The age of miracles has not passed. I am 80 years old today. Few, if any, including me, expected I would reach such an age. “Almost dying is a hard way to make a living,” I once wrote, and I have almost died more times than I can easily recall. It goes with the territory of pushing beyond the edge of human experience. Either I was very good or I was very lucky. Perhaps both.

I now mostly live in a condo on South Carolina’s Hilton Head Island overlooking Skull Creek, which is part of the Intracoastal Waterway. Gannet is docked 500 feet away. I can see her mast from our windows and deck.

Hilton Head Island has a wonderful climate from October to May, but is too hot in the summer with heat indexes routinely of 105 degrees F. So I am considering sailing somewhere cooler next summer. Iceland sounds cool.

Carol and I will spend the day quietly. I’ll go down and sit on Gannet for a while and consider what I’ve done with my life and what I might still do. This evening we will go out to dinner and when we return I will pour some of my favorite liquid, Laphroaig 10 year old single malt Scotch, and raise my glass to you and to me and to our dreams and to the passion to fulfill them.

To life.

Editor’s note: You can read more of Webb Chile’s writing at his website, inthepresentsea.com.

The post Webb Chiles Remarks on Turning 80 appeared first on Cruising World.

I have been called a serial circumnavigator. Among other things. I do like to go around in circles, and so at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday morning in late February, I walked down from our condominium on South Carolina’s Hilton Head Island overlooking Skull Creek Marina, where my Moore 24, Gannet, is docked, to prepare her for another epic voyage: my seventh circumnavigation. Well, really not so epic. The first six were around the planet. My seventh would be somewhat more modest: around Hilton Head Island. § Getting ready took a while. Gannet is no longer self-sufficient. When really voyaging, I can leave and return to the little boat with nothing more than the devices I carry in my messenger bag. No longer. I’ve removed as much from her as possible, including the Jordan drogue, clothes and most food. I had to fill water containers, stow equipment and food, fit the Torqeedo and check that it started. It did. I needed to fit a tiller pilot. Put the Velocitek in its mast mount. Move the anchor and rode-deployment bag from the bow to beneath the forward hatch. Remove the mainsail and the tiller covers and the covers for the compass and the depth finder. It takes almost as long to prepare for a daysail as to prepare to cross an ocean, which is one of the reasons I cross oceans more

than I daysail. In all, it took me more than an hour, but at 10:30, I was ready. I undid the line to my new pile float and realized that I had placed the bracket on which I intended to hang the line too high on the piling. I tried tossing it up there two or three times and gave up and dropped the loose end in the water.

I pushed Gannet out of her slip. The wind was northwest at 8 knots, pushing her back in, but the tide was ebbing, which partially neutralized that. I leapt on board and put the Torqeedo in reverse until we were clear enough to go forward.

We were heading around Hilton Head Island counterclockwise, roughly a 32-nautical-mile loop. The northwest wind was behind us and perfect. I unfurled the jib, feeling resistance from one of the lead blocks on the furling line that I needed to replace. I set the Autohelm to steer, stopped the Torqeedo, and tilted it out of the water. It had been on for seven minutes, and its work for the day was done. Water began to ripple past the hull as I brought in fenders and dock lines.

Past the marina, Skull Creek runs south for almost 2 miles. I’ve sailed this way only once before, and that was when I left Hilton Head for Panama two years earlier during my previous circumnavigation. I was careful to stay between the Intracoastal Waterway markers. The water in the channel is 20 feet deep. In places just outside the channel, it’s only 1 or 2 feet deep.

Familiar restaurants on the shore seemed to fly past. Dockside. Hudson’s. The wind was on the beam and gusty, ­heeling and rounding up the little boat sometimes more quickly than the Autohelm could respond. At the turn at the marker at the bend to the west, we came hard on the wind. I sheeted in the jib and took the tiller myself. Two powerboats had just come under the bridge and were heading toward us. I hoped they understood sailboats well enough to know that if I were headed by the breeze, I would have to cut across their bows. I had no room to tack away. But I was not confident that they did.

Gannet was heeled well over and making 6 knots under her small jib alone. Smooth water. The wind held steady. Fine sailing, but I was relieved when I could ease the sheet and fall off for the opening beneath the center of the bridge, which is the only way on and off the island. The mast height on Gannet is not a worry. A small powerboat was tied to a bridge piling with a man on board fishing. After a brief lull in the bridge’s wind shadow, we were through.

RELATED: Upgrades for a Circumnavigation

A curving half-mile past the bridge, the channel turns south again. I don’t know where Skull Creek ends and Calibogue Sound begins. Perhaps at the bridge itself. With the wind now on the starboard quarter, I set the mainsail, and our speed rose again to 6 and 7 knots. And then Gannet went out of control, rounded up, and headed for a nearby shoal. I glanced down and saw that the plastic end fitting on the tiller-pilot arm had broken. I grabbed the tiller, got us under control, and when the sound opened wider, turned Gannet into the wind, loosely hove to. I slipped into the cabin, where I grabbed another tiller pilot, returned to the cockpit, and swapped out the old one. Back on course, the sailing was glorious. Good wind. Smooth water. Warm sunshine. February.

My plan had been to anchor somewhere near the south end of the island, but we were off Harbor Town at noon and no sailor wants to waste good wind, so I decided to keep going.

We passed Hilton Head’s South Beach at 12:30. Evanston, Illinois, where we also live, also has a South Beach. At that moment, it was covered by 2 feet of snow. A woman walking on the beach waved at Gannet. I waved back for Gannet, which was busy sailing and unfortunately has no hands.

Hilton Head Island is 11 miles long and shaped like a shoe running northeast-southwest. We were rounding the toe and heading up the sole of the shoe, which is an almost continuous white-sand beach that is perhaps Hilton Head’s chief tourist attraction. However, you don’t make a sharp turn and you don’t sail close to the shore. Shoals extend out 2 to 3 miles. The channels are marked, but I kept close watch on the depth sounder and our position on the iSailor chart on my iPhone. Finally, we were able to make the turn to the northeast 3 miles offshore. As soon as we did, the wind went behind us and died.

We drifted for a few minutes before a slight exhalation filled the sails, and Gannet began to slip along at 2 to 3 knots. At least there were no waves to collapse the sails. The Atlantic was as flat as the sheltered water on the landward side of the island. I wished for more wind, but at least we were moving. There are worse places to be on a sunny winter afternoon than on a small sailboat gliding across smooth water.

As the hours passed, I watched the shore a couple of miles to port and saw two ships a few miles to starboard heading for the Savannah River, and I began to consider where I would spend the night.

Gannet’s outboard is an electric Torqeedo. I like it for several reasons. It breaks down into three parts, and is easy to mount and remove from the transom. It is quiet. It is clean. It precludes my having to carry gasoline and oil on board. Its battery can be charged from Gannet’s solar-powered electrical system. But it has drawbacks too. It’s expensive and has limited range. Just what Gannet’s range was at that moment I did not know. I had three Torqeedo batteries on board. One was 10 years old, which hadn’t be used in a long time and might be dead. The other two were probably good for 6 to 8 miles, each powering at 2.5 to 3 knots in smooth water and not against wind or tide.

At 5 p.m., we were nearing the north end of Hilton Head Island and the entrance into Port Royal Sound. Sunset would be at 6 p.m. I could certainly lower the Torqeedo back into the water, power into the sound and anchor there for the night, but the Atlantic Ocean was as smooth as a good harbor, and I was reasonably certain that the night would be calm.

Ten minutes before sunset, we were in 35 feet of water, 1.5 miles off the northeast corner of the island and a half-mile south of a buoy marking the dredged channel into the sound. I went forward, pulled the spade anchor and deployment bag onto the deck, and anchored. As I made my way aft, I was facing east. The nearest land was Bermuda, 800 miles away. I figured it would provide sufficient shelter, so I went below to turn on the masthead anchor light and pour myself a drink, which I took on deck with my Boom 2 speakers, and sipped and listened to Bach.

Dinner was freeze-dried beef stew, bought three years earlier, with the water heated on the JetBoil stove. Old times.

At sea, I sleep on the windward pipe berth. Well, we were technically at sea, but neither berth was to windward, and I had removed the berths to have the covers replaced. So I retired for a quiet night on the V-berth. A few years earlier, the eye of Category 5 Hurricane Matthew passed near where we were anchored. Timing is almost everything.

Secure in the lee of Bermuda, which had an unusually long wind shadow that evening, Gannet barely moved during the night, and I slept well. I woke a couple of times and went to the companionway, where I saw Hilton Head where it should be and the green buoy where it should be.

The sun came up, but the wind didn’t.

I ate my invariable sailing breakfast in the cockpit. I had brought a bottle of grapefruit juice with me, but my other provisions—instant coffee, uncooked oatmeal, whey protein power, trail mix, dried fruit and powered milk—had been on board since at least before I had Gannet trucked from San Diego to Hilton Head the previous Labor Day weekend, and probably much longer. They were all as tasty as ever, though some might disagree.

Through a bright, sunny, pleasant morning I waited, mostly reading Jonathon Raban’s Bad Land in the cabin to stay out of the sun, going on deck from time to time to watch bubbles drift past on the outgoing tide and to futilely look for any sign of wind.

RELATED: Webb Chiles Completes Sixth Circumnavigation

I decided that if there were no wind by noon, when the tide would turn in our favor, I would lower the Torqeedo and power into the sound. While my course the previous day had lots of curves and turns, I calculated that I had covered 24 miles and that I had 10 more to go to reach Gannet’s slip. I had no pressure of time. No need to be back in the marina that day and could anchor in the sound and wait for wind on Thursday. I just didn’t feel like staying where I was any longer.

A few minutes before noon, I was kneeling at the stern, preparing to tilt the Torqeedo into the water, when I felt a breath on my back. I turned and saw a line of darker wind-ruffled water to our south. I left the Torqeedo as it was, and made my way forward and raised the anchor. It came up clean. Hilton Head’s long white-sand beach must extend offshore.

After lowering the anchor and rode-deployment bag onto the V-berth, I raised sails, and Gannet began to gather way.

For the first mile, our course was north; then in the sound, northwest. Wind on our beam steadily increased to 12 and 14 knots, and moved forward when we turned. Still smooth water, only 6-inch ripples. More glorious sailing at 6 to 8 knots.

Several rivers pour into Port Royal Sound and the tides have carved out 40- and 50-foot depths, but there are isolated and mostly unmarked shoals. I am beginning to know these waters, but I continue to pay close attention to the depth sounder and the charts on my iPhone.

Gannet dashed along. The contrast was great between this and the afternoon before and the 18 hours we sat at anchor becalmed. Gannet sails so well in almost any wind, but she does need some.

As we neared the red and green markers at the mouth of Skull Creek, the wind was blowing 14 knots directly out. I didn’t feel like short-tacking the last 1.8 miles in the Intracoastal’s channel around a bend in the creek, so I furled the jib, lowered the Torqeedo into the water and started it, and lowered the main.

A sand spit to the north of the creek entrance was covered with birds: sea gulls, cormorants and one pelican. While Gannet’s 2-foot freeboard does not offer much windage, her ultralight weight does not carry far, and the headwind slowed us.

A few other boats passed, mostly power but a few sail. Those on board waved at the old man on his little boat. I’m sure they thought how nice it is that he still gets out on the water. The old man waved back.

As we rounded the curve and pointed at the marina, I put out fenders and dock lines, and we powered slowly into Gannet’s slip, tying up at 2:30 p.m. Circle completed.

Gannet’s second circumnavigation and my seventh was by far the most uneventful and the most pleasant. Amateurs seek ­adventures; professionals seek to avoid them. We had no ­undesired adventures. We did have a fine time.

Webb Chiles is a writer and sailor, and has solo-circumnavigated seven times, on a variety of boats. You can follow his adventures at ­inthepresentsea.com.

The post My Seventh Circumnavigation appeared first on Cruising World.

When we sailed into Opua, New Zealand, in a gale in September 2014, after crossing the Pacific Ocean solo in four months and four stops, Gannet, my ultralight Moore 24, was beginning to unravel. All the tiller pilots were dead. The port floorboard was broken and the port pipe berth unusable after the tube jumped out of its socket when Gannet became airborne off a wave and crashed into a trough. These were more important than they might seem because they left no place to brace my foot in the cabin while the little sloop was heeled 30 degrees and more to port as she generally was in the last 48 hours of that passage from Tonga. We had inadequate solar charging in overcast conditions, with two of the six panels nonfunctioning.

RELATED: Solo Sailor Webb Chiles to Finish Sixth Circumnavigation

One of the lessons learned from investigations of airline crashes is that they are often the result of a cascade of small failures, none important in itself, but collectively fatal. I did not know what might break next on Gannet, and I did not want to find out, so I pushed hard to get in port before the wind backed, increased from 40-45 knots to 50-55, and closed the door—forcing Gannet to remain at sea for several more days.

Not long after our arrival, I unraveled some myself when I fell and all but severed part of my left shoulder rotator cuff.

I do not claim to be better than ever, but, thanks to physical therapy and my own exercises, I was better than I ever expected to be six months later. I know that a torn rotator cuff does not heal, but it felt as though it had.

Gannet definitely was better than ever by the time we put to sea again. The boatyard in Opua made new iroko floorboards. I had new tiller pilots and great hopes for the mostly underdeck Pelagic pilot. In port, the pipe berth was as easy to pop back in place as at sea it was not. I replaced the failed solar panels. And I made several improvements.

By far the greatest of these was reconfiguring the cockpit by removing a bridge that held the mainsheet traveler that was always a nuisance to step over—and at sea sometimes a hazard—and relocating the traveler to the cockpit floor.

The idea for this came from photos I saw online of other Moore 24s that have made the change, and I was greatly aided by Gilles Combrisson of GC Rigging in Point Richmond, California, whose firm made the pod on which the mainsheet block and cam cleat are mounted, provided me with the Harken track, risers, bolts and G-10 backing plate cut to size, and advised me of the Harken Duo-Cam that solves the problem of running the underdeck backstay control. Combrisson credits Scott Easam for first devising this configuration.

I did the work myself over a period of four days. It would have taken less, but this being New Zealand, I was often ­interrupted by rain. The result was dramatic. Living on and sailing Gannet was easier in many ways every day. This was one of the best modifications I made to the little boat.

During that stopover, I also took delivery of a new G1 gennaker from North Sails’ Opua loft. My old gennaker was fuller cut and good for broad reaching, but it slowed the boat as the wind moved forward. With the new sail, I had a vision of setting both gennakers wing and wing on an ocean passage and watching Gannet fly under clouds of sail.

Because the G1 didn’t furl well with my Facnor gennaker furler, I ordered a ProFurl Spinex top-down furler. I then cleared the deck by removing unused genoa tracks and cam cleats, also reducing the number of nuts on which I can hit my head inside the cabin by more than 40.

I added a TackTick wind system, which being solar powered and wireless was easy to install.

And I dramatically improved the sound of music with two Megaboom speakers, which when linked to play in stereo were by far the best waterproof Bluetooth speakers I’ve heard.

Though some of these upgrades were far from essential, all enhanced life aboard and sailing oceans. The Tasman, Coral and Arafura seas, and the Indian Ocean laid ahead.

Writer and sailor Webb Chiles completed his sixth solo ­circumnavigation in 2019 when he and Gannet, his Moore 24, ­arrived back in San Diego. You can follow his ongoing ­adventures on his website, inthepresentsea.com.

The post Upgrades for a Circumnavigation appeared first on Cruising World.

Webb Chiles, 77, is about to sail from Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, for Panama and San Diego, in Gannet, his ultralight Moore 24, to complete his sixth circumnavigation and her first. Since leaving San Diego in 2014, Gannet’s daily runs total 25,028 miles.

Their intended course to Panama is east of the Bahamas and through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti.

Webb Chiles has never had sponsorship or shore teams. He goes to sea with no radio beyond a handheld VHF with a range of less than ten miles. He has contempt for crowd funding of other people’s dreams. Decades ago he found freedom by choosing to be independently poor. The key word is “independent.”

He and Gannet will depart when he sees a GRIB he likes. Once at sea he cuts ties to the land completely and receives no outside weather information. He studies the sky, the sea, and the barometer, looking for signs of change.

He hopes to reach San Diego in time to be with Carol, his wife, on her birthday in late April.

If you want to follow, Gannet‘s Yellowbrick tracking page is: https://my.yb.tl/gannet

His website is: inthepresentsea.com

His online journal: self-portraitinthepresentseajournal.blogspot.com

The post Solo Sailor Webb Chiles to Finish Sixth Circumnavigation appeared first on Cruising World.

Halfway across the Tasman Sea, during a spring 2016 passage from Opua, New Zealand, to Bundaberg, Australia, aboard my Moore 24, Gannet, I observed that the ship’s batteries were running down. Initially, I attributed this to a combination of sun position, our course and the wind direction, which resulted in four of the six deck-mounted solar panels being in shade for most of the day, leaving only the two near the stern exposed to direct sunlight. Later, when I was able to test the circuit from each solar panel individually, I discovered that one of the stern panels had failed, the fourth of the six to do so since leaving San Diego two years earlier.

Whatever the cause, the consequence was that I could not continue using a tiller pilot to steer, so I did what I have done for tens of thousands of miles on other boats in the past and went to sheet-to-tiller self-steering. Of the 9,000 miles I sailed on Gannet in 2016, about 7,000 were under sheet-to-tiller.

There may be other versions of sheet-to-tiller steering, but I have always run the jib sheet to the windward side of the cockpit and then to the tiller, balanced on the leeward side with bungee cords or surgical tubing. This works from a close reach to a broad reach, and every boat I have owned could be sailed to windward just by balancing the sails and tying down the tiller.

After my Aries vane was torn apart in the Southern Ocean by the strongest wind I had ever encountered on my 37-foot cutter, Egregious, I used the storm jib set as a staysail as the steering sail. On my 18-foot open yawl, Chidiock Tichborne, I used the jib. On my 24-foot sloop, Gannet, the furling jib steers.

The necessary gear is inexpensive and probably already on most boats: a few blocks, 9 or 10 feet of roughly 1/8-inch cordage, and bungee cords of varying elasticity or surgical tubing.
I use a combination of bungee cords and surgical tubing, which can be bought from Amazon. Surgical tubing has the advantage of being infinitely adjustable, but deteriorates on long passages, presumably from exposure to sunlight, and is sometimes difficult to untie.

The first step is determining how to run the steering sail sheet to the windward side of the cockpit. Whatever sail is used, the sheet is initially trimmed through its usual leeward block, then to a block on the windward side of the cockpit beside the tiller. On flush-decked Gannet there are no obstructions. I tie the blocks to the toe rail. On other boats, one or more intervening blocks may be necessary. You want to reduce friction, so the fewer the better.

Next, cut the cordage into approximately 3-foot lengths. Take one of these and tie the middle of it to the tiller with a clove hitch. Then take the two ends and tie as many approximately 2-inch-­diameter loops as you can. I use reef knots. You should end up with four or five loops.

The two remaining lengths of line are tied off to strong points near where the blocks to lead the jib sheet are. Tie a series of loops in them as well. The purpose of the loops is to provide adjustment for the bungee cords. Give yourself plenty of room when you first try sheet-to-tiller steering. Put the boat on a reach. A broad reach is probably easiest.

I have never been able to get the sheet-to-tiller arrangement to work without part of the jib and part of the mainsail set. It wouldn’t work on Chidiock Tichborne with jib and mizzen, nor on Egregious or Gannet with jib alone. So you need the jib and at least part of the main set. The jib is trimmed normally. Run the tail of the jib through the windward cockpit block. Connect two bungee cords to the leeward side of the tiller just tight enough so that when unstretched they hold the tiller a couple of inches to leeward. Uncleat the jib and remove it from the winch. This will require hand-holding the sheet briefly. You don’t want too big a steering sail. Hand-trim the sail so it is drawing properly. Wrap the sheet around the tiller three or four times and tie it off with a slippery hitch.

And then it is just about finding the right balance.

The jib will pull the bow off the wind, and the mainsail and the bungee cords are going to be pulling it up. You might need to ease or tighten the mainsheet. You might need only one bungee cord. In strong wind, you might need four. You might need to move one or more cords to loops closer to the tiller or farther away. If your steering sail is set on furling gear, you might need to reduce or increase sail area.

When you get it right, there is beauty to sheet-to-tiller, your boat moving through the water, steered silently by balanced natural forces.

Tiller pilots have their place. I use one, when any of mine are working, to sail with an asymmetrical; in extremely light wind; and when the wind is strong and aft, sailing under jib alone or bare poles. But that’s it. At practically no expense you have freed yourself from the tyranny of the tiller. And tiller pilots.

– – –

On the closing stages of his sixth circumnavigation, this one aboard his Moore 24, Gannet, Webb Chiles left the boat in Marathon, Florida, last fall and winter, where she survived Hurricane Irma. Later this year, he plans to sail Gannet *back to San Diego via the Panama Canal to complete his latest lap of the planet. *

The post Simple Self Steering appeared first on Cruising World.

St. Lucia to Marathon, Florida, was the most beautiful of passages until it wasn’t.

Twelve hundred miles were full of fine sailing, and the last 100 full of frustration and despair. The image of Gannet’s Yellowbrick track only suggests the agony of those last miles. I was aiming for Key West, but the wind was weak and then died completely and we were helplessly carried northeast at 2.5 knots in the middle of shipping lanes. Only skill and chance enabled us to get an anchor down Monday night, May15, off Boot Key, which encompasses Marathon, Florida. It took us seven and a half hours to cover the last 16 miles and my relief when we came onto the reef and the depthsounder changed from 160 feet to 30 feet and I knew we could get an anchor down and not spend another night drifting toward the Bahamas was immense.

The passage did not begin well. I woke at 0530, and put the Torqeedo on the transom at 0600. I tested it, and it started. But when I was ready to leave at 0745, it wouldn’t start and the display read “Error 33”. I don’t know what that means or how to correct it. I have emailed Torqeedo asking for explanation. I cursed various nonexistent gods, walked down the dock, came across a St. Lucian with a Cigarette boat who towed me from my slip and 30 yards before I could sail and refused payment. After that for almost two weeks it was so wonderful that I began to consider if good can be appreciated without evil; if all sailing were that good would we enjoy it as much as we do having known gales and hurricanes? I think not.

During one of the beautiful afternoons I was so happy I took the photo of an old man having fun.

Our sailing is mostly over for the year. Gannet, who has now gone coast to coast the long way, will remain a Florida boat for the rest of 2017, unless a hurricane blows her into another state.

In a few days I fly home, where I have not been since January, for a couple of months. I’ll return to Gannet and sail up the west coast of Florida to near Pensacola where I have been promised a sail on a Drascombe Lugger. I haven’t been on a Lugger for more than 30 years. Early next year, time and chance permitting, I’ll sail for Panama, get Gannet across the isthmus, and sail to San Diego to complete the circumnavigation, hopefully before my wife, Carol’s, birthday in April.

Daily runs St. Lucia to Marathon: 1,323 nautical miles

Daily runs Durban, South Africa, to Marathon: 7,746 nautical miles.

Daily runs San Diego to Marathon: 23,339 nautical miles.

The post Gannet’s Circumnavigation Takes a Hiatus in Marathon appeared first on Cruising World.

The Moore 24 Southern Hemisphere Fleet went out of existence at 12:35 p.m. on April 1 when Gannet crossed the Equator and returned to the weirder hemisphere after an almost three year absence. This was Gannet‘s second time across the Equator and my fifteenth.

The day’s runs on the passage from St. Helena to St. Lucia add up to 3859 miles, the second longest passage Gannet has made. In the little over two months since we sailed from Durban, the little boat has crossed another ocean and covered 6423 miles.

Even more pleasing because it wasn’t planned, but serendipitous, is that we have sailed more than half the world from Darwin, Australia to St. Lucia with only two stops: Durban and St. Helena. Anchored at Darwin, Australia at 130º49’E, we are now at 60º57’W. That is more than 191º of longitude. We have also swung from 12ºS latitude to 35ºS, then up to 14ºN. Daily runs from Darwin to St. Lucia total 12,337 miles, and miles since leaving San Diego 22,016. Not bad for a little boat intended to day race around buoys.

Much of the passage was slow and dry. More than usual I was able to stand in the companionway, sit on deck and sail with the forward hatch open. However, we were seriously slowed by the doldrums where we had by far Gannet‘s slowest week ever of 458 miles. Her previous slowest was 678.

While I often used sheet to tiller steering, the Pelagic tiller pilot steered through some severe conditions, including torrential rain one morning that felt as though we were sailing under a waterfall. I still use the remaining Raymarine at times because it is quieter than the Pelagic, but the Pelagic has steered perfectly though weather that would have killed a Raymarine. I am very impressed.

I am pleased with the spray hood fitted in Durban. It succeeded in keeping some water out of the boat and unexpectedly also was useful as a sun screen and wind scoop.

An expensive fiasco came when the shackle let go at the tack of the G2 when I went to furl it. This was my fault for not seizing the shackle, which I routinely do but obviously didn’t in this case. The sail, still connected at the head and by sheets, streamed horizontally ahead of us. I managed to get it down and back on board without dumping it in the sea, but not before one of the sheets caught around the Velocitek, playfully plucked it from its mast bracket and tossed it overboard.

There was other damage. The two remaining Aurinco solar panels died, bringing their failure rate to a perfect 9 for 9. The two Solbian panels provided enough charge with judicious use of sheet to tiller steering.

The Raymarine masthead wind unit stopped sending wind speed after being immersed in a masthead in the water knockdown on the passage from Durban to St. Helena. It is still sending wind angle, particularly useful with sheet to tiller.

And yesterday the Torqeedo battery died and I had to be towed into the marina. Normally I would have anchored outside, but I want to be in the marina because Carol is flying here for a week.

The battery was showing 99% charge when I started to power in. Then a few minutes later 4% and it died. These batteries are hazardous material and can’t be taken on airplanes, so I may be engineless until I reach Florida, not a problem once I get clear of the marina slip.

The plan is to sail from here to Florida after Carol’s visit, possibly stopping in the Virgin Islands. In Florida I’ll lay the little boat up and return to the flatlands for a while. Time and chance permitting, I’ll sail from Florida to Panama and then to San Diego to complete the voyage next spring.

I have many character defects, a known one is that when I get close to the bottom of a bottle I think I might just as well finish it, only to discover that after I’ve poured, there is twice as much as a usual drink in the glass. Thus, last evening with the end of passage Laphroaig. Careful experimentation has proven that trying to pour from the glass back into the bottle results in shameful wastage. Once poured, there is only one reasonable course, which I followed.

Four weeks before I reached St. Lucia, the JetBoil stove failed because the gas canister connection threads stripped. The connection is aluminum. Threading on a canister on land is easy. Sometimes on a lively boat it isn’t. In any event, I couldn’t use the stove. Carol is bringing a new one out to me. I had a back up stove of a different make but hadn’t looked at it for years. It was corroded and unusable, too, so for quite some time I have been drinking air temperature instant coffee and eating uncooked freeze dry food soaked in air temperature water. I’ve done this before. Some is better than others. Some that is good heated is terrible unheated. Fresh, cooked food upon my arrival was even more appreciated than usual.

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Gannet is on one of 22 or 23 moorings put down for visiting yachts at St. Helena Island in the South Atlantic Ocean, about 2/3s of which are full. When I was here 29 years ago you had to anchor in very deep water and use your dinghy to get ashore, which with a lot of surge was an adventure. There is still a lot of surge and intermittent 20 knot gusts of wind. One of those gusts blew a Sportaseat overboard. I heard it go, but it was already out of reach and on its way north. This isn’t a harbor, just an indentation on the lee side of the island. The moorings are off a several hundred foot high cliff. Lots of terns flying up there where I assume they nest.

I didn’t try to go ashore the day I arrived, but stayed on board and sorted things out and had a fresh water solar shower and put on clean clothes.

The passage from Durban, South Africa, seemed longer than 23 days, perhaps because the parts were so different.

The weather this year never provided even 72 hours of fair wind along the South African coast. I got tired of waiting and decided to make this an ocean passage rather than a coastal one, and went to sea intending to stay there rather than harbor hop. I expect that Gannet was the smallest boat to clear into Durban this season. I am certain she was the only one to clear for St. Helena. The Immigration officer asked me where it is. Sorry, Napoleon.

Along the South African coast Gannet had her best day’s run ever, an Agulhas Current assisted 180 miles. I was routinely seeing SOGs of 12 and 13 knots when we were sailing 8 and 9. And six days later her slowest day of only 13 miles, when we lay ahull for 12 hours in 20-30 knot headwinds and then were becalmed for 12 hours forty miles off Cape Agulhas, which we passed three times, two sailing west, one drifting back east. We could have sailed against the headwinds, but would have been beaten up and I chose to wait rather than suffer unnecessarily and unproductively.

Once clear of Cape Agulhas and the Cape of Good Hope, we had mostly good sailing except for a couple of days of gale force winds when we again lay ahull. When those winds first reached us during the night I saw an SOG of 14.1 knots before I could reduce sail, the highest I have ever seen on Gannet, though she may have gone higher when I wasn’t looking. Two waves caught us and knocked us down, at least one of which put the masthead in the water because the Windex up there is broken. That Windex was new in Durban, a replacement for one broken last year in a masthead-in-the- water knockdown in the Indian Ocean. Gannet is hard on Windexes. The electronic masthead unit is still working.

The last week was easy trade wind sailing. I could have gone faster, but just let Gannet ease along under jib alone. I’ve done a lot of hard. Easy was nice.

I expect to be here until March 14. I’d like to get laundry done and need to change water. The water in my jerry cans has stuff growing in it. I’d also like to replenish some essential supplies. I’m short of paper towels and gin.

I need to remove everything from the v-berth, dry it out, and reorganize the stowage. Several bags up there and the water jerry cans are tied in place, but even so knockdowns are mighty shifters.

I will inflate and dry out the Avon, which hasn’t been used since Darwin, though it has gotten wet and I expect is moldy.

Gannet didn’t take a lot of water below, except in the knockdowns. The spray hood definitely helped. So far it has been exactly what I hoped. I do have a couple of leaks that I’ll try to find. But basically the little boat and I are in good shape.

Two Raymarine tiller pilots have died. The Pelagic tiller pilot performed flawlessly even surviving the gale knockdowns. I don’t use it all the time because it is noisier than the Raymarines. I did use sheet to tiller part of the time.

I haven’t looked at the Yellowbrick tracking page, but saw from some emails that it uploaded as it was supposed to. I also sent and received three emails from Carol, who is the only one who has that address. I carry Carol with me everywhere, including the monastery of the sea. The Yellowbrick email worked flawlessly. On some past passages there was a software problem. The Yellowbrick now shows 53% charge.

I like St. Helena very much. It is remote, quaint, and unchanged ashore from when I was here in 1988. An airport has been built at a cost of more than three hundred million dollars and was supposed to open last year, but almost unbelievably they built it in the wrong place, on the edge of the cliffs on the windward side of the island where turbulence from the trade winds meeting those cliffs makes landings and takeoffs unacceptably dangerous. How such a mistake could be made by presumably professionals boggles the mind. In any event, when any of the 4,000 residents of St. Helena see an unfamiliar face they still know you’ve sailed there on your own and are charmingly friendly.

St. Helena’s land moved exceedingly beneath my feet for the first few hours I was ashore.

On this passage we moved from the Eastern Hemisphere to the Western. On the next we will move from the Southern to the Northern. Time and chance permitting, next stop St. Lucia, 3800 miles distant, bearing 295 degrees.

If we make it, we will have done more than half the planet since Darwin, Australia, with two stops, Durban and St. Lucia. Darwin 131ºE. St.Lucia 61ºW.

I didn’t even plan that. It may just happen.

Go Gannet.

You can read more from Webb at www.inthepresentsea.com and follow his progress here.

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I am now 75 years old, a number that seems something from science fiction, and about to leave Durban, South Africa, on Gannet, my ultra-lightweight Moore 24, to continue what, time and chance permitting, will become my sixth circumnavigation.

Gannet has new mainsail and tiller covers, a fourth mainsail reef — as small as her mainsail is, last year while using sheet to tiller self-steering I found even the third reef left up more sail than I sometimes wanted — and a hoodie.

Any spray hood is a compromise, particularly on Gannet. This minimalist hood was suggested to me by Joost, a Dutch sailor who has something similar on his small boat. So far it has proven useful blocking the morning sun from shining into the Great Cabin and permitting me to leave the companionway open for ventilation in rain. If it also reduces some of the water coming below through the closed companionway at sea, I’ll be satisfied.

Unseen are a bracket to prevent the Tides Marine mainsail luff track from pulling away from the mast and cleats on the mast for a mainsail tack reef line, as well as new masthead wind units to replace those torn off when a wave rolled the masthead into the Indian Ocean last year.

Gone are two more failed Aurinco solar panels. With the larger Solbian panels near the stern, Gannet still has 150 watts of solar charging.

The little sloop will sail with a record five tiller pilots on board. She left San Diego in 2014 with four and reached New Zealand with none working. She left New Zealand in 2016 with four and reached Durban with one working, but only because I sailed 7,000 of the 9,000 miles using sheet-to-tiller steering. I am again prepared to use sheet-to-tiller and it will be interesting to see how many tiller pilots are operational when Gannet reaches the Caribbean.
To put this in perspective, five Gannet -size tiller pilots cost less than one autopilot on most ocean crossing boats.

As I write, Gannet is fully provisioned for more than two months and we both have been ready to go. However the weather is not cooperating.

On two previous passages west from Durban, I have been able to sail with the wind behind me for three or four days and reach Port Elizabeth, South Africa easily. There is no prospect of even two days without headwinds against the Agulhas Current in the foreseeable future, so we are day to day.

When we do leave, I may stop at East London and or Port Elizabeth, or I may keep sailing on to the Caribbean with only a brief stop at St. Helena. Cape Town is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but I will bypass it this time. Gannet’s tracking page is: https://my.yb.tl/gannet, and it is set to update positions every six hours.

Web Chiles is a frequent contributor to Cruising World. You can read more of his adventures at inthepresentsea.com/the_actual_site/webbchiles.html and follow his blog at http://self-portraitinthepresentseajournal.blogspot.co.za

Editor’s note: Last month, Webb Chiles forwarded along this report while reading his Moore 24, Gannet, for the passage from South Africa to St. Helena, which he is now approaching.

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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.

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