Take the Leap – Life as an Ocean Gypsy Part 3 – Chile to Easter Island

by Kristen Anderson on 5 Nov 2017 After much preparation in Puerto Montt the day finally arrived when Commitment was ready for the open ocean. Fully loaded, she carried 1,600 litres of diesel and 2,200 litres of fresh water. Spares for every imaginable situation, gear and equipment from her Antarctic charters, and mounds of provisioning were all packed and stowed with military precision, all securely fastened in readiness for rough weather. It is a uniquely intense moment when you depart land for a long ocean crossing – brimming with competing emotions of excitement and apprehension, preparing the boat and yourselves as thoroughly as possible, all the while not really knowing what you may need to be ready for.

For me, doubts were threatening to overwhelm me – not about Commitment or her skipper, not really about what the ocean might throw at us, but, belatedly, about my ability to cope! Previously, my longest open ocean voyage, out of sight of land, had been four days – from Cape Horn at the southern tip of Chile to the Antarctic Peninsula. This first section of our 7,500nm South Pacific crossing, to the remote Easter Island, was expected to take us 14-15 days, quite a leap, a PB (personal best), as Tony quipped! With a crew of three, the plan was solo watches, three hours on, six hours off during the day and two on, four off at night.

The reality of being in charge of 60 foot of boat in the middle of the Pacific in who knew what weather was threatening to paralyse me now that it was imminent, and it took immense control to push the fear aside, regather my customary ‘can-do’ attitude and just get on with it. We had, I firmly told myself, spent a month on Commitment, cruising in Patagonia, more than enough time to become familiar with the boat, and each other, but my treacherous mind countered that my helming experience in big seas was limited, and what if we faced the same conditions that has knocked us down so violently in Antarctica? Self-confidence, I discovered, can be elusive, particularly when you need it most, and on the eve of our departure my insides were in turmoil!!

As we travelled down Canal Chacao to the open ocean we were farewelled by a large pod of dolphins hurling themselves playfully out of the water like breaching whales, followed shortly after by a stunning full double rainbow. Riotously beautiful rainbows had been plentiful in South America and, along with our dolphin friends who had watched over us all the way up the coast, this felt like a good omen for our crossing and went some way to dispelling my crisis of confidence… And, in many ways it WAS a good crossing, but certainly that first leg was testing to say the least.

It began with a rough and quite shitty exit to the ocean, a strong outgoing current against the ocean swell made for what Tony described as ‘pretty dancey’ seas in water as shallow as fifteen metres, which pretty much set the scene for the following weeks. It took us eighteen arduous days to make the 1,970nm journey to Easter Island, during which time we contended with no less than five, yes I said five! bruising south-west fronts, battling seemingly never-ending headwinds in between.

We departed on April 4, and were hove-to in violent conditions for the first of many times on April 6. During this leg I learned (quickly) that pre-frontal weather systems can be ferocious, that waiting for fronts to hit is intensely trying on the nerves, that clouds in this part of the world bring blistering winds that can knock you up to ninety degrees off course, and that lightning storms at sea are fearsome to behold.

Was I ever afraid? Without a doubt, yes. But I distinctly recall a conversation with Tony early in the crossing, on deck in full battle regalia, with Commitment smashing into a big residual sea in 35+ knots after being hove to for several hours awaiting a front. There was lightning bouncing about in an otherwise totally black night, alarmingly near, and this solo-round-the-world sailor confided to me, “Everyone is frightened Kris. If people tell you they’ve never been scared out here, then they’ve either never been in these conditions, or they’re full of shit, simple’. Ok then, I thought, and took a deep breath as I unfurled a little more headsail. It was incredibly comforting to be given permission to feel fear, and went a long way to making it more manageable. “And don’t look at the lightning’, he added, ‘there’s nothing we can do about the lightning’.

I turned 54 on this leg, and as the following excerpts from my journal entry illustrate, it was a tumultuous day, but a memorable one!

“2-4am: a wild 2-hour ride, thank God I’ve found some confidence. Commitment charging along in the pitch black night, overpowered in the constant squalls. Wet, wet wet!

7.30am: Second reef in.

9-midday: Where are the calm seas, blue skies and sunshine that I ordered??? Rough going in the now at least less frequent squalls, maintaining 6’s (boat speed in knots) and focussing hard to not the let the boat get away from me when the big sets rolled in. Body sore, but feeling capable and happy (oh, and salty, every single thing is salty!)

6-8pm: First half positively fabulous, steering 270, directly into the beautiful setting sun. Seabirds are dive bombing for dinner and a pod of dolphins arrives to surf the large waves on our port side…Wildly alive out here. A moment….

Wind got up and I had to bear away to maintain control… No visible reference points to steer, seas big and pushing me around all over the place from both behind and to port. Hard going …

My whole body is aching after several days of these rough seas, big winds, constant lurching and, for me, tough helming, but my mood is high! The weather is changing and calm days are a-coming!!! Happy!!!!! If this is 54, bring it on!

12-2am: Woke to a beautifully different world… Calm seas and a flat(ish) boat. Bliss. Woke Tony to shake the reef around 1am. Speeds good, motion glorious”.

This 24-hour rollercoaster of a day typifies this section of our crossing. The next day dawned clear, calm and sunny and “in a spectacular change the ocean glitters a bright and beautiful azure blue that is in stark contrast to days of dark broody steely grey”. The next few days were marked by a complete absence of wind as we sailed through the centre of the high pressure system but then, “Have spent the entire day fighting squall after squall after f%*#g squall, one after another, absolutely smashing us with strong winds and torrential, teeming, pelting rain!” Shortly thereafter we were hove-to, yet again, waiting anxiously for the next front! And so it continued…

The days at sea quickly began to run together, and I stopped thinking how far, or how many days, to go? Life took its rhythm from the weather systems, flowing from front to fierce front, riding the squalls, heaving to when necessary, and its timeframe contracted to each day, and each watch. There was no room for anything else. It was both physically tough (furling and unfurling Commitment’s large headsail was putting muscle on my shrinking frame), and mentally draining, and thanks to the brutal weather we often needed two of us on deck for long periods so were all feeling the lack of sleep. But for all that, my confidence grew by the day and I was managing remarkably well. And for every wild front and anxious solo watch in tough conditions, there was a magic moment to remind us why we come to sea. Sometimes it was sheer relief to crawl into my bunk (there were times I shed grateful tears simply for having survived the watch), but at other times I just did not want to hand over the wheel.

The exhilaration of coasting along beneath a canopy of glittering stars, alone at the helm of this wonderful boat that I was gradually becoming one with, was intoxicating in the extreme. As was perching on the coach house roof with a coffee on a perfectly still morning when not a single ripple could be seen on the entire ocean, nothing but blue from horizon to horizon, from lapis to sapphire and turquoise to aquamarine. The colours out here in these vast open spaces beggar belief, and, even in our weariness, outrageously beautiful sunsets dragged us from our bunks to gaze, unspeaking, in awe and disbelief. And then there was that feeling, deep in your chest, of pure joy when the moon rises on a wild night, a feeling that defies my skill to describe it.

What a gig!! And then, at 2am on a moonless night, you drop anchor behind the surf break of the most remote island in the world! Life’s alright. Almost 2,000 gruelling and hard-won miles and finally here we were, at a destination I could only have dreamed of. I was exhausted, but I was hooked!

And what a destination!!!! Known as Isla de Pascua to the Chileans, and Rapa Nui to the locals, Easter Island is remote and wild, with a tumultuous history. Not only was it a long and strenuous sail to reach it, but the anchorage was uncomfortable in the extreme. There is no harbour, there is no port, and yachts simply drop anchor beyond the breakers, where we rolled from gunwhale to gunwhale, lee cloths firmly in place to hold us in our bunks. And the trips to and from shore, between swells and past the surfers, was serious heart in mouth stuff, so imagine the issues we faced with transporting ALL fuel (countless jerry cans!) and reprovisioning in this fashion!

One evening when the surf was particularly large we had to unload and mount a rescue when a fellow yachty mistimed the swell and flipped his inflatable in the breakers. However, the many difficulties were worth it and then some to experience this remarkable island. Exploring the ancient moai, which affords Easter Island both its recognition (oh, that place with the giant stone heads!), as well as its shroud of mystique (what are they, and how ever did they create, transport and erect them?) was a truly unique opportunity, and it was encouraging to witness the youth of Rapa Nui proudly embracing and attempting to resurrect an all but destroyed culture and environment.

But our passage papers were ready, and the open ocean was calling. On April 25 we weighed anchor, next stop Raratonga in the Cook Islands, a voyage of 2,772 nm in what we fervently hoped would be kinder conditions. We were sure to find those following winds this leg, right? Right??????

Life is short – Take the leap