Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

The post Dodging Storms, Chasing Thrills in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.

Caribbean

Windward Islands

Tropical rainforests, barrier reefs, secluded anchorages: In the Windward Islands, you’ll get a taste of all that the Caribbean has to offer, and plenty of fine trade-wind sailing to boot. For sailors, there are multiple choices for your Windward Islands adventures, and from any of them, you can choose to make your sailing vacation as laid-back or as challenging as you’d like.

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Leeward Islands

The Leeward Islands are full of cruising hot spots, with much to offer to sailors, making passing through the Caribbean. lush scenery, vibrant reefs and a laid-back vibe make for the ultimate sailing destination.

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Lesser Antilles

The Lesser Antilles, in the Eastern Caribbean, are among the best charter destinations on the planet. Why? Diversity and conditions. The winds, seas and harbors in the Lesser Antilles are nearly ideal 99 percent of the time, and landfalls are perfectly spaced. In many of the most popular chartering waters, destinations are 30 to 40 miles apart — or less. This means you can get up at a reasonable hour, have a thrilling sail, and still manage to clear customs by happy hour.

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Cuba

Cuba is one of those mysterious destinations for US-based cruisers: close, intriguing, but seemingly out of reach. In 2017, when regulations were a bit more relaxed for cruisers, Cruising World hosted a rally to the island nation. The verdict? Cuba is everything we expected, and so much more.

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

The islands of the Bahamas are a cruiser’s playground — clear water, colorful communities and great sailing. The Bahamas offer endless islands to sail between and explore; from the Abacos to the Exumas, each island is unique.

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Intracoastal Waterway

Those with a mast height under 64 feet can also take advantage of the beauty and convenience of the Intracoastal Waterway on their trip north or south through the East Coast. While navigating the ICW requires lots of motoring, when conditions are good, the sailing is spectacular.

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Southern New England

Cruising through Long Island Sound, anchoring in the Great Salt Pond of Block Island, exploring the coast of Cape Cod – there are endless opportunities to enjoy a romp through Southern New England.

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The Great Lakes

Some of the best freshwater cruising in the world, the Great Lakes offer endless opportunities for exploration. Each lake offers unique cruising grounds, ports and conditions, from uncharted rocky inlets on the Canadian shores, to bustling cities.

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Bermuda

For as long as ocean-going sailors have been sailing the North Atlantic, Bermuda has been the crossroads and a popular race destination. But Bermuda is so much more than just a waypoint—it’s also a wonderful cruising destination.

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Nova Scotia

Packed with geologic and cultural history, the beautifully quiet coast of Nova Scotia is a nature lovers dream. Spruce trees, granite, grasses, sea, seals and terns, there is no shortage of excitement here.

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Europe

Greece Isles

The sailing can be challenging, but the landfalls — full of history, diverse towns and tasty cuisine — are worth it. Greece boasts thousands of islands, spread across an enormous geographical area stretching from the Aegean to the Ionian sea. Four of Greece’s five island groups are prime cruising areas: the Cyclades, the Saronic Islands, the Ionian Islands and the Dodecanese. Each group has its own unique character and charm, making each one worth exploring.

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South Pacific

Fiji

Cruising yachts from all over the world come to Fiji to anchor in the crystal-clear waters of the South Pacific. This Pacific crossroads is a refreshing break, with world-class snorkeling, beach combing and hiking.

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

Tasmania offers world class cruising, friendly, welcoming people, and a rich sailing history. The beautiful anchorages are uncrowded and private, and the sailing is world class. Just ask anyone who has ever sailed a Sydney Hobart Race.

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Whitsunday Islands

Pristine white sand beaches begging for footprints; the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park just waiting to be snorkeled; and our charter catamaran tugging on her mooring lines, ready to set sail. Who could resist such a tempting welcome from the Whitsunday Islands? Not us.

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

Towering rock sculptures rise out of the water in Thailand’s Phang Nga Bay, providing a surreal backdrop for cruising. Anchor among the hongs and hope into a dinghy for an unforgettable experience exploring hidden caves and uncovering secrets from the 10,000 year history of the bay.

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Africa

Cape Town

From the blustery southeaster that can blow 45-60 knots for days on end, the “table cloth” on Table Mountain, to the waterfront with all its great seafaring tales and bars and the beaches of the suburb of Clifton, Cape Town has it all. The weather is like Southern California; you can stay active in the great outdoors year round.

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Madagascar

Madagascar is a true cruising gem. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language.

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South America

Chile

The Cape Horn archipelago conjures images of heroic voyages through inhospitable landscapes and harsh, raw conditions, the true beauty Chile is that it’s remote enough to be pristine, but not isolated enough that you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world.

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Antarctica

Antarctica

Cold, unforgiving and a challenge for even the most seasoned sailor, there isn’t quite any place on earth like Antarctica. Just ask anyone who has been, though, and you’ll find that the journey to the bottom of the world was unforgettable.

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The post Top 20 Cruising Destinations for Your Bucket List appeared first on Cruising World.

“If you want your main halyard spliced, you have to make me part of the crew!” Dan Morris was just 12 years old when he gave the owner of a highly competitive J/29 this ultimatum. The owner did, Dan did, and a few days ago in Auckland, New Zealand, the results were obvious, as were answers to two of the most frequent questions I am asked about cruising.

Should I take my kids cruising? What should I learn to do if I want to earn money as I cruise? Where ever I am asked these questions, I give a resounding yes to the first and list rigging as potentially an excellent way to earn money as a sailor or cruiser. When I visited with Dan at the American Magic base at Auckland’s Viaduct basin last week, what was obvious was not only that his skills as a rigger led to an exceptional career in extreme high-speed sailing, but in spite of his high-speed tendencies, he still loves and looks forward to cruising.

When I asked Dan how he became part of the elite American Magic sailing team, which is hoping to wrest the America’s Cup from the hands of the Kiwis, he stated simply, “My folks taught me to love sailing.” Dan spent nearly five months of every summer cruising with his family on board their 32-foot Pearson Vanguard on the Great Lakes of the USA, not far from their hometown of Edina, Minnesota. His dad gave him the helm often and taught him the basics of rigging. By the time he was 11 he was earning pocket money doing rope-to-wire splices for other sailors. Then his dad died unexpectedly a few years later, and Dan switched full time to racing. His list of championships is impressive: 49er’s, Melges29s, Farr 40s, multiple World Match Racing Championships. Completely hooked on sailing, he went on to get a degree in naval architecture and marine engineering from the University of Michigan. This, combined with his skill working as crew and skippering various classes of foiling boats made him an obvious choice for this team.

“I have a wrist panel with 20 different readouts,” Dan explained when I asked him how the cruising community might stand to gain from the extreme high-tech sport that is the America’s Cup today. “My job as trimmer is to watch each of the readouts to ensure we don’t overload any single point in the rig. Each time we get out there practicing, we are learning better ways to spread the loads across the rig and sails. Less load, less risk. It’s all about trimming not only the sails, but the rigging itself. That knowledge will definitely trickle down to sailboats of all types, foiling or non-foiling.”

And cruising, can it still fit in his life? “I’m looking forward to exploring the Hauraki Gulf after the America’s Cup regatta is over,” Dan explained. “My girlfriend is a sailor from here. Met when we were racing dinghies several years ago. We often spoke about cruising her home waters. Now I’ll get a chance to do that.” I suggested they include a visit to my home at Kawau Island and take my little keeler Felicity, a Herreshoff 12 ½, out for a cruise. “Might be a bit of a bore after the excitement of flying just above the water at 50 knots,” I added.

Dan’s answer. “I’ll be out sailing. That’s what it’s all about.”

Well spoken, just like you would expect from a former cruising kid.

The post A Chat with Dan Morris, Trimmer on American Magic appeared first on Cruising World.

Being serial circumnavigators allows us, after 49 years sailing together as a cruising couple, to continuously take our planet’s cultural temperature. My wife, Carolyn, and I are passionate about our fellow homo sapiens, especially how they interact within watery venues. Take New Zealand for ­example, an island nation that has been teeming with ­risking-taking mariners since the 1200s.

To say that New Zealand — that tiny country of silver ferns where the America’s Cup resides — is innovative, hardworking, highly focused, ­forward-looking and very competitive is to make an understatement. But New Zealand is also extremely remote and difficult to sail to. Plus, its biosecurity screening for arriving vessels has become more stringent since the dreaded Mediterranean fan worm arrived on the bottom of a tramp steamer (See “Biosecurity and the Visiting Cruiser,” at the bottom of this article). Similarly, for these and other reasons, its neighbor, Australia, has seen a steady decline in cruising vessels arriving to hide for the summer from the ­hurricanes raging to the north.

New Zealand, on the other hand, gets roughly 650 yacht arrivals per year, and its boating industry wants that number to rise, not ebb. Kiwis love to buck social trends and do the impossible. Thus, while many Western nations have closed their borders to immigration, the Land of the Long White Cloud still has its welcome mat out, particularly to marine visitors.

Another unique advantage for visiting mariners is how Kiwis self-identify. Some small nations see their citizens as cowboys or poets or gourmets, but every Kiwi is, in their heart, a sailor. There’s no nation as nuts for boats, sailors and sailing as New Zealand. If you stop five people on the streets of Auckland, at least one of them will have raced on a sailboat sometime within the last week.

Even more amazing is their well-known thirst for radical improvement in the field of yacht design. Kiwi sailors often whittle up shockingly innovative concepts on a discarded stick with an old Swiss Army knife. If you doubt me, just check out the latest America’s Cup mono-foiler. If that ain’t radical, I don’t know what is.

But Kiwi sailors’ creativity and innovation does not stop on the racecourse, it extends to marketing their marine industry as well.

Of course, there’s nothing new about tourist destinations attempting to attract more international tourists, even to watery venues. A good example in the Caribbean is Antigua. Half a century ago their hotel association founded Antigua Sailing Week, primarily to prolong the winter cruising season by a month. This worked beyond their wildest dreams: tens of millions of dollars have since been pumped into the local economy.

New Zealand, via a loose alliance of various marine industry groups, is currently attempting a similar trick with the more widespread cruising community. The idea is to get more influential, blogging sailors to arrive in Opua, Bay of Islands, earlier in the six-month-long season. And being Kiwis, they’ve put their own unique marketing stamp on the concept.

RELATED: Pacific Passage Planning

First off, they haven’t made the promotion all about themselves. They’ve formed the South Pacific Sailing Network as the umbrella organization. Their spread-the-wealth concept isn’t to merely increase their own marine traffic flow, but to benefit the entire Western Pacific region of Tonga, Tahiti, Fiji, Vanuatu and New Caledonia at the same time.

In essence, Kiwis think that the best, most economical way to be competitive globally is through regional cooperation.

“It’s all about cross-­promotion, not only of various marine industries and destinations within New Zealand, but also of the entire Pacific region,” says Whangarei Town Basin spokesperson Sharron Beck. “We think this area is so rich and diverse, and has so much to offer the cruising sailor that it shouldn’t be dashed through. We hope circumnavigators spend a year or two in our local waters, whether in New Zealand, Tonga, Fiji or wherever.”

The second concept is that each cruising Kiwi sailor is a goodwill ambassador of sorts for their county and marine industry. Thus, foreign-bound sailors are given promotional materials to distribute at various venues as they sail the world. It’s a highly cost-effective way to communicate their enthusiasm for their island nation.

RELATED: Hideaway on New Zealand’s North Island

The third leg of their promotional efforts are (hooray!) the cruiser parties. The Kiwis stage a rum-soaked bash in Moorea — immediately after the west coast Puddle Jumpers arrive in Tahiti — to funnel these sailors into the Vava’u Bluewater Festival of Tonga, a weeklong party and seminar series that encourages the sea gypsies to make the 1,000-mile non-trade winds passage to New Zealand. Parties embedded within Fiji’s Musket Cove Regatta also compliment this southward migration.

The basic idea is as much about time as money: to slow down the “Pacific Dash” and, instead, turn it into a multiyear meander.

New Zealand marine planners believe that if the cruising region benefits, they, and their well-appointed shipyards,will also benefit, especially since so many new marinas are under construction on the North Island in preparation for the influx of cruising visitors to the America’s Cup village in 2021.

“Many passing sailors are hesitant to journey southward because of our weather,” said Paul Stringer, manager of Bay of Islands Marina, “so during the Tonga festival, we have weather and passage seminars given by Kiwi sailors who have done this passage dozens of times. Plus, we fly in biosecurity officials direct from Auckland so everyone knows exactly what to expect upon arrival in Opua or at Marsden Cove. Yes, we’re a remote island destination with some special biosecurity and customs rules, but these are easily complied with if the visiting sailor is prebriefed.”

The fourth leg of the promotional efforts are local “Welcome, thanks for visiting” events such as the Bay of Islands Cruisers Festival, which not only features endless parties and free meals but also many educational opportunities for world cruisers.

“I thought local sailmaker Roger Hall’s seminar on emergency sail repair was superb,” Carolyn told me the night she attended his session. “When I first arrived at the loft, I was a little amazed to find a standing-room-only crowd, but I don’t think I’ve ever learned more about sail repair faster.”

I personally can’t say which I enjoyed more, the informal talk on diesel mechanics or the seminar on lithium batteries and their high-tech charging devices, known — I have now learned — as battery management systems.

These Kiwi marine industry folks really pay attention to details. Upon tying up at the Customs and Immigration dock in Opua, a smiling welcome-wagon lady greets each vessel with a goody bag full of free gifts, coveted retail swag and special marine offers.

One of the main attractions of New Zealand is its strong indigenous culture. This diversity is fully incorporated in its promotional efforts as well. Traditional Polynesian dancers are showcased during the Bluewater Festival in Tonga. In addition, arriving sailors in New Zealand receive a traditional Maori dockside welcome.

If you enjoy shmushing noses with Maori warriors or studying ancient Polynesian war watercraft, the nearby Waitangi Treaty Grounds (where New Zealand’s founding legal document was signed in 1840) is the place to go. Carolyn and I spent a delightful day there, learning about the early history of the country. At its core, and throughout its history, New Zealand has been a remote island nation of rare adventure. Don’t forget the Maoris came from the mythical Polynesian land of Hawaiki in seven ­double-hulled canoes. To this day, each and every Maori can tell you the name of the canoe his ancestors arrived aboard.

Language isn’t a problem for visitors; English is predominant and Maori celebrated. A simple “kia ora” upon meeting will make any Kiwi smile. Of particular cultural interest is the haka, a traditional Maori posture dance of welcome and warning. We found the hui ritual (literally, a Maori assembly) fascinating: each guest stands and gives a stylized history of their birthplace, current home and personal ­history. Needless to say, exactly which ­specific waka (canoe) the speaker’s ancestors arrived aboard is prominently ­mentioned. The Maoris were delighted when I said in response, “My waka is a 43-foot Wauquiez ketch.” My niece, visiting from Chicago, chimed in with, “My waka was a Boeing 737!”

All Kiwis, whether of Polynesian, Melanesian, Maori or British ancestry, have a healthy sense of humor. (When this particular hui went on a tad too long, an aspiring Kiwi comic quipped, “All hui and no doie!”)

New Zealand has been welcoming cruising sailors for centuries. Whenever my ­vessel is on a pile mooring at the Whangarei Town Basin, I toss some ­flowers into the river at the exact spot where marine author Eric Hiscock died. Even while a child, he was a sailor and writer hero of mine. And the country still attracts talented marine scribes. Within a month of arriving I had Thanksgiving ­dinner with Lin Pardey on Kawau Island and drinks with Alvah Simon in Urquharts Bay near Bream’s Head; both are well-known book authors and long-term contributors to Cruising World.

Perhaps the most delightful aspect of this region is its multicultural optimism. No one whines here, they just get to it. Will their long-term imaginative efforts in forming the South Pacific Sailing Network be worth it? I’m not sure. But I know this, no nation I can think of works as hard to attract the marine visitor as New Zealand. Talk about people of purpose. How else could a tiny nation with micropurse strings compete against the wealthiest, most powerful nations on earth to twice win the America’s Cup, the oldest trophy in sports?

Amazing? Yes. Impossible? No. Nothing is impossible to a Kiwi.

The Goodlanders and Ganesh are resting and refitting over the winter in Whangarei.

Biosecurity and the Visiting Cruiser

New Zealand, which is on-the-watery-way to nowhere, has always been blessed and cursed by its isolation. For 80 million years, the only mammal ashore was the bat. Maori sailors arrived a mere 800 years ago, bringing rats and dogs with them. They were met by a seemingly endless flock of dumb and flightless birds known as moas. They stood 12 feet tall, weighed 500-plus pounds and were KFC-delicious. One hundred and fifty years later, the moas were extinct. Westerners, meanwhile, brought fat pigs, sneaky mice and virulent diseases. Both groups soon realized that their mutual environment was fragile and needed to be managed wisely if they were to survive. The most recent invasive species to threaten the Kiwis is the dreaded Mediterranean fan worm (Sabella spallanzanii). It arrived on a foreign freighter’s bottom, and soon choked local waters and severely threatened seafood exports.

This caused Biosecurity New Zealand to become hyperdiligent on exterior marine growth and bottom fouling. That’s the bad news for visiting cruisers. The good news is that officials, many of whom are sailors, are friendly, reasonable folks who only want their guidelines followed for the security of their homeland. Each official will do everything possible to help clear in a vessel expeditiously if that vessel’s crew is sincerely attempting to be in compliance with biosecurity regulations.

Skippers must pre notify officials of their arrival and fill out various biosecurity and customs forms in advance.

For recreational vessels coming from the tropics to stay more than 21 days, there are now only two ports of entry on the North Island: Opua and Marsden Cove. Basically, a foreign yacht needs to arrive with as clean a bottom as possible and be able to demonstrate that. This is commonly referred to as the Six/One Rule. A sailor must be able to prove that the boat has been hauled and antifouled within six months (via yard receipts, photographs, etc.) or that it had its bottom scraped of all fouling, especially in crevices like between rudder/skeg, around props and inside through hulls, within the last month.

So at present, all the arriving sailor has to do is dive over the side and thoroughly clean their boat’s bottom before 30 days of their arrival and then video it with a camera with time-stamp capability. It helps if you keep a “bio log” to officially record your efforts to be in compliance with the Craft Risk Management Standard (CRMS).

Upon arrival in Opua, inspectors will question you and inspect your hull with an underwater camera with a bright light. A slight slime layer and a few gooseneck barnacles are allowed but no acorn barnacles or bryozoans. If the hull is free of growth and you’ve demonstrated being antifouled within six months or cleaned within one month, you’re done.

If there’s obvious marine growth, bio-officials might opt to send down a diver (at the owner’s expense) and then require the boat to be hauled within 24 hours at the approved marine hauling facility nearby — or leave. In practice, departure is seldom requested because officials have done such a good job of informing the public of the requirements. In fact, this author knows of no cruising vessel that has attempted to comply with the above being ordered to either haul or immediately leave. Note: the marine industry is very important to the country’s financial growth; information packets containing all forms and rules are available at the New Zealand embassy in Nuku’alofa, Tonga, and also in Fiji and elsewhere.

Customs, which is a separate agency, will confiscate nearly all your fresh food; an updated list of requirements is available online. You will need to fill in forms NZCS 340, C1B and C4G; an arrival card; a border cash report; show the last port of clearance; a Primary Industries Master Declaration; pay your border levy of $18.73; have a valid passport; and, of course, fly your Q-flag.

Yes, clearing into the country is a bit of a hassle, but it only took us about 40 minutes in November of 2018, and everyone involved was both friendly and professional.

The post The Draw of New Zealand appeared first on Cruising World.

Ah, Orokawa Bay. This anchorage might not be the best-known corner of New Zealand’s lovely Bay of Islands, but it sure came in handy during a late spring gale. We’d spent six memorable months cruising New Zealand, and it was time to head north for the winter. But when the weather didn’t cooperate, we delayed our departure while waiting (and waiting, and waiting) for a favorable weather window to Fiji. That window proved elusive, however, and instead of heading north for the tropics, we found ourselves hunkering down as low after low pelted North Island.

And there was no better place to hunker than Orokawa, with its wide, commodious bay and thick mud bottom that guaranteed our trusty Rocna anchor a firm grip no matter what the elements threw at us. In fact, we’d never felt more independent or secure than we did in Orokawa, thanks to a bimini rain-catchment system that funneled gallons of fresh water in minutes and a wind generator that whirred with all the power three happy sailors could use. Despite a few howling, bumpy nights at anchor, our memories of Orokawa are all sunny and bright — as bright as the brilliant rainbow and emerald-green landscape we awoke to once the storm had blown through.

The post Hideaway on New Zealand’s North Island appeared first on Cruising World.

BAY OF ISLANDS SAILING WEEK

On the evening of October 6, 2015, I had paradise to myself — Paradise Bay, specifically, on the west side of Urupukapuka Island, in New Zealand’s Bay of Islands.

In 2014, I crossed the Pacific Ocean on Gannet, my Moore 24, sailing 7,000 miles. We had some 1,000-mile weeks and several 150-plus-mile days. Now I was trying merely to sail 25 miles from our mooring off Opua to Whangamumu Harbor, and there were times I didn’t think we’d make it.

Earlier that day, on a sunny, pleasant but windless morning, I had Gannet ready to sail, except for raising the mainsail and dropping the mooring, at 1000. I finally did drop the mooring at noon. The tide was coming in, keeping our bow to the north, and an almost imperceptible wind was from the south, so I raised the main with the wind behind us, went forward and released the mooring, and we headed north, slowly, on a dead run.

After a half-hour, I was able to raise the jib, and a few minutes later, the wind swung from south to north, heading us and increasing slightly.

I tacked and tacked Gannet, at one point almost ­running over another gannet preoccupied with preening his feathers. It took us an hour and 45 minutes to be off Russell — a straight-line distance of less than 4 nautical miles. Then the wind increased again for a while, and we sometimes saw boat speeds of 5 knots.

As I sailed past Roberton Island, I considered calling it a day and going in, but glided on and got the anchor down at Paradise at 1600. Four hours to make 10 miles. On the next day, I would dare to try for 16. I watched the sunset over the islands to the west, eating a freeze-dried Back Country Cuisine roast chicken dinner with mashed potatoes on deck, a plastic tumbler of red wine at hand and Pablo Casals playing Bach’s Cello Suite No. 6 in stereo on the two Megabooms, by far the best-sounding waterproof Bluetooth speakers I’ve found.

I was awake the following morning at first light, at 0630, and standing in the companion­way with a cup of coffee when the sun rose from behind Urupukapuka Island at 0726. Except for raising the mainsail and anchor, Gannet was ready to get underway at 0830. And then I read, sticking my head out the companionway from time to time, looking for any sign of wind on the glassy water until 1000, when a faint breath reached us and I raised the anchor, which came up clean, as it always does at Paradise Bay. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be paradise.

No sooner were the anchor and rode deployment bag stowed than the breath of wind gave its last feeble sigh.

I considered ­anchoring again, but we were in no immediate danger, so I chose to ghost and drift and glide, playing the faintest of wind, tacking slowly between islands and hand-steering most of the time because conditions were too inconsistent for the tillerpilot.

In two hours, we covered not quite 2 miles and had almost cleared the islands when the glassy surface of the bay darkened with 3 or 4 knots of wind from the north.

I made a final tack, cleared the last rock off Urupukapuka, set a course for Piercy Island just off Cape Brett, engaged the tillerpilot, and ate salami and crackers for lunch.

The wind continued to strengthen to 7 or 8 knots, and I began to believe we might reach Whangamumu after all. Gannet heeled slightly and began making 6 knots on a close reach across rippled water. It was hardly astounding, but enjoyable sailing, particularly after hours of 1 knot or less.

I jibed east of Piercy and set a course south.

The Bay of Islands is sparsely populated. Beyond Cape Brett, it is a wilderness of high land dropping precipitously into the sea, reminiscent of California’s Big Sur. It is a realm of birds — as once was all of New Zealand — soaring, diving, bobbing on the surface. Hundreds were sitting and hovering off an exposed ledge. I sensed that we were again in the ocean, not the bay.

Erratically blocked or funneled by the land, the wind gusted to 18 knots and dropped to nothing, and I began to consider my approach to Whangamumu’s almost landlocked harbor, 4 miles ahead.

Usually I furl the jib and approach an ­anchorage under mainsail alone, but the last half-mile to Whangamumu’s narrow entrance is between two peninsulas, which I thought might block the wind, so I kept the jib set. It was a good decision made for the wrong reason.

I thought about waiting to bring the anchor and rode on deck until I was inside Whangamumu, where I expected I could heave to and do so more easily, but decided instead to do it in advance. I waited until the wind was relatively steady, engaged the tillerpilot, and pulled the deployment bag and anchor on deck through the forward hatch.

The deployment bag has a clip, which I attached to the lifeline, and a Velcro-closed opening in the bottom so that the end of the rode can be cleated — always a good idea. I pulled the 20 feet of chain and about 55 feet of line from the bag and secured it to the starboard bow cleat. I have installed a small roller on Gannet’s starboard bow to keep the chain part of the rode off the hull when raising anchor, so I set the hook from that side. Concerned that the anchor might fall overboard if we heeled in a gust, I lashed it to the pulpit with a sail tie.

As we made the turn to the west between peninsulas, instead of fading as I had expected, the wind accelerated and backed to the northwest, gusting hard, heeling us far over and rounding Gannet up toward nearby rocks.

I eased the mainsheet and continued mostly under jib alone, getting knocked down and bobbing up, tiller in my left hand (a round of applause for physical therapy that has greatly relieved a torn rotator cuff) and playing the mainsheet with my right.

Whangamumu appears to be an ancient volcano whose northeast side has been breached for a few hundred yards. Surrounded by jagged rocks and shelves, the entrance seems narrow.

Inside the harbor, the wind continued to gust, and Gannet was making 6 and 7 knots. In a lull, I engaged the tillerpilot and went to furl the jib. I had just uncleated the furling line when a gust knocked us down and spun us toward the nearby shore. I had to drop the line and move back to the tiller. With Gannet again under control, I went to furl the flogging jib, whose sheets had twisted themselves into a Gordian knot.

The wind was now coming from the northwest. A 30-foot white sailboat was anchored close to the ruins of the old whaling station. I like it out in the middle.

Full-batten mainsails are almost impossible to depower completely, and we were still making 4 knots — faster than I like to anchor — but I knew ultralight Gannet would be stopped by the wind when we turned into it.

We were arriving at high tide. When the depth finder read 26 feet, I made the turn, slipped the tiller­pilot arm onto the tiller pin to keep the tiller amidships, and went forward and dropped the Spade anchor, feeding out the rode with my hand to where it was cleated, at 75 feet. The Spade dug in instantly. I moved aft and released the main halyard, lowering the sail, before I returned to the bow, uncleated the rode and fed out another 75 feet. The anchor was down at 1545.

We had taken almost six hours to make 16 miles. It is good to have a fast boat.

I remained at Whangamumu for two days, and after the sailboat and a powerboat that came in an hour after I did left the next morning, I mostly had the place to myself.

Both were anchored far away from Gannet, yet there is a satisfying difference between being alone and in company: the difference between being on a truly deserted island and on one where you just momentarily can’t see other people.

The wind continued gusting 20 to 25 knots, and there were brief, passing showers. With stronger wind forecast for overnight, I let the anchor rode out to the 180-foot mark.

A sudden gust heeled Gannet far over as I stood in the companionway that evening, sipping wine and listening to music. I grabbed the tumbler sitting on the waist-high deck before it could spill. The gust passed into sudden quiet as the wind dropped to 2 knots.

That afternoon I had dragged the Torqeedo electric outboard from where it is stowed, out of sight and mind, and mounted it on the stern, just to see if it still ran. It did, and I planned to turn it on sometime on the way back just to use it.

Gannet is an almost engineless boat.

I have sailed more engineless miles than some who have built their reputations and made a religion out of it. I had Egregious built without an engine; Chidiock Tichborne did not have one; and the diesel on Resurgam died on the Caribbean side of Panama, and the boat and I sailed all the way to Australia before replacing it. I’ve never powered more than an hour here and there at sea, and then usually only to stabilize a boat being thrown about by leftover waves with no wind. That you have to power through the doldrums is simply not true. I’ve crossed the equator 13 times without motoring. If you are a sailor and have a boat that sails well, you need an engine only for the last hundred yards in harbors that are set up with the expectation that all boats are powered.

I must admit that there is a satisfaction in doing it all under sail: sailing on and off the mooring, on and off anchor, and even spending two hours ­making 2 miles in almost no wind and then sailing into a knockdown-­gusty harbor.

Gannet is beautifully natural. Even with the solar-charged Torqeedo, she runs only on wind and sun and my muscles.

I looked around at the long shadows on the hills covered with impenetrable foliage. A few white skeletons of dead trees were surrounded by wild, exuberant green life. To the north, one tree broke above the others and reached higher for sun and sky.

I loved being there; I long have. I’ve sailed into this harbor on Resurgam, The Hawke of Tuonela and Gannet. And I knew that when I left this time, I might never be back.

Loreena McKennitt was singing “Dante’s Prayer”: “Cast your eyes on the ocean / Cast your soul to the sea / When the dark night seems endless / Please remember me.”

The exit from Whangamumu was easy. With light wind coming down from the hills to the west and an outgoing tide, I had the anchor up at 0915 and was out the entrance a few minutes later under mainsail. The departure was the best part of the day.

The wind, forecast to be 8 to 10 knots from the southwest, died within the first half-mile. I rode the outgoing tide and played the slightest of breaths to move Gannet away from an inhospitable rocky shore.

Two other sailboats that had come in late the preceding day departed not long after me and motored past with friendly waves, one turning south and the other continuing north as Gannet and I sat rocking gently. We sat most of the morning off the same headland south of Cape Brett, until finally light wind filled in from the north, heading us. I was glad to have it. Sailing in any direction is better than drifting.

I was seriously considering the possibility that we might not be able to reach any anchorage before sunset, in which case I planned to ease Gannet offshore for the night. We were finally beyond Cape Brett at 1330, taking four hours to make good 5 or 6 straight-line miles.

The day was overcast with a solid layer of low cloud and a breeze cold enough for me to put on a Polartec jacket.

I had the mostly below-deck Pelagic tillerpilot in place, but hadn’t been able to use it much in the morning, when we had no way on or steerage. For the 8 miles from Cape Brett to the north end of Urupukapuka Island, the wind remained steady on a very close reach, and the pilot performed exactly as it should.

Just beyond Urupukapuka, the wind suddenly backed to the southwest — as forecast — and as suddenly increased to 20 to 22 knots. Gannet heeled, lee rail under. I released the mainsheet with one hand while grabbing the tiller from the tillerpilot with the other.

After a day of glass and inch-high ripples, the bay was abruptly covered with whitecaps and 1- to 2-foot waves, into which Gannet slammed.

I hand-steered the rest of the way, and the wind continually headed us: west when we wanted to go west, south when we turned the corner near Russell and wanted to go south.

There were possible anchorages, but Russell, the lagoon at Roberton Island, and Paradise Bay are all open to the southwest. Paihia was tenable, but I thought I could reach Opua before dark and pressed on, tacking all the way and playing the mainsheet even after I managed to partially furl the jib.

We made it to Opua at last light. The sun was already below the hill.

Just north of the ferry crossing, I lowered the Torqeedo into the water instead of continuing to short-tack in what had become light head winds and an outgoing tide. I engaged the tillerpilot while I furled the jib and lowered the main. The Torqeedo whirred along quietly. For an engine, it is almost likable.

I picked up the mooring after 1900. It had taken 10 hours to cover 26 miles, though while tacking, we sailed farther.

Gannet had not been in full passage mode, with everything secured in place, yet in the gusts she had repeatedly heeled rail down on each tack. The V-berth was in shambles.

I sorted it out, stowed the anchor and rode in the bow, went back on deck, lifted the Torqeedo from the stern (though I left it in the cockpit for the night), put on mainsail and tiller covers, and moved spare halyards and the running backstays from near the mast.

By then it was dark. I went below. My neck and shoulders were sore. I thought: Crossing oceans is easier.

Webb Chiles, 75, is preparing Gannet to sail soon from Durban, South Africa, to continue and perhaps this year — time and chance permitting— conclude his sixth circumnavigation. You can follow his progress underway on his tracking page: my.yb.tl/gannet.

The post Whangamumu or Bust appeared first on Cruising World.

It hadn’t occurred to me that we might not find the Auckland Islands. With mountaintops that tower more than 2,000 feet, the tightly packed group of eight islands comprising the New Zealand ­subantarctic archipelago is more than 10 miles wide. They should have been visible from a great distance, particularly to Kicki’s sharp eyes. But for the last 48 hours, my wife had been as seasick as I’d ever seen her. And my degree of misery wasn’t far better. After sitting drenched in the cockpit, hand-steering Wanderer III for the better part of two days, covering some 220 nautical miles toward a sliver of narrow, wild coast, I craved some vital support.

“I need your eyes!” I called into the black hole of a cabin, sliding open the hatch. I was mumbling at this point: “Can’t see it. Our location is all iffy. If this continues, we might have to turn back.”

I could make out nothing in the gale-driven mist. The log that trailed from our stern put us about 10 miles off Auckland Island, the largest in the group. Had we oversailed our landfall? In order not to run into it, we had been heaved to for an afternoon and a night. Now in daylight, we inched forward once more, under storm jib and reefed main, hard on the wind. It had been wet ever since we headed south from Stewart Island’s unsung South Cape, the planet’s southernmost save for Cape Horn.

It was the ocean shelf between the cape and our position that was Kicki’s undoing. Battered by Force 8 winds, the nearly 10,000-foot-deep Southern Ocean jumps this 650-foot shallow hurdle with attitude. We never saw the Snares Islands, which lay along our route, though we must have been close. We never saw any of the brightly lit squid boats that frequent these waters, either. The bad weather hid them. But immediately around us, life teemed. This shelf is a huge dinner plate: Wherever I looked, I saw feeding birds — but nothing else as Wanderer crept south-southwest.

It took ages for Kicki, dressed in her foul-weather gear, to appear in my wet realm of doubt: Where were we? Where was Auckland Island’s north coast? I didn’t want to overshoot the island and end up along its western side. There, a history rich in disasters lingered. Many ships have gone down along that inescapable 20-mile crescent of 2,000-foot-high cliffs stretching north to south. It is an unsurvivable wall if one is driven into it by westerly storms. Facing 40-knot winds, I had time and reason enough to form misgivings about the wisdom — and luck — required for finding this goddamn place.

At last, Kicki crawled over the washboard for only the second time on the trip, passing from a black hole into a wet hole: our cockpit. And she was more determined to reach our landfall than I was.

“No way. That’s just not on,” Kicki said, picking up on my already forgotten mumblings. At first I didn’t grasp her meaning; I was a bit surprised at how sharp she seemed, considering her mal de mer. “Back to Stewart Island without getting to the Aucklands at all? I’m not suffering for that.”

Then she took up her position at the mast, her small frame harnessed safely to the boat but rising and falling with the waves.

The incubation period for my Auckland Islands dreams had been longer than for any other destination — well over a dozen years. Once the islands appeared on my mental horizon, they remained there, in sight yet out of reach. Our first attempt at reaching them, in 1995, ended in the vicinity of the Snares Islands in the face of a southerly gale. The storm and the already advanced summer made us turn around. Attempt number two saw Wanderer and us stuck high and dry in a New Zealand boatyard that proved to have considerable suction; Smith’s Reef, we called it. We had a Department of Conservation-approved visitor permit in our pockets, but no vessel in the water. The hard times on the hard carried on, so we never got going.

And now, this third approach? It got underway by surprise. By pure chance I had mentioned the Auckland Islands to my uncle Bruno, the only Cape Horner in our family, a man rich in seafaring lore. Bruno was then far into his 80s.

“Where to? The Auckland Islands?” He made sure he had heard right. “Then you must know of the Erlangen Clearing.”

Of course I did. Mainly that some ironwood trees felled on the Auckland Islands stood at the core of an incredible tale.

“Well, those trees … ” said Bruno, as he launched into a gripping story that held me spellbound an entire afternoon.

In the maritime world, this extraordinary account of the imaginative escape of the 6,100-ton German merchant ship Erlangen, at the onset of World War II, is without equal. I never knew that Bruno’s rich life had been shaped by it, one of the greatest sea stories of all time. Even Hollywood thought it worth a film, The Sea Chase, with John Wayne. But Bruno’s detailed narration was the better thriller.

Erlangen’s early-morning arrival at the Auckland Islands, with no chart in a vicious storm and with nowhere else to go, must have been as iffy as our approach. On August 31, 1939, a day before the outbreak of World War II, Capt. Alfred Grams idled off Perpendicular Point, in the south of the group. The most important information he’d been able to extract from his pilot book was that nobody lived in the Aucklands. The day before, with the world still at peace but holding its breath, the captain had shared breakfast and German beer with the New Zealand harbor pilot in Dunedin. With a handful of Germans and 50 Chinese as crew, Erlangen had left the port nearly empty, without much food and with just 150 tons of coal — enough for a maximum of five days steaming. The New Zealanders were confident that Erlangen would be their first war prize. With so little coal, she couldn’t reach anywhere the Brits or French were not. Escape was impossible. She would soon be impounded.

Grams and his crew had cleared for a coal port in Australia and were watched from ashore, steaming north. Then, under cover of darkness, with the portholes blackened and ship lights switched off, they swung around and headed south. Soon Erlangen became a maritime riddle. She hadn’t been seen anywhere. Despite her reduced range due to her limited supply of coal, she had simply vanished.

Public imagination ran wild and searches were launched. But nobody thought that the boat would be hidden 12 miles deep within the Auckland Islands’ natural Carnley Harbour. Erlangen was sitting in mud, staging for her much more daring escape. Grams hadn’t found much food ashore; instead he discovered the equivalent of gold in the form of a hardwood called rata. Three tons of rata equaled one ton of coal. To reach the neutral safety of Chile under the steam of her engines, Erlangen needed to carry at least 400 tons. Wielding self-made saws, Grams’ men cut what they could, creating the Erlangen Clearing. The steam winches worked for weeks. Meanwhile, thanks to some of the crew’s expertise in big-ship sailing, they produced two masts and a bulging square rig. Protected by terrible weather, Grams counted the tons of wood that piled up each day, and on his luck.

Carnley Harbour was a perfect hiding place for Erlangen. The New Zealanders who searched the Auckland Islands never found her, and the crew eventually escaped by burning rata and skillfully employing their sails. In a widely acclaimed feat of seamanship, they made it across the Southern Ocean to the safety of Chile’s Puerto Montt.

At that time, my uncle Bruno was 19 years young and living in Valparaiso, Chile. He had crewed aboard the four-masted bark Priwall, the fastest-ever tall ship to double Cape Horn, from 50 south around to 50 south, east to west. Afterward he found himself idling away on Priwall at anchor in Valparaiso. It was then that Erlangen crossed his path, in need of crew to continue her legendary voyage. Asked if he would muscle coal for Erlangen on a secretive trip back around Cape Horn and into the Atlantic, he signed on for the second dramatic chapter of the escape, of which all that remains is a tale and those stumps I hoped to find.

“They cleared the trees. Their stumps must still be there,” he hinted, “probably overgrown.”

Ever since my afternoon with Uncle Bruno, I had wanted to find those stumps and sit on them — in a dripping, windy place where yellow-eyed penguins incubate their eggs under trees and sea lions mate in the forest.

After a year spent at Stewart Island, we decided it was time to try for the Aucklands again. In compliance with our permit, we had Wanderer’s underwater hull checked for an invasive algae. It’s a Department of Conservation biosecurity measure to prevent the algae from reaching farther south. With no rats on board, and no mice, cats nor pigs, we were cleared for departure. On our last night in Stewart Island’s Thule Bay, morepork owls called from the three islands with beautiful names — Hope, Faith and Charity — that shelter the anchorage.

A little hope, faith and charity (along with the shelter those islands provided) would have been very welcome on our voyage south. The sea proved hard going; water filled the cockpit time and time again. To the limits of the horizon, nothing solid could be seen. Perched at the mast, Kicki suddenly turned her neck, her right arm raised.

“There. See it?” She waved at something beyond my visual reach. An outline.

“Where?” I asked. “There?” Propped up by her conviction, I suddenly saw it too — or thought I did. Briefly I hovered between doubt and delight, though I never burst into relief. There was nothing there: What we’d spotted were yearned-for contours, born of wishful minds.

One hour disappeared, then another. How thick was the mist? I wondered. How far could my vision penetrate it? We must be close to the island, I thought. But in waters like these, how close would be too close? I glimpsed the minutest fragments of a waterlogged source of light and convinced myself it was the sun. Chased by clouds, even the slight fragments of light dissolved in the eastern sky.

We could only hope our luck would hold and at some point bring us true sunlight, as well as a decent horizon on which to get a fix on our location. To entice it, I monitored the feeblest appearances of light hiding behind the wall of gray. On the rare occasion the sun tentatively showed itself, its rim was frayed by clouds; the horizon could only be guessed at, and it jumped about, a creation of my imagination when I lifted the sextant and attempted the first sun-sight of the trip.

Again and again the instrument got drenched. To dry the mirrors, I repeatedly handed it to Kicki, who had gone below. I tried perhaps a dozen times, and then one sight finally felt right. I rushed below to work it out. Our perpendicular line of position was quickly drawn on the chart; it cut directly through the island’s north shore. We were somewhere on that line. The single sight confirmed that we were northwest of the island. I trusted it. I had to. There was no other option.

Even though we still could not see land, we turned Wanderer and eased the sheets. It was oh so easy to ride the waves with the wind from astern. Within only half an hour, the Aucklands’ north cape presented itself out of the eternal haze. Only 3 miles away, we saw it at last.

Once we sighted land, we closed in on Enderby Island, only to be greeted by an abrupt increase in wind upon entering the 4-mile-deep Port Ross. It was a battle of many hours, under storm jib and deeply reefed main, to tack toward Erebus Cove. There the 45-pound CQR wouldn’t hold, and we had to switch to our heavier chain. But as if the blow had simply wanted to remind us of where we were, it died away. Only then did we notice groups of pintado petrels bathing innocently near the shore, next to blooming rata trees, as if on a summer vacation.

The next day’s arrival was the slowest in my history of sailing. We woke late, ate pancakes and slept again. There was no rush now that we’d arrived. We had two months to discover impenetrable dwarf forests. In other woods on the islands, songbirds accompanied our every step, hopping close by from branch to branch. Various albatrosses — shy, sooty, royal and wandering — bred on grassy plateaus. Along the precipitous west coast cliffs, waterfalls blew upward, defying gravity so their waters never reached the sea. We found penguins deep in the woods, along with the love nests of “hookers,” as the local sea lions are called. We watched our ensign, the Dannebrog, or Danish national flag, flog itself to half size thanks to two severe storms.

Eventually we sailed deeper into the chronically overcast Carnley Harbour, all the way into its north arm, where we anchored in 13 feet over mud, as Erlangen had long before us.

Surrounded by a wooded shoreline, we couldn’t readily see where we might find the Erlangen Clearing. Days passed, in fact, before we discovered it. It was absolutely not, as I’d imagined, in the open grassy space at the shallow bay’s end. No, we looked there. Then one afternoon Kicki approached me from behind and bent over my left shoulder with a big smile. “Guess what?” she asked. She had found the remnants of the rata trees.

I followed her lead, and then I recognized tree stumps scattered across a hillside that I found difficult to imagine as a clearing. The impenetrability of the second-­growth forest made a mockery of the name. Everything was overgrown. In the Erlangen Clearing it was easier to crawl than to walk. And it was easier yet to sit and just take it in.

In one of the world’s most southern forests, I chose a weathered stump whose perfectly leveled cut strangely contrasted with the chaotic growth around it. I found other leveled tree stumps closer to the shore. From each one I took bearings: Across the northern arm of Carnley Harbour, over Wanderer III and Figure of Eight Island, toward the Musgrave Peninsula. From each stump, Figure of Eight Island blocked the direct view to the entrance of this out-of-the-way bay.

I understood what these various ­perspectives told me, why the Kiwis searching for Erlangen in the early days of war missed her entirely.

I crawled out of the nearly impassable clearing and back to the beach. There the wind celebrated our discovery with atypical nonattendance. It was so still I could hear the swooping of circling sooty shearwater flocks. In front of me the water was a mirror-smooth zoo of paddling, diving and flying neighbors. Wherever my head turned, something moved and made sounds, except for the broken rata branches that had worked themselves into the shoreline.

I picked some up, carried them home and stoked the woodstove on Wanderer. There they crackled — in as strange a sound, I thought, as the Mandarin of 50 Chinese sailors who once warmed themselves in this same ­distant place.

Kicki and Thies Matzen and Wanderer III are currently in the Falkland Islands.

The post A Sailing Couple’s Landfall in the Remote Aukland Islands appeared first on Cruising World.