While sailing across the Pacific Ocean, Verena and her husband Tim experienced an issue they never saw coming, which has proven difficult to solve.

As a live-aboard sailboat, we use different methods to meet the ever-increasing demand for electricity aboard, needed to power our navigation and satellite communication systems, lights, kitchen appliances, and entertainment and work devices. Before setting off on our blue water journey, we chose to install solar panels and a wind generator.

The wind generator works day and night, slowly and steadily providing us with clean energy independent from the sun. It was the perfect solution for the overcast ‘squash zone’ weather we experienced in the Tuamotus.

But, by the end of our journey through the Pacific, our wind generator turned into something else – a place of pain and death.

Nightwatches turned to nightmares

In early July, we left Port Vila in Vanuatu to sail our last leg in the Pacific. Our destination; Thursday Island in Australia.

We headed off with a light-wind weather window, and enjoyed the best trade-wind sailing conditions of our entire journey! The ocean swell was clean and low, and winds ranged perfectly from 13 to 18 knots. It was splendid.

Every evening we had visitors gliding in, riding the South Pacific trade-winds. Curiously, they checked out our boat and sometimes attempted to land, choosing the most ridiculous spots!

   A swaying mast top. 

   A spreader hidden in different lines. 

   The main sail. 

   The boom. 

You’ve probably experienced those joyful moments, as the birds soar above then sit and sway on something, resting and balancing every movement of the boat.

I love to see the gannets (or boobies) and their close approaches. They are beautiful, skilled sea birds. But something was very different this time. These birds showed a keen interest in our wind generator.

Bird strikes

It usually happened in the darkness of my night watch, 8pm to 2am, starting three nights into our passage. I heard a new sound. A bit hollow. Something had hit one of the blades of the wind generator.

It was a bird.

I thought it was strange as it had never happened before. Was this a one time experience?

Sadly, no. During this watch another two birds flew into the rotating blades, which in the darkness even I struggled to see. I sensed this really might be a problem.

Another night, more strikes

The next day my husband smiled at me a bit unbelievingly when I told him about last night’s experiences. Daylight faded, and just when he wanted to leave the cockpit;

Klong, klong, pitschsch.

Same sound, but this time the bird fell into the water.

With our spotlight we searched the surface of the ocean, but there was nothing to be seen since we were sailing quickly. The rest of my night watch I stood in the cockpit looking for sea birds, flashing our wind generator with a light whenever they came close.

Most of the time I was on time, but as soon as I stopped to take a note for the logbook, I heard the collision sound. By the end of my watch, I’d counted four birds being hit.

For me, as a human and a marine ecologist, it was heartbreaking. Some I saw floating, white belly up in the sea, motionless or twitching. Others were swimming and crying, wailing in pain. Some were still flying after they got hit. I know that down the ocean road, their chances of survival are diminished. A hurt bird is more vulnerable to its predators, or is simply unable to hunt for some time, weakening them.

Could light help?

I wanted to solve the problem. Given that light seemed to help, the next idea was to provide a constant stream of light towards our wind generator from one of our solar-powered outdoor camping lamps.

It wasn’t easy for me to wait and watch as the first two birds approached. But thankfully, nothing happened that night. No collisions!

The next night I started to relax. The wind generator was lit constantly, and last night no birds were hit. All will be fine.

CRASH, BOOM, BANG! 

The horrifying sound of pain reached my ears, and I saw the crying gannet in our moonlit wake. It was so loud, my husband told me the next morning that he’d heard the poor bird from down below as he was falling asleep.

I was shocked. Sitting in the cockpit I cried silently. Devastated. Hopeless and not knowing what else to do. The rest of the watch I stood guard again with a lamp in my hand to warn the birds. But as soon as I stopped – Crash, boom, bang! Again.

Light is not the solution.

By now we were on the verge of changing weather, which was not to our favor. We changed course, continuing to head west toward the Great Barrier Reef, but further south than planned, seeking protection from the mounting ocean swell.

I headed into the night with fully reefed sails. The wind was above 20 knots, forecast to increase during the night. The comfortable downwind sailing was finished, and we were prepared for the last “uncomfortable” 200 NM.

That night watch started with another dead bird on deck. One of the beautiful black terns with the white hood, black noddy (Anous minutus) hit the wind generator, flapped mid-air into the main sail and dropped like a stone on our deck. I was emotionally worn out, and while I desperately wanted to find a solution, I needed to save my energy and focus for the near gale conditions we were in.

Is it the solar panel?

When we arrived at Thursday Island a couple of days later, I had a new idea. Below our wind generator is one of the solar panels; were the birds trying to land on that?

Another 2000 NM and some weeks later down the ocean road, we approached Christmas Island. Daylight faded. Another 60 miles to go. All sails were reefed since we had to slow down to approach the mooring field in daylight; a feat that was quite difficult with 1-2 knots of current pushing us towards our destination. We had visitors again. Two gannets, one still with its juvenile plumage.

I had a bad feeling.

This time I stood on our rocking cockpit benches to light the wind generator. The youngster approached and flew by, getting closer and closer each time. I was just about to ask my husband to come with the camera, but it was too late – the youngster did its final approach, feet forward, touching down, on the white, slippery body of the wind generator!

I couldn’t believe what happened in front of my eyes just a meter or two away!

The light didn’t help.

The solar panel was not the problem.

They are really trying to land on the moving, swaying, slippery wind generator.

The feet touched the wind generator, slipped once, twice. The bird tried to balance itself. It got hit twice, then it fell into the water. Wings spread. The left one at an awkward angle. Head under water.

What do we do?

As a live-aboard cruiser, marine ecologist and simply a human being, I don’t want to see animals needlessly suffer because of the way I live. A wind generator is a smart, sensible and eco-friendly way to make power out on the water, and it is an integral part of our blue-water cruising power system, but we need to find a solution for the birds too.

Now we have made our way to the Indian Ocean, where once again the gannets have come visiting. For now, we turn the wind generator off at dusk. It saves the birds, but we lose 6-8 hours of power generation, which is not ideal.

Have you experienced or heard about something like this? 

I am curious to hear your story and find a permanent solution to our wind generator problem, saving the lives of these beautiful, winged creatures while allowing us to continue generating the essential power we need as we circumnavigate the globe.