Stepping in from hand steering on the darkest of nights for a quick update. The wind is up and down now, confusing the self steering. At the wheel the blackness of the sky merges with the blackness of the sea with no discernible horizon line between them, steering into a sea of nothingness. We have a whole flock of ghost birds now (really a swallow tailed gull), and the eye is grateful for something to focus on in the nothingness. They seem to be feeding on the fish or squid that rise to our starboard running light. They went crazy when I turned on the deck lights to unreef and then reef again, making rattling clicking sounds, and swooping down to feed in the light.

Wednesday was a difficult day, not too terribly challenging or dangerous just the tension of continuous upwind sailing in a breeze getting to us and the boat. This is our eighth day of beating into the wind, most of it in a reefing breeze. I tied in the second reef shortly before the end of my watch this morning as the apparent wind stayed over 20 knots. When Robin woke and felt the angle of heel she immediately asked why we didn't put in a third reef, and I snapped back because a second reef should be plenty in low twenties. Truth is, I don't like putting a third reef in because then I have no tricks left in my bag.

With the steady southerly breeze a sea has built up, and though we picked up a fair current overnight and tacked southwest for San Cristobal, that current against the sea makes for some choppy seas. Every once in a while a sheet of solid water runs up the deck, or a five gallon bucket's worth flies through the air, and soaks you if you are out and finds ways below if you are in. The dorade boxes for the ventilators on this boat were poorly designed - they drain fine when the boat is level, but when the boat is heeled over, the water pools in the boxes and rains seawater down below. I thought I fixed this a few seasons ago by drilling more drain holes, but it's one of those things where you really don’t know until a dirty day on the open ocean. In addition, sea water rains down inside when a solid sea hits the companionway hatch, even when it is shut, for reasons I still can't quite figure out. Add a few portholes carelessly left open or undogged, and a damp cabin makes for poor morale and short tempers. Add a general overcast, fitful sprays of light rain, and a lashing of two on deck letting go to set the mood.

This was suppose to be a difficult passage, but we expected some relief from the constant bear to windward. The sailing directions suggest that you will reach the southeasterly trades if you hit the equator at 84 degrees west. Though we did not want to go that far away from the rhumb line, the wind forecasts seemed to promise winds moderating and backing to south southeast as we headed south and west and the passage wore one. But with each forecast update, these fair winds were always another day and 180 miles farther away than the day before.

We are really excited to get to the Galapagos in a few days, but also anxious. To protect its unique ecosystem, the Galapagos has what are probably the most rigorous entrance inspection requirements in the world. Upon arrival, they have divers inspect the bottom of your hull. If they find a single barnacle, you are refused entry until you go forty miles back out to sea to clean the, off, and pay for a second inspection.

We paid to have a diver clean our bottom in Shelter Bay, Panama, but we had also planned to stop the boat a day out of the Galapagos and dive to inspect the bottom again just before entry. But with the wind and seas persisting, it does not look like it will be safe to dive on the open sea. So you can add possible hidden barnacles to our list of worries, and if we are refused entry we are still facing the prospect of diving on the bottom in the open sea to clean it.