Thailand to Indo by yacht.

The alarm blasts me from sleep. Again.

Snooze? Better not, could be trouble.

Stumble to the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face in an attempt to come round. The water is warm, so now I am damp but still half-asleep.

Brush teeth? Screw it. Coffee? Better save it. Lifejacket? Sigh.

Grope for the doorway to face a star-filled tropical night.

Welcome to another sailing delivery…

Sails out. Let's roll.

I’ve written about deliveries before – horrendous puke-filled storm runs down the west coast of Europe and joyous reunions with old pals and old yachts on the Atlantic.

This one was a little different: a week sailing through some of the world’s busiest shipping lanes in burning equatorial heat, from Phuket to Bali with a bunch of people I barely knew.

And I figured the daily details of a big boat delivery might be kind of interesting. God knows, I’ve got time to write. And that’s probably what sets delivery trips apart from our regular life afloat: you may have a schedule to keep, but out on the ocean, there’s time aplenty.

Which way is Bali anyhow?

A rolling roster of watchkeepers ensure we don’t crash into nearby boats or pointy bits of rock, but when you’re not on watch, the time is yours.

Unless the generator shits the bed, or the watermaker filters need changing, or the main engine starts spraying a fine mist of diesel over everything; then, you gotta sort it out. But when the old girl is behaving, things are pretty chilled.

All our ropes are the same colour to make things more interesting for the crew.

This trip was scheduled during holidays for our regular captain and the chef, so we hired an elite team of sailor-types from around the world.  It was quite an eclectic collection of crew.

Dan: Kiwi – Delivery Captain and boss guy. Hunter, fisher, seasoned sailor, enthusiastic delegator of chores. Enforcer of fines.

Mark: English/ Phuket resident – local Yachtmaster examiner who had done this trip several times. The man to quiz with your tricky sailing questions. Loves bacon sandwiches at sunrise.

Matt: Cornish – First mate with a penchant for tattoos, surfing and country music. The only person I know who suits up for night watch in a dress shirt. Likes his shorts extra small.

Thomas: German/Australian/Phuket resident  – Matt’s surfing buddy and experienced local sailor. Hates vegetables and ‘alternative’ food. Enjoys meat with maple syrup.

Nicky: As above, Tom’s sister – Crew chef who speaks Norwegian, Thai, German and more. Likes to upset Tom by cooking healthy food. Good at backflips, too. The queen of clean.

Myself: Australian – Delivery crew. Amateur gadabout, sometime cook, talented avoider-of-work. Enjoys stirring up Matt and cooking vego food for carnivores.

Pretty expensive fishing boat.

After a few days of dodging giant ships between Thailand and Singapore we cleared out into the Big Blue proper – tiny Malaysian fishing villages, isolated reefs and crazy currents as we headed south of Kaliamantan.

Dan obliged his crew with a few stops for deep water swim sessions and as it was the first time crossing the equator for 4 of the crew, even King Neptune made an appearance.

Gettin' personal with the game reel

Sailors are a bloody superstitious bunch. I don’t know a single captain anywhere who will depart port on a Friday. No one could tell you why, but it’s just not done. I was once banned from whistling onboard. And so it goes with the Rites of Neptune.

I forget the reasons why, but anyone crossing the equator by boat for the first time is submitted to some serious abuse by those who have gone before. Expect rotten food, seawater, pain and probably fish guts. How this initiates you is unimportant, it just does.

Sail repairs en route with Smithy.

So we threw some food about, we caught some fish, we fixed a bunch of stuff, read books, enjoyed films, ate because we were bored, got deep and meaningful during late night watches and even did some sailing. Who would’ve thought?

Our route took us south from Thailand down the Malacca Straits, underneath Singapore and Kaliamantan then south-east through a handful of remote islands belonging to Malaysia.

Curious kids as we crossed into Indo

We popped out above Bali and witnessed a heart-stopping sunrise as dawn broke over Lombok before taking in Bali’s pretty east coast with the volcano beyond.

And then we were there. Job done.

Market near Ubud, Bali

Atlantic crossing by the numbers

Last year, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean three times, most recently delivering an 18-year-old superyacht to Nelson’s Dockyard, Antigua in time for the owner’s Christmas vacation.

Here are some stats from that trip:

(One nautical mile = 1.85 kilometres = 1.15 miles.)

Note: this article also appeared recently on Matador Travel. Thanks to David Miller for his help.

Distance travelled from Palma de Mallorca – Gibraltar – Gran Canaria – Cape Verdes -Antigua: 4266 nautical miles.

 Time taken: 20 days sailing plus 5 days of stopovers for fuel and provisions.

Cups of tea consumed: 200-250 cups.

Total days ‘proper’ sailing with engine off: 9.

Fuel consumed: 6500L of diesel. Fuel saved per hour when engine is off: 23L.

Fuel consumed per hour by a motor yacht of same size averaging 10 knots: 300-400L.

Fastest speed attained under sail in our 97 ton yacht: 14.2 knots (26kph).

Mainsail volume: 225 square metres.

Strongest wind gust: 42 knots.

Electrical fires on board: 2.

Crew response time to fires: Very, very fast. And improving.

Fish hooked: 14.

Fish kept: 4 (Viewing The End of the Line has led to new, extreme criteria for ‘keepers’.)

Meals from a good size mahi mahi: 4 meals for 7 people plus various raw appetisers.

Lures lost to unseen monsters: 4.

Best meal: Char-grilled mahi mahi with gremolata, chilli-infused poisson cru, and coleslaw with fresh-baked beer bread.

Most popular snack: The chef’s secret custom-trail mix and/or Mie Goreng noodles.

Number of times leaky deck hatches poured water down upon me: 3.

Total different sleeping locations to avoid leaky hatches: 4.

Number of flying fish which flew in through open hatches: 3.

Number of flying fish which landed in bed beside me: 1.

Proportion of books and magazines making up my luggage: Approximately 60%.

Titles read by me en route: 5 (Lush Life by Richard Price, South by Ernest Shackleton, Genghis Khan: Lords of the Bow and Bones of the Hills by Conn Iggulden and Underworld of the East by James Lee).

Books I read on the same yacht three years ago which are still on board: More than 15.

Watch system: 3 hours on and 6 hours off, in teams of 2.

Major world problems theoretically solved by crew during late-night watch: 3-4 nightly.

Major world problems actually solved by crew during late-night watch: Less than zero.

Most popular late-night musical choices: Into The Wild soundtrack – Eddie Vedder, Blue Sky Mining – Midnight Oil, Rated R – QOTSA, Music Monks – Seeed, Home – Spearhead and American IV: The Man Comes Around – Johnny Cash.

 Vagabond sailing yachts involved in near-misses due to their refusal to display lights at night: 2

Approximate depth at the location we took a swim: 4900 metres.

Speed at which it was possible to keep pace with the yacht while swimming: 1 knot or less.

Crew who thought it might be fun to jump from the first spreader up the mast: 1.

Positions/nationalities of crew: Captain (South African), Chef (British), Mate (Irish), Engineer (New Zealander), Stewardess (New Zealander), Delivery-monkey/consultant (Australian – me) and Captain’s mother/baker-extraordinaire (South African)

Total Atlantic crossings between all crew: 26.

Languages spoken between crew: 5 (English, Afrikaans, Spanish, Gaelic and Kiwi)

Personal Atlantic crossings this year: 3.

Miles sailed this year across giant oceans: 11,500nm.

The sounds of sailing

Any one can take the helm when the sea is calm. – Pubilius Syrus.

the old girl stretches her legs

Silence. The sounds of silence.

After three days with the engine running, there’s an eerie quiet once it’s finally switched off.

At first it seems silent, anyway.

Then you notice the steady creak of the mast, the gurgle of waves on the hull, and the occasional curse as someone totters across the saloon which suddenly features a 20 degree slope.

The sounds of sailing, in fact.

There are other noises too.

The sound of salt water gushing through another leaky hatch.

The odd thump as 100 tones of yacht slams off the back of another wave.

The beep of the alarm signalling that another bilge is full of water.

But all these things are OK. Because we’re sailing.

Surging smoothly southward towards Las Canarias, borne by the wind alone.

Pretty cool really, and I’ll tell you why.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret about these flashy giant superyachts: they rarely sail.

What? Yes, it’s true.

For one thing there is often not enough wind. In anything less than 15 knots, Bolero wallows.

And then the wind is rarely out of the right direction.

The modern superyacht has schedules, deadlines. If sailing conditions are not optimal, they don’t bumble along in the approximate direction- it’s sails away, motor on, full speed ahead.

And then finally – and this one is a little embarrassing – there’s the convenience factor.

Bolero’s mainsail does not fill with wind at the touch of a button. And it sure doesn’t come down without a fight.

It took the captain and I a solid hour of dicking about in the freezing pre-dawn rain before we were ready to raise sail.

So if conditions look like they could change any second, we’ll probably just motor on.

But now and again, the elements play the game.

We unroll some canvas.

And shoot away to the south, smiling in the winter sunshine.

loving it

Hef and I fetch some sushi

summer lovin’

The white yacht was anchored off the beach again.

For more than a week it had sat there, occasionally disappearing at sunset, only  to reappear the next morning.

And like clockwork, the yacht discharged its British guests to the beach daily, where they crammed in amongst the plump brown Greeks and Italian families on holiday.

But in the same way the British distinguished themselves with their pasty skin and Cockney accents, the yacht and its passengers were never truly a part of this carefree holiday scene.

The yacht’s position off the beach was far enough to deter nosy swimmers and only just within the reach of the most determined locals on pedal boats.

Because even from the beach, it loomed huge.

And the curious holidaymakers couldn’t help but be drawn in by the size, the gleaming white hull, the assumed importance.

“Whose is the yacht? Is it a king? Hollywood?”

Those same wondering locals might like to have imagined the visitors added a degree of glamour to their beach, but truly, the yacht added nothing.

vessels changed to protect the innocent

Staying actively apart from their fellows, the British had meals delivered on gold trays to the beach, even going so far as taking their own drinks ashore. To the beach bar.

Each morning a dinghy would slip ashore and quietly dump another dozen bags of garbage into the roadside bins and every night, when everyone was in bed, clouds of filth would quietly seep out of the yacht into the clear Aegean waters.

Even the cheerful delivery of the Brits to the beach was a lie.

“Have a great time, sir. Enjoy the beach, guys. Byeeeee…”

Smiles hid grim faces as the crew returned from the beach run to set about preparing the yacht for the return of their owners.

Yes, the ‘owners’ effectively held possession of their crew along with the yacht.

Ever cheerful on the outside, each white-clad worker secretly despised their employers for their sense of entitlement, ignorance and neediness.

The reality was that the British had rented themselves 16 friends for the summer, friends who were apparently only too pleased to work 14 hours a day for 90 days straight.

So the British could have a holiday in the sun.

But luckily, summer doesn’t last forever.

Soon the sun would be gone and with it, the British.

ideal croatia

rovinj harbour flickr pic by ros aukett

My perfect day in Croatia might go something like this:

-         Wake up in my picturesque seaside village and wander to the square for coffee (real milk; not UHT) and a cherry danish.

-         Procure English-language newspaper and catch up on news from three days ago (close enough, right?)

waterside cafe flickr pic by markus spring

-         Stroll to the closest rocky outcrop for the first swim of the day in the postcard-perfect Adriatic.

-         Wander thru cicada-filled pine forests to a secluded cove or maybe take a sea-kayak to find my own private beach

lokrum flickr pic by jesus cm

-         Take a sail across to the nearest island (many are within an hour or so of each other) and compare the temperature of their local beers.

-         Go wakeboarding on impossibly flat seas once the wind drops. No swells to contend with here.

top spot for a few beers of a summer eve - dubrovnik old town

-         Finish up with a few more beers as the sun sets around 8 or 9pm. Grilled seafood at one of the many hundreds of harbourside restaurants.

-         Catch an international DJ touring thru the summer months. Croatia has a surprisingly progressive music scene.

-         Repeat as required…

one of my fave bars in the world flickr pic by rich ford

Croatia, you’ve still got it.

Maybe some secrets shouldn’t be kept.

And it’s hardly going to spoil things.

So here goes: Croatia.

Do yourself a favour and check it out. Soon.

Sure, it’s hardly a new destination and I’ve been telling people since 2007 that thought I thought the joint was tops.

But that opinion has been re-assessed and updated – it’s a must-see.

how good??

Even our two week superyacht blast down the coast with limited time ashore was enough to convince me that I’ll be back and you should go.

But why? Simply put, it does seaside European summer better than anywhere else I’ve seen.

Greece has the hundreds of rocky islands and crystal seas, but many of those islands are tacky, grubby and overdeveloped. Croatia is just…pristine.

Italy has the dramatic ocean cliffs and fresh grilled seafood too, but it’s filled with tourists. Croatia seems to be mostly chilled families on low-key holidays.

hvar old town and adjacent islands

France has impossibly pretentious ugly harbours, rubbish food, rude inhabitants and oh…never mind.

Plus I happen to particularly enjoy mucking about in boats and nowhere is better suited to a few weeks of leisurely ocean-going exploration than Croatia’s craggy string of forest-lined islands.

It’s windy for sailors. It has sheltered flat coves for watersports.

Croatia is peaceful. There’s no fuss and few crowds.

The people are friendly. The women are beautiful. And really tall.

The fruit is amazing. The cherry pastries can’t be found elsewhere.

Local beer is cold and delicious.

And everything is cheap

Needless to say I was pretty impressed.

the walled awesomeness of dubrovnik

Dirty stinkin superyachts

YEH, I know, everyone thinks yacht crew have it made — swanning from port to port in those shiny love boats, schmoozing with the like of Paris and Diddy, sunbaking on the aft deck during crossings.

Sure, we do all this and more. But occasionally we work and sometimes this gives rise to some surprising insights. So don’t hate us. Hate the yacht owners. They’re the rich jerks.

And as I learned over the winter, they’re nothing less than environmental terrorists. Simply put, owning a superyacht these days, is the equivalent of giving a middle-finger salute to the environment, the universe and everything else.

being lifted in the yard

It’s amazing when you consider it, how selfish an act owning a giant white boat is. (For the purposes of this tale I mainly refer to powerboats, yachts at least being occasionally powered by the wind).

At its very best, all a yacht can offer is an enjoyable holiday in some exotic locale with family, friends or Eastern European hookers, depending where your tastes lie.

These yacht owners are not donating holidays to terminally-ill children. They’re not using the boat to transport starving refugees out of Sri Lanka. Their yacht is just a giant overpriced toy.

Most toys however, don’t spew millions of litres of exhaust fumes into the air when the owners’ wife decides the waters off Cannes are too choppy.

They’re not painted yearly with highly-toxic antifouling and they don’t require daily cleaning with all manner of horrible chemicals.

making sure everything is shiny

Consider the fuel issue alone. A large boat I know of had new gas-turbines installed this year at a huge cost so they could go faster.

And go they did, reaching speeds of nearly 40 knots (about 70kmh). This is pretty quick for a boat more than 70m long.

Shame they were using 5000L of diesel PER HOUR to achieve this. Yikes.

The same yacht also travelled from the Balearic islands to the Channel islands off England to pick up guests who do not enjoy flying. Quite a taxi fare.

tented up. It's huge! see car bottom right.

Another yacht I was helping to re-fit over the winter required a paintjob. All 48m of boat had the old paint sanded off and this is currently blowing around the Med somewhere.

A dust-free environment was then required to complete the new spray job, so a giant plastic tent was stretched over scaffold to cover the entire yacht. A further 60-odd yachts got this same treatment in the yard. That’s a lot of plastic.

But what are you gonna do? Hundreds of new superyachts are currently in construction and now the price of diesel has lowered, very few owners are considering bio-diesel or the groovy green alternatives.

Do we boycott his horrid industry and go work for Greenpeace? They’re just going to hire some of the many eager new yachties waiting in the wings.

Beats me. But it’s worth thinking about.