Sue/Hot, breezy
03/09/2010, Panama City, Panama

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.

Comments [1]

Sue/Warm
01/10/2010, Mazatlan, Mexico

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.

Comments [1]

Sue
01/06/2010, Mazatlan, Mexico

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.

Comments [1]

Sue/Fair and cooler
12/15/2009, Mazatlan, Mexico

Cruisers like to travel. They like to be mobile, to move around. Even cruisers in a defined space, such as Puget Sound, like to move around. Every summer it seems as though every boat in the Puget Sound area is moved from its home berth to somewhere else. Marinas empty in the morning and fill up again by mid-afternoon with different boats.

It is the same here in Mexico: if you sail to a new harbor, you'll see some of the same people you saw at the last harbor but one. If you talk about going somewhere, someone will have just come from there. Cruisers like to move around.

I wonder, though, how many of us are really traveling. We're certainly moving ourselves and our boats, but to me traveling means experiencing a place. It means getting a little closer to the people and interacting with them in some way other than as tourist and service provider or merchant. It means eating foods you haven't eaten before, and living in a way more like the way people native to the area live.

Here in Mazatlán, it means riding an unairconditioned bus to the supermarket. It means shopping for food in that supermarket--a place that looks like the supermarkets in the U.S. but has very different foods, laid out in way that bespeaks a very different way of thinking about those foods. It is definitely not the same as I would find in the US.

I have become accustomed to a certain order in the aisles: the capers are in the pickle section not far from the olives (the logic here is that the capers are pickled). In the Mega supermarket in Mazatlán, I found capers in the vegetable section (the logic is that capers are vegetables).

In US supermarkets there is usually a section for quick boxed dinner mixes, things like Hamburger Helperâ"¢ and Betty Crocker Complete Mealsâ"¢. I couldn't find many of those in the Mega, implying that most cooks here start from basic ingredients and don't want to pay the extra to have the convenience of just-add-water sauces and instant rice.

There was a huge variety of chiles in the produce department: sweet, hot, and mild. Some I recognized, some I didn't. I'd imagine that cooks here know a lot more ways to use a chile than I do. I'd also imagine that people eat a lot more chiles than they do in the States.

I find myself longing for some of my favorite foods: instant iced tea (without sugar), for example. Then I have to laugh. I'm not traveling, I'm trying to move around in a familiar bubble! I feel like a kid with no immune system who has to live in a transparent bubble that separates him from the rest of the world. For him, the bubble is a necessity; but for me, it's a shield.

What, exactly, is it shielding me from? Something out of my range of experience. Something new and possibly strange. If I am exposed to this new thing, I might have to change something--my way of eating, of cooking, or even my way of thinking about something. This is uncomfortable. Staying in the bubble is comfortable. It is looking at what is going on around me, but not really experiencing it. It's like watching television.

If I'm in the bubble I take a taxi to the market, not a bus. The taxi is air conditioned, too. I wouldn't live on a small sailboat if I wanted to stay in the bubble, because the bubble won't fit on the boat. There is no room for all the water that bubble living requires, for example. There's no room (or power) for the air conditioning, either. My bubble would contain large libraries of books for me to read. Outside the bubble here in Mexico all the books are in Spanish, a language I don't read well enough to have any use for the Mazatlán library.

I would not know that the woman at the desk has two children, one of them a teenager, and that life with her teenager is as trying as it was for me. I tell her that my kids are grown now and that they are my best friends, and she smiles. We share our feelings. I wouldn't know that the guy across from me on the bus learned his English in Los Angeles, or that he prefers pasilla chiles because they have a "slow burn."

I sit at the computer now, comfortable in a marina that is filled with other Americans on boats, and realize that I'm not completely outside the bubble, either. I travel around on a boat that won't hold the entire bubble, but can give me some measure of sameness. I'm using a computer connected to the Internet by the wi-fi the marina provides. I'm talking with friends and family and exchanging email, looking up information.

But I've seen the bread section in the Mega where the bakery turns out wonderful fresh bread as you watch, and I've seen people gather up the fresh rolls by the dozen, and I've talked with a guy who backpacked from Malaysia to India in the 60's, and built his own beautiful boat from the keel up. I see the half-finished buildings in the development around the marina, the empty store spaces with "Se Vende" or "Se Rente" in their windows. I see how the United States influences Mexico so much, and yet Mexico remains distinct, Mexican. Even in tourist-swamped areas like Mazatlán the flavors are Mexican. A hamburger may look the same but tastes different.

People here look at you when you pass them on the streets, and if you smile, they smile. Sometimes they smile first. This isn't bubble behavior, because you don't need to smile at anyone from the bubble. You aren't really there.

If I traveled in a bubble, I might take my body long distances, but I wouldn't have really gone anywhere.

Comments [0]

Sue
12/12/2009, Magdalena Bay, Mexico

Four hundred miles down the Pacific Coast of Baja is a bay and estuarine system that rivals San Francisco's in size and complexity. That's where the similarities end, though. There are no cities on the shores of Mag Bay, as cruisers call it fondly. In fact, there are hardly any people at all. It is, however, a refuge when you're two days out of Ensenada with winds over 35 knots.

As we round Punta Entrada to come into Mag Bay, a panga with two men aboard breaks off what it's doing and approaches us. They wave. We wave. They hold up a spiny lobster; we signal "No thanks." They signal "Up yours," and roar off. Some things are universal. I don't have a pot big enough to cook a lobster and wouldn't know how to do it, anyway. I also have an irrational distaste for cooking something that is alive when I first get it. I'd prefer to make a pet of it, or throw it back into the water. I know--hypocritical and pretty stupid, but there you have it. Meat should come in styrofoam packages. I do have a lot of tofu aboard, though.

The water inside the bay is flat calm, and it's the beginning of a very warm morning. A haze rises off the water, blending the sky and the water together in a shimmering blue-green. The only thing moving--now that the pang has gone--are the birds. Hundreds of pelicans wheel and soar, dive into the water, and float like small battleships on the glassy surface.

"There. Do you see it?" asks Jim, who is crewing with us. "What is it?" I look where he's pointing: it's a whale skeleton, festooned with a hundred pelicans. Bob alters course to take a closer look. Pelicans occupy every inch of the "skeleton," which turns out to be some sort of holding pond (a bait farm?). They chatter among themselves, preen, flap, take off, and land again. I've never seen so many pelicans in so small a space.

We motor up the inside of Mag Bay to Man o' War Cove, with the tiny village nestled on the sand inside the cove. After the hook is dropped and set, I take a good look at the "village." It's a collection of variously constructed buildings: concrete block, former motor home, corrugated metal, and pole-and-thatch. Several large concrete block buildings have no roofs; none have any visible plants. A rooster crows. Dogs bark. I can hear children's voices. Pangas come and go, pulling up onto the sand.

There is a cloth banner announcing, "Wi Fi Here" hanging between two thatched-roof structures. A small camper has a thatched vestibule and what look like a couple of people drinking something seated in folding lawn chairs enjoying the shade. The church dominates the south side of the town: it has two bell towers and is painted a pale lavender that looks white the closer the sun gets to noon.

The north side contains the Capitania, where we must report to the Port Captain. It also has the only house with a paved driveway. Three dying palms mark an attempt at landscaping, but like the rest of the town they are only hanging on by a thread. lighthouse is set directly beside the Capitania, and there is a large banner hanging at the front side facing the unpaved street. The Mexican flag waves on a pole at the side of the building facing the water, where a sign painted on the white building announces that this is the Port Captains office. The official buildings are painted white; the rest of the town is painted bright blue, yellow, pink, and even a brilliant purple.

Whoa--people are living in that building with no roof. I hear a woman's voice in what must be a universal admonition to a child, even though I can't fully understand the words. Roughly it seems to be, "Come here like you're supposed to and don't give me any back-talk if you want any lunch!" The kid dejectedly throws down what he has been playing with and trudges into the building with no roof.

Derelict former vehicles are scattered through the town, mostly down by the beach. I say "former" because some are barely recognizable as vehicles. They have been stripped, and in some cases flipped over for easier access to parts underneath. It's a hard life for a truck here at the end of the island.

It's a hard life for people, too. I wonder what it must be like to live here, to be a kid growing up here. The nearest town of any size is an hour away, and that's if you have a working vehicle to take you there.

The area in front of the church steps is the only part of the town that seems uncluttered, cared for. It's Saturday--will they ring the bells on Sunday?

Here comes a panga with an extraordinary motor. The Port Captain. He asks permission to come aboard, which we (of course) grant. He checks our papers and finds all in order, and starts to leave. Then he turns and asks, "Do you have any AAA batteries?" and points to his calculator. We do, and share some with him. He seems inordinately pleased--he has enough for his calculator with a few left over to barter. We decline the diesel that he offers to sell us--our tanks are almost full after sailing most of the way here--and he roars off towards shore.

He must have the best job in town, with a reliable paycheck. His family live in the bigger town an hour or so away, though, and he sees them only on weekends. At least I think that's what he said. I'm going to have to study Spanish a bit harder. He's mentioned by name in the guidebooks going back years. I wonder what his life has been like, doing this same job in this tiny town for so long.

There are several yachts anchored in the bay, but no one goes ashore. Guidebooks suggest that we not try to take clams here, since the locals have so few resources for themselves and municipal sanitation is not one they do have. I think of the Wi Fi banner, so obviously aimed at gringos, and wonder what it would be like to try to run a restaurant here, hoping that someone from the rich gringos' boats will come ashore and buy something, anything.

We do not go ashore because we are worried about our own reactions to the obvious poverty. We don't want to appear condescending, nor do we want to make a tourist attraction out of a life that is pretty tough.

Or is it? Maybe it seems tough to us because it is so very austere. There aren't any creature comforts here. The street lights that come on in the evening seem out of place. There are about six of them, and they run the length of the town. The lights, by the way, are turned off about 11 PM. No sense wasting electricity.

We watch from the cockpit, our boat more luxurious than the entire town. Then the twilight turns the town a rich gold, and we are lucky enough to be a part of that.

At sundown several people come down to the beach and start a large fire. This seems strange--we thought only gringos would have a beach bonfire. Then the wind shifts to bring the smoke towards us. They are burning garbage below the high tide mark. When the tide comes in, the ashes and remains of the garbage will be taken out to the middle of the bay. Dogs bark while the fire is going, and the silly rooster crows over and over again. The sun goes down, and the people disappear. The dogs are quiet. The street lights come on, along with a few lights in the houses. The building with no roof has a camp lantern--there are no glazed windows, either. Where will these people live when the rainy season comes?

There is a tent on the beach several hundred yards from the town. They have a camp lantern too. Darkness fall on Magdalena Bay. We are tired and all is quiet, so we sleep.

Comments [2]

Sue
12/06/2009, Between Ensenada and Bahia Tortuga, BC Norte, Mexico

My first nights really at sea: what did I expect? I knew it would be rolly down below, but I wasn't really prepared for just how much motion there would be. Imagine yourself in a front-loading washing machine (with the door shut) and all the water on the outside instead of inside. Now imagine that someone turns off all the lights and adds terrifying noises like waves hissing by and thumps from errant wavelets hitting the side. Where is the romantic moonlight sailing I've read about? What about all the blog posts that make this sound like nirvana?

I grab a multigrain bar that is more like a two-day old Rice Krispies square and climb the ladder into the cockpit to start my watch. My stomach is still in the wash cycle, though. I'm not too happy a camper at this point (remember the 40 pounds of clothing?) but it will be good to have some fresh air. Did you know that sailboats under way have all the ports and hatches closed and dogged? Only the vents are open, and they are facing backwards so as not to permit too much water to enter, should we decide to bury the boat's nose into the back of the next wave.

The cockpit is much quieter. It's a bit eerie, too. The running lights cast a glow on the water to either side of the bow and astern, but beyond that it's nearly impossible to see anything. Oh wait--I looked out from under the awning to get a bit more fresh air, and there are stars. Millions and millions of stars. The moon won't be rising for hours, but I can see the horizon just from the starlight. I had wondered how one would be able to navigate on a dark night using a sextant, but now I know. I can barely distinguish the familiar constellations: Orion, Ursa Major, the Pleiades. There are so many stars. I see now why the Milky Way is called that-it does look a bit like a streak of something white and shining splashed across the sky.

Motion in the stern of the boat is more gentle than in the bow. I take over the helm after confirming the course, and Bob goes below. This tiny world just a little over forty feet by 12 feet is now mine. The scary sounds of the waves make more sense, although I can only see them once they're under the boat. They are almost exactly 40 feet apart and very steep, which means the nose is trying to attack the back of one wave while the stern is lifting to the one behind. The wave aft pushes the boat forward, and the one in front tries to stop it, hence the uncomfortable figure-eight motion that is so devastating in the cabin. In the cockpit, though, I settle back against the cushions and start my watch timer. Everything hinges on getting through the next four hours alone, in the dark. I have decided to permit myself the multigrain bar when the watch is half over, two hours from now. I have a small vacuum jug of coffee that I am permitted (my decision) when I have one hour left to go on my watch. I will probably need it: I have had only snatches of sleep because of the boat's motion and because I'm excited--and scared, too. I check--for the fourth time--my harness, clipped to the pad eye on the cockpit sole beside the helm seat. This will keep me aboard if I am swept off my seat. I wonder about its integrity, and stop that thought in its tracks.

I look at the knotmeter: we are going nearly 8 knots with a main reefed twice and the genoa full out. The wind is not quite dead astern. Bill Crealock's beautiful canoe stern lifts gracefully with each wave, and just when I think one of these steep, noisy seas is going to come aboard, the stern gives a quick little extra rise and the wave passes smoothly under the boat. I am beginning to feel calmer. Then I look at the wind indicator. There is over 35 knots of wind at the masthead, ameliorated a bit by our rush downwind, which subtracts from the wind velocity we feel in the cockpit. The stuff hanging from the equipment arch astern acts as a windbreak, so I don't feel much in the cockpit.

Two hours pass: I can have my bar. I savor each tiny bit, much like Ivan Denisovitch. Maybe I can make it last 15 minutes. I'm not successful. Our Hydrovane is steering wonderfully well, so I only need to watch for other boats, obstacles, and wind shifts. Ever so often I check our position, but we've been maintaining a course that is taking us away from land, not towards it. I still can't believe I'm getting comfortable in gale force winds. The weather we listened to in Ensenada mentioned "light and variable," but that's not what we're getting. In a way, that's good--we'd be motoring otherwise, noisily and with even more motion, since the sails damp some of the rolling. Speaking of sails, I need to retrim the main. The wind has shifted a bit more to the northwest, and I bring the traveler starboard. All by myself, in the dark. The Hydrovane is happier now. I'm beginning to think of it as a friend.

Wave after wave hisses by, and I'm getting tired and sleepy. I stand up, do a few jumping jacks, stretch, try some seated yoga. Ah! Time for coffee. That helps for a while. Thirty minutes to go. Is that dawn in the east? Oh wait--that's not east. It must be the glow from a town inland. What town? I pull out the chart, but without my reading glasses I can't make out the names of the tiny towns in small print. It passes the time, though. The helm seat made for us in Ventura is too comfortable, and I'm sleepy again. I look at the stars, thinking about the ancient Greeks, the ancient Maya, studying their motion and speculating about the nature of the universe, wondering. My world on this small boat in darkness must feel a bit like theirs felt, limited by what they could see and touch, moving quickly through unknown spaces.

Suddenly the hatch opens and Bob's head appears. "Ready for some rest?" he queries. Am I? Yes, but I'll take the surprise at my own complacency to my bunk with me. I sat and thought about other things while gale force winds drove my boat forward.

It was kinda nice. Maybe I can do this.

Comments [3]