Slow Boat to China (well, Newcastle actually).

With an 8 am start from Barrenjoey it's not unreasonable to expect to race to Newcastle and be back in time for dinner. But the forces of evil once again conspired against this not too ambitious plan. This year's race started with solid fleet numbers for the annual Short Handed Sailing Associations annual pilgrimage to Newcastle's Nobby's Head. 10 monos and 2 multis eased out of Broken Bay on a beautiful winter's morning with spinnakers hoisted on a square run with a little westerly breeze and then shying up onto a nice reach as we all veered around Killcare and headed north. Things were looking promising around the 20-mile mark as mental arithmetic had the 46-mile course completed in 7 hours and motor sailing the return leg to Pittwater in 5 hours.

Alas, after a too close (again) encounter with a big black blubbery baleen beast the breeze did the big fade. Eyes were straining to find a ruffle of a zephyr and at one stage we only covered 1 mile for a couple of hours effort. Oh, I can still feel pain just thinking about the strain of trying to keep the spinnaker filled. New comer Doug Cuming in his very hot trimaran "Voodoo Spirit", and rating 17% faster than Big Bird in normal sailing conditions, was within reach for many hours and the monos (who appeared to be getting an advantage by staying out of the current by sticking close to shore) were threatening from behind so the motivation to concentrate wasn't lacking. Eventually, a wimpy, patchy, weak little south-easter stumbled towards us and we were able to pull alongside Voodoo as the sun set.

Thoughts of pulling the pin started to enter my head but a personal policy of always finishing if able to overrode any thoughts of preserving sanity. It's a very deflating feeling to pullout and it might be character building if not a bit satisfying finishing something one has set out to do even if that means overcoming adversity to do so.

At one stage I was so lost for any clue of wind direction that I pulled off a 360 degree turn with the spinnaker wrapped around the rigging. If any one from the nearby brightly lit ship was watching they must have thought we were completely drunk. Eventually, with about 15 miles to go (yep, 30 miles covered in 10 hours at that stage), the evening westerly returned and a shy kite run turned into a tight reach to bring speed back up to an "exhilarating" 6- 8 knots. Thankfully!

So, after crossing the finish line after almost 12 and a half hours it was time to turn around and head back. We soon passed the few monos who had been equally as stubborn, knocked up some dinner and packed up, After going below for another little cat nap (or is that a tri nap?) within sight of the 'Joey I awoke totally and absolutely confused as to our location. Where are we, what's going on? This does not compute! Poor Alex, in his delirium (he had been awake for nearly 24 hours by now), had left the lighthouse to starboard, which had us charging straight for the Palm Beach surf. It was not obvious, either, with less than a metre of swell hardly making any noise and the moon having buggered off for the night. He's certainly not the first sailor to be tired and disoriented at night, and he won't be the last. We sorted it out. Not to be this time, Murphy.

Stephen Barton

Big Bird