Sometimes the stars align, and all you need is to be outside to witness it. Like spontaneously casting the lines after work on a Friday, to honor the gentle breeze, still water and clear skies, with no other reward in mind than, trying our new jib, leaving the hustle and bustle of the week behind, and escaping the craziness of the world. And yet, a couple of hours later, the sunset astounds you when it paints the sky with remarkable shades of fluorescent pink, and almost simultaneously, a glowing amber crescent spotted on the horizon turns out to be the full moon beginning its ascend. The kids, who are called immediately on deck to have a look, are as ecstatic as me in front of the natural spectacle, Azur insisting on taking the ‘perfect’ picture, despite the swaying of the boat, and dusk dim visibility.
Realising that we’d anchor by night, even if stopping at the closest bay (Islington Bay), we have decided earlier, with Thomas, to take watches (for the first time) and push to Man O’ War, on the Eastern end of Waiheke Island, taking all the wind we could while it lasted, instead of motoring the next day when it was forecasted to have died off, and I smile, pleased that the Universe has for once agreed with our impromptu plans, offering us full visibility under the stars.
And so we sail, slowly but surely, alternating between helm and berth. On my watch, I feel the utter importance of the three souls I am responsible for, balanced by the calm, silence and peace that engulfs us all. At times the GPS is not detecting any movement and although we’re not making any progress, nothing would make me break the spell of this idyllic night.
When off duty, I relish the warmth of the blankets, the clement rocking of the boat, and the soothing sound of the water caressing the hull, yet I’m caught up in a constant battle, trying to slow down the gush of thoughts that assail my brain, to no avail. I’m still no good at finding sleep on a moving vessel.
By 2:30 am it is my turn again to extricate myself from the comfort of my bed. During his debrief, Thomas mentions a tide about to turn against us in the middle of a narrow channel with little to no wind and the need to anchor soon. A quick look at the chart shows we’re only a couple of nautical miles away from Man O’ War, so we finally turn on the engine to finish off the first leg of our circumnavigation of Waiheke in a rumble. By 4am we’re finally sound asleep in Man O’ War where half a dozen boats are also anchored.
The next day, after an early rise at 7am, the kids agree to prepare crepes, which Thomas cooks with Zephyr, while we have a quick kayak and yoga-on-the-beach adventure with Azur. When we think life cannot get better, we receive a call from our friends Mathieu and Elodie interested in our whereabouts, as they’re on the water looking for a worthy destination. It takes them less than an hour to zoom to Man O’ War on their 160HP power boat and join us for tea and coffee. We spend the afternoon together, visiting a nearby private sandy beach, and going fishing on Te Kakahi (though the fish are smarter than us).
Such a summery vibe has to be extended to the Sunday, and Te Kakahi crew decides to come back, only earlier, and with more friends, so we end up being six adults and five kids. The more the merrier. After a brave ladies swim in the icy cold water, we indulge ourselves with a leisurely lunch at the local winery, followed by tea and coffee right on the beach, courtesy of Thomas who even thought of bringing sugar and biscuits. Kids are having fun while adults digest, soak in the sun and wrap up the day with a game of Molki. When our ‘guests’ depart, Thomas and the kids try their luck going fishing at the mussel farm once more, but all they catch is a starfish. Regardless, dinner is ready (our very own Mediterranean platter, directly inspired by the winery menu). What a week-end!
“Individually, we are a drop. Together, we are an ocean.”
Ryunosuke Satoro (or so says Google)
What if I took some girlfriends sailing with me on Obelix one day? A harmless idea. Probably spurred by vanity (to earn bragging rights), lunacy (I was clearly oblivious of the responsibility such an undertaking represented) and the desire to write a post I had an apt title for already.
A harmless idea, that could have settled and join the myriads of other silly ideas flooding my brain on a millisecondly basis. But one I started obsessing over instead. Pondering what it would take, whether Thomas would trust me enough, and when I’d know I was ready. This idea wouldn’t let me go until I had set a plan in motion.
Meet the crew
I knew I wanted Rocioonboard as my first mate. With a boat builder as a dad, sailing experience from her earliest childhood, multiple crossing of the Atlantic and half a circumnavigation under her belt, a boat designer herself, still managing to be the most humble and coolest person I know, she had to be my 2IC in this enterprise. I also wanted Marion to be with us. She too had sailed all the way from France to New Zealand, despite massive (justified) fears of anything that can possibly wrong at sea, plus we had sailed together over Christmas, and I felt confident in her innate ability to tell us when something didn’t feel right. Fortunately they didn’t take much convincing and their enthusiasm doubled down on my certitude we could do it. Then I wished to welcome onboard all the Wonder Women who had helped us in the past year. Not everyone could make it, and the absentees were missed, but I was very fortunate to be surrounded by Claire, third half-circumnavigator of the crew, organisation extraordinary, 24/7 Perkins phone assistance during Christmas, mum of three including a seven month-old baby, and my friend for ten years, Petra, a grounded, positive, and growth-minded earth-lover, outdoors creature, and fellow bulgarian melodies singer, and Ines, a quiet Bayswater community luminary, yoga teacher, mother of Zephyr’s best mate, and generous soul who let us stay at her place for three weeks while Obelix was on the hard getting repaired last February.
The epic day
Skip the planning phase, and the multiple delays due to lock-down, here we are, Sunday 14 September, and my crew of five has committed to leaving their families behind for the day to cruise with me, knowing pertinently I have hit the rocks once, never skippered a boat before, and let alone taken Obelix out on my own. How wrong can it go, I told my friend Claire when she confided in me she was a bit nervous not to remember how to sail, worst case scenario I sink my home! Spoiler alert: I haven’t.
9:15, Time we had convene to meet. Still no one on the horizon, I am walking up the pier nervously as I’ve heard the wind blowing most of the night and the Coastguard App nowcasting reports 16 knots gusting 21 (SW 225) at Bean Rock. I had told myself if it was over 20, I’d call it off. Decision time.
9:20, I see Ines parking her bike and Rocio not too far away. We can discuss wind conditions, taking refuge under the gate shelter, which is to say it was a bit breezy. Rocio, unconcerned, tries different combinations on her bike lock which finally gives in. It looks like we’re going.
9:25, Claire now joins us, masked, on her bike, followed by Petra. They were both on the ferry but didn’t know each other. I call Marion who confirms she’ll be here in a few minutes.
9:45, Everyone gets onboard, puts their belongings away, or at close reach, I go over my not-so-well-rehearsed safety briefing, and we talk through steps and roles to get out of the marina berth.
10:00, We’re ready to cast the lines, we’re reversing slowly out of the berth, everything is well, until I notice Obelix’ butt sticking out the wrong way. Too late, all lines have been dropped, nothing to help us pivot. Putting more gas doesn’t change a thing I am definitely reversing the wrong way. I initially think of entering an empty berth on the opposite pier, but finally decide to go forward a bit and reverse back in mine to turn. And with some help from a nice guy, who I thought was annoyed because we were blocking his way, but not at all, he simply wanted to help and give us a bit of a push with his dinghy, we manage to safely operate the 360 maneuver and finally leave the marina nose first.
10:30, We’re well out of the marina, sailing. One reef in the main, the jib furled a tad. Direction the harbour bridge. Better to get upwind first, grab a mooring in Chelsea bay for lunch, and have an easy sail back, we all agree.
11:00, After a few tacks, we’re about to go under the bridge. Someone casually asks how tall my mast is. To which I reply, as casually, 14 metres. Claire wants to be sure it is not any higher. I explain at length that it is indeed 14 metres and so the tip of the mast would be approximately 15 metres above the waterline not understanding all these leading questions. Until I notice the pile we’re about to leave at starboard has a big bold 16.7m written on it. I am guessing this is what it was all about, and 16.7m is the clearance under that side of the bridge, not realising until then we were not going under the tallest section. We hear cheering from above (bungy jumpers I assume) but don’t celebrate too fast as we also need monitor that starboard pile towards which we’re drifting. Pfew, we’re clear!
11:30, We’re passing Chelsea Bay still going nice and strong upwind. I can see Rocio is in her element, winching away like crazy on (almost) each tack and eager to carry on for a few more before we stop for lunch. The maneuvers are smooth and easy, I have total confidence in the competence of the crew. Sailing is so liberating.
12:30, We’ve now retreated back to Chelsea Bay, surfing downwind for a bit, we furl the jib, drop the main, start the engine and get closer in to find a free mooring. I’m explaining which I’m targeting, two girls are at the bow armed with a boat hook each to catch it. I’m monitoring the depth sounder until we’re so close to the buoy that my whole attention turns towards the girls to get any signal from them as to how far I am. They’ve caught it, job done I congratulate myself. But they seem to fail to bring the buoy onboard, leaning more and more over the lines. I put a bit more gas to help them, thinking the wind is too strong and pushes the boat away. But nothing happens except the water becoming very muddy. We’re stuck in the muck. A quick glance at the depth sounder: oscillating between 1.1m and 1.0m. Oops. I freak out. Not twice. I can’t be running aground twice. In the same year! I enter panic mode thinking the Universe is warning me I’m not cut for sailing. But mama Claire, who is a model of composure, reassures me that we’re not in an emergency situation, we have time to think and form a plan, I should eat something. She hands me a biscuit, I keep it in my hand and continue to talk, she renews her injunction to eat the biscuit, I munch a few bites after which my hand refuses to bring it to my mouth and just wants to reduce it to crumbs. Claire lays down some options. The tide is coming in and will unstuck us eventually. The question is more to know whether we want to try to fix the situation there and then, or are ok to wait. The boat seems to have the hiccup, with the emergency tiller fitting that keeps bobbing up and down and I’m worried we’re damaging the rudder. No one screams or panics, except me a few minutes ago, but I’m no longer panicking. I just have a rush of adrenaline and need to focus hard to think. I call Thomas to draw him a picture of the situation. He seems ok, trying to get all the elements and, like us, balances the pros and cons of trying to get out of the situation immediately, or wait. I finally make the call to wait. During all this hullabaloo, the depth sounder has gone up a bit and the hiccup has come to a halt. We will have our well deserved shared lunch. The risk to drift is very slim. Claire is keeping a close watch on our position, and with some food in our stomach we’ll think clearer and have more energy to tackle the situation.
1:30, The lunch buffet is abundant, varied and colorful with pumpkin and kumara soup, focaccia, sushi, Casablanca hummus and taramasalata, cheese from Mahoe Cheese, thai coconut curry and delicious mushrooms & buckwheat balls with Italian herbs pesto. I’m happy to see everyone eating with appetite and resume conversation as if nothing had happened. I am not so hungry with all these butterflies in my stomach, but manage to eat a few bites (half a bowl of soup, one sushi, a buckwheat ball and a few spoons of rice and curry). Obelix is finally floating free of the mud and the depth sounder has made it to 2m, to our great delight. We call our shore support crew to share the good news and let them know when to expect us at the marina.
2:00, Tidy up and engine’s on, off we go again, direction Bayswater. However on hoisting the main, we notice the halyard is caught in the mast steps. I give the helm to Marion and volunteer to climb up and release it. In the precipitation I’m not wearing a harness but the issue is just above the first spreader. I am not as nimble as Zephyr but manage without difficulty. From then on it is smooth sailing downwind, carefully passing in the middle of the bridge this time. We put in a few jibes towards the end just for fun.
2:30, Approaching the marina channel, we’re ready to drop the sails, I turn the key to start the engine. Nothing happens. Turn the key again. Nothing. Pivot head to the right (poker face), check the kill switch, it’s up, push it down, start the engine, it’s humming. It all happens so fast I’m not sure anyone has noticed, except Marion maybe, whose alertness doesn’t falter.
3:00, We’re approaching the marina preparing the fenders, and see Thomas and Gaspar at the end of the fueling dock waving at us and taking pictures. I think everyone on board is proud, happy and a bit more relaxed we made it back in one piece. Ines asks me gently what is more difficult between getting in and out of the marina. I explain to her that usually getting in is trickier but with our welcome committee we should be sweet. And we are. Easy peasy, fingers in the nose, thanks to Thomas’ instructions (hand gestures) and everyone knowing exactly what to do by now, the parking is a breeze. I am crying with emotion and renewed gratitude for these ladies who have made my dream (one of many) come true.
3:30, We wrap up the day around a warm cup of “Confidence” herbal tea, all snug in the cockpit, passing around the team’s mascot, a.k.a, Unai (Rocio & Gaspar’s baby). And now the adrenaline has subsided, I welcome the accompanying biscuits in my mouth rather than crushing them with bare hands.
4:00, The Wonder Women leave, I take Claire home as the ferry service is very limited on Sundays and her bike doesn’t fit in Marion’s car.
5:30, Back home, Thomas has worked his magic, the boat is all tidied up, the smell of pumpkin soup leftovers fills the air. We have an early dinner, watch the pictures of my men’s outing in Rotorua with the two parts of the monumental sculpture being lifted by a special chopper, and I go to bed at 7pm, cold, depleted of energy, but with a satisfied smile on my face.
Back to the preparation of that memorable day. First I needed to find something to do for my men while they would be deprived of their home for an entire day. Coincidentally, Thomas wanted to go to Rotorua on Saturday to witness the installation of Te Ahi Tupua, the long-awaited and controversial Hemo roundabout sculpture, a project for which his company had done the engineering. So I just asked him to extend his trip with the boys.
Besides, it involved:
lots of watching Thomas perform the different maneuvers while I was at the helm during our last sailing trips,
asking questions to make sure I knew how to take a reef, and perform all the other maneuvers Thomas usually carries out
monitoring the weather forecast every day the week before,
remembering how to do a safety briefing from my volunteering experience on the Spirit of New Zealand ten(!) years ago,
thinking hard about what I would have liked to be told when I was a wannabee-sailor on other people’s boat,
a visit to Wildwheat the day before to get some bread to go with the pumpkin soup I would cook for everyone that night,
turning in my bed not getting to sleep, listening to the wind, listing the things to do in the morning, considering the different scenarios,
waking up at 7:30 (alarm clock set to 8am) to put the dishes away, empty the rubbish and recycling, remember to transfer the laundry from washer to dryer, unplug the power lead, put the dehumidifier and all other power cords away, boil a kettle of water to fill our mammoth thermos, open the cockpit removing the awning’s sides, fit the horseshoe buoys at the back of the boat, secure all the drawers, lift the v-berth mattresses to access the chain locker in case we needed to use the anchor, check the weather forecast again, and actually install the coastguard app, get dressed, eat breakfast not to leave on an empty stomach, prepare a basket of fruits and snacks in the galley, put away the ladder – that had snapped part of the rail the previous weekend, untie the jib furler line, fill a drinking water bottle, check everything again and again. The rest is history.
What a day! Packed with adventures, drama, adrenaline, very wholesome lunch and happy ending. Together we were the ocean, and if I had to resume the magic formula for this epic day, I would say preparation, respect, trust, composure, communication and Wonder Women!
Imagine paying a visit to your old neighbourhood, meeting long-time-no-see friends, and doing a bit of treat-shopping… by boat. That’s what we just did last week-end, taking Obelix for the first time to Saint Heliers Bay!
Not as exotic as many places in the Hauraki Gulf, for sure, but an idea that kept nagging me, seeming both simple, and yet unreachable. Indeed, with too many other destinations for casting off, anchoring in St Heliers never quite competed, or, just as the previous week-end, the universe did not agree to our plans.
But with a bit of perseverance (and me vindicating it was dear to my heart), we got there. The trip was well worth it too. Perfect conditions: sun, clear sky, and southerlies propelling us to the bay in less than an hour, not to mention Zampa who joined the party and raft up with us, having made her way from the opposite direction, out of the Tamaki River.
Kids could talk and play Pokemon while the dads motivated each other, in a manly demonstration of bravado, to dive in the icy-cold water in order to attend to beardy propeller and such, and we had lunch on the foredeck, before a trip to shore to stretch our legs and meet with the rest of Zampa’s family and our old next-door neighbours.
Apart from a slight hiccup with a wave setting the two boats in motion in opposite phase, which resulted in a snapped fitting where the lines were attached, no big drama. I even surreptitiously disappeared for a while to collect a well-deserved booty of bargained french, spanish and italian products (50-cm long chorizo, sourdough bread, fluffy brioche, 2kg olives, 4 jars of jam, biscuits, and cheese, you know) from our beloved Fruit Delicatessen. So that we had a glorious afternoon tea of brioche and quince jelly while motoring back to Bayswater.
A well rounded trip, topped up by an aced slow-mo mooring at the marina. That completely made up for the failed attempt of the previous weekend (and somewhat anti-climatic celebration of end of lockdown).
Obelix is the brain child of Uwe Tolks, former Master Mariner & Marine Construction Engineer, and Erwin Haag, Naval Architect, both German established in Whangarei, New Zealand, since the 70’s.
“December 1976, he comes to my office and asks can you draw me a 12m boat?” says Erwin Haag as soon as I step into the room adjacent the garage through which we’ve entered and which looks like his office – maybe from back then even!, on this sunny Saturday morning, after a 2-hour drive and a last minute pit stop at the supermarket to get some nibbles. We’ve shaken hands a few minutes earlier on his garage doorstep, he’s introduced me to Uwe and has put away the wine bottle* we’ve brought as a token of gratitude for arranging this meeting. Thomas is trailing behind with the boys, as we’ve parked in front of the wrong number and they couldn’t catch up with my impatient pace, but he doesn’t wait for them to arrive, he’s ready to get down to business. The two men, who I wrongly thought were in their 80s, seem a lot more alert than I had feared, they stand tall and their handshake is firm, Uwe’s especially. I wonder for a minute what’s in it for all of us, but it soon becomes clear that there are a lot of stories that want to come out. Nostalgia indulgence, legacy safekeeping or desire to put the record straight, whatever it is, we’re keen to hear it all, cherish the early memories of our adopted child, and perpetuate the legend of Obelix.
We briefly mention our incident with Obelix the past weekend but they either don’t hear or politely ignore what we’re saying. Instead they dive straight in the core of the subject, unsure as to where to begin. I quickly get lost in technicalities of the different types of resin used for lamination, between orthophtalic, isophtalic, or vinylester, approved by Lloyd’s or not, so quite organically, Thomas settles with Erwin over his desk (where he’s pulled out the full Obelix file, including original brief, early drafts, quotes and calculations, all elegantly handwritten on thin checked paper), to go over the what, i.e. the boat’s design, and I sit at a meeting table with Uwe, listening carefully to the bittersweet story of the why. Their initial plans to go on a medical survey expedition in Papua New Guinea with his doctor wife Renata and a couple of crew (which explains some of the design choices), that they had sailed to New Zealand all the way from Denmark, had their daughter, Tiare, in Papeete, a perfect blue-eyed blond little Tahitian who now lives in Devonport, and that because it wasn’t safe at the time to go to PNG, they settled in New Zealand in a “waiting state”, that the name of the boat “developed while [they] were building it, with its big belly”, that their son Teva was born half-way through the project, with a heart condition that compromised the whole PNG mission, and that soon after launching the boat, Teva passed away on the operating table at age 5, which resulted in a double break-up with the wife and the boat. No wonder, then, that when we show him pictures of Obelix under sail in front of Rangitoto, he is more interested in the shape of the volcano behind, which he was trying to replicate from memory on a pastel drawing for his grand-daughter, and asks us if we could send that picture “to his computer”.
Erwin pulls all the A3 drawings of his No. 22 design, which are orderly stacked on hooks against the wall. He also takes pride in showing us and the kids the wooden boat he is building with his grandson and whose hull lies upside down in his garage, before shooting off in his modern blue Volkswagen Beetle to a friend’s farewell, leaving us with Uwe to carry on our conversation for a bit longer.
All the while, the kids are drinking apple juice and eating macaroons, cherries and chocolate we have brought for morning tea, every now and then attempting to interrupt us to comment on the many boat pictures, drawings and models that crowd the room. We have asked in the car if they had any burning question they wanted to ask but they wouldn’t come up with anything. On the other hand, we have a long list of questions, regarding both specific features of the boat and its history, and we make sure that at the end of the meeting there is no stone left unturned.
Approaching noon, Uwe kinda concludes “it is not a beautiful boat, but it is a good boat”. By then we’ve satisfied our curiosity, exhausted the subject for the time being, and feel it is time to excuse ourselves. We exchange email address and phone number and head towards Waipu Cove, to digest all the information we’ve received while soaking in the summer vibe.
In the evening, after a laid back dinner at the Yogi’s Bar & Eatery in Gulf Harbour, we pay a visit to Obelix, planning to stay the night on board. However, the dizzying height at which it is perched on its cradle, the ferocious attack of mosquitoes when we climb in, and the stuffiness inside with the smell of chemicals used to remove the rudder all deter us from staying another minute. So we just collect a few clothes, school papers and squabs, and off we go again, driving back to Bayswater to spend the night at the tent we’ve set up in our Guatemalan friends’ garden. What a day, now good night!
No it is not the name of the latest trendy cocktail, although I wish. This is how I miserably ended an otherwise gorgeous long week-end sailing with friends.
I’ve tried to find myself excuses, or blame others, or circumstances for the accident, nothing softens that overwhelming feeling of shame and guilt. I was at the helm and steered us way to close to the coast until we felt a bump slowing us down, and another one, and another one, while I was steering away from the hazard. I still don’t understand why none of the indicators raised the alarm in my brain, between a coast awfully close, a depth sounder falling under 3 meters, and Thomas who expressed his concerns which I too easily dismissed. All I know is that I had lost the ability to think straight, put the whole boat and crew at risk, and still beat myself up for it. The only clue to my lack of judgement, is my stress levels escalating beyond measure during the week-end, due to a series of events which unfolded one after the other, domino-like, to eventually culminate in the regrettable incident.
We had friends on board, one adult, two kids, for the week-end, which meant an additional pressure to ‘perform’ and provide them with a good experience. We had gone out the night before to celebrate with other boaties the 160th Mahurangi Regatta,and stayed up a bit too late for my already depleted energy levels. On getting back to the boat we were welcomed by an angry neighbour who was righfully upset we were anchored too close, and demanded we move right away. So we did, re-anchoring by night for the first time. I then spent the night feeling guilty about this whole drama. In the morning, we received the visit of accomplished sailors who a) intimidated me and b)provided us a good reality check, stating the obvious that if we were to leave for the island this year we still needed to check and fix all the crucial bits which was probably a good three-month full-time work. We then spent the rest of the morning entertaining the kids with a makeshift swing hanging from the boom and only departed after a late lunch when the river had already been vacated by most of the hundreds of boats who were there for the rallye. And this got me upset. We were upwind and the customer experience was not as satisfying as the previous day where Obelix was cruising flat, 15 knots down wind, all on autopilot, while we were indulging in a mediterranean buffet of rockmelon, prosciutto, cheese, home-made hummus, broccoli and carrots sticks, and sourdough bread, with an upbeat soundtrack provided by our guests. Things got worse in the afternoon, when I gave the helm to my friend to go down to prepare the watermelon, and on a misunderstanding we tacked and had to go backwards to tack again to then realise all the fishing lines were tangled up underneath the boat. Thomas decided to stop the boat sheltered behind Tiri and dive to get those lines sorted but we had a heated argument about it because I was scared, and thought it wasn’t safe enough, I yelled at him. It made me feel terrible. I thought I had tamed the dragon inside me but this proved me otherwise and I couldn’t stop thinking I couldn’t be relied upon, I wasn’t psychologically stable enough to consider blue water sailing. My whole dream was getting out of reach. During the whole ‘tidy-the-fishing-lines’ operation, we drifted quite a bit and lost ground, so my hope to reach Gulf Harbour Marina early-ish (by 6:30pm as stated to them earlier on the phone) vanished. Sea conditions were deteriorating by then as we were getting in Tiri channel with wind against tide, waves forming and I could feel the whole crew quieting down therefore betraying their discomfort. As a considerate hostess, I switched on the engine committed to get us to the marina as fast as possible but the crossing of the channel was dragging, kids were asking how much longer it would take, motion sickness was around the corner. And I couldn’t quite make sense of a couple of marks on the tiny GPS plotter and asked Thomas what it was, but he was on deck tidying up the staysail halyard and couldn’t hear, he just gestured to stay clear of them. I did, but then came back closer to the shore, thinking I was clear and that way I’d get away from the bigger waves and make people feel better. And bump. I got paralysed at the helm. Thomas quickly went inside to check we were not taking in water. We made our way to Gulf Harbour Marina, Thomas taking the helm for a bit realising I was in shock and couldn’t handle the situation properly. I still managed to pull myself together to assist those kids who were feeling unwell, helping them through another layer of cloth as the sun was going down, suggesting they stand at the helm with Thomas to look at the horizon, maybe making some jokes even. It worked. I took the helm back to get us into the berth as usual, as Thomas was on deck preparing the fenders and grabbing the hanging line with the boat hook. We got in perfectly. At least that I knew how to do. Later, when I was sobbing on the pier, Zeph came to me and said “Mum, you’re better than most mums, normally it’s the dads who drive [the boat]”. This morning Thomas dived to assess the situation, there doesn’t seem to be any structural damage to the keel however one part of the rudder has been snapped, the rest has splits and needs repair. Judging it unsafe to sail back to Auckland we’re stuck here to start getting the boat hauled out, inspected, and repaired asap. Today being a public holiday, we can only set things in motion tomorrow…