We were excited. Four weeks after boarding the boat we were about host a friend from our pre-sailing life. Bravely, he planned to join us on the final day of our first passage as we sailed through the Sydney Harbour Heads. I imagined sails set, wind in our hair and champagne glasses clinking. Fair winds were forecast, 15-20 knot north-easterlies, exactly in Moonraker’s sweet-spot.
Our friend (let me call him Dearest First Guest, or DFG for short) got himself to Pittwater the night before the sail. We picked him up from the Palm Beach Jetty in our little tender and rowed him to the yacht. We knew that the hole in the inflatable dingy was far too small to sink it on that short trip, so we were cautiously unconcerned about his welfare at that point. So far, so good.
A stylish dinner was in order for that evening to set the tone for dining on board Moonraker. However, the chef was ragged from the day’s sail and the whiz-bang eutectic fridge had not started working. We had to make do with heated supermarket pies with steamed veg, plus (quel horreur) tomato sauce from a bottle. It wasn’t all bad, of course, as the sunset came up trumps, Broken Bay
Next morning, DFG was up early, ostensibly admiring the sunrise. Later, we realised the wide berth in the saloon had only seemed to be the delux sleeping option for him. He is quite tall and not very wide, and would have been better in the forward v-berth. Further, we now know that a pin must be inserted to secure the saloon berth. By early morning the structure had collapsed. DFG was awake and pretending that he is always up early flexing his back to remove kinks. Nice sunrise indeed.
Undaunted, we breakfasted on Dean’s customised premium muesli (some culinary standards never drop) and looked forward to a brisk passage to Sydney
What a crushing disappointment. The forecast winds did not arrive. The breeze was 3-5 knots for most of the way, condemning the 15-tonne Moonraker to motoring on glassy seas. The mainsail was up, but only to stabilise the roll and wallow in the two-meter quartering swell. The poor excuse for a wind only had enough puff to blow the diesel fumes over the stern into the cockpit.
DGF found a convenient perch on the push-pit seat and chatted politely to anyone who passed by. He was very pale and occasionally leaned over the stern to lose the pie and sauce, the champagne, the hazelnut chocolate and the premium muesli.
Perhaps in sympathy for him, the genoa snagged itself on a renegade screw that had eased from furler sheath. So, even when the breeze freshened close to the Sydney Heads, using the genoa was not an option.
Nothing daunted, on approach, the motor was turned off. We were determined to SAIL through the Heads. Who cares that we had up only one (reefed) sail? Who cares that the genoa looked pathetic half-wrapped around the furler? Did the shoulder-straining weather helm really matter? Sydney Heads is really something, especially on a Saturday. By then, even the memory of the pies had dimmed. DFG might have retained nothing in his stomach but he helped us retain a sense of occasion as we sailed into the most beautiful harbour in the world, on our yacht at the end of our first passage.
I hope he comes again. We have promised to do better.
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