We want to get from Lyttelton to the Marlborough Sounds. It feels like exam preparation doing the passage planning.

We plan to go up on the back of a southerly front which has brought big winds and rain. We’ll need to leave at night, likely with the front still being active. We need to average at least 6.5 knots over the length of the 165-mile sail. Or the tidal gate into the Tory Channel will be closed with a massive 6.5 knot current against us as it’s spring tides. And the winds are due to go north and being in a wind against tide in the Cook Strait will be unpleasant / grim / scary / impossible.

Dave mostly, and me a little, spent the day before studying different weather models and tidal flow diagrams and talking to a local about how the computer generated wind models say one thing but in reality this often means you get this instead.

So it was with some trepidation we left the dock at 8pm at night heading out with about 30 minutes of daylight left.

We motored out towards the head of the bay with darkness falling, at the same time as a bloody cruise ship was leaving. We didn’t want to play tag so dawdled letting it go past before we could duck behind it to start our journey north.

The wind filled in beautifully and with two reefs in the main and full yankee, we cracked along gobbling up the miles.

The full moon was just masssive (yes it deserves an extra s) and it actually didn’t feel like night. Having some light at night makes a such a difference to being on night watch. It proved to be an incredibly positive and enjoyable sail, especially after all the angst we endured planning the trip.

But some good stories occasionally have a ‘dun dun dun” moment, providing jeopardy for the reader. And ours arrived as we entered the bottom of the Cook Strait.

We were both on deck when Dave heard the automatic bilge pump going off. This is a pump which sits at the lowest part of the bilge under the floor boards where any water will collect. A sensor triggers its operation should any water cover its body.

Dave went down the companionway steps and all I heard was “sh*t”. I followed quickly behind him and was greeted with water sloshing on the floor boards. This is not good. Water on the outside of a sail boat works well. The inside is not advisable.

There’s not a heap of time for problem solving when a situation like this confronts you. It’s not a put the kettle on, find a pad to make some notes, mull over the options kind of moment.

Dave quickly determined the water was fresh water, not sea water. This is very good news. The water has emanated from inside the boat, not outside. No holes. And a quick look at where it seems to be coming from suggested the cupboard under the sink.

The story ends with us working out a piece of pipe connecting the water tank to the tap has split. Because the pressurised water system was on at the switch panel, water was being constantly pumped from the tank and deluging itself through the split onto the floor. And into the bilge. Turning the pressurised system off, a bucket, a sponge and an operational bilge pump sorted the immediate problem in 20 minutes.

Today Dave did a temporary fix, chopping and shortening the pipe, before reconnecting it. We now have pressurised water again, that comes out of the taps, rather than flowing unnecessarily onto the floor.

The weather was better than we expected. We didn’t pull into the Tory Channel but continued to the top of the Cook Strait. At 4.30am, over 32 hours after setting off, we picked up a mooring ball in the Marlborough Sounds in bright moonlight, in windless conditions. A passage we’ll remember for a while.