Passage to the Marquesas: 28 days
Last days at La Cruz Riviera Marina, Mexico
Zulu at berth at La Cruz Marina
The beautiful causeway at La Cruz Riviera Marina that leads to a built-in amphitheatre where we enjoyed music and dance.
Goodbye to La Cruz Riviera Marina Yacht Club, center of comfort: upstairs lapa restaurant, sky bar, area to read and use your computer, hot showers, laundry pickup, entertainment.
Air-conditioned club with Wi-Fi, comfy chairs, books, tea: a blogger’s paradise.
Some of the fresh provisions for the passage.
A good, airy place to store fresh produce.
More fruit and juice in the bilge.
It is 3:00 AM in the morning. Zulu is still tucked into the slip at La Cruz Riviera Marina. Boom! Boom! I awake to the sound of fireworks exploding. A time lapse: then certain small sections of the colour spectrum bounce off the aft cabin bulkheads. Boom!! It’s a muffled sound. Again, light and colour squeeze through the cracks.
I lay awake and then, as if angels are at hand I hear the sweet chimes of church bells ringing. A most beautiful sound. It is Friday, May 8. Three days after Cinco de Mayo. What is the significance of fireworks and ringing church bells this Friday morning?
To its often dusty and gritty exterior, Mexico has a sweet center. A big heart. It is time to untie the lines that have held us here. We reverse out of the slip in still, dark waters and motor to the fuel dock. Sip on hot coffee. Wait for the dawn.
The day breaks with sky overcast. For the last week early mornings in Banderas Bay surroundings have had a heaviness to the air. Still, thick, hot. Something is building within the elements. Some force. You can feel it. The hurricane season will officially start in 8 days!!! We are late departing!!!!
The fuel dock hand is a delicate, beautiful young woman of about 20. It is 5 AM. She has her little girl with her of about 5 years old. They both are wearing masks as a precaution against the swine flu.
Fishermen are displaying their fish at the mercado on the water front. Their boats are tied to the new wharf.
“Red snapper, lobster, dorado? You want fish?” the Mexican fish monger queries.
“No, gracias.” I wave.
Russ takes Zulu out through the red and green markers into the bay. We buzz Lester Church’s boat “Freebird.” He is on deck, looking very much the single-hander, alone!
"Alles van die besta (all the best)." he calls in Afrikaans. He is from South Africa.
"Vir jou ook (to you too)!" I call back. "Get a crew!!!!"
He throws his hands up in a helpless sort of way. I wave goodbye, concerned he will leave late because of all his computer and engine troubles and get into more trouble with no wind, then hurricanes.
His turquoise shirt and blue pants match his blue steel junk-rigged boat. He is bent over holding onto the life lines as the boat bobs. His silver hair in contrast to suntanned skin.
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Lester, the South African single-hander off Freebird at Zulu’s navigation table.
Day 1, Friday May 8, 2009: La Cruz
Straggler s Looking for the Wind, with Birds for Company
Day 1 has begun. The Grib files show some wind at the 125 degree Long line, but predict less and less wind in the next 120 hours. We motor out past Los Tres Marietas into the gray day. A huge sea turtle is alongside, short little flippers paddling for all they are worth. The Cerros Moronades mountains are behind a veil and the tip of Cabo Corrientes is barely visible.
Up with the sails, a light wind. Tack NW to go around Corventena rock. Tack north. Tack south. Make a little headway west. Motor west all night. The full moon shines and now and then disappears behind a black cloud bank. There are wedges of sky with starlight. We stand our watches and try to get into the rhythm of the passage.
Russ is hunched over the radio—coffee in hand, listening to Don Anderson giving the weather forecast over the Amigo net. Don has been covering weather for Mexican cruisers since 1997. He is a prompt, proper, no nonsense type, with a well heeled British accent. A retired chemical engineer. Every now and again, he’ll put the British humor to work. For example, if the wind is blowing head on for cruisers, he’ll go: "Ha! Ha! That’s it! Enough wind to blow the skin off a rice pudding!!!"
He will also chastise a cruiser who is using improper protocol or is obviously putting a foot in the month. But he is thorough and impeccable in giving good weather forecasts for the benefit of cruisers. We rely on him!
Russ checks into the Amigo net.
“This is the sailing vessel Zulu WDD8808 at Lat 20 degrees, long 107 degrees with Russ and Marilyn aboard heading for the Marquesas."
“Ha!", Don says, "a straggler!! There’s no wind!! No wind for 6 days!!!” Insinuating why the dickens are we out here. Rightly so.
“You’ll have to go to the Socorros: further west at lat 110 degrees to get any wind!”
Russ feels a bit like an admonished school kid. Once again the laddie is late!!!
He takes a bit out of the fried egg and cheese hot grilled sandwich. I’ve finished mine and started on the fruit salad with fresh lime juice and a sprinkle of brown sugar.
There’s a breeze! Unfurl the headsail. Shut off the engine. Again head north to get west. Hmmmm. I wonder if this is a right strategy. We need to go SOUTH WEST!
“We’ll be in jolly Cabo San Lucas at this rate!" I say after a morning of pleasant sailing on the royal blue seas.
“Let's tack! Let's go straight south. Put up the staysail, too." Three sails up. Sail away, sail away, sail away. All day with little to no westing made.
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Zulu with three sails up, lightest of breeze, and flat seas.
We take turns at deep sleeps. Catching up on the sleep missed the night before! Cold water from the fridge. It’s cool! It’s refreshing. Guacamole. A Pacifico (beer). Claro!!
The day is already gone.
“See those birds?" Russ says. “They are flying in pairs. I wonder if they sleep at night?”
I only see one pair. Boobies: a beautiful taupe and white mottled one and equally beautiful white and grey mottled one. The taupe bird is circling for the boat. Little peachy orange web feet dangling on spindly legs, trying to alight on the bow pulpit of a moving sailboat. Can’t do it. Swoop low and fast across the water. Gain height. Land! Slip and slide a bit. Wobble. Gain balance. The Boobie bird has found a perch.
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The first Boobie bird finds a resting place on Zulu’s bow pulpit. I call her Boobette. Look at her blue eye shadow and pink feet.
The white and grey bird, its mate, is still circling. Then follows suit and after three tries, little orange web feet spread out on spindly legs lands, wobble. Then gains balance. Its beak is a slate gray, to light turquoise.
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The second Boobie bird makes a strategic landing on Zulu’s bow pulpit. I call him Booby.
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Booby settles in. See his beautiful slate blue beak with pink tinges? Handsome.
I try to photograph them from the stern so as not to disturb them. The sun is setting. We have feathered friends joining us. A wonderful presence. I call them Boobette and Booby. I sleep awhile. The breeze dies. The sea is like glass. It's dark. The sails are flopping.
“Here, shine this light on the birds," Russ says, "while I furl the headsail." Its working—the birds are not spooked and stay put. Down comes the staysail and main. They are still with us.
It is 2:30 AM. Ships are passing in the night. The full moon is behind a misty veil. It looks ghostlike. The seas are glass. The motor purrs. Zulu cuts through the waters easily.
The birds are my companions in this windless night. Stay with me birds! Out beyond the 110 degree long line is the Isla Socorro where the wind should be.
I’ve got my doubts with Grib file images in mind showing nada. Northwest lie the Suitcase Seamounts and to the southwest are the Mathematician Seamount pinnacles that rise from the ocean depths to within feet of the surface. Make sure we miss these. I’m hearing Don Anderson’s voice.
“Ha! Stragglers!! There is no wind out there for 6 days!!!" Stragglers we are, with birds for company in a night without stars or wind.
Day 2, Saturday May 9, 2009: Lat 20 degrees 50’N, long 107 degrees 04 W
Xanadu Call for Vessel Assist, Emily Pearl Sinks, and Billy Landers is Missing
Our two feathered friends are still with us. I watched them hunkered down on my night watch. Sleep in the hands of a rocking boat.
“Xanadu, Xanadu, this is Zulu. I copy you really faint.” I hear Russ talking on the radio.
"Break, Break." he breaks into the Amigo net to relay he hears Xanadu asking for vessel assist.
Net control tries to raise Xanadu. Don Anderson hears a panicked voice. But no response. Helpless we are.
Xanadu is a 42ft Taiwan Ketch. Green and white. It was moored in the slip next to us at La Cruz Marina, in Mexico. Jim was a somewhat know-it-all man’s man and left with his wife for the Marquesas about 1½ months ago. We surmised he might have been in the Tuamotus by now. No word since.
And where is single-hander Billy Landers on Emily Pearl? They found his boat on the SW corner of Nuka Hiva, sunk in 40 ft of water with a broken lifeline. Later, fishermen found a lifejacket (his friend had said Billy ALWAYS wore his personal flotation device) floating near a beach and a computer. I did not know computers float. It could have been in a watertight container.
His dinghy, an indestructible design he had planned to use as a life raft—he did not carry a life raft—is missing and has not been found. Is he alive and hiking through the steep terrain of Nuka Hiva for help? Is he lost at sea? No updates on Billy Landers as well. He was registered with Latitude 38 as one of the puddle jumpers who crossed from Mexico to the Marquesas.
The waters are still. No wind. The day is full with no answers. Listen to Don Anderson saying go to the 110 degree Long line for wind. Use our precious diesel fuel. Not to depend on any in the Marquesas. Got to order it before the Copra boat comes. Cut through the glass waters. Talk to the man on the full moon.
Day 3, Sunday May 10, 2009: Lat 20 degrees 17’N, Long 109 degrees 4’W
Three Birds on the Bow Pulpit Now! Hey, This is Not the Hotel California.
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Three birds on Zulu now. Hey, this is not the Hotel California.
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After some boundary issues, they settle in.
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Serious preening time: comb the tail feathers, dig deep into the neck feathers, grip tight with those peachy orange web feet.
Happy Mother’s Day from my darling Sarah—always thoughtful. Dream child, I call her.
Three birds on the bow pulpit now! Hey! This is not the Hotel California.
Boobette is not happy, but the new 'guest' has no concept about space boundaries. Move right on in and take the beak onslaughts from Boobette with a pinch of sea salt. Booby nonchalantly watches the females bristle.
Some wind!! Sail on through the blue seas—get more into the rhythm of the 4-hour watches—always semi-tired with a quietened spirit. Sarah will join us in Tahiti. Oh, happy day.
Day 4, Monday May 11, 2009: Lat 19 degrees 32’N, Long110 degrees 32’W
My Feathered Friends Stay on Zulu a Fourth Day. This IS the Hotel California.
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Four birds on Zulu on the fourth day! Welcome to the Hotel California!
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Booby and Boobette scan the skies for more birds. No more birds welcome, chaps.
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See the fourth bird’s glass-looking eye.
Four birds on the bow pulpit!!! This IS the Hotel California. At dawn I go up real close to bird watch. It's preening time. Necks swivel around, beaks tuck into nooks and feather crannies—under wings, bellies, breasts—all the time doing the balancing act; forward, backward go the peachy orange web feet on the stainless steel.
All four are feeling comfortable at the 'hotel.' Some fly off for a short spin, and then do a Bush landing on the 'Aircraft Carrier': mission accomplished. Spread those peachy orange web feet. Lift wings skyward, aim, veer back and forth, wobble, quiver, land!!! In some cases, miss and try again.
I photograph them, mainly zooming in on Boobette and Booby—my longest staying guests. I have a soft spot for them. There is expression of curiosity, of care, of interest, of awareness—look up—they see fellow birds circling.
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Booby admiring Boobette with a seemingly comic 'smile': this pair is my favourite.
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Soft pastels.
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Booby and Boobette, always together.
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Relaxed on the perch, expressions subtly curious.
Make for Isla San Benedicto, north of Socorro. These are two of the four Islas Revillagigedo (named the same as the island Ketchikan, Alaska is on). They lie SSW of Cabo San Lucas—am guessing 200 miles. Isla San Benedicto is a barren rocky island, now 975 ft high since a volcanic eruption about 1950. Socorro is the largest of the group, barren from a distance but covered with dense growth. Find wind!
We check into the Pacific Seafarers net on 14.300 KHz. Will do so nightly so they have a record of our position.
Stand watch. How far is Isla San Benedicto? 15 NM. Be vigilant. Russ is asleep.
“Russ!” we’re coming up on the island fast!!
“Stay calm, stay calm.” he says sleepily and slowly gets out of the bunk.
"I am calm!"
We’ll pass north of it keeping it to our port. Glide by at 5 knots on a sea of glass. Stand by me moon. Shine your light on this sea so much bigger than I. Show me the way.
Day 5, Tuesday May 12, 2009: Lat 18 degrees 33’N, Long 112 degrees 11’ W
In Search of the Wind
Be happy. The seas are flat. The breeze light. Zulu is stable making 8 knots over the water. It won’t always be this comfortable.
Russ reminds me of what is to come. Big following seas, Zulu’s rail buried in the water, black nights with squalls, crossing the inter-tropical convergence zone (ITCZ) with confused winds to reach the powerful trades.
"At this rate, how long will it take?" I ask?
“19 to 20 days,” Russ says.
"WOW!!!! Not bad." I exclaim.
We sit out on deck. The Bimini has been up forever. Shade. Breeze. Self steering. Guacamole and chips. Cold Pacifico. Clara11 (as the Mexican add states). Listen to the sound of water—royal blue—see 5 dolphins riding in semicircles around us. The last of the Islas Revillagigedo await. Isla Roca Partida, a barren steep-to rock of 2 white pinnacles connected by a low ridge resembling a ship under masts is well to starboard. No obstacles in our way. Isla Clarion is 174 miles to the south.
That is where the wind is, says Don Anderson. But we have a taste of it now. Perfecto. Nirvana. I’ll let myself be engulfed in these calm moments. And later, down below, let the warm, sweet scent of ripening fruit and vegetables call me to creativity for dinner.
Ready for a red tea kettle bath.
Cool, clear water refreshes the body.
Take a red tea kettle bath. Warm the water. Get the tall Starbucks indigo blue mug, shampoo, lavender liquid castile soap out. Peel down. Step outside the cockpit onto the Port side (the side closest to the water).
“Marilyn, don’t lean against these lifelines—lean against the stantions.” Russ warns. I’m thinking of Billy Landers and take all precaution.
Kneel on the deck. Pour 1 mug of water on my hair. Add shampoo. Lather into hair. Add another splash of water. Wash hair. Let suds run down body. Pour a dab of liquid lavender castile soap into palms and wash top down. Add another mug of water to hair. Plus another. Squeeze hair and let runoff stream down kneeling body. Add what is left of the water to the mug. Pour over head. Redistribute runoff down body.
“Do you want me to get your camera to take pictures of the dolphins?” Russ asks complimenting my multitasking abilities.
“Not right now thanks.” I smile.
Good news! There is ½ a mug of water left in the red kettle. Stand up and pour the water down my back. Towel dry. Add leave-in protector to wet hair. Comb. Rub body down with Nivea cream. Move farther up the deck, sit on a cushion on the house top for a manicure and lavender oil foot rub. Get dressed. Add lipstick. Voila!
Sit in the cockpit with a cold bottle of water from the fridge. Refreshed!
Pareo with sea turtle batik blowing gently in the wind: Marilyn’s uniform at sea.
Russ takes a super solar shower. There is also a proper shower down below. We prefer being on deck.
What's for dinner? Veggies: mashed potatoes, ringed with fresh curried tomatoes and onions, topped with butter sautéed zucchini. All in a bowl. Enjoy with Marilyn’s beer that Russ bought me, brewed in Holland.
Marilyn’s beer.
I sleep. Too tired to check in to the Pacific Seafarers net. Russ says he’ll find out protocol for giving our report under my HAM sign.
The wind has died. I hear the sound of winches. Sails are dropping at the 11:00 PDT hour. The iron jenny is cranked on. Use more precious fuel. Point SW. Isla Roca Partida is somewhere to our starboard. And the last of the Revillegedos islands, Clarion is at Lat 18 degrees.25’N, Long 114 degrees 41’N. We’ll pass it tomorrow, but most probably never see it. It has 3 prominent peaks. The coastline is backed by perpendicular cliffs, except for the middle of the south coast half of which has breakers on foul ground. Tuna, cabrilla, jack, dorado, bass, wahoo, reef fish, lobster, and shark frequent the waters of her shores. I want to miss it!!
Russ has a rummy affect from fatigue and is not handing over the night watch baton in detail. He has turned the computer off to let the charger cool down. It heats up like a red hot coal. If it burns out we are cooked as far as accessing electronic charts are concerned.
I sit in the cockpit with the compass and GPS. Blind trust we won’t run into any islands. I’m not used to blind trust. I like to reconfirm with a mind of my own. But all should be well based on our position. A cup of Good Earth tea sounds good. Sweet and spice herbal tea. A natural source of antioxidants. An apple and dates to accompany.
The sky is mottled—black clouds. The moon casts eerie silver linings. Ahead, it is misty. A few stars peak out. Zulu cuts through the glass seas. I’ll watch for wind in this dark night alone on the seas.
Day 6, Wednesday May 13, 2009: Lat 17 degrees 47’N, Long 113 degrees 34’ W
Permanent Impression
Breakfast calls. Lift the fridge lid and dive down into the bin to gather ingredients. BLAM! OWWWWWWWWW!!!! The fridge door falls on my head, leaving a deep impression. There is much to do about the bump—even some more howling. Russ torpedoes down the hatch to find out what the commotion is all about. Then stands there, watching the pain sink in.
“It’s left a permanent impression!!” I said after taking stock in the mirror. Plus my cheek is swollen.
A mushroom, onion, green pepper, tomato, cheese frittata with honey on toast and grapefruit juice follows. A bowl of fruit salad: pineapple, papaya, and mango topped with yogurt. Bacon for El Capitan.
The day is beautiful. We sail at about 5.5 knots with 9 knots of wind. Blue skies, blue flat seas. Total comfort.
The sea is so blue that I envision scooping some water up and pouring it in a glass to see it’s blueness up close. But once out of the ocean, the colour eludes. Magic.
Russ points out another floating water bottle. He’s seen frayed rope, plastic bags, and a fertilizer bag floating 500 miles from shore. The human imprint. Waste!
“Flying fish!” I yell. Small ones.
Russ says he read in the sailing magazine, Latitude 38, that a cruising yachtsman was asleep in his bunk when a flying fish flew through the porthole and landed on his chest. Breakfast served!!! Smile.
1000 miles to go to reach the equator. 600 miles to go to get out of the hurricane boundary line. The cyclone season starts tomorrow! It is hot and muggy. Don Anderson points out a brewing cyclone down off the south coast of Mexico. He says it will most probably fizzle out before reaching hurricane force. The Grib files show a pitch black circular smudge with a large letter L, for Low pressure on it. Some lesser smudges are to the west of it, south of us. We’ve got to get out of here!!! South west we go, one nautical mile at a time.
The sun sets. Darkness closes in. I try to sleep. The boat rocks back and forth in a jerking motion. No WIND!!! The sails flop. The chocks bang. The lines slack and then jerk tight.
Russ is up on the deck in this sultry night. He pulls the sails down and cranks on the iron jenny. On with the auto pilot on a 225 degree magnetic course. South west.
“We might run out of fuel in the one tank tonight,” Russ says. We have to keep the other tank for the Marquesas and Tuamotu archipelago. From now on if there is no wind at night, we’ll have to drift south east, losing ground, and rock and roll back and forth in discomfort.
I come out into the cockpit to stand my watch. Smack!!! I hit my head on the companion way slide. It is closed and I don’t know it.
“Another permanent impression!!!” Russ says in jest.
Stars! For a moment. In the sky. But within minutes a mist or haze closes in on Zulu. It is eerie. I can’t see a thing. I am startled by a big light. A ship coming down on us? No! The dark orange moon is rising. A wedge missing from the top side. It’s waning. My significant comfort in this wilderness night. Stay awhile.
The boat rocks back and forth, at times to a huge degree. I clench my tummy muscles. The swells are building.
Hold on to the silk-like ribbon of moonlight that is cast on the black oil waters of this night! It touches me. Lord be with us. The sea is so large and our boat so small.
Day 7, Thursday May 14, 2009: 17 degrees 24’N, 115 degrees 16’W
Beaufort Scale
I’m thinking about that dark smudge on the Grib files south east of us. It is a tropical cyclone, defined by winds ranging between 34-63 knots. Hurricanes have winds between 64-71 knots. Data gathered between 1966 and '71 show 1 cyclone in May.
For my edification I formally write down this wind and sea terminology.
At 6-to-10 knots, we are sailing in a light, to gentle breeze. Short to long wavelets. Glassy crests do not break. Some glassy crests do with minimum white foam.
Here is the rest from the Beaufort Scale.
0-1 knots. Calm: Sea smooth and mirror-like (like at night when our wind dies).
1-3 knots. Light air: Scale-like ripples without foam crests.
11-16 knots. Moderate breeze: Small waves, frequent white foam crests.
17-24 knots. Fresh breeze: Moderate waves, many white foam crests, some spray.
22-27 knots, wave height 10 ft. Strong breeze: Large waves, extensive foam crests, some spray.
28-33 knots, 14 ft waves. Near Gale: Sea heaps, foam blown in streaks, spindrift starts.
34-46, 18 ft waves. Gale: Longer, moderately-high waves, crest edges break into spindrift, foam blown in well marked streaks.
41-47 knots, 23 ft waves. Gale: High waves, foam streaks, crests topple.
48-55 knots, 29 ft waves. Storm: Very light waves, long crests, large foam patches blown, white sea, tumbling shock, less visibility.
56-63 knots, 37-ft waves. Violent storm: Extra high waves may obscure ships, sea covered with foam, wave crests froth, visibility poor.
64-71 knots, 45 ft waves. Hurricane: Air filled with foam and spray, sea completely white, very poor vis.
I am happy for my light-to-gentle breeze—for the glassy crests that sometimes break, for the late afternoon light that brings a sheen to the blue-gray sea with overcast sky.
Russ sleeps. The sails luff. No! Wind please don’t become light air or calm when the night comes on!
What are the dangerous animals that lurk beneath these waters?
Yellow-bellied sea snakes: Bite when molested, with potent venom that can cause death. Found in the Gulf of California in sheltered waters and around river mouths.
Stingrays: Venomous tail barbs when stepped on. Found buried in shallow sand at water’s edge.
Portuguese Man of War: a jelly fish with tentacle sting cells recognized by a small red-blue bladder and long pink coil-like tentacles. Found in swarms at sea-carried by wind and current to shore.
Large sharks: Great white, tiger, hammerhead found in open ocean attracted by garbage.
No swims for me today. I think I’ll sit back and have a glass of wine and contemplate the forces of the elements safe aboard Zulu in my light breeze.
Day 8, Friday May 15, 2009: 17 degrees 00’N, 116 degrees 18’W
Catch the Wine Before it is Lost
Rock and roll, rock and roll, rock and roll. Sails flop, blocks knock, lines slap. Russ goes out on deck in the night to take it all down. Then the real rock and roll begins in a quieter fashion. Sleep, where art though? Wind where art though?
Wake up tired with a cup of coffee from the captain, with the usual finishing touch of cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top. A moderate breeze has picked up. You can feel the pull of the headsail. It is like being on a horse. Hold the reins, feel the pull, bounce up and down. Giddy yap. Away we go for the day with a somewhat tired horse.
I take a red tea kettle bath. Refreshed! Feels so good. Russ points out 4 Albatross.
Dinner on deck. Spaghetti with mushroom-tomato sauce, parmesan cheese, and garlic bread. Russ pours the Chilean wine: Conchay y Toro Cabernet Sauvignon. We got it in Mexico. Does that mean blood of the bull? Ooooh!
The glass of wine goes west as the boat lurches! Who would have thought that to be a possibility? Only half spills as I grab the glass with my foot before it totally hits the deck.
Grab the glass with my foot before all the Conchay y Toro is totally lost!
Neanderthal man would have been impressed. The fine diner, aghast!
Settle back and eat dinner, holding onto my wine glass between the big and 2nd toe. Russ does the same. Neanderthal man would be proud of us. Fine diners would be aghast.
The breeze feels good and so does the wine. Stand up and watch the sunset! Worship the beauty. See the flying fish with wings like the colour of abalone shells. Fly across the water in whole schools. Jacks are jumping, too. Life at sea unfolds.
The breeze is holding. I will sleep tonight.
Worship the beauty of calm seas.
"There is nothing that makes its way more direct to the soul than beauty."
~ Joseph Addison
Day 9, Saturday May 16, 2009: Lat 16 degrees 39’N, Long 118 degrees 36’W
The Sailing Vessel 'Elusive' Sinks off New Zealand
Russ is ready to check in and give his report on the Pacific Seafarers net. He hears Lester’s whistle into the receiver (that is how he tunes his old radio on Freebird). Net control warms up.
"Break, break." In come calls with two emergency situations. I was asleep so I could be ready for my 4-hour midnight watch. Russ tells the story.
A wooden boat by the name of 'Inherit the Wind' is taking on water near the Marquesas. Net control in Hawaii relays information to the skipper’s daughter. The situation gets resolved.
Shortly thereafter, a J-44 sailing vessel, 'Elusive,' north of New Zealand, calls saying they are taking on water. They recently had work on the rudder done in the NZ yard. The batteries in the engine room are covered with water. They cannot find the leak.
Net control takes over and gets in contact with 'Charlotte O’Hara,' a sailboat that happens to be three miles away because they were buddy boating. 'Charlotte O'Hara' comes to the rescue. The skipper boards 'Elusive,' but he too cannot find the leak.
All aboard 'Elusive' abandon ship, transferring to 'Charlotte O’Hara.' Within the hour it is expected the boat will sink. NZ coastguard is aware that, until the boat sinks, it is a navigation hazard.
'Charlotte O’Hara' is on its way to Fiji. Now, because of a low, they will head SW and then skirt NW for Fiji with the skipper and crew from 'Elusive' on board.
A true rescue at sea! All coordinated through HAM net control volunteers. That is why each night we report our position. This Pacific Seafarers net keeps track of each sailing vessel in the Pacific Ocean that reports in, until destinations are met. What an amazing service, and done so professionally.
This morning Russ is in communication with the Amigo net giving them an update as they were not in the know on details. He gets good weather information from Don Anderson. Go west to get the NE trades.
Zulu sails west now, sound, with the wind whistling in the rigging at 13 knots, toward the setting sun. We will sail through the night tonight!
Not quite. We must have let go the shirt tails of the NE trades. The wind dies again. Not altogether, but like a tired donkey slowly, and awkwardly we move forward at 4 knots.
It is 2:30 AM PDT (I know, I have not quite adapted to Zulu or Universal time). I am grateful for each pull forward from the headsail. We are just about equal distance from Hawaii and the Marquesas. On toward the Marquesas we go in this dark night with the ½ moon out of sight and waning. I’m weary. But, oh so happy we are still afloat.
Day 10, Sunday May 17, 2009: Lat 16 degrees 23’N, Long 120 degrees 37W
My 4-Hour Watch Routine
My midnight 4-hour watch routine: grab a hold of my senses. Reel around on deck to find a sense of equilibrium in the dark night of motion. The tell tale sounds give me a clue as to what lies ahead. Flapping of sails, confused winds, glassy seas are bad signs. I’ll be like a rag doll on deck, flung to all corners in slow motion. A regular pull and tug, and the steady sound of water moving under the hull stands for good forward motion. Stands for lift the spirits. Progress. A pleasant and comfortable watch.
I sit awhile and let reality sink in. The moon won’t be seen because of cloud cover. The seas are grey blue because of a pineapple express, Don Anderson the weather man says, from Hawaii. That is when the air gets saturated with moisture. All I can do is look for lights ahead. Or dark silhouettes.
The air is sultry. A breeze feels good. I’m in a T-shirt and light shorts and have a fleece and hat just in case winds pick up. No such luck! Which is worse? No wind or too much wind. Thinking back on the wild trip down the Oregon coast, although action packed and colourful, I’ll take the annoying bobbing around with no wind.
Once I’ve found the awaken state, I’ll drink some cool water from the fridge. Maybe have a little fruit. Sweet fruit. Essence of my well being. I’m hydrated.
Think thoughts. Out here, in the Pacific wilderness, I wonder why the necessity for wars: territorial and religious. Why the need for greed and power over others. Why famines and starvation and all the rest. It all seems like humankind is making an absolute spectacle of themselves. An embarrassing, dangerous, lethal game played.
I read the articles in Scientific American on "Taming the Urge to War: must lethal conflict be an inevitable part of human culture?" How that civilization has been blamed for war is actually helping us achieve peace? Hmmmmm. How about "Could Food Shortages Bring down Civilzation" (good morning) or "Designing Rules for Designer Babies: more oversight needed to prevent misuse of new reproductive technologies." Science going amuck.
I shut the magazine and turn off my headlight. These articles clutter my mind. Listen to the water. Feel the breeze. Nature is at large. Respect it. Move with it. Reap the fruits of the sea and land for just what is needed. Share. Live and let live. Focus on the energies of the elements. Bend like the palm fronds in the wind. Life would be a better place.
How glad I am out here tonight. Away from the maddening crowds. Just for a respite in my short life.
I take a deep breath. Move on out from under the dodger. Behind the wheel. Onto the aft seat in the cockpit. Spread out three cushions. It’s time for Yoga on deck!
Breathe in deeply. Breath out and let everything go. Focus on the motion, on the breeze on the sound of water. Practice what positions space and stability allows. Stretch. Breathe into the bends. It hurts now and then. But move through the motion as my body allows.
I feel the blood circulation stimulated. I feel exhilarated. Calm, at peace. I look up to find the stars. Asleep down below is the person I love.
Day 11, Monday May 18, 2009: Lat 15 degrees 55’N, Long 124 degrees 55’W
Anniversary
Our 30-year anniversary has dawned. Many years since we stood on Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County, California amidst the wild golden poppies and purple lupines. Friends forever. Strong is the tie that binds, with a few knots in-between.
I bet $100 dollars Russ forgets. I won!!
After tropical fruit salad and homemade granola I say: “Happy anniversary!” and hand Russ a card picturing two lovely young people standing on a rock in an inner tube and up above is a waterfall plunging into a beautiful green pool of water.
A wry smile. “I thought about it then forgot. Happy anniversary.” He says true to Forgetful Jones’ form.
This is my present from Russ. A case of beer called Marilyn’s Beer. He got it in Manzanillo, Mexico. Imported from Holland. Brewed in the Netherlands.
Marilyn’s Beer, present from El Capitan.
This beer was not intended as an anniversary present, but I’ll treat it as such.
Russ sleeps from a night of battling the calm! When he awakes I’ll have a Greek salad on a bed of spinach, smoked salmon and cream cheese on herb crackers, with chilled white wine, a present from my good friend Martha Bagley in Renton, Washington. Cheers Martha!
For desert, the last of Trader Joe’s apple flowerette’s. Hot with yogurt and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Coffee and bittersweet chocolate. My present to the captain.
He works hard as a sailor boy, and has put us on course headed for Hawaii. Just kidding. Seems like it at times. Let the strategy be. Smile.
We are as old as we look and as young as we feel. The wind is up. The rigging creeks. I feel the pull of the sails. Sail on through the silver seas, through life.
Day 12, Tuesday May 19, 2009: Lat 15 degrees 28’N, Long 126 degrees 03’W
Lester off Freebird: The Universal Flow
"I heard Lester on the Pacific Seafarers net tonight asking to be taken off the list." Russ says. "He’s in Hurricane Alley, in the Mexican hurricane season, with no wind and a broken down engine, batteries running low. He’s either going to try to go west to the Marquesas or north back to Canada. He does not know."
I’m concerned. I had told him not to go south to the Galapagos. That it was the wrong time to go, that there was NO WIND. Don Anderson, the weather guru on the Amigo net echoed it was the worst time to go.
Lester had said he believed in the universal flow of things. My unspoken thought was—yes but at least "Be Prepared." Have the necessary wherewithal to control your destiny, to pull out of the flow that is end all. Have some say in reaching your destination. Don’t be a feather in the wind. Use it as an energy form to get there.
I wish I had reiterated this thought.
Net control from Hawaii said Lester should go into port and get the engine fixed.
"Go into port, Lester, if you can’t fix the engine!!! There is no wind out here until Long 115 degrees. I’m sending you a message through this night." I say.
Hope he listens in for me on Wednesday when I talk to Paul on the HAM radio, on 14.313. I have an interest in his safety.
"You go to sleep, Russ. I’ll take an early watch." I say.
“OK, I can’t believe it. It feels like we are sailing through velvet.” He says getting into his bunk.
I take my iPod out into the cockpit, plug in the marvelous “Bose” ear plugs and listen to music. The cut called ‘Wolf’ from Eddy Vedder's music soundtrack to the film ‘Into The Wild’ plays. Eerie.
The night is still. We are barely sailing—rather gliding through the velvet waters. I need to use the ‘teacher of my soul’ to collect thoughts. The music helps. I’m lucky to have a practical person like Russ in my life. He knows how to seize a moment in life’s journey so that the wind will fill the sails or the rubber will meet the road. He’s not a dreamer. With him we’ll get to where we want to go.
The night is still. I look out over the dodger into the darkness. There is no moon. The cloud cover is thick. I search the skies for light. Just one star? I see light in some clouds. I strain my eyes. There is a star!!! I’ll make a wish for Lester.
"Let the wind blow fair for you tonight. You’ve gone into the wild unprepared."
The waters have no breaking wavelets. As Zulu moves through the darkness, the bioluminescence is magical. There are miniscule balls of light in the water next to the hull. It's as if the stars have fallen. Its nature in magical motion. Please breeze, don’t die. Stay with us tonight.
I put on Pachabel’s 'Serenade: Suite 1.' A gift to me from Ian, my only son. Oh, the beauty of the flute, the string instruments, voice—in this sacred night space. Accompany.
BANG!!!! Gybe!!!! The main’s on the other side!!! The block from the makeshift line boom vang is swinging to and fro, in the flukey wind. The Hydrovane is not doing its job?
"Russ!! Better hit the deck."
“The shackel’s broken.” He says sleepily.
Remove the whole thing. Adjust the sail. The wind’s picked up. I’ll stand watch another hour. Time for Iron and Wine’s 'Jezebel!!' So much for the universal flow.
Day 13, Wednesday May 20, 2009: 15 degrees 19’N, Long 127 degrees 25’W
Bioluminescence
And out of darkness there will be light. Another dark night on watch. No moon. The black waters cascade over the hull. We made 150 miles yesterday—the farthest we’ve gone in a day thus far.
The barometer keeps going up. Might the 15-to-20-knot s of wind die? I hear luffing in the sails. No 15-to-18 knots of wind on the meter. Good one.
I peek over the sides. Bioluminescence (phosphorescence). Waves of light alongside the hull with bouncing balls of brighter light. What is bioluminescence? Here it is. Straight from the chart guide for Mexico, not quite fully explained.
“Strong displays occur in Golfo de California, as large glowing patches at night or red discolored water in daylight, most often in spring and fall. Bright flashes often outline bow waves and wakes. A touch at one end of a colony advances until the whole colony luminescens. Baja California fishermen use the spring and summer light shapes to detect schools moving through them.”
The days are taking on a certain pattern for me. Get off my last night watch at 4:30 AM usually. Sleep until 8:30 AM. Tea time. Breakfast. Tidy up. Send position reports. Receive weather Grib files and e-mails.
“FBOD!” Russ calls. This means first beer of the day. Served with grilled tuna Panini or guacamole or bean dip. A lime atop the can or bottle.
Think sailing strategy. Get on Russ’ nerves by questioning his reasoning for not turning south. If we go any further west we’ll jolly miss the Marquesas. He wants to go west to catch the easterly components of the NE trades so as not to have to run straight downwind. But those easterly components are almost at the 140 degree Long line. As the Ozzies say: "say no more!" Go with the universal flow even if we circumnavigate before getting there.
“One morning Marilyn, you will wake up and find yourself in the Marquesas!”
Bien! Practice my French.
Dinner at 5:00 PM in the cockpit: Thai tofu pepper tomato onion on noodles with peanut sauce. More cold beer with limes. Peaches and cream. Ginger nut cookies and Earl Grey tea. More of the same tomorrow.
All of this on a rocking boat with gray seas all around and dark, black clouds. I hunker under the dodger now. Water all around. Swish, surge. The odd wave breaks. A block is knocking somewhere. The sails luff now and then. The pull of the wind energy grabs at my tummy muscles. I will borrow light from last night when the crescent moon peeked out for my delight.
The wind dies!
Russ sleeps. He got the vang fixed today with the fine rain and gray 6-ft waves all around him.
I heard net control ask: “Any traffic for Zulu?”
There was. Paul in the Pacific NW 2000 miles away. Up 5 to 14.305 and he comes in loud and clear. W7PV! Amazing
There is Lester! He tunes up by whistling into the microphone. He’s back trying to check into the net. Signal is distorted. Russ relays his position. Lat 17 degrees 30'N, Long 107 degrees 06'W. He wants to be added back on the list. He headed NW for Puerto Vallarta from around Manzanillo, thinking he’d pull back into port. Then thought that was crazy and pointed the boat west for the Marquesas. His wind speed is 2.3 knots. He got his engine going again and ran it for a day, but does not have much diesel to motor out to the wind days and days away. Russ said go west! He was going WSW not knowing a tropical cyclone lies below him and that most hurricanes develop within 100 miles of Socorro island. His signal is bad and he could not copy that information.
“I’m just drifting right now.” Chapter 2 in the life of.
Day 14, Thursday May 20, 2009: Lat 15 degrees 19’N, Long 127 degrees 25’W
Leatherback Turtles
I think back to the night on the beach in Sayulita, Mexico when the hatchling Leatherback turtles were making their first small steps toward the sea. I also think back to spotting the big floating ball with a bird on it coming into Chemala on Mexico’s Riviera. And leaving Banderas Bay for the last time. A leatherback came to say goodbye.
“It’s a turtle! Russ, come to starboard.” I sound the alarm.
Or to the day in a panga boat off Puerto Angel, Mexico when we spotted a Leatherback entangled in a net. Helpless. Russ cut it free.
I wonder what their watery lives are all about?
I read from the National Geographic. Ancient Mariner. The biggest, deepest, diving, widest ranging of all turtles, the Leatherback has endured for 100 million years.
WOW! That is a long time. I see them at times resembling birds. Very old birds that swim underwater turtle fashion.
Females emerge after decades at sea at 600 lbs to nest for the first time near where they hatched. They lay their eggs in warm sands, but migrate far, far away to cold waters to feed on jelly fish.
Some do round trips of 6,500 miles from New Guinea to California and Oregon and back—at turtle speed. From Mexico they migrate down to South America. Sadly here the numbers, 300-to-2,000, are declining due to human impact and natural ocean fluctuations. For example, El Nino causes currents to shift, the upwelling shuts down, and the Pacific becomes a virtual desert from the nutrient rich waters they usual are. This certainly impacts the turtle.
They dive to a mile deep? And eat 100s of lbs of jellyfish a day. Swimming machines they are. Streamlined in a teardrop body shape with keel-like ridges on the shell that ease the flow of water. They can sense the seasons from a patch of pale skin, which lets light reach the pineal gland; letting them know of changes in day length. A cue for migration. They have massive salt glands that capture salt from their jelly fish diet and excrete it in viscous tears. They can dive great depths because a sphincter closes blood flow to their lungs so they can conserve energy. They can trap slippery prey with spiny barbs that line their esophagus. Cold blood returning from their flippers is warmed by outgoing blood before reaching the body core. In very cold water the blood flow from their flippers might even shut down intermittently. They can keep warm in nearly freezing waters. They are HUGE and get up to 2,000 lbs. The intriguing reptile of the seas. Miracle by design. Let us protect them!
I turn off my headlamp and once again peer over the side of Zulu into the night of this vast ocean wilderness. Listen to the wind. Take us to Nuka Hiva!
Day 15, May 23, 2009: Lat 13 degrees 15’N, Long 131 degrees 09’W
Flying Fish
I scream! Something hits the cockpit floor with a thud. It missed me by inches. It is 2:00 AM in the morning. Darkness reigns. Now it is flopping around desperately. Flopping around for dear life. I shine the torch on it. It’s a flying fish!
I don’t have the moxy to hand-deliver the poor fish, it’s the bigger kind, back to its watery abode. So I watch the little fish come to its last moment in time. Coward I am.
Its wings are beautiful. Transparent with blue vertical lines. Its body is metallic silver, built strong like a Boeing 737. It is almost angular in shape in that its belly is flat and its sides edge up.
A flying fish hits the deck with a thud. Beautiful wings and blue eyes.
It’s belly is flat and the sides edge up at 90 degrees.
Its eyes were round with black pupil centers and ringed in electric blue. Its eyes had the fish look of finality. Good sized scales for such a small fish littered the cockpit. I want this watch to end.
In the morning the starboard deck became a deck for six of the same, along with 2 squid on which Russ accidentally walked. Squisssshhhs.
I read up on the flying fish family (Family Exocoetidae (Oxyporhamphidae) from Fishes of Hawaii by Spencer Wilkie Tinker. My only resource (Page 147).
“Flying fishes have cylindrical, oblong bodies with a flattened lower surface. The pectoral fins of most species are unusually large, are placed high upon the body and in a few species reach the tail. The home of most flying fishes is the open ocean in all tropical seas, although a few do seem associated with shore lines. Here they inhabit the surface water feeding upon both animal and plant foods. They have many enemies including dolphins, porpoises, the dolphin fish, and various tuna fishes. The eggs are attached to floating seaweeds. The young individual of this family are often quite different from the adults; they have large, flapper like whiskers attached to the lower jaw which disappear as the fish matures.”
A wild guess is that the fish that near missed me was a Gilbert’s flying fish (Prognichthys gilberti).
“The body of this flying fish is elongated as in the members of this family, but is rather square in cross section. The pectoral fins are distance in having 17 or 18 rays; the second of these rays is unbranched and shorter than the succeeding rays. The color of the body is steel blue above and silvery below. It will reach a length of 12 inches.
This species is known from a very few specimens. It is named for Dr. Charles Henry Gilbert, Professor of Zoology at Leland Stanford Junior University, ichthyologist, and student of Hawaiian fishes.”
Morning on a blue sea. I sit up in the bow watching schools of flying fish in silvery flight over the waves. I call them fish fairies. They are delicate in a sense because of their beautiful wings and silvery silver bodies. Their flight style is nimble, quick, low flying like the blue angels.
“Have you found the horizon yet?” The captain has woken and is at the boom to check on things. Alas he is in his birthday suit. No wonder the fish are flying.
The Captain is in his birthday suit. No wonder the fish are flying.
Day 16, Saturday May 23 2009: Lat 11 degrees 10’W, Long 131 degrees 25W
Turn to the South on a Beam Reach Dogged Tired.
After 1,400 miles from Mexico, Zulu reaches the longitude line of 130 degrees. At last Russ tacks and we head south on a beam reach with the NE trades. The seas are 6-to-8 ft high and the winds 14 knots.
Dogged tired?? I am dogged tired! My body feels like a stretched wire. Like a mangle of muscle in spasm. The seas are on or port beam and lift up the stern at an angle at the port quarter. Then rush under the hull and down we surf.
I’m braced every minute. My shoulders tense. My head pounds. I lay on the aft bunk feeling as if I’m the tail end of a whip lash or just down from the Andes on an Ecuadorian donkey.
Russ is looking for an oil leak. Head lamp light crosses my face intermittently. In and out the engine room, up with the bilge boards.
My head pounds on, ad nauseum. Drag myself amidships. Lie on the starboard bunk. Its better. I feel mummified between umpteen cushions and the lee cloth. It feels better. Close my eyes. Feel the tension drift. Hear the creak of the main sheet, the knock of a block, the groan of the autopilot.
It’s your watch, Marilyn.” Russ gently advises. Oh no!!!
I sleep walk into the cockpit. My head heavier than my neck can hold. I’m reeling with fatigue. What am I watching for in this night? Now I know what single-handers must feel like when they are overcome by sleeplessness and succumb to the deep one—as they hit the rocks.
Get a grip!! I start running in place—doing sit down yoga on my Ecuadorian donkey. Breathe deeply. Drink some Good Earth tea. Pop some dried apricots in my mouth. A few scoops of granola. I’m gaining the upper hand. No longer do I feel myself falling rag doll style down the companion way my neck on an elastic band.
Put my face into the wind. Hold onto the dodger. There’s a myriad of stars out there: the Milky Way, a few black clouds hug the horizon and my bed is the sea.
The main sheet creaks, some blocks knock, the autopilot groans, the waves lift up the stern and port quarter, then rush under the hull and down we surf. Breathe deeply. Let the tension go. Feel the breeze blow.
Day 17, Sunday May 24, 2009: Lat 09 degrees 45’N, Long 131 degrees 52’W
The Sails Enter the Intertropical Convergent Zone (ITCZ)
The wind just blew my boobie bird feather away!! I had put it in my journal as a keepsake from Boobette and Booby’s 4-day visit.
The moonlight is shining on Zulu’s sails as it cuts through the silver waters with 15 knot wind. We’re galloping with the wind in the sails. I call the headsail 'the sail that pulls' and the mainsail 'the sail that drives.'
Adjusting the sails to the wind for a course and keeping up momentum and balance is an art. We’re on a close or tight reach, i.e. sailing close into the wind. That is why it is so horribly bumpy. A broad reach is more comfortable as is a beam reach, with wind from the aft quarter or square on the center. A downwind run or dead run levels the boat out nicely and flattens it on the waters, but the following seas can be unnerving and the Hydrovane won’t hold a course. So the dreaded gybe, where the wind creeps behind the boom and drives it uncontrolled over to the other side, frightens the dickens out of me. An uncontrolled gybe can equal a broken boom or mast, which we have experienced!
Then, there is the staysail that, on a cutter rigged boat, is raised between the headsail and the main. Its purpose is to be used when reducing sail in heavy weather.
Lastly, the silk-like spinnaker that slides out of its chute like a maiden in fine dress, billows out in light wind and gently pulls the boat forward. The spinnaker can do what the other heavier sails can’t. It can easily be filled by light wind without luffing.
I stand up to check the compass course and my nose points into the water rushing by. I seek refuge under the dodger. Thumping and banging of waves on the hull.
I feel like a feather in the wind. As if I could be scooped out of this cockpit like the booby bird’s feather and easily get lost!!! I think I’ll go get grounded and make some tea below decks. Let the sails catch the wind, and my feather, too.
Day 18, Monday May 25, 2009: Lat 08 degrees 26’N, Long 132 degrees 21’W
Squalls
No wind. The night is clear. The heavens are alight with stars so bright. I sit in the cockpit with a gentle, lightest of light, warm breeze. We drift west. I listen to Mozart’s sonatas. The universe is on display at its best. Russ sleeps. We’ve been in the ITCZ, where the NE and SE trades come together and cause confused wind and/or deadly calm.
“Russ we have wind!” I call. Once, twice, three times. But he is dead asleep. Forth time he stumbles up into the cockpit reticent to face the night elements. Up with the main, out with the headsail, and head south in a gentle way. I sleep and ream in other languages.
Awake to coffee and crepes, homemade blackberry jam. Yogurt. The sun is out. It is muggy like a sauna in the cockpit. Off our bow skies are blue with puffy white trade wind clouds.
SE trades, white and puffy clouds off our bow.
Aft, the clouds are black and ominous. We’ve had near misses with squalls, but I think this one will get us.
Look what is chasing us from behind. It is going to get us!
Down comes the rain. The squall has found us. Peel off what little clothes we have on and stand in the cooling rain. Russ takes a rain shower under the main sail, shampoo. I do this once, twice, three times in-between galley work and refrigeration organization. It is wonderfully refreshing. A relief from the heat. Fun!!!!
Put on David Gray’s 'Come Sail with Me.' 15 knots. Black clouds ahead, behind, all around us. Shafts of rain on the horizon. There is nowhere to go but get smacked from behind by a tropical squall.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen knots. Torrential rain. We’re heeled over The rain is hitting us sideways. Take a pounding. Bite the edge.
“Russ, can we put a reef in the main?” I ask once or twice.
“Do you want to go up there and do it?” Gnarly Captain Bligh retorts.
“No.” I say.
“Well, don’t ask me again!” Grumpy commands. He’s tired and worn out.
Nineteen, twenty knots!! The sky rips open and the downpour increases. Leaks!! Through the hatches. Water dripping fast. Streaming onto bunks. Get the towels out!!
The seas are grey and wild.
“I think I’ll put a reef in. Let out the main when I tell you.” The captain has at last decided. He has his foul weather jacket on. First time since the Oregon coast.
Russ dons his foul weather jacket. First time since the Oregon coast.
I am scantily clad in my pareo. Put on t-shirt and life jacket and take the medicine from the elements. It is only rain and wind.
The usual chaos: banging and clapping of things. Don’t even look at the seas. It will just unnerve you.
“Let out the main!!” The sweet, barking Captain Bligh’s voice reaches me. “Out some more! More! More!!”
He puts a reef in.
“Pull in the main!!” He yells over the wind. He has to. It’s howling.
I yank and pull with feet braced on the cockpit combing like a Chinese acrobat. My pareo and shirt are so drenched I need a spin dryer. Look on the light side. It’s fresh water! The boat feels stable, comfortable while the storm blows.
Ring my clothes out. Go below and dry off. Change. Make some Mexican hot chocolate. Serve with ginger snaps. The first of our tropical squalls has raised its cheeky head. Put on Mozart’s 'Piano concerto 5, 8 rondos.' Listen to the rain pelting down—the waters of the ocean rushing by. Make a wish for falling stars.
Day 19 , Tuesday May 26, 2009: Lat 07 degrees 02’ N, Long 132 degrees 26 W
Lighthouses in the Sky
I lie down on the cockpit seat on a night with a light breeze. All I see is the heavens above, and it feels as if I am on a magic carpet gliding through the stars.
I imagine we, on our small yacht Zulu, are at the very center of the earth encircled by the sea and sky. And that the earth rotating on its axis at 33 1/3 degrees causes the stars, planets, moon, and sun—the lighthouses in the sky—to apparently move across the great dome or celestial sphere above. East to west and together this all is the universe.
I read from George W. Mixter’s book, Primer of Navigation, on the chapter called Lighthouses in the Sky and quote:
“The celestial bodies, of which there are a vast and unknown number, are distributed throughout an infinitely great universe and include the earth, the sun, and the various other bodies observed by mariners. The earth is assumed to be at the center of the universe, and all other celestial bodies, regardless of their enormously varying distances from the earth, appear as upon the great dome of the heavens, or as upon the inner surface of the hollow ball called the celestial sphere.
Poles and equator of the celestial sphere are always directly over those of the earth, and the axes of the spheres coincide. The earth’s center is the center of the astronomical universe. The ship is on the surface of the earth; sun, moon, and stars all appear as on the celestial sphere.
On a clear, dark night, look carefully at the stars directly overhead and also at those near the eastern and western horizons. An hour or two later the stars that were overhead will appear to have moved westward; new stars will have risen in the east; and the stars first seen near the western horizon will have set. The entire celestial sphere, on which the heavenly bodies are seen, appears to rotate from east to west around the earth although the stars become invisible as the sun rises, moves westward, and sets.”
The brighter stars are grouped in constellations and given names which resemble them: e.g., Big Dipper, Chair, Southern Cross. Here are some other stars with constellations in parentheses. Polaris (Ursae Minoris), Rigel (Orionis), Capella (Aurigae), Sirius (Canis Majoris), Arcturus (Bootis), Vega (Lyrae). The constellations are prefixed by a letter from the Greek alphabet (which I have not included), the first letter of the alphabet indicates the brightest star in the constellation.
How little I know. I got a D in astronomy! From all the infinitesimal lighthouses I watch move across the skies, I held onto Venus, the moon, and the sun as my guiding lights. How insignificant we are compared to the universe at large, and yet how significant. I lie back down on the cockpit seat. Try not to think. Float on the magic carpet as part of the greater universe.
The sun, one of the infinitesimal lighthouses in the sky.
Day 20 Wednesday May 27, 2009: Lat 05 degrees 45 N, long 132 degrees 28’W
The Heat of Hell in the ITCZ: The Drinking Water is Gone
90 degrees below in the cabin. Rivulet’s run down my face to my neck, down my back and chest. I am reeling. We both drink copious amounts of cool water. Drink, drink, drink.
A feint whisper of wind. We are in the ITCZ, where the NE and SE trades come together to make for light and confused winds. Only the spinnaker is up. No longer is Russ saying it's time to put the champagne in the fridge in prep for crossing the equator. Will we ever get there? We’re bobbing sluggishly in this blue world. The fish aren’t even flying. Tug, pull, the spinnaker is working.
The spinnaker is the only sail up, tugging and pulling in a virtual windless.
We’ve drunk all the drinking water we bought in Mexico (not talking about the water in the tanks). I have more though. Precious spring water bought in San Diego.
Go aft to the port bin. The one that has been smelling musty of late. Lift out the first of 4 big containers. It is empty!! The 2nd, 3rd, and 4th are empty too. They sprang leaks from scrunching and rubbing and bobbing and bouncing and drained the drinking water.
There are two more containers. Get those from the hanging locker. The levels of these have gone down too. Leaks. Fill small containers with what is left. This will have to do us. Drink, drink, drink.
Stagger out from the hell hot cabin below onto the deck. Lie down in the shade of the mainsail. I’m hyperventilating. Gasping for air. No wind. Now and then I open my eyes to see the red, white, and blue of the spinnaker. The sparkling blue sea. Blue skies with puffy white clouds. Then close my eyes.
We’re exhausted from the heat. Lightheaded. Dizzy. I imagine what it must feel like to be a sailor lost and adrift at sea. You want to just give in to the great beyond. Just take my body and spirit now.
Rock back and forth. Endlessly. Go down below into hell's heat box. Get water from the fridge. Drink, drink, drink. Close my eyes and swirl with the motion of the watery blue. Listless. Tired. Exhausted.
Russ is throwing buckets of seawater over himself. He has been up since 4:00AM and it is now 4 PM. There is wind out there a day or so away that will ease us over the equator. It will then pick up and we’ll soon shout "land ho!"
Day 21 Thursday May 28, 2009: Lat 04 degrees 15’N, Long 132 degrees 58’ W
Pick Up The Pace
Zulu heels over as we pick up the pace.
Ten-to-fifteen knot winds and relatively flat seas. It’s a thrill. It’s fresh. At last we’re moving across the waters at 6 knots on a course slightly west of south.
I am startled by the crescent moon coming out from behind the clouds on our starboard beam. A stunning debut. The one lighthouse in the sky of great comfort to me. And it is waxing.
All I can look for is lights ahead. All else is darkness. We ride these night waters in blind faith as far as obstacles in our way are concerned. Tomorrow I’ll put the champagne in the fridge. Saturday should be the day to celebrate crossing the equator. A very special day it will be.
The water streaming past the hull is noisy, evident Zulu cuts through efficiently. No sloppy waves. No spray. Just the sound of wind energy. Forward motion. Sails aloft. A broad reach.
Russ repeats his wish: “I can’t wait to walk on land. To have some French bread, cheese, and a bottle wine ashore.” He says in a weary sort of way.
I look forward to no motion. To long nights of deep sleep. So let’s pick up the pace!! Twelve knots thirteen knots. The wind is whistling in the rigging. Spray flees. Some dark black clouds overhead, passing by. We HAVE to be through the ITCZ and into the SE trades. Sail on with the silvery moon. Nuka Hiva awaits.
Go below for green tea. What is that? Something flopping on m foot!!! Put my headlamp on. A jolly flying fish!! Aaaaaaah. It must have flown through the hatch.
“Russ there is a flying fish flopping around down here!” I call.
He crawls out his bunk in his birthday suit, hands and knees on floor after the flopping fish. I give him a paper towel.
“You are the luckiest fish alive!” he says and throws it back into the sea.
Pow! A wave breaks—spray through the hatch. Lightening ahead. Some dark and ominous storm clouds overhead. Zulu picks up the pace. Nuka Hiva awaits.
Day 22 Friday May 29, 2009: Lat 02 degrees.35’N, Long 133 degrees 23’W
Pacific Seafarers Net
“This is the Pacific Seafarers net asking for any emergency, medical, or priority calls. Please call now."
Randy KH6RC in Hawaii is loud and clear. “Nothing heard.”
The same calls go out from net relays throughout the south pacific as Randy requests them to put out the call. New Zealand, Australian accents fill the airways.
“VEOCLC Lester on Freebird. How copy?”
Silence. All other stations call for Lester. Silence. The net is not sure what to do with a vessel that requests to be on the list for nightly position reports that goes silent on them.
“I think he’s lost his marbles.” Someone says.
“Yes, I think so, too.” Someone else agrees.
“I think Zulu said he’s just a free spirit.” Someone else says.
Next roll call. Net control calls “KE7LOL, Russ or Marilyn on Zulu, how copy?”
“Copy loud and clear, Randy.” Russ goes ahead with his position report. Then he puts in a word in defense of Lester and reiterates that if he could check in he would. But that he thinks Lester has little or no power.
Russ on the radio reporting our position and putting in a good word for Lester.
Don Anderson, the weather man on the Amigo Net says there is a big hole out there in the NE trades. No wind!!!
I think Lester is drifting around in a no-wind situation. Engine not working. Small solar panels insufficient. Radio not working well. No means for getting weather.
It is proving he has left unprepared with little resource and no means for communication.
Lester if you can hear me through this night. I’m rooting for you to pull through. To make it to wherever you are going. First Galapagos. Change mind. Then Marquesas. But I wish so you understand the reality of an ocean passage single-handed. Hope we see you again someday, some place. Safe.
George, from the Pacific Seafarers net, has e-mailed us. Wanting details on Lester. They are concerned. Might get the Mexican Navy to look for him.
Russ relays a message that someone heard Lester trying to check into the net. All ears are out for him.
We have a reef in the main. Zulu was stalling out at 15 knots of wind. Much better. I’ve had enough wind in my face. Close the dodger's hatch. 10 minutes later a full force wave hits the dodger. Good catch!!
I went into dream state: comfortably weary—looking at the beautiful moon shining on the water oh so close to the rails.
POW!! A bomb wave sneaks over the port side around the dodger. Am saturated. Put me in a salt pot and sprinkle me on your porridge!!
Down below, the hatch is closed, but leaks. Salt water in my bunk. I’ve given up.
Boom!!! The bow hits the trough—memories of coming down the Oregon coast.
Boom!!! Again. The night is here. Tomorrow we will cross the invisible line that cuts the earth in half and move on over to the other side: the southern hemisphere, where new chapters will begin with landfalls most beautiful in all of Oceania.
Day 23 Saturday May 30, 2009: Lat 000 degrees 39’N, Long 132 degrees 26 W
Crossing the Equator into the Southern Hemisphere
12:28 AM celebrate. 2 hours before we cross the equator. I turn on the computer. Open MaxSea digital charts and see the boat’s bow on the equator.
I don’t feel like celebrating. There is an uneasiness about the sea and the motion. Perhaps because it is dark. The moonlight should help But sailing close into the wind, with rail virtually buried, makes my chest and tummy tense.
Russ has champagne in the freezer. Except he turned it off!! He sleeps. All we need is a soused captain. I should fill half the bottle with herb tea. It is a significant moment in that this could be the last time in our lives we cross the equator in our boat. Most probably not though. Or is it a measure of how far we’ve come in life. We must meet the shores of Nuka Hiva soon. 5 days. 664 nautical miles. Can’t wait!!
3:00 AM. We cross the equator and all we can muster up is a cup of Almond Breeze hot soya chocolate. We’re in the Southern Hemisphere, where I was born!! Full circle I have come.
Day 24, Sunday May 31, 2009: Lat 01 degrees 24’S, Long 134 degres 01 W
El Capitan
The captain wishing he had a bigger headsail.
The captain will get us there. He is quiet, understated, resourceful, resilient, takes the hits as the ocean serves them: in the cockpit, on the deck, in the bilges, in the engine room. But every now and again you’ll hear him blow his cork and the parrot in him starts swearing. I won’t repeat. He is getting salty and weary.
What has broken on this passage?
- The boom vang bolt that joins it to the boom itself: attached now in a different way.
- The line vang shackle breaks (a secondary means for cinching the boom down to prevent gybes). Replaced.
- The shackle on the spinnaker pole breaks. Replaced.
- Co-lateral damage is a broken port running light. Ordered through Lake Union Boat Repair (LUBR), via Airmail. Thank you LUBR!!
- The line for pulling the main back on the boom has slipped into the boom, so the main sail’s shape is not as it should be to cut the winds most efficiently. Will take boom off when at anchor. Done.
- There is a leak in the exhaust. Fix it with fiber glass. Ask Sarah to bring new pipe when she visits in Papeete.
Let’s drink to the captain who’s “uniform” at times is cast aside, au naturelle.
17 knots!! Zulu is lying her starboard side down to the water. The moon’s path of light touches the hull. At this rate soon we’ll see a change in chart detail. We’ll see depth registered on the charts. But for now it’s BOOOOM!!! As the bow hits the troughs, as Zulu lies over to her side, moving with the wind in forward motion. The captain sleeps.
An exhausted captain sleeps.
Day 25, Monday June 1, 2009: Lat 03 degrees 28'N, Long 135 degrees 07'W Immensity of the Ocean
We’re into our 4th week at sea. Aching muscles confirm that this Pacific Ocean crossing is a long, long one: 2800 nautical miles and the Marquesas are just the first step!!
Where does the Pacific Ocean end? Darwin, Australia??
It is the greatest ocean in the world and takes up more than a third of all our lands combined. That is, all the continents of the world can fit into the Pacific Ocean, with enough room for one extra South America. It is a vast expanse of water with tens of thousands of islands.
I think I’ll find a nice little place overlooking Taiohae Bay in Nuka Hiva and move in. Make it my home for the rest of my life, like Paul Gauguin did.
The thought of more neck stretches as the sails drive and pull Zulu through the seas on close reaches is enough for me to want to plant my feet on terra firma.
Day 26 Tuesday June 2, 2009" Lat 05 degrees 26'S, Long 136 degrees 21'W
The Cargo Vessel Glorious
Breakfast made on a bucking bronco. Real fancy. Oatmeal and orange juice. Clean galley, tidy cabin. Put a little love into the chaos. Shower. Shampoo hair.
Remember the last time I did that two days ago and lay down for a rest when POW!! A ten-footer came down the hatch onto me.
I go up into the cockpit to catch some air. I mean some 15-knot winds.
“Russ get up here!!!!” I yell. "A cargo vessel is about to cross our bow really, really close. I’m going to change course!!"
“Hand me the VHF and put the computer on to see the boat’s name on AIS.” he asks of me.
He sees the name through the binoculars: 'Glorious!' How fitting for a morning with the same name.
“Glorious, Glorious, this is the sailing vessel on your stern quarter.” Russ calls.
“06.” A heavy accent comes across the air waves.
“Just interested in where you are from and where you are bound.” Russ talks into the VHF.
“All crew is Ukrainian, used to be Russian. Vessel from Chile going to Shanghai. Where you from?”
“Seattle, WA, USA. We feel for the people of Ukraine.” Not supposed to talk jolly politics, captain.
“Bon voyage.” Glorious’ captain ends the call.
“Bon voyage to you, too, and safe journey.” Russ shuts down the VHF.
The huge, long bright orange hull has long crossed our bow and is disappearing into the horizon just in the time spent on brief radio messages. It is going 18 knots/hr. Most probably carrying grain, Russ says.
Keep my eyes wide open for ships in the night and day. We’re counting down. Four more days? Then our bodies will rest at anchor in Shangri-La.
Day 27 Wednesday June 3, 2009: Lat 07 degrees 06'S, Long 137 degrees 44'W
Sir Hydrovane: Survive Your Dream
Made in merry olde England, the Hydrovane, with a price tag of about $6K, totes the logo: 'Survive Your Dream.'
Yes, the Hydrovane can keep a course on any point of sail as long as your sails are balanced. There lies the trick!
From the standpoint of a non-technical, non-mechanical sailor girl, the vane is mounted at the stern, offset from the boat’s rudder, back by 18 inches with a rudder of its own.
Moving up: a shaft connects to the rudder with ratio knobs and clamps, etc., and at the top is a paddle that moves back and forth with the wind, impacting the rudder.
These are the 7 easy steps for using the Hydrovane under sail.
- Remove the vane lock pin and ensure rudder lock pin is out.
- Sail yacht onto desired course.
- Adjust sails for good balance (the trick).
- Turn wind vane until in line with wind.
- Secure wheel in position to hold best course. (How to secure a hydraulic steering wheel?)
- Pull out ratio knob and move it into 1 of 3 operating positions to engage the Hydrovane.
- After yacht has settled into steady course, adjust as necessary.
“Don’t gybe.” Russ says as he goes to sleep. Sure. I’ll have a shot at it.
Obviously Zulu has not settled into a steady course, or the sails are misbehaving.
Or, how is it that Sir Hydrovane refuses to steer downwind and we have to use the ever reliable battery munching autopilot?
The instructions have a section on ideas!
- Retrofit a solar panel in place of Vane.
- Retrofit a base for a flag standard.
- In light winds attach a plastic bag to top or vane so it fills with wind.
- Use it as a stern light.
Day 28 Friday June 5, 2009: Lat 08 degrees 55’ S, Long 140 degrees 05’ W
Yacht Zulu Jumps the Puddle in 28 Days: La Cruz to Nuka Hiva
No record. No race. From full moon to full moon we crossed 3252 miles from La Cruz, Mexico to extravagantly beautiful Nuka Hiva, Marquesas in relatively light winds.
Across the shining seas! Bluest of blue by day and silver by Venus and the moon’s light by night. 'Stragglers' we are called by Don Anderson, the weather man on the Amigo net. Late leaving, May 8 and arriving at best, June 5, 2009.
A kaleidoscope of images: flat seas; one black of black squall; peeled down and standing in the rain; awe inspiring sunrises and sunsets; greenest of green sun setting flashes; stars, planets, sun, moon our lighthouses in the skies; humbled by the celestial universe; earth’s circle surrounding Zulu; fish with blue wings and eyes that fly in the night; still waters of the inter-tropical convergent zone; red, white, and blue silken spinnaker pulling us forward ghostlike; heat; restless sleep; things that go bang and break in the night; exhaustion; radio communication; three boats sink, one life lost; Lester, a new single-hander friend turns back to port with dreams unmet; captain Blonde (Russ) ever calm and non-complaining, ever resourceful brings us safely and silently by moonlight between Ou Huka and Nuka Hiva with a dramatic sunrise arrival; 5 potatoes, 2 onions, 1 red and green cabbage, 3 eggplant, 2 apples and two tired and salty ragamuffin sailors is what remains. Joyful for the experience and joyful for its end, we anchor in Taiohae Bay. Nirvana: lush, green, verdant, jaggered with people of a quiet nature: tattooed with flowers in their hair and fish and sweet fruit to bear.
The sun sets on our last Pacific crossing day.
Ou Huka emerges at dawn. The first island seen before Nuka Hiva.
Nuka Hiva is here! The captain did it. Good job!
Nuka Hiva up close.
Baie Taiohae, Nuka Hiva: We have arrived.
Beach Hibiscus. Touch the land.
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1 comment:
What a great story. I have been following the blog of your adventures with baited breath. Can't wait to hear more.
Mark G.
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