Passage to Tonga: Alone on the night watch

ANNE RIMMER set sail for Tonga aboard a 40ft yacht on May 5. In this, her 2nd report, she discovers the solitude of the night watch.

It's 3 am aboard Duetto, sailing from New Zealand to Tonga, and it's my turn on watch.

My friend Phil has already tried politely to wake me, so now he turns on the cabin light and rings the ship's bell above my head! Swearing amiably, I roll out from under my thin lavalava, and crawl, already dressed in shorts and singlet, up the steps to the wheelhouse.

One of Duetto's advantages in rough weather is its fully-enclosed wheelhouse. But in the present tropical heat I'd welcome the breeze of an open cockpit.

We crossed the Tropic of Capricorn yesterday. There's less wind in these latitudes, so even though we are flying a large genoa, our engine has run sweetly for three days to maintain our speed. The engine's heat makes our cabin - the yacht's main saloon - stifling, and I resort to sleeping with a wet facecloth on my head. Nonetheless, I'm amazed at how well I have slept on this, my first ocean passage.

Day and night the four of us aboard keep watch, 2-1/2 hours on and 7-1/2 hours off. This rotates unevenly through the 24-hour day so tonight I have the dawn watch.

Now, as Phil brings me a wake-up cup of coffee before he turns in, the night and the ocean lie blackly beyond the big windows. I peer through the darkness for the approaching lights of a container-ship which, I'm told, could be on top of us only 15 minutes after appearing on the horizon.

Apart from the possibility of sinking, keeping night watch had been my greatest fear before I embarked. But usually "on watch" has meant sitting in the most comfortable seat on the boat, keeping a lookout, while trying to stay awake.

The sails have been set conservatively for the night. Duetto, a Jay Benford-designed motor-sailer, carries two headsails, a main and a mizzen. Our autopilot keeps us on course without my having to touch the wheel.

To while away the hours I've brought with me a teach-yourself-German tape, but it's hard to concentrate on the voices droning German verbs through my earphones. I'd rather focus on my immediate surroundings.

During the day the sea stretches featureless to the horizon like a great rumpled satin eiderdown, its gleaming surface accented by patches of pure white foam. From several directions roll the endless crests of swells on which we rise and fall.

The boat's motion is gentle, now that we are in the southeasterly trade winds, although the earlier part of the passage was much less pleasant. But it's been an easy trip overall; our strongest winds have been just 25 knots with the odd gust to 40 knots.

By night, on watch, I find the immediacy of the sea terrifying. Green phosphorescence glows from the wave crests as they loom out of the darkness. The waves swirl white beneath the boat and over the deck, twinkling with the green sequins of individual phosphorescent creatures, before the lukewarm water sluices out through the scuppers.

At night, too, it seems as if we are hurtling into the darkness at break-neck speed. In truth, our average speed is a rather ordinary 5 knots, which is certainly respectable enough for a 40-footer under reduced sail.

Of course if things do go wrong, it's usually on the graveyard watch. Tonight, while I'm getting a snack from the galley our autopilot breaks again. The back-winded genoa alerts me to a problem, and a quick check of the compass shows that we are already 180 degrees off-course. Duetto is merrily heading back to New Zealand!

I grab the wheel and yell for help. The skipper, asleep in the forward cabin, probably needs his rest after a trying few days, so Phil and I take turns steering by the compass, or the stars, until daybreak, when the autopilot can be repaired.

...to be continued June 22.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |