A South Atlantic crossing

A South Atlantic crossing
Namibia to St Helena and Brazil
Alan Martienssen
Awarded the Irish Cruising Club Decanter
‘Can you see the buoy yet?’
‘Not yet!’
I poked my head out. Thick fog. A real pea souper. Couldn’t see a thing. It
was 7am and we were sailing along Namibia’s “Skeleton Coast”. Last night
the phosphorescence was amazing, with sea lions looking like torpedoes
shooting all over the place.
‘Clang, clang’. A bell! Suddenly, there was the buoy, rather close, but
it was on the starboard side. We were offshore of the North Cardinal
Spit buoy. ‘We’ll go another 200 yards, then tighten up.’ Zebedee is less
IL
BRAZ
Salvador da
Bahia
St Helena
NAM
Walvis B
ay
IBIA
Zebedee
34ft Sailing Dory
than wonderful at sailing to weather and the wind was against us for the
approach. Being close to the buoy meant less distance tacking.
Gradually, as we drifted in, the fog thinned and anchored ships began
to appear, like ghosts in the distance. We tacked between them, and around
a central area that looked like fish farms. It took until 1200 before we
dropped anchor in 14ft off the Walvis Bay Yacht Club, in bright sunshine.
It was a little rough landing Dougal, the dinghy, on the beach, but the
people were incredibly welcoming, showing us the tap to rinse off the
sand from our feet and giving us directions. We had a long walk to the
Port Captain, but found a helpful official to assist with the paperwork. No
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A South Atlantic crossing
A house in the Namibian Desert
charge. We liked the atmosphere, although the architecture was less than
inspiring.
We hired a car with ‘Do It’, sharing the costs, driving into the interior
desert. One of the driest in the world. It was hard to tell where the road
was. We visited the Brandberg Mountains and saw the Bushman’s rock
paintings. The ‘White Lady’ looked rather like a man. We saw carts pulled
by donkeys, four abreast, cantering along the road, and in the supermarket
two teenage girls in traditional dress, topless with their skin and hair
smothered in red clay, queued behind us. They were buying cans of Coke.
Back at Walvis, it got a little windy. We kept having to move anchor,
until we discovered that the moorings were on very long ropes. There
wasn’t room to anchor
between them. It got
rather bouncy, and on
one occasion our anchor
snubber snapped. It
could be quite hard
work rowing back to
Zebedee, but the locals
were incredibly helpful,
often towing us. Two
club members even
invited us out to lunch.
It was fascinating to
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Alan Martienssen
hear about life in
Namibia. Most people
have to drive vast
distances in four-wheel
drives across the desert
to work.
All too soon it was
time to leave, but there
wasn’t much wind. We
drifted out, sculling
past an oilrig, using
our yuloh, an 18ft long
curved oar. Gradually
A church in St Helena
the wind picked up and
Zebedee started to make reasonable daily runs. The sailing was wonderful,
full sail, not too much wind, smooth following seas, with gorgeous sunrises
and sunsets. Perfect!
Eleven days later we reached St Helena and anchored off Jamestown.
The tiny yellow ferry came alongside and two police came on board.
They checked over our passports etc. and explained where we had to
go for check in. It was all very friendly, but not particularly cheap. We
went ashore, bought our insurance,
completed check in and went to the
Consulate Hotel for a beer. Everyone
was there, our friends from Chagos,
Madagascar and South Africa, all
talking ten to the dozen. It was
brilliant!
We discovered that an airport
was to be built. Many of the ‘Saints’
were less than pleased. They liked
their island as it was. We visited
Napoleon’s prison, a rather nice
house. We visited Napoleon’s tomb.
But he wasn’t there. The French
moved his body back to Paris.
We went to Plantation House,
the Governor’s residence, to see
Alan climbing Jacob’s ladder
Jonathan the 178 year old tortoise.
We went to Sandy Bay, to see the lunar landscape. It looks like a gravel
pit, but with superb views. On another day, Igor, the visiting eye surgeon,
lent us his car and we went up Diana’s Peak, in the clouds. The difference
between the lush interior and the desert of the west coast was amazing.
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A South Atlantic crossing
We walked up Jacob’s
Ladder, all 699 steps.
Our knees felt like jelly.
Landing at Jamestown
could be exciting. Some
days we took Dougal
in, hoiking him up the
steps out of the way.
Other days it was too
rough and we took the
ferry, but it was an art
Landing at Jamestown could be exciting
form getting on and off.
Leaving a dinghy at the concrete wharf was dodgy. The sea was crystal
clear and we enjoyed several swims. Not many fish though. We didn’t
want to leave. Time was pressing. We had been in a good spot to sail off,
but overnight two catamarans had anchored rather close. It was touch and
go for a bit, but they gave us a cheery wave as we swore and missed them
by inches. Best of friends now.
38.5
Back at sea, in the
South East trades,
San Francisco
Zebedee rolled along
happily, clocking off
130 mile days. The
Ila dos
Frades
sailing was superb, the Maragoripe
sun shone, and God was
in His Heaven. Sixteen
days and nearly 2000
Itaparica
Salvador
miles later we reached
13
South America.
We
sailed
into
Brazil’s Salvador da
Bahia looking for Iate
Clube de Bahia, where Badger (Annie and Pete Hill RCC) had anchored.
But it was not obvious. No yachts. We sailed on and 10 minutes later
we saw the ferries and Fort Nautica. The anchorage was packed with
local boats. There was no room for us. Outside the harbour walls, it was
possible to anchor, but it meant a very, very long row. We turned around
and tacked back. Two hours later we saw a collection of launches. That
must be the club.
Finally, we dropped anchor. It jammed. The chain was in a knot within
the locker. The anchor hadn’t reached the bottom. We were drifting about
amongst the launches. I could just get a hand past the chain into the locker
and I started jigging.
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s
Alan Martienssen
The wind got up.
Soon Zebedee would
start turning, crashing
into the other boats.
I jigged harder. The
chain jumped off the
braked gypsy. The knot
crushed my hand. I
was trapped. It took all
my strength using my
other hand to get some
slack. Finally, a jig
unravelled the chain.
Salvador
I got my hand out and
the anchor dropped. I went aft nursing my bruised and bleeding paw.
We collected our papers for check in, but the boat registration document
was missing. We searched high and low. It was gone. This could be tricky.
A Brazilian Port Captain might well take a dim view of not having the
document. We rowed ashore. The staff seemed a bit dubious, but one or
two seemed to know about visiting yachts. We were shown to the office.
They gave us free membership for 72 hours, said it was too late to do check
in, and that it would be no problem to go tomorrow. It was obviously a
very prestigious and expensive club. We were advised to be very careful
about criminals and to always use a taxi. We couldn’t afford taxis. We were
out of place.
Feeling a bit worried, we set off down the street. It seemed alright. We
found an ATM, got some cash and then bought some fresh vegetables. We
wandered back to the club and rowed back to Zebedee.
That night it was rough. The wind was onshore with quite a lot of fetch.
Rowing in was a bit damp and getting out onto the dock was difficult. It
wasn’t a floating pontoon and Dougal got a corner underneath just as a
big surge came in. We very nearly capsized. However, the staff were very
helpful and soon we were walking towards the main port.
We had a photocopy of our boat registration. Maybe we could laminate
it to look like the original. It was quite a long walk, and eventually we
found a Xerox place. We asked about lamination. ‘Plastico?’ (They didn’t
speak any English.) Someone took us to another shop and made sure we
got exactly what we needed. Such wonderful people. The new document
looked good. Next, to find the port.
One of the roads curved down towards the sea, going in the right
direction. We followed it, leading us to a path bordered by 5ft walls on
both sides. We wandered down. It got dirtier, lots of litter, then urine, then
faeces, then used syringes . . . then people lying on cardboard. We walked
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A South Atlantic crossing
on, trying not to look worried. They looked at us, utterly amazed. ‘Bom
Dia’, we said with a nod, and strolled on. We were mighty pleased to get
to the other end.
We eventually found Police Federal for Immigration. It was in the
second passenger ferry terminal. We got our visas, no problem with the
boat registration, then on to Customs, next door, who had earlier told us
they had no idea where Police Federal was. It was half an hour before
lunch. They told us to come back later. Another couple of Brits were
checking out and we went to lunch together, to a restaurant where you pay
according to the weight of food. It was great to meet some other cruisers
at last. We were very short of local information. After lunch we returned
to customs and we waited. And we waited. And we waited some more.
Finally, at 4.30pm., we got our clearance and shot off to the Port Captain.
We didn’t want to spend a second days checking in. The Port Captain was
very efficient and at 5pm we were done.
We thought we’d catch a bus back. It was a long walk. But we got the
wrong one, so we walked anyway. It didn’t seem that far. It was good to
get back on board with a glass of Chateau Zebedee, our home-made wine.
That night it was rough. The wind howled and with the fetch, Zebedee
danced away, more of a jitterbug than a waltz. In the middle of the night
we brought Dougal on board. He was crashing about with the wind against
tide. We had to strap ourselves into the saloon bunks. It was much worse
than the passage. The next morning was just as bad. There was no way we
could get ashore. We spent the whole day on board being bounced. At least
we were legal. Well, almost.
It was our last day at the club. We were determined to see some of
Salvador. It was a difficult row and getting on to the dock was the hardest
part, but soon we were walking along the mosaic pavements heading to
the old part of Salvador. We had a
great day exploring, getting lunch
and taking photos.
Our time at the club was up. We
returned our passes and thanked the
staff. We had decided to sail to Isla
Itaparica.
Next morning, with Dougal on
board, we up’d anchor and sailed
across the bay, around the various
markers, following the chartlet in
Brazil and Beyond by Annie Hill
(RCC). A British yacht hailed us.
‘Be sure to keep a night watch.
It’s really, REALLY dangerous!
Dougal’s sailing rig
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Alan Martienssen
Another cruiser was murdered shot! You’d be better off leaving
Brazil.’
We didn’t know what to think.
We were a bit flat anyway. All our
friends had gone further north and
we were missing the camaraderie.
We had a visitor. Brian rowed
across and with a wonderful lilting
Irish brogue told us there was no
problem. He’d been here for years,
married to a Brazilian, two kids etc.
‘To be sure, a German was shot, but
he was in with the local gangs and
he slapped one of them. What did he
expect?’ He invited us to a barbeque
Marogoripe
ashore. Later, we were sitting in a
swimming pool, sipping ice cold beers. Life was good.
We finally got round to putting up Dougal’s sailing rig. Now, Dougal is
not the largest of dinghies, just 6ft 6ins long and completely square ended.
He was never going to be a star performer, but to actually go backwards
when close hauled . . . We added a boom and changed the sail. Finally
we could reach and, with some pumping of the tiller, tacking was just
possible. We had a bit of fun sailing around the anchorage.
We had heard about market day at Maragoripe up the River Paraguacu.
We set off on Thurs 3 May, and
had a wonderful sail tacking up the
river to San Francisco, anchoring
by the church. We sailed back
to Maragoripe and on Saturday
morning went ashore. There were
several boys pushing loaded wheel
barrows. We traced them back to
where they came from - the market.
Using wheel barrows was one way
to deliver purchases, donkeys with
huge baskets was another. The
market was absolutely teeming with
locals and huge amounts of fresh
fruit and vegetables, baskets, leather
goods and so on. We spent an hour or
two rummaging before wandering
around the town to explore.
Ox cart delivering beer to San Francisco
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A South Atlantic crossing
Saveiro under sail . . .
. . . and under power
We spent the next few days sailing further up the river to Santiago do
Iguape, back to San Francisco, and then on to the Isla de Monte Cristo.
On our way back to Itaparica we met a saveiro, a type of engineless sailing
barge, with a huge loose footed gaff, quite similar to the Norfolk wherries.
They are still used commercially to deliver cargo around the Bahia
region. The wind died and we started yulohing. We were gaining. The
saveiro produced two huge oars. Two fit youngsters started rowing. They
were drawing ahead. We increased the yulohing. They rowed harder. The
race was on. The captain produced a gigantic flag and hoisted it. Pauline
flicked the red ensign, ensuring it flew free. We were gaining. A little
puff of wind reached us first. We got closer. Then the saveiro got the wind.
The oars and the yuloh were put away. As the wind picked up, each vessel
tried to extract the most from each gust, the saveiro captain directing the
crew, Pauline adjusting Zebedee’s sheets. It was a close thing, but they
were headed north, and we were headed back to Itaparica, so we parted
company, the saveiro captain raising his hat as a farewell salute.
But we went the wrong way.
We didn’t have a chart, and soon the echo sounder was showing 5ft.
Zebedee draws just over four. We could see the Itaparica anchorage, but
how to get there? Pauline stood on the bow peering into the murk. At 4ft
6ins she could just see the bottom, so we veered off, tacked, yulohed and
eventually found deeper water. We sailed back to our old spot.
We began to hear some alarming stories. Several yachts at Salvador had
been boarded. The robbers came in the middle of the night and, armed
with knives and machetes, tied up the occupants before ransacking the
boats. All of the incidents had happened in the same spot, just outside
Fort Nautico, the place where we had considered anchoring, directly
opposite the Port Captain. Salvador is a dodgy place.
Our next expedition was to the small island of Bom Jesus, just north
of Ila dos Frades. We had an excellent sail. It was a bit narrow tacking up
by the oil refinery and we had some difficulty figuring out which island
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Alan Martienssen
was Bom Jesus. Not having a chart
didn’t help, but we found a nice spot
to anchor just as the sun went down.
We even managed a quick swim.
Next day we explored in Dougal,
rowing right around the island, and
we had a wander through the streets.
Then it began to rain. It rained.
And it rained. Then it rained some
more. The leak in the forecabin
started up again. Now, this is a
very strange leak. It’s only an
occasional drip, but it’s right over
the double bunk. Buckets of water
on the foredeck won’t start it, nor
the occasional submersion. It only
leaks with continuous heavy rain
or with repeated submersions of the
foredeck when bashing to weather.
Zebedee
We stripped off the deck insulation,
but again it proved impossible to trace. We built a sort of tent over the
bunk to try to run the drips away. We were getting cabin fever. We wanted
to find some people to talk to. There were no other yachts up here, so we
sailed back to Itaparica.
Everyone was on shore, milling about and suffering from the same
affliction. There was a lot of talk about the robberies. Another yacht had
been done. Same place. Itaparica seemed to be OK.
Our time was up. We wanted to get up to Jacarei, and organize a trip
back to the UK to work. The cruising kitty needed a boost. We took the
ferry across to Salvador and checked out. So much simpler. This was the
way to visit Salvador. Sail straight to Itaparica and do everything from
there. In the morning we up’d anchor, waved goodbye to all our new
friends and tacked out of the bay.
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