The final leg of the pacific crossing

After almost three and a half years of sailing the Pacific, this was to be my first passage of the WorldARC without Jeanne (she was back in the US for a short visit). As I prepared for the 1,200-nautical-mile, seven-day trip from Vanuatu to Mackay, Australia, I quickly realized just how much of the planning she normally takes care of—and gained an even greater appreciation for it.

Vegetables ready to go (Photo credit: Sandra)

There was weather to download, routing to calculate (north, south, or through Grand Passage?), exit paperwork for Vanuatu, Australian arrival documents to organize, and, of course, one last provisioning run for fresh vegetables before entering Australia. It turns out there is a lot going on before one ever unties the dock lines.

Departure day is still one of my favorite parts of any passage. The marina buzzes with excitement as crews make last-minute preparations, check and recheck equipment, and convince themselves they haven’t forgotten anything important. It’s a mix of nervous energy and anticipation. By the time we castoff, I felt ready—and eager—to begin the final leg across the Pacific.

My crew for this leg, Sandra (who had sailed with us in Tonga/Fiji) and I slipped away from the dock around 10:00 a.m. for the 11:00 a.m. start. Neither of us were particularly good at “just cruising” to the line, so we spent the final minutes jockeying for the perfect starting position. With only moments to spare, we hoisted the drifter and crossed the line with a clean start.

Okisollo headed out across the start line (Photo Credit ARC Committee Boat)

The Pacific wasted no time reminding us who was in charge.

As we cleared the reef passage, the seas quickly built to around six feet and the wind settled into a steady 20-plus knots. The drifter’s brief career came to an end, disappearing into its bag on deck as we settled into a poled-out jib and full main, aiming on a more southerly course to position ourselves for stronger winds forecast over the next three days.

It always takes me about two days to fully settle into the rhythm of ocean sailing, especially with only two people aboard. Sandra and I kept our watch schedule simple: at least four hours on watch, but longer if whoever was on deck was feeling good. It wasn’t rigid, but it worked surprisingly well, and before long we had found a groove.

It was going to be a rocky and rolly ride

On the second day the forecast shifted slightly, so I adjusted our course to aim for Grand Passage, north of New Caledonia.

Just another day with big seas (Photo credit Sandra)

Day three brought lighter winds and beautiful sailing. With the full main, jib, and staysail set perfectly in the morning, there wasn’t much left to do except enjoy the ride.

Which led to the day’s biggest question:“What’s for dinner?”

Sandra accepted the challenge of transforming Jeanne’s homemade bagels, our rapidly ripening bananas, and the last of the goat cheese we wouldn’t be allowed to bring into Australia into something memorable. I was summoned to the galley—not to help cook, but to stand fire watch—as the bananas were flambéed for Banana Foster. The result? Warm bagels topped with caramelized bananas and goat cheese. Not exactly traditional offshore cuisine, but it tasted outstanding.

Banana's flambe underway

The next couple of days were defined by calm seas and frustratingly light winds. Rather than fire up the engine and motor endlessly, we agreed we’d rather earn every mile under sail. That meant plenty of sail changes as we chased every whisper of breeze, but it paid off. By the end of the passage we had motored roughly 15 hours less than most of the fleet.

The calm also gave us an opportunity that’s hard to resist offshore.

One way to prevent boredom at sea is to try different ways to hang a hammock (Photo credit Sandra)

We shut everything down and jumped in for a swim.

Floating in the middle of the Pacific, with nothing but deep blue water stretching to every horizon, is an experience that’s difficult for me to describe. Equal parts peaceful and humbling, it’s one of those moments that reminds me just how small I really am. After a few laps around—and under—the boat, I climbed back aboard and Okisollo continued on.

lots of blue under Okisollo in the middle of the coral sea

My decision to sail through the light air left us about 60 miles behind the fleet, but I wasn’t too concerned. As the breeze began to fill back in, I started calculating our arrival at Hydrographer’s Passage then the finish line, where timing the slack tide is important.

The numbers suggested that if we could average around 7.8 knots over the next two days, we’d arrive just in time for the midnight slack water.

Average speed for the last 48 hours was 7.9 nm/hour -- which required constant sail trimming and management.

Game on.

Most of the fleet slowed down, preferring to wait until daylight before entering the passage. We kept pressing. One by one we sailed past boats that had been well ahead of us and continued all the way to the finish line, crossing at 12:49 a.m.

There was still another 100 miles to Mackay, when Okisollo tied up at the dock early that evening, we were tired, salty, and very happy to be in Australia. After the race committee applied the time and engine-hour penalties, the final results were posted.

Australian boobies hitchiking through the coral sea

First place.

It was an incredibly satisfying finish to the Pacific crossing. We trusted the strategy, sailed efficiently, minimized our engine time, and stayed committed to our plan even when it meant falling behind the fleet. In the end, patience, good sailing, and a little determination paid off.

Not a bad way to finish crossing the Pacific.

Onward...

Sunsets and big seas (Photo credit Sandra)