What Dreams Are Made Of

This is a brief post to share a photo or two with you and let you know all's well, we're still catching up on sleep, and still trying to figure out how to walk on land without falling down.  The photos above and below are of the Bay of Virgins on Fatu Hiva, southernmost of the Marquesas.  It is a place whose rocks whisper of ancient secrets and whose soaring green mansions leave you speechless.

Last night we sailed to Hiva Oa (45 miles to the north), and anchored near the town of Atuona, where we got an internet connection right in the harbor.  There are more stories coming, and we'll be posting lots of photos here shortly.

Meanwhile, THANK YOU for all the comments and emails!  Wowzer!  Backatcha soon.

Landfall--The Marquesas

Pacific Crossing, Day 38: We made it. Arrived early this afternoon, safe and sound riding the crest of a 45-knot squall and actually lovin' it. 2867 miles, 37 days 3 hours and whatever minutes. More later, after we get some sleep.

Sail Ho!

Pacific Crossing, Day 37: Yesterday late morning as the wind died yet again, we resigned ourselves to bobbing around and waiting for it to reappear. For twelve hours the wind played games, going from NE to SE half an hour later, then to N, then NE, W, and around and around. It was never more than 2 knots, unsail-able in the big swell that knocks the boat around so that the sails can't stay full. Plus it rained periodically. We gave up and hove-to. It was a real low point to be becalmed again, so close to our destination.

Scanning the horizon for clouds that might have wind under them, I could hardly believe my eyes when a white sail appeared! "HEY, sail ho!" They were moving fast, so they must be motorsailing. We called them immediately on the VHF radio, and they answered, dropped their genoa and motored toward us. We didn't get their names yet because they're Japanese and have limited English, but the boat was a Contest 38 named Gaku. Turns out they actually know our other Japanese friends! They met Dai on Summersalt and know Yoshi and Fumi on Foxglove, and have heard of Yasuo and Michiko, our two former Dana-owner friends. "You have a lot of friends in Japan!" they exclaimed. Wow, even in mid-ocean it's still a village!

They asked, "Do you have enough beer and food?" which made me wonder if they already knew Jim and were hiding the fact. We laughed and said yes, and then we wanted to cry as we watched them motor off at five or six knots. What a treat to see another boat, our first since day 7 when we chatted with the Russian freighter in the Panama Canal-to-Yokohama shipping lane. We haven't seen a plane, or even jet contrails since then.

So, resigned to waiting for wind, we hove-to, sort of, in a 4-6 foot swell, with reefed main and staysail. It's not really heaving-to in the technical sense, but it is a form of parking the boat in a certain position. Reefing the main sounds counterintuitive, but it reduces the level of maddening (and chafe-inducing) slatting we'd otherwise endure with full sails while trying to keep the boat generally oriented in the direction we want to go. One experiment with sails and helm positioning resulted in perfect alignment in the desired direction, going 1 knot... perfectly backwards. Nope, the bow is the pointy end, not the stern. Try again!

It's odd to realize that sometimes in light winds you have to reef the main to balance the boat enough for the self-steering vane to work, because big seas continually push the boat off course, adding to the directional confusion. As a result, there are 2 choices: maximize speed with full sails and steer by hand, or balance the sails, go a little slower and let the vane steer. That's a no-brainer on a long voyage. We've been becalmed in wind that on a flat sea would let you ghost along, but that's impossible with these swells of 1 to 2 meters.

Jim figured out a good strategy for when the vane won't steer because the too-light winds have made the helm feel mushy. Induce lee helm (or weather helm if you prefer) to deliberately unbalance the boat in a known direction, and then correct the imbalance with the vane, using one rather than both lines leading to the tiller. That way there's lots of room for the tiller to swing, yet a firm corrective force opposite the induced veering off. It worked pretty well, when nothing else would. I asked him, "How'd you come up with that?"

"You just have to think outside the boat," he said.

Eventually we settled on a double reefed main let out 45 degrees to starboard, a tightly sheeted staysail, and the helm amidships, held in place with a bungee cord. This kept us pointed in roughly the right direction in the calm, ready to unreef the main and unfurl the genoa when the wind returned. We stayed there into the evening, and the most spectacular sunset of the voyage was our reward. There was even a good-sized green flash. This proves the adage, "Red sky at night, sailor's delight."

Finally a wind sprang up around 9:30 pm, and we've been moving well since, in a fairly steady 8-10 knot SE breeze. With less than 100 miles to go, we hope to make landfall the day after tomorrow. But as you know by now, there are no guarantees. However, hope springs eternal.

Sent via Ham radio

Are We There Yet? Almost.

Pacific Crossing, Day 36: Wow, 36 days at sea. We wouldn't have predicted it. As of midday we are 145 miles out from the Marquesas, and sailing again. The torrential rains stopped around noon, and after motoring for 25 hours with the tillerpilot steering, we were pleased to see we'd made 117 miles! The cabin was a cozy haven from the rain all night and cementaceous dark skies this morning. In fact, except for lacking a newspaper it had that Sunday morning feeling, reminding us of Northwest skies in early Spring (except for the temps, which are in the 80s.) We collected a few gallons of sky juice--nice feeling pouring fresh cool rainwater into the tank.

There is enough fuel remaining for another half-day of motoring, but we'll use the wind we have now and save the diesel, even if it means going a knot slower. If the wind dies we'll use the engine sparingly. It's good to have a reserve supply, especially if the supply ashore is tight.

Fresh fruit. Fresh bread. Gorgeous islands. Unlimited sleep. It's so close! A couple more days and we'll have crossed the Pacific, at least this portion of it. The offshore passages between island groups from the Marquesas to Tonga are from 200 to 600 miles apiece, and the sail from Tonga to New Zealand is about 1200. We hope this one will be our longest passage for a very long time!

There's been a blog post every day since we left Mexico, which surprises me more than you, probably. I once vowed never to do daily posts, especially from sea, because if you stop, readers start calling the Coast Guard (or worse, their magazine editor.) Last year at the Northwest Maritime Center's Spring Symposium, I taught a seminar on blogging a voyage, and in preparing for it interviewed Lin Pardey, Cap'n Fatty Goodlander, Janna Cawrse-Esary, and Andrew Revkin at length. None advocated daily posts from sea. So, I never intended to blog every day for fear of raising expectations, and yet here we all are, together each day on a voyage that to some of you is an adventure of Scylla and Charybdian dimension, and to others of you an oh-my-god-they're-out-of-their-minds kind of thing. Well, heck, it's been fun! Come aboard! Have a seat and we'll yarn a spell! One friend in the Bay Area pleaded, "PLEASE post more often, I live vicariously through your stories!" Dude! You own three boats! THAT'S vicarious!

It appears that by posting every day I may have spoiled you. I either have to keep it up or wean you off... oh stop that, I can hear you from here. Truth is, I like to write. No, make that love to... okay, HAVE to write or else watch the grumpage factor go up. While there's plenty of physical and some mental exercise to be had on a boat offshore (when you're not too tired,) I've written every day because a day without writing, even in my head, is not good, and a whole string of them is my definition of in extremis. It's kind of like the skit on Prairie Home Companion where the character Jim coos to his mildly homicidal wife, "Dear, perhaps you're not getting enough ketchup lately."

Here's the deal: the idea of writing a word picture each day and posting it is thrilling. I write, push a button, then Jim comes down and pushes about 20 buttons, the radio squeals nicely, and the words are whisked away to this very page, riding on the snorting stallion of technology voodoo. Anyone would find this irresistible from 2000 miles at sea. These daily posts have felt like an indulgence to me.

Back to the point. Blogging every day raises expectations that it will continue every day. I can't promise that it will, because when we arrive in the Marquesas a different daily routine will emerge (like, marathon naps.) I may be out collecting stories and writing them in my head. We'll be doing all kinds of fun activities.

Before we left Mexico this blog's format was a bi-monthly mega-post, with lots of photos and stories, not a daily activity log. Because internet connectivity will likely be the exception rather than the rule in Oceania, we will find a new rhythm for keeping you up to date and sailing along with us.

I miss being able to post photos (bet you miss the photo breaks too) and I worry that long blocks of text are boring. We do have a passel of voyage photos to post and will do so asap. But those long blocks of text--I mean, imagine reading endless variations on Jeez-it's-beautiful-here without a photo. Does that respect the reader? Perhaps if the description fits well within a context or story where readers can participate by using their own imaginations, it might. When we can't post photos I will try to give you technicolor descriptions.

Anyway, we're about to reach our dream destination, where we begin the next phase of cruising, and while too tired to fully appreciate what's likely in store for us, we are psyched. As always, there will be new blog posts whenever one of us has something to say or a story to tell. It just might not be every day.

Sent via Ham radio

Becalmed With Attitude

Pacific Crossing, Day 35: The light but navigable wind of yesterday dropped to nil in the night, and we were becalmed. The day's run was 21 miles, but in the interest of putting the most positive spin possible on it, hey, at least we didn't go backwards like we did at the Equator! At 3AM with no steerageway, I said Bag This (getting pretty good at that) and hove the boat to for some sleep. No use trying to steer when it's impossible. By 8AM, squalls were beginning to harsh our mellow, so in an effort to reach blue sky ahead (and more forecast wind) we started the engine. Now we're moving at 4+ knots in heavy rain (which we're gathering) and though we don't have enough fuel to motor the whole way to landfall, if we're strategic and shut off the engine as soon as there's wind, we can get there a little sooner. Yeah. Iron wind. That's more like it.

Last night was calm enough to cook something fun, so we had a dinner extravaganza of Pasta Carbonara, and oh it was good. We also downloaded information (a "Weathergram") that confirmed what we've suspected, and said if these conditions persist another 2 weeks they're going to officially call it an El Nino transition.

It's been interesting to observe how deeply reflections on various subjects can go out here with no distractions. I think often about friends and family members, turning fond thoughts and feelings over to see what each facet reveals. Jim's family has the coolest tradition, of getting together every Christmas at one another's homes. Now you may not think this is unusual, but that entire family has been gathering in an unbroken line of Christmases for about 80 years. Jim's Aunt Gail attended her first one as an infant 75 years ago, and has never missed a one. Not everyone makes it to each Christmas, of course, but usually a quorum of family members treks to Michigan every year. I enjoyed being with them a couple years ago, and one of the most hilarious memories was playing Kick the Can late at night, hiding behind a tree in snow with Jim's cousin Sandee, like a couple of giggling commandos.

Friends can be like family, too. This often happens in far-off places like Alaska, where people form friendships in that isolation, that can be as strong as family ties. Vern Allen is one of my dearest friends, and a darned good sailor, too. The first time we met, his boat was in my new slip in Seward, Alaska, and he jumped in his car to drive nearly 3 hours down to the marina to move it. I don't know who felt worse--me for arriving early and causing the marina to call him (I had offered to take an empty berth but they called anyway) or Vern, aghast and apologetic for something he'd normally never do.

A retired pilot and helicopter/fixed wing mechanic who could fix anything, he spent most of his time on a venerable old Columbia 35 named Flapdoodle, and made it a true sailor's haven. Even his ditty bag had provenance--it had been around Cape Horn on a square rigger! I haven't seen him in several years, but we keep in touch. Vern was a great mentor and encourager, standing by quietly as I tried to make some daunting (to me) mechanical repair on my previous Dana 24, Minstrel. I'd get mad and he'd say, come on, you know how to do that. Three hours later as I rested below, there'd be a knock on the hull and the call, "Dinner in 5 minutes." He never asked, just assumed I'd be hungry and in need of some good food, so dinner was mostly on Vern's boat. The man's a Tex-Mex genius, and he never runs out of beer.

During the week while I was at work he'd watch my boat, though I never asked him to. Sometimes people who'd be standing on the finger pier next to Minstrel admiring her would feel a pair of eyes on them, and there'd be Vern, giving them the stinkeye if they got too close. One stormy winter day (in Alaska, 100 mph wind storms are not unusual) I talked to Vern on the phone. "We got 16 foot seas outside the breakwater and 9 footers in the marina entrance," he said, "I had to take a Dramamine, even tied up at the dock!"

I retired early from work, in summer 2006 (before I met Jim), because it was time to go sailing. Vern was a huge help in the planning for crossing the Gulf of Alaska from Seward to Elfin Cove, near Glacier Bay. We spent many hours discussing route, weather and strategy, and he persuaded me to take the offshore route because it was safest. "Please don't go the coastal route," he said, "It's a five hundred-mile lee shore with a seven thousand mile fetch." I knew he was right. But I had hit 2 gales crossing the Gulf on Minstrel several years previously, and did not want to repeat the experience. With that piece of ocean if you're eastbound, you wait for gale winds to shift to the northeast as they begin to veer, and jump out into it, hoping you can ride the westerlies before the next gale about 4 days later. I chose the offshore route.

Vern and I separately plotted the route and compared waypoints. We developed a specific set of sailing directions that would mitigate the need to think up solutions enroute. We double-checked everything, and discovered a half-mile error on the chart near Cape Spencer, near a magnetic anomaly. We also discovered significant differences between locations in aeronautical charts and nautical charts, which was a surprise because these used, if I recall correctly, the same datum. It's mighty good to know in advance that your landfall's not where the chart says it is.

Vern offered to crew, but by then I had lined up someone. The crossing was uneventful, and we made it to Elfin Cove between gales. I called Vern right away and he was so proud of me. We both jumped for joy. Later, he said he'd wished he'd offered to crew earlier, because that's one passage he wanted to make before swallowing the anchor. So, a couple of years later, when his son moved Vern and his wife Marilyn from their apartment in Anchorage to be nearer him in Haines (north of Juneau), the son crewed for him as they sailed Flapdoodle across the Gulf of Alaska on a similar route to mine. Mind you, this was 8 months after Vern's triple bypass surgery and two strokes. I think a lot of us who knew Vern thought he was finished, but he fooled us all. He sailed into a 40-knot gale with 19-foot seas, and was thrown across the cabin as the boat fell off a huge wave. He nearly broke his arm but didn't, and they both figured the boat had a 50-50 chance of sinking.

And then, he told me later, the most remarkable thought occurred to him: I'm having the time of my life out here, and I've never felt more alive.

Flapdoodle has since been sold and Vern is wheelchair-bound now, but from our little ship heading south in the middle of an ocean, with my eyes looking north, Vern Allen, I salute you. You sail with us in spirit.

A Non-Taxing Night

Pacific Crossing, Day 34: Winds of 5 knots have us moving at 1.5 to 2.5 knots, but the seas are calming and life aboard is easy. We made 52 miles yesterday. But if it's frustratingly slow progress, last night made up for it. Although lightning flashes were visible in the far distance astern, no squalls reached us. Picture the classic South Pacific tropical night--a gentle warm wind, a sky like thrown diamonds, a yellow crescent moon that tried to outshine the stars but couldn't, and us, barefoot, in shorts and t-shirts gazing up at all those stars. The Milky Way is clearly visible, and some old friends like Orion and the Big Dipper are also still visible. But there is a whole new order in the night sky, with new constellations to learn as we voyage toward, and through, the constellation of islands and reefs that make up Oceania. On a night like that, you talk in hushed tones, if at all.

This morning the sun was a blast furnace in the very light wind, but the memory of last night kept us cool. The sun is so strong down here that if you're sitting in shade and a ray of sun falls across, say, your foot, it feels like a heat lamp. We rig shade awnings and curtains every day.

Another interesting thing that surprises us is how slow we sail in winds that up in the colder north would have us moving right smartly along. I had read of the difference between warm and cold wind and their effect on sails; it boils down to the fact that warm air is lighter and has less "push" on the sails at similar speeds to cold air, which is denser. If we hadn't sailed in Canada and then down here for comparison, we would have remained skeptical that it could be this noticeable, but it really is. So now we sail with the drifter in a breeze that might, in colder climes, overpower it. Or with a breeze like today, that should move us faster but doesn't.

Kristen and Patrick aboard Silhouette, a Cabo Rico 38 enroute to the Galapagos, sent us an article by a cruising boat on lessening the growth of goose barnacles on the hull. They grow amazingly fast and heavily on the hull above the waterline, on the topsides, and down to the turn of the bilge, plus on the sides of the rudder uppermost to the sun. They also attach to shadier areas in lesser numbers. It's shocking to see how fast those little buggers grow. If you put a long dockline in the water at the bow and drag it alongside the hull for half an hour a day on each side, it knocks off the larvae trying to attach, plus some of the growth that's taken hold. And it works pretty well. We'll have some hull cleaning to do when we're at anchor, but this trick will make the job easier. If we didn't do this, Sockdolager would arrive with quite a beard.

Talking to Don and Deb aboard Buena Vista and John aboard Arctic Tern today on the ham radio, we learned that they're not moving any faster than we are. There isn't any wind over 5 knots for hundreds of miles. Deb's baking bread, something I want to do but won't until later, so as to conserve the dwindling propane in our bottle--no sense using it up and having to change bottles at sea. We still have a mold-free loaf of Mexican "Bimbo" bread, which has the texture and taste of Wonder bread (none) but is at least immortal.

We're starting to see more birds now. About 400 miles out we saw some frigatebirds, and yesterday, in the 350 mile range, a few blue-footed boobies. For several days there have been two beautiful species of shearwater that I can't identify, along with (I think) a South Polar Skua and some ternlike birds I also can't identify. Going to need another bird book! I'll write a post on the wildlife soon.

Sent via Ham radio

ITCZ Redux

Pacific Crossing, Day 33: What we've been experiencing with all those squalls is the dreaded Intertropical Convergence Zone coming back to chivvy us again. Chris and Rani on Ladybug have had a slog, too; 30+ knots and squall after squall, and they're at 7 degrees south! The ITCZ re-formed right on top of us, too, at 5 South. We got the squalls and calms rather than wind, but we seem to have found some wind now. I think we're just below the ITCZ southern axis edge now, trying to sail--er, make that crawl--away from it, but it seems to like us. A LOT.

This year is quite a contrast from accounts we've heard of previous years. Our friends Terry and Heidi aboard Cetus crossed the entire ITCZ a few years back in 6 hours. Six. Effing. Hours. Right now they're in the Galapagos looking at a 3000 mile sail in calms, though. We don't envy that. This year, if I understand it properly, was a waning La Nina in which ITCZ effects are supposed to be more muted than this weather Godzilla we just fought for 750 miles. I wonder if we now have the start of an El Nino year, and I also wonder if this phenomenon has different start-stop times in each hemisphere. For example, if the pressure difference between Darwin, Australia and Papeete, Tahiti, a way of measuring the strength of the cycle called ENSO (Southern Ocean Oscillation) changes, does that lead the northern hemisphere a bit or are the two hemispheres in sync? I don't know, but perhaps one of our accomplished climate science friends does. (Weigh in, please, we'll read it when we get an internet connection.)

The clouds here at 6 degrees 30 minutes south are thickening again into yesterday's chaotic sky, trying to organize into squalls, but so far it's just overcast with (you guessed it) light winds. Whatevs. At this point we'd be silly, after 33 days at sea, to expect a real Southeast Trade Wind sustained sailing experience. We had a few good hours of it yesterday in weak winds, but we're back to the same ole same ole, minus the squalls, thankfully. There's just enough wind to make using the engine impractical to gain another 1.5 knots. So we sail, and save our precious diesel. But ya know, we've used less than 4 gallons in 2500 miles, which comes out to about 625 miles per gallon. The solar panel keeps our boat's systems running. That feels good.

330 miles to go sounds close, but realistically it means 5 or 6 more days if we can't cover more than 50+ miles a day. We both admit to bone-weariness and being tired of the slow progress. Perhaps a few days of rest on arrival will chase all that away.

There are tactics for getting through the last weary part of this voyage, and they really help:

1. Rejoice in how few "boat bites" we've had from being thrown around (we really do hang on and move carefully.)

2. Ignore Salt-Butt Syndrome, where sitting for prolonged periods in wet or salty clothes has worked its evil magic on the body parts upon which we used to sit, no matter how hard the efforts to avoid it. Just lean back a lot and sit "higher."

3. Share emails and howls with other boat crews doing this crossing, who are experiencing the same travails. "Yo! The ITCZ goes all the way to ANTARCTICA!"
An avalanche of pots and pans? Fossils in the fridge? Hilarious when it happens to someone else!

4. Offer to collaborate with them on a cookbook using only items that remain aboard after 30+ days at sea. Tentative titles: "The Dark Side of the Cantaloupe;" "For Whom the Bell (pepper) Rolls;" Nah. Just call it the Bet She's Crocked Cookbook.

Speaking of food, our provisions have lasted amazingly well (and we do have a fridge.) We still have the following:

3 green peppers (must be GMO); 6 fat carrots; 1 grapefruit; 2 avocados of dubious quality; 2 chayote squash; 10 onions; 2 jicama squash; 1 dozen potatoes (some hanging in nets, others wrapped in newspaper--amazingly, no spoilage. We kept the potatoes and onions well separated, which helped.) 2 small heads of cabbage (peel off the withered or moldy leaves) and an enormous quantity of canned, dried and marinated food, including the filet mignons, which are still good.

HEY! Maybe I should open a restaurant! Ya think? It would be unique, no? I could call it "Wary Queen" or "McGone-alds" or maybe "Ick Fil-A." Like it?

If I write long enough I can word my way out of a low-grade funk. Jim always notices when this happens. "You cracking yourself up again?" he says. All is well aboard the ole Sockdolager, and things'll be even better once the anchor's down and we can sleep for 24 hours. Or maybe 36.

Sent via Ham radio