Bert ter Hart’s Solo Five-Capes Circumnavigation Using Only Celestial Navigation

When Bert ter Hart sailed into Rarotonga after four months alone at sea following his departure from the Falkland Islands, relief and elation washed over him. He had feared running out of food and had arranged for emergency provisions. He had survived the gales of the Roaring Forties and confirmed his navigation was accurate. But beyond the practical triumphs was a deeper purpose: the conviction that led the 61-year-old from Gabriola, British Columbia, to become the first documented North American to solo circumnavigate nonstop via the five great capes using only celestial navigation—one of only a handful to have done so.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the early explorers,” ter Hart says. “I wanted to experience what Bligh or others might have felt when they suddenly sighted land. You can’t replicate their gear, clothing or boats, but you can switch off the GPS and electronics, pick up a sextant, a set of tables and a watch, and get very close to how they would have wondered, ‘Where the hell am I?’ That intimacy is only possible with a sextant.”

Ter Hart departed Victoria, British Columbia, on October 26, 2019, aboard Seaburban, his 1987 OCY 45. After an unscheduled 24-hour stop in San Francisco to check what he feared was a ruptured fuel tank baffle (it wasn’t) and to replace a lost vane for his Monitor self-steering, he continued south toward Cape Horn. He weathered an especially violent storm by taking refuge in Port Stanley, Falkland Islands (staying aboard), then pushed east across the Southern Ocean to round Cape Agulhas (South Africa), Cape Leeuwin (Australia), South East Cape (Tasmania) and South Cape (New Zealand). He then worked north across the Pacific and returned to Gabriola Island on July 18, 2020, after 267 days alone at sea.

Ter Hart covered 28,860 miles. He endured long, frustrating calms that cost significant time, a broken halyard after passing New Zealand that limited sail options and likely delayed him by about two weeks, and a slow, physically demanding stretch through the Pacific—some 5,000 miles sailing at a 60-degree apparent wind—largely because a storm off New Zealand pushed him off course. Midway through his voyage the global coronavirus pandemic unfolded, complicating resupply plans.

Ter Hart’s motivation wasn’t simply to fulfill a lifelong dream. His father’s career in the Dutch merchant marine and later work as a surveyor ignited ter Hart’s interest in charts and celestial navigation. He aimed to trace the routes of early explorers, engage students in oceanography and atmospheric science—about 2,500 students worldwide followed his trip and sent questions—and demonstrate that many obstacles are excuses rather than real barriers to achievement.

“I wanted to motivate people of any age to step out and seek adventure,” he explains. “I chose something incredibly hard. Not only did I go solo, I navigated by sextant. That’s what made it worth doing.”

With prior service in the Canadian Special Service Forces and years sailing in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, ter Hart combined discipline, resilience and curiosity. Those traits proved essential. He says the worst days were not the storms but the calms—about 50 days when the boat barely moved, resources dwindled and the incessant swell battered the hull. “When you’re becalmed, you’re not going anywhere, you’re still consuming food and water and the boat’s taking a beating. Mentally, those were the toughest days,” he notes.

He also faced violent conditions. Near New Zealand, his Monitor self-steering could not hold course in rising gale-force seas. He hove to and set an alarm to rest, only to be awakened by a breaking wave that smashed the starboard side and filled the cockpit. He steered manually, standing in waist-deep water in the cockpit until the wind shifted, then reset the Monitor and resumed his course. “It’s OK to be scared shitless,” he wrote afterward. “You just can’t be scared witless.”

Ironically, the most precarious moment came after rounding Cape Horn, when ter Hart took shelter in Port Stanley facing an approaching Southern Ocean hurricane. To save weight he had left heavy ground tackle ashore, and in the harbor he had only limited anchor gear. The boat began to drag toward a local graveyard. After calling harbor control he deployed an emergency 50-foot line and spent hours taking bearings off streetlights until he stopped dragging.

Despite the hardships, ter Hart often found profound peace and connection to the natural world. He compared those moments to the experience of mystic-poet solo circumnavigator Bernard Moitessier, describing the ocean as a “very thin place” where the distance between you and vast natural forces feels small and intimate. “Mother Nature is putting on a show for you, and you’re the only human there to witness it,” he said.

Being alone for nine months didn’t trouble him. “There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. I was alone but never lonely.” Early in the voyage his SSB radio failed, leaving him with an Iridium Go for limited communications and weather files. He relied on PredictWind GRIBs and assistance from John Bullas, a neighbor and former meteorologist who helped interpret weather patterns and warned of threats ter Hart couldn’t see from the boat.

Every day was carefully structured: navigation (two to three hours minimum), constant maintenance and fragmented sleep—rarely more than two hours at a time and seldom over four hours in 24. The workload was relentless and left little margin for error.

Provisioning proved another challenge. Though he had sailed Seaburban over 18,000 miles previously and planned rations based on those trips and other circumnavigators’ reports, his appetite on this voyage proved greater than expected. He limited himself to strict rations at times, measuring every calorie and even counting his mini chocolate bars—240 aboard—so he could maintain food until resupply.

When he was forced north earlier than planned after the storm off New Zealand, his sister Leah arranged a discreet resupply in Rarotonga despite the island’s closed borders due to the pandemic. Local authorities delivered supplies offshore in a small boat with a health minister aboard to oversee the exchange. Ter Hart later wrote a public note of gratitude for their professionalism and humanity.

The voyage nearly never began. Weeks before departure, ter Hart fell from Seaburban’s mast while installing a roller-furler fitting. The fall caused four fractured ribs and a collapsed lung; miraculously his internal organs were intact and he left the hospital the same day. About five weeks later, still limited by his injuries, he set sail three weeks behind schedule. Rounding Cape Horn two months later, he reflected on those who would follow and the transformative power of the ocean: “Hurry. Make haste, not because this place will change, but you surely will.”

This article was originally published in the December 2020 issue.