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?

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 5/13

Capturing the America’s Cup

Jesus! What was going on here!

The others dropped their ice creams (in the sea - what a bloody waste!) and split into two groups. One followed the big man onto the catamaran and started handcuffing the sailors, while the other led by Ali and Rachel went to the support boat, where they started dropping anything electrical overboard as well.

“Give us your phones, now” screamed the big man.

I don’t know about the Luna Rossa team but I was shitting my brand new boxers I can tell you that.

For a moment I wondered if I should try to send a quick text off but then they remembered me and Ali came over and frisked me. I found myself regretting it wasn’t Rachel and that cheered me up - if I could think along those lines I was staying cool enough to remain ol’ Buff.

“Sorry Buff” he said, taking my battered old BB and dropping it into those crystal blue waters. “We can’t take any chances.”

For a moment I could see it glinting under the waves then it faded away, dropping towards the sea floor.

They seem very well organised, fully equip with plenty of handcuffs and everyone with their tasks. The VHF radio was removed from the RIB, together with its engine’s spark plugs, which followed my BB down to where the water was cold, dark and still. Then all the sailors together with the support crew made to strip down to shorts and t-shirts before being shepherded onto the Sunseeker.

“We mean you no harm” said the big man. “You will be taken to an isolated beach on Sardinia, where you will be released. We just want to borrow your yacht, and we need time before anyone comes looking for it.”

Was that it? Were they just really keen AC fans who had been gagging for a sail on this high tech beauty, or was there more to their plans than that?

“Now is your last chance” said Rachel to me. “If you want to find out why we want Luna Rossa you must follow us now. Otherwise you can stay with on the Sunseeker. I should warn you it will be very dangerous: we will understand if you are scared, if you’ve had enough.”

Jeez, what to do.

I watched as Ali and the others shifted their bags into Luna Rossa’s starboard hull. So there really was more to it than I guessed, and I was thinking longingly about getting back to the hotel for a shower and clean boxers when she touched me gently on the arm.

“Please stay, Buff: we need someone willing to tell our story.”

Maybe I am a sucker for a pretty face and maybe it’s because my arm is tingling all over again at the memory of that brief contact, but I said yes, and swung my legs over the side and onto the hijacked challenger for the 34th America’s Cup.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 4/13

Catching our yacht

It was quite a hike out there and it was then that something odd struck me. Why had they asked for me to bring an overnight bag on an ice cream delivery trip?

Maybe there'd been a change of plans, I thought. But it wouldn't be the end of the world to be back in my snug room that night, sending out emails, selling my photos and story to the world.

On the horizon I could see that wing, taller than a jumbo jet is wide, a sun bright dagger cutting the sky, powering Luna Rossa quicker than even a speed boat could travel, and if rumours were true they'd make it go even faster. As we approached I could see her head up to wind and furl that headsail, luffing up to a halt just by their support RIB. It was time to get the trusty old SLR out.

“Well done Buff” said Rachel, approvingly.

It was good to be appreciated, noticed even, as the others had been rather quiet on the way out, not responding to Buff’s gentle ribbing.

“Port side” said the big man, and the others lined up, a long row of Prada t-shirts, and Rachel handed each of them two ice creams, a selection of Magnums if I remember right, which they waved at the approaching yacht.

“Ice creams!” they screamed. “Sponsor refreshments!”

“Nice one” said one of the sailors, covered in sweat, for we were close enough for me to capture shots of the drops trickling - no, flowing - down his face.

“Cracking good idea” said another.

The skipper, not Francesco, but someone I didn’t recognise, did mutter something about no one telling him, but that was it. We were universally welcomed, which made the surprise all the greater when the big man leaped on-board and stuck a gun to the skipper’s head.

“No one move” he commanded. “And no one use a radio!”

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 3/13

Prada Ice Creams

So with bag packed, underwear clean and newly purchased hat on my head I met Rachel and Ali as agreed, but found they were not alone. There were a half a dozen or so others, all young, tougher looking than Rachel, and like Ali either had a deep tan or had spent a long time in the Middle East, standing by a huge pile of sports bags.

I spotted they were all wearing Prada t-shirts and the name of the hush-hush sponsor became pretty clear. This could be good news as though the main show was over there were rumours their cat had some unseen tricks that had to be tested way offshore away from prying eyes. Not for long!

"This is the journalist, Mr Staysail" said Ali, and they muttered a greeting. There was this huge chap, like a hunk of beef, who just stared at me. It was a bit disconcerting to be honest.

"Call me Buff" says I.

"Buff!" said the big chap. It didn't sound welcoming, scornful even. "Buff!" He reminded me of someone, but couldn’t place who.

Then he and Ali were blabbing away in whatever lingo they were into. Looked nasty at one point but Rachel said something and that seemed to be it.

"So what's the story?" I asked. They had promised a scoop after all.

"We are delivering ice creams" said Rachel "to the Luna Rossa boat training out in the bay.

So I'd guessed right, sort of.

"You should wear this t-shirt too."

She rummaged around in her bag and handed me one. It was L but I'm more of an XXL chap so a bit tight around the belly area; it sounds better if you say figure hugging or streamlined.

The big chap seemed to take charge, leading us down the pontoon out to a Sunseeker, standard white plastic box fitted out for the offshore fishing day charter market. Everyone slung their bags down below and grabbed a seat: I picked one close to Rachel and Ali, not knowing anyone else.

With a roar we were off, nose pointed for the horizon, separated from us by a sea sparkling under the afternoon sun.

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 2/13

Rachel - and Ali

"G'day" I said, being friendly like.

"Hello" she said. For a moment she looked at me and boy were her eyes nice looking, brown and capable. All too often women seem to look at yours truly either as if I was an idiot or got the plague, but she seemed to see beneath the Buff exterior.

"You in Palermo for the sailing?" It was what I asked everyone, as if they said yes we'd be away if they said no I could explain all about it. Either way the ice was broken.

"Are you a sailor?" she asked.

"Buff Staysail" I said. "Journalist and writer, you might have caught my show on Queensland Community TV. And you?"

I was ever hopeful, on many levels.

"Rachel."

"And you? A journo too?" I asked.

She seemed to think over that question. "I follow the sailing for interest" she said "with my boyfriend, who is late.”

All the nice ones seem to have other halfs.

As if on cue in came this unshaven chap with glasses wearing a leather jacket, who was typically slimmer, younger and better look than Buff, who promptly kissed Rachel. I was prepared to dislike the bloke but he was very friendly and when she explained who I was he offered to buy me a beer.

"I understand you journalists like the odd drink" he said with a smile.

As I said, he seemed a top cobber, Ali he was called.

Then Rachel and he went off jabbering in some language or other that I didn't follow. It seemed like a bit of a bummer from what I could gather from Rachel's expression, but then they started looking at me as I'd seen the farmers back in Queensland check out the calf to be slaughtered.

"Mr Staysail" began Ali.

"Call me Buff."

"Mr Staysail, would you be interested in a sailing scoop?"

Does the moon look like cream cheese? Should a rainbow be the other way up so it's smiling? Should beer be chilled?

"Scoop is my middle name" says I, which isn't true as really its Frederick or Freddie after my ma's great uncle. "Tell me all."

"We have a ... project ... that could use coverage and our contact’s father is very unwell so couldn’t come. We need a replacement, fast. I can't say more now, our ...sponsor... has an embargo in place."

"No worries" says I. There had been similar restrictions about this trip.

"Meet us by the entrance to marina F, tomorrow at 4 pm. Bring an overnight bag."

I was in!

Buff's America's Cup Adventure 1/13

The Luna Rossa Assignment

G’day all! Buff Staysail here! Buff by name and Buff by nature!

I’ve been off on another of Buff’s adventures, and it began a few weeks ago when I was invited by the Luna Rossa team to one of their media events in Sicily. Now Buff never says no to helping one of the 34rd America’s Cup teams raise their profile, especially if there’s a jolly to somewhere warm, so in a jiffy the bags were packed and yours truly was at thirty thousand feet in an aircraft heading south.

Buff must just for a moment say what stars the Luna Rossa PR team were for putting on a hit event. They picked us up direct from our hotel then whisked us out on fast RIBs for a photo-shoot to watch their boat training off Palermo. And what a sight it was - levitated by their foils, flying across waves reflected in their mirrored hulls. I’d gone snap happy, filling up the camera’s memory card with shot after shot, relishing in the strong sunshine after what has been one heck of a depressing cold and grey winter.

Who needs or wants a hat, I said at the drinks reception (top notch Italian bubbly guys) afterwards, when people commented I was looking a bit red:I was making up for six months of lost time.

We had to listen to some sort of presentation about how they’d shipped Luna Rossa back to this, the home yacht club of Circolo della Vela Scilia, to raise the team’s profile with the Italians and Sicilians (who apparently consider themselves very different). For the evening ol’ Buff considered himself one of them and rattled off a couple of ciao bellas to the PR team’s girls.

Alas the next day was not so good. I had a wall-banger of a headache and skin blistering in a dozen places, some of which, weirdly, hadn’t seen any sun. It was a day to stay indoors in the dark kept company by a bottle of water trying out the full range of after-sun lotions stocked by the pharmacy next door to the hotel.

So while the other hacks took the minibus back to the airport I asked Jenny the Luna Rossa girl if she’d be an angel and re-arrange my flight for another day. After all, I pointed out, if their boat had had a spot of shade I’d not be suffering from sunstroke.

And she agreed! Didn’t expect to get away with that one, to be honest. As I said, respect to the Luna Rossa team.

After a day self-nursing myself back to true Buff-ness it was time to get out there again and I headed down to the quay side for a cold one.

Ports, whether for fancy yacht racers or working container ships, mean sailors, and that means bars, so many that even if Buff should get chucked out of one there'd be plenty of others to explore. After a short walk I found this place called Estrella, just on the boundary between the swanky, meaning expensive, and less costly, but more homely, further down the quay side. There were hams hanging from the ceiling, curing slowly, their fat dripping into yogurt pots, bottles of red wine as decoration and a TV always on, playing or replaying football games.

All in all a good place, and imagine how my mood was helped when next to me sat down this dark haired young woman. The evening was looking up!

Buff's America's Cup Adventure

I'm off travelling again and for a hint where check out the photo above. It's somewhere outside mobile coverage so it might be some time before back on blogger.

To fill in the gap this blog is going a bit off-piste with a short story about what happened when Buff joined Luna Rossa on one of their PR / training sessions. It might not be what you expect, but experiments are like that.

Anyhow it's written and gives me 13 days worth of scheduled posts ready baked, starting Saturday.

As its America's Cup related I'd like to dedicate it to the memory of Andrew "Bart" Simpson.

Many ways to travel

One final post on the last trip before the next one begins.

There were times on my travel when I did wonder why I made my life so complicated. It would have been simpler just to combine planes with taxis, but that would have meant I missed out on so much.

Planes

Pretty simple - jets and one propeller plane

Road transport

Yup a couple of taxis, but also a hire car (below), a friend's car and a couple of buses in Australia. Alas I never got to go on the trams of Melbourne which was a shame. One of the fun things to do there is to get the tram down to the seaside suburb of St. Kilda but alas too much work.

Trains

A couple of good train journeys including the uber fast MagLev in Shanghai capable of 501 kmph. It's highest operational speed is 430 kmph but in the evening when I took it it slows to "just" 301 kmph:

The journey between Shanghai and Beijing was by by the high speed train that covers 1,318 km in 4 hours and 48 minutes, again topping out at 301 kmph:

To be honest the view wasn't that spectacular. It was spookily similar to going across France on the TGV with for most of the way an endless plain of fields in either direction.

In Beijing the traffic was absolutely awful so I tried out the subway and jolly good it was too. Signs and ticket machines were in Chinese and English and trains were frequent and no more packed than London.

Finally there were some trains on the trip down the gold mine in Ballarat.

Boats

Not as many boats as would have liked. Not sure if can claim the Polly Woodside given it was firmly moored in Melbourne, so that just leaves the paddle steamers and the tourist boat in Shanghai

Foot

A lot of that, and it probably was just as well I lugged my hiking boots around the world

Missing

There were a couple of modes of transport not ticked off, but hopefully the next trip will do some of them. Except hot air balloon and space ship, alas.