Greenland weather day with movies and popcorn

We had been mostly lucky with the weather but on the Wednesday the forecast was for 45 knots of wind with gusts quite a bit higher out at sea.

That was unfortunate as the plan for the day had been to head south, for alas our time in Greenland was coming to an end, but in a way it was fitting.

Greenland can be a hard and unrelenting environment, and the wise traveler adapts to conditions where necessary. Pretty much all the books I'd read of journeys in these lands had times when the only option had been to wait, and so I considered this day another tick on the list of Greenland experiences.

I spent some of it lying in Robin Knox-Johnston's my bunk reading the book "A Viking Voyage" and listening to the rain pounding on the hatch above.

We watched some videos, including the 1934 classic "The Wedding of Palo" - though alas we only got to see the first half so never got to find out who Palo chose of the two rivals for her hand (though have a pretty good idea).

We also saw the beautiful and moving "Iceland: A Skier's Journey" filmed on a trip on Aurora with Siggi - definitely worth a watch.

There was even popcorn, so all in all it was a good day.

Then we had some visitors.....

The abandoned village of Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord

While kayaking in Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord we stopped off at the abandoned village.

This is a collection of maybe a dozen huts was once a living community before the settlement was abandoned, too remote to be sustainable.

Having said that it could be argued that "abandoned" is too strong as these huts are still at times occupied by hunters and the Navionics chart describes them as "Traveller's hut" which is more accurate - or at least would be if in the plural.

There was a sad, desolate feel to the site, with its faded wood and rusting ironwork merging into the surrounding landscape.

Inside the accommodation was basic, often just a raised sleeping area:

What was most remarkable was the amount of debris nearby, making the village look like a rubbish tip, with everything from broken toys to bullets to shoes.

In fact there were a surprisingly large number of shoes:

With the slow rates of decay this garbage will be there for decades and I had a strong urge to get busy with black plastic bags - if only to collect it all into one compact area.

But then I got distracted by the view again.

Maybe that's how the local s feel too.

Kayaking in Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord

The day after we didn't get lost in the fog in Greenland we launched the kayaks again. 

The first time had been by Turner Island but there weren't enough places for everyone so I'd hiked instead. But this time I was very keen to give them a go and boy was it fun!

I was in the double kayak with R. and we were paddling between 'bergs in one of the most amazing places on the planet - just brilliant.

 And then we were joined by a curious seal:

It's fair to say that not falling in was a pretty important goal in these freezing waters, and no one decided to test out their roll here.

A just amazing paddle: another great day.

Not lost in the fog in Greenland

It is important to point out that we weren't lost though it was foggy.

We'd gone for a hike on Kraemer Island in Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord and in principle it was very simple: head north until we see over the other side into Watkins Fjord, and that is indeed what we did.

The view was impressive with the fjord completely jammed full of ice fed by multiple glaciers though the narrow channel heading down to our anchorage was clear:

On the way back the weather changed and we were surrounded by fog.

The terrain was rather rough and on the way out we'd had to zig-zag a lot scrambling up and down ravines across rivers and battling scree, but the general route had been to head north.

So in theory the route back was to head south but where to zig and where to zag was made a lot harder with the poor visibility.

Luckily we had a mix of natural navigation and top tech to hand. I of course relied on the following clues:

• Vegetation in Greenland is sparse and will struggle on north facing surfaces. It was actually a pretty good indicator of where south was
• The wind was from the SW and so when at the crest of hills clear of eddies its direction was another good navigational sign

The Mexican's also had their smartphones which all had magnetic compasses.

So we were not at all lost and I never felt my mental map of where we were was that far off.

At one point there was a debate about whether we should go left or right to retrace our steps to the little waterfall with the rock over it, to which I called right and we were rewarded with this:

I'd call that a result for natural navigation.

The Robin Knox-Johnston Greenland connection

During the trip there were a whole series of links to sailing legend Robin Knox-Johnston.

Firstly, as Tillerman spotted, Robin K-J, together with climber Chris Bonington, led an expedition to attempt the first ascent of The Cathedral, a peak in East Greenland. They sailed Suhaili across the Denmark Strait (above) from Reykjavik into Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord where they anchored in a small cove they called Suhaili Bugt.

We also sailed across the Denmark Strait and also entered Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord where we anchored in Suhaili Bugt.

But there were more Robin K-J connections. The yacht we were on was a Clipper 60, built to race around the world for Robin K-J's company, Clipper Ventures plc.

In addition the actual yacht was one that Robin K-J knew well and had sailed frequently - including over to Greenland.

As the expedition with Chris in Suhaili didn't achieve its goal (sorry spoiler there) they returned again with a bigger team and hence boat. They took one the Clipper yachts, namely Antiope (Robin K-J's favourite of the fleet), in an attempt to get into the same fjord.

Alas ice kept them away so they headed back to Iceland, ending up in Isafjordur.

Here they met a chap called Siggi who suggested that they keep the boat in Iceland to give them easy access to Greenland. They responded by suggesting he buy the yacht!

A year or so passed and Siggi bought Antiope and renamed her Aurora.

So not only were we sailing a Clipper yacht it was actually Robin K-J's favourite, one that he had sailed over to Greenland in.

One final link was that when I was shown my bunk I was told it was the one that Robin K-J used when he was sailing Antiope (as it was then).

I reflected as I got to sleep one night that I was in Robin K-J's bunk, in his favourite Clipper anchored in Suheili Bugt where he'd gone climbing with Chris Bonington.

I'd like to say that it inspired me to great feats of seamanship but when I was given the task of using the Zodiac to make fast the first shore line I misjudged the strength of the offshore wind and there was a mad scramble with the paddle.

But it was rather cool all the same.

Entering Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord

The original starting point was to have been Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord but initially the ice charts had suggested it might be too clogged to allow entry. A week later, as part of our journey south, we gave it a go.

There was still quite a bit of ice, but there was always a gap between the bergy bits allowing Siggi to get Aurora through. But it required constant vigilance, and Siggi had to foot steer while dashing from side to side checking the way ahead (above).

We did get rather close to some bergs, so we had to watch out for the foot that can extend out a long way underwater:

Our route took us close to the dramatic Overhang Mountain:

Then there was a sharp turn to starboard, a narrow channel between two rocky islands, then hard to port to anchor in a small sheltered bay together with one (and later a second) shore line:

The name of the bay? Suhaili Bugt.

If you think there might be a Robin Knox-Johnson connection there, well then you're right. In fact there were lots - any suggestions before I blog about them?

The raven and the glacier

The next anchorage was D'Aunay Bugt, where the yacht felt insignificant against a landscape of glaciers and mountains (above, the boat is BR).

Here we stayed two nights, with two good hikes. The first was up to the ridge that was meant to overlook the other inlet marked on the chart. But it seemed to have been clogged with gravel, the bar high and dry, apart from a rushing river fed by another glacier.

We were inspected by a raven, which flew round us, squawking a greeting:

In the barren landscape this sign of life was startling and we could see why the Vikings considered them messengers of the gods.

The next day we hiked to a glacier. In the crisp, clear, Greenland air it seemed so close and yet it took all day to reach its base, scrambling over a rubbish tip of giant boulders:

We gingerly tried to walk on its surface but the edge was a mixture of mud and slush that dissolved like quick sand under foot, leading to many metres of mud slide slipping downwards.

Disturbed by these signs of instability and aware of the long trek back to the boat we went no further, but headed down again passing patches of beautiful purple flowers:

Here we found that Siggi had put out the net and caught something just right for our good appetites: fresh Arctic char.

Greenland Picture Puzzle

This picture was taken around local noon.

I think there are clues as to the following:
- which way the current is flowing
- which way I am looking
- which way the wind was blowing

Can you spot them?

Bonus marks for what sort of current it was.

Greenland as Mars

After the excitements (and relaxations) of the Turner Island anchorages it was time to move on. As the ice had driven us further north than usual we needed more sailing days to get down to Tasiilaq on schedule.

The next hop was to a little inlet at behind Cape Ewart off Knighton Fjord which turned out to be incredibly barren (above).

It reminded me a bit of the images transmitted by the spacecraft sent to Mars, apart, of course, from the sky being blue rather than red. I wasn't surprised to find out that Greenland has indeed been used as a test bed for Mars technology.

We concluded it must be because it was relatively dry, for where there were rivers some greenery did appear:

We hiked to a couple of lakes just above the anchorage while K. collected wild sorrel to add to salads and pesto (dinners were pretty good on-board) but didn't feel much need to stay.

So the following day we headed south again...

Whale meat recipes

When travelling around the world I like to get a feel for the local culture, including its cuisine. So when in the Orinoco Delta I sampled live termite - and jolly good they were too.

Greenland has a different style of dish altogether, namely whale, which to be honest I found a bit of a challenge.

The hunters who'd left the narwhal found by the polar bear had been rather successful and as well as the two it was chewing on we came upon many other carcasses around the shoreline. The meat had been cut off, but for one reason or other they hadn't taken it all but left stacks of great chunks in piles nearby.

We speculated as to whether they couldn't fit it all into their boats or whether the polar bear had frightened them off, but later we heard that the custom is to take what you want and leave for others the excess.

Anyhow Siggi filled a couple of large plastic bags with narwhal and then and over the next few days we were to try several forms of it.

Firstly there was raw, sashimi style. This tasted initially like tuna and beef but there was a strong after taste of blood that made me reach for a bag of dried apricots to cleanse the pallet (and I wasn't alone).

Next up was ceviche style marinaded in Siggi's "mix of soy sauce, ginger, garlic and chili and then sprinkled with a bit of fresh lime".

The main serving was in a stew with ginger. I don't have that recipe to hand but the book "A Viking Voyage" (review to come) has one that includes onions, garlic, mushrooms, Jack Daniels, brown sugar, cayenne, oregano, salt and pepper with a marinade of oil, lemon juice, soy sauce and garlic which they seemed to like.

Then some meat was cut fine and then air dried on the foredeck:

Narwhal jerky, even when spiced with cayenne, did not find many takers, probably because it still had a strong, lingering after-taste of blood and the texture of a dry carpet.

We had more whale when we had the farewell dinner in Tasiilaq including some of the prized skin, again raw, known locally as muktuk. It's meant to have a great taste but to be honest was a bit bland with a chewy texture.

I understand that this post might be a bit controversial for some but the meat would have gone to waste if we hadn't taken it, and it is one of the Greenland Inuits traditional source of food.

As I said earlier I like to be open to experience other cultures and their cuisine, and narwhal most definitely was new to me.

Its not one I'm planning to repeat, but if I were to return to Greenland I would have to be prepared to eat as the locals do - though maybe with a bag of dried apricots to hand just in case.

Bathing in the hot springs of Greenland

After the polar bear had vanished we returned to our hunt which was to find some of the rumored hot springs of Greenland.

We had rough instructions such as "opposite where the channel entrance meets the fjord" which wasn't that helpful to be honest but after rather a lot of wandering around we found not just one but three hot springs.

The first one we found, all green and mossy, was used by the girls, while us boys held off. However the second was so tempting we couldn't resist.

Our hot spring came bubbling up from what looked like a mini-volcano crater (above). Here it was scalding hot but just below some locals (hunters we guessed) had dammed it to make a pool where the water was just about bearable:

Here we wallowed in male bonding sort of way, looking down at the fjord where ice bergs drifted slowly by, asking hopefully if anyone had brought any cold beers.

They hadn't.

So after daring each other to dunk our heads right under, then trying to shake the gravel out from parts where gravel should never go, we headed back to the yacht:

 A polar bear and a natural hot spring bath: that's was good day indeed.

One hungry polar bear

Spotting a polar bear along the shoreline from where you've just stepped ashore is an interesting experience.

Not surprisingly our immediate thought was to jump in the Zodiac and head back to the yacht, where we discovered that the kayakers were similarly inclined to get out of the water.

Then it was all hands to the cameras:

 As you can see there were two whale carcasses by the water's edge.

We later found piles of narwhal chunks that hunters had left behind, so we guessed that the polar bear had been scavenging and got lucky:

We clicked away, me regretting travelling light and not bring the DSL and zoom lens.

It didn't seem that impressed with this pap session, and after looking at us with disdain it picked up what looked like a narwhal tail and trotted away to a safe hiding place.

Woo hoo!

See a polar bear - tick!

Turner Island: Our first anchorage in Greenland

Our first anchorage in Greenland was behind Turner Island in the channel connecting the Deichmann and Roemer fjords.

It was a drier, rockier landscape than we would encounter further south, for there isn't just the one landscape in Greenland. Plant growth was limited to low crawlers, the occasional wild flower and the lichen and moss clinging on to the endless rocks.

I'd just come off watch and was mentally switching modes between sailing and hiking / kayaking so stayed with the boat while the others headed up to the top of a nearby hill, where they saw a white Arctic hare that seemed surprisingly tolerant of their presence.

By the others I mean the crew and guests of Aurora. I don't like blogging about other people without their permissions so will just say they were all a great bunch and identify them by their initials.

I was given the task of shuttling them from yacht to land in the Zodiac inflatable. I think people were surprised how bad I was at controlling the outboard motor given how much I'd sailed but then most of it had been marina to marina.

I was quite happy to hand over to someone else:

More practice required...

The next day there was a three pronged movement of forces, with a land party (me with K. and W.), a kayaking party (T. with the Mexicans) and Siggi and R. taking Aurora over a very shallow bar (maybe just 1.5m under the keel).

It was a good walk, easy going apart from a tricky river crossing:

The only disconcerting point was spotting what were clearly bear prints, which turned the gun from a health and safety tick box item to a reassuring presence.

Later on we re-joined the boat in its new anchorage:

Here we went ashore again to hunt for, well, I'll get to that later, but we were in any case interrupted.

We had just put the first steps on land when we saw just along the shoreline a POLAR BEAR!

Crossing to Greenland: ice and fog

By dawn we'd left Isafjordur far behind and was out in the Denmark Strait. In Iceland it's called the Greenland Sound which makes more sense to me given its location.

The usual route for this voyage is to head west to go direct to Kangerlussuaq fjord (highlighted as red square below) but at the time the latest ice map below showed rather a lot of ice in that direction so we headed north instead:

There wasn't much wind so we motored most of the way, with the odd hours sail just to say we'd done it.

Even with this more northerly route we did see ice, the encounters made more "interesting" with quite a bit of fog:

We also saw whales, fins and (probably) orcas, but they vanished before cameras could capture them. There were fewer sea birds than around Iceland, just the friendly fulmar (top).

It took another night to get there but when came on deck for my watch saw the most amazing view of a mountainous icy landscape, just as promised.

We had arrived in Greenland...

Isafjordur: Hens on scooters and dolphins

I had a lazy day hanging out in in Isafjordur before we sailed over to Greenland. It's a great little town in the NW fjord region of Iceland with several tempting bakeries and a good coffee shop where saw what looked like a hen party out on scooters.

In the evening we slipped lines and motored out to sea where we were treated to a lovely display of dolphins playing around the bow:

Later on the sun set and we headed north, into the Arctic Circle.

As Aurora had a skipper and two crew I could at this point have gone down and slept but that wouldn't have felt right so I volunteered to help sail her over and was soon part of the watch system.

There were times in the following two weeks, usually early in the morning when it was freezing cold, when I wondered about this decision, but the first night was not one of them.

I could spot familiar cliffs as we crossed the route Tristan and I took last year.

But this year our destination was further north, across the Denmark Straits.

Siggi and Aurora

I've been meaning to post more stories and photos of Greenland but have been held up first by the return to work email backlog plus my home laptop is not just dead but not repairable accordingly to John Lewis and they can't (or at least didn't) extract any of the data from the hard disk before disposing of it.

Gloom.

Anyhow back to Greenland and this is the yacht I went on. It's one of the original Clipper fleet, 60 feet long, hull made of fibre glass, and currently called Aurora.

She was Robin Knox-Johnson's favourite of that fleet and there are some good Robin KJ stories to come, in particular how she ended up with Siggi.

Siggi Jonsson is the owner & skipper and must be the world expert on the anchorages of East Greenland, having gone over there for many, many summers and talked to everyone he can from hunters to Robin KJ to Willy Ker. Willy is the author of the Royal Cruising Club's pilot book to Faroe, Iceland and Greenland, a staple from last year, and also another Contessa 32 sailor, as we sailed last year.

Siggi is a rather common name is Iceland and while waiting for the helicopter at Tasiilaq I had this conversation with an old Greenland hand about how I'd been sailing with him and they said yes they knew him only to find out they meant someone completely different.

However this Siggi is known to at least one other sailing blogger as he was the guide for Alasdair and the crew of Sumara of Weymouth on their epic sail and climb voyage to Jan Mayen Island.

He would have been a good choice as was very impressed with Siggi's knowledge and skill both in navigating the icy fjords of E. Greenland and also preparing tasty dinners of baked fish or freshly baked bread: yum.

Here is Siggi standing on an iceberg in his crocs (as you do):

Borea Adventures: Forbidden Coast

Last year during the sail to the Arctic Circle we decided to avoid the ice on the grounds that that involves specialist knowledge.

But wanting to see more of the amazing scenery I did a bit of googling and found Borea Adventures, a company that each summer sails from Iceland over to East Greenland.

Couple of emails later and I was booked in, and had a just brilliant time.

Here are a couple of their videos that gives you a feel as to what it was like - and that convinced me to sign up.

Greenland's East Coast

East Greenland is a difficult coast to reach, even in the 21st Century.

The Admiralty Pilot is full of warnings and qualifications such as "there are still great stretches of coast that have never been approached in a surface vessel", though I'm sure the Inuit hunters know a lot more.

It goes on to say that the "existence of pack ice along this stretch of coast can make approaching it from seaward difficult" and recommends a "constant lookout for icebergs and floes", to which I'd reply "no kidding Sherlock" for we did indeed see lots of ice.

Indeed the route we took (above) was determined by two factors: firstly the fixed point of having to be in Tasiilaq on the 12th (though we actually got there on the 13th - Greenland forces its own timing).

Then there was the ice that initially was thick between Kangerdlugssuaq (the central point of the W above) and Tasiilaq (at the bottom) so we headed north up to Turner Island (top point), before making our way south, following the ice.

The ice was indeed so thick around Tasiilaq earlier that two boats which left the Icelandic NW fjords town of Isafjordur just before we did and headed directly there had to turn back.

To get back involved a Greenland Air helicopter flight from Tasiilaq to Kulusuk (just across the fjord) where there is an airport just large enough for a prop plane flight over to Iceland, and even these struggled with a thick bank of fog that swallowed the land, cutting visibility down to pea-souper levels.

It did clear, eventually, but the flight ended up leaving 7 hours late.

East Greenland is a hard place to get away from too, even in the 21st Century.

Hello from Greenland

Currently at Tasiilaq having finished a sail down the East Greenland coast visiting places such as this.

More to come!

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 13/13

The End

I don’t know how I escaped being picked off. Maybe the sleeping bag I was still stuck within was enough of a camouflage. Maybe they mistook me to be one of the boxes that were drifting like me away from the wreckage.

I kept my head down, not wanting to draw attention to myself, until I saw the crowds from shore become people, individuals, scavenging the packages of medicines and surgical supplies. Then I freed myself from the sleeping bag and swam the final few yards to the beach, feeling the sand beneath my feet.

Turning I could see Luna Rossa captured by the Israeli naval vessels: it seemed mostly in one piece. Somewhere on board was my camera and the lower half of Rachel.

For a long time I could say nothing but just sit there, staring out to sea, watching the yacht be rescued while the bodies floated away. I kept hoping against hope that the others would have escaped to join me on the beach. Maybe Ali or his sister Doha, big man Michael, singing joker Samar, the watcher of Team NZ Isaac, the quiet farmer Ghazi or Gideon, surfing his way to shore.

But all I saw were bodies with holes and faces with vacant eyes.

What happened afterwards is a bit of a blur. I was looked after by people in Gaza whose names I’ve forgotten. Fed, clothed, housed and eventually helped to escape through the tunnels to Egypt.

Here my Aussie passport and credit card were enough to get me away, to fly off to London.

I checked the news feeds but there was nothing about Luna Rossa having gone missing, and several weeks later she appeared again complete with all her crew, so someone worked hard to hush things up, though damage might explain any performance loss.

When the racing started in July, many will have remembered Andrew Simpson, who lost his life for the America’s Cup.

But I will remember others. I will remember Michael, Isaac, Gideon, Doha, Samer, Ghazi, Ali and Rachel. Always Rachel, feeling the touch of her hand on my arm, that moment when I decided to join them.

And I remember their vision, their dream; to fly across the waves on a giant of a foiling wing-cat toward the dawn, to bring hope to the oppressed, to break the blockade and fight for a future of equality and freedom.

This is Buff Staysail, blockade-breaker, over and out.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 12/13

The Final Hours

 As the planet rotated towards the sun, light returned showing us the faint outline of a coastline, Gaza, a dusty silhouette against the red sky.

“We did it” breathed Ali.

“You did it” said Rachel, and for him that was what mattered.

It was so close now. We could see waves breaking on the beach, we could see the entrance to Gaza’s harbour, we could see crowds waiting for us. I watched this from inside my sleeping bag, lower half kept warm while my head popped out to watch our arrival, our triumph.

No boat could catch us now, for we’d outrun them all, their navel boats gunmetal grey smudges miles behind us.

I looked up at the massive wing glinting in the first rays of this, the new day. There was a line of holes from the encounter in the night, bullet holes. I shivered and snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag.

It was reflected in its mirrored surface that I first saw them. A pair of Cobra helicopter gunships, racing towards us like Terminator wasps, angry and dangerous.

Everyone watched them, unsure of how to respond. They’d been focussing for so long on sailing they’d forgotten there are other ways to travel.

“We keep going” said Michael.

“I will tell them who we are” said Rachel.

She got out the VHF again.

“I am Israeli, there are three Israelis on-board. There is a journalist on-board. We have no weapons, no fight.”

The helicopters tracked us, the speed we were so proud of nothing to their air frames, even though they were dwarfed by our wing.

Rachel raised her passport high in one hand.

“See” she said. “We mean no harm.”

She raised other hand high as if to surrender, and it was then the gunship opened fire. A stream of shells cut her in two, her top half tumbled overboard while the legs remained lying on the netting.

There was pandemonium, chaos in which they lost control of Luna Rossa, the giant craft nose diving into the waves, fling me headfirst into the surf. Bullets and shells continued to fly, picking off the others as they dangled on the netting, their screams cutting short one by one.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 11/13

Night Encounter

All that day we powered on eastwards.

At times I’d wondered what the outside world would be thinking, what the headlines would be. Most would guess yet another capsize, and search parties would be looking for splintered carbon fibre or support boats with engine failure. No one would be looking 1,000 nautical miles away, a distance that stretched further every hour.

Michael, Rachel, Ali and all were getting the hang of this beast, trimming more subtly, keeping the animal from bucking us off. Both hulls were clear of the water, with only the rare nose dip leading to “we’re going to die” thoughts.

In the afternoon I dozed again, escaping the afternoon sun in the shade of the jib, dreaming I was on a train flying across the Australian outback, back in the days of Walkabout. It felt good and I even forgot about the lack of beers.

When I woke the old fears returned, and I tried to have a quiet word with Ali.

“No worries Buff” he said. “We’re going directly from International Waters into Gaza waters. Palestine’s been recognised by the UN now, things have changed.”

There are times when I wish I listened to the news and this was one of them. I could tell that Ali would simply go where ever Rachel wanted to go, making her dreams become real.

In a way they all seemed to have been captured by the image: the great yacht, wing-sail mirroring the sky, flying metres above the water, racing to Gaza. It was that picture that kept them going, that mattered to them, more than the West-Eastern Yacht Club, more than the medicines or surgical spares, more than the memories of suffering and death.

Over dinner I got chatting to the bearded guitar player Samar and the suffer dude Gideon and we exchanged yarns and jokes as the sun set, and it was one of those best friends forever moments. They “got” Buff and I got them.

But I could tell the tension was rising, and they kept telling each other how amazing it was to be sailing a foiling cat at 45 knots. Which it was, but as the darkness fell the fears returned.

Ali had a GPS and he kept track of how many hours we had to landfall. At midnight we had our first encounter with the blockading fleet. A bright light appeared, a floodlight tracking us but whatever it was it couldn’t keep up, quickly dropping astern with shouts from a megaphone.

The next boats were faster, but not quite fast enough. A pair of them appeared at our bow, screaming at us to stop, but Ali just called out “trim, trim, trim” and Michael steered between them while Rachel turned on the VHF radio for the first time since Palermo.

“No weapons, no fight! We stay in International or Palestinian waters” she said. “We have that right under the freedom of the seas!”

They seemed calm but I was looking for somewhere to hide, and I was right for next thing the Israeli boats were firing at us, bullets snapping over my head.

Jeez, to be back in a bar, any bar, anywhere.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 10/13

Secret Rendezvous

It was a little fishing boat, packed with boxes which they started lugging aboard.

Suddenly my suspicions came flooding back - what was in those boxes? Could it be guns? Explosives?

Jeez, was that what this was all about? Had Luna Rossa been selected as the most souped up gun-running blockade breaking speed boat on the planet? Not that it wasn’t pretty good at that. The netting between the two hulls could be used to rope down a lot of those boxes, and there was nothing on water that could catch us.

And they’d be ducking away at the sight of even the slightest whiff of another boat on the horizon.

Oh my god! Had Buff’s deep sea intuition guessed the true story straight away - these truly were the pirates of the Med, genuine gun toting bandits! I had to get away and on land as quickly as possible.

My face must have given me away - or the way I backed away to the furthest corner of the leeward hull - but Rachel came over.

“Relax, Buff” she said. “Do you really still not trust us? You are funny.”

Me? Well I do tell a good joke.

“Come and see for yourself.”

I followed her, wondering how she looked so cool and pretty after a day at sea on a monstrous yacht in the baking heat of day.

“Look” she said, as Doha strapped down some more boxes. “Medicines, bandages, baby food, nothing nasty.”

“And this” said Doha. It was just another box to me.

“We’ve ordered a whole range of surgical components for the catheterization theatre at European Gaza Hospital. It was out of action for several months... when...”

Jeez, women. All of a sudden she was crying, and Rachel sniffing too, comforting Doha.

There was a silence, broken by sniffs and the slap of waves against the hulls, and I wanted to be somewhere else.

“No more; never again” said Doha, making cutting motions with her hand. She stood up and marched to the little fishing boat, or at least as well as one could over netting.

“Her sister - Ali’s other sister - died when the machine broke” said Rachel, softly. “I was visiting Gaza with a Code Pink delegation. It broke my heart; it opened my eyes. So we take these medicines and parts to break the blockade, to remind the world that it is wrong.”

I don’t get politics but I didn’t want to see Rachel cry again. So when the fishing boat left I stayed on-board and we headed off again, flying faster than the wind, to do a good deed.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 9/13

The first night

Jeez, if I live to a hundred I’ll never forget that night.

Racing east across a moonlit sea, flying at a height of a metre or two above the waves, effortlessly, near silent apart from the creak of sheets and winches.

It was dreamlike, as if some joker had either paused reality with a huge remote control or set it on fast forward or maybe both, looping us around and around the same couple of seconds. But what an ace couple of seconds they were. Made me all poetic like, imagining that the wave tops were beer foam and the moon ice cream.

And it wasn’t just a couple of seconds, it was hour after hour, so long they had to break into two watches, Rachel leading one and Ali the other, while Michael was on standby.

Every now and then a hull would drop and its prow would crash into a crest sending a fire hose of spray blasting through the yacht. They seemed to keep the nose a bit higher afterwards, no doubt fearing the Oracle Team USA nose-dive-of-death or remembering poor Andrew Simpson.

I bunked down in a sleeping bag in the leeward hull and tried to get some kip, lulled to sleep by the bearded Samer, who turned out to be a crooner and guitar player of some skill, learnt while passing time out at sea on his fishing boat.

You’re probably wondering about the facilities given Luna Rossa was designed as a day sail. Well there was a no nonsense approach involving a bucket stored in the leeward hull and we just chucked the contents over the side. To be honest I missed and that lovely mirrored hull, well, let’s just say it was a bit less reflecting the next morning. But I’d gone easy on the beers (as in none) so they’d been less heads trips than normal, which was a plus for all.

I had this great dream that I can’t remember and woke a couple of times. Once I saw the moon set behind us and the next time it was gone. I remember thinking jeez how do they sail this thing in the dark but managed to drift off again.

Dawn seemed to come early. I couldn’t remember the last time ol’ Buff had been up with birds so to speak (unless you mean the other sort).

I wondered where we were. We’d been going 40 something knots most of the night so could be as much as 500 nautical miles from Palermo. If the boat had been reported as missing who’d look this far away after such as short time? And still we powered on, Rachel and Ali’s watches switching over every four hours.

After the sun rose they kept a pretty good eye out, changing course to avoid the slightest blip on the horizon. I’d doubt anyone saw us as the mirrored wing just reflected the sky as if we were some sort of stealth rocket-ship, which I guess we were.

Once they let me helm and wow was that amazing. We hit 45 knots and that’s easy Buff’s speed record. They had to prize my hands off the wheel - literally.

“Better let me drive, Buff” said Rachel. “You’re going the wrong way.”

Ok, I might have been headed up a touch.

Soon after we spotted this little boat, and this time we didn’t do a runner but went right up to it and heaved-too. It was as if they were expecting it to be there.

“What’s up?” I asked, journo-like.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 8/13

Falafel and foiling

Turned out there was nothing to drink on-board, just water. Jeez, if I’d be planning things would have been very different.

There wasn’t even a cooker so it was all cold, and vegi at that. Buff wouldn’t have said no to a nice steak sandwich at this point but it was a wrap with brown balls inside, balls that opened up to some sort of green mush. Falafel they called it, and seemed to like it too, plus all the rabbit food and sauce around it. Homemade hummus dip followed by some sort of lemony sticky cakes and more water, the drink of last resort.

Over this lightweight meal I got chatting to the others such as Isaac, a tech-head who’d spent the last six months skipping engineering lectures at Auckland University to head out on a RIB to watch, video and learn from Team New Zealand and Luna Rossa’s training program.

“They thought I was a spy for Oracle” he grinned.

Then there was a pair called Ghazi and Samer I had trouble distinguishing which was which so I mentally called Tweedledee and Tweedledum. One was a fisherman and the other a farmer but jeez, who knew which was which. They both had cream coloured slacks and thick black beards.

One seemed to keep to himself: Gideon looked like a surfer dude with curly hair, wrap-around sunglasses and obligatory shorts and t-shirt. He’d grab a bit of food then head for the prow to watch the leeward hull slice the water in two.

As I grabbed another of those lemon cakes (rather moreish they were too) Ali introduced me to Doha.

“Buff, I’d like you to meet my sister” he said.

Sister! Maybe I’d been so taken by Rachel I hadn’t noticed there was another woman on-board. She’d been in the background, quiet, helping out in a dozen places, and I’d only seen the back of her head.

She shook my hand. “You must tell the world” she said, before turning back to tidy up the dinner.

Baffling: woman are like that.

Rachel and Ali returned from the foredeck where they’d been inspecting the dagger-boards and foils. With the setting sun behind them they’d been little more than silhouettes, cardboard cut-outs against a glittering sea.

“Is it time?” asked Michael.

“I want to foil” said Rachel, her eyes sparkling like the water, and Ali, watching her, nodded.

“We should lower the foils then bear away” he said. “We are out of sight of land and our new easterly course would be safe deep water all the way.”

Michael nodded.

“Do it” he said.

Ali’s seemed to smell the wind, feeling for its angle - which was a bit like putting your head out of car’s window while driving at 30 mph - then called out to Gideon who abandoned his vigil on the prow and bounced over the netting to the port hull and winched down the foil, locking it into place.

There was a slight upwards lurch, but there was still not enough lift to bring to hulls clear, not yet, we were not sailing fast enough.

“Ready” said Ali to Michael.

The big man looked apprehensive, a bit like Brian Blessed about to go on a first date. Gingerly he turned the wheel, and the yacht, a flying building his to command, turned to port; slowly at first, but controlled. Rachel looked up at the wing and gave orders to bearded twins Ghazi and Samar who slowly winched, opening out the wing, increasing its lift. Isaac and Gideon were at the other coffee grinder, letting out the headsail.

For a moment Luna Rossa seemed unsure, like a horse when its stable door has just opened, poking its nose cautiously outside. Then as if released from chains it bolted forward, straining at an invisible leash, hulls breaking through waves with clouds of spray. Michael kept his focus, adjusting the helm rapidly from side to side, holding Luna Rossa to its track. There were a couple of bumps as the speed increased, the showering sound amplified a thousand times and then it was like the boat had been lifted by a giant, maybe Neptune himself. Upwards we rose, hoisted into the sky by the foils under us. As we climbed we accelerated as if a rocket was attached to our tail until we were well over 40 knots, racing smoothly over the waves rather than through them.

It was astonishing: we were going twice as fast as before but much quieter. It was less like sailing and more like sitting on a train, looking out of the window at the sea apart from the gale in one's face.

Doha came back to the stern to stand by me and Michael, grinning broadly.

“This is amazing” she said. “Whatever happens later this was worthwhile.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she was right. It was am-az-ing!

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 7/13

The West-Eastern Yacht Club

I’d found myself a spot at the stern next to the big chap who was steering, and Rachel came back and joined us, which was nice. I felt a bit safer with her there, to be honest.

“We keep on this heading for two hours” she said, “then change course during the night.”

I thought it was time to do my journo thing, ask a few probing questions, like.

“What the fuck is going on?”

They laughed, and I suddenly realised who the big guy reminded me of: Brian Blessed. He had the same deep belly laugh and beard.

“Buff, I’d like you to meet Michael” said Rachel.

“Welcome aboard” he said. He seemed a lot more relaxed than a couple of hours earlier, and kept his eyes on the horizon and sail rather than me.

“Are you pirates?” Which to be honest was a stupid question: of course they were pirates.

“Not really” she said. She took the gun off Michael and gave it to me. The moment I held it in my hand I could tell it was fake, lightweight and plastic. A toy.

“I got it in a Palermo toy shop” said Michael. “I was an actor - played Julius Caesar at the Ramallah Play House.”

He leant back and took one hand off the wheel.

“Let me have men about me that are fat” he quoted, looking at me (cheeky!) and laughed again. “Then I became a fisherman, sailing the waters of the Med.”

“But you hijacked this boat?”

“Borrowed” Rachel said. “We wanted something fast, something that would be iconic, something the media couldn’t ignore, something sufficiently valuable to protect us. We are sailors, Ali and I, that’s how we got together, racing Foiling Moths in a reservoir in London, near Heathrow. Truly we wouldn’t want to damage something as amazing as this.”

The sun was setting in the west, directly ahead.

“We are the West-Eastern Yacht Club” she said.

“You what?”

“Isaac named us” she said.

One of the men on the grinders turned and raised a hand, before a command from Ali made him turn back to trim the wing.

“Isaac was a bassoon player for the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra, created by Daniel Barenboim and Edward Said to bring Palestinians and Israelis together. But he realised it was changing nothing, just normalising the occupation. We have to act, do something, something together. Isaac and I are Jews, Ali is a Muslim, Michael a Christian and together we can achieve the spectacular.”

Politics; strewth, not my strong point.

“Is there anything to drink?”

“Yes” said Michael. “We should have something to eat before it gets dark.”

“And drink” I said. Let’s get first things first.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 6/13

Pirates of the Mediterranean

The Sunseeker re-started its engines and headed off north, towing the RIB behind it. As the rumble of its engines gradually faded it became suddenly peaceful, the sun warming my face as the breeze cooled it, the slap-slap of waves against the hull. It was a good time to look around me.

I’d seen the cat from afar of course, but I’d never been on-board. The scale was overwhelming, that wing towered over us like a skyscraper with mirrored windows, winches as big as beer barrels, ropes industrial strength, hulls long but dagger thin, separated by empty space. Where most cruising cats had a wide plastic space for sunbathing and BBQs all she had was netting, on which I took a few tentative bounces like a kid. It felt good - maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“We should get going” said the big man. “Ali, Rachel, now is the time to show us what you know.”

I saw them exchange a worried glance and then simultaneously draw in a big breath, then Ali grinned and Rachel nodded back.

“Let’s go sailing” she said.

While the big man was in command it was those two that were the experts. They did a tour of the boat together, checking out the lines, talking rapidly. Their language might not be one that Buff knows but some words didn’t need translation, such as mainsheet, wing, hydraulics, backstay, forestay, jib, back, foil and trim. Ali tugged on halyards while Rachel tracked the line back to the coffee grinders and switches, then in reverse she’d get two of the more muscular ones to grind slowly and Ali would check which line went taught. They’d flex the wing, bringing it left and right, testing as a pilot would an aircraft before take-off. Then they’d be pointing, working out things, agreeing to plans with a nod.

No one asked me what I thought.

“We are ready” said Ali.

“Go” said the big man.

“We will start with the foils up” said Ali.

The jib had already been rigged, it just had to be unfurled with a grind of its sheets by Rachel and her crew with Ali in charge of the foredeck. Partially open it backed, while the wing was swung in the opposite direction, together pushing Luna Rossa’s nose away from the wind.

“Photos, Buff, photos” said Rachel, and I clicked away.

There was this trickling sound, then it was like being in a car when the driver put his foot down, hard. The boat accelerated and we were suddenly racing, the waves flashing by, and the trickle became a gurgle, then that showering sound of spray against the hull. Smoothly, like a bridge being raised, the windward hull rose out of the water.

We were sailing. Already we must have been doing 15 knots and none of the sails were properly trimmed.

“Easy” said the big man from the wheel.

“It’s fine” said Ali. He grinned, though anxiously looking around.

“Power her up” said Rachel to the grinders, and with a groan of sheets we were away, slicing upwind through the waves, well over 20 knots. We were heading west, away from Palermo.

But where were we going? And why?