Location: 15° 32.2′S / 006° 25.5′WOur southeast trade winds have been light and shifting since we left Cape Town. Today we had a fresh enough breeze to sail off the hook without starting up the main engine.

We were a day late leaving our anchorage at Jamestown, St. Helena Island, because the pump on our primary fresh water maker failed. This pump had passed muster in the machine shop in Cape Town but now it was gone. Danie, the engineer was able to acquire three possible replacement pumps with the help of local fisherman and of the crew of the RMS St. Helena, the island’s mail ship. As it stands, fresh water use has been restricted until Danie and his assistants are able to replace the pump. This means that consumption of our 8,000 gallons of fresh water has been limited to drinking and cooking our food. With these restrictions the water can last thee months. At our usual rate of consumption our tanks would be empty in 8–10 days. We’ve got buckets tied to several stanchions on the ship in order to fetch salt water at our convenience (to wash ourselves and to brush our teeth).

I cannot really tell the difference between a fresh water and salt water shower if I towel off well enough. Brushing my teeth with salt water might take some getting used to, but I tell myself it just tastes like baking soda toothpaste. The Captain says that this probably won’t kill us. He told of sailing around the world in the wooden Brigantine Romance in the 1970s where these restrictions were in effect for the entire two-year voyage and no one thought anything of it. He said that he had two fresh-water baths on that voyage. The first was at Pitcairn Island, which felt good because he went swimming in Bounty Bay right afterwards. The second bath was in Borneo and he said it hurt his skin. He also says that salt water baths will help the boys smell better. We should rejoice.

Our lack of luck with the wind (first a big gale and now finicky trade winds) and with the restricted fresh water, the worthy shellbacks of the crew are convinced that King Neptune has gotten a whiff of the odious stench of insipid pollywogs onboard. We do not cross the Sacred Line again until shortly after Brazil, and we fear he may punish us until he can judge whether the pollywogs are fit to cross the line or not. Maybe if we bribe him with their hair … a few human sacrifices might be in order …

The Picton Castle is now on the second passage of her fourth and final leg of her fourth World Voyage. We are bound for Fernando de Noronha, Brazil, a beautiful island off the coast that is a well-protected national park. It is 1700 nautical miles from St. Helena. We are not sure yet whether the Brazilian authorities will let us visit there, as it is quite difficult it seems to obtain permission to go there. The ship has visited in the past, so we have our fingers crossed.

We are currently steering NW with a Force 2 breeze (small waves, crests do not break) off our port quarter. The swells are a low three feet, coming from SSE. The wind has shifted from N of E to S of E throughout the last eight hours and we are currently braced on a slight port tack. The air is mild and the sky is 7/8 cumulus coverage. Despite the gentle winds and sea state, there are still two hands seasick. When I scrambled out of my bunk for watch tonight, I stepped directly into the empty bucket that my cabin mate had placed on her sea-chest near the head of her bunk (just in case). They are new hands and I feel sympathy for them; it took me till nearly Rarotonga before I finally got my sea legs and stopped feeling seasick.

The approach to St. Helena Island was a particularly lovely one. The bright orange and yellow sun was setting behind the lee tip of the island (which at some angles looked like a larger version of Pitcairn, with similar rock formations off its coast), and as we sliced through the water towards our anchorage at Jamestown, we were accompanied by roughly 10 dolphins who were playing and jumping and racing through the waters all around our ship. Ollie climbed out in the freshly tarred head rig to get some video. When we finally reached our anchorage, the light was beginning to fade as the three shots of chain were let out into 90 feet of water. The crew stared up in wonder at Jacob’s Ladder, more than 700 steps that climb a steep cliff in Jamestown. Chatter about whether we were hearty enough to climb it came to an end with the order to “Up and stow!” all sails. With a cheer, the aloft-goers scrambled up the rigging and laid out onto the yards and stowed all sails in the moonlight in what I believe may have been record time!

Our visit at St. Helena was a very pleasant one and we enjoyed the company of the local children pretty much everywhere we went. The locals were kind to us and were quite interested in what we do. They were trusting of our crew, as they simply left their children with us for hours, making us the babysitters on a moment’s notice! Their generosity was evident in the way they were so willing to help us out with the pump, working with Danie for more than two days to try and remedy the situation. It’s always impressive the way seafarers co-operate with one another; like an unspoken bond. The islanders shared their rich history and beautiful landscape with us, taking our crew on tours of the island and to visit Napoleon’s home and his former tomb (both of which they opened on the weekend just so that our crew could visit). Our first stop of the fourth leg was a pleasant and memorable one, but it sure does feel good to be back at sea!

St. Helena approach

St. Helena approach, dolpins alongside

St. Helena approach, reflection in Monomoy

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Location: 10° 35.3′S / 000° 13.6′W

The Picton Castle is gliding through the South Atlantic at a leisurely rate of 2.7 knots. Eighteen of our 19 square and fore-and-aft sails are set, and the only sounds on deck tonight are the whispered voices of the On-Watch and the creaking of the rigging overhead as the tiny puffs of light air fill the sails. These moments of quiet provide the best opportunity for the crew to reflect on the places we’ve been and the things we’ve actually seen and done. With a limited time ashore, the Picton Castle crew have become masters at cramming in as much excitement as is humanly possible in all of the ports of call that we have visited. When we return from our adventures there are things that immediately press for our attention, namely the ship, and we often get caught up in a different kind of excitement, not really having the opportunity to debrief and absorb the on-shore experiences. Second only to spending time with schools along the way and getting a tattoo from Ti, the majority of the Picton Castle crew had one this thing somewhere around the top of their To-Do-When-Sailing-Around-the-World list—seeing Africa’s animals! Because African safaris can be quite costly and can take many days, a few of my shipmates and I opted for the budget, do-it-yourself option; so we rented a car and began our epic journey to seek out and find examples of Africa’s infamous wildlife.

Our first stop was Boulders, Simonstown, for the world’s finest vantage point for viewing African penguins in their own habitat (but I’ve told you about this already). We drove what is known as the Garden Route to reach our various destinations, and after about a nine-hour drive (and too short an overnight rest), we rose early to drive to Mussel Bay where the Botlierskop Private Game Reserve is located. At 7 AM it was already piping hot inland, so we loaded on the sunscreen and bought as much Gatorade as we could carry. At Botlierskop we had arranged to be part of Game Drive, wherein you are loaded into an oversized vehicle (designed for the South Africa military) and taken on a guided, three-hour tour of a private game reserve in hopes of happening upon animals in their natural state. I was relieved that our tour was taking place in an oversized military vehicle because I had no idea how else we would be able to scale the steep and winding mountain paths, but especially because some of the animals we would be viewing were quite large and dangerous, such as lions and rhinoceros, and this vehicle was practically indestructible.

We were underway not five minutes when we happened upon two elephants playing in a big pond. They were ducking so that their entire bodies were submerged in the water, with only their trunks in the air. They looked like they were having such a great time! When the female elephant stood up to see who we were, the male stayed below the surface and kept swiping at her tail with his trunk, teasing her. At one point, he wrapped his trunk around her trunk and tugged at her as if to say, “Come back and play!” Our guide told us that the full-grown male was probably somewhere shy of 5,000 kg and that a newborn elephant is born already weighing a hefty 120 kg! He also speculated that the female might be pregnant, but so early on it was difficult to tell. Female elephants are pregnant for a whopping 22 months! That’s just shy of two years! Our guide explained that the elephants like to play in the water when they can because they have very short hair and their skin can burn quite easily in the South African sun.

There was a terrible wildfire at the game reserve in November, and four of the eight rhinos that live in the reserve died when the herd miscalculated its escape. Losing the rhinos is quite tragic, but the reserves’ greatest loss of life were the smallest animals and snakes that could never be counted, and therefore cannot now be accounted for. Interesting enough, South Africa’s vegetation has evolved in such a way that some plants cannot release their spores until they’ve been scorched, the seeds germinating in the ashen soil. It had been only a few short months since the fire, but the vegetation was starting to take hold, leaving the dramatic, rolling hillsides a dark, textured brown.

Our guide told us that one game drive had already returned earlier that morning and that they had had great success seeing animals such as lion, buffalo, giraffe, zebra, and the rare black impala, but they had been unable to find the rhinos. Our guide embraced the challenge and hoped we’d be lucky enough to find them before any of the other drives do.

Kneeling in the shade of a prickly bush lay a bushbuck (resembles a North American deer), and after a few more minutes of driving we happened upon a bunch of warthogs (they look just like Pumba in The Lion King) chowing down in a little valley clearing alongside some rather large wildebeest. They were not too interested in what we were, but they were fascinating to watch! Then, as if some tiny lunch bell rang somewhere in the animal kingdom, several different species of animal just started coming out of their hiding spaces in the shade to get a bite to eat!

First there were giraffes. Oh, what a sight! There were three juvenile giraffes on the right side of the path, just beyond the side of our vehicle, slowly stripping leaves from the branches of low shrubs with their long, black tongues. Giraffes are the only mammals that can lick their own ears! They were absolutely beautiful. The young giraffes had a much lighter colour and fewer markings than did the adult giraffe stripping high trees on the other side of the clearing. When giraffes are born they often land on their heads from about six feet in the air, and they can usually run within an hour or so of being born. When giraffes walk, they walk with both left legs and then both right legs! The only other mammal to do that is the camel. But when a giraffe runs, it gallops like a horse. It was unbelievable watching them move! They were so awkward in their gait, but their long necks and faces were so elegant! Did you know that giraffes have the exact same number of vertebrae in their necks and backs as do humans? The vertebrae in their necks are just larger and have greater spaces between them than ours do!

After the giraffes, we approached where the zebras were having their relaxing mid-morning snack. Something new that I learned was that the species of zebra that lives in the Botlierskop reserve is the only species whose stripes go all the way around their belly, too. Most zebras’ stripes just wrap around as far as the tummy, leaving the tummy white in colour. And did you know that a zebra’s short hair is not the only thing that is striped? Their skin is striped, too! The zebra were quite nervous of us, although they appeared to be relaxed. The lone adult male in the group stood so that he could keep one eye trained on us over his shoulder, and his ears were pointing straight back at us. He kept walking away from the group of zebras feeding, just as he would do to distract a predator and protect the group.

As we continued on our never-ending quest to find the white rhinos, we came across hundreds of rare black impalas. There are probably hundreds of thousands of red impala in South Africa, but black impalas are quite rare, and we learned that Botlierskop had the greatest black impala population of any private game reserve in South Africa. Black impalas are worth a great deal of money, dead or alive—a red impala can be sold or traded for $60–100, but a black impala will go for thousands of dollars. Mixed among the impalas were a large population of waterbuck. While an impala is quite tasty to predators, the waterbuck has evolved a protective mechanism: its coat is incredibly oily and bitter, and as a protective strategy it will run into the water to escape its prey. Somewhere through evolution, other predators have learned to not eat waterbuck, but to use their escape strategy for their own benefit. Take, for instance, the crocodile. When a waterbuck runs into a watering hole or river to escape its prey, the crocodiles know to not bite the waterbuck, but rather to attack whatever is trying to catch the waterbuck!

Our vehicle drove along a long plateau overlooking the mountains and valleys it had just taken us two hours to drive through. Pressed for time, our guide told us we needed to see the rhinos now, or it was never, because the lions were in a reserve located all the way on the opposite side that we had started from. Then, as if by magic, the guide spotted something that none of us could see. Along a high picket fence that divides the extreme edge of the reserve from the rest of South Africa were four enormous rhinos seeking a little shade from the heat. We bounced along the rough path in record time and approached the rhinos until we were less than seven feet away. Three of the rhinos were hot and tired, lying on top of one another like a dog pile. But one large, male rhino stood guard and paced in front of the vehicle with his short tail curled high into the air, which was a sign of aggression (glad to have an armoured vehicle now). After we learned a bit about the rhinos and took lots of pictures, it was time to head to the lion reserve.

Once there we noticed a team of men working away at the fencing system that encloses the lions’ expansive reserve. The lions have to be kept in a reserve separate from the rest of the animals because they would be the dominant predator and eat them all! A reserve employee feeds the four lions a measured amount of beef once a week or so. You’d think than an enormous and powerful animal like a lion would need to eat lots of food to keep them big and strong, but that is not true. In their own habitat, a pride of lions might make a kill only once in two weeks. If they are lucky, they might bring down a large animal once a week. This works out okay because South Africa’s lions are adapted to such conditions. It is also quite hot and lions like to stay as camouflaged as possible, so they tend to rest where there are fewer animals to encounter them. This is a smart way to stay cool from the heat, and it also protects the lions from natural enemies as well because lions sleep 18–20 hours a day! Reminds me of our ship’s cat, Chibley!

It was time then to leave the lion reserve and return to the lodge. We thanked our guide and grabbed a quick bite to eat under ostrich-egg chandeliers. Soon it was time to be on our way again. It was going to be another eight-hour drive to the place where we planned to camp for the night. We were going to sleep in a mud hut alongside a long and beautiful (but muddy) river—that the owner assured us would be hippo and crocodile free (more people are killed each year in South Africa by hippos than by any other animal). After a good overnight rest in a mud hut, the next morning we would hit the road again, bound for Addo Elephant National Park, where they have more than 400 elephants and a whole slew of other African animals, many of the populations as large as that of the elephants!

Black Impala

Elephants play in river

Giraffe

Lions

White Rhinos

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Introduction

Jean-Claude is a resident of Reunion Island, but originally from Brittany, France. He joined the Picton Castle for her sail to Cape Town, approximately 3 weeks. Jean-Claude loves playing the accordion and anything to do with the sea.

Récit pour les francophones

La Réunion:

Le 25 janvier 2006 la dépression venant du nord s’est creusée et les vents trop forts ont retardé notre navigation prévue pour Tulear à Madagascar. Le départ est prévu pour lundi 30 janvier après le week-end du nouvel an chinois, l’année du chien. Tandis que Boloetse, capricieuse comme savant l’être quelquesfois les femmes créoles à la Réunion, décide de traverser Madagascar. Nous remplissons les réservoirs de carburant avant de partir et nous attachons à bord tout ce qui peut bouger. Au moment de partir, coincés par le vent fort du nord-est soufflant en rafales sur notre “flanc” bâbord (gauche), derrière deux gros bateaux de pêche à couple (l’Austral et l’Osiris), nous ne pouvons pas décoller du quai. Le capitaine du Port nous fait venir un petit “remorqueur-pousseur,” l’Abeille, pour nous dégager de l’avant afin de faire route sans problème vers la sortie.

Dès la sortie, au fur et à mesure, les voiles sont à poste et nous filons fièrement à 5 noeuds et demi vers le sud-ouest: direction Capetown en contournant Madagascar vers le sud (la destination Tulear n’était plus possible vu le retard.) Tout s’organise à bord sans précipitation mais minutieusement. Les règles de sécurité ont été données à tous; chacun doit avoir sa place en temps voulu, sans pagaille. Tandis que certains surveillent sur 360° notre évolution sur la “belle bleue” toute anomalie (nuages, épave, baleine, bateau, lumière…) est répétée au chef de quart, d’autres vérifient la bonne marche du bateau, voile, moteur…tout ce qui risqué de nous entraver est repris, refait.

La barque de 1998 demande un entretien constant, il faut revoir le haubannage, l’accostillage, les voiles, les bouts nombreux ayant chacun une spécificité. On vérifie tout: les douches, les WC, les cales, les frigos…la hantise du marin c’est la fuite d’eau et le feu à bord. Les quarts fonctionnent de 0 à 4 heures, 4 heures à 8 heures et 8 heures à 12 heures, 2 fois par jour. Les professionals font leur journée de 8 heures du matin à 17 heures ou plus le soir. En plus nous nous relayons tous pour aider le cuisinier à chaque repas et la vaisselle, ainsi que le nettoyage de la cuisine et la cambuse, les poubelles, triées etc. A dix heures le soir il ne doit plus y avoir de bruit dans les chambrées; on arrête les réunions particulières, la musique, les chants, les guitares et l’accordéon diatonique se taisent. Chaque anniversaire est fêté au repas du soir par un gateau du “Chef cuisinier,” le cook, avec chansons et musique. La “ruche” est en marche et réglée comme une horloge, mine de rien “la barque” se fait belle de jour en jour et sa “garde-robe” remise à neuf. L’odeur de la peinture se mèle à l’odeur des gateaux de Joe.

Ne croyez pas que Boloetse est négligée, le capitaine la surveille et nous fait part régulièrement, au cours de mise au points, très pédagogiques et de croquis. Boloetse, cette capricieuse, remontait vers le nord dans le canal du Mozambique, s’était affaiblie et s’est mise à redescendre en devenant un dangereux cyclone. Nous pensions le divorce consommé, mais non, le cyclone se dirige vers l’endroit ou nous devons passer au sud de Madagascar et sa trajectoire menace même de revenir sur nous en retraversant Madagascar. Nous refaisons donc une route nord, vers La Réunion, pour être en sécurité proche d’un abri, il n’y eu a pas à Madagascar sur le côte est.

Dimanche 5 février à 6 heures nous voyons le Piton des Neiges au dessus des nuages dans le soleil levant, une baleine et son petit sont sur notre route. Le dimanche après-midi, c’est repas sauf pour les hommes de quart qui doivent être disponibles. Un bain est organisé pour ceux qui veulent, les voiles sont réduites et des vigies surveillent sur les 3 mâts en cas de requins. L’échelle de corde est à poste pour remonter. Le soir, repas et anniversaire de la plus jeune à bord, 19 ans, 2 jours avant c’était les 63 ans du plus ancien. Après le repas du soir le dimanche, l’équipage a le droit de faire une petite fête, un punch aux fruits est à disposition, avec modération. Chansons, récits, mimes, danses…au milieu du bateau devant le grand mât.

La dépression est en descente vers le sud, nous avons déja le cap sud-ouest et demain, lundi 6 février nous mettrons le moteur pour rattrapper le temps “perdu.” Enfin nous faisons route vers Capetown…sacrée Boloetse va…

Having a sing in the carpenters workspace

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Before I joined the Picton Castle, I often wondered what I would do with my free time at sea. I knew what I wouldn’t be doing–talking on the phone, watching TV, surfing the internet, shopping with my sisters, going out for coffee or meals with friends. One thing is for certain, there is no shortage of time when you are at sea. Sometimes I have to look for things to do, but I never have to look very far. Here are some of my favourite free time activities at sea:

• Reading. I have always loved books. When I was a kid I used to get in trouble for reading in bed by the bathroom light when I should have been falling asleep. I brought a few books with me but certainly not a year’s supply, so that’s where the ship’s library comes in. There are three shelves in the salon stuffed full of any kind of book imaginable. I think I have read more in the past nine months than I have in the past five years. Reading is my number one favourite free time activity.
• Craft projects. Before Christmas I decided to make each of my shipmates a bracelet with hemp and beads, which turned out to be a lot of work. I brought all kinds of glass and plastic beads, strings and wires with me and I have been collecting shells from a lot of different places to make fancy jewelry. I recently finished my ditty bag by tacking in the wooden bottom. I started knitting a pair of mittens in the Pacific Ocean and although I only have half of one mitten done, I hope to have a pair by the time we return to Lunenburg. I also have cross-stitch kits just waiting for me to open them and start.
• Keeping a journal. I try to write in my journal every night, not a lot, just a quick recap of the day’s activities. I found out in Bali that my parents have been keeping a journal at home while I’ve been away, and I want to have something to share with them when I get home.
• Talking to my shipmates. It’s amazing how much time can pass during a good conversation. There’s bound to be someone to talk with on the Aloha Deck or the Well Deck, and since the crew is a collection of interesting people, there’s almost always something interesting to talk about. We discuss the weather, ship’s work, our shipmates, food, good books, and strange dreams, and we tell stories from home.
• Watching DVDs. I never thought that I would watch movies or TV shows on board, but a lot of my shipmates have laptops and they prefer having friends to watch with. The girls of the Bat Cave have recently become obsessed with The 4400, Ollie’s most recent TV series, and we have watched an episode every night for the past few weeks.
• Napping. I used to be terrible at napping, waking up grumpy and un-rested, but since I joined the ship I have become a champion napper. I can hardly remember the last time I slept through the night between watches, so usually a small nap in the day is necessary. Sometimes the problem is when a short naps turns into a longer one, but that’s not always such a bad thing.

Editor’s Note: Maggie is a trainee from Brampton, Ontario. A resident of the After Cabin (nick-named the “Bat-Cave” before being restored), she is with the Picton Castle for all of our Fourth World Voyage.

Maggie Ostler

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Location: 31° 58.5′S / 29° 19.7′E Ordered Course: Hove-to
Day’s Run: 117 nautical miles
Distance to Cape Town, South Africa: 677 nm

We’ve had a little bit of weather that set us back about 12 hours of being hove-to, but we are underway again, bound for Cape Town!

Last evening’s 4-8 Watch was busy, but not too bad. Haul tight weather braces and the same old routine. The seas were still swelly but we did not pay much mind anymore. Overnight the weather changed and kept the watches on their toes. At 0100 the wind came ahead to N x W and the 12-4 Watch braced sharp on a starboard tack. The Mate altered the ship’s course at 0130 because the wind was ahead and down, and the order came to take in and stow all square sails. At 0200 the Watch set the foretopmast stays’l and at 0215 the main engine was fired up. By 0300 the wind had picked up and the forward lookout was moved to the bridge because of waves sloshing up to the foc’s’l head, and the Picton Castle’s course was altered to W x N.

When our watch came on deck at 0350, it was really windy and gusty out, at least a Force 6 (strong breeze), which is a far cry from the Force 2 only a short while before. At 7 PM we had been making between 9.7 and 10.9 knots and now, at 0400, we were making only 3 knots in strong headwinds and headseas. At 0410 the ship’s course was altered to NW x W and we were ordered to take in the inner jib, a routine task that becomes hazardous if you are not careful on a night like last night. The members of our watch had to move about the foc’s’l head and decks in a buddy system for a time because walking was difficult and with the wind on the foredeck, it was dodgy to be up there alone. Tracy and Rebecca went out on the head rig to quickly stow the inner jib. I was standing by on the foc’s’l head to keep an eye on them and Maggie came to watch me and Torunn had to walk her there. By 0530 the wind force was a strong 7 (small gale) and there was salt water in the air. At 0535 I was ordered to put the helm hard left and we hove to. The Picton Castle would heave-to until the near-gale conditions improved. When I stood down from forward lookout at 0750, the wind was up to a force 7-8 (moderate gale) and there were streaks of foam on the surface of the water behind the white caps. We all got wet and we were a little chilly, but the swells were not that terrible and the watch went well and without incident.

At 5 PM this evening the weather had improved significantly, and Chief Engineer Danie was ordered to fire up the main engine and 2nd Mate Greg was ordered to steer us SW x W toward Cape Town! An hour ago the breeze freshened and our Watch loosed and set headsails, spanker and the topsails. We are now motor-sailing along at 7 knots! Our watch really likes to go aloft and work and then come down to deck to sail handle. Springing into action at the last minute has got us all wired up and giddy, even though we’ve just been sent Watch Below. We’ll see what adventures the waters off the coast of South Africa bring to the Picton Castle tonight and tomorrow.

In the evening we had a little sing along with Jean Claude on squeeze-box, and Logan on strings in the carpenter’s shop up under the foc’s’le head.

Location: Port Mathurin, Isle Rodrigues, Indian Ocean

The ship was stowed and ready for another passage at sea, but it was decided by late morning that our departure from this hot, tropical island would be delayed one day, so that Danie and the Mates could take advantage of the perfect conditions alongside to complete some maintenance on the Picton Castle’s windlass. What is a sailor to do when a sailor’s already seen and done everything there is to see and do in a sleepy fishing community? At the Captain’s suggestion, the Mates and Bosun set to work to organize a Sailors’ Sports and Seamanship Day!

We were already all-hands, and we had already spent all of our Mauritian rupees (currency), so the Captain came up with the idea of splitting our crew into three groups and have them pass the afternoon rotating through different activities. These activities included one item of ship’s work and three items of seamanship skills. As a few curious residents looked on from the opposite side of the fence, the Picton Castle crew got down to some good, wholesome fun and got work done, too!

I was in Group 3 of 4, and our first rotation before lunch was painting the rusty spots on the bulwarks beneath the Port Pin Rail and on the Port Topgallant Rail. The newly oiled deck was boiling and blistering hot under the noonday sun as each member of my group sat on the deck in front of our chosen section of bulwark, and began applying white paint to the pin holes and patches of rust that had formed in the steel. We inched as far under the rail as we could in search of protection from the sun, but due to the sun’s angle, we could never be entirely in the shade, and the sticky deck oil stuck the seat of our pants to the deck where we sat, as if to thwart our escape into the shade.

After a lunch of curried stir fry, the groups rotated and began a new activity. Group 3 handed off our painting supplies to the next lucky group and we boarded the Monomoy (the Picton Castle’s whaleboat, formerly a surf rescue boat) for our expedition in rowing training with Assistant Bosun John Kemper as our Steering Oar. Amanda took the position of Stroke Oar aft of me on the port side, and Mike held the oar forward of me on the port side. Kathleen, Maggie and Kjetil rowed the oars on the starboard side. With John’s command of “Give way together!,” Amanda set the pace for the oar strokes. I followed her pace and Mike followed mine. Just when we would get into near-perfect synchronicity, John would have us do what he called “Power-Tens,” whereby he challenged our supposed skills by having us “sprint” for the count of ten strokes. Amanda rose to the challenge, and we followed her lead. Much to John’s pleasure, every oar lock sang out in time with one another. We had the hang of it. Then it was, “Starboard side, hold water!” The starboard crew repeated John’s orders and held their paddles firm in the water. “Port side! Back paddle!” We repeated John’s orders and began to row our oars in the opposite direction that we had been rowing so as to turn the boat around. Our muscle memory made it difficult for us to smoothly transition into a new stroke, and mine, Amanda’s and Mike’s oars all collided as we fumbled to sort out the new rhythm! Soon it was time for the next group to practice in the Monomoy, so we tied her alongside again and hopped onto the deck to see where we were headed to next.

“Heaving Lines!” We squealed with delight. On the dock were six coils of heaving lines, and downwind about ten meters, was a plastic fish tote that was set up as a target. The distance and specific target were reasonable recreations of the distance and specificity one might be required to toss a heaving line to a waiting hand on a dock. It is important to throw with accuracy because, obviously, it is important to get dock lines on and secured so that the crew has complete control over the ship when she is coming alongside in port. Since it was the first time for some of us handling heaving lines, we cheated and let the wind blow aid our efforts downwind. “Take your length of line and make two coils,” John told us as we lined up along an imaginary line, facing the fish tote. “Larger coil in your left hand and only put as much of the smaller coil in your right hand as you can hold. Let the monkey’s fist drop just below the little coil so it does not get fouled.” We imitated the way that John made and held his coils of heaving line. When we were all set, John tossed his heaving line, missing the tote by only a foot to the right. If it were a real-life scenario, John’s line would have made it onto the dock and would have been close enough to the mark for someone to retrieve the dock line quickly. We all wound up and were ready for our first attempt. Since we had plenty of space between us, we could heave whenever we were ready. In an instant, there were monkey’s fists and coils of line flying willy-nilly through the air in every direction, most landing only a few feet away. My heaving line landed in a tangled mess about ten feet away, and I had let go of my bitter end. If I had been on the ship and I had dropped the bitter end and missed my mark, I would have had a devil of a time trying to get the line back on board quickly in order to try again to get the dock line ashore!

Captain Moreland came by to check our progress and had all of us gather our heaving lines and follow him to the edge of the dock. He had us dunk the length of our heaving lines in the harbour a number of times before returning to the imaginary line to try again. Wetting the line would help to firm up the lay and to add mass to the line, ultimately giving you more control over the toss.

Mike quickly became very good at heaving lines. Maggie’s always went straight up and down or fell way short and to the right. Andrea D. stood at the far right of our line of people and her heaving line always wound up to the left of Maggie, who stood at the far left of the line of people. Kjetil did very well in terms of aim, but he had trouble releasing the big coil in enough time so that it would pay out exactly when the little coil ran out, so his line always fell short. My heaving line went mainly to the right of where I wanted it to go. Though it always fell way short of the mark, I did gain a foot or two in the right direction by the time my arms had grown too tired to throw again. Practice makes perfect!

The afternoon was already drawing to a close and there was time left for a handful of us to complete the optional event that we had signed-up for: Skiff Handling. Bosun Lynsey had us pile into the skiff in groups of three. Maggie, J.D. and I climbed in with her and she gave us a refresher speech on responsible boat handling before she let us each practice starting the Yamaha 30 outboard motor that we had on the skiff that day. We learned which of our three engines takes pure gas and which take a gas/oil mixture, then it was time to cast off and practice driving and “landing” alongside the ship. First was Maggie, then me, then J.D. We each had an opportunity to figure out which side of the skiff we were most comfortable operating from, and we each took turns driving around the sheltered harbour to get a feel for the steering. Soon it was time to “come in for the landing.” Each of us in turn had two opportunities to dock alongside the ship and to pull away from her again. Maggie did an excellent job steering and while her first landing was a bit more astern than was desirable, she had sorted it out on the second pass and made a perfect landing. I, on the other hand, had more trouble getting used to steering with even less than 2/3 of the throttle open than I did with the landings (which are difficult, but it is important to not T-Bone the ship or to land too far astern and scrape your way forward along the beam). While I bumbled around the protected harbour, I did reasonably well at lower speed and nailed both of my landings, bringing the skiff to a rest gently against the fenders that were hanging over the side of the ship. The landings were so soft, the tires did not even squeak! Then it was J.D.’s turn. He had done this before, and you could tell he enjoyed it. He opened the throttle up about as much as he figured he could get away with, with Lynsey in the skiff, and his landings were impeccable. “Best landings I’ve seen all day, J.D.!” Lynsey told him. He was very pleased with his turn as skiff driver, but all good things much come to an end, and it was time for us to board the ship and let the final group of the day take to the skiff.

When the skiff was finally safely tied up alongside, First Mate Sam called a muster amidships. It was now 4 PM and the work day was done. All of us who were not to be on watch for the evening were sent “Watch below” so we could go out for dinner at a restaurant, or take a shower, or do as we pleased until the dinner bell rang. Hot and tired from the long day in the sun, we all trudged across the hot deck, aft to where cool water awaited us on the Aloha Deck. We were tired but were in no hurry to go ashore—the banks, post office, internet café, and calling card store had all closed at 4. Instead, we all exchanged stories from our day with shipmates who had been in other groups. The question on our lips was, “When will be our next Sports Day?” but a quick look over the rail and onto the dock answered our question. The day was done but instead of the crew racing for a turn in the shower, the crowd of us gathered again on the dock, or along the starboard pin rails where we could watch as each heaving line was retrieved from its coil on the dock and a serious contest was immediately underway to see who could hit the fish tote the most times.

Location: 17° 27.0′S / 81° 43.0′E

“Easy does it! … Higher!” he called down at me, pushing me to keep going. “Keep your hands on the shrouds, feet on ratlin’s! … One step at a time!” He could not contain the thrill of taking a new person aloft, and his pleasure came at my expense. Because I was petrified, his easy and supportive grin was as distressing to me as if it were a sinister smile that curled his cheeks up against his squinting dark eyes.

“Hustle it up!” he teased, “This ain’t no fat-belly, fakers ship ya know!” My pride battled my better sense to keep my feet on terra firma, “I’ll be darned if some kid is gonna taunt me on my first climb aloft.” I submerged my fears to at least the pit of my belly and took another step.

Looking aloft from on deck, my teacher and I would have appeared as two faceless bodies, backs arched against all the forces trying to hold them down to the deck as they carefully ascended into sheets of white stone. One, the younger, was seasoned with confidence and the other nearing his capacity, filled with eager innocence. Both climbers, regardless of experience share a zest for salt water, boundless horizons, and a need for a breeze dampened by God’s own sweat. The air aloft dripped heavy with His breath.

I gripped the pitched, vertical rope, looked to the heavens for another hold, heaved a weighty foot and hauled against the mass of my stubborn frame. Again. Again. Repeating the task endlessly. My ears became attuned to the shrill choir of wind bending the sail canvas into heart-shaped curves around me. A harmony played through the webbing of clews, bunts and braces. A leaf-less forest of rigging surrounded me, branching from the turf of the deck below to the towering Mainmast trunk above. This classic old ship sings her nearly hundred year old melody to every sailor who joins her.

I was scared but my teacher was not one to coddle a frightened soul, and at that moment I imagined him to be the devil and I imagined that this torturous first climb must be what hell is like. The young demon hung from the narrow shrouds above me. His voice cracked above the chorus, and his frank coolness sharply juxtaposed my anxiety and his self-assurance made me feel as small as if he were egging me on. The upper Tops’l yard hung within inches of my desperate grip. I lunged, grasped and hauled again. This time I coaxed my lanky leg higher than usual, stretching its aching, tightened muscles out onto the yard. I hugged myself tightly to the main branch of this powerful tree, my breath refusing to be caught.

Turning my head from my desperate perch I spied Lucifer sitting freehanded near the starboard end of the yard. Below, on deck, he is commonly known as John. Just John. Quiet and unpretentious. Up here in the jungle though, he changes. He looked across at me and smirked.

“Welcome to paradise!” I heard a strangely bright but cloudy voice say. I straightened myself up and looked out across the expanse of liquid turquoise, unable to discern where the ocean stopped and the heavens began.

“Wow!”

Of all the words in my vocabulary that I could have called upon to describe the grandeur, elegance, strength and beauty of the scene before me, the only utterance I could dig from my churning gut to enunciate my awe was, “Wow;” the single syllable escaped my slightly salt-chapped lips and we hung together sixty feet above the deck - the foyer to God’s own palace. To us “tree-climbing mortality mockers,” no word other than “Wow” could have described that heaven more adequately. The music, the statuesque sails, the tree-trunk mast … the vastness of blue eternity spreading before us …

“Wow!”

Then … another change. I looked again across the mast to see John gazing at the shapely wings of this ship, hidden in his own thoughts. My thoughts. Twelve thousand square feet of pressed dirty white sheets harnessed the Creator’s brute force. This silent engine propelling us to places so magical and beautiful only the Master Himself could conjure. Ceaselessly cutting us forward, the ship split the aquatic world below in two, leaving behind a small, whitewashed trail, which in turn is swallowed again by the sparkling depths of blue beneath.

I might have sat there for minutes or for hours. Time was meaningless. Maybe there is no time once a dream has been claimed. Once God’s choir has been heard for the first time through manila lines.

A minute later came the heckling of the now slightly less horrid voice again, interrupting my serenity. His eyes tightened and that sly, devilish grin reappeared. “Lets go higher!”

I felt tugged in two directions. One was to square myself to all those known ratlin’s and descend to the familiar safety of the below. The other, the more forceful tug, the one I knew I had to succumb to — urged me climb further aloft. I hated the evil temptation of scaling higher but deep down I loved John’s confident suggestion of eclipsing the Royal. Cautiously I answered by rolling off the yard and reaching skyward making headway up to the king of sails. Fear gave way to excitement, and excitement gave way to confidence. Feathers lifted my feet this time. If the Upper Tops’l was the entrance to God’s paradise, the Royal must be His living room. His towering invitation sprawled above me. This time I climbed ahead of John!

Nearing ninety feet I stalled …

“Oh crud!!?”

I stopped under the small cantilevered ladder overhanging above me. John swung round to the opposite shrouds and raised himself to my eyes. Dante’s fire sparked from his pupils. He motioned for me to keep going and with fiendish delight he squealed, “Lubbers leap!”

As a first time climber on this floating tree, I knew I had an excuse. I could have claimed small victory and turned back now. I wrestled between my thoughts and fears. How could I even entertain the idea of quitting? Not when the glory of a man meeting the pinnacle of his sailing dream lay so close at hand! At this point, any resemblance or notion of a man intentionally confining himself to his landlocked ideals of supposed safety was to be discarded immediately. I refused to quit. This was my right of passage! My baptism was to climb up, outboard and up again!

I reached up over the futtocks’ cantilevered perimeter grasping at the air until I felt the firm continuation of shrouds above. No caution remained in my spirit. I boosted my exhausted, boney soul into the full trust of the highest of the rigging. I screamed silently and with a desperate tug I kicked my heels up at this last unconquered space, swinging by my fingertips, The final, highest yard at hand … I … I … The choir stopped. Above the futtocks there are no more branches or rigging left for the wind to make an audible melody. All that was left was a quiet, moist wisp of air moving across my ears. An angel’s welcoming kiss.

Awe came over me like an overwhelming epiphany. Perhaps the greatest thing on all of earth and sea was revealed to me there — that of the reward of the struggle in gaining an entirely new point of view. Again I stood on a narrow footrope a little wider than my thumb and looked across the blue expanse, this time from the most regal of perches. The Master’s armchair. I looked down at the tiny deck creatures far below, beyond earshot. From here the ship possessed the curves of the most beautiful women, swimming effortlessly into heaven’s horizon. Not even “wow,” that captivating three-letter word, could include the freedom I felt at this moment. I stood there long enough to fill my sails with as much of God’s sweet breath as I could contain.

16° 58.2′S / 84° 06.0′E

The experiences of the Picton Castle crew might not exactly mirror the fantasy vision that landlubbers have of a voyage at sea aboard a magnificent square-rigged tall ship. But then this was true for Richard Henry Dana too. But this sure is the real thing. This is not a luxury cruise with air conditioning, refrigeration or private staterooms. The ship requires that her crew put a lot of time and effort into tending to her needs, often at the cost of our foregoing our own, if not needs, certainly our conveniences. Sure, we get to spend extended periods of time at sea, leaving behind a world that is so fast paced that there are not enough hours in a day. But then our hearts soar when working aloft among 12,500 square feet of canvas sails and watch with pride as the seams of canvas sewn together by the hands of our shipmates possess the strength to harnesses the power of the wind. But we also chip rust in the blistering heat, surrender our privacy, endure the task of scooping water from the bilge of the skiff with our bare hands and a soup can, and sand and varnish the same rails time and again. With the wrong attitude (and this is taken day by day) these can feel like mere chores, but we do it without hesitation because she is our ship and our home and our pride all rolled into one, and she faithfully rewards us for our efforts.

“The love that is given to ships is profoundly different from the love men feel for every other work of their hands; the love they bear their houses, for instance, because it is untainted by the pride of possession. The pride of skill, the pride of responsibility, the pride of endurance there may be, but otherwise it is a disinterested sentiment.” So wrote Joseph Conrad. As if the seaman belongs to the ship not the other way around. And the ship belongs to the sea and, thus, so do we.

By day the Picton Castle is a thrilling classroom. She continually challenges us on a personal and professional level, demanding that we evolve and grow as seamen, people and shipmates, and demanding that we rise to new challenges and apply our seamanship skills in unpredictable situations. By night, however, under the cloak of darkness, she is positively magical!

When the 12-4 Watch took the deck tonight, the clouds parted and it looked as though someone twisted the top off the world to let us see the stars in a way that no other human on earth is privy to. The small 3-4 foot swells are tumbling along her beam, bubbling and sloshing with a sound akin to those of waves lapping at the shore. Swirls and flashes of phosphorescence light up in the Picton Castle’s bow wake as magical as the trail of Pixie Dust that Tinkerbell sprinkled to make Peter Pan’s ship lift high into the night sky and sail off into the stars. The swells are low and gentle and the breeze is moderate, but not too fresh. She is braced on a Port tack with her square and studding sails set, her bunts nipped and hanging loosely below the foot of the swollen sails.

Before our Watch mustered at quarter to the hour, I sat on the cargo-hatch cover among the shadows midships for a short time. I had my gaze directed so high aloft that my head was tilted back to the point that my breathing was restricted. I watched the sails bow out as the wind hit their “sweet spot,” the helmsman guiding the ship with the intuition gained from an hour’s trick, filling her sails just right. Tonight these enormous scraps of canvas propel our 300 ton Barque forward through black waters that are dotted with whitecaps that glow eerily in the starlight. And as I sat on the Hatch I watched and listened as the sails, burdened with so much responsibility, rose to their task and did so in absolute silence. Not a single snap of a sheet. Not a shiver from the filled canvas. Not a song in the rigging as the breeze weaves in and out between the manila lines that run down to deck. Silently the ship goes to work. Her crew sensitive to her ways because tonight we are gathered together on the Quarter Deck and talk amongst ourselves in especially hushed voices so as not to disturb the endless magic is at hand.

The young apprentice may have come aboard with his head filled with queer ideas about sailing ships and the sea. His first month at sea may be a distressing experience, shattering illusions right and left until he sees only the bare bones of real life remain. He expected romance, and found work; he expected a “great life” and found himself principally called upon to perform feats of almost superhuman endurance - feats which everybody did daily and never noticed. Then, after a while and he settled into things, he finds that there really can be romance in those bare bones of life, if one knows how to go about looking for it; and he sings while he works aloft, and laughs when he is wet for the twentieth time in succession, and turns out quickly when the call is for all hands on deck, though he made the acquaintance of his bunk only half an hour ago. Yes, the sailing ship can be hard, and it is not always a pleasant process having the edges knocked off you. But the ship casts a spell over those who sail in her.

Captain Allen Villiers, writing in “The Way of Ship”

Last evening Chief Allen came aboard the Picton Castle with his wife, Mrs. Chief Allen, for dinner. I was invited to join them and the Captain and a few other members of the crew on the quarterdeck where table had been set for us to enjoy a delightful evening under the stars. Chief Allen’s English is excellent, as I’m sure are the other four languages he speaks, including Bislama, and over dinner and a few glasses of wine the conversation ranged far and wide. Along the way we came to discuss the local diet and how the people of Bwatnapne Bay obtain their food. We touched only briefly upon the chief’s garden, but I clearly remember saying that I’d love to see it. Then the conversation moved on. By morning I’ve forgotten all about it. Chief Allen has not.

The next morning bright and early (the day, not me), I say good morning to Chief Allen. He has come back aboard to conduct some business with the captain. I am getting prepared to go snorkeling. But I am quickly reminded of my appointment with the local vegetables, and I hastily swap towel and fins for bug spray and my most sensible pair of sandals.

The “skiff,” the ship’s boat, gently touches the steep coral beach and we hop ashore with the bags of clothes the captain has traded with the chief. We drop these off at the chief’s house and we are off. After we leave the village it is pretty much over the river and through the woods, then up the hill. Did I mention how hot and humid it is?

Along the way I ask Chief Allen how he came to be chief of Bwatnapne Bay. He had not been born at the bay but nearby on the same island of Pentecost. He had spent several years working as a teacher on another Island in the Vanuatu group, where he had met his wife—or where he had “pinched” her, as said with a grin.

It turns out that the position of chief is neither hereditary nor elected. It’s more of a consensual arrangement with the people of the village. If you consider yourself to be a good man who does good work for the community and feel you have what it takes, you basically declare your intention. Next, the chiefs from all the surrounding villages arrive on the appointed day for a pig roast. Your ability to be chief is then apparently (but not really) judged on the basis of how many pigs you kill for the roast. In an interesting twist, the pigs are actually supplied by the visiting chiefs. After your ascension to chiefdom you are obliged to pay them back. As far as selecting a leader goes, I have to say that far worse methods spring to mind.

Chief Allen’s garden faces mostly south and west. The soil is a lovely reddish brown. I could see the ship at anchor in the bay from up behind a stand of paw-paws. However, the word garden means something different to me: flowers in beds with lawns and hedges and a bird table. Chief Allen’s garden is not formal; it’s functional. It’s not without beauty, but that is clearly not its purpose. The garden is tidy in so much as the weeds are under control—no small feat I’m sure—but the object here is growing food and a few other crops, not creating a nice place to sip Pimms on a summer afternoon.

The garden covers about three or four hectares, broken up into patches with jungle in between. It’s mostly on a steep slope. While the crops are vaguely separated into different zones, none of these are exclusive. Pineapples grow next to sugar cane and manioc (cassava); taro grows beneath bread-fruit trees. This, I am sure, helps reduce the damage caused by crop diseases and pests, which thrive in the monoculture stands you find in the vegetable gardens and farms in more developed countries. A straggly-looking herb in the tomato/yam/tobacco area turns out to be a “weed,” but it keeps the bugs off the tomatoes. “Weed” seems a little harsh. When I ask Chief Allen what kinds of pesticides and fertilizers he uses, he politely stifles a laugh. Everything is organic, although here the term is redundant—that’s the only kind of food they grow.

The last time I picked bananas, on Pitcairn Island, Steve Christian raised me up in the front bucket of the tractor and I cut the bunch free with Steve’s knife. I’d left my knife rig at his home out of habit (most places you go it’s not too smart to wander around with a large knife and metal marlinspike at your hip). In Chief Allen’s garden I find myself ill equipped once again, but it is not a problem; the chief has his machete (as always, I suspect), and in short shrift he cuts the whole tree down, casually catching the bananas as they reach shoulder height. Why not leave the tree to grow another bunch? Well, the steep, uneven ground rules out the use of ladders and, anyway, another tree will spring up from the felled tree’s root system in no time at all. Looking around at the lush jungle that surrounds the garden, and from which it was obviously carved, it’s easy to believe that that’s true. (Editor’s note: Banana trees can produce only once. They are not really trees but more of a perennial.)

As we stroll (hike) through the garden, Chief Allen’s pride is obvious, perhaps stoked by my interest. When not detained by his chiefly duties Chief Allen spends about half of every day working his garden. His machete serves as axe, knife, and spade as he harvests pineapples, plantains, and yams. Some things here I recognise: tomatoes, cabbage, and spring onions. More things I don’t. Some do not have English names.

My favourite new vegetable is the Island Cabbage. I’m sure it is no Brassicae. It tasted more like spinach at lunch the day before, and now that I see it growing out of the ground it looks a little like a nasturtium, only upright and leggy. Chief Allen picks a huge bundle and wraps it in a banana leaf as a gift for the ship, but on board it doesn’t taste half as good. There’s probably a trick to cooking it.

After about an hour we start gathering the morning’s harvest to head back. I am feeling pretty sturdy—a big sack of manioc over my shoulder, a few mangos under the other arm, coming down the steep muddy path. Spiky things scratch my legs, while vines snatch at my ankles. Then as we come to a clearing Chief Allen tells his ten-year-old granddaughter to take the manioc. I might have protested, but I don’t. After all, it is about two miles back to the village.

Four years ago when I told my sailing buddy, Mark, that I had decided to sail around the world on the Picton Castle, he immediately replied, “Bruce, you are going to be visiting some of the top dive sites in the world and if you don’t take the time to dive them you will be missing half the trip.” He was right. Mark has been an avid SCUBA diver for about 20 years, and shortly after our conversation, I enrolled in a dive class at my local PADI dive center. I earned my Advanced Open Water certification, and began preparing for this upcoming adventure. I practiced deep dives, night dives, wreck dives, and underwater photography (which, by the way, is a lot tougher—and more expensive—than it looks) so by the time we set sail I felt very confident in my diving ability.During my interview with Captain Moreland, I asked him about bringing dive gear and his advice was, “If the island doesn’t have a certified dive shop, it isn’t worth diving there. You can rent everything you need, so keep what you bring to a minimum.” By this time I had grown accustomed to (and quite fond of) my own gear, but I packed only my mask, snorkel, fins, dive computer, regulator, and a lightweight (0.5 ml) wetsuit and left behind the bulkier items—the BCD and heavier wetsuits.

As the crew arrived in Lunenburg, I found seven other divers among them, and we began talking and planning our dives along the way.

The stop at Jost Van Dyke in the British Virgin Islands was short and unexpected, and while the diving is good, especially on the wreck of the Rhone, we had no time there to get away and coordinate anything. Perhaps on our return leg, we’ll have the pleasure of diving in the BVI.

Our next port of call was Panama City. We were eager to get wet, but when we arrived we found that most of the dive centers were located on the Caribbean side of the isthmus. There was only one dive shop near Panama City. I called there, and being on short notice, they were unable to accommodate us. Also, the dives there are about a 2.5-hour boat ride out to some islands of the Pacific coast. So we set our sights on the Galapagos Islands.

Once in the Galapagos, we discovered that most of the best dive sites were in the northern part of the islands and were accessed by live-aboard dive charter boats on 5–7 day trips. Since we had only a few days and we were all assigned different duty days aboard the ship, we opted to go with a local PADI shop, called Charo’s Dive Center. Charo and his crew took very good care of us on a couple of local dives at Kicker Rock and Lobos Island.

Kicker Rock is a split rock standing tall out of the sea about 25 minutes by dive boat from our harbor anchorage at Puerto Barquerizo Moreno, the main seaport town on San Cristobal. The water is quite cold (the prevailing current flows up from the Antarctic), but my 7 ml wetsuit kept me warm as we dove 80 feet down and swam around the rock. We caught a glimpse of a Galapagos shark, an eagle ray, and we also saw beautiful sea stars among the colorful algae on the rock.

Later that day, we dove at La Isla de Los Lobos. It was a shallow dive of 20–25 feet along a sandy reef between the main island of San Cristobal and the smaller Lobos island. The smaller island was inhabited only by sea lions. As I was entranced with the number of stunning pincushion sea stars along the sandy bottom, my dive buddy, J.D., grabbed my fin and motioned upward. Behind and above us were baby sea lions frolicking and making sweeping passes at us. Although they are very territorial and at times aggressive on shore, in the water these creatures were amazingly friendly, curious, and playful. They tagged along like puppies throughout most of our 40-minute dive. In the shallows of the reef we witnessed marine iguanas feeding on the algae.

Our next opportunity to dive was in Rarotonga, although we did some pretty extensive snorkeling in Mangareva, where the reef revealed white-tipped sharks (about 5 feet long), octopus, lots of parrot fish, butterfly fish, angel fish, and wrasses. There were no dive shops on Mangareva. My theory is that because of the extensive pearl farming there, they are reluctant to have a bunch of SCUBA divers swimming around their oyster beds.

Then on to Rarotonga. We were all excited at the prospect of donning tanks again, but while the dive shops there were all well equipped and ran some first-rate dive operations, the dives were lackluster. We booked a couple of dives with Cook Island Divers, the oldest dive shop on the island and we had a great time with them. But much of the reef we saw had been destroyed by pollution and was rife with Sigua Terra, a bacterium in the algae. It is harmless to reef fish, but if the fish are eaten by humans, the bacterium causes an irreversible neuropathy. There is an effort to revive the reef and evidence that it is slowly coming back to life, but we saw little live coral and few reef fish there. What an unfortunate situation.

After Rarotonga, we snorkeled on Palmerston Atoll and found more reef life there. Without the threat of Sigua Terra, we tried our hand at a bit of spear fishing, but the fish proved far too smart and agile for us.

A short sail later and we were once again strapping on the tanks to dive at Tonga, and what a thrill that was! The reefs were beautiful, with a variety of fish and other reef animals that we had expected to see since our arrival in the South Pacific. One dive was on a site called “The Chinese Garden.” Here, the table coral stretch across acres of reef and the landscape is covered with Christmas Tree Worms. These lacy, conical-shaped animals live attached to the coral and rock and are about 1.5–2 inches high in brilliant shades of blue, yellow, white, red, green, and black. As we swam over the terrain, I thought that not even an IMAX camera could capture the beauty of that reef!

The next day we went for a couple more fantastic dives on a wall and through several underwater caves, then spent a couple of hours whale watching with a mother and 2-week-old baby humpback whale. What awesome and graceful creatures they are!

Fiji was our next stop, and we were already psyched up for the “Soft Coral Capital.” We were not disappointed. What we saw in Tonga somewhat paled to the beauty, variety, and vibrant life in the Beqa (pronounced Benka) Lagoon. In short, the diving was getting better as we sailed West. The Beqa lagoon is a wide reef between Viti Levu and the smaller island of Beqa to its south. Here we saw multitudes (no exaggeration) of Angelfish, Wrasses, Parrotfish, Butterfly fish, Chromis, Clown fish, Shrimp, Octopus, Lionfish, Sea Stars, Sea Cucumbers, Eels, Goatfish, Squirrelfish, and Grouper among huge growths of staghorn, table, brain, and soft coral, alongside sea fans, anemones, and urchins. Fiji was, indeed, an underwater paradise and the best reef dives so far. I am told that the Western Coast of Viti Levu around Nadi (that’s right, pronounced Nandi) also has some spectacular diving, and I regretted not being able to stay longer to explore the other dive sites. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to return.

As we set sail for Vanuatu, all the divers began focusing on our first opportunity to do a wreck dive. Now, this is not just any wreck, but rated one of the top 60 dive sites in the world. The wreck of the SS President Coolidge. A luxury liner built in 1931 and pressed into service during World War II, the President Coolidge served as a troop transport for American forces in the South Pacific. On its fourth trip as a troop transport carrying 5,000 troops, as it was approaching Luganville on Espiritu Santo, Vanuatu, miscommunication caused the ship to strike a mine. The ship’s captain put her full speed ahead in an attempt to beach her but his attempt was thwarted by the reef. There was no panic as the 5,000 troops disembarked, and many even walked to shore. There were only two deaths: one man was killed in the explosion, and an army captain, finding the man missing, went back on the ship to find him and lost his life in the attempt. The ship sank in 90 minutes. Later, during a cyclone, she slipped to the bottom and now rests on her port side, completely intact on a gentle slope between 60 and 230 feet deep.

After the war, salvagers recovered the propeller, bunker oil, brass, copper, and electric motors. But in 1983 the Vanuatu government declared that no salvage or recovery of any artifact was allowed from the Coolidge. One of those involved with the salvage operation was a man named Allen Powers, who currently runs Allen Powers dive tours. Allen has more than two years of bottom time and has intimate knowledge of both the wreck and the reef around it. Since the wreck is so deep, Allen leaves plenty of surface interval between dives and we spent the four hours between dives hanging out at Allen’s place, having tea, coffee, and rolls, asking questions, and pouring through the extensive library he has accumulated on the President Coolidge.

So, we dove into history and viewed the awesome splendor of this 654-foot ocean liner with its holds and compartments filled with WWII relics such as jeeps, tanks, halftracks, big guns, rifles, helmets, mess kits, china, and silverware. And, of course, we can’t forget “The Lady.” The lady is a porcelain panel of a woman and a unicorn. A well-known artifact among dive enthusiasts, it measures about 2 feet by 3 feet. It was originally in the smoking lounge, but in the 1980s its fastenings gave way and it fell. Suffering only minor damage that was easily repaired, she was moved up to the main dining room, a location farther forward in the ship and more easily accessible for divers to see. I did five dives on the Coolidge, including a night dive into the hold and chain locker to view tiny headlight fish. These creatures have phosphorescent “lights” on their gills and in the pitch black of the hold at night, they appear to twinkle like fireflies on a summer’s eve.

That’s about it so far for our underwater adventures with the Picton Castle dive group. We’re all looking forward to the beautiful reefs and walls off Bali, and to cage diving with Great White Sharks off Mozambique and South Africa. We’ll keep you posted!