Sailing – Page 3 – On the Horizon Line

sailing the south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall

Off To See The Wizard

The blue-green waters surrounding French Polynesia just turned into a yellow brick road. Rob gets to be the Scarecrow, and I’m gonna try my hand at Dorothy. We’ve nominated a blacktip shark to be Toto, and the thousands of coral heads lurking just beneath the surface play the Wicked Witches and flying monkey things.

I know. You’re asking if I’m writing this while on some weird island mushroom, right? Or assuming I got a tad too much sun, maybe? Nope. I’m just letting you know that Rob and I have joined a new sailboat. It’s motto? “Off to see the Wizard.” Check out the boat’s blog if you don’t believe me. John and Sue Campbell, a semi-retired couple from Sonoma County, California, have generously offered to share their floating home with us for a bit.

Wizard is a Choate 40 racer-cruiser, very similar in layout (and speed!) to Kayanos, our last ride. We like her, and we really like John and Sue. The four of us all have a similar sense of humor, which is basically the most important ingredient for successfully sailing around in the largest ocean on earth. Sue’s learning to play the ukelele, and doesn’t mind that Rob and I belt out tunes at all hours. John is a laid-back, mostly-Buddhist captain (unless someone tries to anchor too close) who misses microbrews as much as I do.

We met Wizard and her crew our first day on land in Nuku Hiva after the big passage, and hit it off immediately. A month later, John and Sue offered to take us on a day sail to north Fakarava so we could “look for another ride” when Kayanos sailed to Tahiti. Well, we didn’t look very long … the day sail turned into many days as we sailed north to Toau. We’ll likely make the 2-day passage to Tahiti aboard Wizard, as well. In fact, John keeps mentioning that we should just go ahead and buy Wizard when they finish their sailing adventure this November.

Guess we’ll see where our yellow brick road ends up. Meanwhile, Rob and I will make sure to keep our bare feet from clicking together, since we’re not definitely not ready to go home.

Sailing

The Dreamy Tradewind Passage to the Tuamotus

Ok. I take back everything I wrote about tough sailing passages. Was that me moaning over rough seas and flogging sails? And did I really write a tongue-in-cheek remix to the lyrics of Crosby Stills & Nash’s “Southern Cross?” (See below for the remix written about 3,000 miles into the Pacific crossing.) Sorry, David Crosby, for dissing your happy sailing song — we finally discovered the joy of “sailing a reach before a following sea” during our 4-day crossing from the Marquesas to the Tuamotus. Turns out that tradewind sailing is awesome.

We had a blast with Ben and Sarah cruising west and south. It helped that Kayanos, a 40-foot C&C, is a fast racing boat, and that Ben is a stellar sailor who loves flying the spinnaker (and, like us, hates running the engine). We flew along at 6 to 7 knots, even when the winds were a mere 7 to 10 knots. And it really helped that the seas were almost flat for the entire 550 mile journey.

But the main reason this crossing felt like such smooth sailing is because it was only FOUR DAYS. Yup. Since Rob and I decided to make our first ocean passage the longest one on the planet, everything from here on out feels like a cakewalk. In fact, the Marquesas to the Tuamotus is the second-longest crossing we’ll make this season. After this, we should be able to hop between islands in just a few days.

A few highlights: dolphins off the bow for a full 30 minutes, including plenty of babies flying along next to their mamas. Only having to cook for 4 people instead of 7. Catching (and eating!) a yellowfin tuna. Sailing right up to the bottom of a rainbow. Racing along at 8 knots on the last night in 20 knots of wind with a triple-reefed mainsail and a tiny staysail as we dodged coral atolls. Entering our first motu, Kauehi, through a narrow channel with an 8-knot opposing current and standing waves — kind of like paddling upstream in a Class IV river rapid but in a sailboat.

Kayanos is the exact opposite of Llyr in many ways. It’s been great to learn different systems for sailing, boat maintenance and passage-making. Although Llyr was a wonderful comfy boat for the long passage, Kayanos feels like a familiar friend. She’s more like Spindrift, the 26-foot Paceship that Rob and I sailed for 6 summers on Flathead Lake.

In fact, after our recent brush with tradewind bliss, Rob and I are once again talking about buying out own boat down the line. For a while there, sweating under peeling deck paint on sloshing swells, we were dreaming only of land-based mountain treks through Nepal (which still sounds awesome). Nothing like consistent winds and calm seas to reignite the romance with sailing. Oh, and arriving in one of the most beautiful lagoons on earth after the passage probably helped seal the deal on why having a sailboat would be rad.
SOUTHERN CROSS REMIX
ala ON THE HORIZON LINE

Left the mountains on a boat bound to southern islands
Expecting a reach and an easy sail
We searched for the trades with a motor
Flogging sails and a 10 foot seas
1,000 miles before we reach the Galapagos
We had 50 feet on the waterline, windward all the way
48 hours in port to worship hard ground
And after 2 weeks sailing west, there was no turning back

CHORUS:
Think about how many waves we have rolled over
Slingshot beam seas send our asses flyin’
Don’t believe that shit you read about the coconut milk run
We are sailing cross the Pacific Ocean
Wonderin’ what we were thinkin’
And if we’d ever do it again…
And you know we won’t. And you know we won’t.

When we saw the Southern Cross for the first time
It didn’t look quite as big as we’d hoped
And the cross waves off the beam, they were not small
And winds were fickle, as fickle as spring day
So we’re sailing for tomorrow ’cause there’s no choice
Fighting down the seasick, and fending off boredom
We have a nice steel ketch, but her flags are tattered
Only 8 more days left, until we can kiss land

CHORUS

So we sat, and we napped and we bounced
We ate oatmeal and rice, and longed for cheese and fruit
We will survive this ocean crossing
But we’ll remember there are more ways than sailing for 32 days
To see the Southern Cross.

Sailing

We’re not midgets … but it might be easier if we were.

Imagine your house. Now shrink it down to your living room and kitchen. That’s the size of the boat we lived on for 60-odd days with 7 people. Now take that space and shrink it down to 40 square feet. That’s the size of the space Rob and I shared for 2 months. Now we’re sharing 20 square feet aboard Kayanos. I know what you’re thinking … and, no, we’re not midgets, dwarves or leprechauns. We’re just brave, or really stupid, depending on your point of view.

You can read reams of blog posts and stories on how couples transition from living in comfy, spacious homes to living aboard a sailboat. Our growing pains aren’t that different, really, except that we moved into one small part of someone else’s sailboat, rather than having a whole boat to stretch out into. I hadn’t really thought ahead to how crunching into new space might affect Rob and me, individually and as a couple.

It’s not just space we have to share, either. Our new lifestyle required downgrading material goods, which was helped along rapidly by the Great Baja Theft. We have to swap the one music-making device left, the small laptop, the one red headlamp, the remaining water bottle, the new guitar (since Rob’s learning to play), the single body lotion, the yoga mat. At least we still have our own toothbrushes.

We didn’t live in a huge house, by American standards. But the 1,700 square-feet felt luxurious to us, and allowed us to each have our own room, or “chaos space.” Mine was dubbed the “earring room,” filled with jewelry, clothes, my desk, yoga stuff, guitars. Rob’s was dubbed the “gear room,” with his fly-tying station, 12 backpacks, packraft, fishing, hunting and skiing gear all on top of his paperwork and files. Now the remaining clothes, papers, yoga mat, guitar, backpacks and recreation gear must all fit in our 7 foot by 4 foot berth. Oh, and we have to fit in there, too.

For two super independent people who are used to having inherent boundaries of “my stuff” and “your stuff,” it’s been quite a transition. The good news: we’ll make it through our first anniversary. The other news: it ain’t easy sharing a tiny space with your partner, but it is doable with a lot of patience and a sense of humor.

Our bed aboard Llyr was the size of 2 of my body pillows at home (I sure miss those), and a far cry from the king bed Rob and I could each spread-eagle across at home (Rob definitely suffers more, since he’s a foot longer than our berth). Our closet consisted of 3 tiny cubbies and 2 shelves. Our desk doubled as a table and a toiletry/medicine cabinet. Instead of our own room, we each got our own hooks on the wall.

Let me stop here to be clear: this is the NICEST sailboat berth I’ve ever been in. Seriously. I was expecting one half the size, and was giddy with excitement that we had a big, breezy hatch to open, our own desk, 7 foot headroom, and … drumroll, please … a door to close! We already miss Llyr’s cushy berth as we wedge into a smaller berth aboard Kayanos (where Rob abandons me to stretch out on the settee most nights). But even the best berth ever is still small enough to create some angst between a husband and wife used to living very independently.

To compensate, we compromise. A few minor sacrifices maintain the greater peace: Rob lets me have an extra pillow on the tiny bed, and a whole hook dedicated to hair ties. I ignore the constant clutter on the desk, and his boxers hanging in my face from the improvised clothesline. I get more cubby space since I have 5 times more clothing, and Rob gets an extra shelf for his fishing gear.

Luckily, Rob and I are both communal people, used to traveling and sharing our home, our gear, our lives with others and each other. The only tough part, really, were the up-front negotiations about who gets what when, not the least of which is a bit of privacy. As long as I can occassionally spread-eagle alone on the berth with a book and he can tune me out with headphones and loud music, we seem to get along just dandy.

We’ll see what our next berth looks like as we hop sailboats across the Pacific, but I can predict one thing for sure: before long, we’re going to be so good at maximizing tiny spaces that we just might be able to live in a leprechaun home.

Sailing

We aren’t winning any beauty contests.

You might be asking yourself: is the title of this post an oxymoron? The answer is: usually. It depends upon a few things, like 1) the length of crossing, 2) the type of boat, and 3) the cleanliness habits of the sailor. Ours was one of the longest crossings you can make across the ocean without the opportunity to stop: there simply ain’t no land between the Galapagos and the Marquesas, much less showers or soap stores. That means we were already prone to lax hygiene, especially if #3 was questionable among certain crew (e.g. Rob Roberts).

Let’s start with how the boat setup can shape hygiene. As you know, sailboats come in all shapes and sizes. Just like cars, you can get ones that are fully loaded or stripped to the bone. One of the “fully loaded” options for boats is a water maker. These nifty devices use osmosis to turn sea water into fresh water, giving you an almost unlimited amount of fresh water to shower, brush your teeth, shave body parts, and have water fights. The limitation becomes the energy supply these handy machines need, which is fairly intensive. You have to pay for your copious water by either running your engine a lot to feed the batteries, or installing solar panels or windmills to keep your water maker happy.

Neither Llyr nor Kayanos have a water maker. They do, however, have a bucket on a rope, which is almost as good. We carry a limited supply of freshwater, roughly 1 gallon per person per day, to drink and cook with. That’s where the bucket on a rope comes in, since boats are surrounded by lots and lots of sea water. We used saltwater pumps to flush toilets and wash dishes, and the bucket-on-a-rope to clean everything else, including ourselves. Joy dish soap and Woolite were the main cleaning agents, since they suds in saltwater. We also went through a hefty amoung of hand sanitizer.

The problem with using the ocean to clean things is that a lot of stuff lives in ocean water … microscopic, nutrient-rich, stinging stuff. After a while, the counters, clothes, dishes and your hair start to smell like plankton (ok, plankton might not smell, but something in the water smells). We use a lot of vinegar and sometimes even bleach to combat the plankton-salt-slime buildup (and you thought your toilet was gross…). But even then, everything becomes thicker and tougher as the salt builds up. I swear my shirts could stand on their own after a few washings in seawater.

As for our personal hygiene, it varies greatly among the crew. We did all brush our teeth every night … sooo, we had that going for us. When squalls came through, we’d all run outside with soap and shampoo, hoping it’d rain hard enough to get some lather going. It never rained that hard, but we still soaped up and caught rivulets off the sails to rinse off the salt. I took a sponge bath each evening with a bucket of saltwater, and Rob took bucket showers when he got hot enough to dump it over his head.

I washed my hair every 10 days or so, though using Joy dishsoap and saltwater didn’t do much for my overall ‘do. Gross. For instance, from April 18 to May 28, I washed my hair twice with freshwater. It was a near orgasmic experience each time. Rob never uses shampoo on land, anyway, so didn’t bother with the Joy at sea. He did buy a battery-powered electric razor in Panama City, which he used 3 times in 40 days to get rid of his beard. The boys also played with the razor when they got bored, giving each other some super rad haircuts. My shaving habits dwindled to every couple of weeks from the bucket, mostly because I only brought 3 razors and you only get one use from each before they turn into a pile of rust.

It may sound horrifying. And it’s certainly true that blue water sailing is not for the faint of heart (or those sensitive to smelly stuff). Luckily, there’s not really any dirt on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and we aren’t physically active enough to smell that bad. We feel clean enough and stay healthy during the voyage. Plus, since there are no mirrors, it’s easy to forget we aren’t winning any beauty contests.

changing sails on the bow on hte horizon line blog brianna and rob pacific ocean

Reflections on Life, Sailing

The Pain of Passage-Making

Many people envision sailing as a romantic and relaxing hobby. I still do, too, even knowing from experience that the romance and relaxation account for about 10% of the actual time on a sailboat. It’s easier — and more fun — to talk about the sunsets and stars, or even the more dramatic storms or near-disasters, than the daily routine of sailing across the ocean. But no one really mentions the parts of passage-making that slowly drive you insane. Or that there will be at least one morning when you’ll close your eyes tight against the new day, hoping to make it tomorrow already so that you don’t have to deal with the constant motion and maintenance of a floating home a thousand miles from anywhere.

No one talks about the frustration of flapping sails that grate like fingers on a chalkboard. About the persistent sideways swells that keep you gyrating like a drunk pendulum and make your brain feel like it’s on a merry-go-round with no way to get off. About the fact you’ll scream at the dishes to “just fucking stop it!” the 1,024th time they rattle, roll and crash to the floor. About the fact that you’ll need to change sails at midnight on a wildly swinging deck in the rain because no one can sleep with the boom banging in the light winds. About the rash on your butt from sitting so damn much.

No one told me that if my husband was seasick much of the first half, I’d have double-duty cooking and cleaning. Or about the fact that there are endless amounts of dishes on a boat with 7 crew members. Or about how dizzy you’ll get watching the gimbaled stove rock as you attempt to make a meal for those 7 people with the dishes flying every which way and bottles clanging out onto your head when you open cabinets.

It’s hard work, this sailing across the planet business. Tiring, monotonous, frustrating work. Luckily, Rob and I were under no illusions this crossing would be anything less. We came aboard knowing we’d have to take one day at a time.

Of course, to be fair, there are dozens of small miracles cruisers’ forums and sailing books forgot to mention, too, interspersed blessings that take the edge off. Like how the sound of your bow wave can calm those grated nerves. Or how standing on the foredeck will make you laugh aloud as you surf up, up, up and down the endless swells. And how luxurious it can feel to have the time and space to think — or not to think — as you stare aimlessly across the miles as they roll by.

We learned that it’s little things that are the most challenging to overcome, like dishes and rashes and moldy sheets. But we also learned that it’s the little things that keep you from going insane. The well-timed joke from a crew member that makes you giggle instead of scream. The flying fish and swirling storm petrels that come by to say hi. The thoughtful husband that brings you a pillow for your sore butt while you sit gazing from the bow. The game of Scrabble or the book that sucks you in and holds the world at bay.

The way I see it, a long crossing might be akin to what I’ve heard about childbirth: the pain pales when you hold the fruit of your labor. The daily frustrations of sailing evaporate when the dolphins appear or when you see the turquoise waters approaching land. The pain of passage-making will eventually fade in comparison to the romantic memories, even if they do only account for 10% of the voyage. And I’ll probably be another one of those people who forget to mention the flapping sails and rattling dishes.

Post-Script from Later in the Passage:

Day 29 of the passage. After a stellar post-fresh-produce dinner of chiptle chicken enchiladas with roasted red peppers, we were all sitting in the cockpit digesting and watching the full moon on the water. Gavin decided to start a sharing game. His brothers tried to joke it off, but he was adamant that everyone answer the question: “Why are you here, now, on this boat?” These answers are almost verbatim.

Gavin (10): “Because the ocean is fun and exciting. And you never know what might happen. I thought today would be the same as yesterday, but then that Japanese fishing boat passed 100 feet off our bow this morning and I made a horn from a conch shell.”

Bri (32): “Because I have no choice today to be anywhere else. A big part of why we chose this boat, though, is because of you, Gavin. We wanted to be with people of all ages, including kids, during the first part of our ocean adventure.”

Connor (18): “Because of a whole host of preconceptions and misconceptions, both correct and incorrect.”

Rob (37): “Because Bri told me she’s always wanted to cross the Pacific, and I let myself be convinced it’d be a good idea.”

Rowan (15): “Because there’s nowhere else to go. And it’s a good opportunity to explore. Plus, it makes me appreciate the things I like best about home and school.”

Brooks (53): “This is the type of adventuring I’ve done most of my life, in a different format. We chose this boat and this course as a means of addressing the tactical and technical aspects of climate change impacts on the planet. We’re expensing everything to make this trip: economically, emotionally, physically. And we’re hoping it becomes a way to pursue our passions while supporting us economically.”

Janis (49): “Because Connor went to Maine one summer and took a bunch of sailing classes. Next thing I knew, we bought this boat and here we are.”

rainbow sailboat marquesas tropical island on the horizon line blog

Sailing, Traveling

Check out our new digs.

We have a new address here in French Polynesia. Instead of telling people to find us “on the light green ketch called Llyr,” we now give directions to the “dark blue sloop named Kayanos.”

Last night we schlepped our shit over to Ben and Sarah’s 42-foot sailboat. Somehow our belongings managed to undergo mitosis aboard Llyr and doubled in size. We transported one backpack each to one pack + 3 bags + 2 sacks of fruit each via dinghy in the wet, dark Marquesan night. Good thing we only went about 200 yards.

Why move, you ask? Because transitions are part of our adventure. Because Llyr is on a tight schedule for getting to Tahiti and we’d like to spend as long as possible exploring the underwater world in the Tuamotus, a series of coral atoll islands that circle world-class lagoons. Because Ben and Sarah offered us space, and we thought it’d be fun to go with folks younger than us.

Rob and I learned a ton about electronics, provisioning, and how to care for steel boats during our time aboard Llyr. We had a blast with the Steele-McCutchen clan, and look forward to seeing them in many bays and ports along the way.

How’d we find our new digs? By chatting with folks in the small town of Taiohae and “knocking on hatches” as we scooted around the bay in a dinghy. In this case, we made friends with John and Sue aboard Wizard, who pointed us toward Kayanos. It’s a fairly small community of sailboats hopping Pacific islands, and we’ve already made friends with boats we keep seeing in different ports.

Ben and Sarah are both in their mid-20s, and grew up outside of Anchorage, Alaska. Ben bought Kayanos with his buddy in San Diego, and spent a year fixing her up in preparation for the voyage across the Pacific. He’s a climber and a surfer and an excellent sailor. Kayanos is a 1970s racing boat, about as opposite a vessel from Llyr as you can get. Instead of radar, roller furlers and SSB, we have hanked-on sails, a solar panel and paper charts. She speeds along at 7-8 knots easily, and rarely requires a motor.

We’re looking forward to learning more about Kayanos and her crew for the next few weeks. The plan: head to the northeast corner of Nuku Hiva to check out the secluded Anaho Bay, and then set off Monday or Tuesday for the ~4 day passage to the Tuamotu archipelago. We hope to visit 3-4 atolls in the Tuamotus over the following 2 weeks, where we’ll snorkel and dive with sharks, rays, and a huge diversity of fish. It’s gonna be awesome.

kung fu ninja kick on the horizon line blog rob roberts

Dance and Yoga, Sailing

Magic Mood Mixture (nope, no illegal substances included)

I know many of you who followed our voyage across the Pacific are secretly asking yourselves this very important question:how the hell did Bri and Rob keep from losing their minds during while bobbing around the ocean blue for a whole month?

First off, don’t kid yourselves: we definitely lost it at times. Second, we each quickly learned what would bring us back from the brink of insanity, and what would keep us as pleasant as possible during the crossing. For me: 1) music 2) exercise 3) caffeine 4) naps. Most of you know that this is the exact same mixture that keeps me sane and bearable on land, too. Just give me some espresso, a dance class or bike ride, and some good tunes to sing along to and my bad mood usually lifts.

Napping is new, though — I’ve always hated that groggy post-nap disorientation, and feeling like I was missing out on something exciting. Nothing like a weird night watch schedule to change my tune about the value of naps. Plus, watching Rob’s impressive cat-napping ability inspired me to follow suit. Rob’s magic mood mixture is about the same as mine, if you double his nap quotient and replace caffeine with mini-projects (fixing broken binoculars, rigging fishing lines, inventing a way to detangle all the ropes at the mast, etc.). Here’s some details on our passage sanity formula:

1) Music: Me playing the shitty nylon-string guitar we bought in Panama City (thank god we found it), and Rob learning how to play his first-ever song on the guitar. Either of us zoning out to favorite tunes with headphones blasting to cover the fact that you’re sharing a very small space with 6 other people, 3 of whom are bickering brothers. Me dancing as best I can, using the stays and shrouds as my partners as I kick, spin, arc, and flail to the beat of a bass. The whole crew singing to Johnny Cash as we cook dinner and do dishes, walking around the tilted cabin like drunk sailors (who haven’t seen a drop of alcohol for a month).

2) Exercise: A fascinating, innovative, hilarious endeavor given the motion and lack of space. I exercised a few times a day, although the definition of “exercise” is totally stretchy compared to what I’d do in regular life. Squats, lunges, pushups and crunches were ubiquitous, along with some fancier strength training moves that required holding on for dear life to something bolted on the deck. I tried out various creative cardio routines, consisting of jumping jacks, running in place, can-can kicks, mountain-climbers, and pretending the single step on deck was a stairmaster. Yoga stretches were a mainstay, of course, throughout the day. The end result? I’m more toned than I’ve ever been in my life, but a dying tortoise could beat me at a 100-yard dash. It’s tough to maintain any sort of aerobic activity when you can’t really walk without falling over.

3) Caffeine: What I would give for an espresso machine … sigh. Next time, I’m bringing lots of good teas and coffee. This trip, though, we made do with crappy instant (Buen Dia!), and some sketchy tea bags that barely tinted the water after steeping. I horded the one tin of stellar green tea, meting out one bag per day when at my crankiest.

4) Naps: Learned to love ’em. Not only do they refresh after getting up in the middle of the night for watch, they also make time go faster, provide an exciting position change from sitting on your butt, give you some alone time, and offer relief from intense midday sun. Rob brought napping to a new level, sleeping sitting up, in the cockpit, splayed out on the yoga mat, or folded into weird positions. While I couldn’t quite match his napping enthusiasm, I’m definitely a convert to taking one per day.

The biggest challenge was trying to add something new or creative or interesting into each day. Something that differentiates it from all the other rolly blue sameness. For me, even a new dance move or a new ingredient to spice up a coffee drink could push me over the edge from a low to a high. Rob and I both learned (and continued to re-learn) that there’s a very fine line between despair and contentment on a boat out at sea.

Sailing

Daily Routine at Sea

The last 33 days at sea seem lost in space. May evaporated like the spindrift from the waves we rode to the Marquesas. Where did those days go? What the hell did we do that whole time? Well, a lot of the same thing.

Mark Twain summed up passage life pretty well: “Being on a boat is like being in prison, but with the possibility of drowning.” We didn’t drown. We definitely lost track of days. And we mitigated the confinement jitters by sticking to daily routines that helped pass the time. Ironically, Rob and I both shun routines back home, preferring impulsive last-minute activities that change as often as the Montana weather in spring.

Out at sea, the routine — boring as it became — was what fended off madness, and allowed us to cope with seemingly endless quantities of time bobbing through the exact same scene. The upshot of making a 4,000 mile passage right off the bat, though, is that the upcoming sails between Pacific islands will feel like a walk in the park.

Here’s a snapshot of our version of groundhog day the past month:
0000 Connor knocks on our berth: “Bri, you’re up for watch.” I mumble and stumble out to trade places with him.
0200 My watch ends, after some yoga, star-gazing, sail-trimming, and storm-watching. I stay up til I get sleepy again, usually around 3:00am
0700 Daily “net,” a radio check-in with ~15 boats scattered over 2,000 miles. We share positions, make sure everyone’s ok, and brag about any fish caught.
0800 Oatmeal and tea. Maybe some granola if it’s the first week. Catching up on interesting night events, like flying fish landing on your pillow.
1000 Read. Or stretch. Or work on a mini-project, like baking bread, macrame anklets, personal grooming, sail repairs, changing fishing lures.
1200 Lunch, ranging from Top Ramen to crepes to three-bean salad.
1300 Naps. Reading. Maybe some guitar playing.
1400 Jumping jacks or yoga or dancing.
1500 Games organized by Gavin, like Scrabble or poker or hearts.
1600 Kids’ game time on the SSB radio. We gathered round to listen to nearby sailboat kids play Battleship, 20 Questions or Hangman. Good times.
1700 Pushups and lunges and situps. Maybe more jumping around.
1800 Dinner preparation: we perfected one-pot wonders onboard.
1900 Story time and stargazing in the cockpit.
2000 Rob’s watch starts, while I read or write.
2200 Rob comes to bed, and I try and nap for an hour or two before Connor comes to wake me … starting the whole cycle over again.

The routine didn’t change much, really. Interspersed at all hours were sail changes (which took up most of the day during the first 2 weeks before we hit the tradewinds), watching birds and flying fish and any visiting marine mammals (which disappeared week 3 and 4 for some reason), and reminiscing about our favorite foods that were currently way out of reach. I’ll write more about a few exceptional events that broke up this routine in upcoming posts.

When I write down here what we did all day, it suddenly sounds like a long, relaxing vacation. Reading, eating, playing games? It makes for a great Sunday. But when you stretch it out to 30+ Sundays with no real choice on ways to break the cycle … well, let’s just say Mark Twain knew what he was talking about.

on the horizon line blog sailing pacific graduation at sea

Ocean Tales, Sailing

Land Ho! Kaloha, Nuku Hiva.

WE MADE IT!

33 days at sea. 52 days total on the boat. 4,178 miles of ocean. 2 full moons. 3.5 time zones. 1 proxy high school graduation ceremony. 25 pounds of rice. 3 minor sail repairs. 4 avian hitchhikers. 8 new constellations. 18 degree shift in water temperature. Dozens of flying fish on deck. Hundreds of oatmeal packets consumed. Thousands and thousands of waves under our keel.

We arrived in the Marquesas today, the easternmost islands of French Polynesia that are a much welcome raft of green mountains and waterfalls in the middle of a big, big, big ocean. Landfall at Nuka Hiva inspired many emotions, the first of which was relief and the second of which was awe. The crew of Llyr moved at an average of 5.5 knots this past month (with an occassional 7-knot sprint thrown in), which is basically the equivalent of jogging from San Diego to Maine and then down to Florida. Read: it was a LONG journey. 150 square miles of solid ground never looked so decidedly delicious.

The Pacific crossing inspired just as many emotions as landfall, many of which will be shared in upcoming blog posts. For now, let’s suffice it share the basic summary: our first ocean crossing was a resounding success. No one got scurvy, went overboard, or was banished from the boat. Rob and I have lighter hair and darker skin, and we still like each other, too. The injury list is relegated to a few bruises and one burn I got while making cookies in a swaying boat (they were worth the pain).

Stay tuned for a whole host of stories and reflections from our month at sea. Sadly, the internet connections in French Polynesia are slow and scarce, so we’ll be going light on photos for each post. I promise to post photo albums when wifi speed allows. Meanwhile, check out this scene of the crew attending Connor’s surprise high school graduation ceremony on May 18th, which substituted (sort of) for the one he missed in favor of joining this journey.

boat provisions food sailing crossing pacific on the horizon line travel blog

Food and Drink, Sailing

Provisioning Your Boat: How To Feed 7 for 40 days

Feeding 7 people for 40 days requires roughly 1.5 feet of grocery receipts per person. It also pencils out to about $6 per person per day. Pretty cheap, right? Especially if you totally ignore the thousands of dollars spent on other parts of sailing a boat across the largest ocean on earth. The conundrum begins when you try and figure out what, exactly, to feed that many mouths for that many days.

I took on boat provisioning as my contribution to the pre-Canal-crossing preparations, while Rob worked on projects ranging from oil changes, to radio setup to repair jobs. This meant making sure we had quantities right, making lists, and checking with the family members on what foods worked for them or didn’t. It also meant careful monitoring of the teenage boys’ ability to consume vast amounts of snacks and dinner portions (and by teenage boys, I include my husband).

P.S. HAPPY 60TH BIRTHDAY, DAD! I LOVE YOU LOTS, AND MISS YOU. THANKS FOR TEACHING ME TO LOVE THE SEA.

First off, we needed a lot of rice. We brought 40 pounds of rice along, which will form the basis of Asian-fusion and Mexican-style style dinners roughly 4 nights a week. Other staples include tortillas (35 bags), beans (25 cans), flour for bread (10 lbs), eggs (30 dozen), and peanut butter (14 pounds). Most cruisers find that they eat more snacks than big meals, based on watch rotations, bouts of queasiness, or general heat-induced apathy toward food. We stocked up on easy edibles, including packets of oatmeal and mashed potatoes, popcorn, tuna cans, fruit rollups, nuts, olives, hummus, and some candy.

As for perishables — well, you don’t get them for long. Our refrigerated space is the size of one shelf in a normal fridge (and remember: 7 people for 40 days). Creativity is key for spicing up those rice and beans. This spice comes from seasoning packets and sauces and chutneys. And, for the first week or so, from all the fresh veggies and fruit we picked up in Panama City. Once the mushy stuff is gone (bananas, mangos, tomatoes, papaya, peppers), we’ll still have hardy produce for a bit (potatoes, coconuts, carrots, plantains, onions, apples, limes). After that, we start dumping in some of the 40+ cans of fruit and veggies I bought in Colon.

Some of the cool tricks I learned about provisioning:

– Boxed milk is irradiated and doesn’t need to be refrigerated until after you open it. We have 35 cartons onboard.

– Eggs stay good if you turn them every 3 days so the yolks don’t stick to the shell and get exposed to bacteria in the air.

– Pressure cookers are awesome for cooking all kinds of food, including fresh bread.

– It’s remarkable how much you can cram in a small space.

– Weevils can infest flour even when it’s double-bagged and in a sealed container.

– You can live on very little for a long time, but you can also make spectacular meals with much less than you think.