The Leaving of Buffalo River
The river water was like a mirror as I disturbed the peace by starting the engine at 5.15 on the 28th January. We tied together the mooring lines and dropped them over the side as I motored us slowly away from our place, we had occupied for 19 days and for which Conrad made us no charge, “You weren’t here for pleasure exactly were you.”
John, bless him, was standing in his cockpit aboard Bee Haven to give us a human send off, could as well have been called Bee Leavin’. We were strangely sad to leave behind our carers, the ones who had taken us under their wings; the Goose on the cockpit coaming, the wagtail at the window, terns on the pulpit, cormorant astride the liferaft, and the human ones, Conrad the commodore, Charles our agent and Dr Sean Murray with his warning we would test positive for the next five months! We will always have a special place in our hearts for BRYC, the place where with the care of others we survived Covid.
Much was going on in the marine world just outside the harbour; gannets fishing is always a prelude to a good show and soon we were surrounded by dolphins, seals, shearwater and an immaculate humpback with not a mark on its long smooth back.
The day was going to be a beauty as Zoonie nosed into an 11-knot headwind and we soon picked up 2.2 knots of our old friend the Agulhas Current. We hurried south south west, keen to reduce the miles to when we would turn westwards out of the Indian Ocean and looking to the shore we watched as the distant feint rolling hills advanced to stands of dark green woodland above golden sand dunes for miles and miles along the coast.
By 1700 we were losing the current but with the sea being undisturbed by any wind, just the gentle roll and swell from the Southern Ocean, Zoonie was unhindered in her progress. It was as calm as a Southern Ocean swell could be.
Through the night we could see the lights of Port Elizabeth spreading around Algoa Bay and an acrid smell permeated our nostrils and bit into the walls of our throats. It was ore based but not like the smell of coal dust or iron ore. It turned out to be Manganese dust blowing our way from where a ship was being loaded as and when the horn blowing trains arrived from the mines.
We found our way into Algoa Marina at 3.48 in the morning. John’s description of the route to our berth was excellent, right past the Warrior and into the new berth that was laid only a week ago. Well, we saw no new looking berth so we tied up the first available berth and that turned out to be OK. He had informed Port Control of our situation, Covid survivors on route to Cape Town, so there was no delay there, we had done our time. We dozed off to the sounds of frapping halyards, police sirens and Zoonie’s squeaking lines.
For the second time we thought our weather window would be at least a week away but suddenly realised we had one in just three days, which as I suggested to Des could take us right around to Cape Town. Des thought it might be a little early to bank on it but we lived in hope. It was certainly proving true that conditions for heading west around South Africa improve as the summer matures. So just a long weekend in Port Elizabeth it would be.
John came early the next morning, after the curfew ended. He has a very nice racing cruiser moored a few fingers from us and he let us borrow his vehicle so we could refuel at the nearby petrol station and do a shop at the Superspar just behind it, all while he was out sailing. We were not allowed to leave the marina on foot or we would not be allowed back in. On one of the journeys to refuel we missed a slip road and ended up in the town centre, which was the only ‘look see’ we would get. In a short distance on a steep hill, pretty pastel painted villas merged downhill to the neat colonial civic buildings suggesting a successful and lucrative past for some. But as everything was closed and largely deserted because of changing times and Covid we could learn little. The pristine lighthouse and its surrounds were now near the Visitor Centre and would have been a haunt of ours in happier times. The little lighthouse is now completely diminished by the docks and high cranes of the marine shipping industry, but it would have been much sought after in the days of sail when ships brought settlers and emigrants from Europe to this corner of Africa. Thousands would then take passage in smaller ships up to East London and Durban before heading inland to take up plots of land rendered ‘available’ by the governments back in Britain and the Netherlands.
Both Conrad and John had told us about a new port that has been built between the two ports of EL and PE to take bigger ships and they wonder to what extent more industry and jobs will be taken away from EL and PE and further suppress their local economies.
From our mooring we could watch the fishing boats coming and going, and you know how I like shipping movements don’t you! Also, we could listen to the mournful horn of the trains as they arrived with their toxic loads, watch the dust billowing from the open hatches as the ore tumbled off the conveyor belt and with an easterly would cover the yachts in the marina with orange black grit. A Frenchman arrived just before lockdown last year and flew home leaving his little cruiser stranded. It is now as dirty as all the other boats, its courtesy flag black and tattered in less than a year.
Many of the boats are visitors who arrived many decades ago, judging by the style of their vessels, tidied up the rigging and just walked away never to return. It is the same story the world over. People get so far and then for as many reasons as there are boats, their voyaging stops. The thought of it ever happening to us becomes less of a burden every time we move on and reduce the number of destinations we have left before our project is complete.
Within the marina there is the Nelson Mandela Yacht Club which seemed very quiet when we were there serving only take away meals, and then the other side of the slip was the Deep-Sea Fishing Club, home to the up and running Marlin’s Head Pub Hook bar and restaurant with its expansive views over the marina, fishing fleet and docks and where we had two yummy two course meals for just 7 pounds each. They did a brilliant job of making non-alcoholic drinks seem as attractive as their more mature counterparts.
They were suffering a drought when we were there so we didn’t take any of their precious water knowing we could make our own once we got going. I wrote to the Harbour Master at St Helena to see what the situation was for mooring there. It is unchanged, 24 hours on a buoy if there is one free and no going ashore. Their friendly team would ferry fuel and food if necessary. One cruiser is there now awaiting repairs to his water-maker so he’ll be there longer than the allowed time.
We had the fishing fleet on one side of us and the manganese dock on the other so I was surprised at how clean the water was; a lovely turquoise colour and very little rubbish. The fish life was abundant and numerous little colonies of molluscs and baby fish thrived on the lines and rubber tyres. The weekend provided much entertainment as boat owners came down to work on their boats and take them out for a sail in the bay. We sat in the cockpit listening to Jason Mohammed and then Steve Wrights Sunday Love Songs on Radio 2 through the BBC Sounds app and the Wonderboom speaker. A lovely sunny Sunday with locals at leisure, loving sailing and lots of happy banter. Des was cautiously coming around to our idea that we could make it to CT in one.
The motion in the harbour was interesting. Zoonie jostled and snatched at her mooring lines, the swell reaching as far as our otherwise sheltered location. Long term residents had many lines securing them to their berths, some even had stainless steel springs around their lines to act as shock absorbers. We used to have two rubber ones but one broke completely and the other is now only potentially useful as a cosh to fend off marauders. Some boats had put tyres to imaginative use, feeding lines through the ends of half a tyre which then stretches and gives to the strain.
I downloaded numerous free samples of books onto my Kindle app on my phone ready to read on route knowing I would want to buy some anyway. At the moment I place a price limit on what I buy of around five pounds fifty max and it is a pity that some of the books about rewilding are as much as 19 pounds, so are out of my bracket. I couldn’t believe Michelle Obama wanting 18 pounds for her autobiography. You’re a rich lady Michelle and you know your book will sell like fresh doughnuts, so why the GREED. You will have noticed that this new computer has no obvious British Pound key and I haven’t yet explored other key combinations that might reveal one. Bit of a short coming in my view.
Our ETD moved backwards for Monday from 18.00 to midday and we slipped lines at 11.30am. So, our last evening in this charming place that I would love to have explored further was spent drinking G & T, playing Trionimoes and watching two episodes of Killing Eve, nothing if not inventive we two.
Where Three Oceans Meet
We were only at sea for a few minutes, out of Port Elizabeth on another sunny day when we passed seven Jackass Penguins swimming in a closely huddled group. There wasn’t much wind but Rob poled out the genoa and with that sail pulling and the Agulhas Current helping, as soon as we left port, we managed a respectable 5.3 knots with the engine turned off.
Our weather window was holding and appeared to extend for at least a week from the first of February, the day we left. As I type this in the V & A Marina in Cape Town it is the seventh and the wind would be against us now, but even so a six-day weather window is the longest yet by far.
We had been warned about the numerous ships we would come across on this busy route around the Capes and soon we were caught up in the crowd coming towards us and diverging around us as they approached from behind. Why aren’t there any shipping lanes around here like in the English ChanneI I wondered? Then there were the fishing boats, oblivious to everything except their task in hand, as usual. On the chart plotter their heading changes were as erratic as a roach in a petri dish.
For the first time ever, a ship actually called us and the officer explained the action he was going to take to pass down our starboard side as he overtook. Impressive; both considerate and professional.
I called up the orange ship from the Hamburg Sud line, the Santa Ursula to confirm he was going to pass to our stern as he approached from ahead. I thought a gap of 1.4 miles was infinitely better that .4 miles the heading he was on at the time; especially in the short, roly swell we were experiencing.
At midday on the second day and date we turned west for Cape Town 281 miles away and we knew we were in for a blow, just hoping we would be able to make use of it.
Time came to slide the main into the mast because its role as a steadying sail were being challenged by the building sea which, in advance of the blow that was coming, threatened to push her sideways and we didn’t want that.
The risk of a broach eliminated we all felt more comfortable, Zoonie included and the genoa was free to do its job of pulling us along.
At 01.38 in the night of the second we were sitting on deck under silvery moonlight and the deck light beam trying to figure out in what order to connect the lines to the genoa pole now we had changed course and the wind backed across our stern. The pole rigged to starboard we could remember the order, but the opposite was posing a ridiculous challenge. Were we suffering from Covid muzzy headedness maybe? Any way we worked it out between us and it rose to the horizontal without a hitch. The wind was rising and the sea was in the same mood and within a few hours Zoonie was belting along with a reefed headsail in winds between 22 and 29 knots, relishing the freedom to do 8 knots at times without need of the engine. This blissful boost lasted fifteen hours.
Suddenly, as daylight arrived, we were passing pairs of big pink buoys in a line at 50 metre intervals no more than 15 metres from us. A deadly drift net, harbinger of death to marine life whether suited in scales or feathers and deadly for us had we got caught up in it and even worse if our engine had been on. In the night you just cannot see them; so how had we been fortunate enough to miss them? How much longer would our luck hold out as far as a fouled propellor was concerned? This is another reason I prefer open ocean sailing, and sailing to motoring.
The beautiful Agulhas Current was still with us.
The night after the blessed wind left us was damp; everything in the cockpit shone with moisture under silver moonlight. Droplets clung on to the underside of the bimini, we could feel the chill damp on our skin and everything below soaked up some of the moisture. We were in the area where three oceans meet. Leaving behind us the temperamental Indian Ocean with the kindly to us Southern Ocean to port and the Atlantic ahead; our home ocean.
Des suggested we head for the gap between the Six Mile Bank and the Twelve Mile Bank, where the majority of the ships go. Ooh that could be a squeeze I thought.
A baby buster was expected off Cape Agulhas tomorrow, the most southerly cape of the continent, so we were hoping we would have made the turn north before then and receive it as a beam wind boosting us on.
I worried there was no phosphorescence/luminescence in this cool water where there should be lots of nutritious food for the sea creatures. Just after midnight I noticed the enormous, orange, waning, gibbous moon had risen astern of us in between the windcharger pole and the communication mast. Gibbous because its illuminated, visible area was between full moon and half-moon and I like the word!
The third day and date dawned cloudless again but with little wind, so the iron topsail was full and pulling.
A seal arched out of the water to see us, all of 20 miles offshore and a juvenile yellow nosed albatross came to take a look at us. I had thought we would not see any more albatross so this was a pleasure. I realised how fortunate we were because modern fishing techniques are causing a catastrophic decline in these magnificent ocean wanderers.
At 13.50 we sighted Cape Agulhas 20 miles away; would we lose the current there we wondered? It is the insignificant band of low land in the very blue photo.
Melting ice cube clouds spotted the sky at low level and the Cape of Good Hope was not far away, around the corner.
The ships were now heading directly for the west bound separation lane to the north of the Agulhas Gas Field, the oncoming ships in the eastbound lane to the south of the field. So, we drew a course just out of the westbound lane and felt a lot more comfortable. I feel a nuisance expecting these leviathans to alter course for us, but I guess it is just normal in their line of work. If we have the engine on then we are a power- driven vessel just like them and so the rule of overtaking vessel keep clear applies. Technically, because we have an engine installed, even if it is not running, we can still be classed as a power- driven vessel if pushed into a court of law after an incident I have read.
We passed The Cape of Good Hope in my 4 to 7 watch, its bright white flashing light the only sparkle in an otherwise ceiling to floor grey. But soon the blue sky grew with the morning and as you can see and as Des told us, the beautiful scenery is there to be enjoyed.
Between a rock and hard place, literally, we made a course 3 miles from the shore, mostly on the 200-metre contour to avoid the craypots laid on the rocks just off the coastline and not so far out to cause a nuisance to the ships. The boat you see with the mountain backdrop is laden with hundreds of the pots. It is a lucrative export market.
Zoonie was cruising gently along under poled out genoa, the engine off briefly.
As we approached where the skyscrapers sat on the headland and we were passing houses creeping from the shore up the mountain slopes we knew this testing trip was nearly over.
Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 18 of his 27 years of captivity, appeared low on our port bow and as we motored nearer, I was by strange coincidence reading on my BBC phone app about the 1700 Cape Cormorant chicks on Robben Island rescued from the onslaught of kelp gulls and ibises as they sat in their nests awaiting their parents who never returned from their fishing forays. This happened on the 11th January at the beginning of our quarantine period. A week later another 173 were rescued in the same way from another island. What tragedy had befallen the parent birds? Were they trapped in a deadly freshly laid net, they spread for miles? Did a supertrawler pass through in the hours of darkness and take almost all of the sardine and anchovy shoal the parent birds were fishing from? Without doubt the cause was man. Both the numbers of birds and fish have been in decline for decades.
Local hotels and residents have contributed over one thousand beach towels to provide soft beds for the chicks as they recover in the South Africa Foundation for the Conservation of Coastal Birds base. The chicks are endangered but at least these are being given a helping hand.
Two bridges opened to allow us into the inner lagoon right in the city centre and Weitz and a marina attendant took our lines at 13.00hrs on the 4th Feb. We had arrived and are now in our last ocean, free to head north, eventually.