The Crossing
I heard a thump looked across and saw my starboard ama, the floatation on which my survival depended, pulled away from the lashing and spinning 180 degrees.
Story Jeremy Eagleton • Illustrations Brian Bryson
I had been planning my trip for a good week. I had a list of things needed to make my overnight trip to the island as smooth as possible; all the little things that can become big things once away from the comforts of home—mostly revolving around food and warmth. My boat was definitely in the “wet boat” category and being cold for long periods can be very draining.
I planned to sail the 20 km open-ocean crossing from my local beach WSW straight out to sea to the SW point at the island, then farther west, approximately 25 kms in total, to the surf. I wanted to surf the waves that pounded the SW of the island and, should the conditions allow, return home that day. If not I had enough gear to make it to the island settlement, or sleep where the wind allowed.
I had been sailing my outrigger now for over a year and had become familiar with her design and sailing characteristics. I’d slowly and patiently modified her so that the rig was balanced and the craft responsive. No one else could make the adjustments as well; I had made her from scratch and I was her creator.
A friend came down to help me push off. The conditions were perfect; a light nine knots from the NE giving me a following wind that I hoped would allow me to run one tack to my destination—nice downwind sailing. I had to negotiate a punchy beach break to get out but if handled correctly it should be no problem. The break reminded me of the purpose of my trip—to ride the big southern swells hitting the southwest of the island. The swell out the back of the island would be huge if it was this big here on the mainland, as the island traditionally blocked most of the swell that leaked through to this shoreline. I had butterflies in my stomach as I pushed off and paddled hard through the lineup to open water.
I sailed plainly and smoothly, only having to pull up to the north once to allow for a deceptively fast tugboat towing a barge up Gauge Roads, our cargo freeway of the sea, approximately halfway from the mainland to the island, and running perpendicular to the coast. I’m aware how powerful and quick these Goliaths of the ocean are; sadly another boater was not—I heard later that day she ran down a pleasure craft with two people on board. I didn’t hear how they fared.
My craft, although well built, was not in her comfort zone this far out to sea. She rode low in the water with all my gear, and there was a great feeling of her petite nature and the delicate balance I was running making an open-water crossing in such a small boat. I felt vulnerable. I had four hours to spend alone with my thoughts, not always a good thing for a man with a mind like mine.
I made the crossing in about four hours; it felt much longer. By the time I rounded the SW point I was ready to get out of the boat into the water. I had to give the island a wide berth at this stage as the bombies (submerged reefs) that came to life in big swell were breaking sporadically and destructively at semi-random points around the island. I had surfed this island my entire life and knew roughly where they were. I sailed wide then headed west. I could see the wave long before I got close to it, huge plumes of spray were flying up into the air off the back of the wave as the NE wind did its job in smoothing and refining the surf as it made its way from the Southern Ocean. It peaked and crashed down onto the reef in the bay, breaking both left and right, giving great rides in both directions.
I navigated in amongst the power boats, brailed my sails up and away and dropped my anchor. It’s a different experience dropping anchor and pulling up completely under sail; I was very pleased with my efforts. It was time to surf. I was already wearing my wetsuit and after inhaling an apple and sculling some water I put on my sunscreen and grabbed my trusty 6' 6" custom made rounded pintail with six channels. I loved this board. It was crafted from another board I rode to great effect many years earlier in the wild seas of the Northwest. The surf was big; I felt I could ride anything on this board and I threw myself into the sea.
A real battle was brewing against an old adversary, far stronger and wilder than any man. I felt like an animal that just realized it was trapped;
I looked up at the sun; I had been surfing for awhile getting great waves; now it was too late to sail home. A huge pod of dolphins came swimming past so I thought it was a fitting time to paddle back to the boat and get underway. The wind had dropped to about four knots which meant I had to get to a cove to camp; there wouldn’t be enough light or time to make it to the settlement. I did think long and hard about sailing back to the mainland; could I make it before dark and then pack up in the dark? I’d be exhausted. The wind was too light if anything, which would leave me at Gauge Roads 10 kms off the coast with dark coming on and huge container ships ploughing through. I couldn’t risk it.
I raised anchor. Giving the lads a wave, I sailed east. I knew of a little bay with a tiny island in its SW corner, behind which I could shelter for the night. I had to tack out to sea and it felt too late and made me uncomfortable to be out there. It took some sailing but about an hour later I managed to negotiate my way through the reef to the beach. I pulled up in a tiny gap in the reef maybe 2 meters wide. It was a perfect landing. I felt hugely proud of myself; I had staved off feelings of doubt and uncertainty which constantly plague me. I had surfed well and strongly, sailed 25 kms and made it to this tiny, beautiful bay. It was a privilege to be there under those circumstances; I was in the bay alone, under my own power and ready to make camp.
There was a cold feel to the day now. Autumn here gets cold quickly, as soon as the sun loses its intensity it gets really chilly and I had been wet the entire day; I had to get into it. I crab-clawed the rig above the high tide mark with some effort but she sat up there nicely perpendicular to the sea, the lower ama resting where I calculated the high tide mark to be, and the upper ama and tramp creating a perfect structure for my fly to create a camp.
I took my time, leveling the sand to sleep on and using the deck hatch and my board as windbreaks; it was a good camp and I should be warm and dry. I made a delicious, hot coffee and climbed a sand dune to watch the sunset. The sky was a combination of pinks, oranges, grays, and blues. It was truly a site to behold—my little craft and camp down on the sand, the mainland in the distance, and a quiet island to myself. I called my wife; it was good to talk to her. I took lots of photos and drew on the experience and reflected on the day. Then my phone battery died.
I awoke at sunrise the next morning; I had slept well and my high tide calculations had been correct, allowing the water to just lap the lower ama of my outrigger which was now 90 degrees to the shoreline. I was tucked under the high side snug and warm, regardless of the temperature dropping to below five degrees that night.
I made myself a coffee over my hobo stove. From my vantage point I had a great view to the south over the ocean. It looked cold, grey and windswept, and over the island to the east, where the new sun was glowing its way through the clouds once again, colouring the sky. The wind was stronger, by how much I was unsure. It blew more consistently and with a little more conviction to it, but as my phone battery had died the day before, I could no longer rely on it for the weather report, particularly the wind. I was on the southwest part of the island with no one around for miles, so I was unable to get the information and was going to have to rely on my memory of the reports from the day before I left. It should be okay.
I thought of my family: my three-month old baby girl and her three-year old brother, both with deep brown eyes which followed you like magnets as you walked around the room with my wife diligently by their side. They would be all tucked up in bed while I sat there; and I missed them as I thought of the crossing.
On top of the sand dune I closed my eyes and tried to feel the right decision whether to surf again or sail straight home; it was time to go home I decided, and it was done. I stood, brushed the sand from my pants and took a few photos of the surroundings then slowly descended the sand dune to start packing my outrigger.
I had built my outrigger from scratch and was proud of it. I’d bought a book from Gary Dierking in New Zealand that contained my boat plan (Ulua) and two others. All were petite but strong craft based on ancient Tahitian and Hawaiian design—places where I’d spent a great deal of time surfing. Before building the boat I’d even milled the timber to the correct sizes. The construction took about 18 months and had given me something to focus on as I navigated other complex and stressful influences battering my life at that stage. The boat was built from Japanese sugi, or cedar, which I’d swapped with a friend for cartons of Budweiser and Coors. It was a good deal. I customized the boat giving it almost an entirely enclosed deck, additional wave flares, a double outrigger and a bilge pump which ran off a small motorbike battery and could run for 10 hours. I doubled up on the fiberglass making it 12 oz instead of 6 oz and fitted additional bulkheads throughout. She was tough and good looking; beautiful clean lines and a pacific feel which took you to another place when you sailed her; somewhere older, more spiritual, from an ancient time.
I put on my wetsuit, booties, life vest and spray jacket, checked all my lashings and considered myself ready. I crab-clawed my boat down the beach and slipped her into the water, pushing off once again from the island into the hands of the sea. I headed for home.
The swell was still big and there were bombies with breaking surf situated sporadically around the island. I had to give them a wide berth and it meant dropping off to the south, and giving up some ground but it was a non-negotiable. The bombies would mow you down like a road train in a heartbeat and having surfed the island for many years I knew how unforgiving they could be. You would be completely wiped out with only seconds to jump free if you got in their way. They would sink you and scatter your boat out to sea. I headed a little farther south, away from the protection of the island.
The wind was strong; it started trying to turn the boat up into the wind, putting huge stress on the rudder. I had broken my original rudder in this same situation, prior to making my jib. I have a lateen sail and there is a lot of area in the back of the sail, designed to catch and coast in the warm breezes of the tropics, not the strong and unpredictable winds of my home. I pulled my jib sheet to unfurl her and give some balance to the rig; I shouldn’t have to be doing this now I thought, and the tension increased in my body. I pulled up into the wind, far out now but still in the lee of the island. I pulled my jiffy line, which reduces the sail area at the back of the sail. It works like reefing but can be done underway and in a boat which is highly weight-sensitive it’s a good system. I reached into my dry bag and zipped my personal EPIRB tight around my neck.
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