Sacred Blue What better way to start off my first ocean passage than a piece of apricot cheesecake under the stars? Perhaps being able to keep it in my stomach was a good start. However, the thoughts of my impending death a false step away didn't improve the mood. Anchored off of Pahia, New Zealand, which in Maori means "a good place to stay", an Aussie sailor, a Swiss teacher and I, an American wayward university student, decided that staying was not an option any longer. The afternoons were becoming brisk with the coming of autumn and the ability to comfortably walk barefoot was quickly diminishing. The islands of paradise were just beyond the horizon, a mere 1000 miles away. Even the name sounded alluring- Tongatapu. Sacred Tonga. Nathalie, the Swiss teacher, chases up behind me in Pahia as Alan, the Aussie sailor saunters further behind. "Customs closes in a few hours. What do you say we take off now?" It was Friday afternoon, and I already had my sights set on spending a pleasant weekend with Bill, a sweet young man I met during my stay in Pahia. I had already spent a week living aboard Wallaby Creek as Alan was trying to gather more crew for our trip. We split up for a few days, during which time I ran into Bill. I suppose that is what they get for allowing me to have shore leave. I begged them for a Monday departure, which they reluctantly agreed to. Already in their fifth week in the Bay of Islands, Alan and Nathalie were ready for a change in scenery. Monday morning, we met again and set off for the ubiquitous line where the sky meets the sea. Having only sailed in rivers and protected sounds as a kid, taking to the open sea was a test as well as an adventure. Tortured heroes of Joseph Conrad novels and classic tall ships of yore came to mind as we motored past the last few stretches of New Zealand. Soon we were under sail and on course for paradise. There is a feeling of distance when the land stops being a part of daily life. No points of reference for the mind to grasp onto, other than the endlessly shifting sky and sea. I had the feeling of setting off into Space, which was more pronounced when night set in. Not knowing what the seas would be like, we started keeping watch on that first evening. Normally, I'm a rational person. I gave up being afraid of the dark a long time ago. However, I was left alone in complete darkness encompassing the boat, with the token of advice from Alan before retiring to please die quietly if I fall overboard while the rest of the crew is sleeping. No sense waking the others. Don't think for one second that the demons of my childhood past didn't rear their ugly heads and paid their respects to me on the water that night. Even though it was a full moon, my imagination was fuelled by the dark unknown surrounding me. "At least they fed me cheesecake." I thought to myself, as Wallaby Creek sailed herself into the starry void. The next morning, I woke up to a loud snap above my head. Tired from the interrupted sleep from the night before, I convinced myself that Alan would take care of it, whatever it was. An hour later, a woke up again. Something wasn't right. There was still a problem on the bow of the boat. Pitching and tossing, I worked my way out to the cockpit. The stay sail broke off the halyard and was crumpled on the deck. Alan and Nathalie were nowhere to be seen. "Oh shit." My worst fear was realised. I was alone on the boat. I called out. No answer. I called out again. Alan responded eventually, obviously woken up by some silly screeching girl. Relieved that I wasn't left to sail the boat to Tonga alone, I asked politely what the stay sail was doing down. Now it was Alan's turn to panic. Watching him as he climbed up the mast in to retrieve the halyard while the boat swung wildly with the waves, my thoughts of Alan as a madman were confirmed. Deciding there wasn't much I could do about it at that point, I went back to bed. Days merged into nights as reality and my dreaming mind became indistinguishable. The movement of the boat was starting to put me into a hypnotic sleeping spells. Dreams were so vivid that, at many times, I would have to feel my eyes to make sure they were closed. I wrote in my journal in my dreams, only to wake up and find the entry missing. Moreover, the weather had changed for the worse- a squall had moved in during the night. The horizon of sight was reduced to a 200 meter bubble around the boat. Reality was more incredible than what I could conjure up in my imagination. Soon, sleep became my escape from the movement of the waves. Armed with the technology of Transderm Scop patches, my seasickness was reduced to only a dry mouth and mental discomfort. Nathalie, however, was not so lucky. Though this was her third ocean passage this year, five weeks in harbour had stolen her sea legs. Even cups of water were fed overboard to the fish. Yet through it all, she smiled beautifully and went about the business of taking care of what needed to be done. Her quiet strength never ceased to amaze me throughout the entire trip. While Alan cursed the weather and I laid comatose in the vee berth, she would prepare dinner, despite her mal de mer and the exhausting effort of just standing upright as the boat heeled over. She has an admirable spirit, one that is appreciated beyond words when the going gets tough. Which, of course, it did. Our power was lost from unsuccessfully trying to start the engine during the squall. All we could do was wait for another sunny day for the solar panels to capture more energy. Meanwhile, Easter Sunday came with pleasantries- fresh water showers (a bucket and a cup), an afternoon of egg decoration and chocolate. We even had a visitor- a lonely little bird who flew all the way from land to see us. Providing ample entertainment of trying to keep him out of the cabin during the evening, we found him on the chart table the next morning, perfectly still and eternally peaceful. Alan performed the customary burial and we set our lost companion out to sea. The Horse Latitudes, infamous for their erratic wind patterns, lived up to their reputation. After the squall, we sat frustratingly becalmed, not even half way to Tonga. The fridge was completely useless, which meant all the meat had to be eaten. Whole chickens and massive T-bone steaks were fed to Nathalie and I, both former vegetarians. I should have known not to leave all the grocery shopping to a meat-and-potato lovin' Aussie. But what can you do? Hungry, out in the middle of the ocean, you eat what is served. The song "Hotel California" played in my head as we ate our steaks by candlelight; "You can check in anytime you like, but you can never leave..." Sick and twisting about in the waves, we eventually drifted into the Trade Winds. Three hundred nautical miles to Sacred Tonga. We resumed watches again, steering the boat by day, the sun warming us again. Clouds changed into puffy white balls; the dwellings of smiling cherubs in renaissance paintings. All seemed right with the world. We were on course, the watches were set, and flying fish were dodging out of our way. But the forces at will had cast different dice. On the first night watch, we had an increase in the wind. Instead of a calm 15 knots, the winds gained another ten, with me at the helm. At first, I was enjoying the challenge of keeping the boat on course. I was training myself to steer by the stars rather than the compass, but soon the wind forced me to concentrate on more important things- like staying on the boat. Shouting madness and laughing at my predicament, I was using all my strength in pulling the tiller as close to me as I could just to keep Wallaby near our course. Eventually I called for Alan to bring in some of the sail, and I finish the rest of my watch exhaustively struggling with the tiller and the wind. It was the beginning of the downfall. The increase in wind brought choppy seas and ominous clouds. By afternoon, it was evident that the weather was going to get much worse before it would get better. Without any outside sources telling us otherwise, we didn't know if we were going to see a gale or cyclone. Whatever it was, the sails had to be taken down, and the hatches battened down. The stay sail had a tear already and was taken to the cockpit for further repairs. Nathalie and I helped Alan as we could, laughing that we were on holiday, as we were pummelled by the swells. Soon, we closed ourselves inside the cabin, laid in the bunks, and hoped for the best. We woke up the next morning with the news that it would be another 24 hours before we could do anything. Waves broke against the hull so hard that I swore that we were being bombed. Anything remotely loose flew about the cabin as the boat heeled on her bare poles. Standing, moving about the cabin was not an option. Food became irrelevant- my stomach was already in knots. Drifting backwards and to the west, Tonga started to become less of an option as well. Unless we had a change of luck or winds, we were going to need to change our course and sail to Fiji- another two weeks at sea. That is, once the wind stopped howling, which could be another two weeks if it was a cyclone. Already grimy, tired and miserable, this news didn't improve our moods. One hundred miles from Tongatapu and stuck in a fucking gale, cyclone, whatever. It was unfair. We already had our trials in this trip. The last part of a 1000 mile voyage to paradise should be the sweetest and quickest. Wasn't it written somewhere in some rule book? Damn it, we wanted some reciprocity for our efforts, not more tests. I would have been outraged if I had the energy to do so. Instead, I wedged myself between the cushions of the bunk and tried to sleep. We were obliged, eventually. The next day, the sun poked out of the dark clouds, giving us enough energy to turn over the engine. Tonga was still within reach- we could still make it! We motored all night, which gave us enough energy to use the lights and the fridge. Lights! How wonderful! The seas and the wind continued at their gale force, but with the sun, we could use them to our advantage. Alan turned on the radio and we listen to the Tongan music as we sailed closer to the sacred blue waters. Pancake flat islands greeted us the next morning. We spent the afternoon manoeuvring around the coconut palmed islands and reefs and celebrating with beers (cold even!) and crackers. Motoring into the wharf, we were greeted by the cleanest, nicest looking fishing yacht I had seen in my life. Lou, the captain of the boat, told us that it was the Crown Prince's Birthday, and so of course everyone was on holiday. What irony- almost three weeks at sea and when we finally reach our destination, the whole country is on a national holiday. No worries though. We had finally arrived in sacred paradise- Tongatapu. TONGA MAY 2000 AMANDA RUST