Christian Auge and Mare C

Back in May I saw a stumpy wing mast among the typical aluminium forest of spars. It belonged to a small catamaran with folding wings. One glance was enough to see that it was a serious sea-going boat. The man on board looked like he’d been at sea for some time so I invited him home for dinner.
Christian Auge has been sailing since he was twenty-two. Searching for his first sailing boat he drove across Asia and then flew to the Marquesas where he fell in with the unlikely crew of a pilot, a call girl and a guru aboard their trimaran. When relations among the trio broke up they gave Christian the boat. He sailed 400 nm to the Tuamoas where he worked trading between the islands. He met Bernard Moitessier and became friends, giving Bernard his first taste of multihull sailing. Of Moitessier Christian told me that you couldn’t hope for a better crew, that, for all his experience, he would never presume to interfere with how you sailed your boat, he was always open, humble and willing.

Christian worked his way around the world on boats and began his own career designing and building with the Mike Birch team in New Bedford for the 1976 OSTAR. In 40 years on the sea he has sailed some 250,000 miles and is now designing a 28-foot proa with a rotating rig in which he hopes to take part in the next Jester Challenge.


Deciding that he was spending too much time in front of the computer he prepared an early summer cruise on the ply and epoxy catamaran Mare C. A friend had designed and built the boat for speed but Christian cut two metres off the mast to achieve a more cruiser friendly sail area. He set off in the 5.5 metre catamaran with 11square metres of mainsail and six of jib. The whacking great mast added another 2.5 square metres and gave the boat a cruising speed of up to 15 knots. He sailed from Sète in France and planned to continue non-stop down the Mediterranean to Algiers. However, he met calms and contrary head winds. Having no auxiliary power he could do nothing but wait for the weather to become more favourable. He stopped at Ibiza and then, with insufficient time to make the African continent, decided to head back to France.

On the way back the weather again failed him and after four days at sea with only two hours sleep and with his knee playing up he decided to stop at Torredembarra to find some medication.

I was amazed by Christian’s ability at 62 to endure the discomforts of long hours on a small boat. He had no mattress or boat tent and generally just slept on the deck in his wet weather gear. He lived on a Spartan diet of dried fruit and nuts, tinned sardines and roll ups.

We looked over Onawind Blue together, it was interesting to compare the two boats, OB and Mare C were completely different concepts, however OB was about to embark on a similar cruise. Conceivably Mare C could have made the 140 mile passage from Ibiza in 14 to 15 hours at an average of 10 knots. OB could have done the same in 48 hours at her stately average of 3 knots. In the event, however, OB also took four days from Ibiza to Torredembarra including a rest day.

Christian liked OB and was impressed by the build quality (though of course I distracted him when his eyes wandered to the dodgy bits) and reckoned that she would be perfect for such a cruise. This thumbs up from an experienced sailor boosted my confidence enormously —I’d been having grave doubts. Meeting Christian was a turning point. He made it sound as if anyone could sail offshore in a small engineless boat incurring less risk that they would by driving up the motorway. The OB cruise was on again.

A few days later the wind came fair and he set off to sail non-stop to France. I watched him through binos from the beach. Mare C was doing about six knots on a light southerly, Christian was leaning on a wing rolling a cigarette. Suddenly I couldn’t wait to get going.

Ramming speed

The start

Onawind Blue launches from Granadella beach and sails round the high, rocky coast of Cape Nao looking for somewhere to anchor and prepare for an early departure.


There's a lot of sea out there.

The story in photos

Leaving home.
Sausage and cheese. Anchored off the north of Cabo de la Nao a few hours before leaving the Spanish mainland.
Somewhere in the middle of a big blueness.

The jury rudder.
OB crests waves with habitual grace and style.
Watching paint dry.
Evening at s'Espalmador, between Ibiza and Formentera.
Landsick and running errands in Ibiza town.
On board beautiful 1929 British lifeboat (more on this boat another time) with French owner and restorer Baloo, (we 'ave ze worl's best rhum)
OB looks very small in the Columbretes.
From the sea...
to the pan. A pollock (trachurus trachurus) with garlic and almonds hits the spot .

Getting to sea in the middle of the night.
Dawn. There's no wind but the coffee's ready.
The wear and tear of many miles under oars.

Onawind Blue returns

Don’t try this at home folks. Unless you’re extremely well prepared. I believe I was and the project has had a happy outcome.

Just briefly, as I still don’t have an internet connection at home. Having arrived at Ibiza and made a new rudder I had a lovely cruise to Formentera, an idyllic island surrounded by impossibly turquoise waters. I returned to Ibiza to make some final preparations for my departure then, on Friday 26th sailed for the north of the island.

At 0400 on the morning of the 27th I set sail for the Columbrete Islands 65 miles northwest. This was a long, long open sea passage and I rowed about half the distance. I saw only one other ship on this passage and tried to contact it via the VHF but received no reply. I did, however, see plenty of dolphins.

The Columbretes are very small and it was with some relief that I finally saw them appear at sunset. I was still 15 miles off, which, with a failing breeze, put the islands about 6 hours away. The islands form a natural park and no anchoring is allowed, however several buoys have been set down in the natural harbour. I contacted the island’s park authorities by radio and was told that there were no buoys available. I could, however tie up to another boat. OB is too small to raft against a large boat and rowing round the anchorage it looked like there was no suitable boat to tie on to. Eventually I rafted up against someone’s dinghy after 22 hours on the water.

The next day demanded rest. I visited the island, snorkled and slept under an awning I’d rigged using the mizzen sail. In the evening the park guards kindly used their satellite phone to contact my family and let them know that I was planning on leaving at 0400 for the Spanish mainland.

I sailed north for the River Ebro Delta but with the dawn the wind failed. This was a difficult day, I rowed and rowed. At times I stopped to swim and, as I was swimming, I towed the boat behind me. Anything to gain a few metres. That day I covering 45 miles in 17 hours pulling the boat onto a beach on the south side of the Delta for the night.

The next morning I again set off at 0400 with no wind. But found that I hadn’t fully recovered from the day before. It wasn’t so much my arms and back that caused discomfort but the rubbing and chafing of salty clothing on skin. My bum was raw. After 6 hours and 12 miles I stopped on the tip off the Delta to eat and rest. There was no wind and to attempt the 23 mile passage across to Cap Salou without wind would have been foolhardy given that rowing had become so uncomfortable. After an hour’s sleep in the shade of the mainsail the wind began to fill in from the southeast. I set sail and crossed the Gulf of Sant Jordi. The wind came foul 5 miles from the cape and I had gruelling row up to Cala Cranc, (where I stayed 2 years ago) but suspecting it to be unsuitable with a southerly swell rowed on round the cape to anchor off the tourist hell of La Pineda, just beside the entrance to Tarragona harbour.

I left the next morning at the favoured hour of 0400 and rowed the 15 miles home. I seemed to find new strength and as long as I didn’t stop I could deal with my painful butt. I arrived home in time for a late breakfast though the only thing I could consider drinking was cold beer.

Open sea voyaging in a small boat is a very serious business. I have watched the tricky Mediterranean weather for years now and wouldn’t have wanted to make this trip at other time of year. The beginning of June may be unsettled but the solstice usually brings prevailing southerlies. I had more calms than I could have wished for but I also had plenty of fine following breezes that kept our overall average speed for the 280nm trip above 3 knots. I was physically well prepared and psychologically committed to make the trip a success.

I wouldn’t recommend this sort of trip for everyone and won’t say that at times I wasn’t extremely frightened (particularly when I was on land thinking of the journey ahead) but personally I found being in a small boat 30 miles from land with 1cm of plywood separating me from depths of 1300 metres fulfilling. The experience of spending hour after hour in absolute solitude at the centre of a blue disc under a pure blue dome is one that I will cherish.

I have material to make a short film of the journey, which will hopefully be on youtube by the beginning of August. And next week I’ll post some photos here.

Onawind Blue makes open water passage

OB is in Ibiza having left Javea on the Spanish mainland at 1am Monday morning. With favourable southerly winds she covered 68 nautical miles, to Talamanca Bay on the east side of the island,  in 19 hours.

 At 5.30am on Monday ten miles from the Spanish shore OB had a rudder failure, the blade breaking just below the stock. However, Ben was able to make a jury rudder using an oar and so continue. While without steering OB had a close encounter with a fishing boat but a call on the VHF alerted the captain who rapidly changed course.

 Apart from those two incidents it was plain sailing.

That sinking feeling

One thing I thought might be useful to know was how much water my Light Trow could take on board. To that end I loaded the boat with gear, closed the lockers tight and sailed out to one of the large yellow buoys that separate the designated bathing and boating zones. The buoy was anchored in 3 or 4 metres. If I’d had any serious doubts about the boat’s buoyancy I wouldn’t have carried out the test in such deep water but just in case she sank I tied her to the buoy with a very short line. Then, with lively curiosity, I undid the drain plugs.


It’s difficult not to be alarmed at the sight of water gushing up from the bottom of the boat. The family had already deemed me bonkers and now they watched from the beach waiting for the big glug glug. I put on my life jacket and patiently waited as the water rose about my ankles.


It rose and rose. Then stopped just where I expected it to—at the height of the central thwart. I moved to the stern of the boat to check that water had stopped coming in through the aft drain plugs and noted that the boat seem considerably less stable than when empty. Unfortunately I hadn’t secured the masts in their steps so couldn’t risk testing the limits of stability for risk of capsize. (My main fear in the event of capsize is that the mast foot will come out of the step and that the mast will then lever the deck off. I have since made a foolproof system of securing the masts.)

Back on the forward thwart I decided that OB could still take more water. We’d had water up to the central thwart when a wave came aboard on our trip to France last year but there was still room for more. Quite a lot more it transpired, and I fairly tired myself out trying not to compromise stability while filling buckets over the side and tipping them into the boat.


A swimmer approached, he’d just swum 200 metres from the beach and I hoped he wasn’t going to tip us over by holding onto the gunwale for a rest. ‘Fishing are you?’ he asked, closing with OB. ‘No, just trying to sink my boat.’ I replied giving him the wild-eyed, suicidal look I reserve for these moments. ‘Oh, I’ll leave you to it then.’ He said moving away with a strong backstroke.

I reverse bailed until the water was up to the side decks amidships. As the boat tipped slightly with the waves it emptied itself of some water and refilled again with the next wave. I considered OB full and, seeing that she’d regained stability raised the centreboard. If I moved to the stern water drained out through the centreboard trunk and if I moved my weight from side to side water alternately sloshed aboard and then sloshed out again.

The boat was low in the water, awash amidships but with the bow and stern still proud. I sat on the foredeck and considered. I hadn’t expected her to be quite so sub-marine. There was built in buoyancy fore and aft, then the fenders under the forward thwart, but maybe I should have buoyancy bags under the aft and centre thwarts as well. The day was calm, there was no wind or waves to speak of and bailing was easy. But in more severe conditions with waves, would I be able to empty the boat? Maybe. With the boat riding to a sea anchor and me bailing from the stern to keep the bow high.

Having emptied the boat I opened the lockers and was disappointed to find that water had seeped in both front and back. I assumed that this was due to the hatch seals but there’s no sure way of knowing short of inserting a Lilliputian with a torch and camera in the locker and filling the boat with water again.

So, I’ll get some more buoyancy around the aft thwart and, bearing the rest in mind, will try not to sail in such a way as to provoke a serious swamping.