Turning West

Where's the wind?

I started keeping track of my spendings in Port Douglas by jotting down everything I buy into a big old notebook on board. I think. A month later, sitting at anchor on the half-way mark to Darwin, I can't find the two entries in any of my eight notebooks. Thursday island cost me about $300 in food, beers, takeaway meals and some other things I can't remember anymore. Port Douglas about the same and Cooktown a little less. Darwin scares me. We intend to spend up to two weeks there and complete a lot of little jobs that never got done in Cairns. It's going to cost me. I should hire a personal adviser to stop me spending money...but I can't afford it.

August is the windiest month in northern Australia with 1% chance of calms according to the pilot charts. We got about three decades worth of them.

We spend five days at Thursday Island. It is the first port where I feel a sense of achievement, turning the corner, away from the east coast. We climb the highest peaks. We do our laundry and buy a few fresh vegetables. I buy one cask of wine and a carton of beer for the trip to Darwin.

The leg from T.I. to Darwin is longer than we thought. After the first day out of T.I. in fresh easterly breeze, the wind dies to about 10kn but the swell remains. Aliisa starts to roll from side to side and the sails start flogging. I find myself a slave of the magic line on the GPS. Instead of giving up and let go 20-30 degrees off course for a comfortable angle, I persist in battling dead downwind with a roll. Autopilot struggles and so do we. I feel incompetent and flashes of doubt enter my mind. "If I'm already struggling to get this boat from a to b, how am I ever going to make it to Finland? And back!"

There is only so much flogging of the sails that I can take. It is our third afternoon since departing Thursday Island. The shores of Australia are 200 miles behind us and 200 miles in front of us. On our left opens the Gulf of Carpenteria, the swampy shores there over 300 miles away. On the right of us, but much closer, is Irian Jaya or West Papua. No land in sight though, only a sloppy, blue ocean swell and the occasional flying fish leaping out. For the second time I've taken down the mainsail to save the canvas from further punishment. I could do 3 knots to the southwest, with the breeze on the beam, but I don't want to go southwest. So we do 2 knots to west instead.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday... They're all here in Torres Straits. Milky green water, strong tidal flows and strong winds...usually. A view from Cannon Hill, Thursday Island.

Life's basic functions; sleeping, eating and having sex, become very difficult. I find myself frustrated. There is no comfortable way to be alive. There is nothing worse than a downwind run with little wind and a swell on the quarter. Two days later with an average speed of 3,1 kn and thousands of rolls, we arrive to Wessel Islands, on the western corner of the Gulf of Carpenteria. It's taken us five days to cross the Gulf, Darwin is still 420 miles away.

The anchorage, as we drive in for a rest, turns windy. Where was the wind when we needed it? Now it's blowing 25 to 30 knots and sharp little whitecaps fill the shallow bay. The bottom seems rocky, though I can't see through the milky green water. I'm dead tired and close in, looking for a shallow patch. We arrive at a depth of 5m and Paula drops the pick. The anchor holds but Aliisa is not resting calmly. The motion is sharp and despite being tired, I stay up for a while. I crack one of my last cans of Carlton Midstrength and listen to the symphony of clanging halyards, whistling rigging, waves smacking the hull, grumbling anchor chain and the hauling wind. Occasionally Aliisa makes a little jolt and the chain a little bang. It feels like being on the rocks. We're not dragging, though the chain is stretched out to the maximum at all times. There may be better anchorages around the corner but I have no energy to go exploring today.

Wessel islands, windy at last but we're fast asleep.

Aliisa stays put all night while we catch up on sleep. I sleep 14 hours. Next day I scratch my head with Dundas and Clarence straits, 300 miles ahead. It looks like we'll be arriving there at spring tides in the midst of 3-5 kn currents flushing the 70-mile stretch of green water. Again I wonder about my choice of career as a sailor of a 20-year-old 32-footer. I'm nervous and worried - not so much scared but - uneasy about everything. I'm soft. For all my life I've lived an easy existance. Nice food, calm anchorage up the creek and sailing only when the weather is perfect.

But I have to serve my apprenticeship. I have no doubt in my skills to deal with things. As long as the boat stays together, I can keep her safe. I just would like to have fun while doing it and right now I find it hard to find the fun. It worries me because the weather is not severe, we're anchored up, the sun is shining and there's still two beers in the fridge. One day it will be belting down rain, hauling wind, cold, no anchorage, no fridge and no sleep. I guess in those days there will also be no time to sit down and ponder on the mysteries of my mind.

After a second night we continue by motoring out at sunrise. The breeze arrives and I kill the engine. This time the feeling is perfect; no more swell and a good breeze. I stay up until 2am, dreaming behind the wheel. My fantasies take me to Finland. I'm sailing into Helsinki Harbour. The Senate Square Cathedral rises above the skyline in the distance. A huge Finnish flag flies from the starboard shroud and a similar size Australian flag from the port shroud.

There's a stiff breeze and we're heeled over with full sails. I spot Jyrki and Jussi, my best friends, on another yacht. They sail alongside and throw a bottle of champagne to us. I call Helsinki Harbour and the harbour master gives me permission to tie up in the heart of the City, next to the huge vegetable and fish markets in front of the presidential palace. We pass Silja Line, the biggest ferry in the world; 12 stories high carrying 2000 passengers and miles of trains, trucks and cars between Stockholm and Helsinki. The wind is cold but the August sun is still warm enough to allow me to wear shorts and T-shirt.

The local government sends a powerful message to the world but John Howard doesn't get it. Thursday Island public swimming pool.

We sail as close as we can and I can see a small crowd gathering in Koleera Allas, a dirty little rock pool in the heart of the harbour. I feel emotional and pour myself another champagne. Finally we motor in and tie up. Ragnar, my father and Silja and Minna, my two sisters are standing there. Pertti Duncker, my dear friend and the most famous sailor in Finland is there too and I feel proud and honored. Pertti has dragged the editor of a sailing magazine to get a quick interview for a story.

Channel 10 news is there to make a 10 second story to lighten up their news broadcast tonight. (I often dream about fame in one way or another...) As we tie up, I'm trying to hold myself together. I ignore the crowd for a moment and go down the companionway to turn the engine off. As I emerge back into the cockpit, it finally hits me. A dream of sailing a yacht carrying my mother's name to Finland started 10 years ago. Now I'm here. I break down in tears and for a moment I stand in the cockpit, looking down, sobbing.

Paula gives me an awkward hug, hushing me to step ashore and hug my family. I pull myself together and step up on the cobblestone harbour. People passing in cars are looking at me wondering what's going on. My sisters grab me in a group hug. Some of the people greeting me are starting the realise the enormous emotions flooding through me and the magnitude of the moment in my life. My father's lip is quivering and his eyes turn red. I'm dizzy with joy and champagne. Finally the emotional storm abates and I manage to bring myself to ground. Aatu, Ali, Otto, Onni and Emma - my nephews and niece climb on board and start asking questions about the boat. Silja, my older sister walks in and cries: "You've been living on this?!!" Then she notices that it's not that bad after all, there's the stove and there's a fridge and a sink with a water tap. But how does it work.........

I look at my watch. It's 02:30am and I've been dreaming of my arrival to Finland for three hours, with the most delicate details of every moment. My cheeks are wet from tears and I feel awkward to find myself back in the north coast of Australia. I wake up Paula and go to sleep for a few hours.

When I wake up, the wind has died. During the following days I spend most of my time watching a breath of air filling the two sails spread out in the front. Each puff of wind is a promise of progress and moment of joy. Aliisa moves a few meters forward but as soon as she's in motion, the sails escape the wind and fall back down like a curtain, ending the short play. We keep trying, reaching speeds of two knots occasionally. Darwin is too far and I refuse to touch the ignition key. We manage 30-50 miles a day for the next three days.

On the fourth day we drift along in a 5kn breath of air behind us, 50 miles from Cape Don. I succumb to the desire to get the boat moving and turn the key. I hate motoring because the engine is noisy and makes everything vibrate. Aliisa is now in motion though, drawing dark blue lines through the sheets of grey algae floating on the surface. The autopilot - as usual - does the steering. Paula and I sit around reading books. After a few hours I go and look at the chart. We are 40 miles from Cape Don which marks an entry to Clarence Straits, a 70 mile stretch of water where tidal flows flush back and forth every six hours, reaching 6 knots at times. We could make it to Cape Don by midnight, which is exactly when the next southbound tidal flow would start pushing us down towards Clarence straits. The next favourable tide is 12 hours later. We motor until midnight.

Tipperary waters marina is like all marinas in Darwin, behind locks. We're driving right into the suburb where people can observe us from their balconies.

We miss the "Clarence Strait Express", the 6kn tidal flow that was going to wash us out towards Darwin. Three other yachts in front of us have disappeared with the tide, but we are forced to anchor up before the tide turns, to wait for the next westbound flow. I call our anchorage "Toilet Bowl Bay" and re-name Cape Hotham as "Cape Turd". I feel like a lone turd, left behind in the toilet bowl, waiting for the next flush.

At 00:30 that night I get out of bed, pull up the anchor and turn the key, again. There is no wind, but the "toilet bowl is flushing". We reach 9,3kn on the gap and at 0950am we drop anchor in Francis Bay, Darwin. Supermarket. Pub. McDonald's. Cold beer. The last port to turn on the TV and the mobile phone. My charts end here. I've got two weeks to get my shit together and go cruising. Cruising the Indian Ocean.

Departing for Christmas Island