Sailing Holidays | New Zealand and South Pacific Sailing Adventure

A Ship on the Ocean - a bird's eye view...

Heather's voyage log of the ocean passage New Caledonia to Sydney - Oct 2010

Shearwater n. Deep sea bird, similar in appearance to a petrel. Flies low to the water, 'shearing' close to the waves. Flies singly or with others, but does not flock on the wing. Dark plumage, often with white underwings.

Though a large family of birds, most of the Puffinus genus, shearwaters are similar in shape, color, and habits the world over. They are, however, most peculiar. They seem completely devoid of curiosity. Where a lone albatross with the entire ocean to glide over will wheel across the waves to spare a look at our stern, the shearwaters ignore us. Where a pod of dolphins will leap and jump in our bow, the shearwaters pass us by. Where a frigate will attempt to land, or a whale will breach just to see what we're all about, the shearwaters simply carry on as if we didn't exist.

Our matronly bow shoves aside great swathes of water that boil and foam away from the bow, hissing down the ship's side to disappear into the smoothness of our wake. Though small and insignificant compared to the towering waves and primal power of the ocean, we are not alone out here. Were I a lone albatross, serenely gliding past wave and squall, blue sky and grey, I too would be curious as to this strange wooden beast with wings of canvas who makes her way with stately clumsiness through waves that I can cruise effortlessly over. I too would soar past our stern to get a closer look at the wooden curiosity. Bowling along

Were I pod of dolphin, cruising for fish or merely sport among the waves, I too would cavort and jump through the towering waves toward us. I too would investigate this large wooden shape with the strange noises and the endless fun of a bow wave. The shearwaters, however, have no interest. They are what we see most, black slashes against the gunmetal grey of the waves; the tip of a wing, the welcome respite of different motion against the backdrop of unending waves. They travel in small groups, wheeling among the waves, flapping more often than an albatross, less often than a gull. I have never seen one eat despite our many hours at sea, and only seldom do you come upon a resting roost of them among the waves. We see them most, and yet they seem to see us not at all. They don't spare a glance, they don't turn a feather, they simply continue on as if this marvel of sail power were not quietly going about her business in their midst.

It is unthinkable that we not be considered a marvel. Here we are, a ship made of dead timbers, built by human hands, attempting to make our insignificant way against the boundless might of the largest ocean on earth. Untold tons of water move beneath us, boundless pressures and strength and fury wait, barely in check, for one moment of inattention. We are only small things, bags of flesh and bone without a fin or wing to help us among the countless waves. We have only Soren, and she has only us, and for our team, this is enough. She keeps us above the water, she keeps us dry and cozy down below, or growling into the teeth of a gale on deck. In return, we work her rigging to perfection, we oil her decks and tar her rigging and sew her sails, keeping her in the fighting trim she needs against the oft times fickle ocean. Together with us to work her and her to keep us safe, we prevail. Despite the wind or the stinging specs of rain, or the wind-streaked waves, we manage. Despite currents and eddies, sudden squalls and the bright unsullied sunshine found only in the open ocean, we prevail. Without a single feather or gill or beak or fin, we pit ourselves, sinew and bone, against the elements, and we win. Is this not what sailing is about? This proving of human wit and endurance to make the mercurial atmospheric weather work for us, rather than the reverse.

It is thusly empowered from our quick run in a force 6 down from New Caledonia that we tuck ourselves in behind the impressive cliffs of Lord Howe Island. From the unscalable drop-offs of Mount Gowen to the idyllic curve of the lagoon beach, to the pastoral green of fields across the relatively level middle, Lord Howe Island is a lesson in beauty. It is only a few miles long, and yet it possesses anything you could hope for. Beaches to snorkel off, fish to nip at your ankles. Long arduous hikes up near-unscalable mountainsides or pleasant wanders past pastured cows and grazing horses. Shady wanders through fragrant rainforests or windy romps past sea-tossed dunes. Regardless of where you choose to spend your sunny afternoons or mist-damp mornings, you will always have company; feathered, flying, calling, whistling, swooping company. Many birds, both migratory and native make Lord Howe Island their home, however briefly. Terns wheel and call at the beaches, the native (and very endangered) woodhens run skittishly across the few roads, corocorobunga (SP?!) call incongruitously from the boughs of birch and towering lignum vitae. Kingfishers sit on the fence of the airstrtip while snowy seabirds perch like downy dandelion heads on the massive branches of ancient Norfolk pines. The pace of life is slow, with so much on offer, and nothing demanded. See me, or don't bother, Lord Howe Island seems to whisper. It knows its grandeur and peace – it doesn't need to flaunt it to every traveller. In any case, it's impossible to ignore the inherent natural side that has not been stamped out by the small settlement which slots seemlessly in to the softened edges of the rugged landscape.

Svanen (Southern Swan ) Perhaps it is the stark contrast to this idyllic little slice of rural paradise that shocks us into gape-mouthed awe as we sail through the heads into Sydney harbor. The heads themselves are remniscent of Lord Howe Island, steep cliffs with sheer dropoffs and dangerous foamy white surf that pounds relentlessly at their bases. In contrast, however, every bit of clifftop real estate is occupied.

Houses, observatories, apartment blocks, even office buildings set a man-made skyline to the rugged, windswept dropoffs. Once inside the heads, the everpresent 2-3 meter swell of the last passage finally disappears and we motorsail with our pilot escort ever deeper into the organized chaos of Sydney harbor. Ferries and riverboats, work barges and pleasure yachts, sailing dinghies and paddlesteamers all compete for space on the immenently sailable water.

Grand, multi-million dollar houses line the waterfront while towering skyscrapers of glass and metal reach steely fingers toward the sunny blue skies. Our eyes are filled – after a long passage in the open ocean, ones eyes become accostomed to seeing only waves and sky, sea and clouds.

With this riot of human color hemming us in, we are like magpies among a jewelry cash, first looking here at this strange ferry, or there at that impossibly enormous house, here at the remnants of a WWII fortress, there at the impressive heights of the business district. Blessedly, along with our pilot escort, the Southern Swan with the familiar shining face of her captain and ex-Soren crew, Marty, sails along in company with us, sharing cheers and news across the placid harbor waters. Together, two stately baltic traders with enough history between them to make most old men blush, cruise in company beneath the arching span of the harbor bridge, and finally part ways as we come smoothly alongside at the Australian National Maritime Musem.

Heather

Heather Kelleher.

Bosun, Soren Larsen 2010