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

A Treatise on Slacker-dom

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

It’s a luxury to be totally irresponsible. I’m not taking it for granted, either. For someone like me who was a workaholic and a (slight) control freak during my academic and professional careers, it’s totally novel to just sit back and do nothing for a change. Sure, I’ve always been good at taking long, relaxing vacations. But it feels remarkably different to have no end in sight for the long vacation, no one to worry about except me and Rob, no responsibilities, deadlines, bills, or schedule.

I thought I’d be antsy with the free time. I thought I’d be motivated to think up new life goals, to set objectives for next steps. I thought I’d immediately start on the Great American Novel, or organize dance parties and potlucks every night. And I DEFINITELY thought I’d squirm at having to take orders on other people’s boats. Instead, I feel little pull to make big decisions right now, and even the small ones sometimes seem taxing. Surprisingly (at least to me), I’m enjoying following instead of leading. I’m wallowing happily in my newfound slacker-dom.

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

Of course, there have certainly been moments when I wish I could just take the wheel myself, set the anchor where I want, or organize the cabin my own way. Early on, I had to learn when to bite my tongue and get used to asking permission instead of giving directions. But the transition into ceding responsibility took much less energy than I’d thought. Granted, we participate in decisions to a point, and chime in if we ever feel our safety is at risk.

But 90% of the time, if the captain says “sheet in the main,” I turn the winch and if he says “go to port,” I turn the wheel. And if we hit a reef or the sail rips, it isn’t my responsibility to fix the problem. Even when the control freak in me rears her head occassionally, she quickly bumps into the slacker wallowing on the surface and settles back down.

My slacker-dom was fully revealed to me in Huahine, when I balked at leading yoga sessions for cruisers. That’s how far I’d come in shirking all responsibility: I was reluctant to even take charge of a half-dozen sailors who wanted to stretch for an hour. Jeez. I’ll tell you more about those yoga sessions in the next post, but for now I’ll just say that my normal personality emerged and I happily taught some poses on the beach.

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

The problem with suddenly being in charge of something, though, was that it woke up my ambitious side. Just a little bit, but enough to make me look around and have a minor epiphany: slacker-dom decreases freedom. Counter-intuitive, right? All of you reading this who are inundated with deadlines, bills and schedules are scoffing at me, thinking that I’m the one with all the freedom. And that’s certainly true, to an extent. But the less responsibility we take, the less chance we have to influence our future. The less we lead where we want to go, the more powerless we are to determine our destination.

In less oovy-groovy terms: if Rob and I owned our own boat, we could go wherever we wanted, however we wanted. We could let our sails luff or yank in the sheets to go faster. Same with me leading yoga instead of following someone else: I get to pick the poses that feel good in my body, and be creative in shaping the flow and flex of the practice. I’m definitely not ready to be my own capitan yet, nor do I want to set up a yoga-for-cruisers school. But after a four-month hiatus from being responsible, I think my slacker-dom might be subsiding some. We’ll see what emerges from the mellow muddle the South Pacific has made of my more ambitious side.

on the horizon line - sailing and traveling blog in mexico

Yoga Boat-Style: Root Through Your Feet.

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Imagine doing yoga without ever finding stillness in a pose. Imagine your downward dog is always walking, rocking, swaying to and fro. Imagine that your greatest accomplishment during practice is holding chair pose without doing an accidental somersault. Imagine going back to the beginning after you’d been advancing through a practice for 15 years.

Practicing yoga while sailing the big blue sea probably feels similar to doing yoga in a dryer set on “tumble.” It requires a whole new level of zen. Even though attempting yoga on a bouncing boat can be extremely frustrating in itself, the alternative would be even more frustrating: I would be a horrible crew member and unhappy human without my practice onboard. Yoga helps me breathe through the ocean’s endless time. It centers me within an incomprehensibly vast space.

Continuing to practice at sea unveiled new wells of patience with myself, and forces me to accept the limits imposed by the watery world around my floating home. The worst sacrifice: no headstands. Bridge and downward dog are about the only safe inversion in 15-foot seas. Forward bends and child’s pose round out the blood-to-the-head poses. Second saddest sacrifice: no balancing poses … at least in the traditional sense.

on the horizon line - sailing and traveling blog in mexico

In reality, every movement all day long on passage is its own balancing pose. Even the simplest yoga asanas requires 100 times more forcus on balance than they do on land. The rolling swells require at least 3 points of contact at all times, but often 4 points is mandatory. Triangle becomes a tangle as the stern dips 20 degrees left, then right, then flings left again. Warrior series are possible only if one hand maintains a death grip on a nearby lifeline, which limits their fluidity and mobility. A simple sun salutation is an ab-busting, shoulder-wrenching, mind-over-matter exercise as my ass becomes a pendulum threatening to overtake my anchor points on deck. I’ll never roll my eyes again when an instructor says to “root through my feet” or “feel grounded in the pose.”

Luckily, yoga at sea provides plenty of benefits, once I was ready to receive them. Even as a moving boat drastically narrows the diversity of available asanas, it doubles the amount of time I practice. Each morning I move through sun salutes to energize and elongate. Long, comforting stretches settle my mind and bones during the 12:00 to 2:00am night watch each evening. I have a newfound affection for the hatha and yin yoga poses I used to shun in favor of faster-paced flow. The rocking space lets me connect truly and deeply to each asana.

I still long for the day when I can cement my feet — and my head! — to a substrate that stays still. Meanwhile, yoga reminds me that my body is still my own, though it feels lighter and smaller beneath the uncontrollable wind and waves. It keeps me saner, calmer, quieter, and more real during the surreal journeys across the sea.

sailing polynesia blog travel on the horizon line brianna randall and rob roberts

Heading West on Compass Rose(y)

sailing polynesia blog travel on the horizon line brianna randall and rob roberts

And…we’re on another new boat! Are you dizzy yet, keeping up with our moves? We are.

That’s why we plan to stay put for a bit, right here on Compass Rose(y). Why the parenthesis, you wonder? Because in many countries, especially British-related ones, no two boats can be registered with the same name. When the previous owner bought Compass Rose, a 43-foot Polaris, he registered her in England where a Compass Rose was already plying the world’s oceans…so he just added a “y” and called it good. Our sail cover still says Compass Rose, but the name painted on the side has a faded “y” hanging out as an afterthought. It gives her character. (To be clear, I’m the only one that adds the parenthesis.)

We first laid eyes on Rose(y) in Taiohae Bay in the Marquesas. The owners have since decided to head home by air, and hired our friend, Mark, to sail the boat to Australia. In the small world of Pacific sailing, we met Mark in Taiohae, as well, when he was still crewing on Wizard, the sailboat we spent a few weeks on in the Tuamotus and Tahiti. When Mark learned he had a few thousand more miles to sail aboard Rose(y), he emailed us from Raiatea to ask for some help.

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Back in Papeete, we promptly said “hell, yes” and bid fond adieu to Wizard. Two hours later, we’d packed up and hitched a ride with our friend Paul aboard Thankful for the 100 mile, 24-hour sail from Tahiti to Huahine to meet up with Rose(y). Paul was conveniently anchored 50 feet from Wizard. He was also the first person we met in Shelter Bay, and we crossed the Panama Canal with him aboard Maunie. Told you it was a small world.

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Fast forward to the present: Mark, Rob and I are sailing Compass Rose(y) into the rose-colored sunset without any owners aboard. It kinda feels like when your parents left you alone for the weekend in high school (minus the beer kegs). We plan to hit up a few more of the Society Islands in the next couple of weeks, and then slowly hop our way the 1,300 miles to Tonga. The goal is to stop in at Palmerston in the Cook Islands, and Niue, an island all alone in the middle of nowhere.

Rob and I are pretty excited to settle into our berths for a couple of months, and stow the giant bags rather than live out of them. Rose(y) is super comfy, meeting all our requirements for a stellar sailboat: she has wide, flat teak decks that are perfect for yoga, lots of cockpit cushions for our bony butts, and enough headroom in the cockpit to keep Rob’s scalp scar-free. Oh, and she can sail, too!

sailing polynesia blog travel on the horizon line brianna randall and rob roberts

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts drums yacht club tahiti

Boy, do I love Rob.

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Rob’s writing a song. He sits on the bow, bent over the small nylon-string guitar we bought in Panama City, humming softly to himself: “Duh duh duh, dum dee dum dum, ba-daaaaaa.” I smile as he ends with a flourish. Rob’s only been playing guitar for two months, but the little ditty he invented has a catchy rhythm and clear chords. I have no doubt the soon-to-emerge lyrics will be clever, too.

That’s my husband, I think proudly to myself.

I still feel all warm and fuzzy inside when I say that word. We married each other one year ago today, in a sunny park along a cold river in the center of hundreds of family and friends. We vowed to explore the world and ourselves together. Making music together is just one of the many explorations we’ve undertaken this year, but — to me — it represents so much about our relationship. The willingness to try new things, the desire to be creative, the ability to take risks and put ourselves in uncomfortable situations, the search for beautiful moments, the patience to teach and to learn, the ease with which we find humor in the mundane.

These are the things I treasure about my husband. About being a wife. About living together in small spaces in a vast world.

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts drums yacht club tahiti

I was only mildly surprised when Rob turned to me a week into our Pacific crossing (once his seasickness wore off) and asked me to teach him how to play guitar. “My aunt told me I should try and learn something new on our sailing trip,” he said. “I figure I’ve got time, I love music, and I’ve got a teacher right here.” Many people don’t choose to learn new things at age 37. But Rob isn’t most people.

My husband is special, and I celebrate that fact on more days than just today. Out here in tropical ocean land, days in a row go by where I feel even more in love with him than I did on our wedding day. A few nights ago, as we discussed the many decisions facing us over the next months and the many decisions we’ve already made, Rob said to me: “I feel like the our relationship has been the most sure thing about our whole trip.”

I know exactly what he means. In the midst of queasiness, constant change, wonderful moments and horrible ones, Rob and I have depended heavily on each other. We can’t turn to friends and family, as we normally do. And we can’t just take a walk when one of us gets frustrated, either. It’s all or nothing out here. I marvel at how well we mesh, how well we’ve learned to navigate unknown circumstances, how quickly we adjusted to spending almost every minute of the day together.

Sure, there are plenty of times when we snapped at each other this past year, or when I wanted nothing more than to spend the day alone. That’s just life. But, amazingly, the more days that go by, the more we accept each others’ faults, moods, needs, mistakes.

sailing in polynesia on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Here are the simple things I cherish about him today, in this moment, on our anniversary, anchored off a lush island on someone else’s boat, at the beginning of our adventure together across the biggest ocean on the planet.
– He cooks one-pot wonders in record time, and makes sure I always eat enough.
– He can fix just about anything.
– He starts new ideas with, “Hey, Bri, do you know what we should do?” and I smile in anticipation each time, not knowing what the hell he might say next.
– He does what he wants, and means what he says.
– He pats my butt absentmindedly whenever he walks by.
– He has a pretty cute butt of his own.

Tonight, on our first anniversary, there will be fireworks. Not just the romantic kind, either — real ones that bang and boom. French Polynesia is conveniently helping us celebrate by throwing a huge party. It’s Bastille Day, and France is rocking out to celebrate their own anniversary of freedom and representative governance. The party might even be as good as our wedding in Missoula. We’ll be happily swimming in wedding day memories today (just like 30 of us swam naked in the river downtown after the reception): cupcakes and carousels and musicians and magic. Kind words, smiling babies, hula hoops, rap-toasts, elk meat and dancing. Good times.

We haven’t seen a carousel, elk or a rapper in months. We’d pay a lot of money to dance again with all of our friends. But we’re celebrating the fact that we’ve still got the magic, and we’ll renew our promise to keep making music together.

sharks scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

Cue the Soundtrack from Jaws

diving with sharks scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

A lone sailboat speeds from the lagoon to the open ocean through a narrow pass in a remote island. Waves break on either side of this pass, crashing on pink-white sands as the sea floor rises abruptly from 2,000 feet deep to zero at the shore of this Pacific atoll. Sailing through the pass is carefully timed during slack tide to avoid the waves and eddies created by the 8 knot current as the sea rushes in and out of the lagoon. Just as the sailboat clears the pass, two people jump overboard. The sailboat keeps going.

Cue the soundtrack from Jaws.

This was the scene as Kayanos left Kauehi, and Rob and I were the ones who jumped off. On purpose. And so excited to snorkel the pass that we almost peed our pants. After we both dove overboard, Rob — who got his mask on first — immediately said, “Wow. There’s a shark right here, Bri!” I shoved on my gear so I wouldn’t miss the shark sighting, as I had on a few of our previous snorkeling trips. I looked below to see not one shark, but dozens of sharks swimming towards us out of the crystal blue depths. I made a calm and appreciative noise through my snorkel that sounded roughly like, “Mmpharrghgh!?!!!”

sharks scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

Talk about freaky. Sure, I knew the Marquesas and Tuamotus are renowned for having healthy, thriving shark populations. And I’d seen them swimming around in Nuku Hiva, following fishing boats for scraps. But I’d only seen a shark underwater exactly twice before. And they both swam away from me, not at me. Adrenaline pumping, I slowed my breathing and followed Rob toward the reef and shallower water.

I should clarify that my body followed Rob while my head followed the progress of the 7 or 8 sharks following us. They stayed a respectful 10 feet away, curious about why the hell humans would jump off a moving boat in the middle of a deep blue sea. I was starting to feel curious about that myself. Once we could see bottom, though, I immediately felt safer — a completely illogical reaction, since the sharks could eat us just easily in five feet of water as 1,000 feet of water. But these sharks weren’t going to eat us. First off, they were “small” blacktip and whitetip sharks, only about 5 or 6 feet long. Second, they had plenty of other food.

Once over the reef, we could see hundreds, maybe thousands, of fish. Big jacks, mackeral, snapper, grouper, parrotfish. Colorful butterfly fish, trigger fish, squirrel fish, angel fish and wrasses. The visibility was probably 80 feet, and the coral was a diverse blanket of living color. All around us were moving mini-dramas of fish mating, fighting, eating, hiding, swooping. The sharks lost interest in us, and resumed their slow cruise back and forth between the reef and the depths. It was the most amazing snorkeling experience I’ve ever had.

scuba diving in the tuamotus on the horizon line travel and sailing blog brianna and rob

After about 15 minutes, Rob and I began the second part of the Remote Pass Snorkel Adventure: getting back on the sailboat. We swam against the current to make our way out of the pass toward the ocean. Kayanos was hove-to (as close to parked as a sailboat gets) about one mile away from us. We waved our arms several times as we swam to a more mellow spot, signaling we were ready for pickup. Ben and Sarah sailed toward us at about 6 knots, then once again expertly heaved-to to slow down.

They threw out a floating line, and Rob made sure I was holding on before he latched on behind me. We were getting dragged fast enough behind the boat that my bathing suit bottoms came off, but managed to pull ourselves hand over hand until we reached the stern. Sarah let down a rubber fender as a step. Rob had to push my butt up as I hauled myself over the rail four feet above my head. By the time we both flopped into the cockpit, we were breathing heavy and totally amped on endorphins.

I know most people in their right mind wouldn’t jump off a moving sailboat into unknown shark-infested waters in the middle of nowhere. But they’re definitely missing out. I highly recommend the Remote Pass Snorkel Adventure, and hope that someday we’ll find another accomodating (and skilled) captain who let’s us dive overboard to investigate the deep crystal blue.

 

sailing in south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Happy 4th from Tahiti!

sailing in south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Happy 4th of July, friends and family!

First off, Tahiti says hello. She asked me to reach out palm fronds and rainbows, and blow wet sandy kisses toward you. It’s a cool volcanic island. Big. And way more crowded than we’re used to, after our month at sea and another month in more remote and deserted islands east of here. We’re overwhelmed by the choices at the magasin, where food offerings include more than pancake syrup and canned sausage. The hub of the South Pacific.

Second, we miss you all like hell. We think about you often, talk about what you’re up to, and how you’re faring. How odd it is that you all have new successes, adventures, challenges that we aren’t apart of. Most often, though, we talk about what it would be like to have one, two, or (best case) ALL of you with us. We bring you into different moments, visualizing how helpful it would be to have you by our side when we’re seasick or cranky, how awesome to snorkel with you through bright, vibrant fish, how cozy to sip coffee with you while anchored in turquoise water, how much we’d laugh at faux pas as we feel our way through the lessons of sailing and traveling. And then Rob and I sigh. We stay quiet for a few moments to savor the vision, and then return to reality.

Reality is pretty f-ing great, too. But know that it would be exponentially more unbelievable to share it with our favorite people.

sailing in south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall and rob roberts

Which brings us to the third point: come share this reality with us. Anyone want to take a winter vacation south of the equator?

Of course, that would mean we would have to know where we’ll be six months from now … and we rarely know where we’ll be six days forward. This morning, though, Rob and I sat with our map of islands and countries west of here. We had a big-kid talk about realistic goals for the rest of this sailing season. Here’s an update on our potential travel schedule for the next several months. Before reading on, however, a word of warning: this is all subject to change at any moment. Most of the fun for us lies in the ability to be completely flexible!

– Our 90-day visa in French Polynesia ends in late August, so we expect to stay in the Society Islands (Moorea, Bora Bora, Raiatea, Tahaa) for another ~6 weeks.

– Then we’ll likely hitchhike (sailhike? hitchsail?) to the Cook Islands, the next closest island chain, and spend 2-4 weeks exploring.

– After that, Tonga is top on the list of must-see countries. It’s the next major hub for cruisers heading west, and sounds like amazing sailing grounds. Rob and I hope to spend up to two months hopping around these islands.

– By then, it’ll be late October or early November, when sailboats are heading to safe spots to weather the hurricane season. Since we don’t have a boat, we’re in no rush to leave the islands. A couple of options for where we might be from November to February:

1) Head to American Samoa to spend some time on land. The Samoan island chain is diverse, with plenty of places to dive, snorkel, explore. We might even look for some temporary work for a few months. (Might be the key word!)
2) We know of lots of boats that plan to end their trip in November once the weather window ends. Many folks cross the Pacific, and then store or sell their boat in Australia, New Zealand, New Caledonia or even Fiji. Rob and I will put out feelers to see if anyone needs a “boat sitter” during the off-season.
3) Someone offers us a killer deal on a sweet sailboat and we buy our own floating home and take off into the sunset. This is fairly unlikely, since we’re both still reveling in our lack of responsibilities, and owning a sailboat is a lot of work, money and headaches.

After that? Who the hell knows. We can barely wrap our head around where we might end up in the next 3 days, much less next year. But the current longer-term vision is to keep going. We really want to see Indonesia and Southeast Asia, too, and aren’t at all done exploring the South Pacific yet. We hope to hit up Melanesia (Solomans and Vanuatu) next March through July. And we’re even considering a trip home to Montana next summer before beginning the Indo/Asia portion of our adventure, so we can see your new houses, kiss the babies, and celebrate life with all of you.

There you have it, a rough agenda, which will likely change as quickly as the wind. Next season seems like eons from now, across so much space and time, so many un-met people and unknown circumstances that it makes me laugh to write down plans.

We hope you are all enjoying American independence in beautiful places with glorious people.

We miss you!
-Bri and Rob

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

Off To See The Wizard

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

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.

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

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 south pacific on the horizon line travel blog brianna randall

sailing through waves in tuamotus on the horizon line bri and rob travel and sailing adventure

The Dreamy Tradewind Passage to the Tuamotus

sailing through waves in tuamotus on the horizon line bri and rob travel and sailing adventure

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.

sailing through waves in tuamotus on the horizon line bri and rob travel and sailing adventure tuamotus

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.

sailing through waves in tuamotus on the horizon line bri and rob travel and sailing adventure

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.

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

our berth on llyr - small space for rob

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.

We aren’t winning any beauty contests.

BUCKET SHOWER on the horizon line rob roberts sailing on the horizon line

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.

laundry while sailing washing clothes on the horizon line travel pacific

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.

 

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