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PASSAGE PLANNING |
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EXTRACT FROM AN ARTICLE BY CARRIE HAMPTON
SA YACHTING
JULY 1998
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TRISTAN
DA CUNHA
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 Tristan
Da Cunha is the merest speck in the vast seascape of the South
Atlantic. Listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the remotest
inhabited island in the world, it is 1315 nautical miles from
the nearest populated land and roughly halfway between Cape
Town and Brazil at latitude 37.2 degrees south. The small self-sufficient
community of just over 300 people shares only seven surnames
and a history peppered with shipwrecks. They do not feel the
slightest bit lonely on top of their little volcano, for that
is what their island is, the summit of a complete one million
year (young) volcano. It is the infrequent visitors that remind
them of their isolation.
All
visitors come by sea - there is no other way. The last
remaining Royal Mail Ship, St Helena, brings about 70
curious cruising passengers on its annual cargo and mail-run
every January and Cape town fisheries vessels call in
every three months to collect the export quota of famous
Tristan rock lobsters destined for the USA, Japan and
France. The only other visitors are the few yachts that
dare to stop on their way back from South America.
Captain Dave Roberts of the 105m, 6767 ton RMS St Helena
remembers a force 11 gale with pure white water rising
over the wings of the upper deck and spray going in two
directions at once. The local conditions can change so
rapidly that Captain Roberts would not advise yachts to
stop at Tristan unless they have need to re-stock or repair.
Bertie Reed on the other hand sees no reason not to, and
has been there three or four times (he has forgotten exactly
how many), but admits that one of his visits lasted only
two hours, because, "When the weather gets up, you get
out".
There
is no sheltered anchorage at Tristan Da Cunha and only
a tiny harbour where even the fishing boats are craned
out of the heavy seas each day. The only protecting from
the predominant northerly blow in this group of five islands
is in Carlisle Bay in the lee of Inaccessible Island some
40km WSW of Tristan, where sheer mossy cliffs thunder
with ceaseless waterfalls. Tristans' anchorage of the
small settlement plain of Edinburgh on the north side
of the island is littered with kelp and has a constant
swell. There are no navigational lights at night and after
midnight, no lights at all as the island generator switches
off.
The
bare hull of a relatively recent shipwreck is the yacht
Aca Aca that sits high on the rocky volcanic beach, a
perfect pirate's haven for children. Numerous other yachts
have come to grief in the area and in 1990 the 50 foot
Halcyon was abandoned in high seas off Tristan. She then
drifted off on currents to cause a navigational hazard
during the Cape to Rio race but was never seen again.
In the 19th century sealers and whalers called frequently
and the male population of this island community was augmented
from over 20 shipwrecks. In1883 a freak accident drowned
fifteen of the island's eighteen adult men and it is said
the womenfolk used to cry "May God let there be another
shipwreck so I may get married."
Permission
to stay ashore must be granted by the Island council.
The landing fee entitles you to one of the world's rarest
passport stamps and some expert boat-handling. Walking
around the unexpectedly picturesque village with blossoming
gardens one can chat over dark bubbly lava stone walls
to people whose English accent has evolved over through
years of intermittent influences and isolation. It sounds
rural and rounded with a tinge if Italian and an "H" in
front of each vowel- commencing word. Attentive listening
makes for easier understanding while Alan Green tells
of the volcanic eruption of 1961 when the islanders were
informed from afar not to be concerned at the rising steam
and tumbling rocks.
Proximity
persuaded them otherwise and all 289 people were evacuated.
When all but a handful returned from England two years
later (some had succumbed to a bitter English winter and
diseases for which they had no resistance) they found
a brand new smoldering crater right on the edge of their
settlement, yet only one house was ruined. Unfortunately
the only usable landing beach for the fishing boats had
become a thick crust of craggy black lava and as a result
plans for a small harbour were considered.
The
obvious thing about Tristanians is that they are inherently
practical and straightforward people, indicated by such
place names as Down Where the Minister Landed His Things,
Ridge Where the Goat Jump Off and Deadman's Bay. They
are involved in survival and will capably help you in
yours by mending a sail or installing a jury rig, but
resources like sailcloth and fiberglass are limited. Fishing
is their living, but the gong that summons men to boats
may only be heard on 60 to 80 days in the year when commercial
fishing is possible. The lack of opportunity does not
equate with lack of skill and a daily catch in a two-man
working boat can amount to 450 kilos of rock lobster.
The
island is also famous for it's potatoes which are grown
in patches on the plateau over the hill past Big Sandy
Gulch. Potatoes were replaced as the local currency in
1942, yet even in 1946 one stamp could be bought for four
potatoes. Each family has a "holiday home" at their potato
patch four kilometers away, where they escape for the
weekend.
The
only other opportunity to get off the island comes in late January
or February when the blue, red and yellow painted longboats,
of an ancient yet effective design, are put to sea for a dangerous
crossing to Nightingale Island. Birds breed in hundreds of thousands
here and in true hunter gatherer tradition the Tristanians collect
penguin guano to fertilize the potato patches and take back
penguin eggs for those who savour the delicate jellified white.
Once on Nightingale, sleeping in permanent little huts, they
must wait however long it takes for the wind to change direction
for the three hour sprint back. |
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