Loco

This is the last message from Kate on this leg of her low carbon travel adventure, as the sad truth is that she is going to fly the last leg of her journey to Australia (boo!).

For those of you who are just joining this story, Kate started travelling in August 2007 when she got on a cargo-ship from England to Costa Rica. Six months later she took the bold decision to carry on towards Australia, this time sailing. After getting side-tracked in the delightful paradise of Tonga, Kate has finally set sail again. This is the latest installment, and probably the last for a while.

This week signified the beginning of another leg of my round the world adventure as I finally dragged myself away from my home in Tonga and put myself back on track to reach Australia. I have not only found a new boat with which to continue my journey, but have pulled off the nautical equivalent of being picked up by a limousine, and am currently heading west on a yacht which represents all that is indulgent about being rich.

My new home is a 47-foot catamaran with my own cabin and private bathroom, a flat screen television and DVD player, 3 showers, 6 fishing rods, umpteen bottles of wine, and crisp gin and tonic on tap. Apart from the copious amounts of rum on board this vessel is much more “fabulous darling” than “yo ho ho” but the saving grace of life aboard Averone - which should earn me at least a little piratical kudos - is the presence of our captain, big bald Bob the budgie smuggler. Sounds good doesn’t it? However, I think that I may be one of the only people in the history of sailing to step aboard a huge luxury catamaran for an all expenses paid cruise to Fiji and immediately burst into tears.

What an opener, I know you’re all on the edge of your seats now; how did she end up on a luxury yacht? Why was she crying? Who is this Bob and what has he done to the poor budgies?

But before I open that can of comedy worms let me start with an apology for the radio silence which has accompanied my Tongan escapade. It seems that being on dry land was just too damned exciting to allow any kind of major email writing during my two month stay on the island, so now we must all suffer the consequences as we embark on a journey through time:

Previously in Kate’s life…

Having sailed across the Pacific with a motley crew of strangers and an increasingly grumpy captain I decided that it was time to explore the South Pacific on my own and thus made the courageous decision to abandon ship in the Kingdom of Tonga. However in comparison to the likes of famous castaways and mutineers such as Robinson Crusoe and Fletcher Christian, I was faced not with a gang of angry islanders and the prospect of surviving on a diet of coconuts but found myself in a little corner of paradise which is full of lovely people and where you can buy all kinds of delicious treats including brown bread, vegemite, and tea bags. For those of you who know me well the abundance of tea and toast should give you the first clue as to why I loved Tonga so much.

My Tongan life was characterised by a healthy dose of good wholesome fun, which is in no part due to the abundance of glorious sunshine and the distinct lack of mind-numbing imagination-slaying popular entertainment. Television in Tonga doesn’t start until 5pm Mon-Sat and is totally non-existent on Sundays which is reserved for church-going and divine celestial singing. There’s nothing like trashy TV shows to destroy any desire to do get out of the house but there is no such distraction in Vava’u. So, in alphabetical order here is a list of everything I have done over the last two months:

Beach (that was a given really)

Dance (regularly at my favourite bar Tonga Bobs)

Explore (including climbing a mountain and investigating bat filled caves)

Fly a kite (on the beach)

Free dive (I can now reach 10metres)

Hermit crab race (you guessed it, on the beach)

Host the pub quiz (in Tonga Bobs)

Impersonate Yorkshiremen (on the beach and in the bar)

Jump off the jetty (surprisingly not near the beach)

Kayak (into the unknown, and to the beach)

Limbo (also at Tonga Bobs)

Sail (in dinghies and in the weekly yacht race)

Scuba dive (ooooh fishy)

Snorkel (roughly three times a week)

Whale watch (those whales sure are massive)

and some other things I can’t think of right now.

So, in a nutshell I was having a ball, a good old fashioned hoot full of childish glee which is how I managed to lose two months of my life in Neiafu. But the icing on the cake was the friends I made, some real legends that I am going to miss loads. This made leaving Vavu’a a little problematic and led me to turn down several good opportunities to take to the sea again. My attempts to seek passage towards Australia bore fruit on more than one occasion, but there was always another reason to put my departure off, a birthday party, quiz night, a Tuesday…the list goes on. So when I eventually did summon the courage to leave it was with great regret and that is why I spent the first hour aboard my new yacht crying my eyes out like a total loser and waving as my friends became mere specks on the horizon (cue the violins).

International hitchhiking is something that I had never really considered before I set out on this adventure. It sounds like the sort of thing that would be impossible, especially as someone who prior to sailing from Mexico had no experience at all. But actually I had numerous offers of passage to Fiji and beyond. Some were more promising than others and some were basically just sleazy old dudes hoping to entice young women out into the vast oceans. You have to stick to your gut instinct with these things so when Bob approached me in my local pub I almost thought it was too good to be true; free passage to Fiji you say? On a luxury catamaran no less? I don’t have to pay for food? You insist on doing all the cooking? It just didn’t sound real, but two days in and life aboard Averone couldn’t get much sweeter.

Big bald Bob is a brilliant bloke, a very rich moustachioed Englishman who sold his business at the age of 42, relocated to New Zealand and swore never to work again, opting for opulence and extravagance at every opportunity. He is of the opposite school to me when it comes to comedy beards and claims that these “gnome-like sailors” have got it all wrong. This morning as I tucked into my weetabix he strolled into the galley in nothing but a pair of Speedos, worn in the embarrassing Dad style and announced “I hope you don’t mind my budgie smugglers at this hour”. This is a man who claims that the smell of cigarette smoke before lunchtime makes him vomit yet he will quite happily catch, kill, and gut a fish before breakfast. He makes my former captain seem uptight and ridiculous, and has totally changed my outlook on sailing as he serves champagne and sushi for lunch, or stops everything to watch the sun go down with a nice cold drink.

Yesterday Bob caught yet another fish on one of the many rods which are permanently streamed from the stern of the boat.  Vegetarians looks away now: this one was a Mahi Mahi, a massive square headed beast of a thing which flashed a vibrant display of blue and green as it tried to fight off the hook before being hauled onto deck where it proceeded to thrash wildly spraying the entire deck, and all of us with its blood, charming. But when that same fish becomes your lunch only a few hours later it’s pretty hard to complain.

As I sit here writing this email I am sporting a rather fetching gimble belt which for those of you no familiar with fishing accessories (such as I was only days ago) is a belt into which you put a rod when you are trying to pull a fish in. That’s right folks, Bob is teaching me how to catch fish. So hopefully I will soon be recounting you with tales of my triumphs over nature and the many fish dinners I have created.

We’re half a days sailing away from the shores of Savu Savu in Fiji where we will stay for a few days before heading off to cruise the islands. I will probably stay on Averone for a couple more weeks taking in the sights and sounds of the many Fijian islands before I finally bite the bullet, swallow my pride and (possibly, maybe, if it’s the last resort, because I am ridiculously broke) fly to Australia where the grown up world of jobs and responsibilities await me.

I can almost hear you all draw breath, that’s right, Kate ‘I’m never going to fly again’ Andrews may be on the brink of admitting defeat and taking to the skies for the final leg. Oh well, no shame, I’ve managed 11 months, 17 countries, 14,000 miles and no flying to date so I am going to shelve my ideals momentarily in order to get my bank balance out of the red. Please send all gloating emails to www.at-least-i-tried.com.

Images courtesy of Johnanlb and joeforjette.

In another three-worded alliteration-fuelled blog post, Kate waxes lyrical about the harsh dilemmas of relaxing on a paradise tropical island. I have delayed posting this for some time because of pure, seething jealousy… over to Kate:

Since my last love affair with our friend the internet I have been back at sea for two weeks, at the mercy of the uncooperative wind and waves as we sailed the 1500 nautical miles from Tahiti to the Kingdom of Tonga. Sadly in this installment I have no stories of pearl smuggling or giant eels to keep you entertained but have been brought crashing back down to the day to day monotony of yachting; of reading books, cooking meals, and enjoying the many delights of salt, water, their close relative salty water, and the colour blue which is available in a range of shades and tones to suit your home.

However before departing Tahiti I did manage to squeeze in a beer and impromptu sing-a-long with a friendly group of skirt-wearing, pot smoking, tattoo covered locals who made up with beards what they lacked in teeth. A lifelong supporter of the comedy beard I was pleased to make their acquaintance and so spent my last few hours on land in their company, playing along to their songs with the newest development in percussion technology, the classic pebble and bottle combination. Disappointed that they couldn’t offer me a lift home, and reluctant to see me try to hitchhike they kindly organised for me to be escorted back to my yacht on a jet ski. Talk about arriving in style. I only wish that the following two weeks at sea were as interesting.

The highlight (if you can call it that) of this week has been the arrival of cockroaches on the boat. While not an infestation of biblical proportions, the headcount currently standing at two, we didn’t want to give them the opportunity to multiply, so armed with a bottle of now illegal boric acid, and with the tune of ‘eye of the tiger’ reverberating in my ears I got to work, dousing all available surfaces with the noxious powder in a hope to burn off their limbs as they mount their assault on our food stores. Ha ha, in your face disgusting only-thing-to-survive-a-nuclear-holocaust-evil-insect-of-doom. Survive this! It seems the pre-emptive strike did the trick and we haven’t seen any since. However, the threat to our precious food was not over yet.

Just as we were recovering from the cockroach fiasco we suffered the simultaneous breakdown of our fridge and freezer which forced us into a race against time to eat as much food as possible before it defrosted or grew mould. While I can’t really complain about being encouraged to stuff my face with ice cream, cheese and salami, this eat-a-thon, coupled with the distinct lack of exercise which characterises life aboard a 44ft sea-faring caravan is rapidly accelerating my decline into lardiness, about which I am none too pleased. And then, three days later all the food was gone, and we were left with 3 apples, a variety of tinned goods and a selection of just add water treats of the dehydrated kind. Thanks to the joys of pasta, rice and fake mashed potato (or faux-tato as I like to call it) we did not starve. Nor did I develop scurvy which I happen to think is a pity as it would be have been very authentic sailor-ish of me, but there’s still time.

The third disaster to strike our boat was the weather, which fluctuated wildly between total calm and no wind on one end of the spectrum, and too much wind and lots of rain on the other. Somebody once likened yachting to “standing in a shower while tearing up money”, and I have to admit that the last fourteen days fit this bill very well. The only saving grace in this situation, which comforted me as I was thrown from side to side during one of many small storms or as I sat, staring through rain at an eerily becalmed sea, is the thought that as a trans-Pacific hitchhiker it isn’t my money.

Our arrival in The Kingdom of Tonga came just in time, the last apple had been munched, the fauxtato was rapidly running out, and so we descended on Neiafu in the Vava’u group of islands and headed straight to a restaurant to resume the lard-off. Neiafu is a little corner of paradise, a yachtie heaven deep in the heart of the South Pacific, where Palangis (foreigners) have set up shop in their hundreds and are welcomed with open arms. Captain Cook named Tonga ‘The Friendly Islands’ when he sailed here many moons ago and the accuracy of that statement is just as true today as it was then. In the space of a week I have been offered a job, a free place to stay, enjoyed oh so many drinks on the house, and been invited to church. There is a great balance here between locals and visitors and I have fallen in love with it.

So in a bold move against the little sensible person who usually resides on my shoulder, I have abandoned ship, leaving the sailing vessel Esprit in my metaphorical wake and striking out alone. One of the potential hazards of this particular kind of hitchhiking is that personalities can clash and with no more than a few metres to separate you from your fellow crew it can become a little stifling. Let’s just say I didn’t necessarily like the cut of my former captain’s jib, and was eager to see what opportunities might open up if I took a chance on Tonga. So as I write this email I am a boat-less sailor, a nomad of the open seas and am bravely sticking out my thumb in the hope that another yacht will take pity on me.

Despite my initial fears that I might be stranded in this paradise forever (woe is me) my bravery has been rewarded and within a few hours of officially leaving my yacht I have been offered not one but two crewing positions on other boats. They say beggars can’t be choosers but I think that ‘they’ were not in Neiafu so I am currently being a yacht snob. I am enjoying myself far too much here to set sail again too quickly so am currently staying put, throwing myself head first into a great little community that has made me feel more than welcome. And if all else fails I can always stay here and have lots of Tongan babies because the locals sure are pretty (don’t worry Mum, that’s a joke…sort of).

So watch this space. I could be back on a boat before the week is out, heading to Fiji, Vanuatu or well, anywhere, or I could hang around for a month, who knows. Afterall this is a place where the school uniform is comprised of a skirt for the boys, there’s a pub quiz on Wednesdays and a weekly drag show in which local Fakaleitis dance to Kylie Minogue. What more could you possibly hope for?

As if to make up for the boredom and monotony of my Pacific crossing the last week has been a whirlwind of activity, shady deals and cultural diversity: from Polynesian men with tattoos covering half of their faces, and a transvestite waitress who wore her lip liner in an evil clown style, to an alcoholic pearl dealer offering me his hand in marriage.

Since my last blog I have been on land not once but three times, having spent a few days in Nuka Hiva in Les Marquises, 24 hours on the tiny coral atoll of Ahe in the Tuamotu Archipelago and the best part of a week in sunny Tahiti.

In between land the sailing has been approximately the same, water in all directions and saltiness all round. Salty hair, skin, and clothes, I am always salty, like some kind of delicious bar snack. In fact it occurred to me this week, during another of my deep thought night shifts that I share quite a lot with the humble peanut of late, salty, dry roasted by the sun, and a brilliant accompaniment to beer. This dream was shattered though when curiosity got the better of me and like the filthy and disgusting individual I am I licked my arm, only to discover that I am far less delicious than I had hoped.

The arrival of land on the horizon couldn’t have come at a better time as I was seriously beginning to doubt my own sanity (as demonstrated by the peanut analogy and by the worrying fact that I caught myself pulling faces at my own reflection while on the graveyard shift). However, Nuka Hiva is a tiny island with an even tinier town so my few days there were a slow reintroduction into the world of civilisation.

Though small and quiet, with only one restaurant and 2.5 shops, it was amazing to have more than four people to talk to, and more than 44ft to move in one direction. On the downside I did have to shower and at least consider brushing my hair. That’s one thing that I definitely don’t miss about civilisation, I’ve grown quite fond of the semi hobo look, so much so that I continued modelling my vagabond chic on land, embracing French Polynesian culture by eating brie and baguettes, and drinking red wine while sitting on the beach, barefoot and dirty like a shipwrecked sailor.

I celebrated the big 23 in style and spent my birthday traipsing through the jungle with the heavily tattooed descendants of cannibals (seriously, Google it) in order to see what I am assured is the third highest waterfall in the world. Standing at 310 metres I suppose it was pretty big, but I was more interested in swimming in the pools and re-enacting an advert for new improved herbal infused all natural essence of aloe organic fusion key amino tropical jungle protective conditioning shampoo. While I busied myself with this important task I failed to notice that the pool in which I swam was also home to a family of massive eels, with savage pointy teeth and evil Wayne Rooney faces. My vision of paradise came crashing down around me as I ran screaming from the pool. You will be pleased to hear that I escaped wound free, and none of the locals tried to eat me during my stay so all in all it was an amazing birthday, and not one I’ll forget in a hurry.

Our departure from Les Marquises was not nearly so epic as our next stop was a mere 4 days sailing. However, a few nights of bad wind slowed our progress considerably and threatened my sanity once again. One night, during a particularly boring 2-4am lookout shift, while cruising at the daredevil, batten down the hatches, man over board speed of 3 knots, I watched with horror as a cloud, yes that’s right, a cloud, overtook us. I was only able to console myself with the fact that this turbo charged boy racer super cloud looked a bit like Africa on the radar. There’s nothing like some endless boredom to kick start your imagination.

Luckily we managed to catch some good wind during the day and we did eventually make it to Ahe, one of the largest landmasses in the Tuamoto group of islands. It seems ‘large’ is a term that is applied quite loosely when it comes to Pacific atolls as from the beach at one end of the island I could see all the way to the other side.

Having exhausted the island’s major attractions and reluctant to get back on the yacht I wandered aimlessly down the street, chasing crabs, and looking at the amazing selection of food in the shop, including “celebrity sausages” (insert your own sausage worthy celebrity here). As I turned a corner an extremely drunk man waving a tea towel tried to get my attention. As I got closer I saw that this was no ordinary drunk man but a drunken man with a bag of pearls. So I went over to say hello.

With one hand on a can of Heineken and the other resting lazily on a huge pile of pearls, the man looked me up and down, peering at me through one eye. He squinted through his drunken haze, and then declared “very beauty…” he paused, whether for effect or to remember the word in English I’m not sure, and then he triumphantly proclaimed “FULL, very beautiful!” Quite what he hoped the outcome of this would be was not made clear, perhaps he envisioned me offering my body in exchange for pearls, I’m not entirely sure. Either way once he realised that I was not going to be forthcoming in offering myself as a prostitute he fell back on safer ground. “Whisky!!!” he exclaimed, laughing to himself and pushing the pearls towards me “one bottle, one pearl”.

The moral questions raised by trading alcohol for pearls are ominous. Besides the fact it’s probably illegal the man in question looked like he could do with a night off the booze, but it seems this local man was just out to make a quick buck and who am I to turn down a bargain. After an hour of turning down marriage proposals and the promise of “beucoup enfants” I walked away with a pocket full of pearls. Luckily (for me) I had bought a bottle of Mexican tequila as a present for someone in Australia and was able to swap it for 6 shiny pearls. So even though I will be arriving empty handed down under I will look fabulous (darling) in my pearls. Now that I’ve got my hands on some treasure, and the fact that I climbed the rigging this week means that I am back on track in my pursuit of piracy.

Just when I thought my week couldn’t get any better I arrived in Tahiti which is one of the most culturally bizarre places I have been. This is a place where men wear 1980s style scrunchhies in their hair, old ladies with traditional flower headdresses eat McFlurrys, and everybody, young and old, men and women, wear Oakleys and board shorts as if they might catch a narly wave at any moment (should that be gnarly or are surf dudes too cool for silent Gs?)

I must take off my proverbial hat to the Tahitian tourist board that has done a sterling job of promoting Tahiti as some kind of beach paradise, which it is not. It’s more of a neon hubbub in the middle of nowhere, a strange mini France where people play boule and drink red wine in a concrete jungle better suited to central London than the South Pacific. I love it.

After a day of hitchhiking (which is ridiculous easy seeing as though there are only about two roads) I made it around the entire island and saw most of the sights. The following day, having failed to find my beach paradise I decided to do the right thing and visit a museum, if nothing else this was a good opportunity to spend time away from the rest of the crew. Don’t get me wrong they’re a good bunch but 44ft is so small. In fact if you’ve got the space, stand up now and walk about 20 steps. That’s it. Anyway, the God of fun was looking down on me and while hitching to the museum I was picked up by a gang of students who’d just finished their final exams. To cut a long story short, the nicest beaches are hidden from tourists, I never made it to the museum and I am mildly hungover. Three cheers for student banter. My sanity is at least partly restored.

We set sail again tomorrow for Nui which no-one, including me has ever heard of. It is over 1000 nautical miles away so you’ve got at least 10 days to recover from this blog.

Lots of love Kate

p.s. I saw a partially blind cat with a pearl as a fake eye. That is way bling yo.

Thanks to Carol Esther for the amusing peanut people photo

Kate has been at sea on a yacht in the Pacific Ocean for the last 24 days after leaving from Mexico bound for Australia. She wrote this yesterday off the coast of Nuka Hiva, the largest island in French Polynesia.

Sailing half way around the world is not quite as exciting as it sounds. Forget the great piratical rambustifications of Kate ‘aaarrrgghh me harties’ Andrews, a daring tale of mystery and intrigue full of swashbuckling pirates and hidden treasure. The reality was a rather bizarre mixture of the surreal and the mundane; think 10 things to do before you die meets Good Housekeeping magazine.

I’ve done some things that most people only dream of, from sailing across the Equator with a glass of fake champagne, to showering in a rain storm and barbecuing steaks off the back of the yacht while drifting through the Doldrums. I’ve seen more flying fish and dolphins than you can shake a stick at (this was hindered only by the fact that I didn’t have a stick to hand), but most importantly, I survived. All this excitement, however, was on the good days…

A 24 day ocean crossing leaves plenty of time for boredom to set in. After all, the fact that you can’t see land is only interesting for the first few minutes. After that, well you just can’t see land, or indeed anything, except sea and sky, sky and sea, one or the other, or both, depending on the direction you look, riveting I know. So in order to keep boredom at bay and to preserve my sanity I became a model housewife.

I’ve cooked, cleaned and baked bread, I’ve mended holes in my clothes and done my washing in a bucket. Short of darning socks and bearing children I’ve been a perfect 1940s stay at home mother. So if you’ve thought of me with even a shred of envy at any point during the last 3 weeks you can console yourself with the knowledge that while I was sailing across an ocean in true environmental warrior style, there is also a good chance that I was cleaning a toilet.

This is not to say that the voyage thus far has been without excitement. Let me paint you a picture (yes, another one): imagine you are doing something very ordinary, like for instance cleaning your teeth, now imagine that the entire world is tipped on a 45 degree angle and is rocking back and forth, sending you flying around the small bathroom, toothpaste all over your face. The only solution is to hang on for dear life on anything that you can get your hands on, perhaps the shower curtain, the result of which is you, arms in the air, hips thrusting, staggering all over the place like some kind of possessed upside down weeble wobble. For those of you who don’t remember the timeless egg man toy that never falls over, all you need to know is that I looked like an idiot.

Now take sleeping, something that we all take for granted, the simple primordial act of laying your head on the pillow and shutting your eyes, drifting into a calming dream of tropical breezes and gentle lapping waves. Except that this sea is not calm, it a bastard evil demon of doom that is hellbent on keeping you awake at all costs. You might just get comfortable in one position and starting drifting off when all of a sudden you find yourself rolling down the boat, slamming into whatever obstacle lies in your paths.

Some nights I actually went to the extreme measure of using elastic bungy cords to secure myself to my bed. Great for the stomach muscles, not so good for sleeping. And that’s not even mentioning the noise, water sloshing, boat creaking, ropes whipping, head banging. Pissed off is an understatement. I have never in my life been so irritated by inanimate objects; I have called the sea a wanker, the cupboard door that will not stopping banging a loser, and the fridge, ah the fridge that just won’t stay closed, milk carton falling out every time you open it, well I’ve called it several things, none of which are suitable for your innocent little ears.

And as for the sailing part of this expedition you will be happy to read that I have learnt the basics of how to make the wind blow us in the right direction. I have not unfortunately climbed any rigging, but I have scrubbed the deck and I do intend to shout “land ahoy” when we finally see some later today. But on a daily basis there isn’t really much to do. If the wind blows at the same speed from the same direction for 48 hours then all you ever have to do is press a button every once in a while on the autopilot.

As the least experienced member of crew I often left the sailing business to the more salty sailors and I earned my keep with the aforementioned bread making. And when I wasn’t busy playing house I was left to consider the important things in life, the questions that mankind has struggled with since time began, like whether fish have eyelids, and at what point I simply won’t be able to get any more tanned.

I also realised, during my many hours of reflection that this voyage was a great opportunity for the men aboard our vessel to experiment with comedy facial hair. How often do you get the chance to try out a Craig David look, or a Gandelf for that matter (I think he had a beard, if not then the one in my imagination at least is impressive) without the judging eyes of civilisation looking on? However, I am sad to report that my encouragement fell on deaf ears and none of them took up the challenge. I have grown my eyebrows into a new style but you wouldn’t know it to look at me, and anyway it’s just not the same. A wasted opportunity I say, wasted.

All in all the trip so far has not be especially exciting, but all this is about to change as we are a mere 100 nautical miles from Les Marquises, our first stop of many. Once I’ve finished writing this, I will go and sit on deck staring at the horizon until my beloved land comes into sight. Apparently land has a particular smell, I’m not convinced about that one but I’ll let you know. So this time tomorrow I will be doing a different kind of staggering, thanks to the legendary land sickness that often follows long periods at sea. And I will be staggering first, towards a bar because I really really want a cold beer, second, to somewhere that sells ice cream, and third, well frankly, I might just lie on the floor and appreciate the stillness.

If you’re reading this then it means I made it to land and have found my way to an internet café, I’ve had rather a lot of time on my hands so it’s all sort of poured out of me. In summary it was about boats, and beards and bastard things that go bang. So now I am landed for four of five days before we set sail again, this time to Tahiti. But the longest leg of the journey is finished, and if we keep this speed up we should be in Oz before the end of June, bring it on!

P.S. land smells like wet trees and reminds you of everywhere you’ve ever been. It’s weird that I’ve never noticed before. And another important piece of news is that the locals here are covered in mad tats, warrior style, don’t let anyone ever tell you that tattoos aren’t cool.

We’re within spitting distance of the Marquises as I write to you, making a night time entry to drop anchor somewhere off the coast in a sheltered bay. I’m very happy to be here but somehow feel a little underwhelmed, I wonder if there’s something wrong with me, I’ve just crossed another Ocean, the largest in the world, and my second in under a year, yet somehow it doesn’t feel like a very big deal. Funny that. Oh well. Strange that my entire adventure thus far just seems a bit incidental (is that the word I mean?) like this is all very normal or something, not quite sure about that one. I’ve had too much time to think lately, revelations pending.

We won’t actually make it to land tonight as that will require blowing up the dinghy and motoring in (this is because there is are only anchorage points here no Marina) but tomorrow I should be putting my feet on dry land for the first time in over 20 days. I will be on the phone faster than you can say Skype. So I will be on land for my birthday, bonus!

Anyway, I’d better go as I’m half way through cooking dinner.

Kate xxx

I wrote that a few hours ago and it hasn’t been sent yet so I thought I’d add a little update. Consider me whelmed. As we approached land I suddenly understood what everyone has been talking about, it does have a smell, like a forest, wet and fresh. And totally bizarre as it seemed to conjure a thousand memories at once. We are now at anchor and I am experiencing the very weird sensation of not moving, not rocking back and forth like a bloody pendulum, although if I shut my eyes I can still feel the rocking motion, like how the beat lingers in your ears after a rave.

The bay is nice and sheltered and we have just enjoyed a celebratory drink in the calm sea. We’ll head for land first thing but I have the distinct impression that I wont be able to sleep tonight as I am now very excited. I’m going to take advantage of the calm and sleep tonight so that as soon as I open my eyes I can the island in all it’s glory. For now I’ll have to be content with staring at shadows. From what I can tell Nuka Hiva has a pretty dramatic landscape, and a very tiny town. So excited!