The second leg of our Mozambique Channel Transit was no less angst provoking than the first. We were still sailing in a fleet of three, with Andrew and Mark feeding weather reports out to Steel Sapphire. Now, however, Florence joined the party and they too were enjoying* the live-time weather routing discussions via radio. Georgia and Enchantress were at various points elsewhere in the sea, but were far enough away that they could not listen in via VHF. So now, there was some discussion each evening held on SSB as well.

The weather was no better. We had a couple days of light wind before another predicted Southerly was expected to blow up. Like before, we could choose to divert course and hide behind another island group in Mozambique, or we could choose to sail through the storm. The decision would be left off until we got closer to go-time.

Our next bail out point, if we choose to use it, is called Bazaruto. This island group is marginally hospitable, with officials often coming to visit the boat and charge a fee, but generally, keep that fee fairly reasonable all things considered. And these guys haven’t been holding passports for ransom, at least not lately.

This doesn't make the area perfect, though. The entrance to the anchorage is surrounded by shifting, underwater sand banks. Tides and waves pick up and move the sand on a daily basis, so charts are almost entirely useless in guiding you through the area. If you wish to enter, you should enter in good daylight, with the sun at your back, and with plenty of fuel to push your boat through the heavy currents that flow in and out of that channel. You should also arrive at slack tide if possible, so you don't have to fight the current as you try to enter. One wrong move, and you can end up high and dry on one of those sand banks. Sail boats hate being high and dry.

Many a sailor are faced with a choice of entering Bazaruto in less than ideal conditions or riding out nasty weather. So, we are trying to overlay what we know about our boat speed (in this case fleet speed!), current predictions, wind predictions, and timing to position ourselves at the exit point for Bazaruto to accommodate all of these risks. In addition, we must all conserve enough fuel to get us both IN to Bazaruto, and also OUT. Steel Sapphire has plenty of fuel range, I've been sailing more than motoring, so I probably have enough, but Erie Spirit’s down wind sailing configuration isn’t quite as easy to set up as ours and so they have had to motor in light winds more than we have. Their fuel range is getting squeezed. Andrew helped Susan clean Erie Spirit's bottom one more time before departing Fogo to make sure they were slick and efficient as possible.

Now, all we can do is sail.

Just like the first half of this route, Andrew and Leslie buckled on their "race pants." Usually, we sail pretty conservatively. In an effort to reduce broken parts far out at sea, we usually reef down and slow my momentum whenever I hit 7 knots through the water. We all know I can go faster than this if they push me, and so on this trip, they do. Anytime the wind shifts, and I request a new sail, they hop right to it. (I could get used to this!) They both spend their watches with their trimming sheet in hand making small adjustments and grinning over a gain of 1/10th a knot.

I might love their race pants best.

Twenty four hours into this second leg, the meeting of Captains occurs and the weather is discussed. “The weather looks acceptable to try to make a run direct to Richard's Bay,” Andrew reports. The Southerly predicted is only at 15-20 knots, gusting at most to 25, and I think it will be uncomfortable but safe enough. We just have to keep at least 6.5 knots of boat speed average to make it in to Richards Bay before the second Southerly arrives, that one is forecast at 40-50 knots and scheduled to arrive at midnight the day we are supposed to get in to Richard’s Bay.”

Leslie and I both swallow hard. That's some tight timing!

"Des is saying to go further off shore, but as I look at it, the further we go offshore, the more miles we have to sail back in to make it safely to Richard’s Bay. We need enough miles off shore that we can safely run off in this first Southerly, but not get so far off shore that we can't get back in to Richard's Bay in time." Andrew says. Both Mark and Pete agree with this analysis.

“Running off" is a technique sailors use to manage the challenge of sailing up wind. Sailing directly upwind is not physically possible, the closest a sailboat like me can sail to the wind is around 30 degrees off. Even that requires a fairly calm wave state and no adverse current. In addition, sailing upwind causes sailboats to heel onto their side more (it feels a bit like I'm tipping over, but I swear I won't) and it also makes us crash, crash, crash into the waves. When it gets too bad, the best angle you can sail is really 60 degrees off the wind. But what this means is that you are going a bit more sideways than you were before. If there is land over "there," that obviously will not do. So, Andrew has to make calculations to give us enough space to move forward+sideways during the time the wind forecast to be right in front of us.

“The wind is forecast to come from the South at 180 - 190 degrees. That 10 degrees of South-west wind is what has me nervous. If we can sail at 250 degrees, we should have more than enough sea room. If we start getting pushed above 270, we might run out.” Andrew says.

"So what waypoint do you suggest aiming at?" Pete asks.

With as much confidence as any little sailboat could ever ask of her Captain, Andrew places his navigation curser over a spot on the chart and reads the coordinates out to the rest of the fleet. “25 Degrees 02 Minutes South; 35 Degrees 38 Minutes East.”

As the day and the conversation wears on, this point comes to be known as “Andrew's Waypoint” to be distinguished from "Des's Waypoint.” And, we push. Push, push, push - all of our sails, all of our crews, all of our engines. Sometimes, we pushed our sails and our engines at the same time. We were all pushing to maintain as much speed as we can to make it to “Andrew’s Waypoint.”

Just before Leslie takes over for night watch, Andrew adds pressure to my engine lever and hovers over the chart plotter in my cockpit. As it is, we are in another lull before the storm, and we are motoring at the top end of our comfortable RPMs to keep moving toward Andrew's Waypoint. "We have to make it here before the wind hits at midnight." He says. "See the way the coastline juts inward? If we can just get around this point, then we will have plenty of room to run West."

“If we don’t get there in time, though…”

"Its not much room.” Andrew says, “The heavy, South wind is forecast to pipe up at midnight. Do you want to put a triple reef in the main sail now so you don't have to deal with it if the wind comes in early?" Leslie agrees, and they go to work at it.

With the reefs set up, everything is ship shape. Andrew stands in the companion way looking out at Leslie in the cockpit.

“Don't worry, we'll make it.” Leslie says. She looks behind us at Erie Spirit hanging tight on the horizon behind us.“ They will make it there, too.”

Andrew climbed into his bunk, shared with Katherine Hepburn and her sleeping basket. But, both suffered a fitful sleep. All Andrew could hear over and over again was "Andrew's Waypoint, Andrew's Waypoint, Andrew’s Waypoint.” He dreamed that the Florences were being interviewed for a documentary 15 years on down the road, somber faced and dower: “We had been sailing down the Mozambique Channel for several days when Andrew aboard Sonrisa suggested we sail to Andrew's Waypoint...”

The documentary fades out on the somber faces of Matt and Amy to return to a stern man wearing a grey suit and narrow black tie who says, “and that is when things went horribly wrong.”

Andrew sits up in his bunk with a start as the “dream-u-mentary” flashes to footage of sailboats being hammered by enormous breaking waves in a fury of whipping foam and flying debris. In reality, my engine is off, we are heeled over, the waves and foam are pounding against my port forward quarter, and every now and then we are launched from the peak of one wave into the short side of the next.

Andrew scrambles to the cockpit where he finds Leslie nestled in her beanbag. “Are we okay?"

“Yep, all good, the wind is up.”

"Where are we?"

“We are basically at the Waypoint. Close enough for government work.”

"Where is Erie Spirit?"

“I can see their Nav lights right over there." Leslie says pointing across the way.

“And Steelie?"

"Ahead of us."

“Florence?"

“I think they are further out at sea, but also close enough for VHF range."

"Are we able to hold our course?”

Leslie confirms we are currently sailing at 254 degrees.

Andrew visibly relaxes back. He climbs out into the cockpit and sits next to Leslie in his beanbag. “I think the only think I hate worse than being Captain of a ship is being Admiral of a fleet.” Andrew declares.

They finish out the rest of Leslie's watch together, until Leslie gets too tired and needs to go down below. This Southerly lasts for 23 hours, rough but manageable. Around 23:00h (11:00 p.m.) the next night, we were able to shake out our reefs and put out our genoa. By the next morning, the wind had moved around to blow from the North and we were enjoying a gentle, following breeze to push us down the home stretch. These last days are beautiful sailing and we even get a visit from a pod of dolphins and a group of pilot whales!

By early in the morning on Day 14 (if you count the days spent in tthe Roadstead Anchorage at Fogo) we were flying along twenty knots of wind behind us and a current that was causing me to sail at 11 knots of boat speed until Andrew and Leslie decided that was quite enough and reeled in some sail to settle me at 9 knots.

A grey cast of marine layer hovered over the sea, and the air has grown quite chilly. We can see a rough, sharp coastline that looks like sea-beaten cliffsides. As we approach Richard’s Bay, a crack in the inhospitable coast opens up and the Port Control radios us entry approval. We motor past enormous ships exiting the port, sliding along the sideline trying to stay out of their way. Finally, Leslie guides me to rest next to a cement wall on the quarantine dock, squeezed between Erie Spirit behind us and Florence just in front.

A very satisfying landfall, indeed.