Adventure – The Pilots of the Caribbean

2020: The Year that Wasn’t

We left Alter in Preveza, Greece in October 2019 with the firm belief that we would return six months later. We travelled to Haiti to replenish our coffers flying on contract for the local airline, Sunrise Airways. We have both come to love Haiti but flying for Sunrise was not the ideal farewell. Cap Haïtien was our only destination. It is only 25 minutes flying time from Port-au-Prince, and our schedule of up to eight sectors a day was unrelenting. We spent most of our time off in our apartment staring at the opposite wall, trying to find the energy or inclination to do anything else. When we did find the energy, we visited old friends and explored some of the sights that we had previously missed, including one of Port-au-Prince’s iconic Gingerbread Houses: a post-colonial mansion that was built at the turn of the last century.

Then Covid-19 happened. SARS and MERS had both come and gone with little damage and, at the time, COVID didn’t appear to be much different.

We returned to the UK in February at the start of the global pandemic and a world that was inexorably changing. We had booked a short skiing holiday in Valtournenche, in the Aosta Valley. We hadn’t skied for two years and were keen to get back on the slopes. But before we left, while we were staying with Nicky’s sister in Wales, the pandemic began to swell. It flooded the province of Lombardy in Italy and seeped from there via the surrounding provinces into the rest of the country. We considered cancelling. But decided to go ahead and boarded the flight to Turin as planned. On arrival, we joined a long queue that snaked towards a cluster of medical staff who checked everyone’s temperatures and collected contact forms. The Italians were riding Europe’s first wave and were paddling furiously, trying to stay ahead of its curling tip and prevent their winter holiday season from drowning. Most skiers had chosen to stay home leaving the towns of Valtournenche and Cervinia bereft, with many restaurants closed and a curfew that brought an eerie calm to the evening streets. Residents were in shock, their hopes fading like mountain mist. Some stopped us in the streets to thank us for coming.

When the ski slopes closed we went snowshoeing.

On Sunday 8 March, the ski lifts operated at reduced capacity, with blocked-off seats and social distancing in the queues. Then, when it was clear that the wave was really a tsunami, the Italians finally did what they had been desperately trying to avoid, they closed the slopes.

EasyJet cancelled our return flight to the UK on the morning of our departure and muttered vague promises of evacuation flights from Milan, the epidemic’s epicentre. We declined and took the last flight out of Turin on Ryanair, who continued to honour their published schedule. At Stanstead we were greeted by empty hand sanitiser dispensers. Nobody seemed vaguely interested that we were coming from the heart of the pandemic. It was a strong indication that Britain had rolled up its trousers to its knees, pulled a knotted handkerchief firmly down over its head and was preparing to paddle into the wave without a lifejacket.

I left for South Africa shortly afterwards to start a two-month contract flying in the DRC and Nicky returned to Wales. In a world where plans were fast becoming meaningless, Nicky intended returning to Greece to go hiking in Corfu before we met up at the boat in May.

But Covid had a schedule that didn’t involve us. Countries began to close their borders and lock down their citizens. I reached Kalemie in the DRC the day before the Congo closed its borders and cancelled all internal flights, leaving me without much flying to do. I settled in for an indefinite stay. Nicky’s planned hike became impossible, so she moved into her sister’s Airbnb to wait out the pandemic.

My two-month contract stretched three and then four. It was eventually four and a half months before a new crew could replace me. With no flights between South Africa and the UK, or anywhere else, getting back to Nicky in the UK was a challenge. Fortunately, my boss agreed to drop me off in Lusaka and the Zambians let me remain in transit – without going through the mandatory 14 days quarantine – while I waited for an Ethiopian Airlines flight to London, via Addis Ababa.

Post-apocalyptic empty walkways at Heathrow.

During the four months, Nicky had decided that we needed a more permanent home, somewhere that we could always go to in times of crisis. The boat was supposed to be our home, but neither of us could get there. She wanted something more tangible. South Africa was too remote and neither of us wanted to return there permanently, so we decided to take advantage of the Brexit withdrawal agreement and move to Europe. But where?

Our first instinct was Spain. We flew to Granada to spend some time there and see if we liked it. We landed in Malaga and joined a crush of people choking the passageway to the arrival hall. Most were wearing masks, but I’ve seen more social distancing at a Rod Stewart concert.

The crush of people that greeted us in Malaga.

Grenada greeted us with temperatures in the forties and mandatory mask-wearing indoors and out. It was a bit like walking about in a large sauna with a shopping bag over your head, so we often escaped to the coast or drove up into the mountains, where it was a few degrees cooler.

We both loved Granada, and very nearly made an offer on an apartment in nearby Salobreña. But after a month it didn’t feel like home. More importantly, it felt like it might never be.

So, after making a list of all the places that we might want to live: France, Italy, Greece and just about anywhere in the world apart from Chad or North Korea, we decided to move to France. It was already August and under Article 34, we had to be resident and make an application to stay before the end of the year. There wasn’t a lot of time to spare.

We rented an apartment in Carcassonne, a city on the Canal du Midi that we had visited a couple of times previously. Properties closer to the coast tend to be more expensive and we didn’t want to be too far from the sea. After Nicky had examined every property for sale in a five-hundred-kilometre radius, we found a village house that, for me, was a coup de foudre. It wasn’t perfect for Nicky, with little outside space. But other than that it was exactly what we were looking for: somewhere small that we could lock up and leave whenever we wanted to without the property beginning to deteriorate the moment that we locked the door.

Perhaps the best part of the deal was that we bought it from an English couple who had renovated another property three doors down and would therefore be our neighbours.

Having Paul and Tan there to show us around and introduce us to our other neighbours made our transplant almost painless. We quickly discovered that we had a lot more in common and have become firm friends.

And then, finally, in July 2021, Covid restrictions began to ease. By then France had vaccinated us and we were able to consider returning to Greece and the boat.

The Storm

The crossing from Porquerolles to Corsica drained both of us, in different ways. So, when the boat was secure in the bay at La Revellata, we had a cup of tea and some marmite on toast, before collapsing into bed for a grateful night’s sleep. The following morning brought a low-pressure system racing towards us from the French mainland. There were few places to hide. We seldom go into marinas, mainly because of the cost, but we put our tails between our legs and sought refuge in Calvi’s harbour. We motored across under a glowering sky. The bay was still calm and another Ovni idled at a mooring ball not far from the beach.

The marina RIB directed us to an exposed looking finger that lay open to the harbour entrance. Our request to move a little deeper into the harbour for protection received an indifferent Corsican shrug in response. I wasn’t sure if they hadn’t understood, or just didn’t give a toss.

We secured the laid lines to the bow cleats and pulled the stern as far from the concrete finger as we dared. We had to position Alter far enough away from anything solid to make sure her stern wouldn’t hit the finger. At the same time, we had to be close enough for the ladder to reach the shore, so we could disembark without getting wet. We doubled up the stern lines and took lines from midships to the finger to make Alter as secure as possible.

With the boat secure, we headed off into town to get some supplies and to search for a part for the gas system, which had developed a leak. On the way back from the shops it began to rain and we quickened our pace. The weather had sneaked up on us while we weren’t looking and had already whipped the bay into a seething maelstrom. The mooring buoy field, where the solitary Ovni had whiled the afternoon, was a line of breakers angrily pounding the shore. The Ovni was gone.

We arrived at the marina in driving rain, trying vainly to keep our shopping dry. When we saw Alter, we started to run. The marina was bedlam. Crews raced about trying to secure their boats. Alter, alone at the end of her finger, was bucking like an unbroken pony. She thrashed at her mooring lines, trying to break free. We watched in horror as a huge swell lifted her bow and smashed her stern against the concrete.

We had to get on board, but it was dangerous. The boarding ladder, precarious in the calm, had been flung from its place on the sugar scoop. A bent rung betrayed where it had come in to contact with something immovable.

We waited for a lull, and I leapt onto the sugar scoop. One of the new mooring lines, with a breaking strain of over five tonnes, hung limp in the water, splayed fibre testimony to the force that had snapped it. There was still a vicious surge in the harbour with the danger of the stern being smashed against the jetty again, so I ran forward to pull us even further away from the concrete while Nicky eased the stern lines. When we had done all we could, we retreated to the cabin to unpack our sodden shopping and change into dry clothes.

Alter in the marina after the storm had passed

When the sea subsided, we emerged to crisp clouds and snow-draped mountains. I tried to get ashore using the damaged ladder as a passerelle. The dock was too far away and the swell still too big to rest one end on the sugar scoop and the other on the dock, so I rigged a line from the arch to support the ladder at its mid-point. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the mid-point quite right, because when I passed the halfway mark, gravity intervened. I had no intention of falling into the frigid water, so I clung desperately to the ladder, which writhed like an angry snake. My groin broke my fall and Nicky carefully retrieved me back to the boat while I tried not to cry. We shortened the stern lines again and I managed to get ashore without any more injury to pride or body.

The following morning a thin wind from the mountains had us dressed for winter. But it had flattened the sea and had enough strength to fill our sails. We still had over four hundred miles to go to Balestrate in Sicily, where we had to catch our flight to the UK. Seventeen days seemed like plenty of time to cover the distance, but we needed a weather window for the long crossing from Sardinia to Sicily, and wanted to get the autohelm fixed before then. So we departed Calvi for Bonifacio, where we hoped to find some of the spares that we needed.

Bonifacio and the entrance to the harbour

Bonifacio perches on what seems to be an unbroken line of sea cliffs on the southern shore of Corsica. From the sea, it’s hard to imagine that it has a harbour. The chart shows an entrance to the east of the red and white lighthouse. But even through binoculars, the cliffs there seemed impenetrable. We dropped our sails and motored cautiously towards the light house. A small boat carrying tourists materialised from the rock and darted into a deep sea cave at the base of the cliff. The channel finally revealed itself, bounded by sheer rock on either side. We followed the narrow channel and turned sharply right turn towards the town. We slipped into an inlet just before the marina where there were mooring balls and hard points ashore to secure the stern. It was a new manoeuvre for us. The inlet was narrow, leaving little room to pick up the mooring ball.

We secured the bow, but before I could get ashore in the dingy with a stern line, the wind blew us off and left Alter in the middle of the channel, parallel to the shore. I kept rowing, but the mooring line wasn’t long enough. I didn’t have another with me, so I tied the dingy’s painter to the end of the mooring line and kept rowing.

I was still a meter away from the shore when I ran out of line and I was forced to jump overboard and become part of the rope by hanging on to the dingy with one hand and reaching for an anchor point ashore with the other. We finally secured the boat, very happy that there’d been no witnesses.

We took the burst hydraulic line to the only chandler in town, who greeted it with blank incomprehension. Our last chance to get the autohelm repaired before the crossing to Sicily was in Olbia in Sardinia so we left Bonifacio the following morning and continued south, threading our way through the Maddalena archipelago, the islands that speckle Sardinia’s north-east coast. Warm azure water lured us to linger, but another low pressure system threatened and we wanted to be sheltered when it struck.

We tied up alongside a stone quay in Olbia’s old harbour with the help of some local fishermen, and I immediately set out to find a chandler. Six kilometres of walking and two chandlers later, the man behind the counter shook his head ruefully at the sight of the hose and sent me to Gottardi, a tyre specialist, two doors down. I was dubious, but desperate and went there with the burst hose and a bag full of pessimism.

The Gottardi man spoke little English. He gravely inspected the perished hose and its fittings. ‘No inox.’

‘Scusi?’ I asked, in my best Italian.

‘This inox. We no have inox.’

By then I’d learned that inox is a French abbreviation for stainless steel and guessed that it was the same in Italian, but I didn’t have a clue what bog standard steel was called. ‘You have steel?’

He shrugged as if I’d just asked a stupid question, ‘Si!’

‘You can make one?’

I followed him down a short ramp to a basement filled with spare parts and heavy machinery. He rummaged through cardboard boxes of fittings, selected two, tested them, cut a piece of hose to length and took the pieces to a large red crimping machine.

Ten minutes I had a newly manufactured hose, almost identical to the sample that I had brought him, and a bill for thirty-five euros.

I presented the hose to Nicky with a flourish, as if it was a trophy. But getting the hose made was the easy part. The hydraulic ram had to be removed from a confined space under the cockpit that was barely big enough for an octopus. Nicky took over when my cramped hands couldn’t hold the spanner any more. Her skinny fingers had more room to manoeuvre. But once the new hose was fitted, the ram had to be replaced again, a process that drew blood and a litany of profanities from both of us. Then the system had to be bled through a bleed screw that refused to budge. With the help of some heat we managed to loosen it, almost losing the tiny ball bearing that jumped out and fled towards the cockpit drain with purpose. And when the system had been bled and refilled with hydraulic oil, it had to be recalibrated. It refused. We followed the instructions precisely, but every time the process was complete, we got an error message. Night fell and we went to bed exhausted and frustrated. I lay awake half the night, going through the steps in my mind, trying to determine what we were doing wrong until eventually I fell into a restless sleep.

The following morning after breakfast we tried the calibration again and it worked first time. We were ready to press on south, but the low pressure system was still lurking, so we postponed our departure for another day and, with Alter safely tied up in Olbia’s secure harbour, we went shopping for a new mirror for the head.

The Crossing

We woke to an unfamiliar motion. It was a calm morning off La Ciotat, with barely a ripple in the bay, but enough of a swell to remind us that we were no longer landlubbers.

After breakfast, we weighed anchor and set sail for Porquerolles, 30 miles away. The fresh southerly breeze and calm seas allowed us an easy run, with no warning of what was to come. We crossed the traffic separation scheme outside Toulon with a tinge of anxiety, but it was unfounded and the only ships we saw were safely tied up in the port.

A little after three that afternoon, we dropped anchor off Porquerolles. Once the boat was secure, we began planning our twenty-hour crossing to Calvi in Corsica for the following afternoon.

We had never sailed out of sight of land before without a seasoned skipper on board. We had crossed the Drake Passage between Cape Horn and Antarctica the previous year, but I had spent most of the time curled in the foetal position feeling sorry for myself.

My seasickness hadn’t presented itself since leaving Marseille, but conditions had been near perfect, and I had very little confidence that the deferral would continue.

The navigation was simple. After rounding Porquerolles, we would head almost due east with nothing but sea between us and Corsica. But the weather gave us pause. The forecast was for winds of about 25 knots from the south during the night, which would be perfect for the crossing. Knowing that wind strengths are often underestimated, we added 10% to the forecast, for an expected wind speed of about 30 knots. Waves of not more than two meters were expected.

In order to arrive during daylight, we decided to leave at 15:30, which would allow plenty of time to prepare for our first night passage, and also to arrive at our destination in the middle of the following day, giving us plenty of leeway for the unforeseen.

My seasickness hadn’t presented itself since leaving Marseille, but conditions had been near perfect, and I had very little confidence that the deferral would continue. I went to bed with anxiety gnawing at my stomach like a rat.

The following morning we launched Persephone for a trip into town and were reacquainted with our irascible outboard. It would not idle. I adjusted the idle screw until the engine ran without cutting out, but it was idling so fast that I dared not put it in gear.

So, I adjusted it back to a slower setting and had to keep blipping the throttle to stop the engine from dying. It worked in theory. But when we neared the beach, we came very close to being the afternoon’s entertainment. When we slowed to line up with the beach, the motor died and left us drifting. The pull cord resisted heroically and tried to rip my hand from my arm every time the motor caught. And then, when it was running, if I dared slow down, the motor died again.

Fortunately, the beach was sandy at the water’s edge and we could safely approach with a little bit of speed so that I could kill the motor and lift it before we hit the sand.

Porquerolles is a holiday town, but summer was still a month away and the crowd was thin. We wandered around a little and stopped for an ice cream before returning to Alter to prepare for the crossing.

As our departure time neared, I considered the 120 miles between us and Calvi with trepidation. It seemed like an ocean. We’d spent a lot of time going over the weather forecasts, checking the GRIBs for the route and taking every precaution to ensure that we were doing the right thing. We were sheltered from the fresh southerly breeze on the north of the island as we motored out of the bay. Rounding the north side of the island, the breeze began to build. By the time we were clear of the land it had freshened to 20 knots. We tucked a reef into the main and rolled out most of the genoa.

But the wind hadn’t read the forecast and, before the hour was up, we cinched a second reef and rolled the genoa in to the next mark. The sun fell and the darkness swept down on us with more wind and waves.

I was still feeling fine, so I went forward to put the third, and final, reef in for the night. It was apparent that the forecast had underestimated the wind’s resolve. Even the extra 10% that we’d added as a precaution didn’t come close to the gale that began howling and threatened to tear the wind generator from its mountings.

We needed to stop it, but it wasn’t easy. There was a little rope that we had to pull to bring the blades in line with the wind to stop them. But the wind was in front of us and the spinning blades were between us and the rope. It was necessary to climb the pushpit, reach over the solar panels and slip my arm between the solar panel and the spinning blade, through a gap that was barely bigger than the diameter of my arm. The boat was heaving over the swell, which added an unwanted complication. I slid my hand underneath with trepidation and, just when I thought that the string was in reach, I lifted my arm a little too much and a blade hit my watch with a loud crack. I reflexively snatched my arm back and eyed the howling disk warily for a second attempt.

Nicky persuaded me that her arm was thinner than mine and that it would be easier for her. She climbed the pushpit while I held on to her to stop her from going overboard. Her grip was surer than mine and she soon grabbed the rope and swivelled the blades out of the wind, putting an end to the dreadful vibration.

One problem had been solved, but the wind continued to grow and the night ahead seemed to stretch on to infinity.

We prepared ourselves for the worst, with our lifejackets and harnesses on, tucked into our foulies, and the first watch keeper – me – equipped with both the integral AIS and also a small EPIRB.

Nicky made me a flask of tea and then went below at 20:00. While she tried to get some sleep the wind finally settled at a sustained 40 knots. A swell of over four meters pushed us on the starboard quarter, and set up an uncomfortable corkscrew motion. Despite the cocktail of drugs that I had swallowed, my condition began to circle the drain.

My seasickness takes on a peculiar form. I wish it was the more traditional nausea that can be relieved a little by expelling some of the misery in a good vomit. But mine is more like an onset of epilepsy combined with a touch of psychosis.

It begins fairly traditionally with a cold sweat, little gasps for more air and an unsettled feeling in my stomach. But it progresses to vision disturbance, the inability to tolerate anything in my line of sight and muscular tics.

By the time Nicky emerged for her watch at 23:00, I was in full Cuckoo’s Nest, flapping about like a landed fish. Nicky helped me below and had to take my foulies off for me because I had no control over my arms. She got me into the aft cabin, where we had prepared a bunk, and tucked me in. I had enough sense in me to feel despair because I knew that I had become almost useless and that Nicky was going to have to make the rest of the crossing on her own.

Fortunately, Nicky is at her best in adversity and she rose to the challenge. When my shaking eventually stopped, I lapsed into a blissful oblivion. Through my addled sleep I heard the winch grinding now and then as Nicky adjusted the genoa, reeling it in to a rag when the wind threatened to overpower her, then letting it out a little when it eased.

Nicky’s voice penetrated my restless sleep. It was time for my watch but, although I had largely recovered, I knew that if I moved from the horizontal, I wouldn’t last five minutes. I would be able to help her in extremis, but doing a solo watch was out of the question.

‘There’s a ship heading straight for us!’ she yelled over the wind.

‘It should move out of the way when it sees us on AIS.’

‘It’s getting pretty close.’

There wasn’t much scope for turning in the conditions, but right of way means little when a sailing boat and a container vessel collide. ‘If he’s not turning, we’ll have to.’

And the only thing I remember until much later was Nicky’s greeting to the ship as it slid past in the darkness, having kept doggedly to its course. ‘VAFFANCULO, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE.’ I didn’t know that she could speak Italian.

Nicky sailed on into the night alone while I lay below with my nightmares. But hers were real. Around three in the morning, the boat drifted off its course. Since we’d left Marseille the autohelm had performed flawlessly, giving us the confidence to shelter under the spray dodger in the worst weather and allow the autohelm to keep a constant angle to the wind.

But when it drifted off, Nicky couldn’t do anything to persuade it to return to our course, or even to hold it. She tried heading-hold in case the wind computer had failed, but that wouldn’t work either. It meant that she could no longer shelter from the weather and was forced to spend the rest of the night at the wheel.

She called me when land was in sight the wind had died a little. The sea was still up but the motion was easier. I managed to rouse and dress myself and join her on deck in time to see the mountains of Corsica emerge from the gloom.

I took the wheel and suggested that Nicky go below, but there was still too much adrenaline flowing through her and, although she was exhausted, she wanted to be there to the end. I tried the autohelm again when it was light in the hope that we could identify the problem but, although all the indications were normal, it wouldn’t respond.

Nicky, a little weather-beaten but happy after we dropped anchor at Revellata.

It was midday before we nudged into the Golfe de Revellata, a small bay to the west of Calvi, across the water from the citadel. It was sheltered and calm, a strange contrast to the tempestuous night. We stowed the mainsail, reefed the genoa and motored to a quiet corner of the bay, where we dropped anchor.

While Nicky had a well-deserved shower I made her marmite on toast for breakfast. I put her to bed and told her what an amazing job she had done. Then I put the sail covers on and secured the boat, while feeling abashed at my impotence.

The Boat

When we met Coyote we were living in Johannesburg, flying 737s for Comair, a South African domestic airline. We had fallen into it, the way one falls into things, bought a home, added two dogs, grown roots. We acquired stuff, decorated, renovated, re-decorated and perfected until the house was exactly what we wanted.

Work had its privileges, like rebate tickets on British Airways, and early morning descents into Cape Town with clouds spilling off Table Mountain and tendrils of fog tracing the streams that wet the Winelands.

But life wasn’t without drudgery: the commute, the traffic, the taxis. And limited destinations became increasingly familiar as the years slipped by. The exhilaration of flight was slowly replaced by the creeping fatigue of a relentless schedule. And living in Johannesburg meant accepting the persistent possibility of violence.

Coyote was French and working as a diving instructor at Ponta do Ouro in Mozambique, where Nicky did her Advanced Diver course. He had spent the previous twenty years roaming the earth, staying only as long as his visa was valid. He’d crewed on crabbers in Alaska, shucked oysters in Canada, guided kayaks in the Gulf of California and taught scuba diving in more places than he could remember. His dream was to buy a catamaran, crew it with his wife, and charter it on diving trips in the Coral Triangle, where the warm Pacific waters flow between the Philippines and Indonesia, feeding a bountiful marine biome.

Meeting Coyote was a defining moment, the start of a slow realisation that there was another way, a better way. We began to dream of selling up and sailing the world. But it was too soon: we still had two beautiful dogs. We could not contemplate parting with them while they were still alive.

There were worries too. I get seasick. Very seasick. So, before we sunk our savings into a boat, I signed up for a deckhand course to see if I could be a sailor. The week went well; we bought a small yacht. I returned to complete my Day Skipper license. And then the learning process really began. It was a bit like buying a pair of climbing boots and then tackling Everest. After our third outing, we suspected that the Port Elizabeth NSRI were placed on standby whenever we arrived at the yacht club. (We never called on them, but there were a few occasions…)

When Bella, our Great Dane, died, we knew that our time was approaching. Max was still healthy, but he was thirteen and showing his age. Then he was gone, and we were left bereft. And free.

Within a few months we’d sold our house and the boat, resigned from the airline and accepted a flying job in Haiti. The new job meant four months off a year, and the opportunity to travel. But we hadn’t lost sight of our goal.

We debated a wish-list for our next boat and spent countless hours surfing “boat porn.” There was no perfect boat. A boat that is good for the tropics can be dangerous at high latitudes; a boat that goes fast is often uncomfortable and a challenge to sail; a boat that has room for all the toys can be a handful for two people – and stretch the budget to breaking point. Every boat is a compromise.

In December 2017 we sailed to Antarctica aboard the expedition yacht Pelagic Australis. She spoiled us with her size, her comfort, her capability and above all her cosy pilothouse where we could shelter from the worst that the weather could throw at us. We dreamed of a pilothouse.

By the middle of last year, we had looked at almost every yacht that was on the market, and still not found what we were looking for. Well, we had found two. But no matter how much we wanted a Good Hope 56 or a Boréal 44, neither was in the budget.

Both of the boats are made of aluminium, which is strong and doesn’t corrode – much. The more time we spent poring over the details of boats on the Internet, the more we found ourselves going back to one particular design.

The French boatyard Alubat has been making aluminium boats for some time and the most popular of their brands is the Ovni. It has a lifting centreboard, which allows it to navigate waters less than a metre deep, and a reputation for being the Land Rover of the sea. (Meaning that it can go almost anywhere – not that it breaks down all the time.)

I had placed email alerts on a number of brokerage sites that warned me when an Ovni became available. There were some false alarms. A boat in Florida that looked promising turned out to be a fix-it-up. We made an offer for another in Poland, but the owner turned us down. Then, one Sunday morning I checked my mail while the coffee was brewing. There was an Ovni 435 for sale in Marseille. I clicked the link. I rushed through to the bedroom where Nicky was waiting for her coffee, ‘I think I’ve found our boat.’

She sat up and reached for my iPad. As she flicked through the pictures, the growing smile on her face told me that she agreed. It ticked almost all the boxes: a large forward sail locker, an equipment room, a stand-up shower. And it had just returned from a ten-year circumnavigation and was fully equipped to keep going. It had a water maker, diesel heater, solar panels, wind generator…

‘Call him.’

‘What?’

‘Call him!’

I looked at Nicky uncomfortably. We were in the Congo, the seller was in France. He spoke French, might not speak English. My French was appalling.I didn’t want to cold-call some stranger in France. I wanted to compose a carefully thought out email, translate it, send it off, wait.

The phone rang only twice, ‘Oui?’

‘Bonjour. Je m’appelle Brady. Je vous téléphoner à cause de votre bateau.’

‘Do you speak English?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. Do you?’

‘A little. But I think it is better than your French.’

‘Is the Ovni still available?’

‘Yes. I advertised it only yesterday.’ He seemed bemused.

I nodded to Nicky and she began frantically signalling me and mouthing that I should make an offer, while I tried to concentrate on what the man was saying.

We made an offer subject to a survey.

We arranged and paid for a survey.

But we were in Goma, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and couldn’t be in France until the following week. We spent the time putting the money together, organising the unexpected visit to Marseille, liaising with the surveyor, and reassuring the seller that we were serious and that he shouldn’t sell the boat to anyone else until we got there.

And when we arrived in Marseille ten days later, we found that the yacht was everything we’d hoped for. Patrice, the seller, had bought it new in 2006, looked after it with care. We shook hands on the sale and Patrice spent the rest of the day guiding us through our new home, demonstrating all the systems. It was a reluctant parting for him, but we reassured him that his Alter would be loved and cared for.

We returned to our nearby Airbnb that evening a little dazed. We were boat owners again. We already had commitments for the next few months. There wasn’t time to put the boat in the water before the end of summer. So, the following day we left Alter in France and continued on to the UK and our planned holiday.

Our lives continued as normal but had inextricably changed. We started making wish-lists, planning renovations, surfing the internet for all the things that we wanted to have aboard when we set off on our journey.

We planned to return to the boat in December. But she would only return to the water the following April. It seemed like a lifetime away.

The Year in Pictures

It’s been almost a year since the last post. A narrative on the happenings would be longer than War and Peace. So, to save you from boredom, we’ve decided to post a smattering of pictures of the year that was:

Île à Vache

When the aircraft was undergoing routine maintenance, we slipped out of Port-au-Prince to explore Île à Vache…

The Island of Cows, lies off Les Cayes, about 200 kilometers west of the capital Port-au-Prince and roughly halfway along the southern coast of the Tiburon peninsula. It is only ten kilometers off the coast, but a continent away from the hustle of Haiti. The island got its name during the seventeenth century when pirates used it as a provisioning stop.

One of the local fishermen showing us his crab pots.

Under the Tuscan Sun

In September 2017, we spent three weeks in Italy, where we travelled to Verona and Venice before touring Tuscany.

In Verona, we experienced Tosca in the two-thousand-year-old arena.

Venice was Venice, with tourist crowds that outnumbered the residents. But it wasn’t difficult to get away from the crowds, even near the Rialto Bridge, where a step to the left found us at All’Arco a small bar serving delicious cicchetti to a local crowd.

We attended the Regata Storico, the annual gondola race down the Grand Canal that has been a fixture since the thirteenth century.

Part of the parade of gondolas on the Grand Canal

We travelled to the islands of Murano and Burano, famous for its colourful houses.

From Venice, we travelled to Tuscany, where we based ourselves in the small town of Gambassi Terme. We could see the medieval towers of San Gimignano from our terrace.

The view of San Gimignano from our terrace.

On the way to the market in the nearby town of Certaldo, we stumbled across a medieval festival.

San Gimignano, with its iconic towers, was a short drive away.

The view from the top of one of the towers in San Gimignano

Not far from San Gimignano we followed Francesco and his dogs Sally, Angie and Nuaoro through the undergrowth in search of truffles. Francesco’s biggest challenge was preventing the dogs from eating the truffles that they found.

Francesco Sally Angie and Nuaoro, all digging for truffles.

In Florence, we stayed on the south bank of the Arno, away from the crowds. We visited the Uffizi Gallery and soaked up the standard Florence experience, but the highlights were watching the movie Dunkirk at the Odeon, discovering a wine bar around the corner from our apartment and experiencing lunch at Ristorante Alla Vecchia Bettola, where the locals eat.

We took the train back to Rome, where the journey had started. There we met up with family and friends. Nicky’s sister Susan joined us with Harley and Noa. We also met up with Giuditta, who introduced us to her uncle Giovanni – a devoted son of Rome.

One evening, we were all having sundowners outside the French Embassy. Giovanni explained to us that the embassy was housed in the Palazzo Farnese, a former home of Pope Paul III. He was telling us about the frescos and other works of art inside when the police began putting up barriers in front of the building. We learned that it was the one night of the year that the palace was open to the public and quickly joined the growing queue.

Perseus Turns Phineus and His Companions to Stone by Showing Them Medusa’s Head. Annibale Carracci c1606

Antarctica

In December we sailed to Antarctica on board the sailing vessel Pelagic Australis. It was an unforgettable experience, but we took some photographs, just in case.

The Argentinian refuge hut in Mikkelsen Harbour.

The male penguin constantly upgrades the nest with more stones – to replace the ones that the other penguins have stolen.

Pelagic Australis waiting for the shore party to return.

Pelagic Australis tied up in Enterprise Harbour next to factory shipwreck with another yacht rafted up alongside.

Approaching an iceberg for some more penguin watching

Disembarking onto the ice at Port Lockroy

… which was every bit as cold as we feared.

Passing Cape Horn on the return journey.

Sunset on our last night in Puerto Williams

Jacmel Carnaval

On 1st January this year, we learned that the contract in Haiti had been cancelled by the UN with only a month’s notice. We returned to Haiti uncertain of the future, expecting to fly the aircraft back to South Africa via the Azores. But our employer signed a contract with a local airline, and our stay in Haiti was extended.

We had a few days off between contracts that coincided with the annual carnival in Jacmel.

One of the Chaloskas, a bogeyman of the carnival based on Charles Oscar Etienne, Haiti’s chief of police in 1915, who infamously supervised the murder of 167 political prisoners.

Haiti is the only nation to have freed itself from slavery, something Haitians are fiercely proud of.

As the sun began to set, the crowd at the rear swelled and pressed the procession forward.

Leaving Haiti

The new contract in Haiti didn’t give us any time to explore. So we cut our losses and said a sad goodbye to a country that we’d grown to love.

Jacmel & Bassin Bleu

Distances in Haiti are measured in hours, not kilometers. A five-kilometer trip to the supermarket takes at least half an hour. Jacmel on Haiti’s south coast is only a hundred kilometers from Port-au-Prince, but a three-hour drive.
We planned to depart early for Jacmel to avoid the hour or three when the Port-au-Prince traffic goes from slow to stationary. We should have known better. Carefully planned itineraries in Haiti are naïve fantasies. So, we were unsurprised, but flustered, when a failed clutch stranded us before we had left the house. With accommodation booked and no other means of easily getting to Jacmel, we began frantically calling car hire companies. By the time we’d negotiated a replacement at a sensible price, loaded up, and set off for Jacmel, the roads were as congested as a consumptive’s lungs.

Eglise Paroissiale St. Philippe et St. Jean overlooking the old Iron Market in Jacmel

We pushed through the sprawling Carrefour slum on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, where ruined roads slowed us to a crawl, and negotiated the torturous traffic, flanking water tankers that leaked from their hindquarters like incontinent elephants, and passing brightly painted buses with I Love You God and Grace Bondieu splashed across their windscreens. We fought our way free from the morning melee into the countryside and followed a pass over the Massif de la Hotte, the mountain range that divides Haiti’s Tiburon Peninsula. The narrow road passed through unkempt villages and wound around blind bends, slowing us to a plod. And when we found ourselves behind an asthmatic truck, there was no passing it until we reached the top.
Then we plunged down towards the sea, making up time on the descent, and turned off towards the renowned Bassin Bleu, a little before Jacmel. Thanks to Google Maps, we knew precisely where we were, exactly where we were going, but had no idea how to get there. Google had us fording the river, but a new bridge kept our tyres dry. We ditched the GPS and, with the help of the occasional local, found our way to Bassin Bleu the old way.
Tourism in Haiti endures somewhere between scarce and non-existent. If you ignore the Canadians bussed to the all-inclusive Decameron Hotel in packages or the sun-seekers delivered to Labadee by the shipload, you could count the foreign tourists on your fingers. Consequently, places like Bassin Bleu, which would be overcrowded on any other Caribbean island, are visited mostly by locals, or foreigners living in Haiti. So, the guides, who sometimes wait fruitlessly all day for a tourist, turn into a lynch mob when a potential client arrives. Well, that’s what it felt like. Before I had set the park brake, a crush of guides surrounded the car, knocking on the windows, clamouring for our attention. We emerged into a cacophony of unintelligible Creole.

When we hesitated, they began shouting and shoving each other and fixing for a fight.
I was ready to abandon the visit. But Nicky found David Guerrier from the Renand Foundation, who was a tranquil island amidst the tempest. We followed David along a forest path that wound upstream, until we came across a top hat resting on a pair of boots. Baron Samedi had beaten us to it. We left our trainers next to the hat and slid down a rock face to the river with the help of a knotted rope.

Bassin Bleu nestles in a narrow gorge at the base of a small waterfall. It comprises a series of pools, the most popular of which is the highest: Bassin Clair. Despite its name, its water is a milky turquoise but it is cool and inviting in the Haitian heat. We stripped to our costumes on the steep stone sides of the pool and swam, with our sandwiches, to the toad-like rock in the middle, where we joined a group who were visiting from Jacmel.
While having our picnic, we met Susan an American artist living in Jacmel. She told us about her art studio and also about The Vatican, where Reggie blends his own ice cream creations.
An hour or two later we were back at the car. We felt that David had looked after us well so, although he hadn’t asked for any money, we gave him a thousand gourdes (about $16 US, which, we believed was way above the going rate). He seemed unhappy, so we offered him more. He declined. So, we left mildly disgruntled David, paid the car guard, and tried to ignore the gathering crowd of hawkers and their trinkets. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. The car was dead.
With some reluctance, we rejoined the atmosphere of mild discontent. The guides, car guards and hawkers gathered around, all loudly recommending solutions. We traced the problem to a loose battery connection, tightened it, and fled for Jacmel. But the car felt spongy, so we pulled over down the road and found that one tyre was badly underinflated. We pushed on cautiously and soon after we rejoined the main road, we stopped at one of the many roadside tyre repair spots and pumped up the tyre. It didn’t go down again. We couldn’t help wondering if someone at Bassin Bleu had deflated it so that they could ‘assist’ us to inflate it again.
When we reached Jacmel, we headed straight for The Hotel Cyvadier just outside town in time to watch the sunset, both clasping large and welcome rum punches.
The following morning we headed for The Vatican and Reggie’s ice cream. Jacmel isn’t very big, and we had directions, but The Vatican was nowhere to be found. We wandered about looking confused until someone emerged from a doorway and asked what we were looking for.
‘Le Vatican.’
C’est ici. Entrez!’ he gestured for us to enter. We hesitated. There was no sign outside and the interior was dark and uninviting, with a pool table guarding a cluster of dusty chairs and half-built furniture.
‘It’s closed for renovations, but you can come in.’

The Vatican occupies a reclaimed alleyway with a roof and mezzanine added. Attached to the restaurant, beyond a small courtyard, are an ice cream parlour and café: both also closed. We followed the guy upstairs, where a long bar counter faced a few tables with bench seats.
Reggie rose from his mattress on the adjacent balcony like Lazarus and, wearing little more than a loincloth around his ample waist, clambered over the low wall into his restaurant. He shook off his afternoon sleep and greeted us like honoured guests. Reggie is a Haitian who, like many of his countrymen, has spent much of his life in the United States. Unlike most of them, he returned to set up his business in Jacmel. He was tickled that we had come specially for his ice cream and reeled off all the different flavours for us to choose from. I don’t remember all of them, but Nicky settled for Rum & Raisin and I requested a bolder Pineapple & Ginger.
When the cups of ice cream arrived, Reggie hovered over us like an expectant father. He needn’t have worried, they were both delicious. Sometimes food exceeds expectations only because the expectations weren’t very high to begin with. But Reggie’s ice cream alone was worth the journey to Jacmel. While we were savouring our treats, Susan and Stephanie, who we had met at Bassin Bleu, arrived. I think they might have entered from another balcony, but I can’t be sure because we were fixated on our ice creams. We sat chatting for a while before heading off to explore Jacmel.

Jacmel has little of the bustle of its big brother on the other side of the mountain. It is a rough gem badly in need of polishing. The Marché de Fer in Bel Air was once a lively centre of commerce, but its heart has ceased to beat. Some of its steel struts have rusted through, causing part of the roof to lean alarmingly into the street. The remains of bright silver cladding imply a scrapped renovation: a love found and lost.

One of the shops selling papier-mâché masks.

Down towards the sea, artists studios and galleries range along the cobbled streets near the Hotel Florita. And further west, towards the river, we found shops with brightly coloured papier-mâché heads for sale, a side-gig for the artists who make masks for Carnival. Graffiti is often a blight, but the Jacmel artists have talent in any medium.

The walls near the Alliance Française are covered in the kind of graffiti that might once have been frescos. At the seafront, the promenade was deserted except for a group of schoolchildren bussed down for the day. The beach would be idyllic, but for a canal that delivers a stream of garbage and plastic containers onto the sand.
The city is a living metaphor for Haiti: warm, picturesque and laid-back; but its crumbling infrastructure is almost beyond repair.