Tuesday November 22nd, St Helena

St Helena is one of three British outposts in this part of the South Atlantic, the others being Ascension Island, principally a military base, and Tristan De Cunha another volcanic outcrop on the mid-atlantic ridge.

Tuesday was spent scoping out the lay of the land and organising a tour. Internet facilities are primitive, £3.00 for 30 minutes at speeds and reliability I haven't experienced since since AOL brought dial-up internet to those who would come to think that Facebook was just, like, awesome. At £40.00 for just a SIM card, cell phone service is just ruinous. We paid under $3.00 in Namibia and that included minutes and data at pretty decent speeds.

For all that, the place had an easy going vibe. the local watering hole, Ann's cafe, was happy to run a tab for us to be settled when we got round to it. The laundry delivered to Ann's, and we could pay her when we collect it which is just as well because the laundry is in the nose bleed neighborhood, a stiff climb on a hot hot day with a load. The town is small scale. A stone built, walled, low rise coastal village built into a slender, steep sided valley. Narrow streets, some traffic, reminiscent of any similarly set rocky coastal village in Britain. The quarter mile waterfront catches the afternoon sun with a cafe at one end and small scale working wharf at the other. It is a pleasant place to dally in the shade of the trees. The wharf was busy unloading the supply ship, all supplies are brought in via South Africa and landed by lighter; very reminiscent of innumerable small coastal ports of decades ago. I believe the supply ship is one the last two Royal Mail ships left in the world.

Behind the waterfront, across a dry moat  (wherein lie a pile of square rigger spars) and through the town's gated walls lies the St James town square, church, the rather bravely titled castle, prison, municipal offices, courts, shops (A Visa card? What is this Visa card of which you speak?), bank (just one and not an ATM in sight), B&B's, tourist office and a rather good museum. It is easy to imagine a series of children's adventure books set here in the vein of Swallows and Amazons.

Looming above all this stage-lit bucolic niceness are the island's stark volcanic hills that rise a few hundred feet straight up out of the Atlantic; they top out inland at around 2,800ft. The population outgrew the old town years ago and mostly live up yonder, commuting by van  up the steep and very narrow switchbacks. In years past the upper neighbourhoods were reached by a funicular railway that just went straight up the mountain side. That has been replaced a staircase much loved by candidates for the Commonwealth Games, mother's who need to exhaust their rambunctious children and other restless souls. Nora and Zeke climbed it while I settled for a pot of tea at Ann's cafe set in the castle gardens.

The castle gardens, though modest, are lovely; formally laid out, filled with song birds, Hibiscus, Jacaranda and similar colourful and scented flora barely kept under control by the keeper's clippers. There were the inevitable monuments, one poignant one to one ship's men lost to pirates and at sea; not one of them over thirty, one just fifteen. A plaque commemorates Joshua Slocum's visit here in 1898. It is easy to think of the others who have walked here, Napoleon and his entourage, Edmund Halley (who's visit to observe his comet was thwarted by clouds), Charles Darwin, Dinizulu, 6,000 Boer POW's, and captain James Cook. A couple of years ago I ran across a plaque at remote cove on Vancouver island where Cook put in to replace shoddy masts installed by a British navy yard.

Thursday's tour got us up into the hills. The rocky barren coast quickly gave way to a surprising lush interior. The roads are tortuous and narrow, mostly single track. We stopped in at a craft distillery started by chap from Pembrokeshire who produces rum, gin and other spirits from local cactus. His oversized garage is stuffed with stainless steel vessels, barrels and a rather magnificent copper still. The cactus spirits, that are not tequila, pack a punch.

The obligatory stops were Napoleon's original tomb and his residence in exile. The tomb is down along a grassed road-width path and is set in a peaceful wooded dell that is immaculately kept. His hilltop residence was surprisingly modest, a dozen or so rooms, but it does contain mostly original furnishings and is packed with paintings, engravings and other memorabilia. He lived here for five years before dying in 1821 at fifty one, most likely of stomach cancer.  His remains were removed to Paris in, I believe, the 1840's.

We didn't see other notable locations, but the high country interior in general is, like Reunion, eye-poppingly scenic: large fallow flax plantations on steep hillsides, the linen and cordage industry is gone; a new airport that shows signs of being a white elephant; the governor's residence, a handsome Georgian pile with sweeping views over the lawns down the long valley to the sea. Here we found a group of very large long-lived tortoises sent here in the mid 1860's at which time they were around fifty years old, and here they still live; a country church and it's extensive graveyard filled with corporals, captains and majors and their bereaved relicts; coffee is grown here and has a good reputation, though the offerings at the St Helena coffee stand on the waterfront were disappointingly insipid. We didn't find any memorable food during our stay, and the tour's lunch stop had me pining for South Africa's Wimpy burger joints. (Wimpy is a UK burger chain that, as I recall, served up the world's most indifferent protein and carbohydrate product that may, or may not, have had any connection with the butchers and baker's arts; a byword for the lowest of British culinary endeavour. Their South African namesake, while it falls short of McDonalds lofty standards, is much better.)

Today is Friday the 25th, and today we we leave on my final major leg for the islands of Fernando de Noronha, a national park off the coast of Brazil, some 1,700 n.miles over the north western horizon. I hope to find better internet, better coffee and a place to swim that isn't life threateningly cold.

Pictures? You are funny.

Monday, November 14th, to St Helena

We cleared customs and immigration easily enough, topped up our fresh provisions, lugged on another jerry canful of fresh water, spent our last handful of Namibian dollars at tourist the tat stand and slipped the mooring at 11:05. We followed the tourist boat track the five miles out to Pelican Point to see the large seal herd, and there are a lot of of them. From a 100ft off the beach they were easy to see lolling, frolicking, fighting and, from that close, stinking.

The route out through the anchorage was filled with oil service ships and a handful of rigs all waiting for the Saudis to finish their price war of attrition so they can go back to work off Angola and turn a buck.

Twenty miles out we cleared the costal fog belt into clear sunshine. When I came up on watch at 3:00am we were 100 miles gone under a cloudy moonlit sky. Only 1,100 n.miles to go as the crow flies, somewhat more to sail since the autopilot is set to keep a fixed angle to the wind, and the wind is anything but fixed.

Tuesday brought decent winds and a consistent 10 knot boat speed.

Wednesday we managed a 200 mile day, depending on how you measure it. We travelled 200 miles in 24 hours through the water, somewhat less in a straight line point to point. Somewhat less again if you measure how much closer we are to St Helena. We could phave padded the numbers by measuring local noon to local noon and still keep a straight face. We have left the cold water of the Benguela current; life is much more comfortable in 64°F water than in 54°F. A 20 knot wind on the beam makes for decent speed and easy course keeping without futzing with sails.

Thursday, dreams of 200 mile days die as the wind fades and wanders. Looking at our track you might wonder what we'd been smoking. These light winds aren't good for much except dozing, if you can ignore the fussing spinnaker arguing with the boat about just who is the tail and who is the dog.

We are 500 miles out, and the birds have left us. When there is little else going on, the birds are a mesmerising diversion. There have usually been a handful in sight, around four to five feet wingspan, endlessly swooping deep into the wave troughs and soaring off the crests into effortless high sweeping arcs in their search for their next morsel. They are as sleek and spare as you can imagine.

Friday? Meh!

Saturday the spinnakers' halyard jammed. We hauled Zeke-of-the-iron-constitution up the mast to have a look and he found it iritrieveably jammed down the side of the sheave. He detached the spinnaker to drop it onto the deck and we had to be quick to stop the whole thing going over the side. Zeke was a bit green by the time he got down. The spinnakers make big difference to our speed, particularly in lighter winds.

The closer we got to St Helena the less wind wind we had and the slower we went. It seemed that we would never actually arrive; stuck somewhere between Zeno and Sysiphus.

We did manage to cross the prime meridian, zero degrees longitude, Zeke chucked himself over the side to celebrate and felt much better for it. Towards the end of the day the sun came out and we passed a pod (a gam?) of six or so whales, a nice end to a slow day.

Sunday, another slow day. Warm and humid to start, hot and sunny afternoon with windy rarely above  8 knots, running the engine until the drone is too much then under sail.

Monday was another fine and sunny day, light winds and five knots under the spinnaker now raised on the screecher halyard, the furled screecher itself now wrapped around the length of the deck like some captive anaconda

Tuesday at dawn St Helena finally emerged from the low grey cloud. Steep sided and unwelcoming like some lost world in a Victorian penny dreadful, its tops lost in the murk. All it needed was a few pterodactyls.

Arrival brought a clear cool sunny day, easy entry formalities, and 1990's internet. The pictures are again going to have to wait. 

Sunday November 13, Swakopmund, Goanikontas & Dune 7.

We hired a driver recommended by yesterday's manic tour guide, a local likely lad who's trying to get a tourist services business going, among other things.

We mapped out a route and set off for Swakopmund, a German town twenty miles north of here. The main road out of town took us through apartheid era developments, from the time that this was part of South Africa, out into coastal desert country, an avenue of newly planted palms that looks like I imagine a highway in Doha to look.

Swakopmund is a tidy town founded in the late 19th century by the local Germans after they were pushed out of the provisioning station the British had established in Walvis Bay. A quick walk down the pier and a drive through sufficed, though it would undoubtedly make a agreeable base for further explorations.

We headed west into the desert and escaped the coastal fog that has made for some dreary mornings. This was a truly desolate landscape crossed only by occasional powerlines, water pipelines, a sand blown rail line and dirt tracks heading off who knows where. There is industry out here; granite quarries, uranium mines and the like but the overwhelming is impression is of a wide open flat trackless desolation under a Montana sky. A side road took us into the Goanikontas, a broken lunar landscape that in a geological yesterday must have seen truly prodigious flooding and the canyon forming results they bring. Weaving through the hills and gullies brought us to an honest to goodness oasis, a few dozen flat acres of greenery and grass in amongst the scorched and broken hills. Historically a stopping point for the oxcart trains it has the look of an early colonial trading post. It was a pleasant stop for lunch, served at a glacial pace. I can recommend the Oryx steak and fries.

We retraced our steps back to the road back to Walvis Bay. We had come up the coastal side of the dunes then cut inland to return along the desert side. The dunes exist as a long ridge that runs parallel to the coast, separating the ocean from the desert plains of the interior.

The dunes are numbered, by some evidently unknowable method, and we headed to Dune 7, repuditely the biggest and baddest of the lot. Rumour had it that you can ride a board down it, and ATVs up it. You can indeed rent ATVs at the foot but Dune 7 is off limits. One can readily see that some riders would become separated from their mounts and would race A-over-T to the bottom and probably mow down the crowd to be found there. The board riding was stopped after a few too many pilots found themselves jammed under vehicles at the foot of the dune. There is no run-out, and dune ends at a hard angle to the hard desert floor. We hiked up it, following a ridge crest that rose from the base. In places the sand was pillow soft and ran away when stepped on making for stiff work; twelve inches up, six inches down. The flatter sections were hard surfaced that you could walk on without breaking the surface, particularly when done barefoot. The payoff was the view from the top along the dune line, out across the desert and of the children running tumbling and sliding down the face. GPS told me it rose just shy of 100 ft above the desert floor. It look higher.

A short run back into town, and a stop off to top up provisions, had us back into the cold damp of Walvis the Grey.

Tomorrow we head west to see if we can catch our fleet mates in St Helena, 1,200 n.miles northwest of here.

A few pictures here, I think...

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/kaw0zkysoxkpirw/AADxNj5ZOl2GJUo-TQmkaxx4a?dl=0

Saturday November 12th, sun, sand and speed in Walvis Bay

Our foggy damp sleep was brought to an abrupt end by a seal lolling about between the hulls. He was rolling around, scratching himself on the mooring ropes and hanging face down, arse in the air in the manner of Monty Python's French Taunter. He had loud sharp bark.

We took the dinghy into the dock just as the day's tour boats were leaving for the long spit of land that is one arm of the bay, to Pelican Point. There is a flock of pelicans that hang around the waterfront that are pretty indifferent to tourists sticking cameras in the faces. As the boats leave they may follow, floating grandly along behind them and landing on the  coach roof and deck right among the day trippers where they are fed by the boats' crews. These are big birds and watching them float in and land was a treat.

We had booked an afternoon tour of the dunes along the coast. The fog burned off by the warm sunshine and five of us, ourselves and a couple of young German women, found ourselves bundled into a Land Rover SUV and getting out of town in hurry, speed limits, Sunday drivers and jay walkers be damned. We skirted a significant salt pan operation;18 large evaporation basins each with an 18 month cycle time produce a continuous stream of salt. We were streaking down the beach, in generally soft sand, at an honest to god 100kmh, that would be about the same speed of our guide's patter; we were clearly in the hands of well practiced raconteur.The coast is pretty wild here. There is no sign of civilisation bar the tracks in the sand. Wild dogs, jackals, hyenas and springbok are common, as are, unexpectedly, ostriches. Seals hauled up on the beach are common, many distressed, many already fodder for the scavengers.

A few miles along, where the beach is overrun by the dunes, we turned inland, climbed the dunes and found ourselves perched on a knife edge a couple of hundred feet above the roaring surf (sorry, no other way to describe it) with a view down the coast and inland of dunes as far as the eye could see. It was just dazzling.

What followed was a high speed, at times a very high speed, romp through the dunes. I was born with a lead foot and I am not easily impressed by cowboys but this was thrilling. Straight down descents of angle-of-repose dune faces (37° that look more like 60°), full bore ascents of the same.  Runs along the rim of high bowls with drop offs into them. High speed runs up, around and down the face of the bowls. There were plenty of stops for photographs and time to just BE in the midst of it all, and it was magnificent. Eventually we were dropped off on a high crest to look around while our guides headed off to set up lunch below.  We generally travelled with one other vehicle, and there were half a dozen parties out this day. This spot was surreal. To our left a large bowl several hundred feet across and deep. Ahead of us, and off into the far distance stretched a succession of dunes. A couple of hundred feet down to our right a flat valley floor carpeted with vegetation sustained by subsurface water. Embedded into the shoreward dune face was more vegetation that took advantage of the fogs that roll in from the coast. Beetles live here that have developed ridges their shells that serve to gather and deliver dew for them. Lunch was pretty good; wraps, sodas energy bars and so on. The treat was very fresh oysters and champagne. I'm not much of fan of snot on a halfshell, but this was an opportunity far too good to miss. Chilled oysters and very decent champagne served on a sparkling fresh day in the middle of the Namibian desert is a world away from your burger, fries and a Coke.

The patter ranged across stories of the salt pans, the wild life and vegetation the changing geography of the coast that has cut off some of they routes they offer, multi week self drive overland trips to be had, (the bucket list just grew by one), tales of prospectors headed the 250 miles south along the beach on foot and ox cart to Luederitz. Luedieritz marks the northern edge of the coastal diamond deposits. Our guide has a clutch of gps waypoints where he has found the skeletal remains of those who faltered. More stories of mass graves of the miners, now off limits, and the tone deaf turning of skulls into decorations at a fishermans' lodge masquerading as a costal marinelife research station; they were caught by a highly offended government minister and the place was summarily shut down. That diamonds missed by the mechanical screening are still to be found on the beach. He never missed a beat, nor a chance to tweak your naivety.

We had supper at an over the water bar cum restaurant that owed more to Margaritaville than Namibia, a disorientation not helped at all by the local flamingo population. On the wall were a set of signed photographs of a specialised catamaran that set the world speed sailing record here in 2012.  65 knots over 500 yards, 55 knots over a nautical mile all done in a 25 knot wind. Pretty cool huh?

The pictures will have to wait until I get better WiFi, maybe when we get to St Helena.
A few to get you going here
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/q8cxz39ih4fbrfq/AABwKjlGIsA1c6itcKeg1OtKa?dl=0

Sunday November 6th, Cape Town to Namibia

Sunday dawned sunny and warm. We packed up, checked out and untied the ridiculous number of dock lines we had put in for the winds that howled off Table Mountain. We passed the still smouldering remains of the fishing vessel that went up in flames with a huge pall of smoke a couple of days ago. Outside the harbour we ran into twenty knot winds forward of the beam in choppy seas. It was downright chilly. Once around Robben Island we bore off a little to the north.  We added the reefed main to the jib and and with wind holding steady at twenty knots on the beam life is very comfortable. Nine knots may not sound like much but we are thirty miles out and buzzing along nicely on a brilliant day.

We passed inside Dasseneiland, (Dassie Island). A Dassie being a Rock Hyrax, a mammal the size of a fat house cat that looks like an overgrown hamster and whose closest living relative is the elephant. They are common here and we saw several in the rocks when we walked along the coast.

I turned in as we approached Saldhana bay. Around 2:00am I was awakened by the boat thrashing along, the winds were evidently up from their steady twenty knots. I  went back to sleep. At three I came up for my watch to find the winds in the high twenties. Zeke had taken in the mainsail when the wind had climbed into the thirties. The boat was settled back to a more comfortable nine knots. We were about 120 miles and fifteen hours out from Cape Town.

Monday turned out to be a peach. 180 n.miles noon to noon. Following winds in the low twenties, seas around six feet with occasional twelve footers,  navy blue and covered with white caps. Our speed is mostly around nine knots, sometimes fourteen down the waves and just once at nineteenth knots. That was a ride and had me watching the bows closely. I would not have wanted to see them submerge as we rode down into the wave's trough. All in all the sort of day you wish you could keep in a bottle to savour on those not so good days.

Tuesday November 8th, election day in the US. What's the worst that can happen?

Bar one, the days following continued in a similar vein. Following winds between 20 & 30 knots with lulls to 15 and gusts to 35, moderate seas with occasional big swells to get your attention as the boat runs away, and clear sunny skis. Adjusting the sails is no more than setting the spinnaker for the day and jib overnight. But, it is cold, the water temperature is a chilly 54°F ,(10°C) that even the midday African sun struggles against.

We approached the entrance to Walvis Bay in the dark on the tenth. The bay is roughly square five miles by five miles, the entrance marked by five towering parked oil rigs light brightly enough to ruin your night vision. Feeling our way into the yacht club's corner was tricky even with the GPS chart plotter. The club is now hidden behind a large new wharf three quarters of a mile long and a half mile wide that is not marked on the boat's charts and is bereft of navigation lights.  I was happy to have up to date charts on my cell phone, and I know how mickey-mouse that sounds. A little wandering around produced a mooring and we were secured for the night. The thought of having to attempt this entrance on even minimally out of date paper charts in the dark gives me the willies. We calmed our frayed nerves with a bottle wine and a shared chocolate bar. We should do that more often.

Walvis Bay is weird. A mix of beach front funk, medium sized town on the edge of the desert, large industrial port. Immigration and customs were easy, a couple of forms, some small talk, a couple of rubber stamps and Bob's your uncle. Making arrangements for everything else has been frustrating. Checking into the yacht club? Nope. Finding a mooring? Nope, we poached one, there are lots of empty moorings. Renting a vehicle? Nope. Arranging a tour into the country's amazing places, (and there are plenty)? Nope, well not quite. We are off along the beach for an afternoon tomorrow, and we stumbled across that. Phone and data services? Don't get me started. Uber? Never heard of it. ET would never have got out of here.

Link to today's paltry pic's :
*  Our now resident seal.
* The interior is the Walvis Bay Yacht Club
* The chap in the dinghy is Zeke returning from a couple of charter cats having found out whose  mooring we had poached. The boat boys knew and brushed it off with "don't even worry about it". The grey day background captures the mood of this place in the mornings.

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/uo5y70q3hjmyt2j/AAAQoAHGOgy1jUPbUCLJLVQNa?dl=0

Link to all photos:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/777m1sl5uebzqey/AABaKPwzXV0e_WlXZC0LDhDja?dl=0

Wednesday November 9th, Apocalypse Now

Arrived Namibia.
Offered political asylum.
We accepted.
L8R.

Friday November 4th. Wrapping up in Cape Town

The low pressure weather system has cleared Cape Town restoring the resident high that we ride around the edge of to St Helena. Pick your isobar and follow it all the way. We depart on Sunday morning, that being the best day to escape the clutches of officialdom, we are told. (Some joke that turned out to be)

There is a debate about visiting the Namibian desert. We have heard alluring tales. It could give me a chance to snowboard down the dunes, which I'd have to do to, um, boost my cred with Will & Dan.

Our last days in Cape Town included a day trip out to the vineyards of Stellenbosch and Franschhoek where vineyards have been planted since the 17th century. The wines are impressive. The highlight for me was lunch at the Rust En Vrede vineyard, a memory that will not soon fade nor will the memory of the setting among the gardens and vineyards at the foot of the mountains on a warm, sunny and breezy day. The small town of Franschhoek is a very attractive destination all on its own.

A boat showed up here the other day that our fleet had met somewhere in the Pacific, an occasion for hugs, how-are-yous and general bonhomie. The owners are a remarkable couple. Now in her fifties, she has been sailing and travelling since her mid twenties, a woman possessed. He is a retired Italian who has been at sea for the last twenty years. Listening to their stories dispelled any remaining notions I had about leading a full life and being in pretty good shape for my age. Over the course of an hour I heard about losing their prior boat on a reef in Brazil (it sank in under two minutes),  walking from Mexico to Canada, twice; cycling a circuit of the lower 48 states taking in Miami, Los Angeles, Oregon, Boston and Washington DC; on a prior trip here they cycled from Hout's Bay up to the Table Mountain cable car, hiked the mountain up and down and cycled back to the boat. They dismissed hiking hut to hut in the European Alps as being for hopeless softies. I asked if they had hiked in the Himalayas, the Annapurna Circuit for example - been there done that. I should have known better than to ask. They sailed 5,000 miles from New Zealand to southern Chile along the 43rd parallel, in and around the Straits of Magellan, westward around Cape Horn and up Chile's coast. When I  saw her yesterday, she was just back from a run from the yacht club up Table Mountain and back and I do mean all on foot. They leave with us tomorrow going non-stop to Grenada, around 7,000 statute miles. He is going on from there to the US for treatment for prostate cancer that has spread to his bones, which sounds pretty grim to me.

We have been busy with departure chores. The starboard engine now starts reliably, though it smokes like a demon until the third cylinder deigns to join in. The diesel dude has been here everyday for a week. The main halyard sheave, three reef lines sheaves and a lower shroud tang have been replaced. We repaired a couple line clutches. Scrubbed the crud off the hull from the dinghy, dinghies don't stay in place when you push on something. We found a marine cordage outlet store that is ridiculously cheap, 180 feet of spinnaker sheets for $30 (£24). Provisioning was made easier by the supermarket which delivered our swag, and us, to the boat at no charge. Farewell dinners and drinks left me with a bit of a thick head this morning. Acquiring pounds sterling for St Helena, rumour is they don't take credit cards and ATM's are thin on the ground. The St Helena pound is pegged to Sterling. Why they bother with a separate currency escapes me. You can't exchange Namibian Dollars outside the country, neither to nor from. The currency is pegged to the Rand, and evidently some of their ATM's dispense Rand! A crap currency must be part of the prewar German charm of the place. Laundry, there is always laundry, and tokens for the machines are scarce. Evidently there is a thriving arbitrage operation with the laundrettes in the city; the club's tokens sell for twice the price out there.

It is now Saturday night and we are settled on going to Namibia. We leave as soon as the formalities are complete. At around 700 nautical miles, we should get there within a week.

Cape Town has been great and I'll be sorry to leave, though I am itching to get underway again.

Pictures to follow.

Link to today's pic's : https://www.dropbox.com/sh/yr0w5po6d4w3zhd/AADnGTgsblesRIr1Gs4kHQtga?dl=0
Some pictures are not referred to in the text
* time lapse of the yard here lifting a sixteen ton cat on a recycled railway crane.
* A local 's homage to Daisy Duke
* An in joke for The Boroughs. They declined to change the name to " ... In the seas”
* The loco for the wine country excursion parked by the yacht club. Wine Train outbound. Crazy Train inbound.
* The cat. There is a propeller under all the weeds.
* A gorgeous home design boat. All aluminium. The owner was fitting it out here.
* Sunset over Lion's Head
* Wine at the Ernie Els vineyard
* Wine & lunch at Rust En Vrede vineyard
* Vineyard planted with roses to attract the bees
* Hugenot monument in Franschhoek
* The ex-pat Scots social club
* A didgeredoo busker at the V&A waterfront. The electronics made a big difference to his sound.

Link to all photos:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/777m1sl5uebzqey/AABaKPwzXV0e_WlXZC0LDhDja?dl=0