I began breathing with slightly less discomfort. That is when I became very determined we should carry on.

“We’ll have a far easier time continuing towards Fiji than trying to fight back against this wind,” I insisted. “You told me Sahula hates going to windward! Besides, winter’s closing in. If we turn back now, we might not get another break for quite a while. Let’s stay hove-to until daylight and make the decision then.”

I could see how conflicted David felt as I downplayed any concerns. “Give me a night’s rest and I’ll be fine. Worst case, you have to take care of feeding us for a few days. I’ll figure out how to get on deck and stand watches. You’ve had years of practice doing this solo, so what’s different?”

Bravado? Probably, as I could not have climbed into the bunk on my own right then, couldn’t have even gotten off the cabin sole without his help.

As I lay there padded against the movement of the boat by an extra duvet, I couldn’t hold back my tears. David took this as a sign of pain. But the tears were actually caused by my extremely bruised ego plus a sense of frustration. I had made an absolute beginner’s mistake, forgetting years of “one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself” practice, belying my so-called experienced sailor image. I was afraid that by heading back to Opua, I would be giving up, quitting in effect. Even worse, I might be ruining a relationship that was gradually growing, fed by our mutual love of voyaging and David’s respect for my skills as a sailor.

By morning, with the help of a combination of painkillers and with David assisting, I slowly rose from the bunk and climbed the five steps of the companionway ladder. That helped convince him I could stand (sit) watches so there was no good reason to turn back. Once we were underway again, I realized that was about all I could do, sit for three hours at a time during the night to spot any threatening squalls, any shipping, and be sure the windvane self-steering gear kept us on course.

By the time we arrived in Fiji, the pain had subsided enough that aspirin with codeine let me breathe without much discomfort. Though I went out of my way not to touch my left side nor lift my left arm more than a few inches, though all the boathandling chores devolved to David, I could do a bit of the cooking and climb the companionway without assistance.

Now, feeling clean and sated from the tasty dinner we’d savored on the club verandah, all I wanted to do was head back to the boat. I was eager for a good long sleep on a steady platform. David, on the other hand, wanted to get me to the local hospital.

“All that will do is confirm I haven’t broken anything,” I argued.

Just then a tropical shower marched across the Royal Suva Yacht Club grounds.

“Please, David, I’d really like to get back to the boat,” I said. “If we wait until morning there will probably be a more senior doctor at the hospital.”

“OK, one more night won’t change anything, but did you bring a rain jacket ashore?” he asked. (It must be added here that David, who has done a lot of mountaineering, always, and I mean always, carries a backpack that seems to have not only a rain jacket but an impressive array of lightweight survival gear in it.) “No problem, I’ll run out to the boat and bring you one.”

Two or three minutes after David left me standing under the shelter of the verandah, a roar of wind sent half a dozen deck chairs skittering across the lawn of the club. The dozen people who had been drinking at the outdoor bar rushed to shelter under the main building’s thatched roof. I joined them to see the mast lights of a superyacht laying at a strange angle.

“Boy did she drag fast, that first gust must have been 50 knots or more,” the bartender stated.

Just then David reappeared, struggling against the storm force gusts. He’d abandoned the idea of a jacket for me, knowing we had to get back to Sahula immediately to deal with this new wind blowing from the worst possible direction, and ensure she didn’t drag anchor. We raced for the 8-foot inflatable dinghy, which, even inside the protective breakwater of the club, was pitching and bobbing wildly. I nursed my sore side as I climbed gingerly in.

Thoroughly drenched by the relatively warm rain, I felt caught up in the drama of the scene. Palm trees bent and whipped and halyards clanged as we coursed down the length of the marina. But the minute we cleared the sheltering breakwater all I felt was disbelief. Three-foot waves swept across the mile-wide lagoon. I couldn’t locate Sahula’s exceptionally bright masthead light.

“She’s probably hidden by that ship,” David yelled over the screeching wind as we surfed down another wave. The 4-horsepower outboard’s prop roared then settled momentarily into a more natural sound as it bit into un-aerated water, only to roar again as we surfed off the crest of the next wave. We cleared the ship.

“There’s her light,” David yelled. “Something’s wrong!”

As each gust of wind hit, I could see Sahula rock to leeward to lay over at a 15- or 20-degree angle, waves breaking against her windward side, her masthead scribing a wide arc as each gust eased off.

“She’s aground,” David yelled as we came along her leeward side. “Do you think you can get on board?”

I do not remember getting on board. I do not remember feeling any pain. Adrenalin definitely had kicked in as I just climbed out of that bucking dinghy and scrambled up the steeply canted deck, shielding my face from the heavy spray and slashing rain. David literally leapt out of the dinghy and rushed forward.

“The anchor, it’s gone. So is all the chain,” he yelled. “The snubbers snapped. Get on the radio and call pan-pan.”

I didn’t hesitate. I climbed down the companionway and forgetting my reluctance to use radios (and my inexperience), switched on the VHF. “Pan-pan, pan-pan. This is the vessel Sahula. We are aground.”

I tried to keep a calm, steady voice as I began shivering from the cold. As soon as I took my finger off the send button, I began stripping off my wet clothes.

Almost immediately an anxious sounding woman’s voice rang clear. “We’re aground too. Are you on the red steel boat? If so, you got hit by that big blue ship. So did all of five of us.” Now I flicked on the cabin light and looked around. The cabin sole was littered with broken dishes. I’d left nothing loose on the counters when we went ashore. At least a dozen bowls and plates, some plastic, some ceramic, had been flung from lockers that had never before opened accidentally, even during the rougher seas we’d encountered. Shockingly, even some of the heavy plastic bowls had shattered. This alone proved Sahula had taken a very sharp blow.

“Harbor master’s office,” blared the radio. “Where are you located, how do we identify you?”

I described our location, the extra-bright masthead light, the spreader lights I had just turned on. “We are sending our harbor tug over to help you,” a calm voice stated. “Have someone on deck to guide us in.”

I pulled on foul weather gear and joined David on deck. The ragged ends of the 16-mm chain snubbing line hung over the bow. Sahula’s brand new wooden bulwark rail was smashed and broken along one side. Her bow pulpit had pretzel-like bends in it, the oversized stainless bow roller was bent, and her stern pulpit had been ripped loose. Scraps of rust and blue paint littered the deck. Ahead of us, maybe 200 yards away, lay the 200-foot-long, 300-ton culprit—a derelict-looking ferry that had been on a mooring about 300 yards downwind of us when we’d anchored. The wind at that time had been from the northeast. The ship now lay beam on to the southerly wind, obviously aground, just as we were.

The rain had dropped to a misty drizzle, the wind was now a more manageable 30 knots. Despite the tropical temperatures, I was shivering with cold. I had also become very aware of the aching pain in my chest and arm. But I was reluctant to go below as I watched the lights of a harbor tug approaching. Then, it slowly turned away. I dashed below to the radio in time to hear him say, “Sorry, we can’t get to you. Too little water. Are you on rock or on sand?”

I heard no hard grinding noises, no hard bangs as Sahula lifted slightly then heeled over again each time a wave passed under us. “Sand,” I stated.

“Then you will have to wait until morning…Right now, we have three big work barges loose,” he said. “Tide is rising. Maybe gain another 6 or 7 inches in the next hour. You might ride a little easier when it does.”

I relayed his news to David, and we carefully assessed what we were feeling beneath us.

“I feel her bumping a bit on each wave right now, she feels like she’s almost on even keel when that happens,” he said. “Get the engine started and we’ll try to move her into deeper water. Have to do it in reverse, too close to that ship to try going forward.”

David scoured the water astern to be sure there were no floating ropes or weed behind us. “Give her a burst of power on the next swell!” he yelled over the noise of gusting wind, rattling halyards, and thumping engine.

Nothing happened.

“Keep doing that, each time she lifts,” David called.

“Nothing’s happening!” I yelled back.

“Doesn’t matter. Just keep hitting her hard on each swell. Give her full throttle.”

Using my good arm, I kept pumping the throttle, letting the engine scream at far higher revs than I’d ever seen David use as the boat straightened up each time a wave passed under us, then easing back when she lay over again. I am not sure if it was rain or tears that wet my face when I sensed Sahula had moved just a few inches astern. I kept watching the shore lights I could see astern of the grounded ship.

Suddenly I saw one more light creep into view at the ship’s stern. Minutes later it was definite. We were moving. We were gaining a foot at a time as the engine growled and Sahula thumped on the bottom, then heeled to leeward each time she came down off another wind-blasted wave. Then she was standing completely upright between each surging wave; minutes later she was making steady progress, and David urged me to push the throttle back even more.

“Get ready to put her into forward when I give the word,” he called as he clung onto the stern pulpit. Sweeping water astern of us with a high-powered torch, David continued to keep an eye out for any floating lines that might threaten Sahula’s propeller. “The minute you put her in forward give her lots of throttle and turn her into the wind as quickly as you can or we’ll hit that grounded yacht.”

Only seconds after we made the turn, I saw the depth sounder reach 2 meters, then 3 meters. The cold that was seeping into my sore, wet, tired body was forgotten as I concentrated on avoiding the other yachts and three huge work barges and two work boats that had blown loose during the first blast of the storm.

Strangely, as I circled around the fishing boats to give David time to hook up another anchor and rode, I found myself thinking about how well the two of us had been working together as a team. Though David is a pretty strong-willed person who had been sailing mostly on his own for more than a decade, he had been listening to the suggestions I made. He appeared fully trusting of my judgment as I worked to keep us clear and chose a new spot to anchor.

It couldn’t be easy for him, I thought later, inviting someone with my temperament, my sailing background and history (some might call it baggage) into his life. Even before our recent trials, I’d often paused to think about how we had moved so seamlessly into this partnership. The past few weeks had shown me new and heartwarming facets of his personality. I thought of the way he’d accepted my judgment and cared for me (and Sahula) after I had been hurt, how he considered and usually accepted every suggestion I’d made as we sailed onward from New Zealand. During this wild, stormy night, he had shown no hint of egotism, looking to me for suggestions and trusting me to maneuver Sahula to safety after her encounter with the rogue ferry while he sorted ground tackle so we could re-anchor.

Yes, I was beginning to know this man. And it was time I accepted the obvious, we were bound to have many more interesting adventures together. This acceptance set me thinking about the passages, both literal and emotional, that brought David and his very different style of cruising into my life.

Postscript: A day later the storm in Suva, Lin finally visited the local hospital where an orthopedic surgeon, who happened to be on call because the national soccer team was playing there that day, told her that she’d suffered five broken ribs when she’d flown across Sahula that evening early in the passage. Impressed with her toughness, the doctor told her she was healing well, and that his soccer players would have been completely out of action and drugged to the eyeballs if they had the same injuries. In the next issue of SAIL, read Lin’s recounting of the life-defining passage Larry convinced her to undertake, doubling Cape Horn in the 29-foot Taleisin.  

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October 2024