The boat has been in French Polynesia for over a year. During a major portion of that year it's been on the hard (sailor talk for up on a cradle, with the deck about 12' off the ground). No blog entries for the past year because it's just been too depressing to report. It's still depressing, but here it is anyway.

We had so many repairs to the boat that we didn't get to sail anywhere in Tahiti. Fortunately, Marina Taina is a modern and pleasant marina, with good facilities and provisioning within walking distance. We tackled many repairs--broken lifelines, genset problems, canvas repairs, adding a 240-volt charger, plus Duo Gen and Hydrovane repairs, among others. The list is long, and we kept discovering more. It's hot in Tahiti, and we weren't able to get up the energy to try to deal with cosmetics. The teak looked horrible.

In July we returned to the US for a happy occasion, our son's wedding. We planned to visit friends and family during the obligatory 3-month stay out of French Polynesia (visa requirements). Bob returned to get the boat ready, and immediately developed an excruciating pain in his side. A doctor in Papeete did the tests, diagnosed kidney stones, and recommended surgery that would break up the stone. I was just about to leave for Tahiti when Bob decided to return to the US for the surgery, and subsequently had the stone taken care of by a doctor in Washington. We planned our return as Bob recuperated and got his thumbs up from the doctor. The original plan was to sail for New Zealand, via the Cook Islands, Niue, and Fiji, leaving in October to arrive in New Zealand in early November, and stopping along the way to enjoy the islands. We finally left Marina Taina in early December--over a month later than our original plans.

We left the dock at Marina Taina to fuel up for the long journey (we were so late in the season now that we planned no interim stops, bypassing Niue, Cook Islands, and Fiji). A knocking sound came from the engine compartment when Bob tried to put the engine in reverse. We've had a bit of prop knock occasionally, but this sounded different. Back to the dock, not out the harbor. Two days later the sheared hose in the engine was fixed.

Finally we left Marina Taina. The forecast was for very light winds the first day, so we planned to motor. Yup--light winds all right. Nonexistent is more to the point. We motored and finally motorsailed through the night, and then just before daylight Bob noticed that the batteries were not being charged. The alternator wasn't putting out anything at all. He opened the engine compartment, checked connections, checked all the things you hope are the problem rather than the really big malfunctions. We started up the engine again and continued motoring, without the alternator. The sun had come up and the solar panels were on line, and we put the Duo Gen in the water to add a boost to the charging.

One of the worst things that can happen on a boat is a fire. Diesel isn't very flammable unless it's in a fine spray, but it will burn. Even fiberglass will burn, and it will certainly melt. I smelled smoke. Electrical fire-type smoke. We shut down the engine immediately and went below, fire extinguishers in hand. Bob pulled the cover off the engine compartment, and smoke boiled out. The alternator had seized up and the belt was self-destructing. While the engine cooled we dropped the DuoGen into the water to help recharge the depleted batteries.

Once the engine had cooled enough, Bob took the belt off the alternator--which also meant taking the water pump out of commission, since the pulley for the water pump was turned by the same belt from the engine as the alternator. Now we couldn't use the engine at all. We mulled over possibilities. We were about 160 miles west of Raiatea, in French Polynesia, and the Cook Islands were still hundreds of miles ahead. We decided to turn around and head for Raiatea. The trip is upwind, but the trade winds hadn't set in yet and the trip, although slow, should be easy.

No problem with electricity--that's what we have a genset for, isn't it? And said genset was repaired in Tahiti, wasn't it? Bob started the genset. Or tried to. Nothing at all happened. He spent an hour troubleshooting. No luck. No genset. Now we have the solar panels, but without wind the DuoGen isn't much help.

After two hours the trade winds arrived--25-30 knots on the nose. Once the winds are blowing the seas begin to build, and by nightfall we had some pretty substantial seas against us as we clawed our way to windward. One thing that worried us most: how were were going to get into the lagoon, behind the reef, at Raiatea? No engine would make getting through the pass tricky. The two boatyards on Raiatea are on the downwind side of the island, and what winds there are tend to be capricious. The channel, easy with an engine, would be very challenging without one.

We finally made it to Raiatea, decided to try for Tahiti, and abandoned that plan as the seas continued to build against us. We hovered in the lee of Raiatea all night, sailing back and forth in the dark and trying to decide what would be the best plan. Bob wanted to try a pass into the shared lagoon between Tahaa and Raiatea, arguing that the winds were more likely to be helpful. I just wanted to get this over with, and voted for the pass closest to the carenage, or boatyard/marine railway. Bob went down and spent some time in the engine compartment, and then came up with the first smile in three days: "The pulleys are so easy to turn I can do it with my little finger!" he crowed. "What does that mean?" I asked. "It means I can tie some nylon line around the water pump and engine pulleys and make a temporary fix so that we can use the engine!"

Bob loves knots, and he figured out one that would let him wrap some nylon clothesline (OK, "small stuff") around the pulleys without catching. He turned on the engine and we both held our breath. It worked. Not wanting to push his luck, Bob turned off the engine. We waited for the tide change, when we hoped we'd get a bit of help from water coming into the lagoon--the trade winds were pushing water into the lagoon on the other side of the island, so we knew we wouldn't get much help.

Then the trades died. No wind at all. We headed for the pass, and as soon as we were at the entrance Bob fired up the engine. I expected to smell burning nylon at any moment, but we made it through the pass without a problem and turned north towards the carenage. Bob wanted to hunt for an anchoring spot amidst the many boats already there, but I spotted an empty buoy just off the carenage and insisted--through a truly epic fit--that we would pick it up and shut off the engine--IMMEDIATELY. Bob argued that the buoy might belong to someone and that someone might want us to leave. I said we would deal with that when it happened. I just wanted to stop moving.

Turned out the buoy belonged to the carenage, who were happy to rent it to us for as long as we liked. We later moved the boat to dry storage at the carenage, once we had arranged for repairs to the genset and prepared the boat for storage. We left Tahiti on Christmas Day and returned to the US for the obligatory 3-months exile from French Polynesia. We planned to return and continue cruising in March, but our daughter broke her leg and needed our help until she could get around--at least six and more probably 8 more weeks. Bob extended his stay, but returned to Raiatea to ready the boat for cruising while I stayed to help out with the family. In his luggage was a new alternator (no help from Balmar, who said they might be able to give us something for the old one if we shipped it to them--from Tahiti, which would cost about a third of the cost of a new alternator). He also carried a new mount from Waltz for the radar--the first one leaked within a year of installing it and no longer had any hydraulic damping of the radar's swing in the mount.

First email from Bob: "Someone broke into our boat…." The hatch was forced open and it rains every day in Tahiti. The rainwater filled the bilge and reached the floorboards. Oil from the genset coated the entire bilge. Cans stored in the bilge had corroded and burst. Electrical connections corroded. Batteries, stored under the floor, were dead and terminals corroded. Mildew everywhere. So far Bob has spent three weeks just cleaning up the mess and trying to dry the cushions out--difficult in a humid climate where it rains every day. He has no transportation to any place selling food and is living off what provisions were not ruined by water. There is no laundromat at the carenage, and there is no bus the way there was in Tahiti. He finally got the inverter and the 220 shore power checked out and can run the fans on the boat, at least. To go to the head or to take a (cold) shower he must go down a steep ladder about 15 feet tall. THe list of things compromised (or ruined) by the water and the break in just keeps going.

Our daughter just sprained the ankle of the leg she broke, and is back to square one in physical therapy. The new genset heat exchanger was damaged in shipment to me (for me to carry back to the boat as baggage) and had to be replaced.

So that, dear friends, is why I haven't written in this blog. Some statistics:

Miles sailed within French Polynesia: 1000
Islands visited: Nuku Hiva (Marquesas), Tahiti, Raiatea
Number of harbors/anchorages visited: 3 (Taiohae, Marina Taina, Raiatea carenage)
Number of snorkeling trips: 0
Number of times swimming: 0
Number of days kayaking: 0
Number of days messing around, exploring in the dinghy: 0
Number of lazy days watching the sun go down while shipping cold drinks in the cockpit: 1
Number of days the hammock was rigged: 0
Days sightseeing on the islands: 2 (Nuku Hiva and Raiatea quick tours)

So you see, we don't really have any adventures in paradise to share with you. We can tell you all about electrical, mechanical, sail, rigging, and fiberglass repairs in French Polynesia. We can tell you that the people with whom we've dealt have been friendly and competent. We can tell you that the restaurant food is better than in the US or Central America, but much more expensive. Raiatea, Tahaa, and Bora Bora look beautiful, and I so hope we can explore them a little before shoving off for New Zealand. The recommended departure time for New Zealand from French Polynesia, Cook Islands, and Fiji is October/November, though, and that's only 5 months away.

What next?

I look back at my wonderings and fears as if they are very far away at the end of a long tunnel. There is nothing quite like doing a lot of something to allay some of the fear of doing it.

Now, just for the record, that doesn't mean I am not still afraid of sailing in the open ocean. Why, just as we were coming into Tahiti the wind piped up to a very brisk 35 knots (sometimes 40) and things were starting to get very rough. We were only about 20 miles from Tahiti, so we turned on the engine and hightailed it for safety in the lee of the island (that's behind the island for landlubbers, where the island shields you from the wind and the consequent seas). We made it into tranquil waters, with only the super-surf booming over the reef that surrounds Tahiti to remind us that not far away there were gale force winds and 12-foot breaking seas.

We were going downwind at the time (which means we were going in the same direction as the wind and the waves). It's much easier to go downwind in big winds/seas than upwind in relatively small ones. That made the sudden gale less scary, too. We talked later with another (larger) boat that had met the same wind and decided to heave to in order to get through the storm.

Now, what if that had happened 1000 miles from anywhere? What if there had been no island to hide behind? What if we'd needed to go upwind?

We would have hove to. This is hard to explain, but easy to show. Basically "heaving to" means keeping the main sail on the "right" side for sailing the boat and backing the jib, or tying the jib sheet on a cleat on the "wrong" side of the boat. You play with the adjustment of the two sails until you get a motion that makes a tiny bit of headway, or forward motion, and keeps the boat pointed in a direction that takes the waves on the bow or close to it, whichever is most comfortable.

In the 35-40 knot winds and 12 foot seas we encountered, this would have been a good strategy. There are other strategies for even higher winds, but I hope we never have to use those. Still, since it takes us weeks to cross an ocean, we can meet with foul weather even though we start out with the most hopeful of weather forecasts. The gale off Tahiti wasn't in our forecast-it took us completely by surprise. Weather can be scary.

Which brings me back to my place in the tunnel, right now. The level of tolerance does go up. The amount it takes to make me really scared has been raised. The effect of that is to make it possible to enjoy more of what we're doing. I can love the 8-foot seas of our Pacific crossing, enjoy the star-filled nights and the moon on the water. I can enjoy 20 knots of wind in the cockpit on a hot tropical day.

There's a another threshold that has the same tunnel effect, although the gut-level fear isn't there: the fear of the unknown landfall, or "What will we find when we get there?" Flying into a tropical island, taking a taxi to your hotel, and enjoying all the benefits of a tourist-oriented environment aren't at all like cruising. In a hotel, you don't have to worry about water, food, a place to sleep (hopefully without bugs or mildew), or even (again, hopefully) Internet connections. We cruisers will have to reprovision, take on water (and worry about its safety, unless we've been able to make it), obtain parts for whatever has broken on the way (and something has always broken), ATMs that won't take your card because it doesn't have a "flea" (microchip) in it--or no ATMs at all, and deal with some interesting bureaucracies developed for admitting large commercial vessels. You never know what you'll find. It's more like grabbing your backpack and $100 worth of traveler's checks and starting out to tour the world.

What I see at this end of that particular tunnel is that the world has become a much smaller place in the last 20 years. A tiny Pacific atoll has a pizza restaurant. A "supermarket" in the Galapagos has antibacterial/anti-mildew pump spray, Smucker's jams. I know there are places that will be far enough off the beaten track that most vestiges of my (former) life in the United States will not be there, but I also know now that there are a lot of places where I won't have a problem finding insect repellent or fresh vegetables or the chlorine bleach in which to soak them.

A word on that--one accepted way to kill nasty critters that live on vegetables watered with polluted water or fertilized with excrement (it _is_ good fertilizer, you know) is to soak them for about 25 minutes or more in a solution of chlorine bleach and water. Unfortunately, this turns greens into near-whites. I have no idea whether it does something to the food value. There's some argument about how much bleach is necessary, so I go with the higher amount, just to be safe. We haven't had a problem (so far) and most of our sailing compatriots have, so I hope I'm doing the right thing.

There's fear of tropical diseases, too. A week at a luxury hotel doesn't really expose you to much. The guy who supports our dockside Internet connections had a serious staph infection that sent him to the hospital-all from a small cut he got on his toe while walking the dock (barefooted). There are critters in the air (mosquitoes are among the worst), land (read up on centipedes), and sea (lion fish, jellyfish). French Polynesia has a campaign on to rid the islands of filariosis, or elephantiasis (the images on the Internet will make you want to live in a closet with a can of bug spray).

That said, lots of cruisers come through here and return home (eventually) to live long and fruitful lives. I've survived perhaps 200 mosquito bites so far and haven't lost a limb or come down with malaria. So far.

You know something else scary? The traffic in Tahiti. It's not as frightening as Rome or Tokyo, but it's pretty tough. Walking across the street means you step out in front of someone you have adjudged to be less homicidal that the other drivers, and hope the rest of the traffic stops. Usually they do. It's a legalized game of chicken. Imagine trying that in Los Angeles!

Another thing that scares me are the right sides of the menus here even in the pizza restaurants. A bit of quick math tells me that a 12" pizza is going to cost me $20 US, before I add in the soft drink. That nice- sounding dinner is over $40 (sans drinks or dessert), in a restaurant with paper napkins. Of course, the food is pretty much French-influenced, and it's wonderful. We head for Carrefour, which is equivalent to a Fred Meyer or other giant US supermarket-cum-everything else store. There are a dozen kinds of (really) fresh bread, gorgeous tuna steaks, and almost anything else you could want. There is canned cassoulet, fresh or canned pates of every kind, cheese from France (and Italy, Holland, and other places), and auto maintenance supplies. You could buy blankets for cribs (although I can't imagine why a baby would need a blanket here--it's "winter" and the coldest we've seen is about 65 F) or "shorts" for men in sizes up to 7XXL.

Go down to the central market and there's even more exotic stuff, including the gorgeous Tahitian black pearls-no cheaper than in the US, but with a huge selection. Besides, there is something about saying "I bought my Tahitian black pearls in Tahiti..." that is special.

But those price tags _are_ scary.

We've lived aboard our boat for over four years now, and we've been actively cruising for seven months. One of the big lessons I've learned is that cruising is not just an extended vacation.

When you sail your boat on weekends, with an occasional longer cruise for a week or two, that's a vacation. You're taking a break from your everyday life and enjoying being on the water. It's fun in the way a vacation is fun. It can be exhilarating or relaxing, or both, as you wish it to be. Eventually, though, you'll return to the routine of your life. And to the modern conveniences. And to knowing where to find what you need, like a gas station, a doctor, or fresh vegetables and meat. And to closets, cupboards, and refrigerators that open from the front, not the top (and whose contents is not regularly jumbled by being tipped on its side). Most especially, to a life with--hopefully--a lot less mildew.

As an aside, the picture with this blog entry is of a pit on Nuku Hiva where sacrificial victims were kept prior to the sacrifice ceremony. Another form of storage with top-only access, in a very different culture.

Cruising is more like pioneering in the 1870's in the American West. You pack up everything you think you will need for a long time and take it with you. You have spares for all essential gear, because you have no idea where-or when-you'll be able to get more. You have enough food to last for a while, too, because you aren't sure what you'll be able to procure once you reach the next landfall.

You'll depend upon your own skills for surviving, for maintaining the boat so it can support you, and for improvising from whatever is available wherever you are. You depend upon your own ability to judge weather, tides, and anchorages, and upon your own vigilance to make sure you stay safe. Oh sure, rescue at sea exists, and with modern communications (you did make sure the battery in your EPIRB was refreshed, didn't you?) rescue units are notified quickly of your exact position. It can still take quite a while for them to reach you; the ocean is a big, big place. If the weather is very bad the rescuers may not be able to reach you right away, or help you when they do spot you.

This means you'd better be prepared to take care of yourself and your boat, just like the pioneers of old.

You'd better learn to be alone, too, because you will be alone a good bit of the time. You need to be comfortable in your own mind, able to entertain yourself, for long periods of time. You must be inquisitive, because every bit of knowledge not only adds to the joy of cruising but can also add to your ability to stay safe and know where you want to go.

You treasure the occasional social occasion with other cruisers, and make friends you will meet again in other places, just like the barndances of pioneers. You will be generous with your possessions and time, helping others where you are able. Someday you will be on the receiving end of other cruisers' generosity, and you will not hesitate to ask for advice or help.

There is an instant bond among cruisers when they meet, mostly because they have chosen the same demanding lifestyle. Cruising is just that, I've discovered: a lifestyle, not a vacation.

Like pioneering, it's a lifestyle that demands a lot of effort-you'll put as much wear and tear on your boat in 6 months of cruising as you did in 12 years of weekend sailing. It's not a forgiving lifestyle, and it demands that you be largely self-sufficient. You'll have to be willing to learn new things and experience different cultures and ways of life-not just because it's interesting and rewarding in its own right, but also because you'll depend upon these other cultures for food, fuel, and support.

The rewards are much like those of pioneering, too: you test yourself and take pride in your personal achievements; you grow constantly; you spend time with yourself and get to know the one person you'll always have with you, and that is you.

Three hours is a long time. It gets longer when you have very little to do, but it's critically important that you stay awake, alert. Ever driven for three hours without a break? How long was that last hour? The last thirty minutes? Ever done it at night? Ever had to do it again and again with only three hours to rest in between?

On our boat, we stand three hour watches at night. Three hours is a long time, but it gives the person who is off watch during that time enough time to brush teeth and get a reasonable amount of sleep. Less time, and you don't make it to that deep sleep that refreshes you for the long run. Too many short naps and you'll eventually wear down, become a bit vague, and be a dangerous watch stander. But for the watch stander, that three hours is a long, long time.

What do you do on watch? Well, on our boat you, um, watch. You keep a constant scan for the sometimes faint lights that mean a small boat is out fishing--or sailing--in your vicinity. If there are waves of any height, small boats can be down in a wave trough at the same time you are, and this means you won't see their light at all until they--or you--come back up on the crest of a wave at a time that makes seeing them possible. You have to figure out where their nets are deployed, too. These nets may be several hundred yards long, suspended on floats that keep their tops just below the surface. You don't want to run over one, wrapping it around your prop or keel, and possibly destroying the net. Worst of all is when these very small boats don't turn on their single light until they think you are about to run into them. Suddenly a light flashes into your field of view, and you have to act quickly.

We keep the radar running at night. It picks up cruise ships that are over the horizon, because the radar scanner is up on our stern arch, about 10' above the water's surface. You can follow the track of a radar blip until you have them visually. Actually, a cruise ship lights up the horizon like a city of some size. The clue that it's a ship and not a city comes when the glow on the horizon moves. Cruise ships are easy to spot on the radar. Sometimes, however, a small boat doesn't show up at all. You have to use your eyes to find them. Something that looks like a blip suddenly disappears, and you realize it was just sea scatter. Or something that looks like sea scatter and appears intermittently about 10 miles out will materialize and become a large motor yacht or fishing boat moving quite fast.

You have to watch your own boat, too. Are the sails drawing, or are they flogging and flapping because the wind isn't sufficient to keep them full, or because the wind is now coming straight at you? You have to correct this, because flogging sails not only reduce your speed, but will destroy themselves in a very short time. Sails are your main "engine," so you watch.

If you're motoring, you watch the engine instruments. You watch the fuel consumption, too. You keep an eye on your own running lights, because you want other boats to see you. Always, you watch the horizon all around and watch the radar. You listen: for sounds that mean some bolt has worked its way loose at the masthead and fallen to the deck (if you're lucky). You listen for unusual creaks and other noises from the boat as she works her way through the sea.

Sounds like enough to keep you busy? Well, it can get awfully monotonous when there are no boats or ships to see, and nothing much happens. You start watching the clock, counting down until you get to go off watch and do some sleeping yourself.

How do I stay awake? I move around. The autopilot takes care of the steering, except in unusual situations or storms, so I can move about the boat. I check things. I watch the sails, check their set.

I chew gum. A burst of flavor gives me a bit of a jog, helps to keep me awake. I also take a couple of granola bars with me when I go on watch. I allow myself one granola bar after two hours on watch, the second after 3. I look forward to these granola bars, not so much because I'm hungry, but because it's something to do, a break. The carbohydrates give me an energy push, too. I can make a granola bar last over 20 minutes.

We do not permit iPods or books in the cockpit for the watch. A book requires a light, and a reading light is enough to wreck your night vision so you can't see those faint fishing boat lights. An iPod requires earphones, and you might not hear something important. It's a decision we didn't make lightly, because these things help you stay alert, entertained. We do, however, permit yoga, isometric exercises, the singing of 1960's songs (much to the chagrin of the off watch).

Oh yeah--the last duty of the watch is to enter all course changes, sail changes, sea state and weather changes, ship sightings, whale and other sea life sightings, and pretty much anything else that happens during a watch. Accurate times for each event are required, and the watch enters the GPS coordinates for the boat's position at the time the watch ends as a final fillip. Makes for terrific reading for the oncoming watch.

After a few nights of too little sleep and not enough to do, you almost begin to long for something interesting. Sailors are superstitious, though, so I'm careful not to wish for something too exciting. I don't wish for lots of wind or strange encounters with sea life (there are whales here and they are a lot bigger than my boat). I deliberately ask for five knots more wind, or a few shooting stars. Most of all, though, as we move along at whatever rate my careful prayers will permit, I wish for someone to share this with. That will have to wait until morning, when the solitary night watches are over and we can both be awake at the same time. For now I'll store it in memory. Tomorrow, I'll share.

Cruisers are mostly very nice people. Not many people go cruising (although there are more people cruising now than ever before), so the community is pretty small. I love to walk the docks and talk with people, to hear their stories. What makes a person give up a comfortable life and move aboard a small sailboat (and trust me, even a pretty big sailboat is still very small compared to a modest house!)? Why would you put up with the constant maintenance, the frustration when you can't get parts for some critical piece of gear, and the long periods of being alone? Why expose yourself to the potential risks of sailing on a very big ocean?

The answers are a varied as the people who give them. You've read the stories of people who set out across oceans in eight-foot rowboats, who sail around the world before they are old enough to drive (or perhaps after they are too old to drive). You've heard many of the reasons: "I wanted to test myself." "I wanted to see what was on the other side." "I just like to sail."

Here are a few more: "I wanted to simplify my life and live with as little excess as possible." "I wanted to discover myself." "I wanted to experience other cultures, other places."

Cruisers have to simplify. Only the wealthiest could afford a boat that could hold as much as a house. So how do you choose what to give up? I think you start at the other end: decide what is really, absolutely necessary. The list begins with the equipment you need to run and maintain the boat. Even this list varies widely, as some cruisers choose to have an engine and some don't. Most do. Most have radar, at least a VHF radio and possibly a ham radio, and a windvane. Most have an autopilot and a watermaker to make drinkable water from seawater using reverse osmosis.

Then there are all the safety necessities: liferaft, ditch bag(s), PFDs (Personal Flotation Devices), EPIRB (an automatic position indicator that sends out a radio signal to a satellite if the thing is set off, as it would be in case of a boat's sinking), man-overboard poles, life rings, life slings, drogues (for really, really bad weather), anchors (at least three), and lines for warping (streaming lines--ropes--aft to slow the boat down in big winds/waves) or general use. There are spares: spare rubber parts for the head (potty), the plumbing in general, the engine, the generator, the wind vane, the wind generator, the rigging, the pumps (bilge, sump, macerator, and others). And there are repair tools for fixing sails, fiberglass, and wood.

Add to that about 50 pounds of paper charts (yes, most cruisers have electronic charts and computers aboard, but a paper chart never needs a new battery), tide tables, cruising guides, sailing directions, star charts (yup, for a good lo' fashioned sextant), medical guides, dictionaries, and other books, and you've pretty much filled up a 40-foot boat.

Now you have to add all the groceries, water, dishes, cleaning supplies, medicines, cosmetics (sunblock and bug repellent are the most necessary), and assorted other necessities for daily living, and you have about 10,000 pounds of stuff, all of it pretty much essential. Do you know how much food it takes to cross from Panama to French Polynesia? Here's a rule of thumb: multiply the number of crew by the number of days it takes to cross (about 30) and multiply that result by 3. This is the number of meals for which you'll have to plan. Remember that there are no supermarkets and not even a mini-mart along the way, so you'll have to provide staples like flour, oil, salt, sugar, and spices for the entire trip. In fact, provisioning isn't all that good in the Marquesas, so you'd better store enough for about 90 days.

Now you have to figure out what will last the trip. For example, bread only lasts about 4-6 days. Oranges and apples last a couple of weeks or so. Cabbage, unrefrigerated, lasts about a week or perhaps two, if it was really fresh and you have a nice place for it. Remember that refrigeration costs energy, and you've got to make it yourself because there aren't any convenient recharging stations in the middle of the Pacific. Fully provisioned, our boat has very little room in which to move around. She rides with her design waterline underwater. You don't want your boat to ride too low in the water because a) an overloaded boat doesn't sail well, and b) an overloaded boat is lower in the water, doesn't have as much buoyancy, and meets waves head-on rather than riding up and over them. You get a lot wetter, and it's not safe. As we eat up the stores, though, the boat will get lighter. I try to look on the bright side.

All these things are constantly on the cruiser's mind. Everything is a trade-off: if I bring this book aboard, where will I put it? Can I get rid of something to make room? Maybe I could stuff it between the mattress and the hull on my side of the bunk, or will that be just too uncomfortable?

When at a dock, life can be a bit more free. There is a grocery store not too far away--OK, it's a 15-minute bus ride there and a $4 taxi ride back, but at least it's there. You don't have to stock up on groceries. That means you can afford a luxury like cookies. You might even get a chance to go to a restaurant once or twice.

You know what has been the biggest luxury for me here in the Marina Mazatlan? Cats. We gave up our kitty when we left to sail abroad because there are too many places that simply won't accept animals, or that require many months in quarantine before they are allowed into the country. I've missed my furry little buddy. Here the marina allows cats. In fact, in a way the marina has cats. Ever so often they are rounded up and the newcomers neutered, and all are given the necessary immunizations. The cats, in turn, keep the docks free of vermin like mice, rats, and roaches. Some are shy, some are remarkably friendly.

And cruisers, bless them, make sure the cats are fed and watered. There's no formal Feeder of Cats, so many people just take the responsibility. When a cruiser departs he will give any cat food he has left over to someone who's staying longer. The result is some of the best fed feral cats you will ever see. Since I can't have my kitty, I'm glad to have the marina cats.

I look at it this way: when we leave, I'll take our (large) bag of cat food and give it to yet another cruiser, thereby lightening our overloading--and helping the boat to ride higher in the water. It's all good.

Talk around the dock is mostly about sailing and boats. Where have you sailed? When did you sail there? Where are you sailing next? Conversation usually opens with one of these. From there it progresses to a discussion of current repair projects: my automatic pilot blew out, my refrigeration isn't working, my water tanks have blisters. Sometimes dock folk gather to help with a major project. Pulling an engine, removing a mainsail for repairs, building a canvas awning.

Women talk about where to buy produce--all cruisers fiend after some fresh fruit and vegetables after a week or two on the hook or at sea. Women discuss whether or not to drink the water from the hose on the dock, and find out quickly where the nearest laundry or laundromat is and how much it costs. Women also get the bus schedules. Women talk about those things they talk about in casual conversation whether they're sailing or living in a house: kids, pets, cleaning, cooking.

I'm no different. I open conversations with a flattering comment about someone's boat. Boats are like dogs and kids: everyone thinks his are the most beautiful, the most unusual, and the best. Everyone likes to hear that someone else appreciates his taste in boats.

At that point the conversation can quickly become boat-geek if I'm speaking with a guy-sailor. "Yeah, putting in a sea chest meant that we could get away with only one through-hull below the waterline, plus the manifold makes it easier to install new equipment that requires sea water." "Was your ground plane glassed in at the factory or did you have to add it yourself?" "How do you like the new gee-whiz cool but ridiculous looking anchor you have on your bow?" "What did you use to prevent the brightwork from oxidizing if you didn't varnish it?"

Virtually all of the sailing women I meet can speak fluent boat geek. I can, too. I catch myself inserting things into my emails that my non-sailing friends will throw back at me with a laugh. "I can't read this. You'll have to speak English." I tell them I am speaking English, that a lot of these words have Anglo-Saxon roots. Never mind. Sailing has its own unique jargon. We all speak it. The further away from the US you get the more fluent everyone is.

The strangest thing is the effect all this jargon has on its users--OK, on me, anyway. I talk about following seas and reefing as though I know what I'm doing and I feel more competent. It's a way of assuring myself that I belong here, among all these people who actually are competent.

On the other hand, I tell myself I'm keeping my brain young: learning two languages is great brain exercise, besides the fact that it makes me feel better.

Cruising sailors rarely talk about politics. We have such limited contact with the world of network news that we aren't caught up in the discussions that used to occupy our minds and souls when we were still on land. In a restaurant with a television a faux debate (a senator and a newsie) about the health care bill seemed very far away. We don't talk about religion much, either, unless it's blowing 50 knots and we're beginning to be really worried. What we do know about are things like bad weather in a place 800 miles away, or the fact that the only boatyard on a small island 2000 miles away closed. Our conversations when not centered around boating are ephemeral; we are only here for a while and don't get into deep subjects other than the ocean.

This is all well and good, but sometimes when I am alone on watch I wish I had a friend who would talk with me about music, or who would ponder the questions that have no answers. I've met some cruisers who were artists and would share art with me, but no one who was interested at all in Beethoven. I remember a poignant description in William F. Buckley's Airborne of how Buckley, who was apparently very proud of the sound system aboard Cyrano, his boat, had put on a tape of one of Beethoven's late sonatas. His crew--including his son--listened politely, but obviously did not feel the emotional pull that Buckley felt. He felt very alone. I wish I could talk about literature and writing, not just "What books have you read lately?"

I think that the journey isn't over yet, though. There is a sort of library outside the showers in the marina that operates on an honor-system "take one and leave one" basis. I discovered a copy of Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose yesterday.