My world from below

Noumea

I’ve been here a week and already feel right at home. This place is a paradise for sailors! So many brilliant places to sail to, always blowing and water so clear it’s almost obscene. My French is coming back to me nicely. Yep, I could live here.
Less attractive though is the cost of living here. It’s crazy, it makes Sydney seem almost reasonable. Luckily though my boat is very small and I have no room for anything new, so I hope I’ll live quite cheaply even here. Certainly with the cost of diesel I’ll be honing my skills sailing at close quarters. As I leave I’ll be able to fill up duty free, so my Australian stocks will hopefully last until then. Things are more under control in Vanuatu, I understand.

Friday was a holiday here. For the long weekend I followed my friends Olivier et Geraldine on their boat Oviri to a great little anchorage about ten miles west of Noumea. What fun it was! It seems that nearly everyone here owns a boat and that they actually use them. None of this Sydney madness of owning a boat and leaving it to rot; they’re all genuinely loved and well used here. And lived aboard. A boat really comes alive when it’s used as a home. We spent the weekend eating, drinking and sleeping, achieving little else besides. I put my kayak together, and am looking forward to covering a few miles in it. It’s such a playground here. Sailing back yesterday I wiped out just as impressively as ever I have, flying the Scarlet Woman (my big red assy). Kal is such a toy. I’m not sure I’ll ever really want a bigger boat than this.

Monday now, and I’m back in town stocking up to head south to the Ile des Pins for a couple of weeks. I’ve had the Navik welded back together, and am keen to give it a workout to test its strength. A friend here has a spare he’ll sell me if mine fails again, but fingers crossed all will be well. I’ve also had the toe-rail up since I’ve been here, trying to source a leak that’s letting water in up forward when I’m sailing. Anyone who’s sailed far with me will attest to quite how annoying this leak is. I’ve been trying to seal it up for years now in vain, but hope I’m on top of it this time. Thank goodness for Sikaflex (Incidentally, re. the above, a tube here of the stuff comes to about 35 bucks).

So all’s well!

Nouvelle Caledonie

And here I am in one piece. I arrived a week ago on Monday morning, thirteen days out from Sydney.

The passage across delivered the usual doses of too much, not enough, headwinds, big seas and fabulous still nights on a mirror calm sea. Truly it was marvelous. I left Sydney on the afternoon of 29 July after clearing out that morning from the fish markets in the city. It was a fairly lively day, with weather and squalls from the south; I was forced to abandon my suit and bowler hat for my oilskins even before I left the harbour. The wind kept building during the evening and before it was through I was down to three reefs, a scrap of headsail and a nasty gash to my ear, and wondering quite what the hell it was I ever saw in the idea. But on I pushed, heading ENE. By morning Australia was gone from view and with it the remnants of indecision a bout whether or not I was where I should be.

A few days later found me close to Lord Howe Island. I’d thought to sail close enough to pick up a weather forecast and a phone signal to send an all’s well to people back home. Silly move. The wind had been NW to perhaps 20 knots and all was well, however as the day wore on I began to get a bad feeling about what was to come. The barometer had been dropping, though not alarmingly, but there was just this feeling in the air. I sorted myself out for some heavy weather, setting the storm jib, fitting the storm boards over the windows and lashing more securely anything that required it. I cooked a big meal to last a few days, and wondered if anything would happen. Towards dark I abandoned my plan to get close to the land and decided to head south of Ball’s Pyramid, where I’d have more sea room. It was as I was passing Ball’s that the wind arrived. From the SE, it blew from the very first moment harder than anything I’ve found myself in before. That damned rock was now in my lee, out of sight in the dark and the rain but far too close for comfort. I had placed it as a waypoint on my little GPS, but had not been precise with my measurements, never anticipating I’d end up so close. What a dangerous oversight! I was forced to beat up into the wind, into perhaps 50 knots, to be sure I would clear the land. Should anything have broken then, I’d really have been in trouble. As it was, I got away safely and all was well. Learned a big lesson though. Once I had room below me I hove to, stopping the boat to let it drift with the weather, and went below to congratulate myself on still being alive.

I remained hove to until the next morning, the wind being too strong to sail safely. By morning the wind had eased slightly, but the seas were enormous, again larger than I’d seen. A house of a couple of stories would happily have sat in the troughs between waves; I guessed them to be about 9 metres. I set the Navik (windvane steering) to work still under storm jib and darted off, surfing now and then to 15 knots down the waves. The gallant Mr Navik did his best for the time he could, but had twisted and cracked after just an hour of this. It was up to Major Tom (the electric auto pilot) then to pick up the slack (heaven forbid I should hand-steer!). He earned his stripes that day.

Two days later and the depression blew itself out. Some lighter winds from the south and west followed for a time before, once I’d arrived close to Norfolk Island, fizzling out all together. Three days I sat, progressing less than 100 miles in all that time. Following this were a couple of days of northerly winds which I had to beat straight into before finally the SE trade wind arrived the day before I reached Noumea. I hove to outside the reef over night and was tied safely alongside by mid day.

Now I’m here, I am happy to confess that I was pretty nervous about heading off on my own. I guess I’ve always assumed I had the skills necessary, but to test them out is another matter and one which I’d been putting off for some time. Now here I am, wondering why on earth I’ve waited so long. I’d be foolish to suggest that based on one passage I’m able to cope with all that may come, but its been a huge boost in my confidence to realize that, actually, it’s not that hard to do. My dear little boat behaved admirably in all conditions, most especially in the rough weather I received near Lord Howe.

To Melanesia!

Well I'm off. It's been quite the uphill battle with one thing and another, but why do things simply if there's a harder way to go, I always say.

Kal is looking stunning with a clean bum, lovely new sails and covers and a grin on her face a mile wide at the thought of again being at sea, and for my part I'm feeling pretty damned well ready to go. Sadly, Tus and I have broken up, so I sail alone. However this has always been my dream, and so to go alone makes sense.

Weather looks good for tomorrow, so I'll leave at once, clearing customs at 1000. I have food and water enough to last a lifetime it seems, and true to how things really should be, have no meat and no booze along for the ride. No prizes for guessing what I'll be up to the moment I reach Noumea...

This is my first offshore passage single handed, so can only hazard a guess as to how long I'll take, but somewhere between the next 10 and 20 days should be a reasonable shot at the spitoon.

I'll be sure to send word as soon as I can on my arrival.

Charts

I copied a neighbours charts of New Caledonia the other day and, in my incapacitated state (see below) I've found my calling in sitting and colouring the things in. Theory: by paying such attention to the things while colouring, I'll build my familiarity with the areas and therefore hit fewer reefs. Practice: I'm considering a career change, seeking my fortune from those colouring competitions at supermarkets and pre-schools the world over. They'll accept a 28 year old right? I Do have a sore finger..

A break

And another delay... I hate delays!

So, cycling on my way to buy more of those little rubber gloves so I could put the last coat of paint in the forepeak (I'm a messy painter), I hit a pot-hole and went arse over tit. A broken thumb, fractured rib and a whole lot less skin was the happy result. I'll be hanging around Sydney now for the next month having pins put in, then taken out of my thumb. If I'm not ready to leave then, I vow here that I'll sell Old K and buy myself a farm.

Sacrilege

Old K's had a name change! But before I'm damned forever to Hell, let me justify:

1. "Kalitsah" is too long and confusing. Always misunderstood over vhf. Always confused with Calypso.

2. It's yet another of those oh so spiritual, oh so unique boat names that everyone seems these days to require. "What does it mean? Why, it's the ancient Pheonetian name for the Big Dipper; you know that constellation that points to the North Star?" Balls! Why a boat should dare to have so grandiose a namesake in the first place is beyond me.

3. I've only shortened it anyway, and that doesn't incur the usual name-changing bad luck (right?).

So there it is. Out with the old, in with the new; Kal, welcome to my life.

Back on track

Well I'm running out of reasons to prolongue my departure from Oz, so I'm going to just go ahead and say it, that I'm just about ready to leave. Old Kalitsah's undergone some quite transformative changes and I'm now enjoying greatly the feeling of living on a boat ready for sea, rather than the basket case she seemed so recently to be.

On the list for the coming weeks are some rigging work to beef up the forestay attachment and to add an inner forestay to accommodate a working jib, a final slip and no doubt a million other small things that will come up between now and then.

Ticked off the list recently: adding ribs forward to address some flexing issues when pounding into waves, replacing all my delapidated old sails and adding a cool big red assy, giving Isuzu some much needed loving, and many other odds and sods that I have already repressed into my super ego never to be revisited.

Come June, I'll leave Sydney for Noumea, via Lord Howe if I can wrangle it with the good people in immigration. I plan to stay in New Caledonia and the Loyalties for a little while given they sound so brilliant, then off to Port Vila and hopefully out to dig for Lapita artefacts in Pentecost.

Along for the ride to Noumea will be my good brother Stephen, then fingers crossed my girl will meet me later on. I'm glad to be getting out of Sydney. Man this place is expensive. People keep telling me how much sailing costs. It's all crap; sailing costs nothing, it's being on land that's expensive. And my, how this city excells!

I'm still in Black Wattle, down near the fish markets, for all who care to drop by before I leave.

D

Apologies for the last year and a half's silence.

Kalitsah and I are both alive and well, and reconciled are our differences from all that time ago. I learned a valuable lesson in realising that, the very instant that one starts losing one's sanity while refitting, it is time to get the hell away and do something non-boaty for a while. This I did in the nick of time, and conscequently all is well.

Kalitsah is back in Sydney, not more than 100 metres from where she set off over a year ago. I'm not there; I'm in far north Queensland and a hellishly long way away from the sea, earning cash for the inevitable bills that will be waiting for me when I return.

But not all is black. Fingers crossed, this will be the last proper work I'll be doing this year, before gettin gon to the much more important task of getting my dear little boat out of Oz and off into the Pacific. I plan to head for New Caledonia in June, thrn Vanuatu, the Solomons and wherever else I can get to before the end of the season. More fun than digging holes for a mining company I can safely say, but there's still much to be done. On the whole, Old K's in pretty good form, though it's true what they say that a boat's never finished until she sinks. In K's case this translates to a remarkable list from here right to there. But a month in Sydney with nothing better to do should sort this out and more besides. All who care to visit, I'll be in Blackwattle Bay near the fish markets for all of May, this being the handiest anchorage to my girlfriend Tusanee's place. She, incidentally, is planning to fly to Vila to meet me and sail from there. She thinks it's just to cruise the islands then back home, but don't tell; I think a few more years and miles may be in order.

Anyway I promise more posts now that I have my finger out. I look forward to catching up with many of you soon.

D

Why is nothing simple, part II

Right. I have my new alternator, 72a and almost the same dimensions as the last. $270. Does it fit? Pretty close, actually. All I'll need to do is cut away a small piece of the old bracket, cut out some bulkhead in the engine bay, find a bigger fan belt and rewire the thing. A pretty good result, given we've asserted already that nothing is simple on a boat.

On a different subject, and relating to my last post, I have the hump with this life for the moment, so my trip to Queensland will be sans boat. Old Kalitsah and I will both profit from some time apart, I imagine.

Meanwhile things go on as they do. I have my batteries back after their rather pricey sojourn to the clinique, and they're just as temperemental as ever. They'll run a radio ok, but my auto pilot, itself a fair investment, remains useless without the power to run it. A beautiful paperweight it does though make. I hope, when the alternator gets going, the battewries will be shocked into behaving. 72a should do it, if anything will.

A moment of weakness.

I’ve dreamed all my life of nothing other than this life, but I’m lonely, and my drive is waning. Sincere happiness is something which has eluded me for some time now, and I am scared that I am losing elements of my character out here that I can’t really afford to lose. If I were to go to sea now, I don’t know that I would come back.

I am defeated.

More photos.

Same places as before, mid work. Taking shape.

Another day where the list got longer and the time left shorter. Will I ever leave?

Why is nothing simple?

Old Kalitsah: It’s raining, my hatches are open. David, where are you?
David Fisher: Sick of you and your alternator, running around on a goose chase trying to understand things I’ll never have a proper grasp of. Why is nothing simple?
OK: I’m a boat; get used to it. Close my hatches.
DF: Yes ma'am.

Some pictures

Berore I pulled her all to bits

Some pictures





Berore I pulled her all to bits:

Dorade vent.

This one is specifically for other Albergers. In hunting for one of my damned deck leaks, I came upon a building defect in the dorade vent above the heads. The particular leak was coming through onto the port bulkhead between the saloon and the heads at the inboard deck end, a place water simply should not have been getting to. Dejected, I had drawn the conclusion that the balsa core in the deck was saturated, and that this was where the water had found its escape. A tip of sheer genius by Peter from medusa had me out on deck in the rain, dabbing food colouring in the likely places, trying to track the path of the leak. It was of great surprise to have discovered the dorade to be the culprit, but guilty it was.

The dorade box on the Alberg is an integral part of the boat’s deck moulding, which means that from deck there is no access to the area except for the hole where the vent is fitted. It also means that when it was built, the box had to be sealed from the underside while the deck was being built.

I cut the top of the dorade box away to gain sufficient access. Inside, a fibreglass plate had been glued in place, but due to its poor design and construction, the join between the plate and deck moulding was not sealed. Water had entered here, travelled through the deck, and out onto the aforementioned bulkhead.

I had taken this as confirmation of the balsa core being wet but, happily, found that the water had been traveling by a different path. Kalitsah (440) has a moulded liner on the underside of the deck and cabin-top distinct from the underside of the deck moulding itself. The deck, with its balsa core, would have been laid up as normal with glass laminated on either side of the core. The internal liner would have been bonded in later, creating a vboid in the areas where they did not marry fully. This gives the impression others may be familiar with of areas inside the cabin-top seemingly delaminating. This is not the case, rather, it is tha void between these two mouldings. That this void exists is of no detriment to the structure of the deck. It is none the less annowing, as it allows water getting in at one spot to get back out in quite another.

The dorade leak was easy to fix by grinding, filling and glassing the join. It is something I suggest to other Albergers is worth inspecting. It is worth noting that the forward winch mounts in the cockpit are built by the same method.

Root cellar

“What boat could be complete without a root cellar”, exclaimed my friends Ian and Garry on Peter Pan, as they guided me through her exquisite interior. What indeed? Old Kalitsah had to have one.

Good storage for vegetables and fruit is fundamentally important to the liveaboard sailor. They must be stored in such a way that they may last unspoiled for as long as possible. By far the best solution is to have them hanging where air can circulate and where they don’t get bumped about with the motion of the boat. Easy to do, though in a small boat where an uncluttered cabin is desired, the options are somewhat lessened.

My solution has been to hang my fruit and vegetables in their hammocks as before, but now in their own cupboard out of sight and, advantageously, in the dark. The cupboard is low in the boat, for how otherwise could I hope to call it a cellar. This moderates the temperature, as it is influenced by that of the water, and lessens the motion of the boat in a sea. It is vented into the cabin, though I plan to increase the airflow through the cellar with a fan.

It is a neat solution, making good use of a space which had proved awkward for other stores, and keeping my desired sense of simplicity down below.

Here it is in its half finished state. Finished photos to follow when I can find my camera cord...

Navigation desk

I blame my long absence from this log on my having had no reasonable desk at which to sit and write. This I have alleviated by building into old Kalitsah the biggest nav table I’ve ever come across on a yacht her size. Going are her weekender roots; she’s in with the big kids now. To allow room for my desk, I have sacrificed entirely the starboard sofa/berth. Truncated in an earlier refit to accommodate a better galley, this berth was only suitable for a dwarf.

To the horror of many, my new desk faces aft. “You’ll get sick”, they cry, “else you’ll get lost, navigating backwards”. Fortunately seasickness has never yet afflicted me, and as to going backwards, it will allow me to see that half of the world which I had intended to leave until second. What I gain from this aspect is a superb view out through the windows and companionway onto the place I’m here to see. I faced the corner enough at school, and refuse now to do so by choice.

In keeping with my maxim of an uncluttered interior, I have mounted all my instruments required for navigating in cupboards surrounding the desk. They are accessible when I need them, but they are ugly, and so need not be on display when not in use.

Hidden within the desk is a secret cupboard in which I will store my valuable items. Should I be burgled or boarded, I believe this area will pass the notice of even an astute thief. I shall here elaborate no further, lest the reader should be driven to attack.

Perhaps the greatest concession I have made to my desk being a desk is that I have built it sloped. Completely useless as a general bench top, it will be free to perform its function as a desk, and nothing more. During the refit I have doubled old Kalitsah’s usable bench space elsewhere, so feel well able to afford this luxury.

Windows

Any fears I had previously entertained about having windows washed out at sea have been more or less dispelled from my mind by my experience today of removing the old Perspex panes. The strength of the (Sikaflex) sealant holding them in is astounding. Short of the all piercing influence of the sun, and my trusty knife and a good few layers of fine (and only recently re-grown) skin from my fingers, I can’t imagine anything getting past the stuff! While I hope dearly that I should never find myself testing this theory in earnest, I really am amazed by the strength of its bond. It has reaffirmed for me the value of the stuff in the right application, but reminds me also that when used for the wrong purpose, it can be a real nightmare. I’ll make sure I keep this in mind as I refit.

I’m looking forward to my new windows. For years my view has been reminiscent of Turner and his sunrises; inspiring certainly, and an everyday reminder of the greatness of the man, but a hindrance when spying on one’s neighbours. Bob Young, from “Mad Hatter” (a 25’ Top Hat, what a great name) has already commented on the clarity of my windows (what do you use to get them that clean?), and that’s even before the new panes have gone in. I can only guess at how good they’ll be once I’ve finished!

Kalitsah in her current state. Her former owners put a lot of good work into her before leaving Canada. Obvious here are her appendages aft; windvane and generator. Chainplates have been moved to the exterior of the hull. While I am keen to keep her lines as uncluttered as possible, there are a couple of things missing from this photo. A life raft lived until recently behind the mast (meaning no vang... I really need to work out a better place for it), and my recently completed nesting dinghy will live forward of the dodger. More on the dinghy later.

Isn't she pretty?