Ardea in New Zealand.

It's pretty incredible how a few good nights of sleep and the comfort of a safe anchorage filled with good people can affect the mind and body. I had started to realize toward the end of that passage that I was well-behind on sleep and not eating super well. The last few days were tough- becalmed without fuel so close to landfall was a new sort of mental challenge for me; then, there was a little over a day of good, fine sailing and it looked to be all well. As night fell on Friday, I was only about 25 miles from the dock in Opua. The winds were east-southeast and I was sailing a perfect course for entry to the Bay of Islands at between four and five knots.

I got up and checked the horizon. No ships, land only just visible through the low clouds. I glanced at the compass. It wobbled between 200 and 210; fine. I settled back into the settee berth, got underneath a blanket and unpaused the episode of Sopranos I had been watching on the computer. Twenty minutes later, my watched beeped again and I repeated the process. On that check, though, the compass read 260. My mind raced in some minor form of panic as I hopped up on deck to look around; that's the danger of the windvane, that it just steers a shift. If there's a nice gradual shift and little swell, the sails will never luff, the motion won't perceptibly change, and you'll carry on. Far away from land, the breeze is more consistent and the penalty for a temporary off-course excursion is only in the time it takes you to get back on track; near shore, things get squirrely and I had been on edge for that reason for a couple of days. There was barely any light left, but I could see well enough to know the course change hadn't put me in danger. The breeze was still blowing perfectly consistently at ten or twelve knots, except that, there was no mistaking it, it had shifted to the southwest, just the direction I needed to go. When I accepted the reality, a wave of exhaustion swept over me. I had no options, though. Harden up the sheets and start at it. Only enough fuel to go fifteen miles maybe.

Slowly beating back and forth at the entrance of the Bay of Islands sucked. I felt very tired but I could not sleep because a wind shift or accidental over-sleeping could see me on the rocks right quick; I lay in my berth between checks, a twenty-minute window to rest but rest somehow unavailable to my mind, just weariness. I felt weary for my boat, now once again beating into the chop, stressed as she had been for nearly ten thousand miles now. I was tired so I became hyper-vigilant and it cost me because I became incapable of rest; it's a vicious cycle and it can send short-handed boats into disarray. I drank caffeine and a lot of water. I had made a loaf of banana bread and I ate about half of it throughout the night. I lamented, which I am ashamed to admit, but in a way I was out of sorts, but I was going to be in to the dock around midnight, a smooth shot, comfortable sailing into the Bay. Instead, I fought back and forth all night long, current pushing me out, back and forth around rocks and shipping lanes; it was cold, too, for my current tolerances at least. I sailed probably thirty miles to make ten in the direction I needed to go. It's a shame to have been mad about it and wicked to think that had I had the fuel, I would have motored straight away for four hours and been done with it. The wiser sailor would have pulled in the sheets and gone after it with indifference. I made the same amount of progress as that sailor, but with fatigue added by my resentment of the shift. At first light, I put on my foul weather gear for the first time since the California coast and fired up the engine. I was fourteen miles to the dock; it would be ironic, as I would voluntarily head out on the same piece of water for a day sail in a few days, but on that day I had the mindset to end a passage quickly and take a load off.

Landfall never loses is flourish.

The view as I motored over flat water was breathtaking. Bay of Islands is gorgeous and in that morning light was nothing less than spectacular, even if pierced by the clashing diesel. There were dozens of fishing boats spread far and wide. As I approached the western end, the more protected part of the bay, I was taken aback with the number of boats. There were ferries and sailboats and motorboats of all sizes. There were groups of dinghies, boats at anchor all over the place and loads of marinas. It was quite spectacular. It was also a very strange feeling to go from nothing around one day to weaving through dredged channels, traffic everywhere the next.

Bay of Islands

Passage portrait.

Two miles from the dock, I opened up the fuel tank and peered in with a flashlight. It was looking pretty low. In fact, I was close to running on fumes. I may well have made it just fine, and at my normal one-gallon-per-hour assumption, I should have been in with room to spare. Nonetheless, I saw a boat, Lay Lady Lay, motoring on a converging path. I hadn't seen them since Bora Bora so we shouted pleasantries and congratulations and, eventually, Johanne passed me a cold beer and a jerry jug with some diesel to give me some breathing room. It was a poignant moment when I finished pouring fuel in the tank. I stood in the cockpit gazing out at the little towns perched on green hillsides, the rocky coastline, muddy, green water, and I opened that ice-cold, early-morning beer. I felt pangs of relaxation fall over me and it felt good.

I filed in to the quarantine dock flying my oil-stained and holed-up sham-wow for a Q flag. There were loads of other boats on the Q dock, at anchor, in the marinas. It was bizarre to recognize so many people and so many boats. That effect, of arriving at a totally new place but knowing tons of people around is a strange and awesome one from cruising. I dropped my harness and foulies into the cockpit and, with little fanfare, set about tidying up my little boat as I waited for the officials. Once I cleared customs, I got some dock-space for a few days at the marina. Shortly after that, I met up with Matt and the Kleemans and we set about the important process of drinking and talking about a passage.

Anchored off Paihia.

There never really was a moment when I suddenly felt it was over, aside from feeling I could finally relax, that I was safe. In fact, sitting now at anchor, doing some boat projects and calling friends via vhf, it doesn't feel over to me at all. There's no doubt, though, that there is an immense feeling of relief and a major decompression that has come with arriving here. In many ways, I dearly miss the tropics already. Not all is positive when it comes to people and towns and what not; still, it feels like a very welcome change for the time being. I've met up with many old friends and met new ones in only the few days that I've been here. We made sure to waste little time in enjoying a few good parties and helping ourselves to the finest cheese and meat-products at the grocery stores. Two nights ago, we found ourselves at the pub with one of the customs officers in a night out that would be referenced in conversation the following day by a number of folks who weren't even there. Last night, we discovered the very inexpensive green mussels that can be bought and so we had a feast. So there is much general excitement regarding the advent of proper civilization. Happily, we all know that we can take our boats with little effort to an anchorage removed if we so please. It's a good balance and I can at least appreciate the weather for its effect on my sleeping.

Thinking back on the crossing after a few good nights of sleep and plenty of good meals, I am happy. The wind was too light and that was painful, but it was better than too heavy. That piece of water can get really nasty; it has claimed a lot of boats- already two boats this year, so it was a particularly strange feeling when I picked up that life-sling at sea. When I sat down and picked a weather window, I was figuring to avoid the types of situations that get folks into trouble and in that regard succeeded. I can't complain. Towards the end, though, I was getting pretty sleep-deprived and the psychological wear of lying adrift was taking its toll. Even though I still managed to stay out at the bars until 0200 the evening of my arrival, my brain was barely working. Hopefully the wisdom of experience will help me direct the psychological aspect of single-handing better next time. I never felt I wasn't safe or that I wasn't able to navigate and operate the vessel. I just could have been more zen about it.

Double rainbow on passage.

As for now, well, there's a lot of cruising to do. Few projects. Some shell-fish gathering; we hear there are scallops you can get diving the channels so we know we'll have to brave the water sometime. Some surfing on the coast. Anyway, I'm not really sure, but the days are long and the weather is fine, so what we've got is a new cruising grounds and a little bit of a different way of life. Otherwise and happily, it's pretty much all the same.

Passage sunset.

Becalmed. Just me and this huge fender.

Pummice. Tons of pummice.

Eggs on life-sling line.

Resulting larvae.