The Wave

None of us actually saw the wave that ended the Søren Larsen's voyage to Rarotonga. Those of us on watch, standing aft by the helm, had automatically looked away when the helmsman Boris remarked “wave coming”. Those in the deckhouse were preparing breakfast and those below were asleep, or catching a few more minutes in the warmth of their bunks.

So the first we knew of the devastation that a few seconds and several tonnes of water had caused was the loud cracking noise, swiftly followed by the sight of various bits of fruit and wood floating by. I noticed a jacket with a bright orange hood, but couldn't see anyone in or close by the jacket. Then we looked forward.

The deckhouse, where the galley was situated, a cosy little shelter against the elements, had all but disappeared. In its place was wreckage. Over by the port shrouds Dave, the newly-recruited second cook, was hanging on to a rope looking shaken. The engineer was covered in blood, Paul the cook was clutching a beam above his head, white as a sheet, and volunteer crew member Andrew was staggering around at the top of the companionway.

My watch hurried forward. We persuaded Jarren the engineer to go aft and get below, and Dave to follow him. Andrew had disappeared down the companionway and purser Amanda was looking up, shock all over her face. The mate, Nic, began calling orders – get the main companionway covered, get lifejackets, tell the captain, get everyone awake and in the port saloon. We tried to get Paul to go below but he kept clinging on to his beam, apparently unable or unwilling to move.

About this time I realised that not only had we lost the deckhouse, but the whole midships section of the starboard rail had vanished. Instead of a comforting wooden bulwark between us and the raw power of the Pacific, there was just slippery deck. I got myself over to the companionway and started helping with the hatch cover. Two of the deckhands, Hannah and Heather, appeared on deck with lifejackets, and shortly afterwards the ship's carpenter Rusty arrived with hammer and nails and we got the covers on.

I went aft after that to find out what should happen next. Amanda came on deck doing a muster – the bo'sun, Cubie, was unaccounted for and I remember looking with horror into the waves and wondering if she had been in the deckhouse when the wave hit. None of the debris was to be seen; we'd already sailed on past it and past any hope for someone swept overboard. Luckily Cubie was shortly found forwards. Voyage crew member Neal pointed out that the gas seemed to be on in the galley, so Nic darted forwards into the wreckage to turn it off. Captain Jim was on deck, calm as he surveyed the scene. Nic called me forward again to hang on to the ropes that had been attached to a destroyed pinrail, while she went further forward to find out what the damage was there. One of the doors on the forward hatch had been torn off, so she and Cubie sealed the hatch with more plywood.

We shifted the mainsail over to turn around and begin heading back towards New Zealand and our hopes of rescue. I got a lifejacket on, and together with deckhand Kent went to fetch more lifejackets from the locker, on top of the deckhouse roof. We got spares, too many to carry, and I never found out if anyone went back for those extra lifejackets or if they went overboard.

The next job was to clear the deck of debris, lash down things that we could use, and throw food and personal items sloshing around on deck into the food net below the deckhouse roof. At the same time we had to get the manual bilge pump (fondly known as Divine Brown for the colour of the water it throws out, or alternatively The Gusher) going. That involved people pumping and someone holding the valve down to keep it primed.

About this time someone pointed out there was smoke rising from the main hatch, just aft of where the deckhouse had stood. Luckily the second mate Ally was below with a radio and a fire extinguisher dealing with it – a small electrical fire in the ship's larder, Botany Bay.

All the while Rusty and Ben the chippies were using bits of debris to cover up places where water was getting in below – mainly where the timberheads, vertical supports along the ship's side, had been torn off.

The biggest job with regards to getting rid of the debris was shifting the aft wall of the deckhouse into the sea. The wall had landed half across the main hatch, all in one piece including the door, so Kent sawed through the frame above the door to make it more manageable and a bunch of people hefted it over the hatch and over the side.

After that the biggest job was really keeping the pump going. On the starboard side, clipped on safely, was a queue of people waiting to take their turn, 50 pumps each. On the port side, also clipped on, was me with a bucket and Ben with a sea bucket, trying to keep the pump primed. Reasonably early in this effort came the sound of an aeroplane from above – the New Zealand air force's Orion, diverting from a flight to Samoa to check us out. It was incredibly good to see the Orion and know that someone was keeping an eye on us.

Mid-morning Nic came around and told all of us to go below and collect any personal belongings we might want to take with us if we had to leave the ship. The request brought the possibility of abandoning ship rather close. Down below the power had been cut due to the fire, and water was sloshing from side to side as I slipped and slid down the saloon to my cabin. The question of what to take was a tricky one – in the end I grabbed my camera and computer bag, already packed, threw in travel documents, my wallet, and my battered old teddy bear that's travelling home with me. Then I slipped and slid all the way back aft and went back to the pump.

It was also about mid-morning that we sighted the MV Tarago, a cargo ship operated by the Norwegian company Wilhemsen Line. The Tarago was en route to Auckland and diverted to escort us; they stuck by us all day, all night and most of the next day until a police launch arrived to take over. The massive bulk was a very welcome sight on the horizon, particularly while the weather remained heavy. During the morning there was also a pod of whales swimming about in our wake; normally I'd have been thrilled but there were other things to worry about!

A little later on I managed to cut my finger on something after a slide across the deck, which by now was covered in oil from the bilge. I swapped places with Cubie and went to find a bandage, and afterwards had a short sit down and a breather. I wasn't sure how much longer the adrenalin rush would last and, having been up since 3.40am anyway, was pretty knackered.

At 11.30am Nic drew up two groups of five people and told us to pump half an hour on, half an hour off, which at least gave us the chance to sit in the relative warmth of the navigation room and eat something. Paul, assisted by Andrew, had retrieved some wraps, tuna, mayonnaise and cheese from the larder and we all munched our way through wraps and chocolate (a seriously large amount of chocolate got eaten that day and the next). I wasn't actually that hungry, but felt I ought to eat something.

As the pumping shifts went on the deckhouse became creakier and creakier. The starboard side had semi-collapsed when the wave hit, but we were expecting the port side to go at any moment. Piers, the captain due to relieve Jim in Rarotonga, and Cubie cut the seizing that linked the aft davits – metal supports for lifting things – to the mainmast shrouds. If the deckhouse collapsed we didn't want it taking the mast with it. By about 2pm the creaking was bad enough that Jim pulled us off the pumping. We all crowded in the navigation room and Jim gave us an update on the situation: a helicopter was on its way with extra, powerful pumps for us and we should stay out of the way unless needed for the helicopter operation.

The chippies were detailed to go and reinforce the main companionway and forward hatches from the inside, and rig a tarpaulin under the main hatch in case the deckhouse came in and caused the main hatch to give way or for the glass to break. I had no job for the time being, so curled up in a corner in Jim's cabin and tried to get warm. I was soaked to the skin (as was everyone) but there didn't seem any point in getting out of wet weather gear quite yet. The helicopter arrived and deposited its load with several loud thuds on the deck above my head. Others joined me in Jim's cabin and, snuggled damply together with lifejackets as pillows, we tried to get some sleep.

I succeeded and woke about an hour later to find Nic organising people to set the lower topsail and setting four three-hour watches for the rest of the trip. I went up on deck, but there were enough people and I was frozen, so ended up going to my bunk, taking off wet things, and falling asleep properly.

By the time I went on watch at midnight the weather had begun to calm a little, but it was freezing cold. The bilge pumps helicoptered in had worked a treat, but had been turned off for the night, so we got to stay warm with a couple of short stints on Divine Brown again. Then back to bed.

I woke about 10am the next morning to a much more cheerful ship. Everyone had slept, the chippies were constructing a makeshift galley on deck out of the pitch pot and its small gas canister, the sea was significantly calmer, and Nic and Cubie had retrieved the kettles from the ruins of the galley. Best of all, the kettles worked, so we all had hot drinks followed later by hot food – wraps again, this time with scrambled eggs and tinned spaghetti. It was sunny and warmer and we were actually sailing home.

Had a bit more sleep after watch, but not quite enough – I got up on the call of “food”, only to get caught out passing tin plates of curried fish and couscous to others and having to wait 45 minutes for my portion. Slightly annoying, but my own fault and I really shouldn't have been so grumpy about it. The police launch had arrived by this point and was following off the starboard quarter. Nic was still giggling about their request on arrival that we make sure everyone knew how to use our lifesaving equipment – given that we'd spent most of the previous day in lifejackets it was really a superfluous thing to say.

When we were woken for the night watch it was dead calm. The 9-12 watch had taken in the sails once the wind had died. Despite both the middle and main staysails having small tears in them they had survived the whole trip magnificently. The bilge didn't need pumping and we were keeping a watch forward again. I was able to call my parents at about 2.30am as we approached Whangarei Heads to reassure them everything was okay.

The anchor was dropped early the next morning in the river near the dockyard in Whangarei, and the plywood sealing the forward companionway was taken off with much hammering. The cooks had done a big pan of sausages and rescued some oranges and pineapples, and we feasted in the morning sun while waiting for the Customs man to arrive. In the meantime the boat was launched. Nic drove off and came back with the Customs man, Søren's owners Steve and Rosie, Jim's wife Terri and a long-time friend of the ship, Miranda. We all felt enormously sorry for Steve and Rosie as they sighted the damage for the first time and there were hugs and a few tears as the newcomers came aboard.

While the Customs man did his thing we all got a tour of the outside of the ship from the boat. It was sobering to see the damage, and there was renewed relief that we'd all made it. We went ashore after Customs had left, for a wonderful brunch in a Whangarei café, savouring the coffee and good food. Later on we moved Søren upriver, back to the berth she had recently left after refit, her home until she's ready to leave again.

We were initially very lucky for the wave to hit how and when it did, causing no damage below the waterline and early enough for very few people to be in the deckhouse. The early hour also meant we had the whole day to stabilise the situation. However that everything else went so calmly and smoothly is due to Jim, Nic, and the rest of the crew. Jim led from the front – at the helm for hours, and later on cleaning the heads – and was utterly unflappable throughout. His calmness was passed on down and though I think we were all scared at least some of the time, we all knew what was going on, and we worked together to make sure we were all safe. It wasn't an experience I care to repeat but it's one I'll definitely remember.

Søren's now set for several months of repair in Whangarei, but the shipwrights are talking positively of getting her back to rights. I've hung around for the week, which has been mostly spent cleaning and getting food and other stuff off the ship for storage. We also took down the square sails and all the staysails except the upper staysail – some need repairing and the squares need safe storage. Demolition of the deckhouse began today and there's not much left now. Meanwhile the crew is dissipating, and a whole bunch of people left this morning. It's not the ending we all wanted.

Pictures are on Flickr as usual and I'll be adding more videos tomorrow hopefully.

Off we go - again!

We finished our refit today - after a month of very hard work, the awnings came off, the staging came down and Soren Larsen looks like a ship again. At high tide tomorrow we set off for the Bay of Islands where we'll get fuel, a few more people, and clear Customs. On Friday, we set sail for Rarotonga. Again. Hopefully this time, after all the work that's been done on filling in seams and plugging leaks, we'll get there! I'll check in again when/if we do. :)

Almost done

The refit's nearly over; we're working now on getting the ship back together and shipshape before leaving Whangarei. The original plan was to sail down to Auckland tomorrow, but the weather forecast is nasty so we're staying put until Thursday morning. This is good as it gives us a little longer to get things done and dusted. Hopefully we'll then be able to clear Customs in the Bay of Islands and not have to travel further south before heading towards the Cooks. We've all got a half-day off today or tomorrow, so I've been uploading photos again; won't get another chance.

It's been a fun month though tiring and I've come down with a bit of a cold now. I've completely lost my voice, which is a pain because it's difficult asking questions and telling people where the black enamel's gone! :)

On Saturday we all got dressed up in outrageously unfashionable clothes from the opshop and went out to celebrate the bo'sun's 30th birthday. She left quite early but the rest of us had a blast at the Irish pub - including Captain Jim in a fetching yellow Hawaiian shirt! Good fun, but everyone slept in yesterday morning and spent the day nursing headaches. However we all worked a full day too on top of the hangovers.

Anyway, last batch of photos on Flickr. Will upload plenty more from Rarotonga, weather gods permitting.

A week to go

We're planning to finish the refit next Sunday, leaving us a few days to tidy up before setting sail for Rarotonga. It looks like we'll be good to go, which is a relief.

The last couple of days have been fine, a blessing after a week of rain. The sunshine means we've been able to repaint the starboard side and the starboard waterways (the bits of the deck next to the hull) and finish the caulking on that side too. All the new hanging knees are up inside the ship, and we're cracking on with the cabins. It's all looking good.

Today's my day off, potentially the last one before we go (though there's another tentatively scheduled in for a week on Tuesday). I borrowed one of the ship's bikes and cycled up to Whangarei Falls, which are pretty impressive, and then on down to the AH Reed Memorial Kauri Park, a nice bit of bush with a canopy walk through a kauri grove. It's nice to get off the ship occasionally and breathe in fresh air untainted by the paint fumes!

More pictures up on Flickr.

Dolphins and paint

Work aboard Soren continues apace - two weeks until we're due to set sail. After turning around on Monday, we spent a day or so putting up the awnings again and now most of the crew are busy scraping paint off the port side of the ship. The caulking team spent yesterday and today, which were mostly fine, finishing off the open seams on starboard and I helped the mate with painting the side. That involved some amusing manoeuvres with paddles in the ship's boat as well as getting wet feet on the wooden staging things we have to put over the side. Generally I think we're still on schedule, but the rain has not been helpful.

Yesterday there was a huge pod of large dolphins swimming upriver. They swam up about lunchtime and came back an hour or so later. Some were being especially acrobatic. That lifted everyone's spirits (together with the lovely weather). Dolphins are always nice to see, and it's good to see them so close to the ship.

Turned around

A fortnight into the refit, we turned the ship around today. That involved quite a lot of work - taking off the frame supporting the awnings, taking down some of the awnings and tarpaulins lining the ship's side, casting off the mooring lines and weighing anchor (covered in grey gloopy Whangarei mud). Captain Jim turned the ship on a dime, beautifully, and we went back in bow first. We dropped the anchor again only to give the guys who work at the shipyard a heart attack; they reckoned we'd dropped it on their railway that lifts ships into dry dock. Jim disagreed, but we lifted it again anyway to keep them happy and attached a long rope borrowed from the dockyard to the bows. It's shackled around a pohutukawa tree on the opposite bank and should enable us to bring the starboard side out so we can get it painted. The awnings and so on are mostly up again, and work's already begun on the port side. Meanwhile below decks we're wrestling with the appalling paint job that had been done in the ship's larder - it's all peeling, so we're trying to find the quickest way to get it off before repainting it properly. Anyway, all on schedule still, which is good news.

Opshop excitement

It's possible I've been aboard too long - the highlight of today was a trip to the hospice shop in Whangarei where you could buy a whole bag of clothes for $1. Bargain! I got some clothes to trash while painting and thus preserve my own.

Otherwise the refit is progressing well, I think. On deck there are big holes where they're raking out the seams and then re-caulking them, and the holes in the hull are slowly being filled up by other caulkers. I spent yesterday and the day before rolling oakum; oakum is hemp, tarred with Stockholm tar. It comes in bales of ribbons and smells lovely, but it has to be rolled into ropes before you can use it. Rolling is incredibly dull but we need loads of it, so we're taking turns.

Down below the cabins are slowly starting to look presentable, with new paint and varnish. They should be lovely when done.

On Sunday we're turning the ship around to start work on the other side.

A day in the life of a refit

So we're several days into repairs now, and settling into a routine.

At 7.15am the captain comes round and wakes us all up - fifteen minutes until breakfast. At 7.25am he comes round again and tells us it's five minutes to go, in case of snoozers.

Up on deck one of the cooks has put out breakfast. There's always cereal, coffee and tea, and toast, and something cooked too; usually eggs of some description. Just before 8am there's a brief meeting. Captain Jim gives a weather report and any notes, and then first mate Nic assigns jobs to everyone and we go and get started. Currently I'm involved in making over the starboard cabins, which all got water damage during the storm/leak affair and needed a refresh. So I've been sanding and chipping and grinding and generally getting thoroughly mucky.

At 10am the conch is blown and we all down tools for morning smoko - coffee, tea and fruit. By 10.20am we're back at work, until the conch goes again for lunch at 12.30pm. Recently every meal has involved beef as the freezer containing all the beef broke down, so the cooks are trying to get through it. Today we had pasta with a beef and pumpkin sauce.

Just after 1pm we're back to it for a hard graft until 3.30pm, which is afternoon smoko. The cooks try to bake something to eat for this one; today we had mini eclairs which went down enormously well. Then back to work again until about 5.45pm, when it's clean-up time to leave the ship tidy for the night. Dinner's about 6.30pm or 7pm, and we all eat together in the deckhouse or on deck, before settling down to check email, read or play music, and have showers! The ship's currently got three guitars, one ukelele, and two South American recorder/flute things. I want to get a fiddle if I can find a really cheap one. I think the ship needs one.

By 9 or 10pm we're all in bed, ready for the next day.

I think things are running generally to schedule; the plan is to turn the ship around on May 10th or 11th to start work on the port side.

In Whangarei

I'd hoped to be in the middle of the Pacific by now, but there you go, life sometimes throws a spanner in the works. A few days out from NZ Soren caught a Force 8, and then a Force 10, and the end of the tale was a very leaky ship. The captain decided repairs needed to be made and turned us around. We got back to the Bay of Islands last Thursday and came down to Whangarei on Sunday night. I'm now hanging around to help with the repair work. So far a sort of stage has been built down the starboard side of the ship, with an awning over the top, and the waterways (scuppers, and other bits) have been taken out. We've also attacked the ship's larder, emptying it completely, and have begun makeovers on the starboard cabins. It's filthy work but fun enough!

Now I just need to sort out my journey home - getting there, slowly.

ARA Libertad

Last week an Argentinian naval frigate, the ARA Libertad, turned up in Wellington. She's on a round-the-world tour and was here for a week, open to the public on afternoons. I fitted in a visit on Friday during my lunchbreak, along with half of Wellington - she was packed with people, including those who thought they knew stuff about ships and didn't (the old gent informing his family she'd be able to make above 20 knots under sail easily, and the ladies, looking at the mizzenmast and the various lines around it, who commented, "clearly they don't climb the rigging anymore". Well, not straight up the mast, ladies ...) I refrained from being an insufferable know-it-all and concentrated on taking as many pictures as I could (I ran out of time and memory space). Here are a few.

Sailing on the Soren Larsen

Just before 10am on a warm Auckland morning a few days before Christmas, and a motley gang – crew is probably too kind a word at this point – gather on the wharf next to the Søren Larsen. There’s excitement in the air as everyone introduces themselves, instantly forgets everyone’s names again, and tries to work out if the ship’s captain is the likely young fellow in a crisp white shirt or the bearded chap in overalls next to him. Prompt at 10 Katy the purser comes ashore, welcomes us, and ushers us all on board for a Christmas holiday unlike any other.

The voyage crew for this December cruise in the Hauraki Gulf was made up of an assortment of people who have relocated – temporarily and permanently – to New Zealand from overseas and some Brits, Aussies and a Dutchman on holiday. Some of us fancied escaping a usual Christmas; others were a long way from home and family. Sailing experience ranged from yachting and voyages on other tall ships to, well, nothing. But on Søren we were all pretty much novices.

The morning sped by in a whirl of smoko, tour of the ship, safety briefings and lunch. We discovered the captain, Nick, was the overall-clad gentleman, Tatyana the cook was a very good cook, and we tried to take in everything our watch leaders told us. By the time the mooring lines were cast off our heads were full of nautical information and none of it really made much sense.

The wind was not really with us, but with the engine on we set some headsails and staysails and motor-sailed towards Waiheke Island, getting used to life on board. There was a little tacking to get past Rangitoto and its neighbour Motutapu, but by 1800 we were anchored and enjoying lemon fish and a few beers as the sun set, getting to know each other.

Nick warned everyone that Søren talks to her crew, and during the first night we discovered she’s rather a chatty ship. Nobody slept particularly well and there were a few bleary eyes in the morning. Just to wake us up, there was an “up and over” session for those feeling brave, interrupted by a brief, fierce rainstorm. Once everyone had made it to the fighting top and back down safely, the starboard watch went aft and the port watch forward and under the control of Nick and second mate Gareth we “sailed off the hook”, using headsails and the mainsail to execute a turn and head out into the gulf.

The day developed into one of fine sailing. With most of the sails set we hurried along nicely in the force 4 breeze, getting up to seven and occasionally eight knots. It wasn’t exactly sunny, but it was good fun, and only a few of the crew felt seasick. Nick set our course towards Little Barrier Island. We all took turns at steering the ship, at doing the safety round – how many little wire things showing in the bilge? How do you work out the wind direction? Has everyone remembered to close the little blue valve in the heads? – and at lunchtime we tried to eat soup on a slant.

After lunch the watches changed, although the quiet afternoon I planned with my Patrick O’Brien book didn’t exactly happen as there ended up being enough sail handling to involve extra hands. It wasn’t really quiet reading weather, anyway, so it was hardly the end of the world. We tacked a couple of times and headed back across the gulf to Kawau Island, north of Auckland off the Whangaparoa Peninsula. It didn’t seem as though we were within a very short distance of New Zealand’s biggest city as we anchored, again all under sail, in Burgess Bay.

Christmas Eve dawned bright, warm, sunny and almost wind-free. A good day for going ashore, according to Nick, who took us round the corner to Mansion House Bay. We spotted a little blue penguin swimming around as we came in; the crew kept talking confusingly about peacocks. But once we landed (and after I’d managed to toss a lifejacket in the water – sorry, Laura) there was a large white peacock sheltering from the sun. Out came the cameras, and we chased the peacock around for a while.

Kawau had several options for the would-be explorer. The mansion after which the bay’s named is a sort of museum, and there are plenty of walking tracks in the bush surrounding the park. Four of us decided to check the mansion out first. There was nobody at the desk, but the sign outside did say the house was open from 10am during the holidays. We left money and started going through. Halfway round the house the caretaker lady appeared on the stairs and told us it was actually closed – although she didn’t mind us seeing the little there is left. There was a lovely view of the ship from the balcony, and we coveted the grand four-poster beds in the main bedrooms.

After leaving the closed house, with the caretaker busy hovering, we set off on a walk through the bush. On the way we spotted a weka and some wood pigeons, and met some of the other voyage crew at the lookout over the old copper mine – together with some friendly yachties, who obligingly played photographer for us.

Back down at the house we indulged in proper flushing loos and ice-cream before the boat arrived (Gareth giving Gemma driving lessons) to pick us up. There was a spot of water balloon throwing from the ship, but very few missiles actually hit us.

Most of the crew spent the afternoon on board, sunbathing, reading and swimming. I decided to try a swim to the shore and back, and succeeded despite having problems with hair in the mouth, keeping a lookout for ferries, and the odd wave. Back on board there was smoko, and the crew rigged a rope swing from the course yard – attempted by quite a few of us, led by Doug.

Tatyana and Karson, aided by crew and voyage crew, spent most of the glorious afternoon tied to the galley making our Christmas dinner. It had been decided to do Christmas a day early due to the weather forecast – a sensible decision, as it turned out – so we sat down to fizzy wine, crackers, turkey and all the trimmings, and three Christmassy puddings. There were mince pies for the Brits, pumpkin pie for the Americans, and a Russian cake from Tatyana. Afterwards we returned on deck, replete in a seasonal fashion.

Christmas Day, true to forecast, turned out to be somewhat less sunny than its eve. We dawdled over a good breakfast. Some of the permanent crew were given a quick lesson in how to use the dinghy as a tug, and the rest of us had fun lobbing water balloons at them. Some hit. Some didn’t. However the bucket of water chucked over the dinghy definitely met its target.

Boat in, we raised anchor – once more under sail – and set out into the Hauraki Gulf once more. The wind direction was such that we were bound once again for Waiheke Island to the south. It was a little more sedate than earlier in the week, but that meant we could set more sail and soon the topgallant was flying too above all – cueing a spell on the bowsprit with my camera. Despite the efforts made the previous day, the galley did us proud again and we ate smoked salmon at morning smoko, and turkey soup for lunch. Later on there were dolphins, briefly.

By mid-afternoon we had anchored and stowed sail. It was grey and raining, but the mood aboard was good. When deckhand Ruth suggested a swim – after testing the water temperature and pronouncing it to be 20 degrees – there was a pretty good take up (although fewer went for the skinny dip option than originally proposed). The water was almost certainly not 20 degrees, we discovered on leaping in, but nevertheless fun was had and it wasn’t that cold, not really.

Dinner, for some of us, was bookended by a boisterous game of “Articulate” during which Katy and I discovered we were quite good at describing things without naming whatever we were describing, and cards. For how can there be Christmas without some sort of game?

Boxing Day 2007 should forever be known as Tacking Day in Søren Larsen history. The winds were not favourable, so we kept the square sails stowed and set headsails, staysails and the main as well as what Nick drily called the “die-sail”. Thanks to engineer Winch for keeping it going all day – definitely made life easier as we tacked. And tacked. And tacked again. By the fifth or sixth tack port watch were getting pretty good at shifting the main sail and staysails before moving to the braces and bracing round the square sail yards. By lunch, we were able to tack the whole ship while starboard watch tried to save their salad from blowing away.

The afternoon continued in similar fashion, except we moved forward to the single jib and faced increasingly strong wind and waves. Everyone got fairly soaked from the spray and it was a relief when we finally anchored. Nobody was particularly keen to go ashore, but there were several takers to help harbour-stow the square sails – rolling each sail up so it was neat on the yard. It took a while, but it was worth the effort.

Dinner was a fancy-dress party. Several of the guys seemed far too comfortable in slinky, glittery dresses, and Super Pumpkin and Coca-Cola Rescue Man faced a few fearsome pirates. It wasn’t exactly warm on deck though, so we retreated below for Nick’s farewell muster and the presentation of our lovely voyage certificates. After that, time for more games. The boys won Pictionary, but the girls triumphed at Articulate.

In the morning, a swift motor into harbour, and the voyage crew finally dragged themselves away from Søren after a last smoko. Five days had flown by in the company of some fantastic people – a truly memorable Christmas.

Pictures at Flickr.

Voyaging aboard the "Endeavour"

My holidays are over - boo - back in Wellington and still a bit sleepy after a late night flight back from Sydney on Sunday.

Torunn and I did make it to Milford Sound after all; we set out early the day after my last post, and the road opened that morning. So we kept driving all the way there, and managed to get on a cruise on one of the smallest boats on the Sound. The light was gorgeous and although some of the waterfalls had dried up after a couple of days without rain, it was well worth doing. We spent our last day together in Queenstown, getting the gondola to see views and wandering by the lake.

From Queenstown I flew to Sydney, where my rowing friend Jess kindly put me up for the night and I played tourist on the ferry to her flat - the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge were all lit up and lovely. After a good catch-up, early the next morning I caught a plane to Newcastle. I was fascinated to discover that just like its English namesake, Newcastle is heavily dependent on coal. There were loads of gigantic coal ships at anchor in the bay, awaiting their turn to come in and load up with coal. It was, therefore, a rather suitable place to join the Endeavour as the original ship was once a collier brig from Whitby.

Endeavour is not an elegant vessel; she's too rounded for that. But she is beautiful, a faithful reproduction of the original, with very little metal around except in the "20th century" deck where the galley, mess, showers and heads, and the engine room are kept. That's the lowest deck on board, tucked away so when she's in museum mode all the public sees is the 18th century deck above. The wood does creak a bit, and she takes on a few inches of water in the bilges, but she's a lovely, lovely ship. And she has a lovely permanent crew, all friendly, helpful, encouraging and professional. We had a great voyage crew too - good mix of ages and backgrounds, and not too many snorers, which is crucial when you have 36 people all sleeping together in hammocks. Not much space between hammocks either!

The first day was spent training; a tour of the ship, safety briefings, helm orders, and "up and over" the fighting-top. Curiously Endeavour, like Spirit of New Zealand has safety lines running up the shrouds where the European ships I've sailed on don't. Personally I find it extremely frustrating to have to keep on unclipping and clipping the lanyards of the harness while climbing up - by the end of the voyage we, like the professional crew, had dispensed with those safety lines for the lower shrouds.

We set sail at 4pm, firing a couple of cannon off to thank the citizens of Newcastle for their hospitality, and motored out east until we had enough wind to set sail. The engines were off by 8.30pm and stayed off the rest of the voyage, apart from a short burst anchoring on Friday evening, coming off anchor on Sunday morning, and motoring the last short bit into Sydney. We never went very fast - even under Cook, Endeavour rarely manages more than about 10 knots in a strong wind. But we sailed, lots. On Thursday we had most of the sails set for a good long period and they sent the rescue boat out to take pictures of her, including film for an Aussie travel show called the Great Outdoors. The show had a producer, presenter, cameraman and soundman on board for a section in a January edition, so everything we did was filmed.

Unfortunately for some, she rolled a bit even when we were sailing. Quite a few sea-sickness victims. I was fine as usual (I know how lucky I am). Sail was taken in during the afternoon on Thursday and when we came on watch at 8pm rain was definitely on the horizon, with absolutely spectacular lightning to be seen in all directions. We all got kitted out in wet-weather gear and waited. All of a sudden the squall came on, wind up to Force 8 and we still had topsails up. So together with the permanent crew we wrestled them down - hauling on ropes we couldn't see as the wind howled and the rain poured down. Occasionally there was a bright flash of lightning, silhouetting the permanent crew as they climbed the shrouds to furl the sails. The wind died pretty quickly and by the end of the watch we wore ship (turning her) in winds that barely moved her.

More wind was forecast on Friday, so we kept most of the sails in and headed for land. The captain wanted to anchor in Broken Bay, north of Sydney, and we took the sails in and dropped the anchor in the early evening. A lovely little spot. After dinner he showed us some helicopter footage taken for a documentary on Cook, the Endeavour under full sail with a massive 18th-century Red Ensign flying from the stern and the crew in period dress. Gorgeous stuff, and very special to see it aboard the ship.

Our day ashore started late with a brunch (yum - all the food on board was really great thanks to Abi the cook and her mate Mischa) before we got ferried over to a nearby beach in the rescue boat. I was very excited to see goanas on the beach. Once everyone was on land Wally the engineer took us all for a walk in the bush - no tracks! - up to the ridgeline to look down on the bay and the ship. We were going to walk to a waterfall on a beach on the other side, but time and the track ran out. The bush was moderately thick, I got a splinter in a finger which still hasn't come out, and we had to dodge big red bull ants which are apparently horrid if they bite. I don't know how anyone survives in Oz!

The rest of the afternoon was spent on the beach. We went swimming and a couple of the crew rescued a Japanese couple from a goana intent on eating their picnic. The poor guy was just about to propose to his girlfriend too.

Back on board, we used up all the water storage spac (oops), and prepared for the evening's entertainment. Dinner was on the 18th-century deck, served by the crew in period sailors' clothes, with electric lanterns providing ambience. The captain served out our "wages", a spoonful of rum each! After dinner there was a "sods' opera", with contributions of songs, poems and skits from both voyage and professional crew. I haven't laughed so hard for ages - the talent was impressive and we had an good hours' entertainment.

On the last day we weighed anchor early and motored out of the bay, firing a couple of cannon as we went. We had sails set later that morning and we sailed in through Sydney heads in the company of hundreds of little yachts and various ugly speedboats. We had to take in sail once heading towards the bridge, which meant I got a great view of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House from the main topsail yard. We fired our last cannon right under the bridge, causing a boom which echoed off the steelwork. And then we were into the museum wharf and tied up. The voyage ended with a beautiful rendition of "Leave her, Johnny, leave her" by first mate Penny and topman Ally. I'd have loved to have stayed for a celebratory drink with the crew, but had a plane to catch.

And that was that. Pictures going up on Flickr right now.

At last

I hauled myself out of bed on Sunday morning to go and see if there was anyone down at the rowing club. For once there was, and the guy I spoke to took my details, emailed someone else; she emailed me today and I have training times at last. I am going down on Thursday. This makes me a happy person. I don't think I realised how much I'd miss rowing until I wasn't doing it.

More good news: I've got a place on an Endeavour voyage in October, Newcastle to Sydney. I've wanted to sail on board the Endeavour for a long time, and it seems apt for this Yorkshire lass to sail aboard the replica of the Whitby collier brig that brought Cook to Aotearoa all those years ago.