Chasing the winds away

Brad Avery

* Editor’s Note: This the final in a five-part series on OCC’s Alaska

Eagle’s 2,300-mile journey in the Southern Hemisphere.

Alaska Eagle is anchored at Tonga Roadstead in Tasman Bay, after a rough

350-mile sail from Milford Sound.

Even though warmed up by the size and beauty of Dusky and Doubtful

sounds, the crew was still unprepared for the narrow steep Fjord of

Milford, with its granite walls reaching thousands of feet straight up.

This stunning sound is 8 miles long by a half mile wide, but its height

makes it huge. Large patches of snow still covered the east faces of the

nearby 6,500-foot mountain tops. We maneuvered Alaska Eagle against a

vertical wall below 5,560-foot Mitre Peak and looked skyward to the top.

Our depth sounder showed no bottom. Then we motored over to Stirling

Falls and drove our bow right up to the roaring water, which cascaded

down from 500 feet. Spume soaked crew and cameras as the mainsail flogged

from the wind created by the torrent.

We stayed six hours at Milford. An approaching low pressure system forced

us to decide whether to leave 18 hours before it hit or wait a few days

until it cleared. Head winds of 35 knots were predicted. With no

guarantee of better weather for days, we decided to get underway and have

at least a half day, maybe more, of good weather to go north.

The 300-mile stretch from Milford to Cape Farewell offers no ports of

refuge. This inhospitable West Coast of the South Island routinely gets

hammered by lows spinning across the Tasman Sea. Once offshore, you’ve

got to keep at it.

We departed Milford in the late afternoon and headed offshore to have

plenty of running room in the rough weather. It was a warm beautiful

evening, with the South Island’s Southern Alps to our right and a

glorious twilight to our left. Dolphins appeared from the glassy sea,

racing our bow as it sliced north at eight knots.

Looking for fresh dinner for 11, Bruce the cook had success with a small

feather, bringing in two albacore in ten minutes. By noon the next day,

with 180 miles to go, we were in it. The storm hit with head winds of 30

knots, gusting to 40. It was squally with hard driving rain.

The seas quickly built to 4 meters. We had Alaska Eagle going upwind with

a storm staysail and two reefs in the main. Mac called it graduation day,

when all the education he’d been getting was being put to use. On the

helm, you could not hear anything but the wind.

BZ Jones, steering at night in the rain and spray, called out above the

din for the next watch.

Alaska Eagle plowed through it, lifting water with the bow and throwing

spray as we crashed over the tops of the steep seas. Everyone was glad to

be on a 65-footer built for the Whitbread race.

The peak came at about 2 a.m. when the staysail sheet parted with a bang

and the sail shook the boat as it flogged. We ran off to drop the sail

and rig a new sheet. A third reef was tucked, bringing the mainsail to

about a fifth its normal size. Once squared away, we were off again,

pounding along with the wind howling and the water flying.

As forecasted by New Zealand’s excellent MET weather service, the gale

lessened the next morning.

Sails were eased, the sun came out, and the seas dropped. We ran downwind

for Cape Farewell, which loomed ahead as the storm went its way, leaving

a bruised sky. Alaska Eagle was sailing fast again, rolling comfortably

along with the crew back to admiring the elements; previous solemn oaths

to switch from ocean sailing to hog farming were silently recanted.

* Brad Avery is the skipper of Alaska Eagle.