Sammy, my sister, was ready to go. She couldn’t wait to put on her skipper’s hat and head off on a great adventure. It was 1998 when offshore sailing was off-grid, whether you liked it or not. There were no fancy chart plotters and weather apps to tell us the conditions; we relied on the basics: radar, depth sounder, and the SSB radio for weather updates.

Sammy plotted our course hourly on a paper chart. Back then, we simply had to rely on long-range, low-tech information. Standing on the pontoon saying our goodbyes in Auckland harbour, four of us made a solid crew. I was the least experienced.

My sister had worked for Ocean Youth Club, sailing 70ft offshore yachts around Britain with youngsters on board. Her then-husband, Mike, who was a Kiwi, had done the same. Crew Bruce was an experienced offshore sailor who had crossed to the Pacific Islands on a previous occasion. I was an enthusiastic river sailor, just a novice.

A sense of foreboding

As the lines were untied from the pontoon and taken on board Sammy’s 39ft, steel-hulled Denis Ganley, Pacific Express, Mike’s mother, Mari, said from the quay, “I hear there’s a storm coming.” Neither my sister nor Mike said anything.

I assumed Mari must be joking. I thought she was trying one last trick to stop her little ducklings from going out to sea and out of sight of land for the next 10 days. But looking around, I smiled. The harbour was flat calm, in fact, mill-pond calm.

Down below, all was in order, everything stowed away. Hanging in mini hammocks from the saloon ceiling were two baskets of fresh fruit: oranges, apples, kiwis, and green bananas that would ripen en route to Tonga. The hanging fruit was not even swaying because the boat was as steady as if she were in dry dock, such was the stillness of the morning. Two days before departure, I was reminded of the male chauvinism of the times.

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Going into a chandlery with my sister a day before we set sail, she asked for some widget she needed for Pacific Express. The man who worked there turned to me and asked what type I needed.

“You better ask the skipper,” I said, looking at Sammy. “It’s her boat.”

The last time I had been in Auckland harbour was also a flat calm. Then, we had had the great privilege of going out to see off the Whitbread boats in the 1989-90 race re-start. I was cheering on Lawrie Smith and my brother-in-law Mike was cheering on New Zealand’s greatest, Sir Peter Blake.

Times certainly have changed since Rothmans and Steinlager II cruised out into the harbour in the lightest of breezes. I don’t think there are many cigarette-and-beer-sponsored duels out there today! Nor is there quite as much sexism, thankfully.

As the competitor boats all crowded together, I actually don’t remember Maiden at all, such was my attention on Lawrie Smith. But it was the all-female crew led by Tracy Edwards that was the real British excitement that year. Even though Steinlager II won every leg of the 1989-90 race, Maiden captured just as many headlines. Tracy Edwards proved unquestionably that an all-female crew were as capable as any other of offshore sail racing.

At the start, I distinctly remember that there was only a whisper of wind to carry the yachts away. But Auckland harbour was bouncing with chaotic waves thrown up by the hundreds of spectator craft crammed with well-wishers.

I have great memories of being caught up within inches of other boats, great and small, all creeping forward as the sea was churned around us. Everyone waved and cheered as we accompanied the fleet of race yachts. They crept out of harm’s way at barely three knots as a party atmosphere got underway behind them.

The wind picks up

10 years later, on our own adventure, with everything neatly stowed, Sammy began to motor Pacific Express out into a glinting and flat-calm sea. We waved goodbye to Mari on the dock. It was June, so it was the end of the sailing season. It wasn’t especially cold, but it was the Southern Hemisphere’s winter.

We were heading for sunnier climes. As we motored offshore, the wind began to fill in. Sails went up, engine went off, and we were away. I must admit I have forgotten how we spent the early part of the first day. It got progressively windier and we must have reefed down. Bruce and Mike both started to feel seasick.

Sammy told me this was normal for them both. They went below to rest, which is pretty much where they stayed for the next two days. The waves were building up around us and as the evening drew on, they reached about 6 to 8ft. We were heading north up the coast with New Zealand on our port side.

The weather was coming from the south. By nightfall, I was hand-steering and Sammy was navigating. Mike and Bruce remained below, both out of action. As evening turned to night, we were sailing under a tiny headsail and triple-reefed main.

The wave height had reached a good 10 to 12ft. There was a murderous howl in the rigging, and the waves began collapsing into impressive white-foam craters around us that made me think of diving whales. My shoulder ached from holding the tiller, but I was determined to carry on. Sammy remained below navigating, and the others were laid out.

My sister said later that she was surprised I could keep steering for so long. My answer: “Well, I had to!” because there really was nothing else for it.

Entering the maelstrom

We surfed through the night like a steam train doing hurdles. Never before or since have I sailed in such wild weather at sea. The only sight was cresting waves that exploded into white foam in black, boiling water. I imagined giant whales encircling us and then dive-bombing under to create these imploding spray-holes, such was the size and individuality of the turbulent water.

From flat calm to chaos, Mike later told me that we had sailed into a ‘meteorological bomb’ in which the barometer falls by 24mb in 24 hours, creating what for us was a sudden Force 9 storm.

Losing concentration, I must have sailed too far off the wind. We suddenly crash-gybed and the boom snapped to the other side. Sammy anxiously came on deck. We had to tack out again, she told me because ‘there’s a reef marked on the chart up ahead and we can’t sail with the wind on port, it would take us towards the reef.’ She went below to make her calculations on the chart, leaving me in the cockpit, alone to wrestle with the storm.

Mike came on deck and together we managed to gybe the main a second time, this time in a controlled manner. Mike had the mainsheet and I had the tiller. The boom whipped across. Success. We started sailing out towards South America, 3,000 miles away. After that, Mike went down below again.

We carried on sailing in this manner for another hour. It was wild and daunting but we were coping. I saw to my surprise and delight dolphins were swimming beside us. I prayed that they were not trying to tell us that we were in the wrong place after all. I told Sammy I had seen them but she seemed to think I might have been hallucinating.

BANG! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! I looked forward in horror. The headsail had unfurled completely and was flogging in the darkness. The bow was dragged forward and lunging into the huge waves. Sammy came on deck. She clipped on and immediately headed out onto the foredeck. I watched her as she moved forward. I tried desperately to keep the bow out of the waves as each large body of water swept towards us.

Sammy reached the foredeck and began a repair. I concentrated and then, I misjudged a wave completely. The entire bow of the boat disappeared into a wave that crashed over the pulpit and we sank into the green water.

White foam rolled down the deck and cabin top and Sammy completely disappeared. As the bow at last reappeared and I prayed to the gods, I saw my sister re-emerge on the deck. She carried on working, took down the headsail and replaced it with a storm jib before making her way back to the cockpit.

She told me that the furling line had sheared under pressure against the fitting that held it aligned. Later, I inspected this and could see it was an accident waiting to happen because the furling line passed through an eyelet that had no ability to rotate, creating a friction point.

Sammy, now back in the cockpit, was dripping with water. ‘You know what was amazing?’ she said with the black night wild behind her. I shook my head. ‘No, what?’

‘When I was up there, I saw your dolphins swimming all around the bow. When we dived underwater, I looked at one close up, staring me straight in the eye – and then they all disappeared!’

The following morning, we limped towards the Bay of Islands, heading to a refuge. The forecast had two more full days of storm, and so we decided to hole up. Behind us, long rollers followed our progress. The wind had eased back and the sea was more even, but the wave heights were still an impressive 12 to 15ft.

That second evening, the boys acclimatised and on deck, we sailed into the Bay of Islands under radar an hour or two after sunset and about 40 hours after leaving Auckland. We found ourselves anchored in one of the bays amongst fishing boats that had also chosen to wait it out.

Running on empty

I felt my stomach. It was hollow. I reckoned through the two days and one night that I had lost around half a stone in weight, such was the effort I had put in to keep the boat on course and the lack of a proper meal. Before I lay down on a bunk, we all enjoyed a meal together. It tasted so good, whatever it was!

My first experience of heavy weather whilst offshore sailing had been quite incredible. Before closing my eyes, I looked around the cabin. The whole saloon was covered in something sticky that was green and yellow. I was confused. Sammy pointed to the fruit hanging in the two hammocks, one either side of the saloon. All of the fruit was squashed to pulp. The juice had flown everywhere. It had all been completely smashed to pieces in the storm as the hanging baskets had been dashed from side-to-side.

Sammy and Mike continued on from Tonga to Vanuatu and then sailed 11 days at sea just the two of them to reach Brisbane in Australia. I still go sailing with my sister; Sammy retired last year to spend her summers living aboard her 49ft Bavaria, Naboo, currently in the Saronic Gulf in Greece.

As a novice sailor, I learned that technology or not, sometimes you just have to cling on in a storm if you’re going to survive. Even as we lost our precious hanging fruit, I felt in good hands. I discovered that it’s indispensable to have a brave and capable skipper: in this case, ours was a thoroughly modern girl who was out there sail cruising just as women’s offshore sail racing was in its first bloom.

Lessons learned

Heed the forecast – We were so keen to get going that we ignored the warning of an impending storm. Using modern communications, today’s sailor will probably never find themselves without a reliable forecast, but we should have listened to the advice we were given and not simply trusted to current conditions and our keenness to be off.

Cast a keen eye – Heavy weather will find any weak points. Pacific Express’s headsail roller furling line ran a relatively thin rope through an eyelet that took it around a slight bend. This created a chafing point. It was obvious after it failed, but the problem didn’t occur to us beforehand. It would definitely pay to cast a critical eye over the whole boat, asking yourself, will this stand up to a storm? Minor weakness anywhere and simple chafe on gear can become significant very quickly in heavy weather.

Fix problems early on – Problems often escalate. A series of interconnected failures can make a bad situation worse. On our trip, we failed to get a proper weather report. The rigging chafed in the black of night several miles offshore. The crew were tired and seasick. I made two helming errors that could have been costly, but thankfully were not. Fixing problems early is vital.

If problems get dealt with straight away, they have less chance to grow and gang up on you.

Learn from the best – I learned that my sister is a steady pair of hands and does not suffer from seasickness – lucky girl! Whilst I’ll now have to suffer the consequences of making her sound so good, I learned that a practical, seaman-like approach coupled with a brave attitude to solving problems is essential in a skipper. And obviously, the skipper’s gender is irrelevant, only their competence is important.

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