Saga Ruby Captain's blog

The port of Callao is, almost certainly, not the best advert for nearby Lima, Peru’s capital. It is, in no uncertain manner, a very busy working port and other arriving vessels ahead initially delayed our berthing. For some of our guests their voyage with us was completed, while others were joining, having flown out from the UK.

Along with all the scheduled tours, the return of an overland excursion, storing and fuel bunkering, and even a diver doing some routine inspections, it was indeed a very active day. In addition we were to host over thirty young children from the Flor de la Paz orphanage nursery, a charity that Saga supports.

Even so, around midday, my wife and I took the shuttle bus over to the Miraflores area of the city, a journey of around 45 minutes through a hot, dusty and heaving conurbation of non-uniform, Lego-like buildings. From first impressions one might rapidly conclude that there is no planning or building controls in existence, nor is the use of an architect compulsory or even considered. Shabby brick and concrete constructions, all different sizes, go on as far as the eye can see. Only the face of buildings seem to be rendered, so the sides are often left with no attempt made to tidy up their appearance.

Steel reinforcing bars protrude, perhaps with the expectation that sometime in the future money may become available for another story to be added. The facades, however, are a different matter and have usually been made to look attractive, but all totally different from each other - there is no uniformity. On the main roads, as one might expect, the properties are all commercial, built in the same way, but with outrageously glitzy ‘in your face’ decoration. Bright plastic brass and chrome, bold primary colours and ‘exotic’ designs are all there to entice the potential customer. The casinos and other entertainment venues are, without doubt, the worst examples of this kind of ‘kitsch’ design.

In the day it looks, in my opinion, awful, but at night with all the bright lights, often flashing garishly, it somehow works. Miraflores, however, is the oasis, and where the tourists are inevitably taken. Modern high-rise hotels and apartment blocks abound, and an impressive shopping and leisure centre has been built into the escarpment overlooking the ocean.

Above, racing around on the ridge wind, para-sailors displayed their skills. Amongst them, I found out later, was at least one of our young-at-heart saganauts, trying out the latest of ‘not to late to try’ activities - tandem para-sailing. Apparently, perhaps because of the language difficulty, conversation was limited to the most basic of safety training, "Cross your hands over your chest, when I run, you run". I would have found that slightly disturbing I think, but who am I to know? 

What I did know was that dinner for my wife and I at ‘La Rosa Nautica’, perhaps one of the most romantic restaurants in the world and situated on a pier reaching out into the Pacific, would be as delightful a surprise as when I took her there for the first time 26 years ago.   

And so it was, we left Peru and the coast of South America, with a smile on our faces, having rushed back in time for sailing. New Zealand is over three weeks away, but all things being equal we shall call at seven islands on route. Our expectant passengers, and my wife, eagerly await them.

I had my suspicions when the pilot arrived in an immaculate homemade uniform/boiler suit, with all the badges and braid, then proceeded to let me know he was an ex-submarine captain. One might, therefore, have believed he would be absolutely certain of the water depth, but regrettably he was just a tad out. Sufficiently so that we had to dredge a channel to our berth and even then couldn’t get alongside until we had backed out a little and used the horse power of the entire local tug squadron to push us uphill, sideways. The gangway was eventually close enough to reach the quay.

The passengers were, of course, not aware of all this drama, that is until they realised that the brown water in their toilets was fresh from the bottom of the harbour, sucked up through our nearly choked sea water inlet chests. A certain degree of nautical decorum was achieved as the tide slowly rose. The pilot advised that a number of Peruvian warships would be entering the port followed by a submarine that would stay just behind us. "But donta worry Captain, it weel not be a problem for whena we leave". "I know", I said (I don’t think he caught the inference).

With just a half-day call, the passengers were pretty eager to escape, so the tours were soon away, followed by a somewhat unseemly rush for what was meant to be pre-booked shuttle bus seats. From the ship the view of the surrounding scenery was, in it’s own way, quite spectacular. Considering it hadn’t rained for eight years it was not surprising there was a certain dry ruggedness to the nearby mountains.

Looking further to the south the brown flat beach not only stretched way into the distance, but also must have been several miles wide. So wide in fact, that I could just see a couple of tents near the waterline, presumably there so that the fishermen nearby didn’t have to trek back home at night time. Thousands of pelicans stood flock like in various places, suddenly, for no apparent reason, they would all take off in unison, and then landing in another place a minute or so later.

The tours to the world’s largest mud brick citadel, a UNESCO World Heritage Site at Chan Chan, and the 1,500 year old Sun and Moon temples were not only a revelation but also a great success. The nearby city of Trujillo was another tour and was also where the shuttle bus took those who chose to do their own thing. We who waited patiently behind had the pleasure of watching rifle drill being conducted next to one of the now adjacent warships, all in time with an almost in time brass band.

Eventually, with all passengers back on board we were ready to sail. Unfortunately the submarine was not. Have you ever seen an excited Peruvian pilot gesticulating while speaking rather loudly on his VHF radio? I have. The wayward sub eventually did the naval version of a three point turn and slowly left the harbour.

We followed, headed south and for several hours were blessed to see numerous schools of dolphin. I cannot remember the last time I saw so many for such a long time. 

Manta is probably considered as being the Tuna fishing capital of the world, and there were dozens of the large tuna boats at anchor or alongside as we entered the port.  On the other side of our berth a Chinese ‘mother’ ship started to unload great slings of the frozen fish into open containers as passengers disembarked for their tours. Apparently there are few cruise ships that call in this port so we were as much a spectacle to the local labourers as they were to us.

Taking the tour to Hacienda San Antonio, we were first driven through Manta and then gradually climbed from the rather desolate and dry scenery of the lowlands to an area of microclimate where tall bamboo like trees dominated the roadside. The chance sighting of a foraging monkey resulted in a modicum of excitement, but the main enthusiasm was to come at the hacienda where other indigenous species had been ‘rescued’ and were on display nearby.

The welcome was enthusiastic, with colourful local dancers and a not so quiet local band. I happened to notice that the odd one or two hearing-aid volume controls were quickly adjusted to ensure total deafness was not achieved before our return. A little lady who must have been making them for years demonstrated the manufacture of Panama hats and, as might be expected, they were plenty to buy. I resisted the temptation, but bought a charming shawl for my wife, for the princely sum of five dollars.

Returning to the ship, with my hearing intact, I found that the low Pacific swell had been causing the ship to surge alongside the berth all morning, and the deck crew to be on constant standby to attend the ship’s lines. The Chinese ship next door did not have an unbroken line left, every single one of their ropes had at least one makeshift but massive knot.

As we pulled away from the pier, the tuna were still coming out of her cargo holds.

It was still twilight as we passed between the breakwaters of Cristobal Harbour, the gateway to the Panama Canal from the Caribbean Sea. There was a flurry of launch traffic bringing first the pilot, then the local agent and local officials aboard and, as we drew closer to the first great locks at Gatun, the line handlers. They were employed to handle the strong wires that would connect us to the electric locomotives that in turn were to guide us up through the first three levels to Gatun Lake, some 95 feet above sea level.

The pilot, Aldo, was a charming Panamanian with great experience of the Canal. I asked him if he had heard of Winston Churchill. "Of course", he replied, so when I let him know that one of Winston’s granddaughters would be coming up to the bridge for a short while, he was most impressed.

Emma Soames did visit, with Joan Bakewell who is also travelling, and I made the introductions. Aldo’s smile was a joy to see, and as we both stood on the bridge wing a few minutes later, with the ship approaching the first of the great concrete bastions that separate the Atlantic from the Pacific, he quietly asked how he should address her. "Is it Lady something?" "No" I said, "Emma will be just fine"... funny world.

We followed, in our allotted position, behind two large container vessels, far bigger than us, and the largest of vessels that can go through the size limiting locks. As we passed through the canal there was plenty of evidence to indicate what massive works are taking place in order to build new locks so that even the biggest ships can travel across the isthmus. Islands in the lake are being removed, explosives laid to break up the rock bed and whole faces in the Calibra Cut are being terraced back like some great Mayan temple to prevent future rockslides.

Despite the steamy 93 degree heat and the baking sun, the passengers seemed to enjoy the spectacle passing before their eyes. By two in the afternoon we were entering the lock of Pedro Miguel, the first in a series of two which took us down to the level of the Pacific Ocean. At the Miraflores locks there is a large visitors centre and we were cheered on our way by an enthusiastic crowd. The Bridge of the Americas, joining North and South America, passed over our heads and by sunset we were well on our way to the south. 

Daybreak came with a low long swell, but no wind. The berthing pilot seemed pretty laid back and in fact wanted to know whether I wanted him to come back for our departure. "Not necessary", I replied, even though I knew we would still have to pay for his services. The heat came with the sun, and it was humid, very humid, and by lunchtime the temperature in the shade was over 90 degrees.

Costa Rica is a great country, and many of our ‘Saganauts’ went off on tour. There was plenty to chose from, including an all-day ‘experience’ at a hacienda, spot the sloth, travel on a restored plantation-era train, Tortuguero Canal cruising (more water?) or an aerial tram ride through the rainforest.

A group of crew led by the Staff Captain were a little more adventurous by participating in the somewhat precarious activity of zip wiring - through the forest. I can only assume they kept their mouths closed or were just lucky enough not to catch some grotesque tropical flying insect as they plummeted towards a lower altitude.

Later in the day I heard an interesting piece of ‘galley radio’, reports of numerous passengers having a pedicure just inside the little gift market in front of the ship. I strolled across and there they were, at least thirty of them with feet soaking in bowls of water and fingers extended, while smiling local ladies were busy washing, creaming, polishing and varnishing various bits of ankle, foot, finger and nail. I did balk slightly when I saw one of our gentlemen there, but he seemed quite content having a foot massage. "Come and join in", they suggested. "Not on your life" said I, not in this age of instant digital picture communication.

There was a relatively short delay to our departure while we waited for some new temporary members of the ‘Clowns and smiles’ department, their plane having been delayed. But we sailed just around sunset, the temperature cooling as the sky darkened. Over the tree-lined horizon low layers of blue-grey smoke from evening wood fires slowly drifted upwards, indicating day-to-day local life coming to a close.

In fact, San Andres is nowhere near Colombia - it is a very small, but delightfully tropical island, further north and closer to Nicaragua. We anchored in the late morning off a small bay appropriately named ‘Cove’. The view was of coconut palms and other tropical trees rising to no more than 100 metres, and a deep blue sea gently washing up against a relatively low and grey volcanic foreshore. We were only just able to anchor safely, in an area where the depth of water shallowed so that for no more than 200 metres or so offshore, the water was an inviting aquamarine.

While many of our passengers took local taxis into the small town, a few of the more active souls took a short walk to where locals were snorkelling from an improvised arrangement of aged concrete and steel. Other young folk were jumping the five or six metres from the near vertical rocks into the deeper waters nearby. The best beaches were apparently near the town on the north-east coast, an area of lagoon that protected the coastline, but which was too shallow to allow us to enter.

Those that took the not so cheap ride to the beaches came back with glowing reports, interesting comments about the friendliness of the taxi drivers, their somewhat relaxed style and the obvious lack of the regulatory system of vehicle maintenance. My wife and I took a short walk from the jetty later in the day, only to be greeted by a casually-dressed gentleman on a motorbike and his bikini-clad girlfriend (no crash helmets here). They turned out to be French Canadian and were on vacation. When I said "Hi", I realised they probably were, but we had a short conversation that mainly consisted of trying to convince them that we were actually going around the world and it would take over three months. "Free munths, free munths…" he kept saying, somewhat incredulously, "It ez amazing!" Well, I guess it is really.

We slid away from the anchorage as the sun was preparing its descent to the sea, leaving behind a lovely island that seemed perhaps a rather convenient stepping stone for those substances that find their way from the mother country to others in cooler climes further to the north. But of course, I was probably wrong, as the French Canadian did say that he’d been going to San Andres for ten years and there was "no crime on the island what so everrr - where cud they go if there was?" Quite. 

The port for Curacao is Willemstad, and to approach the channel where the berth lies, the Master has to point his ship at the only hotel in the world that is reputed to be insured against a maritime incident. Needless to say many of our well informed guests were up and about at sunrise to see this spectacle of amazing navigational prowess. The hotel, in fact, happens to be close to the shore on the right as you enter, and as the approach is perpendicular to the west going north equatorial current, it has very much the same effect as a cross wind at an airfield. The skill is knowing when to ‘straighten up’, and it probably appeared to our observant passengers, at the very last minute.

One moment our nautical stallion was in her element in the deep blue sea, the next, she was racing past the shops of a fairly large Caribbean city at almost touching distance. I, meanwhile, was rapidly reducing the speed before the next bridge and the turning basin just a few hundred yards ahead. Great fun.

Willemstad is one of the more spectacular ports for the visiting cruiser and has several unexpected and perhaps unusual sites that include not least the many buildings constructed in the Dutch style and the famous floating bridge. The bridge is on a series of floats and can be ‘driven’ out of the way when sea going vessels need to leave or enter the port. With a certain amount of ‘Masterial’ ingenuity I found that we could leave a few hours later than scheduled, giving the morning tour passengers an opportunity to later walk into town and browse the seemingly numerous shops (of which there were a surfeit of the ‘fashion’ variety). I don’t think some of the men were over impressed, but I received a number of almost conspiratal winks from the ladies.

We left at teatime, emptying the Grand Lounge, as passengers deserted the scones and cream cakes to come on deck and wave enthusiastically at one of our competition moored just ahead. Three long blasts of the ship’s whistle made sure they were probably spilling their tea as well. We shot out of the channel, locals and tourists waving back from the nearby shore, and Ruby’s stern became ever smaller as we swung to starboard and headed back into the west bound current.

It was not the ‘golden sun rising from a tropical eastern horizon’ that greeted me when I returned to the bridge prior to our first landfall for quite a number of days. In fact it was tipping down. The pilot tried to instil me with confidence by suggesting that it was the Lord's way of making the sun sparkle at the birth of a new day. (A Caribbean wives tale I asked myself?)

With the docking safely completed and my now waterlogged uniform replaced with dry, there was a need to ensure the passengers that this overcast damp scene was quite expected and would pass, eventually… and it was warm rain. The shore excursion department, all two of them, stood solidly on the quayside with fixed smiles (or was it grimaces - I couldn’t quite see from my dry vantage point inside the ship side shell door). So the tours went off to view the golden beaches from various vantage points, some of which had dark clouds scudding past just a few hundred feet above.

In fact by the time the tours returned the weather was on the change, and passengers I spoke with told me it had only rained when they were in the buses - how convenient for Saga to organise that. Being a Sunday, just about all of the shops in St. John were closed as the Caribbean still has that wonderful old British tradition that seems to have been forgotten at home, Sunday being a day of rest for the majority of workers.

The evening, however, turned out to be a delight as a deck barbecue was scheduled, with music from our own bands and a guest calypso band. Perhaps it was because of the odd rum punch, or the rendition of ‘Yellow Bird’, but I saw a few folks up dancing that I would have least expected, and during my walk around this morning still-energetic smiles answered my ‘How was last night?’

We sailed at eleven, slowly turning away from the few lights of a quiet town into a dark night, with only the trade wind to accompany us towards the south west. I was reminded of my first ever call in Antigua back in 1972, a dark night, the cool humid following wind, and a burial at sea. The sea, even in my time, has plenty of stories to tell.     

The comfortable cruising in early January was not destined to last for too long. Our route towards Ponta Delgada in the Azores was to take us through low pressure systems queuing up to batter Europe, so for two days life was just a little more ‘turbulent’. Regrettably the second day was when we should have been in port, but it was not to be. Grey skies, rain and wind were present with the dawn, and the city of Ponta Delgada could hardly be seen through the murk just a mile away as the ship was slowed for a closer inspection of local conditions. Seas breaking over the breakwater and the local pilot’s gloomy tone were enough to confirm my own thoughts, and when I announced our call would be cancelled, he sounded rather relieved.

So we headed in a more southerly direction, my intention to reach calmer, warmer climes as soon as possible. By the following morning it was as though we had left the winter behind us, the sea temperature was up to 22 degrees and the air temperature quickly followed as we closed the boundary of the equatorial high. Faces I hadn’t seen for days came out to take the air and, despite the persistent irregular movement coming from the long north westerly swell, there were far more smiles to be seen than of late.

Now we are in that delightful period of a long sea voyage where the folks have settled down to enjoy the pleasures of the ship, the warmth of the day and the blue skies reaching down to an empty horizon.  

I’m still not quite sure how all our passengers actually managed to arrive in Southampton, considering how the country seemed to be held in the Arctic, vice-like grip from north to south. Even in the sub tropical south-west we had our problems that day. My own journey had been, to say the least, eventful. I had to make a second attempt at getting out of a snowy grid locked town, the first being aborted after less than a mile. The second, after abandoning the hire car, was in our own four-wheel drive and along the country lanes that were still navigable. Even so, it was fortunate I’d packed the shovel.

Once all were on board, Saga Ruby left the berth on schedule and, as usual for a world cruise departure, there was a superb fireworks display for all to enjoy as we proceeded into Southampton Water. The easterly wind, although chill, was in our favour following us down the channel. There was very little sea or swell and it was one of the most comfortable January departures I have experienced.

On board over 300 of our passengers are familiar faces, most of whom are with us for the 103 nights. The westbound voyage will take us to the Caribbean, the Panama Canal, west coast of South America, across the pacific to New Zealand and Australia before returning via Indonesia, India and the Suez. Forty-three ports and over 30,000 miles beckon, no doubt there will be great tales to be told by the time the voyage concludes towards the end of April.

Saga Ruby docked at 0700 as the sun was thinking about rising. The cool night air required me to search for a jacket, thankfully the forecast was for a warm day however.

Casablanca is Morocco’s largest city and most significant port. It has a vibrant fusion of European, African and Arabian influences. Its French colonial architecture and art deco buildings seamlessly blend in with the colourful souks. Many of my passengers would enjoy visiting these bazaars after a short ride on the complimentary shuttle bus.

Those on tour sampled many city highlights including the law courts, Royal Palace, culture centre, attractive gardens, Chellah monument, Hassan Tower, the new medina, French Cathedral of Notre Dame and possibly Bogart’s favourite gin joint, Rick’s Bar.

Some passengers chose to remain aboard and enjoy the services of their yacht with few to share them with. The weather was eventually fine and warm and for those it was a chance to take a rest from touring and get a tan before heading north.

Tours departed in the evening too, with many of my passengers ashore for a traditional Moroccan evening of food and dance.

At 10pm our show was an opportunity for the officers and staff to perform this year’s Pantomime. A great time was had by all with song, dance, and good old fashioned humour. Notable performers were Cruise Director Jo Boase as the compere, Caitlin Acconcia as Cinders, Trevor Whittaker and Mike Hale as the ugly sisters, Sharon Smith as Prince Charming, and Hotel Director Dawn Cartwright as the step-mother. Two of my children also had parts, Mia was the learner fairy, and Harry the Prince’s herald.

Departing at 2300 we headed north, 1200 miles back to Southampton, and at least 25 degrees C colder. ETA Thursday morning 0600 alongside, with the snow forecast it should be interesting!

I’ll be heading home from Southampton, Captain Philip Rentell will be taking over at the start of the world cruise. I’ll be back in Sydney early March for more blogging.

The heavy swells of the North Atlantic continued relentlessly. Saga Ruby had an uncomfortable transit from the Canary Islands to Madeira but nevertheless I increased speed in order to arrive at the shelter of Funchal Bay before our New Year’s Eve celebrations began. Anchoring around 4pm many of my passengers were relieved to back in calm waters.

Our evening began with cocktails in the Ballroom. We were joined by piper Willie Cochran who piped in an unsuspecting haggis before quoting Robbie Burns and stabbing the poor thing! After toasts to the Haggis and to the New Year we headed for dinner.

The evening’s entertainment was a variety show, top of the bill being comedian ‘And there’s more’ Jimmy Cricket. In good spirits my passengers then proceeded to the open decks to enjoy Funchal’s famous firework spectacular. As I rang in the New Year on the ship’s bell the first of 70,000 firework rockets were launched. Madeira claims to have the world’s best firework display and I’m not surprised as it was the best that I have ever seen.

Saga Ruby docked at 0800 on New Year’s Day in calm seas and beneath clear skies. As she came alongside, the golden sun rose and began giving warmth to the day which would be hot and sunny throughout.

Madeira is known as the ‘Pearl of the Ocean’ as it rises out of the Gulf Stream warmed North Atlantic. Madeira means wood in Portuguese, so named because of the dense forests that covered the island when first discovered in 1419. Today the island is known for its varied and luxuriant scenery, from mountain slopes covered in vines to picturesque villages and a profusion of wild flowers. This has given rise to other pseudonyms too, such as ‘the Floating Garden of the Atlantic’ and ‘God’s Botanical Garden’.