An ocean passage in a small boat is the stuff of dreams to many a
coastal sailor. Mithril, a 50 foot van der Stadt steel ketch, has taken my partner Peter Maxwell and I on many such voyages
over the last 11 years. We've cruised from Ireland to Iceland, the Mediterranean, the Caribbean and we've just completed a
circumnavigation by the Roaring Forties. When in Australia we sent a general email, with more jest than gravity really, offering
friends the adventure of a two week ocean voyage in the southern oceans between Tasmania and New Zealand. We were surprised
to get three interested parties and even more amazed by the fact that none of them were sailors. An ocean passage as your
first crewing experience seemed to me trying to run before mastering walking and I was afraid there'd be little pleasure in
it for them. But the offer had been made and accepted and after flying halfway round the world I just hoped the voyage
would match their expectations.
In the few days before the crew's arrival in Hobart we had to make a few adjustments to Mithril as she is fitted out
for two people to live aboard in comfort with occasional visitors and hasn't the 12 berths and 4 heads normally associated
with 50 footers. We made sturdy high sided lee cloths for the guest cabin and two saloon berths. Our king sized sprung mattress,
while luxurious in harbour, can be a trampoline at sea so we fitted a lee board on top to make a narrow coffin berth. Peter
and I would share this berth as we intended that one of us would always be on watch. As we worked I reflected that this would
be an interesting fortnight. 1400 miles of ocean with an evil reputation for unpredictable and bad weather shared by three
people on their first ever voyage out of sight of land and two veterans of 80,000 miles who'd never before made a passage
with other people on board.
As they passed across their bags and looked around at the splendours of Hobart's Constitution Dock I could tell that
our neophyte crew were a bit apprehensive. Our old friend Abigail Craig looked at the incomprehensible jumble of ropes and
rigging and said: "I had such stage fright I almost cancelled my ticket - twice - the only thing that stopped me was that
I couldn't get a refund." Abigail is a recently divorced business woman always keen for new experiences. Her companions were
Henry McKee and Maurice Buckley. Henry, a doctor, had holidayed previously on Mithril in its capacity as cheap hotel which
only moved on calm days. His taste for adventure is normally served by mountaineering and rock climbing. Maurice was introduced
as his friend and lawyer. Peter and I exchanged nervous glances as we shook hands - what did Henry think he needed a lawyer
for? Maurice was quick to reassure us: "I've wanted to sail the oceans ever since I was a wee boy and pretended the tree in
our garden was the mast of a tall ship." His previous sailing experience was limited to inshore dinghy sailing. Later I asked
Abigail and Henry why they wanted to spend their precious holidays looking at waves and albatrosses. Abigail said she'd been
offered the chance of something completely beyond the scope of her normal activities and she wasn't going to miss it. "It's
also a good example to my children", she said, "if staid old mum can sail the Tasman Sea then they can do absolutely anything."
For Henry it was to be more a voyage of self discovery. He wanted to see how he'd cope with two weeks enforced idleness cut
off from the normal world of mass media and lightning communications. "My working life is dominated by phones, pagers and
computers" he said, "I'm interested to see if I really hate them as much as I think I do." For Peter and I the trip would
be an experiment in whether or not operating a charter yacht would be a suitable next venture for us.
In the evening as the cask of Aussie wine got lighter I ventured to ask what pre-voyage fears were being harboured among
us. Peter was concerned about the responsibility of taking people to sea in his own boat and I worried about the weather and
whether the visitors really knew what to expect. We weren't at all concerned whether or not they'd be any use as crew. Abigail
particularly was relieved to hear this as her sailing knowledge was limited to a perusal of the Boyscouts book of knots -
parting gift from a concerned offspring. The novel environment was Henry's concern. He feared an agoraphobic reaction to the
huge emptiness of the ocean and wondered how he'd cope. Maurice's concern was that, of his shipmates he knew only Henry slightly
and the rest of us not at all.
Even though we didn't need crew to help sail Mithril we didn't allow the visitors to be merely passengers. The autopilot
suddenly developed a mysterious illness which Peter was unable to cure and everyone had to take turns at steering. (An empty
fuse holder is just about as serious a fault as you can get!). This kept boredom to a minimum. Peter and I stuck to our normal
idiosyncratic watch schedule worked out over many miles where Peter does the 8 hours near dawn and dusk and I do 5 hours in
the night. We were joined by the others on a 3 hours on 6 off basis. We had to remind ourselves to delegate tasks and to give
precise instructions, e.g. that to ease a sheet you don't just let it go. Eventually I took a smug sort of pleasure in being
able to say "I'll steer Henry while you and Maurice go out in the rain and hand the mizzen." The crew complimented Peter and
I on our competent, calm and relaxed attitude - 90% sloth really. Maurice said that he felt "cocooned" by this and the small
blue-domed saucer to which his world had shrunk.
After a week we were halfway and the crew took stock of how they were enjoying their adventure. Abigail was the only
one to suffer persistent seasickness which she had endured with stoicism. On one memorable occasion she stumped outside only
five minutes after going off watch to throw a sick-bag overboard. Disappearing below again she muttered that at least she'd
thrown up over a not very clean t shirt. Now, she had her sealegs and was starting to enjoy herself taking particular pleasure
in the rhythms and noise of sailing and the sea. The book of knots had been mastered and the basic mechanics of sailing had
lost their mystery. Maurice was gleeful when conditions became more boisterous and would bounce out early for his watch singing
and commenting that life couldn't get much better. Henry wasn't so sure. Where Abigail found harmony he found only a jangling
discord. Here was something which he couldn't control by force of will. Unlike the immutable rock face, which doesn't make
a surprise roll to windward, the boat has an agenda and rhythm of its own which must be worked with not against. He was particularly
ill at ease at night when the boat seemed like an insignificant dot in an infinity of empty ocean and starry sky. Maurice's
concern about us being strangers he now saw as a benefit as all our anecdotes had a fresh audience. Actually the diversity
and depth of conversation is one of my favourite memories of the voyage. Away from normal social constraints and conventions
conversation was more personal communication than idle chatter. We had vigorous debate on everything from saints in the early
Celtic church to the best variety of pumpkin for Henry's new vegetable garden. The crew admitted to sleeping more than usual
and the slow pace of life gave more time for reflection than their normal frenetic routine. "Spend a week at home just looking
out the window and your family would call in a shrink" said Abigail "but here that's all you're expected to do - and I love
it" she declared. I was surprised how un-interested in the outside world everyone was. The world news headlines were barely
tolerated and never commented on. Not even music was appreciated and certainly not Henry's attempts to learn the tin whistle.
