Durban dirt …

… is like no other – it has glue-like properties that ensures it clings to every surface like a limpet to a rock. Capetown dirt arrives in double Durban’s quantities – triple and quadruple on occasions – according to the substances that are being sanded/off-loaded/ferried/processed in the local vicinity, and the strength and direction of the wind at the time. But the nice thing about Capetown airborne crap is that, as a rule, it isn’t as tenacious as the Durban variety. In Durban you need hardcore detergents with a hefty dose of bleach thrown in to get things clean; here, a good blast with a hose and a shoo with the brush will do the job. Even better, at Elliott Basin, the water pressure is – as they say around these parts – ‘hectic’. Truly awesome in its ferocity. Turn the dock tap on full and you can very likely remove limpets from rocks. Just as well then, because we woke this morning to find everything coated in a thick blanket of gritty dirt. And I do mean t-h-i-c-k. On a normal day, there is always at least a light layer of the stuff, and you can clean the boat after breakfast and it will be in need of another dowsing by late afternoon. It’s repetitive, thankless, boring choring. But this morning’s dire grimery was applied with such a heavy hand, I couldn’t wait to get out there and banish it with a thorough blasting of H2O – no matter that fresh grime was blowing in and settling even as I slaved. So, then, for most of this Friday, as the sun blazed in a brisk blue sky, and a lively breeze whistled and skittered in the rigging, it was scrub and hose, scrub and hose and – just for good measure – hose and scrub a little more. Even the sunscreens and door mat got a thorough going over with a cocktail of washing powder and industrial doses of bleach. By 5.00 pm tonight, at last the boat shone fair and white again, and thanks to such a prolonged outdoor basting, yours truly is looking a little ‘hectic’ herself.

Dick, on the other hand, has had a far easier physical day and looks decidedly cooler; his toil, instead, of a more cerebral nature – getting to grips with some items that aren’t functioning correctly. To wit – solar panels that won’t behave properly or consistently (the Blue Sky charge controller unit is giving us the runaround big time); an SSB radio that isn’t up to speed (more like comatose, really); an autopilot core pack that isn’t compatible with the linear actuator (alternative autopilot arrangement); replacing a scuppered VHF aerial (buggered in the high winds as we approached Capetown, thanks to a rather less than robust attachment); and fixing an air leak in the port freshwater pump that’s proving elusive. These were the main glittering highlights of the day, but there are other less important issues we’ve yet to knock off the to-do list too, these saved for another scintillating thrills-and-spills day – to keep us beavering merrily, lest we get fat and lazy and complacent. Ah, but forsooth and in trooth, I jesteth – some fat chance of getting fat around here! With nothing on a boat being on the same level for more than two paces, almost every task giving rise to much upping and downing and bending and twisting and picking over things, picking up things, stretching, ducking, lifting, lowering, crawling into cubby holes, clawing out of cupboards, et-exhausting-cetera – well, it’s whittling away the spare flesh with startling efficiency. No layers of lard on us, not any more, no siree. Besides, there’s precious little time for catching up on calories anyway. Love it though we do (and we do really love it) liveaboarding is without doubt an energetic lifestyle – certainly with all these teething problems to eliminate; and although we have a good breakfast and a good supper, lunch is mostly grabbed on the run only when hunger threatens to flatten the batteries. So we’re happily keeping lean and limber even if our usual land-based cardio activitives, like jogging and hill-walking, alas have been neglected. Those things we’ll be able to take up again once we’re able to cruise to fairer isles and more alluring shores. Well, that’s the plan, Stan.

But enough of us and our labours. And enough, too, of the to-do list. Too much to-do listing can be too, too much for anyone – and hey, what boat-owner doesn’t have a to-do list? Does the Pope pray?

So instead, a little more about life here in Elliott Basin: apart from the dirt – which I won’t pretend isn’t a downer at times, that and some occasional lung-rotting, nose-shrivelling, industrial-based stenches – life here is good. Not that it’s anything glamorous, far from it; Elliott Basin is a busy container, nuts-n-bolts boat-fixing area and has the grit and grime to prove it; but there is an infectious energy to the place. Even that grit and grime – not only less tenacious than Durban’s – is somehow less depressing. To put it bluntly, there’s a buzz here that Durban sorely lacks. Here, people bustle, things happen quickly (not necessarily the right things – the deadly combo of boat-fixing and TIA ensures most things are a hit and miss affair), but from early in the morning till about 4.00 pm, there’s always so much activity going on around us, it’s impossible not to feel energetic too. Most mornings we are woken not by the fierce sun creeping above the horizon – and it is fierce, too, being the heart of African summer – but by the whoops and hollering of dock labourers, the crane crews calling instrucitons as they haul boats in and out with uncanny accuracy, and Robinson and Caine staff as they set about their work. There’s one particular crew who seem to be spending a lot of time on one particular 46, who evidently enjoy their – er, labouring (ah, how loose a term that can be!) more than most, if their loud jocular joshing and ear-splitting cackling is anything to go by. But labour-shy and larky as they are, their happiness is hard to begrudge. And at least their antics are lively, in stark contrast to the generally weary-eyed, shoulder shrugging toiling at Durban marina. This is not to deny Durban’s charms – which it does have, albeit of a less-than-obvious, subversive variety – but merely to say that Capetown, filthy air or no, feverishly windy or no – is far, far more to our liking. And if the filthy air begins to get to you (that’s when, not if, actually) – all you have to do is look up, just raise your eyes towards the heavens, and there, towering over all, reassuringly squat and substantial, like a grand old uncle, stern of countenance and of stout unyielding manner – is Table Mountain. Wreathed in rolling, writhing clouds, its craggy, patchily-green carapace is ever present, never entirely out of view. And how reassuring – yes, to use that word again – how reassuring it is in its immensity and how enduringly it looms: a testament to the majesty of nature, to time beyond comprehension: a robust reminder of how brief and insubstantial human life really is. Like the stars, Table Mountain has been there aeons before you and I breathed our first, and will still be there aeons after we breathe our last. So what fools we to waste any breath in needless, unproductive worry or angst? Shall we moan and fret about dirty air and dirty decks? Shall we squander precious moments bemoaning the screwy SSB, the iniquities of incompatible core packs, or the secret oil leakings of sail drives -  Pah! Thanks to the silent salutary lesson of Table Mountain, for tonight at least – we scoff at such inconsequentials. Tomorrow, faced with a fresh layer of grime, we may revert to being human once more …

Table Mountain aside, it is the wind that will always be associated with Capetown. Man, it blows hard here – hair-tuggingly, eye-wateringly hard. It gusts and scutters across the water, whipping serries of agitated wavelets before it; it clangs and shrieks in the rigging and squelches flattened fenders; look up and you’ll see it has bestrewn the ugly coils of barbed wire fence-topping that surround workyards and factory grounds with pretty ribbons of rags and bags; it is noisy, invasive and tireless … and utterly, ruthlessly merciless. Tonight, as I type this, it is raging as hard as ever – a bullying overlord who seldom if ever sleeps. And when the precious hour dawns, which it does on rather rare occasions, when that overlord is absent, it is an hour to relish. The peace of meltingly-hot, still air in place of the perennial freshening roar is a blessing – a moment or two to relax and take things easy. But never for long – all too soon the wavelets begin to skitter again, the boats to rock and sway – and that noisy, barracking, monstrously-assured huffing, puffing overlord is back, thowing his weight around as bombastically as ever,

So there, dearest reader,  you have it – Elliot Basin in all its paradoxical glory: copiously dirty, bustlingly, bristlingly energetic,  a diesel-and-rust bespattered rough spot beneath some remarkable,  awe-inspiring scenery – and always – or almost nearly always -  that wind.

Seven Letters beginning with D …

… and ending in -eim. Nope, that eureka moment didn’t arrive at 3.00 am or any other hour of the wee smalls. It remained firmly and foroughly elusive. What am I burbling about now? That winery I mentioned in the post before this. The one neither Dick nor I could tease from the fog of fifty-something memory banks.  So not to keep everyone in suspense (as if) – least of all ourselves – just had to check it out. Aha – DELHEIM – yup, good people, that’s the place. Over lunch, playing with the Canon camera and a 50mm lens with close-up filter attached, had taken a shot of one of their wine glasses – as you do – and there it was emblazoned on the belly of the thing. So there you have it. Another mystery solved.

Ps: Just to say, shall endeavour not to be so vague and woolly-thunked in future – but that’s what happens when you’re trying to update a blog with about six minutes left of laptop battery. The grey cells batteries run out of charge too. ;0)

Curiouser and curiouser …

… these days here in Capetown. A sense of waiting, of being in limbo rather.

There are two sets of lists we’re working from – that comprising of jobs we need other people to do; the other being of jobs for ourselves. Getting our own labour into action not a problem, but not always so easy getting other people to do things with any sense of urgency.  But then we’re not the only clients needing work done around here. For instance, the other morning, in spite of ourselves, we couldn’t help watching aghast and disbelieving as another catamaran – a Dean – edged out of its berth opposite us and within minutes had struck the Leopard next to it, bumped the outboard motor of a small ducky next to the Leopard, thumped into the dock wall three times and sidled into another yacht on its starboard side. It was a massacre – and all within a scant few minutes. Not sure what the problem was, but it looked as if the guy lost one of his engines as he was leaving his berth and the wind, while light for this area, was still enough to ensure havoc happened fast.  It was paralysing stuff that unfolded as a horror movie … and though you wince and flinch, yet you can’t look away.  They’re safely moored up once more now, however, and repairs busily being effected. The moment consigned to a painful memory and the scars of the ordeal, on the boat at least, swiftly disappearing.

For our own boat repairs, we’re making progress, but perhaps not as swiftly as we’d like. AfricanCats have kindly forwarded spares that were needed – it’s other stuff that’s holding us up. For example, the oil leak from the saildrives is defying all attempts to locate the outlet point. Nothing we do makes any difference – the oil stays beautifully where it should – in the sail drive. So why did it leak earlier while at sea? The motion of the ocean? We’ll be testing that theory very soon. In the meanwhile we’ve arranged to have the oil that was in the saildrives tested – a local service that will identify if there are any metallic particles in it to indicate something more serious going on within the sail drives themselves.  Results not expected until next week, unfortunately.  The alternator pulleys have been realigned, new fan belts fitted and looking good. Other stuff still to do, of course, but the main buggeroo of busted auto-pilot looks like it’s now fixed. That said, we won’t crow until we’ve been able to thoroughly test it.

But boatifications are all fine and dandy five days a week – come the weekend we decided we needed a break. After all, we’ll probably only pass this way once, so better to grab some time and see what else the area can offer. Saturday morning then, it was into the car and head for the hills. Cape Point to be exact – and on the way, a stop-off at Simon’s Town.

Simon’s Town is quaint in a very English sort of way. Seagulls and sailing boats and natty little shops selling quaint clothes and artsy-folksy bric-a-brackerie.  An excellent fish and chippy, nicely soggy chips (none of that MacDonald crispy sticks nonsense), wrapped meltingly hot and vinegary, and perfect for noshing out of the wrapper as you stroll along. Even the weather looked vintage English seaside – grey and white troubled clouds whisking along in the bracing breeze. But this is not England, and so the air temperature was pleasantly warm even so, and a band of very able musicians played and sung, sitting on a cobbled wall down by the waterside. A cup of something very frothy and brewed from the  finest arabica beans at the local ladies-that-luncherie, was more than welcome. A place full of cheerful pink cushions and lots of white furniture and – well, well-coiffed ladies having lunch … but of course!

Cape Point was a hike and a good way to test the heart and lungs – trundling higher and higher to reach the now defunct lighthouse. Apparently, they chose the highest spot thinking its light would be visible for miles, only to find Cape cloud rendered it little more than a flickering torch – or something like that. So lighthouse mark II was sited further down the hillside and does a far better job.  But still, the traipse to the top is something everybody still does – and why not.

Sunday, we took a different approach to weekending and headed off winery country instead. Stellenbosch to be exact. Wow and double wow – such lyrical countryside and such a plethora of wineries to choose from all along the way. In the end, we settled for a guided tour of one in particular – the name of which begins with D and ends in -eim, I think, and do you think I can remember it now? Darned if I can. Ho-hum. Will edit this post accordingly once this embarrassing senior moment has passed. By the way, I’ve just asked Dick and he’s none the wiser either – so there’s obviously no hope for the pair of us.

Anyway, at the D- winery (no doubt I’ll remember the bally name come 3 am this morning) -  we wandered around the cobbled courtyards, sun peeking through the leafy shade, admiring the ancient relics of wine-making left as statues in the grounds – an old press, a harvester, a vintage plough etc – and after a quickish tour of the cellars (reeking not so much of wine as the cheapest cider, strangely enough) we joined another English couple we palled up with, for a wine-tasting lunch. A lazy sociable afternoon and all very pleasant indeed. Next weekend, if time allows, we’ll head off again for another winery that I’ll no doubt struggle to name too … not that the wine has anything to do with the loss of memory, oooh no. At least not for me – I don’t even drink the stuff!

Back at Butterfly, however, and Elliott Basin, we found the wind had returned with a vengeance. So much re-arranging of fenders and lines and my oh my,  how quickly the weekend break was over.  Ah well, it was good while it lasted …

Gooderer and gooderer…

… did I say? Now why did I have to go and tempt fickle fate yet again?  Well, life aboard Butterfly is jolly indeed, but worserer and worserer would be more accurate as far as the growing snag list is concerned. Poor Dick. Yesterday and today, he spent far too long dug down in the engine compartments, the intention being to change the oil and check everything out – a simple service, then. But things took an unexpected turn when he found oil in the engine compartments – both of them -  a discovery about as welcome as Herod at a christening.  It’s clearly oil from the sail drives.  That both sail drives should leak suggests a common problem – the wrong oil, perhaps?  And if not that, then what? We do know the oil AfricanCats used could only be one of two different oils found on the boat, and that one is far more viscous than the other and a brighter shade of yellow, so once we have managed to extract some of the oil from the sail drive itself, we’ll be better able to prove the point one way or another.  If the choice of oil isn’t the issue, then we must look for another cause.  It’s a real bummer, just have to hope that whatever the reason, we don’t have to yank the bloody boat out of the water yet again.

Keeping on the subject of engines – the (auxillary) alternator belts that split may have done so because the alternator pulleys aren’t aligned correctly.  There seems to be little scope for any other cause. A job for tomorrow, then – along with trying to establish the source and cause of the sail drive oil leaks.

I’ve never been much taken with feminism and the sisterhood – but then I’m not a joiner by nature of any movement, preferring instead to muddle along, paddling my own canoe. But I must confess to a sneaky admiration for those gals who are game for getting their fingernails greasy and who can handle a spanner with authority. But not today. Today, watching Sir having to fartarse and fiddle around in cramped dingy conditions, messing with filthy oil-besmeared this and diesel-coated that made me real glad I’m a woman and of an era when women weren’t supposed to know about leaky engines and cronky alternator belts.  Pathetic, I know, but there’s a wisdom in appreciating when you’re better off.

Fartarsing and fiddling with bread is another matter altogether. The bread machine Gideon supplies with the boat has been the source of much fun. Throw in the ingredients – today it was a wholemeal/brown/stoneground mix with a hefty dash of cinnamon – and throw the switch. Et voilà , three hours later, with not a drop of sweat from the thrower-inerer,  a perfect loaf making the whole of the boat smell deliciously wonderful!  Many years ago – like half-a-lifetime – when Dick and I were first married, I went through a long phase then of making our own bread. By hand. It was satisfying work and with diligence, it produced a great loaf – but all that kneading was seriously hot work in summer.  How much nicer, then, to have the fresh ingredients of home-made bread, but with none of the toil. I can be as much of a luddite as the next (wo)man – but a big YAY! to this particular modern labour saving appliance.

A Peacock …

… in shining armour.  Yesterday, Jeremy (Peacock) arrived, like a knight on galloping charger, to bring sense to our poor beleaguered auto pilot. Jeremy is the Raymarine guru here in Capetown. He is also an electrical whizzo, designing systems for Gunboat, and he also commissions the Raymarine installations for Robertson and Caine.  Within minutes of his arrival we discovered that apart from having air in the system, it seems the autopilot unit was never properly commissioned and had clearly failed at step 4. And there it had been left.  Why, is something that only Steven can answer.  Perhaps he can also tell us why he said it was  fine when a bloody great FAIL  message must have flashed up on the screen.  But then  this isn’t the first time Mr Stoole  has kept serious problems under wraps (the wind genny saga being a spectacularly disgraceful episode) – something we have discussed at length with Gideon. For his part, Gideon is helping as much as he can to get everything sorted.  A pity, then, that some of these problems are directly due to his manager choosing to ignore  them when he was first made aware of them. And yes, as you might have gathered, we’re not exactly impressed.

Tonight, another mystery – checking out the engine compartments – always a moment of trepidation – we find both the auxilary alternators have ripped fan belts.  I mean completely kaput.  One neatly cut; one entirely shredded.  Too much of a coincidence that both should go – although the primary alternator belts are fine.  Dare say we’ll get to the bottom of it in due course.  In fact, as we’re discovering,  owning a boat seems to involve an awful lot of this …

But not to grumble. Here in Capetown, the sun shineth and the wind bloweth and life aboard Butterfly is pretty damn good … and with every problem that gets sorted, why, it just gets gooderer and even gooderer!

A new batch …

… of photos from our Durban to Capetown trip now uploaded in the blog gallery. Click on the ‘more photos’ thingywotsit to the right and it will take you there. To see them all, you’ll need to click on page 2 of the Flickr photostream, as well. More still to come – all that’s needed is the time and a decent internet connection. Today it is playing ball; yesterday it fell into a huffy silent no-will-do.  Oh the joys of modern communications, eh?

butterfly now rests

…in the Leopards’ lair. Look starboard, port, astern and everywhere you see a smart new cat, its distinctive red and blue twin stripes sleek along its broadsides. For here in Elliot Basin, just a prowl along from the Royal Cape Yacht Club marina, lies the heart of Robertson and Caine country. And it is here, nestled among the 40s and 46s, we have been granted a temporary sanctuary. A slightly odd situation, but it was this or nothing.

Our problems finding a berth – any berth at all – stem from the Port authority’s decision to move vessels out of Elliot Basin, so it can be modified to accommodate more containers. Now Elliot Basin holds a LOT of boats – finding room for them elsewhere has used up all available mooring space for miles around. Naturally, had we been told about this aforehand, we’d have taken steps to secure a berth some weeks ago, but we weren’t; indeed, when we flew into Capetown at the end of January to extend our visas, we tried to book mooring space but were told it wasn’t necessary, that there would definitely be a berth for us, no worries. Hmm …a lesson learned then – whenever possible, insist on booking ahead no matter who promises what. But this is not to whinge. Those who promised probably didn’t realize that what held true in January would not hold true two weeks later. Indeed, the plans they are a-changing by the minute, and there is some (loose?) talk of the container companies now losing interest in the deal, and the idea of turning Elliot Basin into a private marina has recently been mooted. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men and marina managers …

Anyhoo, whatever the latest plan, this morning they began shuffling boats around and we found ourselves relocated to the far end of the basin, among the Leopards, which will be the last area to be evicted. So a kindness to us then, and a big thank you to the man who has taken pity on us. The hope on both sides is that we’ll be long gone before they need to throw us out altogether.

At all events, we’re not ungrateful to find ourselves on a gently bobbing Butterfly, as she nestles beneath the protection of the jetty wall, her wings sheltered from the rising winds by a floating pack of sleeping Leopards.

But we haven’t been sleeping – oooh, no, sir, not us. For having at last found ourselves a safe spot, we’ve been more than a little busy. Busy trying to understand why the autopilot and linear actuator malfunctioned, and liaising with AfricanCats to help solve the problems and arranging with Southern Spars to effect some modifications to our rigging and supply a rather zappy new bowsprit and getting some sort of shore power going, and buying fuses and ammeters (because the boat’s version died before or after leaving Durban) and checking if the water in the bilges is something to worry about (it isn’t and is easily remedied) and climbing the mast to eyeball the windex and VHF aerial damage and crawling into cupboards checking this valve and that connection and washing the salty crust off all the deck and its furniture and scrubbing the interior floor, and polishing the portholes and veneer and corian and mirrors and – deep breath – washing laundry and bed linen and cleaning, buffing, drying everything that didn’t get cleaned, buffed or dried during those five rather hectic days at sea. My, but many more days of this frenzied activity and we’ll need a bloody holiday! But joking aside, we can’t let up – we have to do everything we can to ensure the boat is completely shipshape and fully operational before March, ready for the long trip to Brazil. And yes, loosely speaking, we have a month before Anthony returns to accompany us, but in reality with February being a short month and half a week having already gone here in Capetown, we only have 25 days to get everything done – and 8 of those 25 are weekends. So not a month then, but only 17 days. Add the TIA factor I’ve already mentioned and you can see why we have to stay focused.

So here we are and here we hope to stay while Butterfly is made thoroughly shipshape. Elliot Basin is a busy, industrious sort of place – a kind of annex to the Royal Cape Yacht Club. But unlike the RCYC, the Basin is a complete mish-mash of the glamorous and the industrial. For along with the gleaming new Leopards, you find filthy old trawlers lining the outer limits of the basin, filling the air with the stench of fish and diesel and burnt carbon. Above us, beyond the jetty wall, a hospital of boats bedded on cradles and slings and those hoiked up on chocks. Undersides half-scraped; patched with filler and primer and injected with resin. An abandoned heap of fat rusty chain here; a scrappy tangle of orange fish netting there, fuzzy and frayed, strands of dried seaweed matted into its splayed and split fibres. Oil drums and garbage bins, rental cars and bakkies. Old washing up bowls, empty bottles of gear lubricant: all the usual trappings of a working yard. But this yard is a little different – a little special. For should you ignore the greasy gubbings of boat toil, and instead, as if you were standing on Butterfly’s deck, look to starboard, you’ll see, looming above her, the squat, bulky outline of Table Mountain and its luxuriantly foamy topping of cloud. It’s a sight that stops you in your tracks – why, it’s so close! Only tonight that topping of cloud isn’t fluffy and white, it’s black and menacing and pours down the mountain’s craggy sides towards the earth below like steam billowing and sinking from a boiling cauldron. And the wind, absent for the past 24 hours, has returned in earnest,  hell bent on whipping the troubled clouds, harrying them across a bruised-looking sky. Halyards clank, wind gennies whistle, the pontoons creak and groan and lurch uncertainly, dragged by their floating charges. Yesterday’s benign rich sunshine and heat now usurped by a darker, chillier force. The might of the elements unleashed. Ah, but check the date and wait a moment … for all becomes clear, you’ll see it’s Friday, the thirteenth day of February – black omens indeed. Er, not that you or I believe in such sillinesses, of course …

(Said with fingers crossed)

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Footnote 1: Seems we rather underestimated the wind strength on that last leg up to Capetown. We’d guessed it from the sea state, having no functioning wind speed indicator at that point. But the following morning, talking to a harbour official, he said within the shelter of the port, they were getting readings of 72 knots per hour – which is why they closed the port immediately after we entered it. What speeds then, for us and Butterfly, battling into that savage headwind, out on the open sea with no protection at all? Streuth, our little lady done even better than we thought!

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Footnote 2

Apologies for the previous nature of this post – this was written yesterday, but I  couldn’t access internet until today.  If we go a little quiet for a day or so, it’s to spend time processing some of the photos taken on the Durban to Capetown trip.  Check out the blog gallery a little later – if you have a moment or two and fancy a spot of pixellating!

Today, Butterfly flew in …

… to Capetown blown on 50 knot winds with gusts of 60 knots and over. For the final hour of the journey, my goodness, but she took a vicious battering – and how. The wind so savage, it felt as if it was flattening your nose, salt-stinging your eyes, making it difficult to breathe and see; the waves were hammered flat and sheets of stinging spindrift blasted along the surface of the sea, whiting it out. At the moment we entered the harbour walls (about 4.30 pm) the port master, who knew we were coming, switched on the red light and closed the port firmly behind us. With no auto-helm, no wind speed indicator, and only an hour earlier with one propeller out of action thanks to a submerged cray-pot fishing line, it was one helluva way to make an entrance and not one to be recommended if you like a quiet safe life. To cap it off, having slogged our way against the ferocious cross winds to pass between the harbour walls and beyond into the sanctuary of the V & A waterfront itself, our allocated berth, we discovered, had a large and vociferous waiting reception committee – a blubbery, barking, flipper-slapping contingent of Capetown’s famous seals – there in force to greet us. Their jostling, bickering array obstructed much of the rather short pontoon we hoped to moor against. Bellowing at them and waving our arms impressed them not a jot. In the event, approaching the mooring side on was impossible – the only practical approach was bows to; Anthony working magic at the helm, Dick leaping from the crossbeam down amongst the surprised and affronted seals who now simply shuffled indignantly at their rude intruder, unaware how delighted we were to see them – in fact, to be there at all.

Am laughing here, because even as I type this – it’s 01.50 am – and those seals are still keeping us company – three guarding the starboard stern; four looking after the starboard bow. If I leave the cosy confines of the saloon, and reach out beneath the guard rails, I can touch them. They are still arguing loudly with much back arching and head rolling, snouts pointing heavenwards as if complaining to the stars. With the wind still howling, the seals barking, it’s going to be a noisy night … but hey, it’s going to be a safe one, so you won’t hear us complaining that’s for sure.

If a shake down cruise is intended to test a boat fully, then rounding the Cape of Good Hope has proved to be a damned good choice. From Saturday onwards, we have been bounced around big time – and I do mean, BIG TIME! Wave and wind have done their damnedest to put Butterfly through her paces. And all we can say is she appears to have passed the test well – at no point did we ever feel unsafe or fear for her ability to cope with it all. It’s also done us a power of good – we’ve had to contend with winds far stronger than anything we’ve faced before; cope without an autohelm for over 60 hours in some very nasty seas – seriously not a lot of joy during the endless black hours of night – and despite the kicking around she (and we) took and the inevitable battle with sleep starvation, we wouldn’t have missed these past five days for the world. It’s been – well, yes, fun!

Of course, fun wasn’t the word that sprang to mind for Dick, when he had to don wetsuit, flippers and weight belt to dive below and free the fishing line from the port prop, today – the water was only 10°C and horribly choppy. But then I’ve always known he’s a hero (and then some) so despite it taking two separate attempts – the second time successful – he didn’t complain. And if he hadn’t chosen to try again when he did, before the tempest really kicked in, we’d never have made it into the port – and I don’t really want to contemplate the consequences. And Anthony, another quiet hero (and then some more) has proved he’s not only darn good company, a dab cook, but also a safe and experienced pair of hands who has made this journey one we’ll remember for all the right reasons.

But we have our work cut out too. Various snags need to be attended to, the most pressing of which is sorting out the auto-pilot and the wind speed/direction gauge. As mentioned, neither of these lasted the journey, though thankfully the autohelm lasted until Sunday morning, and the wind indicator till last night. Things were far too hectic to try diagnosing the faults at sea, but now we’re safely in Capetown, we have to get a move on finding out why and where the faults lie, and how and who to repair/replace them. As an alternative auto-steering mechanism, the linear actuator failed to operate too. Another issue that needs attending to before we set off for Brazil. We have a maximum of one month to get Butterfly sorted for the transatlantic voyage to Brazil – which should, in theory, be plenty of time, but there is the TIA (This Is Africa) effect to factor in, so we will probably have our work cut out.

We have other concerns however – even more pressing at the moment. Look at the photo above and you’ll see Butterfly in her new resting place – but alas, this may not be for long. Although we had been assured a place would be available in the Royal Cape Yacht Club Marina, the situation appeared to have changed when we radioed in yesterday . So Anthony spent a good forty minutes on the phone, trying to find an alternative berth – but everywhere the same story – no room at the inn. So we’re here at the Waterfront for tonight, but tomorrow, who knows …

It’s late now. The wind is still rocking the boat, clanging halyards and whistling over the rooftops. Dick and Anthony have long since snuck into their respective cabins (both who kindly spoiled me by electing to take the night shifts when the wind was at its roughest, bless them), and it’s time I called it a day, too. But now, looking at the bright pinpoints of the V&A lights on this moonless, starless night, the ghostly shadows flickering on the Waterfront’s brisk assortment of buildings, the shimmer of reflected neon on the wind-shivered water, it’s hard not to feel more than a little blessed … five action-packed days and the adventure we sought already well and truly underway.

Besides, it’s summer in Capetown, and we’re here with Butterfly, what’s not to like?!

The briefest of brief

… updates. Internet access very patchy and the evening winds are rising as is their won’t, so life aboard a little busy very soon. Just to say, then, we should be at Cape Agulhas in a little under two hours. Our current position being:

020°14’E 34°45’S

Last two nights quite ‘eventful’ – big winds, big waves, but days peachy sunshine and strong breezes plum on the bloody nose – so back to the iron sail for most of the time. Biggest buggeroo is the autopilot packed up sometime early this morning, so we’re hand steering all the way from now on. The linear actuator alternative isn’t playing ball either – not sure why.

The excellent news is that we’ve roughed some boisterous action out here – winds up to 45mph and some confused wave action to say the least and it’s all good. Already, the wind is swinging slightly and I can hear (and see) Dick and Anthony raising the jib as I type this. Once we round the Agulhas Cape, we should be fine to sail in earnest once more … all three of us itching to let the Lombardinis have a well-earned rest.

Much to do now, since, as I’ve already mentioned, from about 6.00 pm onwards life aboard gets a little energetic, so will love you and leave you. More news as and when internet and wind allow.

Ciao for now, m’dearies.

Let’s begin at …

… the very beginning – heck no, let’s just cut to the chase: After a leisurely leave-taking of Durban on Thursday, with very little wind and a lot of motoring, we awoke Friday to brisk winds and a fair ol’ sun in the sky. Not such a happy break of day for the poor tunny Dick landed about 6.30 am. A handsome bright-eyed beastie (bright with abject terror, no doubt) about 7-ish kgs. Photos of our doomed dinner-to-be in the blog gallery soon (but give it a miss if you’re squeamish). I’ve never witnessed at close quarters how larger fish are dispatched and it’s not for the soft-hearted animal lover, that’s for sure. One look at the gaff hook tells you all you don’t want to know. Anthony, our skipper, who has salt running in his blood, quietly did the necessaries and had our poor luckless friend cut into steaks before this wussie had time to go green. All very efficient, but this fish wasn’t a tiddler and how many tuna steaks can a gal eat? The guys were pretty pleased, but between you and me, I’d rather he was still finning happily beneath the waves, doing whatever it is tunas do. Luckily there was room in the freezer so I can forget about poor ex-Tunny boy for a while, and with no space for more frozen fish, there are a lot of luckier little tunnies who can sleep safely in their shoals tonight.

But the sailing – oh, the sailing has been goooooood! Yesterday morning, we crept into the kinder regions of the Agulhas current, a way off from the hectically wet and thundery stuff, and flashed along, the current giving us between 2-4 knots extra. And so it continued all day and most of the night. Nary a motor to be heard. All of which has been energetic and satisfying, and knocked a good 24 hours and more off our expected arrival in Capetown – if the forecasts hold good.

So, where are we now? Well, if you have access to a chart, you will find us here at just gone 3.30pm local time, just a few miles off Cape Recife – cruising with gusto at 025°41’E; 34°57’S And it is with gusto – flying the 100 sq mtre genny this morning was bracing stuff and Butterfly flitted zippily along, but as the wind increased – we’re up to 35 knots true or so now – we’ve cut down to just the jib. If that sounds chicken, our excuse is these are big seas, white capped, and happy to kick butt; and the gusts are sudden and – well, er, meaningful! Lying in the cabin, looking through the inner window (non-opening) that gives a view under the boat to the other hull, we can see the water whipping under the bridge in a seething frothy cascade. It’s hectic exhilarating stuff.

Tonight, the wind is supposed to freshen further, thanks to a passing low, but we should be in slightly deeper waters by then, so a smaller wave pitch if we’re lucky. Last night, in the wee smalls, still riding the current, we headed closer to the shore for the protection of the offshore breeze that obligingly came up trumps. It was still a lively ride, but cosier – not quite so ‘oo-ever-so-er.’ Tonight we have no such protection.

That oo-er sensation was also due to the fabulous moon last night. Until 2.30 ish am, we were spoiled to perfection with moonlight dancing on the sea, a wonderful view of the arching milky way and more phosphorescence than you could shake a stick at. Night sailing simply doesn’t get any better. Then somebody turned out the lights – and huffed and puffed at us, shooing us coastwise – till we hit those calmer waters and winds.

Today, the oo-er effect is being generously supplied by the virtuoso flying skills of gannets and giant petrels. We’ve seen several Shy albatrosses too. Anthony knows his seabirds as he knows his stars – like the back of his hand, and his ken and enthusiasm are just wonderful. But then how can you not want to learn such things – when you’re out here, viewing them in their most perfect and most natural setting? No sodium lights, no rooftops, no street clutter and traffic to dim or block the view. It’s utterly shiversome stuff that leaves you feeling lost for words, blissfully happy to be thoroughly overawed.

One thing I have learned fast on this trip is the need to take photos of everything that moves or fascinates you – immediately they catch your eye. For example the heart of the Agulhas current is very clearly marked by a train of low puffy cumulus – its warmer water temperature (26° C yesterday) giving rise to hot air and inevitable cloud formation. That train of cloud is a wonderful guide and a thing of much beauty in its own right, when lit by the sunrise or made lilac by the setting sun. If only I’d grabbed my Canon, already primed with the 17-40mm wide angle that is invaluable for seascapes (landscapes, portraits with a punch … you name it) – I could show you precisely what I’m bungling to put into words.

So, for now, enough burbling; we’re riding along on the crest of a wave (or several) and there’s a few more to come before the day is through … time to take my own advice and get shooting.

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Footnote: To those of you who have come up trumps yourself, spoiling us with words of cheer and encouragement – a big heartfelt thank you, one and all. You’re troopers, the lovely lot of you!