Alone in the wide open spaces

The cloud cover hangs at what feels like mast height and approaches me menacingly from behind. The sea is churning, far from the kitschy azure blue - no, more like black and gray. The scenery couldn't be better for a scary movie. The wind has picked up to 25 knots and the first reefing line is taut. As a precaution, I have also reduced the genoa by two thirds and can quickly increase it again. Since I'm sailing single-handed, I choose the conservative option - I don't have to hang out the Boris right away.

Bad weather approaches

I was actually expecting better weather, but you can't always choose that. In fact, I'm already late in the season, which means the season is already over. In principle, I'm already in the cyclone season, and I have the feeling that this squall is trying to point this out to me at the very beginning of my trip. The cyclone season is also the reason why I'm doing the trip single-handed. Taking responsibility for yourself is one thing, but it's quite another for someone else. I can't and don't want to, so I set off alone on the long journey from Tahiti to New Zealand. 2200 miles in a direct route that will probably extend to 2500 nautical miles. A route that skirts the southern Cook Islands and then heads far south of Tonga towards the North Island of New Zealand. A route across an unreal ocean, far from civilization, in the middle of nowhere. So, alone in the wide open space.

Writing a logbook is also part of it

I set off from Papeete in beautiful weather. The island covers the southeast wind, so I make very fast progress in the channel between the outer reef and Faaa Airport. Not fast enough, because a 50' Lagoon overtakes me halfway and of course takes up the only berth at the petrol station in Taina Marina. So I have to wait and turn on the plate in the harbor basin so that I can set a direct course for the southern pass after refueling. The same pass that I took at the end of March and landed on Tahiti. That was eight and a half months ago now. How time flies. I pass the surfers who greeted me back then and wave goodbye to them. The wave outside takes hold of me and gives me a good shake, as if the ocean is saying: “Well, have you been back, where have you been for so long?” There is still no wind, which makes the movement of the boat even more unbearable. But that changes quickly and the Katinka picks up speed under full sail. 

Fast on the road

Moorea lies off in the haze, and at eight knots I'm traveling pretty fast. New sails and, above all, significantly less weight contribute to this. In the late afternoon, the clouds get lower and lower and the wind picks up to 25 knots. In a gust, the wind sometimes reaches 30 knots on the display and I consider whether I should set the second reef. But I limit myself to the genoa, most of which disappears into the furling system. Nevertheless, the eight knots of speed are maintained and in the surf on the now three and a half meter high wave, 14 knots are reached. The route planner then always shows nine days to the destination, which is of course complete nonsense, but gives me a boost of motivation every time. Nevertheless, I would have liked it to be a bit calmer at the beginning. However, the 20 knots remain, and in some places the wave rises to six meters or more. The bad thing is not the height of the wave, the problem is the frequency. With a five-second interval, these things seem like monsters with black tongues that crave you and white streaks of spray that run like drool from a huge mouth that wants to devour you at any moment. Due to the short interval, these waves are extremely steep and some of them start to break. Two find their way into the cockpit and one of them smashes my railing on the port side. What's more, you can't see them at night, which makes the whole thing even more nerve-wracking. As I mentioned before, I would have preferred it to be a bit calmer at the beginning. I knew from the start that it wouldn't be easy. This route is not listed in the relevant books describing sailing routes. I'm doing pioneering work, so to speak, and would probably have earned the Sailing Pulitzer Prize with this action. I don't attach too much importance to such things on my own, unless the prize is highly endowed, which is rarely the case. And first of all, I have to complete the route, which I assume is the case. Otherwise I wouldn't have started it.

The first five days are over

So the first five days take a lot out of me, with the advantage of achieving unprecedented distances. 176 nautical miles in 24 hours is the maximum I have to measure myself against in the future. The main comes down on the fifth day. The halyard is torn again at the pulley, which I've had several times now. The genoa continues to do its job, and at seven knots I'm still very fast. On the sixth day, things get comfortable. The wind has gone and the waves are receding. Yes, the sun even comes out. I build an emergency halyard over the Spinackerhalyard. Unfortunately, the angles are so unfavorable that I have to run the main in the second reef - but it's still better than climbing into the mast. As the residual wind is now coming from the north-east, I unfurl the genoa to port and lay the main to starboard. 

Butterfly sailing

At least I'm making some progress with my butterfly sailing. However, I will only reach the 100 nautical mile mark in the Etmal. So I'm sailing alone on the great ocean, also known as the Pacific. As always, fair winds and keep a stiff upper lip.