My hero, my dad

This photo was taken by a very good friend in 2011

My father was a big game hunter and then game ranger catching poachers in Tanzania, when it was still Tanganyika and before I was born. I grew up with wildlife stories and vivid accounts of his adventures in Africa. My dad was a real man’s man. He liked his guns, his knives, drinking with his mates, and he had some traditional ideas about the role of a woman.

Because of his views about gender roles my brother was always taken with my dad to go hunting, he was asked to help with fixing things, he was informed about my parents’ finances, he took part in his shooting and sharpening of knives, and he was even the one who was taken to Tanzania and Kenya on safari to see where my dad lived and roamed as a young man. My dad’s rifles were passed down to my brother, as well as all his other hunting paraphernalia and trophies.

I think my dad also assumed that men have adventurous spirits, and woman shouldn’t venture too far away from home. On several occasions I was prohibited from ‘dangerous’ activities, like when I was invited to go sky-diving or when I was chosen to become an exchange student to the US at sixteen, and even attending a School of Arts to follow my music career was considered too much of a risk as a career choice. I was brought up to always be responsible and to make measured decisions.

My dad had a particular thing about knives – pocket knives that is. He collected them and my brother got many knives from my dad. Giving a knife to someone was a very significant sign of acceptance, friendship and an honour. As far as I know he had never given any woman one of his precious knives. Special men in my life would get a knife from him whenever he thought they were worthy. Of course, the tradition was that they were to accept the gift by giving my dad a coin in return to ensure the friendship doesn’t get ‘cut off’ in any way. 

I was very envious of my brother always being involved in my dad’s man’s world, especially because I was so interested in his anecdotes and knowledge of nature, which he generously shared with all who knew him. I admired all his experience, wisdom and insights.

I think I turned out very different to what my dad presumed. I didn’t have the traditional family life he probably envisioned I would have. I turned out to be much more adventurous, weird, more of a daredevil, and I travelled more extensively than what he ever expected. I did a lot of things he only shook his head when he heard about them, like bungee jumping, paragliding, kayaking in remote places, mountain biking, hiking, moving to countries I have never even been to before, divorcing, marrying, divorcing, dating guys quite a few years younger than myself, and then, I decided to sail around the world with very little sailing experience on my resume!

He was a staunch supporter though. When I told them that I signed up for the yacht race around the world he was a bit astonished, but then very curious to hear all about it. He followed my planning and training for the race, and then every day he frequently checked our boat’s progress on the website tracker as we raced along.

When we arrived in Cape Town, after sailing across the Atlantic from London, and then from Rio to the beautiful South African shores, my mum and dad were there to spend a bit of time with me on our stopover. He had been fighting cancer for a few years but I was shocked at how frail and ill he was when I found him in a wheelchair looking for me. A caring and dear family member whom they stayed with before they met up with me told me that he was on his last legs.

Our time together in Cape Town was invaluable, and he loved seeing our boat and all the goings on around the cleaning and preparations for the next race to Albany in Australia.

As always, my dad treated me a bit with nice dinners and hotel room, and they also brought me a package with some goodies I needed on the boat. In the midst of the sun hat, UV shirts, distinct South African food, and the boat shoes was an exquisite pocket knife. It was one of those laguiole type flick knives with an exotic handle in a little pouch that my mum had made out of soft leather.

I finally got my own priceless badge of honour from my father - my hero.

He passed away two weeks later while I was at sea living a perilous life with a treasured knife in my pocket.  

My visit to South Africa in 2012

The last time I saw my dad in Cape Town - October 2013

The Tunnel of Carpal

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome is an affliction that affects one’s hands – it is caused by severe use of hands and wrists to the extent that it inflames the sheaths of the tendons in the wrists. There is a narrow tunnel called the Carpal Tunnel, through which the tendons, nerves and blood vessels flow towards the fingers, and when the sheaths become inflamed they expand and block blood flow and impulses to the fingers.  More specifically, the median nerve is compressed. That’s my dummies version. According to a very reliable source, Wikipedia, repetitive flexion and extension in the wrist significantly increase the fluid pressure in the tunnel through thickening of the synovial tissue that lines the tendons within the carpal tunnel.

I did a lot of cycling, kayaking, and weight lifting to prepare myself for the yacht race, and I also packed up and moved my whole existence mostly on my own to relocate to London for training and the start of the race. About a month before I moved I started waking up in the middle of the night with pains shooting up my arms, and having pins and needles in my thumbs, index and middle fingers in each hand. I was diagnosed with mild Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. The only long-term solution is to have a rather minor key hole surgical procedure done to open up the Carpal Tunnel to allow better flow to the fingers, but it takes six weeks to fully recover. I just didn’t have that time before race start. 

A short-term solution is to have cortisone injections in your hands and this lasts for up to six weeks. I had hoped that I could have this done in most of the major ports, and also to further control the pain and debilitating numbness in my fingers with wrist guards. As the race progressed the condition worsened and I ended up having permanent numbness, and the pain at night was sometimes unbearable.

The work on the boat is all about using your hands to pull, grind, tie, carry, lift, wring, knead, hold on, support, stop falls, and control movement especially below deck in rough seas. To do all this with very painful  hands and numb fingers has taken its toll. 

By the end of leg six I was at my wits end with it, and my GP recommended that I take a break. We both knew that getting of the boat is not going to solve my issue long term, but a break would just ease the activities so that I could get some short term feeling back. He didn’t want the numbness to become too prolonged for fear of long-term damage.

So, after that convoluted explanation: I actually decided to take a break from the boat and miss out on the race from San Francisco to Panama. I also found myself not enjoying the sailing any longer (as you probably quite clearly got from my last post), even though I was still enthusiastic about the whole Clipper Round the World experience. I wanted to get some distance to provide me with time to reflect and get my motivation back for this incredible race that I so love. I wanted to enjoy the last races and thought that if I took some time away I would get back on the boat in Panama with renewed enthusiasm.  It was clear what I had to do.

This is probably comparable with how one should manage work stresses and every day life: if it all becomes too much it is a distinct sign that you need a break. Managing leave and vacations is just as important as achieving career goals and helps you live positively and passionately through your every day going-about-your-business. It provides space to really think about how you spend your time, and if it is the best use of your short existence on this earth.

What I am getting from my time away from the sailing is more than what I bargained for! I’ll share some of this with you in my next posts. I am now into the fourth week of my break, but I have to admit that, even though this is an incredible experience, I am missing my boat and crew. It seems I have accomplished my goal!

My Afrikanerhart (this one is for those who think and do in Afrikaans)

Ek seil om die aarde en vaar tans windop teen 'n ondraaglike skuinste op 'n sewentig voet seiljag in die middel van die Stille Oseaan. Alles is blou om my - die see, die lug, die horison,  en die kimme van my emosies. Dis 'n baie lang trek van China tot San Francisco, en mens delf diep om kop en sinne te behou op die grysblou planeet in 'n eindelose sirkel van tyd. Soms omvou die blou jou en lank terug se herinneringe en vrae terg jou onverskrokke van een golf tot die volgende.   

Vir die afgelope bykans dertien jaar vandat ek Suid-Afrika verlaat het, het ek hoofsaaklik in Engels gefunksioneer en het dikwels gewonder of ek nou al in Engels dink en droom, want net wanneer ek my ma se stem in my kop hoor my berispe oor iets doms wat ek aangevang het, sal Afrikaans in my dag-tot-dag kop uitsteek. Wanneer ek baie moeg is, of wanneer ek baie emosioneel is, sukkel ek om myself in Engels uit te druk en dan kan net die woorde van my kleintyd se wese uitspraak vind.

Partymaal tik ek iets in Engels en onwillekeurig sal my vingers die woord in Afrikaans laat verskyn, of ek sal met iemand praat en as ek my weer kan kry gebruik ek skielik 'n Afrikaanse uitdrukking.  Wanneer mense my frustreer sal ek hulle onnutsig in Afrikaans vertel om te gaan k@#. Maar oorheersend het ek myself oor die jare in die buiteland al hoe meer hoor tel, baklei, hardop dink, en selfs saggies bid in Engels.

Mens gee baie op wanneer jy jou geboorteland verlaat, maar die diepste verlies is jou moedertaal in jou elke dag se verloop. 

En dan bevind ek my in die middel van die Stille Oseaan baie alleen op 'n boot met dertien ander vreemdelinge, en terwyl ek na my musiek luister deur my oorfone kom Koos DuPlessis se stem en deurboor die diepste kamers van my Afrikanerhart.  Iets sny deur al die vertaal en uitspraak en behoefte aan uitdrukking gee. 'n Roepstem vra na naakte eenvoud van woorde waarvan ek elke nuanse verstaan, en waar dit onnodig is om te dink want alles is net daar om op te tel en te gebruik.  

Afrikaans is moontlik 'n growwe en kras taal op die vreemde oor,  maar vir my dra die taal van die mooiste poe"sie en woordkuns.  Met Koos, Laurika of Coenie in my ore besef ek my hunkering na gesprekke waar humor en kultuur bloot le^ soos 'n kat in die son opgekrul  - rustig en sonder enige inspanning.  Ek mis waar ek nie hoef te wonder oor sarkasme, ironie of intensie nie, want dis ingebed in elke sinsnede, uitdrukking en speelsheid soos my pa my geterg het as kind, of my ma my geleer en stories vertel het. Dis ingewortel in jou grootword, en die stamme van Afrikaner-klanke vertak deur elke hoekie van jou denkproses. Dis so deel van jou soos jou vingerafdrukke.

Behalwe vir die gemak van gebruik van 'n moedertaal is daar ook die ongenadige manier wat dit skerp infokus op emosie, en vandag het dit my alleenheid aan die keel gegryp.  Ek het stil in my swyende bootbed gesnik en myself absoluut vereenselwig: 

"As almal ver is, word die hart skielik oud.  As die wereld 'n ster is, afsydig en koud. As daar geen een is, sit jy als op die skaal, want jy weet wat geleen is word eindelik gehaal.  

Dan kom die waarheid en besweer elke leun. Skenk jou weer klaarheid en laat jou alleen. 

As almal ver is vind jy jouself, waar jy in laaie in stil hartkamers delf.  As almal ver is, vind jy jou siel, weerloos en eensaam soos 'n vrou voor 'n spieel."

Grey Days

Day ?.. uhm, not too sure! Less than 100 days left till race finish, but apart from that, I am not even sure of the day of the week! It feels like a lifetime since race start in London on the 1st of September 2013. I can't believe we have already covered something like over 35 thousand sea miles on this boat, and over six thousand across then Nothern Pacific Ocean on this last leg! In a bit over five hours we will arrive in San Francisco and sail underneath the Golden Gate Bridge!!!!!!!!! I have walked over it, driven over it, cycled over it, and now I am going to sail underneath it!!!!! How utterly amazing is that!

And then, you might wonder what I want to do when I arrive, after four weeks at sea? I want to walk. Yes, I want to walk. And  not only because I haven't walked at all for four weeks, but I just want to keep on walking until I get so far away from this freaking boat as I possibly can! I feel as if I never want to get on a boat ever again!  A friend likened this existence to Truman Burbank's in the movie The Truman show, and I can tell you, we have often looked for hidden cameras and talked about this cruel social experiment where we are all being setup by some psychotic director? Oh wait, we do actually have CCTV cameras on deck and in the galley!!!!

"but you never saw into my mind"

I think most of our crew feel the same way. We are so weary and fed up and skanky that I am sure any loved ones waiting on the dock might keep a polite distance and refer to the smell we carry as 'boat'.  'Boat' refers to stinky feet, lots of farts, unwashed and dreadlocked hair, sweaty base layers, farts, battery acid spillage, rotten fruit, too-much-legume poos, dirty socks in the engine room, cooking oil and onions used in almost every meal (I almost think there might've been some in the oat porridge), farts, over used dish towels, and just a general smell of fourteen people in a small space who haven't showered for four weeks. Man, we stink!!!

And we are tired. We are so tired of each other, and of the skipper, and of this narrow, angled bloody bunk, and of bumping around, and of trying to pee in a cubicle that moves around all the time at such an angle that you pump while you pee to prevent it from spilling over the whole floor, and tired of mopping up pee that has spilt all over the whole floor, and of noodles, and walking up walls, and stumbling through the passage ways holding on to whatever you can as if you have a severe disability, and looking like some poor person getting convulsions because you do all kinds of weird body movements to stay warm on deck, and swinging on poles to get around corners, and tired of getting up at ungodly hours, and tired of getting a sail up in the middle of the night and then putting it back again because the skipper changed his mind. We've had enough of wearing seven to nine layers of clothes to survive the bitter cold on deck while the sea throws buckets of water over you, and fed up scooping buckets full from bilges, and grey skies and greyer waves, and sleeping with a bra and all your clothes on, and feeling itchy, and just generally tired of always being one of the damn last boats into port!!!!

Sometimes so much is happening that you want to tell people about, but you don't have the time, energy or physical ability to write it all down. You are basically just focusing on surviving the next watch, and then just the next one. All your thoughts start accumulating at an exponential rate leaving you procrastinating more and more because there is just too much, and nothing really, to talk about. The last race of leg 5 (from Singapore to Qingdao) and this current leg 6 (from Qingdao to San Francisco across the Northern Pacific) has left me rather overwhelmed, so I have neglected to update my blog. To put it simply, I just didn't feel like it!

So, I can only try to be more diligent on the next races.. That is, if I even decide to do the next race!

Watch this space...

My Favourite Things

'My favourite things' on this journey around the world

(with apologies to the song from The Sound of Music)

The blow holes of dolphins
a crew mate's warm smile
the power of helming
another sea mile
an albatross gliding - the moon on its wings
these are a few of my favourite things

Glorious sunrises
colourful sunsets
The swoosh of the water
hot chocs on the sun deck
dolphins that dive
in their phosphorous bling
these are a few of my favourite things

When the boat beats
and the salt stings
when I fuss and frown
I simply remember my favourite things
and then I don't feel so down

A swim in the deep
and sapphire blue seas
lolling to sleep
gentle rocking, smooth breeze
whale spurts and sea birds
silly songs that we sing
the pleasures of port stops and flying fish things

When the sun burns
and the cold brings
frosty feet and hands
I simply remember my favourite things
and then I don't feel so bad

Midnight Watch Moments

As I've shared before, we have a watch system on the boat that is broken up in periods of four hours during the night and six hours during the day with two hours overlapping to share lunch and provide social time with the other watch. 

The worst watch is probably the 11pm to 3am one because it breaks your sleep pattern and has no significant highlights like a sunrise or sunset. It is quite surprising how, even though it is very difficult to get up at 3am for the early morning watch, the general mood on deck lifts significantly when the sun rises over the ocean. But the midnight watch doesn't have anything like that to look forward to. 

Staying awake or keeping your concentration sharp during these four hours is an absolute challenge, especially when there are sail changes or reefings to be done (we fold the bottom of the main sail up in heavy weather so that we are not over powered). Understanding all the ropes, sailing evolutions and connections between all the different parts of the boat is a challenge for my non-technical mind in itself, but trying to bring these all together in the middle of the night pushes my boundaries. It is surprisingly easy to see what needs to be done when the moon is out, but mostly we use our head torches on red light - that's if you still have one and haven't already lost three overboard, like I have! I have often smiled at the unusualness of the situation when Im carrying a heavy sail with other crew members to the bow of the boat, in stormy weather, in the middle of the ocean, in the pitch dark, frustratingly tethered to the Jackstay (a cord that runs from the foredeck to the aft on both sides of the boat for the crew to attach themselves to, but that severely impedes free and fast movement), because who else anywhere in the world would be doing this at two o'clock in the morning!

A working watch goes by fast, but it is the many, many hours not having to do anything sailing wise on the boat that are like empty vessels drifting around not needing to be filled with anything in particular. Those mindless hours are just there to linger in and I give in to the unique opportunity to enjoy the sound of the water as we gush through it, or watch the millions of stars, or moonlight on the moving waves. I'm never bored - never. 

Someone going below deck to make us a 'brew' or hot chocolate breaks up the empty hours, or we share our life stories, or start chatting about the most inane topics. We talk about when and where we lost our virginity, or about food and things we miss. The food conversations can become a bit ridiculous (hamburger milkshakes or gin and tonic ice cream), but we would often laugh so loud that we would wake the other watch. Typical jokes vary from primary school frivolous ones (Why is the sand wet? Because the seaweed!) to ones I dare not repeat. We often listen to our favourite playlists or we would sing our most liked songs from the musicals. Sometimes we play games - invented, or oldies like 'I Spy' all ending in giddy laughter or banter. 

The obvious pastime is to catch a nap and when the skipper ventures on deck he might find bodies strewn all over the cockpit. But these rather uncomfortable shut-eyes are often broken up by either a 'rude' call for a sail change or tack, or a big dump of water as a wave crashes over the deck. A few nights ago I was awakened by what felt like someone throwing a brick at me when a flying fish hit me on the head! A little scurry of everyone trying to get it back over board provided a bit of excitement, but the stench that lingered was not welcome.

A particularly powerful feeling is helming the 70 footer at night. I love how it responds to every little move on the wheel, and the game of dodging the waves keeps me on edge and provides an adrenalin rush. I haven't done this often enough yet, but the few times I've helmed at night were quite exciting.

There is one particularly calm night magic moment, on a midnight watch on leg three of the race that will stay with me forever. The Windseeker (our lightweight sail we use in very light conditions to literally find some breeze to move us forward) was up with the deck light shining on it and making it look like a big movie screen. The moonlight was dancing silvery on the waves and someone played the most beautiful opera music through their ipod. We shared one of the last apples we had on board and then the air holes of two dolphins beckoned us to watch them glide through the phosphorescence in the wash of the boat. These special moments bond you to crewmates in ways hard to explain to someone who has not lived it. 

It's not easy to get up, get into your sailing gear, and then move your tired body on deck when all the world is fast asleep. But there is a special kind of bewitchment and feeling of exclusiveness to these wee small hours of the morning on the boat, because you know that very few have encountered such enchanting experiences. 

A Day to Remember

A day to remember - 9 February 2014

It was one of those days that just kept on giving. We woke up to another beautiful sunrise, but this morning it was over a jungle covered island of Borneo. One could just imagine how, years ago, the orang-utans swung from tree to tree in this wilderness. Obviously, and sadly, they are now limited to a very small part of Borneo. We had to stop in Kota Kinabalu to refuel after the second part of our first race from Brisbane to Singapore was cancelled, and the fleet

is now motoring the rest of the way.

While waiting for the first boats to fill up, three of our boats anchored and rafted up together in a little bay just off the main centre of Kota Kinabalu. It was great to meet up with some new faces after four weeks of seeing only the same 18 other people. We exchanged stories and got an idea of what provisions they were short on, or where we fell short. We watched them have lunch and it was almost embarrassing how some of our crew mates drooled over their beetroot and tuna. We got a packet of biscuits from them - something we ran out of a week

ago. No-one had any chocolates left to share or exchange!

A few of us swam across to a beach, which was again sadly very polluted. However, it was great to get some oxygen into my lungs and do a bit of cardio exercise for a change. I really miss doing a good workout. We use a lot of upper body muscles on the boat, but we don't get any cardio exercises apart from very short spurts of grinding on the winches.

After lunch on the deck we motored into the resort area, and even though all crew were told that they were not allowed to get off the boats and venture into the resort area, we found that the crew from the other boats before us at the fuelling station had already bought some fresh produce, had some lunch and beers, and got themselves some treats. Our skipper stays well within the rules, so we were not allowed off our boat. Three of us sneaked off though to find somewhere to buy a few of our cravings such as ice cream, chocolates, drinks and tea. I

immediately took the opportunity to get off the boat and go for a little walk. It felt so strange to walk a few hundred meters after not having walked for four weeks (have you ever not walked more than 60 feet for four weeks??!!)! It was a very delighted crew when we returned with Cornettos, KitKats and Coke!

One of the crew mates knew some locals and he ordered us a few bags of fresh fruit and vegetables that were delivered to our boat - this was the greatest treat of all and he was obviously our hero of the week. We haven't had any fresh produce for two weeks, and especially the green vegetables went down incredibly well in our bean soup last night. To top it all we had water melon and papaya/paw-paw for desert!

It's the little things that make all the difference and give meaning to life. I went to my bunk a very happy little sailor!