Two At Sea

April 18, 2016

By the time we dropped the mooring in Elmslie Bay, the wind had dropped to a reasonable 15 knots, so much nicer than 20+! As we approached the pass, the wind continued to drop. It was almost as though nature decided if we had to go through turbulent water, she’d at least give us a break on the wind. Sometimes the fates are kind.

There’s a procedure for going through the French Pass: You must announce 10 minutes beforehand your intention to go through. The channel may look wide, but the area where it’s safe to take a boat is so narrow that only one boat can pass through at a time. We dutifully made our announcement. As we approached the pass, there was still a 3-knot current against us, but we decided to go for it anyway. This is one of those places where we’d probably hit currents no matter how well we timed it.

I stood on the bow as we entered, not sure what to expect but hoping it wouldn’t be too rough or wet to be up there. It wasn’t. The wind dropped even more as we passed through, and I was able to hold on with one hand and take video and photos with the other. As we entered, the water swirled around us and we seemed to go through small rapids. We still had some current against us, but thankfully it was in the same direction as the wind. (If that hadn’t been the case, those rapids would have larger waves and it would have been a rough, wet ride.)

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In all, the dramatic part of the ride probably took about 5 minutes. Rich felt OK steering us through the counter-current, but he was mighty glad it wasn’t any stronger. Meanwhile I was watching a boat ahead of us waiting to come through the other way. It looked to me like the wind had dropped where he was, and I was hoping for calm weather ahead. Unfortunately, my hopes were dashed. After we got through the pass, the wind picked right back up into the 20s, now gusting to 35. It was even worse than before!

Thankfully, our next possible anchorage, Camp Bay (aka Fennal Bay), was only 2 miles away. When we got in there, the wind dropped to 10 knots and we anchored easily. My first word after that: WINE! It was early, but after that trip, I needed a drink! The trauma wasn’t from the French Pass–in fact that had been the nicest, most pleasant part of the trip! It was from the nasty winds and seas in the hours before and after the pass.

Sitting in the cockpit we looked around at this somewhat nondescript anchorage in Camp/Fennal Bay. It had dry hills behind a swath of pretty greenery on the lower foothills where a lone house sat. There was a brown sand beach, a small pier, a shed and boat. It wasn’t a memorable place, but being out of the wind and seas, it was a most-welcome sight!

We planned to spend the night, then make the day-long trip to Abel Tasman National Park for our final round of South Island cruising. We’d heard great things about nearby D’Urville Island and had planned to visit one or both of its harbors but the season was getting on, and we now had a perfect weather window to not only get to Abel Tasman National Park but also visit some of the less protected anchorages at its north end. If we went to D’Urville Island, we’d probably be in this area another two weeks. I figured our best bet was to get over to Abel Tasman now while we had a chance, then maybe return to D’Urville before heading to Nelson. –Cyndi  (You can click to enlarge/scroll through both photo galleries above.)

April 18, 2016

The northerlies had passed, and now was our time to leave the sounds and make our way 30 miles across Tasman Bay, a wide body of water that lies between the outer edge of the Marlborough Sounds and Able Tasman National Park. At Tasman Bay’s southernmost point is the city of Nelson.  (Below, an interactive map of the area.  You can zoom in to see our route line to Elmslie Bay.)

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But first we’d have to get there.  A 12-mile trip from Pelorus Sound’s entry to Tasman Bay sounds simple enough, but there’s a big issue, and it’s called the French Pass. It’s formed by the presence of a very large island (D’Urville Island) sitting just above the final peninsula before Tasman Bay, creating a channel about a third of a mile wide. Here is where two large bodies of water meet with all the ensuing drama: fast-ripping currents, strong eddies, standing waves, and whirlpools, one big enough to have a name and to have claimed several lives: Jacobs Pool. The French Pass is pretty notorious in these parts, and people frequently asked us if we’d been through it. It’s kind of a badge of honor to have done it, I guess.

While some boaters are so wary of the French Pass they’ll travel miles out of the way to avoid it, it isn’t actaully so bad if you take the proper precautions. It’s much like an atoll where you need to wait for slack tide to pass through. What’s important to understand here is that slack water in the French Pass does not correspond with high and low tide, and thus you need to consult the proper current table. Boats who miss on this timing do so at their peril.

(The New Zealand government publishes a table of currents in the French Pass. You can find them here. We caution you that we did not find them all that accurate and we have heard the same complaint from others.)

When we pulled anchor early in the morning, the sky was filled with mare’s tails (cloud formations that look like horses tails) which, when combined with mackerel skies, foretell wind coming. We didn’t see any mackerel skies, but maybe the horse tails were trying to tell us something (maybe they were raised, foretelling horse doo-doo?). The winds were calm when we motored down Port Ligar, then rounded the west headland marking the entry to (and exit from) the Pelorus Sound. Our trip along the outer mountains and cliffs was uneventful, but when we turned southwest to head towards the pass, the seas got very mixed and the wind started to pick up.  (Below a gallery of photos from our ride to the French Pass.  Click to enlarge/scroll through either of galleries below.)

Soon, we were getting winds 20 to 25 knots with boisterous seas. Not life threatening, but not pleasant. Meanwhile, the current seemed changeable, alternating being with us and against us. We ended up arriving near the pass about 30 minutes too early, and rather than motoring around in 25-knot winds, we took some refuge in Elmslie Bay, right next to the pass.

This attractive bay with hillside homes and fishing boats would probably be a wonderful stop in calm conditions. But there was nothing wonderful about it today: the winds were wrapping around the headland and whipping right into the anchorage at a solid 20 knots. It wasn’t much of a refuge, but it was better than motoring around in circles in washtub seas. Nothing to do now but wait. –Cyndi  (Below, a gallery of Elmslie Bay.)

(It was difficult to anchor in Elmslie. The area that’s shallow enough is taken up with moorings. The rest, too deep. We borrowed someone’s mooring. As we were only going to be about 30 minutes, we didn’t feel too bad about doing this. An overnight stay might be difficult. -Rich)

April 16 – 18, 2016

For 48 hours, we sat out the winds in Homestead Bay. We’d picked a good spot and were fairly well protected. Aside from our surroundings being more representative of Baja than New Zealand, they were pretty nice. We were surrounded by dry, grassy hills. At the head of the bay was a lovely home off a long, light pebbly beach.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with this place, yet as soon as we dropped our anchor I felt somewhat melancholy. It felt like being stuck between two worlds, one behind us, the other waiting ahead. It didn’t help that it was windy and we were stuck on the boat. We’d hoped to take the dinghy over to greener and prettier Waterfall Bay, check out the lodge and do a hike, but the wind was strong enough we didn’t feel comfortable leaving the boat.

In all, this place would be fine for an afternoon and overnight, but two days here felt like a long time. When the winds let up, we were very happy to go. I would love to have visited Waterfall Bay, but not enough to make it worth staying in this area any longer.

Below, a gallery of Homestead Bay (click to enlarge/scroll). –Cyndi

April 17, 2016

In cruising this great big mussel farm called Marlborough Sounds, we found our selves saying that a lot. “What the heck is that?” and “Which way is it going!?” Here’s one…

When we got closer (it was coming our way, despite my earlier opinion to the contrary), we could see that it was just another strange craft used in the production of delectable mussels.

And how about this one? I think it’s part of a salmon farm but that’s only a guess.

I thought we’d seen it all living in Los Angeles Harbor, but no. There are some strange boats out here. -Rich

April 17, 2016

Yep, less than once per year. That’s how many times we’ve used a stern line on this cruise. The first one was at Hiva Oa where there were too many boats crowded in too small a space. Next it was Bay of Islands in Fiji where there was a bommie that limited our swinging room. And yesterday, at Tawhitinui, it was a deep bay with a steep slope near the shore. Here…

Cyndi has asked me why anyone would want to put out a stern line. Her question was prompted by the guide book she’s using. It seems the author believes that you need to put out a stern line (most often, tied to a tree) in almost all the bays in the Marlborough Sounds. This is the first time we’d felt the need.

I guess in answer to Cyndi’s question, it’s used to limit the boat’s swing to avoid obstacles, such as the shore, rocks, bommies, or other boats. I am guessing that the author is mostly concerned about other boats. That’s not been a problem for us as we are cruising this area after most locals have left the water and gone back to “real life.” We also try to pick bays without other boats.

I am not entirely sold on using a stern line or anchor in most cases. I worry about the way it increases the strain on the anchor should the wind come from the beam. According to my possibly erroneous math, just 500 lbs. of wind force on the beam would produce about 1,250 lbs. of strain on the anchor, and the same on the stern line. (that’s assuming 20′ deflection and 100′ of anchor chain.)

Sorry to ramble on. This post was mostly an excuse to use the above picture of Legacy in yet another idealic bay! -Rich