The Crossing: 123 Hours of Blue
Updated: 2 days ago
The Crossing - May 30 to June 5, 2025
I know many people who say it’s their dream to one day sail across the ocean on a sailboat, where, at some point, suspended between sky and water, you can find yourself. Where you begin to become one with the sea, and the only thing that matters is feeling the saltwater-laden wind filling the sails. While you’re surrounded by nothing but water for weeks on end, there’s nothing to do but reflect on life and find inner peace… That really sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? Well, unfortunately, you can take that literally, because this idea remains a dream—at least in part. The reality of such a crossing often looks just a little bit different—at least that’s how I experienced it.
Now that I’ve completed a few crossings lasting several days—and mind you, these were no more than six days at a time—I can say with certainty at this point: Crossings like these aren’t for me. The journey is NOT the destination here—at least not for me. Mirko isn’t exactly keen on these long crossings either, despite the fact that the world’s oceans have been his home for a very long time.
I mean, the description above sounds pretty great, but most people forget that these crossings—which last several days or even weeks—aren’t always a “champagne cruise.” Unfortunately, most of the time you can’t enjoy a glass of bubbly under continuous sunshine without waves, without the boat heeling (tilting), and with a light breeze. Maybe once in a while, but only rarely. The champagne thing isn’t that big of a deal anyway. For one thing, that expensive bubbly doesn’t taste as good as Prosecco anyway (by the way; Buy me a Prosecco ;-); for another, when you’re out at sea like this, you don’t really feel the need for any legal drugs anyway—except for chocolate and Stugeron, the seasickness pills. At least that’s always how it is for us.
Light winds aren’t exactly what you want on a long voyage anyway. After all, you want enough wind to eventually reach your destination. As a result, you have to put up with heavy swells and an uncomfortable list—day and night—which makes restful sleep a rarity.
Of course, a crossing has its charm—that’s for sure. Almost every day you experience both sunrise and sunset; you can finally lose yourself in a book you haven’t had time for before; you’re far removed from the whirlwind of social media; and the best part is that (if all goes well) you’re sailing 24/7. All of this brings a certain romance to the experience.
From New Zealand to Minerva
Mirko and I set sail from New Zealand. We had about 820 nautical miles (1,519 kilometers) ahead of us, which we planned to cover in five and a half days (and nights). It wasn’t until dusk that the last distinctive mountain peak of the North Island of Aotearoa (the Māori name for New Zealand) disappeared from view. We weren’t the only ones heading for “the islands”; several other sailboats were scattered a few miles around us, all moving in the same direction. Despite the short distance—relative to the vastness of the South Pacific—we only occasionally saw a sail rising above the horizon. “Die Inseln” or “The Islands” is THE term Kiwis (New Zealanders) use for Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and the many other island nations of the South Pacific. More than once, my follow-up question—“Which islands do you mean?”—in response to “Head’n to the islands, hey?” was met with a smirk, and I could practically hear the unspoken “Tztz, tourists…”
Since it had been a while since I’d last sailed offshore, I decided to follow Paula’s advice (SY Freydis) and take a seasickness pill ahead of time so I could get through the first day of the crossing without any worries. After all, my stomach had to get used to the constant up-and-down motion of the waves, and I really wanted to get through that uncomfortable period. Sailing on a course of 025 to 035 degrees north at an average speed of 7.5 knots, we enjoyed our first long day of sailing on the Yum Yum. She, too, hadn’t forgotten how to sail or how to ride the three-and-a-half-meter-high waves. Both the air and water temperatures were still on the low side, just like in New Zealand. But that was about to change faster than we expected—the farther north we went, the more we looked forward to it. When I put on my brand-new Helly Hansen sailing overalls in the evening—on top of my long pants and thick jacket—to stay warm, it was clear it would be a while yet before I could pull my bikini and swimsuit out of the closet. But first things first.
Mirko took the first evening watch every day after our early dinner. The sun set as early as 5:30 p.m., and since there was nothing else to do after marveling at the usually beautiful sunset, I usually went straight to my bunk to “get a little sleep” before Mirko woke me up a few hours later for the shift change. You always imagine that the waves lull you to sleep like a baby being gently rocked in a cradle by its parents until it falls asleep. It’s not quite that simple, though. The back-and-forth and up-and-down motion of the waves feels more like lying in a washing machine. The seemingly endless rolling of the ship and the background noise—caused on the one hand by the water rushing past the bow and on the other by the clattering of the ship’s equipment—don’t exactly contribute to a restful sleep.
Mirko still woke me up every night after midnight, and I’d crawl out of bed—feeling barely rested and with a sore back from lying in a cramped position—to start my shift. Most nights were uneventful, which was a good thing, but there were a few things that made every night special nonetheless: Sometimes it was the starry sky, where you couldn’t make out the constellations except for the distinctive Southern Cross because there were so many stars; other times it was the glowing plankton that transformed the endless, black water into a glittering blanket. And have you ever watched the moon rise from the ocean? An indescribable experience. All in all, I came to love the night voyages. It actually wasn’t so bad being awake at ungodly hours, staring into the vast distance at the not-so-empty nothingness.
In contrast to the night, it was usually slightly cloudy during the day and rarely did we see bright sunshine, while at night the moon fought its way through the clouds and revealed the starry sky. In the distance, we could often see a few rain showers, whose drops fortunately didn’t reach us, but constantly surprised us with a new rainbow. I had truly never seen as many rainbows as I did on the second day of our crossing.
We set out with winds of over 30 knots, which dropped to a steady 20 knots on the second day, until they were down to just 5 to 10 knots on the third day. Except for the aforementioned third day, we were always able to set sail and “only” had to cover 29 hours under motor—which we had known from the start. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t try to set sail on the third day. We set sail at least six times and took them down again after a short while. We even tried out our red Parasailor several times—a type of spinnaker designed specifically for broad reach and light winds—but failed miserably due to the poor wind conditions. One attempt ultimately became our last, as the halyard got caught on the sail in such a way that something tore, and we had to stow the Parasailor for the time being.
Although the calm seas meant we couldn’t sail as fast or had to run the engine, they did come with one major perk: great food! It was much easier to cook below deck when you didn’t have to hold down everything that was getting tossed around—like bowls, glasses, pans, vegetables, or even yourself…—and you could prepare meals while staying relatively level with the horizon (hehe). We had fried potatoes with eggs for breakfast, a delicious salad with homemade bread and guacamole for lunch, and porcini mushroom risotto for dinner—a dream! Reading a book even inspired me to bake brownies, and I whipped up some chocolatey energy bombs for us during the calm voyage. Funnily enough, the book was actually about a chemist who became a star as a TV chef. “A Matter of Chemistry” by Bonnie Garmus—a book I highly recommend (thanks to Ria for the recommendation).
After a few days, Mirko realized that something was wrong with the AIS (Automatic Identification System; it displays other ships on the chartplotter and serves as a collision-avoidance system). According to Marine Traffic (an international website), the Yum Yum was still anchored in The Nook (NZ) and wasn’t anywhere northeast of New Zealand. Mirko immediately set out to troubleshoot the problem and determined that something was likely wrong with the antenna. Although we could see the other ships on the chartplotter, we were apparently invisible to them. It was a problem we couldn’t address right away. Fortunately, we hardly encountered anyone out there anyway, and when we did, they were heading in the same direction as us, so there was little risk of collision. And sleeping whales or even lost shipping containers don’t have AIS anyway.
The further north we went, the fewer layers of clothing we needed. Eventually, we even stopped wearing our warm sailing overalls at night, and after a few days, Mirko even dared to put on swim trunks during the day. Although the thermometer only showed the water temperature, it indicated that we were gradually approaching warmer waters.
The wind we lacked on the third and fourth days returned in the days that followed. A distant low-pressure system had sucked up all the wind and was just waiting to send it back our way from an impossible direction. Back in New Zealand, the weather report had already prepared us for the fact that we would have to cover the last few nautical miles on a close-hauled course. Fortunately, the wind direction was more forgiving than expected, and we made good progress at a nice 90 degrees to the wind (half-wind).
When the sun rose after the fifth night (to my surprise, not exactly in the east—did you know that the positions of sunrise and sunset vary slightly throughout the year?), an end was finally in sight. It was warm, the sun was shining, the salty air tingled on my skin, and I was able to comfortably finish my two e-books. Plus, there were brownies—what more could you want! Oh, right: fishing! Once we were sure we’d reach our destination before sunset, we cast our lines for the first time this season. Sure enough, a big tuna took the bait, and I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of having ceviche (fish marinated in lime juice) soon.
Around noon, Mirko and I could make out in the distance the characteristic white caps that mark every reef. But this was a reef located somewhere in the middle of the vast ocean, hundreds of meters deep: Minerva! Just like the first time, we marveled at this natural phenomenon. The two atolls—Minerva South, which is nearly 8 kilometers long and looks like a horizontal figure eight, and the circular Minerva North, with a diameter of 7 kilometers—reveal only a few boulders of the otherwise submerged reef at low tide. Each has a pass—or reef entrance—that allows us sailors to enter the lagoon and anchor there on sandy bottom.
After 125 hours—60 daylight hours and 65 hours of darkness—the anchor dropped at a depth of 12 meters, and we were finally able to toast a successful passage with a glass of Prosecco, which we had thoughtfully chilled back in New Zealand.
The Yum Yum at the clearance dock Comfortable position... Mirko was cooking while sailing Snip, snip, snip Delicious brownies! Daniela is making iced tea. Finally! Shorts. First catch of the season! Finally arrived!
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