Twenty-four days and a handful of minutes had sailed past, and I had seen nothing in front of my bow to challenge Panache. It was otherworldly to be so close to ... something. It was green. How could I almost forget such a crazy beautiful color? I hadn't seen a color like that for too long. Out here, that shade of green was only present in the floating plant matter and the much more rare dorado. These teeth of land arched immediately from the water and and had the dark texture of elephant skin. If I could only just reach out and touch it. As I studied it, I started to remember all the amazing things land meant, the paramount being security. Security in food. In water. In not getting sucked into the ocean. But to reach that security, you have to keep from crashing your boat into land, which became quite relevant as I bobbed towards this green land thing. How far out am I? I was a completely secure six miles away from the shore when I started to fumble on deck stuffing sails away sloppily. I guess I was afraid I was going to crash Panache into Fatu Hiva. I didn’t. On sailboats, things rarely move faster than you, and Panache was currently one of those things. When I finished stumbling on deck, I had ample time to catch my breath and realize I was being ridiculous. First, I was way too out of shape to be exercising after sitting for a month, and second, I just put the head sail away way too early. It’s been awhile. I slowly re-raised the jib and yelled, “Land HO!” with my fist in the air. I can only imagine how cheesy that looked, but in a strange way I had always wanted to say it with such conviction. If there ever were a time to yell it, it was now.
Panache rounded the northern tip of Fatu Hiva like a champ, and I cracked off 68 pictures along the way. I had a lack of self control and an abundance of digital room to fill. It took me awhile to totally recognize Baie des Vierges (Bay of the Virgins). This confusion was accompanied by the task of finding a large penis-shaped rock. My friends teased me that such a long single-handed passage would cause a change in my sexuality, but that’s all bullshit; I was looking for a monster penis rock because it was the navigational aid for the bay and how the bay got its name. When I found the thing, it wasn't as impressive as I had imagined. This should have been obvious since I had to use binoculars to find Fatu Hiva’s penis. Despite size, the spire couldn't be interpreted as anything else. Apparently, early explorers named the the bay, “Bay of the Phalli,” and this was a perfect name for a bay overlooked by an average-sized penis rock. But once missionaries got involved, an “i” was inserted amending the name to “Baie des Vierges” which translates to Bay of the Virgins, and this name was just confusing. If I were an explorer, I’m not sure I would sail to Penis Rock in Virgin Bay.
I lined Panache up perfectly to enter the bay and glided in without a breath of wind. Charlie's Charts said there is “gusty winds sweeping down the steep slopes,” but this evening was perfectly calm. When my depth read 10 meters, I dropped the anchor and formed a beautiful relationship with land. The sun was setting behind me washing the greens of Fatu Hiva orange. I was the only boat in the bay. In the peak of the season, 20 yachts could be anchored in this 1/8th-mile bay. What a waste that I was the only person to see this. I raised my camera and took a picture.
A fisherman rowed up and barking at me. Brain, translate what that fisherman just said. “Rum!?” Rum? The fisherman was right. I had just completed a long passage, and it was time for a celebration drink. I did have rum, but I only had one bottle and might need it for bartering purposes down the line. I opened one of six boxes of wines (also brought for bartering) instead. Alcohol is a universal currency but probably works best in remote South Pacific islands. I should have bought more in El Salvador. I later heard that a German boat spent their remaining budget for the Pacific in Panama on rum and wine and traded it with everyone including customs all the way to Australia. Pretty awesome story. I poured Steven, the Marquesan fisherman, and myself a healthy portion of boxed wine, and Steven handed me a rolled up cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I also don’t normally finish a 3,000 mile passage, so I smoked the damn thing. Between coughing fits, Steve and I managed to hold a continuous conversation with little understanding on both ends. A horrifying discovery was that people in French Polynesia speak French. I told Steven that my father’s name is Steven, and he told me something about a baguette. After many wild hand gestures, I understood that Steven was inviting me to his house so he could prepare some fish for me. Step on land and have someone feed me? Yes, please.
But first I had to blow up the dinghy, a task I am never excited about. Getting the dinghy out of Panache was a wrestling match, but once in the cockpit the hindrance became the limited space. If you looked at my inflated dinghy and the size of my cockpit, you would probably say they were the same size. You would almost be right. Unfortunately the dinghy is just slightly bigger, a defect that is only apparent as the last pounds per square inch pushing the plastic dinghy walls out. If the theme of the evening were anything but “Land” I wouldn't have set the world record for blowing up Panache’s dinghy. I will be sending my record to Guinness.
My dinghy speed to shore must have been unbearable for Steven, because he abandoned the hope I could row myself to shore within the year and pushed me with his kayak. The speed gain was mediocre. You have been killing yourself with walking speed for too long, ready yourself for speed-walking speed! I was grateful. The language barrier became more apparent when Steve and I tried a technical maneuver. Eventually he let me row solo in a straight line slowly as opposed to a zigzag line quickly with his help.
Once ashore we walked along a main road lined with fruit trees and hibiscus. It was a dark path, but it didn't take me long to realize it was the only main road on the island. And walking on land was crazy -- you didn’t have to brace yourself with every step! We met up with his wife and daughter who both spoke a tiny bit of English. First question that was asked: “Do you have a wife?” I answered in the negative with a shy laugh. The smell of flowers and fruit was so strong I could taste it. We passed many people, and they all greeted us with friendly smiles and words that could only come from a small community such as this one. I had a deep yearning to speak French, but had zero basis to try my hand at it. I was starting to feel like the typical dumb American. I asked the wife questions, but many answers came in the form of the same smile and nod that Steven provided when I spoke to him, so I can’t be sure if she understood.
The house was amongst others of the stilted variety, simple yet perfect for the surroundings. We went in the backyard, poured a cup of wine and started descaling the many fish. The fish were dumped on the ground creating a sunset of colors against the flat grey concrete. I would normally consider these fish to be too small to eat, but they turned out to have more than enough meat cumulatively. The noise of Steven’s handmade scale scraper, a wooden paddle with tiny nails driven all the way through, was periodically interrupted by wonderful questions: Do you want rice? Do you like limes? Do you want pummelo? I didn't know what that last thing was but I said yes. The descaled fish were filleted if big enough or if not, they were just cut into small pieces, bones and everything. The pink cubes of muscle were salted and then given a vigorous lime juice shower. Dinner was ready, fresh from the ocean.
A colorful fish sunset.
They packed everything in a reused shopping bag and told me I could come back anytime to gather oranges from their tree. Oranges sounded amazing. Such an invitation made the edges of my mouth curl because the closest thing to an orange I’d had recently was orange Tang, but in reality Tang is closer to sugarcane. With my hands full of fruit and fish I wandered back to my dinghy and rowed back to Panache.
The night was calm, and I was finally eating fish after 24 days of failed fishing. There was little wind and night fisherman dotted the bay with their headlamps. In the distance I could see another brighter light. Green. After finishing my meal I turned on the HF radio to listen in to the maritime nets. They are not exactly exciting, but for general weather warnings they are helpful, and in the offhand chance I hear a boat I know, I always like to listen. In an empty boat other voices, even over the radio, are always comforting. I stood in the cabin and leaned against the companionway looking out over the ocean. I had just positioned myself at the starting gate for some of the best cruising in the world. I visualized a huge map spider-webbing out to the hundreds of places I could sail to and the thousands of places I could sail to from those. Endless possibilities. I exchanged a smile with a fisherman who was using my anchor light to attract the fish. Beyond Panache I could see that the bright light in the distance was still there, but this time it was red. Could it be a boat? That would make sense, but the light hasn't moved at all. I checked the light one other time that night and it still didn't appear to be moving but did change back to green. I ignored this and laid down with the comfort of land nearby. My consciousness slipped away as waves washed against rock.
The rise of land let me fall asleep quickly, but single-handed sailing has trained me to be an insomniac. While underway I try and wake up every 40 minutes. This was a difficult ability to instill, but once established my body couldn't sleep for more than two hours before sounding an internal wake-up alarm. I woke up often and always to the same latitude and longitude. No matter how still or quiet, my body would rise and fall like the tides all night long, a pattern that can only be broken by sunlight.
The view was spectacular, and I wasn't the only one enjoying it. Those lights last night were coming from a boat named Rancho Relaxo of the Sea that was tacking into the bay. Sailing into this small bay to anchor at night. Impressive. A woman was standing on deck topless watching the same view. She turned and waved. I waved back and quickly looked away embarrassed. I hadn't noticed her at first but must have looked like I was staring. We aren't in Kansas anymore. I don't have a problem with the human form. I love it! Nudity just isn't something American culture embraces. It’s silly really, but it’s hard not to feel a little embarrassed when you have lived all your life thinking you should hide your body in front of other people. Another luxury of sailing solo -- naked sailing with no guilt.
These suckers are everywhere. Beautiful deadly.
I was sure the Rancho Relaxo was on the Baja Ha Ha, but after seeing the Austrian flag on the back of the boat, I realized it was another Rancho Relaxo, but I had heard the name recently. Yeah! Camelot, a boat I met in El Salvador was hanging out with Rancho down in northern Costa Rica. What are the odds of that!?
While calculating the statistics for my crossing, I heard a knock on my boat and it was Rancho coming over to say hi. Packed into a hard-bottom dinghy was the family of the Rancho Relaxo of the Sea. David, Guillermina, and their two kids, Bruno and Viola. They had also just finished their crossing from the Galapagos! I was amazed. I thought there couldn't be another boat making the crossing this late. I was way wrong. Anyone part of the European Union is granted a much longer visa, affording these boats the option to wait out the cyclone season in French Polynesia. They invited me over for a beer, hungry for external stimulus after a long passage. I guess regardless of who, or how many people you have during a crossing, you will always be hungry for something different at the end of it.
Rancho had been cruising for almost two years and had come all the way from Germany. David, the husband, was from Austria, Gi was Argentinean, they lived in Berlin, and their kids were multi-lingual. I can barely speak English and Bruno can speak German, Spanish and is learning English. I learned that the reason they had sailed into the bay the night before was not to show off, but because their engine was not functioning ... along with their radar and chartplotter. When they heard the crashing waves get too loud they would tack. It made for a long night. The next day we did our best to find a 60-meter waterfall and failed. Failure aside, it did feel good to stretch our legs. That evening while telling yarns from our crossing, a boat Rancho met in the Galapagos came into the anchorage. Another boat that had just finished a crossing!? Red Sky Night was an Australian boat with an Australian skipper and a young Belgian couple as crew. We all stayed up late trading stories and getting well acquainted over Panamanian rum, while the newly filled anchorage swayed with the strong tropical breeze.
We can walk, just not long distances...
Rock carving looking over bay of virgins.
Trying to find the waterfall with Rancho Relaxo of the Sea.
Extreme switchbacks.
Vertical panorama of Fatu Hiva village
Looking down on the bay of virgins
The next day, all three boats went out in search of the waterfall we failed to find the day prior. It took us a little detective work, but we eventually got on the road to the waterfall. The trail was muddy from all the rainfall, and the air was thick with moisture and evaporated dirt. Along the way I gathered hot peppers that were growing along the path to spice up a boring meal of rice and beans. The trail was well established and followed a stream weaving up and down just to the left. There wasn’t a break in the jungle until we came to the vista of the impressive waterfall.
Rancho, Red Sky Night, and Panache waiting out the rain.
Splish Splash on the way to Fatu Hiva falls.
Bruno crossing a dangerous mud pit.
Viola and I winding out way to the falls.
The hike wasn't hard, but the temperature was enough to break a sweat. Everyone stripped down to their swimsuits and jumped into the sweet water. The water was clean and filled with bubbles from the cascade. We tried our luck at clinging to the crack that worked its way up the falls, but the slippery factor capped our progress to no more than a foot above the waterline. Abandoning fantasies of climbing any considerable distance up the falls, we climbed up the adjacent berm that hugged the pool of water at the base of the waterfall. A perfect spot to jump from. It wasn't high, but the relatively small landing made it exciting. We all took turns making the jump. Swimming in fresh water was a welcome change.
A good view from the base of the waterfall.
David and Guillermina hanging out at Fatu Hiva Falls.
Daniel trying his had at climbing up the falls.
Watch out Tarzan.
Lunch was couscous, granola bars and water, and this spurred a conversation about food. I was glad to find I wasn't the only one obsessing over the idea of pizza. Lunch was more of a snack, and after bumbling around the falls for an hour everyone was getting a serious hunger. I had just run out of propane and talked about leaving to Hiva Oa the next day, but everyone shot down this idea and just invited me to their boats for food. I wasn't a total mooch, I always brought food that I couldn't cook as collateral. But how did I run out of propane so fast!? The bottle should have lasted me four months at least! Upon further inspection, I discovered that the regulator was letting out a leak. This was a problem easily fixed with some silicone-based glue, but it was too late. Looks like Panache left a trail of propane across the Pacific. Rancho was kind enough to give me a small camping stove for morning coffee.
Evidence of a former existence.
Bruno beating bananas to the ground. Thanks Bruno 🙂
Dinner on Red Sky Night was pasta with pink sauce; very rich and delicious. We exchanged media and told our respective stories of how we wound up here and where we planned to go. Daniel, the skipper, was an electrician who had originally bought the boat in the Caribbean with the intent of selling it in Australia for a profit. He looked up the most popular boat and found a reasonably well-kept charter version for sale. Not a bad idea. Have an awesome extended vacation and make a little money on the side. Daniel admitted that he wasn't sure if he could sell the boat after having so much fun aboard it. The lifestyle is too good and highly addictive. He planned to breeze through the South Pacific and make it to New Zealand by cyclone season. My plans exactly.
Beautiful Bonito. Time for dinner!
When I got back to my boat, I found that another boat was anchored right in front of me. Literally. I could almost jump from my bow onto the stern of the boat. I let out all 200 feet of chain and called it good, but the wind was really whipping that night. The boat in front of me must have had a tense night of anchor watch, because when I woke up to the sound of goats, the Marquesan version of a rooster, they were gone.
I should really follow them. I was just starting to get used to the idea of land and already was thinking about heading for Hiva Oa. I had only seen a fraction of what Fatu Hiva had to offer, but I had to stick to my timeline if I wanted to be in New Zealand by late November. Rancho was also eager to make miles so they could finally fix their engine, so we agreed to buddy boat to Hiva Oa. I was still sailing solo, but at least I was sailing with another boat.
These bovines are all over the place. David and I almost got trampled by a feisty one walking to the waterfall.
Eight words to sum up my crossing from Galapagos to the Marquesas: Long. Void. Hands-free. Are we there yet? Now that I’m safely tethered to land in Fatu Hiva, it’s time to reflect. The problem is there was so much down time, that that’s all I can recollect. You would think this would make pulling the interesting parts of my journey out of my memory easier; instead it has made them harder to find. Don’t get me wrong, sailing single handed from the Galapagos to the Marquesas is an incredible accomplishment, I want a trophy or something, but the unhindered feel of the passage was unexpected. You would think that in 3000 miles I would have at least one life threatening story!? Maybe I have a death wish, but either way I am sorry to disappoint the readers who are looking for spilled blood.
The scariest part about the whole trip was preparing for it, although the first day out was certainly scary. I had been preparing for worst-case scenarios for months, and it’s all I could think about that first day. I was a wreck. After that initial scare, my biggest hangup was my self-induced solitary confinement. It got lonely, and I quickly realized that sailing with people -- even if they are in another boat -- makes sailing much more fun. An experience that isn't shared somehow isn't living up to its full potential. Like sharing it makes it more real. The lack of others painted the entire journey in a perpetual dream state. My seemingly never-ending routine didn't help with my never-ending dream of sailing to the Marquesas. Pre-departure I was obsessed with creating a daily routine, and I succeeded in spades. It became my worst enemy and my best friend. On one hand I knew it was important to keep myself busy, but on the other hand I was doing the same stuff every day. My routine left me wanting more, and by the end of the trip I didn't seem to have enough media -- the one thing that broke my routine -- to satisfy the remaining miles. I had enough books, and they certainly held my attention for days, but it took longer to enter their reality, where movies injected you directly, like waking from a dream. The further away the movie took place from my current position, the more enjoyable it was. Panache was literally taking me away from everything I knew, and ironically during my trip I was busy escaping Panache. Spending so much time in someone else's story always took a good hour or two to shake myself back into mine.
Staring at land feels more real than anything. It’s not just the sight, but the smell of the soil evaporated in rain hitting sunburnt ground. Closing my eyes, I know I am a stronger person than I was before I left, and I’m ready for what’s before me, for what feels like the real journey.
With trade winds fueling my sails across the pacific, there really wasn't much active sailing during the passage. Adventure was abundant in my many books and movies onboard, but nowhere to be found in my surroundings. I wouldn't call the passage boring, but it certainly had its moments. Most of what happened during the passage was my nonstop internal monologue, so it only makes sense to display the layout of this blog post though tidbits from my daily journal. The entries give insight into my thoughts during the passage, help tell the story of my journey and the collision between expectations and reality.
Before you read on, its important to understand the size of the Pacific Ocean, because I sure didn't. In reality nobody can fully grasp its size, but it doesn't hurt to try. It’s by far the largest body of water on the planet -- so large you could fit the world’s continents inside it with nearly enough room for another Africa. It’s 10,000 miles wide, and less than 1% of it is land. It’s an absolute miracle that people conquered the remote islands of the South Pacific. It was now my turn. I had the luxury of GPS, a Kindle and Oreos, but it still was a long passage that was mentally trying and left me exposed to whatever meteorological event decided to materialize. Thank God nothing substantial did. While crossing was rather “void” of adventure in the hollywood sense of the term, I look back on this fact with a smile.
DAY 1, July 24, 2012
136 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Nervous. I thought I was cold, but I’m just nervous. It seems a little crazy to be sailing into nothingness. Or maybe I should just adjust my chartplotter to display Australia 7,000nm away. It might give me a feeling of sailing towards something ... No, does not work. Looking beyond my bow, I see nothing. It will be at least three long weeks of seeing nothing before I see anything. I will be lucky to see even a boat in that time.
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Barfed up my breakfast to shake the feeling of nausea. The omelet tasted better the first time I had it in my mouth.
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I’m looking at this passage with too grand a spectrum. I need to hone my tunnel vision: You’re going to the Marquesas, you’re going to the Marquesas. If I think about the complete trip to New Zealand I start to freak out. I could really use one of those hyper-sleep chambers right about now. Just lie down and wake up at your destination. I would read a book to calm my nerves, but I feel too seasick.
DAY 2
134 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
I know it’s only the second day, but I’m having to fight the urge to look at my average speed and thus give insight into how long this passage will take. My eagerness on the end of the passage is a bad sign. If my head doesn't lose this woozy feeling, I might have to put myself into a coma. A cartoon-style bonk on the head should do it. The self-induced coma -- a poor man’s hyper-sleep chamber ... minus the chamber.
This feeling is like a delayed reaction from my brain to my body, like carrier pigeons have replaced the light-speed highways of my central nervous system. You would think that after my historical “battle of the doldrums,” my body would be conditioned to a rough sea state, but I am discovering that acclimation is always part of a new passage.
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I just saw the most monstrous meteor ever. It was the mother of all meteors. This mammoth meteor shot clear down to the horizon, and for a moment I was sure it would strike the water and create the most menacing tsunami ever. I need to stop watching so many movies. Mmmmmm.
Double down on wind.
DAY 3
152 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
The Southern Pacific has been less than inviting these first couple of days. Cutting across the swell with a solid 20 knots rocks the hell out of the boat -- and my stomach. The only place I can lounge without feeling ill is the deck, but I can’t sit on deck without getting drenched from sea spray. Would you rather be seasick or soaking wet in 20 knots of wind? The wind is supposed to start twisting towards the west, making for an easier point of sail, but I should have several more days of this before I can unclench my stomach muscles. On the up side I should have a bitchin’ set of abs by the time I reach the Marquesas.
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My body isn't the only thing having a rough time, Panache had its first equipment failure: The solid steel adjustable boom vang decided to snap at the boom end. I would give a shit but I hardly use it, and it’s an easy fix for any welder. In the meantime I can attached the original block-and-tackle vang.
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*UPDATE* Second equipment malfunction: The HF radio doesn't want to transmit. This is not good. It’s not a power issue, I’m currently floating at 12.3 volts. This is my lifeline in case of an emergency. It must be a connection issue, but I am too sick to do anything about it right now. Tomorrow.
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*UPDATE* Third equipment malfunction: For some reason the navigation lights are drawing 10 amps!? Off they go. Day three and Panache is falling apart. This is encouraging. Can you sell a boat in Tahiti? Will this oatmeal stay in my stomach?
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I just had a pretty awesome moment that made me feel a whole lot better about everything, superficial equipment failure aside. I just made a cup of hot cocoa and came on deck to find myself in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. My location didn't surprise me, but the realization that I was finally using Panache as the capable long-distance lifepod did put a grin on my face. Few sailboats (or people for that matter) are ever put to any serious test, with the large majority only being tested for [from?] the comfort of their own slip. Panache, on the other hand, was put to the ultimate test during late 70s when she crossed the Pacific to Australia, and now I am breathing life back into her with my crossing. If feels pretty awesome.
DAY 4
146 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
This morning I fixed the HF rig. Turns out the automatic tuner wasn't plugged in all the way. Not sure how it came loose, but I am relieved that I now have a mode of communication. Troubleshooted the nav lights too. The rear nav light is ok, but the red and green bow light has some serious problems. Disconnected it until I can rewire it.
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I can feel the SE current. I feel lightning fast. I plan to hug the equator to hang on to this current as long as I can. To get an idea of how strong this current is, I broke down and peeked at my average speed (5.9 knots!), and if I keep it up I will hit Fatu Hiva in 21 days. How fast are you? As fast as cheetah. How fast are you!? As fast as a cheetah! Then let’s see ya do it!
DAY 5
119 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
The wind has all but died. I feel guilty running the engine, but I want to keep my average speed. So how about this little thing called the southeast trade winds? Yeah, pretty sure they’re a myth.
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Trying to sail wing and wing but the waves are moving faster than the wind making my sails flap around like idiots. Despite the lack of wind, the waves and current are doing an incredible job at keeping pace.
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Tried to take a saltwater bath but lost my big white bucket in the process of fetching water. I am a litterbug of bucket proportion. I promoted a large container to bucket. It should work sufficiently for showers until I acquire a new bucket.
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Got a gale warning on my barometer, but I am sure this device is conspiring against me. No gale in sight.
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Reading about weather patterns and theory makes me paranoid. The advantages to being ignorant.
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Tried to forward my position using the Maritime Mobile net, 14.300 USB, and was ousted as a non-licensed user. Yeah, I don't have a license, but I am a single-handed sailor who relies on other people’s knowledge of my position as insurance against worst-case scenarios. Sure, I can transmit if I have an emergency, but what if my emergency renders me unconscious, or what if my radio is damaged? I understand the rules, but I see myself as an exception. I am professional when using the radio, don't break protocol (other than not having a call sign) and only transmit my position on maritime nets. My well being is more important to me than government rules governing light waves. Unfortunately I don't have a call sign to argue. From here on I can only listen. Jumping through the bands I found some coverage of the Olympics. Looks like I found the window after closing the door. 🙂
DAY 6
141 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
The age old question, “can pancakes be too fluffy,” has finally been answered. This morning I made some obscenely fluffy pancakes. Never again.
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Wind to my back, Seattle weather to the sky. I am finding myself hiding from the elements more the longer I cruise. During the Baja Ha Ha I was in the sun all the time and loved it. I was a tanned traveler by the time I reached Cabo, which is an impressive accomplishment for someone who typically only freckles. Now I am pale with twice the number of freckles. I hide from rain and sun. I am not ashamed. 🙂
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Struck my headsail because it was being dramatic. I hope it doesn't report me for sail abuse.
DAY 7
153 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
I have sailed half way to Fatu Hiva! ... Latitudinally speaking that is. I still have several days until I reach my actual halfway point.
DAY 8
154 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
The concept of time is lost on me. I pay attention to a 24-hour clock: the sun and the tidal effect of the barometric pressure. Did you know that the highs and lows of the pressure tide are so consistent that you can set your local time to them? Well, you can. 10am high, 2pm low, 10pm high, and 2am low. Pretty cool. I’m never wishing for time to move faster or slower so I guess I am keeping my mind active enough to not notice time passing in the first place.
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Why haven't I caught a fish yet? I’m sure I’m doing something wrong.
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Stood on the bow of Panache for almost an hour straight just looking out at the ocean in front of me. My feet were planted firmly in the deck, adjusting ever so slightly with every push from the endless carpet of waves rocking Panache. Schools of flying fish would disperse in violent wiggles from their tail in fear that I was some hungry predator. I must be following some yellow brick road of flying fish because this happens all day long. Even more impressive was how far these fish could fly. The more girthy ones could travel a hundred feet or more zooming over wave after wave and finally breaking the controlled glide in what looked like a violent fishy cannonball. Now that I think about it I probably spent two hours watching this. Someone should make this scene a screen saver ... or better yet a cable channel.
DAY 9
139 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
It seems that Jimmy Cornell was right to instruct sailors in avoiding “an area between 3 - 8 degrees S, and 95 - 108 degrees W,” due to a high frequency of “unsettled weather.” This area “appears to be an extension of the doldrums, with similar characteristics: overcast grey skies, confused swell, frequent squalls, often accompanied by lightning but rarely by rain.” Great, right when I think I was through with crap weather I stumble into more. The weather is quite fresh. Rough, but at least there is ample wind. I am making good time, but have to keep an extra close eye on the weather for fear of a violent gale. I was reading back through some old logs of Panache, and Tony went through a pretty extreme gale where the wind abruptly switched 180 degrees and blew 60 knots. This spring trap ended up ripping the main. I suppose I have enough to worry about, so I stopped reading after coming across this.
DAY 10
129 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
*Impending disaster on Panache* After days of hearing (and searching for) a mysterious clicking noise, I finally found the culprit. The mounting brackets for the self steering are not giving the structural support they were designed to provide. The clicking noise is the brackets separating from the boat just slightly and shifting the aluminum tubes in and out of their fittings. Eeeeeek! The backing plates to the mounting brackets are made out of wood and starting to rot. It should be an easy fix to replace them, but the bolts necessary might be difficult to find. The USA seems to be the only place selling reasonable grades of stainless steel. I also don't know how corroded the structural supports are from ionization between the steel bolts and the aluminum tubes and fittings. I can’t lose my self steering; it is THE most important system on the boat.
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I jury rigged some lines to pull the whole self steering unit back towards the boat, but I don't know how much it’s actually helping. The clicking noise isn't as loud, but is still present. The thought of hand steering 2,000ish miles doesn't sound appealing.
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During my salt water shower today I happened to accidentally scoop up what looked like a baby man-of-war jellyfish and pour it over myself. Note: always look at the contents of your bucket before you dump it over yourself. Surprisingly, the sting wasn't that bad. This makes me suspect it was some lookalike or a baby that has yet to develop strong stingers.
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I might lose all self control and eat every Oreo on this boat. It’s an evening ritual I look forward to. Being confined to a 30-foot boat for so long is making me eat out of boredom.
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For anyone attempting an offshore passage, the skill of sailing is recommended, but the skill of sleeping on command is required. If you can’t fall asleep on command, the next best skill is insomnia. I am slowly developing the latter.
DAY 11
121 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
My coffee went skydiving to the floor this morning. The cabin now smells like coffee all the time. A perfect mistake.
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I am a little worried about how my parents are holding up. Since my pirate call sign was discovered, I haven't been checking into the nets or relaying my position to anyone. I hear my father checking into 14.300 looking for me, but I can’t do anything about it. Frustrating. I’m behind a one-way panel of glass. I had so many opportunities in Mexico to get my license, but always convinced myself it wasn't necessary. Our lives are defined by opportunity, even the ones we miss.
DAY 12
149 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Today I reached my halfway point, and my odometer also tripped 5000 miles! Two big milestones. I look over the water and see nothing in the distance but the faint haze of clouds and the endless blue and white of the even more endless Pacific Ocean. I guess my inability to wrap my mind around my position stems from my inability to see farther than the horizon. The outside chance that a ship or some terrestrial echo is just over the horizon is comforting, even if it remains a ghost.
DAY 13
138 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
When I’m on deck and a fishing line is in the water, I feel obligated to watch it in the offhand chance that a fish strikes right at that moment. But like watching a boiling pot of water, it never does. Still no fish, but I have lost one lure to some toothy creature and have had several hooks bent back. So the fish are biting, but they are too big for my fishing gear I guess.
DAY 14
121 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Unreasonable fear #398473: running into a submerged shipping container. I think about this surprisingly often. Container ships lose cargo all the time, and some unfortunate boats hit these crates and sink. Terrifying, yes. Potentially lucrative? Double yes! I daydream of stumbling into a container filled with Xboxes or iPads. Yeah, I funded my circumnavigation by selling water-damaged electronics. What if I found drugs? Or a huge bag of money? These thoughts send me down a dark road of money-laundering schemes that is eventually broken by the thought of running into a dead body. No reward in finding a dead body. I met a boat in Chiapas, Mexico that found a dead body floating in the middle of the Tehuantepec. They called the Mexican Navy and stayed with the body for several hours, but the Navy never came. They ended up abandoning it because the Tehuantepec isn’t a place where you want to be hanging out. These things happen, but not to me. Probably a good thing.
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Looking at the second hand on the clock in the cabin and realizing it could be counting days.
DAY 15
132 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Ate my last stash of fresh vegetables today. I still have potatoes, onions, squash, cabbage, garlic and ginger, but I don't consider these things vegetables. A vegetable is something green and crispy that you can eat raw, or if you’re lucky, with a dab of ranch dressing. Vegetables should have a snap when you bite into one. I am doing well rationing my fresh produce; however, I completely fumbled my lime management. In the Galapagos I had close to 20 limes. I have used zero, and 90% are dead from mold. This is not my fault. The limes are for fish, and I have caught zero fish. Again not my fault, or at least I’m not ready to admit fault. I am slowly accepting the fact that I am not a lime master.
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Being on deck at night with a flashlight is somehow more scary, but don’t interpret this as me being afraid of the dark. I just don't like not being able to see what’s coming.
DAY 16
132 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Things to wiki
The FCC
The US bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade
Licensing photography
The patent process
Alan Turing
The nutritional value of an Oreo
DAY 17
106 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Where did the wind go?
The stars above, sails flogging below.
Time can save Panache.
DAY 18
98 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Wind shift. Motoring. Rain. Contemplating landfall options
Fatu Hiva
PRO: Small. Super green. Solid anchorage. Magical. Windward most island in the Marquesas. When in Rome. CON: No internet. Tight timeline. No customs to check into the country. Potential fine for making it your landfall.
Hiva Oa
PRO: I can check into French Polynesia legally. Internet. Burger potential high. CON: I will miss out on Fatu Hiva. The anchorage is rumored to suck eggs and be home to a large shark population. Large as in size or in numbers?
Let the soul searching commence.
DAY 19
109 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
No more motoring. Wind has resumed its normal pattern. The overcast weather makes me want to hibernate.
________________________
The moon has been so bright and very helpful in identifying brewing squalls at night. The saying “a storm is brewing,” really makes so much sense. Out here I have nothing in terms of a view. So when I see an ominous cloud, I watch it intensely for hours. What is it doing, where is it going, is this a bad cloud or an indifferent one? With nothing else to look at I really can see a storm brew. A process that so much time it normally is not worth anyone. Out here, its one of the few things I have to spare. When the moon isn't present, all I can look for is the black splotches void of stars. Black holes of the weather world.
DAY 20
118 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
I bet NASCAR would be entertaining right about now.
DAY 21
119 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
After watching The Thomas Crown Affair I decided I need to do two things: The first is obvious, reenact the marble staircase moment. Second, I need to say the line “Do you wanna dance? Or do you wanna dance?” with complete seriousness. I need more heist movies. I need a tuxedo. I need a girlfriend.
________________________
Still no fish!
DAY 22
92 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Snails would be embarrassed to travel this slow. Actually, I am moving quite nicely, I am just moving over a very long distance. While wing and wing sailing has been good to me, it does make Panache rock back and forth like a mother. This brain sloshing is getting old. Time to tack for some stable sailing.
________________________
STILL NO FISH!
DAY 23
101 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
If I were transported back in time to El Salvador, with my current experiences intact, I am curious if I would have started the crossing. I know its a pointless thought, but I guess I’m asking myself if I am happy where I am. Yeah. I am happy.
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Saw a boat but it didn't respond to my overeager hailing over the VHF. Realized later that the VHF antenna was disconnected. Consulted the GPS for my position and scaled the map to where I can now see individual islands. My perspective is getting crazy.
________________________
You know you are completely bored when a month ago you couldn't get 20 minutes into the movie This Means War, and now you find yourself digging through the digital trash to watch it. The worst part, I know the movie is complete shit, but I still enjoyed it.
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At the beginning of the passage I thought I would come to some sort of insight I could not come to without going on this passage. I am nearly to Fatu Hiva and I am pulling a blank. I enjoyed myself so I don't feel cheated. The insight idea was more of a plus than a purpose for the trip. Maybe I need to let the journey marinate. Insight cant be forced.
DAY 24, August 18, 2012 [is this the right date?]
113 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
Pretty sure I am going to make landfall tomorrow afternoon sometime. That is just a strange idea. I am so close and I haven't been this nervous since the day I left the Galapagos. The worst thing that could happen is for something to go wrong when I am so close.
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CAUGHT A FISH ONLY TO HAVE THE THING WRIGGLE ITSELF FREE BEFORE I COULD GET IT IN THE BLOODY BOAT! FAAAAAAAK! I am opening a can of tuna in protest of my lack of fish.
THE LAST (and longest) 9 HOURS AND 38 MINUTES
38 NAUTICAL MILES SAILED
I can see land, I can see land, I can see land! If I close my eyes I can smell it too. I see birds other than the long-distance travelers of the bird world, and my legs are developing restless leg syndrome, a syndrome I long discarded as informercial bullshit.
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Rounded the island to the windward side, struck the sails and dropped the hook. Fatu Hiva is quite a dramatic landscape to make landfall. The boat has a thick scum line that reaches the rail of either side. Looks like I wasn't the only one to grow a beard during the passage. I would write more about my reaction, but my eyes have more pressing things to look at.
Passage Time: 24 days, 9 hours, 38 minutes
Miles Covered: 3099 Nautical Miles
Engine Hours: 26
Best 24 Hour Run: 154 Nautical Miles
Worst 24 Hour Run: 92 Nautical Miles
Average 24 Hour Run: 127 Nautical Miles
Average Speed: 5.2 knots
Bay of virgins, Fatu Hiva
I said it months ago, and I will say it again: sailing to the Marquesas from the Americas is an endurance race of the mind. Sure there are moments of sailing stimulus, but in the middle of the ocean with the same landscape repeating over and over again, things can get a little dull, almost dreamlike. I am ok in my own skin. I know that now. I also now know that passages and places are just more fun with people (preferably friends). Maybe I can pick up crew, and maybe I can’t; either way I now know I can handle it.
My trip thus far. I feel pretty good about this...
Twenty-four days and a handful of minutes had sailed past, and I had seen nothing in front of my bow to challenge Panache. It was otherworldly to be so close to ... something. It was green. How could I almost forget such a crazy beautiful color? I hadn't seen a color like that for too long. Out here, that shade of green was only present in the floating plant matter and the much more rare dorado. These teeth of land arched immediately from the water and and had the dark texture of elephant skin. If I could only just reach out and touch it. As I studied it, I started to remember all the amazing things land meant, the paramount being security. Security in food. In water. In not getting sucked into the ocean. But to reach that security, you have to keep from crashing your boat into land, which became quite relevant as I bobbed towards this green land thing. How far out am I? I was a completely secure six miles away from the shore when I started to fumble on deck stuffing sails away sloppily. I guess I was afraid I was going to crash Panache into Fatu Hiva. I didn’t. On sailboats, things rarely move faster than you, and Panache was currently one of those things. When I finished stumbling on deck, I had ample time to catch my breath and realize I was being ridiculous. First, I was way too out of shape to be exercising after sitting for a month, and second, I just put the head sail away way too early. It’s been awhile. I slowly re-raised the jib and yelled, “Land HO!” with my fist in the air. I can only imagine how cheesy that looked, but in a strange way I had always wanted to say it with such conviction. If there ever were a time to yell it, it was now.
Panache rounded the northern tip of Fatu Hiva like a champ, and I cracked off 68 pictures along the way. I had a lack of self control and an abundance of digital room to fill. It took me awhile to totally recognize Baie des Vierges (Bay of the Virgins). This confusion was accompanied by the task of finding a large penis-shaped rock. My friends teased me that such a long single-handed passage would cause a change in my sexuality, but that’s all bullshit; I was looking for a monster penis rock because it was the navigational aid for the bay and how the bay got its name. When I found the thing, it wasn't as impressive as I had imagined. This should have been obvious since I had to use binoculars to find Fatu Hiva’s penis. Despite size, the spire couldn't be interpreted as anything else. Apparently, early explorers named the the bay, “Bay of the Phalli,” and this was a perfect name for a bay overlooked by an average-sized penis rock. But once missionaries got involved, an “i” was inserted amending the name to “Baie des Vierges” which translates to Bay of the Virgins, and this name was just confusing. If I were an explorer, I’m not sure I would sail to Penis Rock in Virgin Bay.
I lined Panache up perfectly to enter the bay and glided in without a breath of wind. Charlie's Charts said there is “gusty winds sweeping down the steep slopes,” but this evening was perfectly calm. When my depth read 10 meters, I dropped the anchor and formed a beautiful relationship with land. The sun was setting behind me washing the greens of Fatu Hiva orange. I was the only boat in the bay. In the peak of the season, 20 yachts could be anchored in this 1/8th-mile bay. What a waste that I was the only person to see this. I raised my camera and took a picture.
A fisherman rowed up and barking at me. Brain, translate what that fisherman just said. “Rum!?” Rum? The fisherman was right. I had just completed a long passage, and it was time for a celebration drink. I did have rum, but I only had one bottle and might need it for bartering purposes down the line. I opened one of six boxes of wines (also brought for bartering) instead. Alcohol is a universal currency but probably works best in remote South Pacific islands. I should have bought more in El Salvador. I later heard that a German boat spent their remaining budget for the Pacific in Panama on rum and wine and traded it with everyone including customs all the way to Australia. Pretty awesome story. I poured Steven, the Marquesan fisherman, and myself a healthy portion of boxed wine, and Steven handed me a rolled up cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I also don’t normally finish a 3,000 mile passage, so I smoked the damn thing. Between coughing fits, Steve and I managed to hold a continuous conversation with little understanding on both ends. A horrifying discovery was that people in French Polynesia speak French. I told Steven that my father’s name is Steven, and he told me something about a baguette. After many wild hand gestures, I understood that Steven was inviting me to his house so he could prepare some fish for me. Step on land and have someone feed me? Yes, please.
But first I had to blow up the dinghy, a task I am never excited about. Getting the dinghy out of Panache was a wrestling match, but once in the cockpit the hindrance became the limited space. If you looked at my inflated dinghy and the size of my cockpit, you would probably say they were the same size. You would almost be right. Unfortunately the dinghy is just slightly bigger, a defect that is only apparent as the last pounds per square inch pushing the plastic dinghy walls out. If the theme of the evening were anything but “Land” I wouldn't have set the world record for blowing up Panache’s dinghy. I will be sending my record to Guinness.
My dinghy speed to shore must have been unbearable for Steven, because he abandoned the hope I could row myself to shore within the year and pushed me with his kayak. The speed gain was mediocre. You have been killing yourself with walking speed for too long, ready yourself for speed-walking speed! I was grateful. The language barrier became more apparent when Steve and I tried a technical maneuver. Eventually he let me row solo in a straight line slowly as opposed to a zigzag line quickly with his help.
Once ashore we walked along a main road lined with fruit trees and hibiscus. It was a dark path, but it didn't take me long to realize it was the only main road on the island. And walking on land was crazy -- you didn’t have to brace yourself with every step! We met up with his wife and daughter who both spoke a tiny bit of English. First question that was asked: “Do you have a wife?” I answered in the negative with a shy laugh. The smell of flowers and fruit was so strong I could taste it. We passed many people, and they all greeted us with friendly smiles and words that could only come from a small community such as this one. I had a deep yearning to speak French, but had zero basis to try my hand at it. I was starting to feel like the typical dumb American. I asked the wife questions, but many answers came in the form of the same smile and nod that Steven provided when I spoke to him, so I can’t be sure if she understood.
The house was amongst others of the stilted variety, simple yet perfect for the surroundings. We went in the backyard, poured a cup of wine and started descaling the many fish. The fish were dumped on the ground creating a sunset of colors against the flat grey concrete. I would normally consider these fish to be too small to eat, but they turned out to have more than enough meat cumulatively. The noise of Steven’s handmade scale scraper, a wooden paddle with tiny nails driven all the way through, was periodically interrupted by wonderful questions: Do you want rice? Do you like limes? Do you want pummelo? I didn't know what that last thing was but I said yes. The descaled fish were filleted if big enough or if not, they were just cut into small pieces, bones and everything. The pink cubes of muscle were salted and then given a vigorous lime juice shower. Dinner was ready, fresh from the ocean.
The view was spectacular, and I wasn't the only one enjoying it. Those lights last night were coming from a boat named Rancho Relaxo of the Sea that was tacking into the bay. Sailing into this small bay to anchor at night. Impressive. A woman was standing on deck topless watching the same view. She turned and waved. I waved back and quickly looked away embarrassed. I hadn't noticed her at first but must have looked like I was staring. We aren't in Kansas anymore. I don't have a problem with the human form. I love it! Nudity just isn't something American culture embraces. It’s silly really, but it’s hard not to feel a little embarrassed when you have lived all your life thinking you should hide your body in front of other people. Another luxury of sailing solo -- naked sailing with no guilt.
The hike wasn't hard, but the temperature was enough to break a sweat. Everyone stripped down to their swimsuits and jumped into the sweet water. The water was clean and filled with bubbles from the cascade. We tried our luck at clinging to the crack that worked its way up the falls, but the slippery factor capped our progress to no more than a foot above the waterline. Abandoning fantasies of climbing any considerable distance up the falls, we climbed up the adjacent berm that hugged the pool of water at the base of the waterfall. A perfect spot to jump from. It wasn't high, but the relatively small landing made it exciting. We all took turns making the jump. Swimming in fresh water was a welcome change.
