Sunday 12th April – Day 1

(Position: 03°28’S 038°47’W)

The decision to leave Forteleza early Sunday afternoon was a unanimous one. No point hanging around any further. We’d refueled, re-provisioned, and even with the discovery of the starboard tank diesel leak, there seemed little to be gained by remaining there. Fixing it in Forteleza was a non-starter, that’s for sure.

This new leak is a bitter blow. It might well not be that new, either – but one that only reveals itself when we fill the tank full, something we’ve done of late a few times, but did so rarely back in Durban, having no need to. I say that because not long after moving aboard Butterfly I found a tiny pool of diesel under the stairs – and again, on a few occasions. But so little as to get forgotten amid all the other issues that needed fixing. Both of us baffled as to why it should be there, both too preoccupied to chase it up further.

If you’ve followed this blog for some time, you’ll know that Butterfly has been plagued with leaks (and lies) from the get go. I gave up counting once we hit the twenty mark and there’s been many more since then. But we’ve grown sanguine, are used to such things now. Heck, we almost expect ’em! But the latest leak has at least (albeit inadvertently), identified the source of yet another leak (can you believe it?) – the one we now know is from the chest fridge/freezer. (Confused? Don’t blame you. Stick with it and it might get clearer; alternatively skip this bit altogether). Anyway, I mentioned earlier about the wood veneer staining dark either side of the starboard stairs. This staining is always a sign of fugitive water or oil on the loose. The stairs stain began when we first moved on to the boat. It started to dry away once, but soon returned and stayed. Yesterday, having discovered not a dribble, but a pool of diesel behind the stairs (from the leaky fuel tank), I thought diesel was the sole cause of this staining. Wrong. In trying to trace how the diesel has run from tank to stairs, I discover at last a hole behind the stairs (a contortionist act to get at) where two small pipes run. And bingo – it’s a diesel run alright, but more – I find water dripping icily and steadily along these two pipes. The stain on our stairs is most likely to be a cocktail then – Diesel et Eau Frappé. Oh yum.

Trace these pipes back and you arrive at the bottom interior corner of the chest freezer – hence the coldness of the water. They are the freezer’s thermostat electrical supply and the coolant gas supply. Now, the bottom of the freezer frequently collects condensed water, which needs mopping out by hand since there is no provision made for draining it. But with a full freezer, naturally, the mopping doesn’t always get done the moment it appears. So this pool of condensed water is leaking through the pipe exit somehow. This water gathering at the bottom of the freezer is something AfricanCats are aware of – the same problem exists on African Love, Gideon’s second FastCat – I know because he said so.

Sooooo – the obvious question, then: why on earth, fully aware there is already a problem, choose the bottom of the freezer where water collects and can’t escape, to make an exit hole for these pipes? Holes with pipes running through them are irregular unstable gaps, notoriously difficult to seal at the best of times. The squidge of unsightly Sika they’ve applied around the pipes certainly doesn’t do the trick – as our stained stairs prove only too well.

On the bright side then, a mystery solved; on the black side, three more jobs for the De-Bodge List for us – sort out the diesel tank, replumb the freezer and tidy up the mess of Sika.

But leaks – smelly, messy, inconvenient and time-consuming to fix as they are – providing they don’t stop us sailing, won’t ruin the journey. After all, if a problem’s fixable and doesn’t affect our ability to travel – which these latest leaks most certainly are and don’t – then it’s not worth losing sleep over. They’re just extra items to add to those we already know we must address in order to finish Butterfly – properly.

Back on track and getting the hell out of Forteleza: decision made, it was up with the anchor, in with the fenders and off we trundled into light winds and 360° of troubled grey skies. Within an hour or so, Forteleza’s beachside concrete tower blocks faded into the distance and it was straight back in to the old routine: Dick taking the 2.00pm-6.00pm shift, Anthony cooking supper, yours truly scrubbing Forteleza grime from the fenders, decks and cockpit.

As the evening arrived so, too, the rain. Squall after soaking squall; glowering fat-bellied clouds, drenching us with rain, warm and needle-sharp. Here and there in the blackness (heavy cloud cover robbing us of stars and moonshine), the muzzy glow of tankers on the horizon, creeping fuzzily, hesitantly into view. Later, a scattering of oil rigs – irregular tiers of garish, blazing lights to port, starboard and straight ahead. As we draw nearer, this barrage of brash luminescence defiantly blasts into the rain-sodden gloom. Something strangely sinister sailing around these rigs at night, the impenetrable fuzz of darkness and the sheeting rain adding to the sensation of being cast adrift in a rolling, seamless underworld, its satanic portals lit by these floating hell fires.

Remorselessly, the rain continued throughout the night. Unwilling to don full oilies with all the difficulties of drying them after the watch was over and it being too warm for heavy clothing, I settled instead for a light waterproof cagoule, a black bin liner and a plastic carrier bag. The bin liner for an over skirt to keep my shorts dry, the carrier bag for the ugliest hat you’ve ever seen – but a satisfyingly snug and waterproof one. Twisting the loose edge of my carrier bag hat like a turban and tucking it underneath itself, gives a snug dry fit to rival the best sou’wester. It’s a look to frighten the horses alright, and unlikely to catch on, but for sheer practicality it proved ace. When Anthony came to relieve me of my watch at 6.00 am, he also relieved me of the bin liner for his own makeshift rain protection. So you see, not only waterproof and quick to dry, my unlovely plastic rainwear, but unisex, multiple-usage, and one size fits all, too. I didn’t offer him my carrier bag hat, however, sensing, perhaps, this was a bag-lady style statement too far, even for someone as valiantly game as he.

Nights like these with such poor visibility but plenty of passing traffic are a challenge but they pass quickly. Running around peering into the rain-spattered void for lights, checking the radar, checking the (in our case, hopelessly inadequate) AIS, de-fogging spectacles to read the navigation screens – impossible when it’s driving rain straight into the face – trying to find the current that’s for you not against, looking for floating debris that can foul the props (for quite some distance Forteleza’s rubbish flows out from the shore, ocean bound, and is strewn in a wide arc across the sea ) – all this keeps you plenty busy and the dark hours fly.

Oh and talking of that current – the one on the chart they call the Guiana Current, that’s supposed to run south-east to north-west abreast of the Brazilian coastline? Not now it doesn’t, sunshine. North-west to south-east is where it’s at – someone drew the arrow head at the wrong end of the squiggly line And that error, bugger it, cost us a good knot and more per hour.

Monday 13th April – Day 2

(Position: 02°04’S 040°12’W)

5.00 a.m., daylight arrives – and still the rain falls. But a hopeful sign at last – the barometer sharply rises – from 1010 to 1015 in only three to four hours. Then stealthily, a hint of brightening here, a glimpse of blue there, small promises of light, reassuring and spirit-raising, piercing the weeping clouds. The rain sporadically eases. In one fell swoop the wind backs from north-east to west-south-west and instantly gathers afresh. Hooray! So off with the motor and up with the main and jib. No more crash and thump beating, but a far gentler roll and surge with the wind on the beam or quarter. Ah, mercies.

The better light conditions couldn’t be timelier. Sometime mid morning, Dick on the helm spots floating here and there, small white packages – bundles of polystyrene packaging lashed together with assorted tattered rope. Closer inspection reveals them everywhere – a field of the things, bobbing slyly between the waves, hidden for much of the time by the choppy foam-laced crests. Brazilian fishing buoys. We saw some floating listlessly and uselessly back at the marina. Navigating a course through these without snagging on their lines becomes tricky in the now light winds and we’re reluctant to turn on the motors for fear of fouling the props. Way off on the horizon, a large fishing vessel bobs, waiting – like a spider lurking on the edge of its web. Silly, but I have a curious sensation that we are the target, the fly he hopes to lure, not the fish. Anthony and I still finding the odd stray buoy dotted randomly at some distance from the rest, even as we pass by on the outer edges of the field. Dick carefully weaving Butterfly between them. It’s a large straggling, undefined area, unmarked on charts, of course. At night, what chance of avoiding it, then, especially with the boat enveloped in rain and unremitting darkness? Shudder. Not a thought to dwell on …

For the rest of the day, it’s a mixed bag of sudden squalls, heavy rain, light showers and all too brief periods of dry brighter skies. Fluky, quixotic winds blow hard then not at all; the temperature is warm, muggy still, cooled only slightly by the spates of stinging rain during the heaviest deluges. All so very different to the more southerly stretches of the Atlantic, a yin of sombre wet to the former carefree yang of dry sun.

Tonight, as I type this, we press on into another black squall-lashed night. With no AIS worth the having (are all three of us missing something here, or is it, as I suspect, the wrong package?), and with weather obliterating shipping information on the radar screen where the clouds and rain are heaviest – a huge area that stretches for seven or eight nautical miles mostly to windward so heading ever closer our way – tonight’s watches involve much intense panning of the gloom, letting the peripheries of vision do the real work as usual* – vigilance and eyes being the only truly reliable tools we have to avoid collisions. It’s going to be another long wet night waiting for the safety of dawn light …

* An odd thing, but as the sailors amongst you will already know, ships at night show up much clearer on the edges of your vision rather than in the centre. Slowly scanning the horizon with a relaxed gaze, untrying, unhurried, will usually pay speedy dividends, the faint lights of distant ships registering in the peripheral areas of your gaze, but invisible when looked at directly until they move nearer. The same goes for star gazing. Try it if you haven’t already – there’s a whole other world out there if you just give it a sideways-glance chance!

Tuesday 14th April – Day 3

(Position: 00°50’S 042°17’W)

Incy-Wincy spider climbs the water spout,

Down comes the rain to wash poor spider out

Out comes the sun and dries up all the rain

And Incy-Wincy spider climbs the spout again.

(English Nursery Rhyme – Anon)

Don’t tell the kiddly-winks, folks, but Incy Wincy is history. No spout climbing for that unlucky little beggar – not nivver again. All soggy day, the bloody heavens chucked it down in buckets and spades and cats and dogs and any other damp cliché you care to mention – as if trying to wash the very sea away. Crazy, crazy amounts of the wet stuff. And the wind – capricious and larky, spinning the compass, full on and full off, playful as a spring lamb. Trying to second-guess it proved impossible. At one point from a gentle 10 knots it roared up to 32 then dropped to 2.5 – and all within eight-ten minutes. A scatty welcome then to the ITCZ (Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone) perhaps – better known as the Doldrums – where meteorological mayhem like this is the norm. We’re just a degree or so from the equator, so a little southerly for this phenomenon, but the SE trades have been mild and our hunch is the stronger north-easterlies have pushed things sub equatorial. Whatever, it’s a challenging ride and an energetic one. Short of banging on the motor and chugging our way through it, there doesn’t seem to be any easier way to deal with the rapid changes – or, at times, complete lack – of weather. Sails are up and down in almost every combination and set and nothing works well for more than a few minutes. But we’re game, and the moment there is a breath of air over ten knots, we start applying canvas in a bid to harness it.

Rain outside soon means steam and damp inside. Even the bedding is clammy now and we’ve kept all hatches and portlights firmly shut throughout. Every surface, plastic, wood, steel, it matters not – all are sheened and clammy too. A few days prolonged rain, and how quickly things smell stale too – especially the cabins where there is so little airflow. The small solar fans don’t help at all – are a waste of space and time, to be honest. The large cabin fan moves the air and makes things more comfortable, but does nothing to dry the soft furnishings and bed linen. What we need and soon is Master Sun and Mistress Breeze – and a dry blue sky! Much more of this relentless downpour and bugger the battery drain – it’ll be on with the air conditioning.

But there are some upsides to all this. The skies, for one. These storm clouds and huge rain belts make a satisfyingly dramatic skyscape. At one point, towards the end of my watch, we seem to be heading straight for the epicentre of a monstrous cumulus nimbus – ugly as hell and twice as black. Armageddon never looked more nigh. Changing course, I point Butterfly to skim the edge of it, but the speed of its expanding dominion, its surly, air-sucking broil across the sky, makes a mockery of such a tactic. Through it we must go and take the consequences. Yet as Anthony comes on deck to begin his stint at the helm, and even as we watch, wondering whether to put a second reef in the main, so a huge hole appears in that monster cloud and lo, a pale gateway through and beyond to brighter celestial pastures grows ever wider. Within a scattering of minutes, the whole thing dissolves, raggy wisps of sodden grey floating harmlessly away. Somebody up there loves us.

Another bonus has been the company of shoals of fleeing, anxious-eyed bonito. Chased by predators or simply following the boat – who knows? – but throughout the afternoon they appear again and again, leaping, shimmying, silver flashes here and there; and as they clear the water, treating us to occasional glimpses of those huge baleful pools of woe. Storm petrels flitter around too – usually the Wilsons’ variety. These chubby, sooty-coloured little fellas skim the water skittishly, playfully, dipping their wings like a schoolboy aping a plane. Wilson’s storm petrels are quite distinctive, having a broad white band across the rump of their tail feathers, and their legs protrude well behind their tail when flying. Little stick whippish legs that scutter manically across the water’s surface as they swoop. They’re fast, too – too fast for my cameras, and heck knows I’ve tried.

Sometime tomorrow morning, we will cross the equator. Woo-hoo! Another first for the Butterfly book.

Wednesday 15th April – Day 4

(Position: 00°48’N 044°24’W)

Dawn breaks and with it the whisper of a promise … veiled sunshine in the east. Clusters of impatient, frowning clouds still fringe the horizon and odd streams of cirrus and lumpy-stout cumulus criss-cross the sky above; but things are definitely looking drier and – even better – windier. Soon, the main and jib are singing in harmony and we’re bouncing along on a chop-lively sea. Brisk efficient sailing and a welcome development to the soggy listless cavortings of the past few days.

In fact, things look settled enough to be worth hanging out the damp clothing we’ve recently acquired. Settled enough, even, to fling open the cabin and saloon hatches and flood the stale air that lingers there with freshly-minted ozone; and settled even so, that the plastic clear Bimini windscreen which yesterday I scrubbed clean of Durban dirt thereby banishing its puzzling opacity (before cleaning, we thought it must be the wrong sort of plastic, too dense to see through – doh!) could be rolled up and put away, the better to spot any birds around. You could sense the sigh of relief all round – Master Sun and Mistress Breeze have returned at last! Or should I say – for now. This caveat a given, of course. We’re still in the ITCZ: its chaos may not have finished with us just yet.

Sure enough, no sooner are the clothes drying nicely, the cabins smelling sweet once more, than an ominous ridge of dark storm clouds skulks into view ahead. The wind sharply rises, hardens the lines, then just as quickly falls away. This sudden eerie calm tells all. So it’s in with the clothes, down with the hatches, and sheets at the ready to reef and spill.

And it’s here now, this heralded vigorous blow – Master Sun banished once more, and Butterfly hurtling along under an agitated, mishmash of bruised grey sky, spray after spray exploding skywards through her lunging trampolines. From north to north-east, to due east, the wind dancing merrily around, huffing us along, then roaring its delight as we run before it.

In fact, so busy has that wind kept us, we crossed the equator sometime this morning and the moment passed unnoticed. Streuth, how negligent we are! And worse, will Neptune ever forgive?* Better play safe. Off now to offer the old devil a belated toast …

* It’s a quaint sailing custom, but one that many sailors (a superstitious lot by and large) adhere to, to offer a small glass of something alcofrolical to Neptune, King of the Sea, on passing over the equator. (That, or it’s just another excuse to enjoy a tot of rum … well, Neptune can’t be left to drink alone, can he?)

Thursday 16th April – Day 5

(Position: 02°36’N 46°57’W)

The Sea King placated, the heavens smile on us for the rest of the day – the north-east trade wind picking up steadily, gaining hold. Above us, cloudy but benevolent heavens, heavens that break into a smile now and then with shy, nervous glimpses of sunlight. Butterfly picking up her skirts and dancing along faster, sails full, sheets taught. As evening falls, our confidence rises. Those doldrums, short-lived as they were, seem safely consigned to the yesterhours – mere salt-stained history now. And look at us – we’re skipping along on a catamaran’s best point of sail – a perfect beam reach. Give Butterfly the canvas and she’d be romping along in high double figures, but with the light failing we play safe and put another reef in the main. Even so, with two deep reefs and a two-thirds reefed jib (and a current that’s dragging her backwards to the tune of 1 knot and more per hour), she’s belting happily along at 10-11 knots, the wind a constant 15-20 knots per hour. To cap it all – a hazy moon keeps her company for most of the night. A welcome return to clear night sailing once more. Hallelujah!

And the morning breaks in similarly joyous, easy-sailing vein. Impossible not to be happy with the return of steady winds and dry skies. Another boost, too: checking the logbook we find we’ve done 192 nautical miles in 24 hours, all with a reduced jib and reefed main – double reefed for the night hours.**

Yet while the heavens smile on us, clouds of a mechanical nature close in to spoil our elation. Yet more malfunctioning plumbing. As if the diesel tank and chest freezer leaks were not enough, the galley fridge it seems is now being starved of its seawater coolant supply and cannot chill without setting off an alarm. Well, that’s the current diagnosis – further investigation is needed. But ominously, backing this theory, the fridge’s black casing is hot to the touch. Our dwindling supply of frozen meat for the rest of the journey is fast thawing and in these temperatures will soon spoil.

Hard on the heels of this discovery, we find the port head is not pumping out properly – backwash of the most unpleasant variety seeping back into the bowl. And why is the port bilge near the head filled with yellow-ish water? Yuk.

And still the bad news keeps coming – for ignoring the backwash, we cannot even flush the port head properly, the saltwater supply coming and going, mostly the latter. Galley sink saltwater, cockpit shower seawater, bathroom sink seawater, fridge/freezer saltwater – all seawater supply affected. Add to this the leak in the port cabin bilges, the cupboard above it, the chest-freezer leak and the diesel tank leak and frankly it’s hard not to dissolve into leaks oneself. Counting the plumbing that doesn’t leak is far easier and quicker than that which does.

Dick, who is rarely down, goes quiet, has clearly had enough for one day. ‘They’re like flies, problems – just ignore them,’ is Anthony’s wry verdict, bless him. But in truth, it’s hard. Hard not to feel bloody pissed off that some of these flies are due to short-sightedness in planning – the bilge through-hulls for a good example, most fitted without scuppers and poorly angled piping, so allowing water to flow back in through the one-way valves – and poor workmanship in execution with too much reliance on bloody Sika. Yes, new boats come with teething problems, we all accept that, but it’s a matter of degree here – Butterfly could keep a dentist busy for life at this rate! It’s moments like these, when presented with a swarm of such ‘flies’, how we wish we could turn back the clock …

But wishing is of little use to us now, and damn it, the weather is fine, the boat is winging along, and we’ve had more than our fair share of fun, sunshine and fair winds this voyage than we deserve, so what folly to feel defeated now. Back to our well-worn mantra – “if it’s fixable, it’s not worth losing sleep over.” So St Lucia here we come and fie to those wretched flies in our otherwise happy ointment.

* So why not go faster in daylight hours? Speed may be exhilarating for a while, but it’s not relaxing hour after hour after hour. The faster you go, the faster you must correct any mistakes; the faster you go, the faster mistakes happen anyway. Ergo, it’s hard to relax when tearing along under too much canvas. And nor is it peaceful – the noise inside the boat increases substantially; so too the jerks and bounces. After a while you get tired of tottering, of being flung around, of spilling things. Call us strange, but we’d rather drink that hot cuppa tea, than wear it. This is not to deny the joys of having a fast light boat. One that can pick up her skirts and trip merrily along in the lightest of airs when other heavier craft would need engine power to make headway. Butterfly is excellent in this respect – and she needs so little canvas to sail, our rigging and sails are likely to stay much the healthier for it. We’re glad of that, but we want easy cruising, not Olympic medals, so we’ll leave the white knuckle rides for the Toads of this world, and for races and regattas. Comfort is where it’s at for us cruising Moles.

Friday 17th April – Day 6

(Position: 04°04’N 049°59’W)

That said, last night the winds were such that it was a vigorous sail from sun down to sun up. Still on a beam reach, still easily maintaining our 200+ nautical miles per day. And still with double-reefed main and jib. Even so, the gusts get a little overpowering at times and we bear away till they pass. But hey, a welcome night visitor once more – another Brown Noddy (it couldn’t be the same one, not after all those intervening miles, could it? Anthony thinks not; but being so fond of that bird, I’m more inclined to think – hope? – it is) – who quietly appears sometime after midnight during my watch, hunkering down on our carriage roof near the helm station – and who stays until Dick’s watch at 6.00 am. Oh such grand company, our Noddys – my heart gives a whoop each time they silently appear, wings fluttering wildly as they land with a wobbly, rocking halt; or are simply just there – a black teetering silhouette against the muzzy backdrop of night and sea, their moment of arrival unheralded, unseen.

A valiant effort by the moon last night, too – peeping coyly between the rush of gusting clouds. And while it is able, it spoils us royally – a sea-twinking moonpath thrown across the water to Butterfly’s starboard sugar scoop. And yes, to the port if I watch it from there. But not so ready to be shrugged off, the grasping fingers of the Doldrums reach out even here. In a last bid to inflict a little chaos, they send hungry, industrial-strength, squally cumulus to gobble the sky aft and take the moon with it. But such tactics cannot ruin the moon’s magic – just those few precious minutes basking in his cool, pale fire and you’re set for the night, heart winging along with Butterfly, spirit-happy and high. Later, at 2.55 am, another squall, sudden and vicious, fires up to 30 knots plus in seconds and the sudden change in movement and noise sees all hands on deck – reducing sail and changing course. Twenty minutes later, the squall is history, everything sweet again. And soon it’s au revoir, indolent, deceitful Doldrums, we’re beyond even your squally grasp now.

Today, the north-east trade wind continues to puff away energetically. 18-23 knots with odd gusting huffs up to 30+ knots to keep things lively. Butterfly whipping along on choppy seas with plenty of swell now. Flying fish, baby ones, adorn her decks – silver teardrops scattered in random profusion, glistening in the sun. Bright pin eyes staring at the sky in nervous surprise for all perpetua, one fin-wing stiffly raised, the other flattened beneath the little silver bullet body that will soar and skim no more.

Between watches and catch-up naps, Dick trying to unravel the mysteries of our saltwater problems. Not easy with the boat lurching and jarring all the time as it bounces over the waves. As usual, a process of elimination trying to find where the blockage/malfunction lies. And if we haven’t pinpointed the source of woe just yet, at least the list of places where the trouble doesn’t lie, grows longer. Progress of sorts, I guess. But sometime around midday tomorrow, we shall be making landfall once again. Our truncated stopover in Forteleza means we have time to spare for the Îles du Salut. Or “Devil’s Island” to you and me, the French penal colony where Papillon was famously holed up. We hope to spend tomorrow night and the following day there for some boat maintenance and, far nicer – sight-seeing. It will also give us a chance to better effect some saltwater pump repairs if the swell isn’t too great. The diesel leak is growing smaller now as we use the fuel from the starboard tank, so swatting that particular little ‘fly’ can wait until St Lucia. The other little ‘flies’ can also wait till then – since we shall reach St Lucia well within the week at this rate.

Hey-hey – almost forgot. Today is our wedding anniversary – which we also totally forgot until an hour ago at about 5.00 pm or thereabouts (ah, such old romantics, us two (!)) So a little belatedly then, hooray for us, to us, from us. Twenty-seven years of happy Us-ship to be exact and as the old song goes – “it don’t seem a day too long …” Nor, indeed, does it, so here’s to the next twenty-seven at the very least.

Saturday 18th April – Day 7

(Position: 05°17’N 052°31’W)

Wow, the sea has changed colour! Gone the deep magenta blue of the South Atlantic; gone the gunmetal grey of those squall-ridden days running from Forteleza; green is the couleur du jour it seems now. Amazon water perhaps – the thick, vigorous outpouring from the delta surging north-west. We’re close enough to shore (about 9 nautical miles) to be in its swim and the strong current seen on our Raymarine chart would certainly suggest this is so. At long bloody last, a current that’s working in our favour and at a handsome rate – at times, a generous two whole knots plus. And this sudden surge of green water that is so conveniently whisking us towards our destination, might also explain the intensity of last night’s phosphorescence. All night long, Butterfly’s wake was a luminous fire, glowing greenly – a seething jumble of dancing feather boas and fairy wedding veils and tinsel fringed ribbons flaring out behind, ghostly cold-bright – as if lit by huge phosphorus fires burning below the waves. And so lushly spangled with sequins – sparks of white fire everywhere – as if this magic of the deep was determined to outdo the stars above. Now and then a ball of these plankton sequins, the size of a man’s fist, would shoot out from under the hull, hurtling away into the distance. Mesmeric stuff. Even the distant waves are capped in skittering luminescence – diamond crusted – so, many times I think I see a ship – a fully lit ship – twinkling on the horizon only for it to disappear as the wave dissolves into the sea ahead.

But that was last night, and now, here, typing this, we’re in a very different scene altogether, but no less enchanting. With winds and current enthusiastically in our favour, we romped along over the waves to the Îles Du Salut in excellent time. Which is where you would find us now, anchored just a few metres off the densely palmed shore of Île Royale – the most westerly of the three islands (Île Royale, Île du Diable and Île Saint Joseph) that come under the collective banner of Îles Du Salut.

These islands are pure castaway paradise. Surf-fringed humps, densely vegetated, each with a thick rim of coconut palms that stops abruptly, teetering over the edge where land meets sea. Nothing in the way of sand or beach here, not at this anchorage, and none the worse for that. Nestled here and there in the hilly greenery, a house, only a snatch of it peeping out amid the thick greenery – even so, from our anchorage just off shore, I can only count half a dozen such buildings in total.

We are moored where the two day-tripper boats anchor, large catamarans that shunt sightseers from the mainland to traipse Ile Royale, to soak up some of its dramatic history, and then whisk them back to mainland Brazil. A few other boats swinging off their hooks or off mooring buoys – but again, very few. A muddy, glue-silty seabed, so excellent holding for all. Birds and fish in abundance and so, too, peace. Only the soft swoosh of surf kissing rocks, and the gentle clang of a halyard idly slapping its mast in the late afternoon breeze. A beguiling tranquility unspoiled by human noise.

Once we’re securely anchored, Dick, bless him, immediately sets about the salt water system – trying to find the cause of its woe. An hour and a half later and still no joy. That we are surrounded by seawater at all times means with the aid of a bucket we can have all we desire – but sea outside is of no help in cooling the fridge/freezer. Come 6.00 pm and it’s Buggerit time. Chilled beers for the fellas who recline on sailbags on the trampolines. I’m busy drinking too – not beer, but the wonderful desert island ambience and taking shots of the palm-fringed shore lit by a sinking sun. Two beers for the chaps a-piece ensure it’s double Buggerit time. Boat repairs to resume early tomorrow morning not a moment sooner!

The sun set, the lavender soft light now too dim to shoot, I rustle up some supper using the defrosted bangers. Apart from some steak, all other meats have been cooked and stored in the chest fridge, since we can no longer freeze them and leave them raw.

Out on deck, with the lights from Cayenne on the Brazilian mainland sparkling in the distance, we eat and listen to the electric whine of cicadas and plaintive cries of peacocks on the island. Somewhere in Îsle Royale’s plush palm forest they are serenading the departed sun. Only three boats left now – and one of those is Butterfly. Hush, hush sigh the lapping waters, gently, soothingly, smoothing her flanks and scoops.

Nightfall at Devil’s Island sounds sinister; in truth, it couldn’t be more sweet.

Sunday 19th April – Day 8

(Position: 05°17’N 052°31’W)

Those lapping waters rocked us to sleep alright, but the openness of the anchorage meant the wind kept them rocking all night long. Leaving us with an odd sensation of still traveling, still sailing along, despite the firm bite of a 40kg anchor. But so nice to drift into oblivion with the knowledge that there, just a few metres away, our desert island was waiting, and we could enjoy a long lie-in first, if we chose.

Anthony was first up and amused himself by trying out the tender. Dick and I looked out to see him paddling determinedly – this new design of AfricanCats doesn’t exactly lend itself to single-handed rowing, it must be said. The oars are too short for the fat inflatable tube sides, (which are too high off the water) and an oarlock fitting came apart almost immediately. It’s also hellishly tippy. With an outboard motor it seems fine, but we wish we’d tried rowing it while in Durban and we’d have discovered its shortfalls for rowing then and opted for something else. Daresay we’ll get used to it though.

A cooked breakfast – befitting the Sunday morning that it was – then down to work for Dick, trooper that he is. And hey, success! A thorough cleaning of the saltwater system from through-hull to pump to pipes and the flow improved considerably. Enough such that all saltwater taps are now working again. Another success from a similar cleaning of the fridge/freezer’s saltwater system. Amazing how much crud finds its way into everything – barnacles and tiny shell-life, weed, grit etc. Fridge anodes totally buggered too, no doubt thanks in part to Elliot Basin’s corrosive water qualities, so those replaced with spares. And although it took two overhauls to crack it, lo, we have a galley fridge that’s humming chillily once again. Huzzah!

The port head has gone from bad to worse and is totally unusable now – it seems to be a faulty valve (yet again – this happened before, same side). But alas, no spares for this, so we decide to decommission it and resort to the throne of necessity for many sailors – the bucket. Or, in our case, of more sensible proportions – a deep sided icecream tub, fitted with the latest must-have for an improvised loo – a tight fitting lid. Such sophistication. -What joy! (But then you didn’t want to know all that, really … apologies).

Plenty more things needing attention – that myriad of odd leaks here and there, of course, but those must wait till we settle at St Lucia. So, work over for the day, it was into the tippy tender and a-paddling we did go – rolling around like drunken sailors all. Once ashore at Île Royale, we struck out and up the densely foliaged hill path. Soon finding what looked like an old army camp – complete with church and rather sinister ruins of barracks or prisons – and a scattering of very simple dwellings incongruously painted in ice-cream pastels, pink and cream and peppermint green. I left my dslr (camera) and wide angle lens back on the boat, fearing for its safety in the tippy tub, but managed to get enough shots on the little Panasonic to capture the feel of the place. Eerie, this site of neglected, crumbling, atmosphere-steeped architecture – all too easy to imagine the despair of those incarcerated here for decades at a time.

There is a museum which helpfully offers an English translation for its exhibits and from this we learn that for many years the French did their damnedest to colonise the three islands as rumours had it they were treasure troves of gold and diamonds and such. That it ended up as a penal colony up until 1938, is at paradoxical odds with the name it enjoys – Îles du Salut – meaning Islands of Salvation. Not for those who were kept in solitary and allowed no glimpse of the sea or sky or abundant flora and fauna and who had absolutely no chance of pardon or escape. One can’t help thinking the guillotine would have been kinder.

There’s a café/bar there and a souvenir shop but even these enjoy the same neglected time-forgotten feel to them that the disused buildings have – although they are open for business and the day tourists keep them busy – just.

All around the islands there is a viciously strong current and, reputedly, sharks: though we can testify to the former, disappointingly, we saw nothing of the latter. But for sheer haunting tranquility, for a rich ambience that whispers of colourful history and man’s inhumanity to man, and for the strange, shiversome, all-pervading sense of isolation and loneliness of the place, these islands are unbeatable. A unique cruising stop. Both Dick and I would happily have loitered there another few days – but we must press on.

Rowing – paddling, I should say – back to the boat was a comedic affair. Not easy in the tippy tub, but all the more precarious with a strong afternoon current and lively breeze. We also piled into it a few coconuts, found bobbing in the sea – deposited by parent palms sending their progeny to populate other shores. These coconuts are like bowling balls, keep rolling into my legs as I try to fend them off while paddling like fury, and holding aloft my camera on my knees – the Panasonic wrapped in several plastic bags – trying to keep it clear of sea and spray.

Once back aboard Butterfly, Dick takes another look at the defunct head valve, and decides it’s too long a job to try making a substitute or fixing the original, so reluctantly, we make ready to set sail once more. The delights of the ice cream tub will have to suffice until St Lucia.

Getting the anchor up proves fun – it’s bitten alright. But another fly in the ointment – the bloody chain keeps paying out again, something in the windlass not right, not gripping well enough. No brake action. It did the same at St Helena. With the aid of the tripping line and repeated attempts, we eventually pull it free. It’s caked in glue-like mud which does not want to wash off no matter how many times we dunk it and poke at it. No wonder we had a firm holding last night! Eventually, it comes clean and off we go, out through the narrow channel between Île Royale and Île St Joseph – out into the green, green sea.

It’s 5.00 pm. Looking astern, I watch the humps of palm-fringed islands growing smaller, looking dark and distant and all the lonelier against the bleached blue expanse of evening sky. A sharp pang of regret we couldn’t stay at least another night.

Tempus fugit … well bloody let it, I say.

Monday 20th April – Day 9

(Position: 07°51’N 055°15’W)

Gone the leisurely comfortable ride associated with downwind sailing. For most of the day we’re either on a beam reach or gently pointing about 65°-70° These north-easterly/easterly trade winds are giving us brisk and efficient sailing. Still with double reefed main and slightly reefed jib, we’re getting 10 + knots of speed with winds of 18-20 knots. But after a few hours of this, it becomes pretty monotonous. Oh yes, we’re making excellent headway and sparing the sails and rigging, but the noise and bounce grate after a while. After a month of downwind cruising, you forget how loud the wind is when it’s on the beam or bow, and how bumpy the ride. Even on a beam reach, the noise increases substantially and we’re regularly thrown about the deck as we totter to and fro – thanks to the boisterous wave action. Head further up and that smooth easy 18-22 knots that was behind you, that seemed little more than a soothing breeze, now that you’re belting into it, feels more like 28-32 knots and hard work. Moreover, on this point of sail, it’s hard to sleep with all the magnified boat noises ricocheting in the hulls – sounds like a football pitch of soccer hooligans are kicking seven shades of sh – er, hell out of her. According to Anthony, however, she’s a moderately quiet boat, so things could be far worse by the sounds of it. But oh to be on the run again – far more harmonious and peaceful!

Come the evening and we reef the jib still further. This is squall territory and the suddenness of their attacks and their viciousness isn’t to be underestimated. But even with a mere scrap of a jib, and still with that double-reefed main, she continues to hare along at 9 knots most of the night. Every now and then a super large wave strikes, almost beam on, and the helm (and helms(wo)man) gets a thorough dowsing. During my watch, I check the radar and see a thick pink wall of weather heading our way, due to strike us full on the starboard beam – the helm side, of course. Ten minutes before it arrives, the wind sputters and all but dies, and suddenly we’re tottering along at a desultory 3-4 knots. But that pink wall looked ominous enough to resist applying more canvas and, sure enough, out of the stillness the wind suddenly kicks up a 33 knots rumpus and the heavens open – on top of Butterfly … and me. Standing under Niagara Falls could not have been a wetter event. Thankfully, within minutes someone up there turns the tap off and things settle down once more. Oh, but silver linings and all that – boy do we have a clean boat!

Only two days – two and a half if the wind falls away – till our ETA at St Lucia. Crikey – so near now, we really can’t believe it!

Tuesday 21st April – Day 10

(Position: 10°27’N 057°37’W)

Feeling chirpier today. Despite the bash, slam, crash of our beam reaching made all the worse because the seas have built themselves even further to a vigorous rock ‘n roll swell, we all managed to get some more shut-eye in somehow. That the sun has been shining most of the day helps too. And the frequent dowsings that were a nuisance yesterday, today seem kinda fun … amazing how getting your head down for some serious oblivion puts a shine back on things.

Still notching up 200+ nautical miles per day. Still with double-reefed main and a scrap of jib. This boat really is darned fast. The challenge is not in making her fly, but in clipping her wings for comfort and safety. That she will happily flit along in light winds is the biggest boon of all, sparing us the noise, thrum and cost of the iron sail.

Ropes in need of freshwater bath and some TLC – after six weeks of solid sailing (almost) they’re caked in salt crystals and make a fearful noise on the winch drums as you grind them in. Something else to do once we arrive in the Caribbean.

The lack of wildlife continues. A lone seagull that has followed us on and off throughout the day and that’s it. Not even a flying fish to be seen. No, it is the waves that seem determined to amuse today. Catching us off our guard is their biggest sport of all. See a large roller begin to break – heaving dark water, closing in, blotting light from the sky, surging towards Butterfly with irrepressible, thuggish delight, and a split second before arriving, it plays pussycat, falls away into whispering submission, all purring innocence, ‘who me? Ah, you have nothing to fear from little ol’ me.’ And it slinks away, stroking the underside of the hull with kittenish paw. But look away and soon a crouching tiger – unseen and unheralded – catches us unawares; one that is eager to pounce and hungry to devour. Within claw’s reach of the toe rail it suddenly rears up in full roar and leaps aboard, white spume flying from its open jaws, its full weight and might slamming down on its unsuspecting prey with a force that leaves us winded, gasping from the shock of its ambush, and more than a little bedraggled and dripping. Yet in that very instant, the tiger is no more – vamooshed, vanished – not even a growl, nor tooth nor claw … until the next time. Oh playful sea of so many moods and colours, you have certainly entertained us royally throughout!

But there’s a sense of impatience in the air now – the journey so nearly finished, the noisy rugged sailing we would rest from, the dwindling provisions – the lengthening list of stuff that needs fixing – we’re all more than ready to reach St Lucia. There’s also excitement too – it’s been a good cruise despite the various leaks and electronic bugs – so our journey’s end will be sweet for all the right reasons. But more than ever, Dick and I are looking forward to being masters of our own time. To be free at last to combine work with play and not have to focus solely on the boat as we did in Durban and Capetown.

Wednesday 22nd April – Day 11

(Position: 12°34’N 059°38’W)

Nearly there, nearly there … and still that wind rushing us on. One of the blandest days to date – just hard jouncy sailing under very reduced sail. The night brings a little drama when we see a large cargo vessel on the horizon but the radar, bugger it, cannot tell us with any accuracy which direction it’s heading in. The red direction line hovers here or there, then starts a slow revolution around the compass – crazy and maddening. But the visual impression is the target is heading our way – and fast. With no AIS data until the boat is within 2 nautical miles – which is leaving things far too late – Dick decides to radio the captain of the approaching vessel. Luckily for us the chap is alert and responds, saying he already has us fixed on his radar screen and that he will change course once he’s a little nearer. And he does, thankfully – but still seems to come awful close before doing so. In readiness, we’ve already centred the main and rolled in the jib, motors ready to fire us away out of harm’s way if necessary – which thankfully it isn’t. A sigh of relief once he’s passed and we see his stern light growing smaller to starboard as he disappears further and further into the night.

Getting the wretched AIS sorted – as I’ve mentioned before – is a priority on the list of things to fix. Mastering the radar a little more fully, also on the agenda.

Later this night, also to starboard, the glow of Barbados visible on the horizon. Tomorrow, by first light, we should be seeing the coast of St Lucia …

Thursday 23rd April – Day 12

(Position: 13°39’N 060°56’W)

My watch is at 3.00 am to 6.00 am. I start it, taking over from Dick. Already he has watched the distant wan glow of St Lucia’s lights rising on the horizon. As he tucks in for a couple of hours, I watch that glow grow brighter until here and there out of the muzzy lightening sky, odd pinpricks of individual lights. Hard to tell if some might be boats – sailing against the coast – but little by little as the sun, still unseen, blanches the night away, things become clearer. No boats, just the south-eastern tip of St Lucia with its spattering of lights from the nearest villages and towns and bays.

Still the wind whipping us along as if wanting to rush us by – as if not wanting us to stop at all. Twenty knots – twenty three – twenty five … another sudden gust, a swathe of black plumed cumulus rushing overhead, waves slapping and hissing us along. But the wind cannot be master once we drop the main and furl the jib. And as soon as we’re firmly to the west of Moule Chic – its two knarled and nubby burrs projecting like a thumb and open hand into the crested sea, we motor gently but firmly into the old fishing port of Vieux Fort … and, with a sigh of relief, drop anchor. But it’s with no thanks to our Tacktick instruments, which remain as unreliable to the end as ever. For the moment we turn starboard in towards the fishing port, where the water begins to seriously shallow – the depth gauge packs up, coming on again, only once we began to drop anchor. These Tacktick instruments (which for some reason are old models – 2005 – and which Tacktick have kindly offered to upgrade for us) are hopelessly fickle. We’ve had hours at a stretch with no wind information at all – with sporadic flickering on and off, and occasionally the solar batteries running out of juice despite plenty of daylight charging (AfricanCats plug in charger didn’t work at all). But whereas sailing by the feel of the wind on your face or neck (or by ribbon – more of which later) gets you by okay if the electronic instruments fail –losing a depth gauge when surrounded by shallow water is timing of the worst kind. But hey, tacky Tackticks or not, it all came good anyhow.

And with our arrival at Vieux Fort, so our journey at last is done. Yet, it doesn’t quite seem like that. For Anthony, bless him, (who’s been a joy to sail with), and the Trade Winds have escorted us safely not to the finish, but to the beginning of our cruising life aboard Butterfly. At least that’s how it feels to us. For Butterfly, Dick and I, this isn’t the end, but only the start …