Journeys
13 April 2010
Gloria
...We have not even to risk adventure alone, for the heroes of all time have gone before us....Where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence. And where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with the world" Joseph Campbell
My arms are draped over the side of the hot tub, with my head out of the water. I quietly observe the dichotomy. An individual snowflake lands on my eyelash and I blink with the familiarity of all the winters past. My body sweats in the heat of the water. I am a woman living and loving two worlds. What is a woman who feels at home at the peak of a mountain in a snow storm doing, planning to sail in less than a week's time across the equator to the South Pacific Islands and beyond? I will engrave the present memory into my mind for enjoyment later. My gaze falls across the valley as the flakes lazily drift downwards. I follow the path of several of them, my eyes mesmerized by their individual journeys.
A week later, back in Mexico, we have finally laid provisions into every conceivable corner of Paikea Mist. When it was time to cast the lines, we gathered up our cruising friends on the docks. The calls rang out: bow line off, midship line free, stern line off! We were on our way! We had waited patiently all day for the winds to pick up in the afternoon, so that we could sail our way out of Bandaras Bay and beyond. As we turned Paikea Mist westward we were greeted with a strong north wind and short steep waves. We raised sail and Paikea Mist leapt into action. Are we ready, I thought? Can you ever be ready, I thought in the next breath. My eyes cast themselves to the decks, where the jacklines should be set . In our excitement to leave the dock we had failed to rig our jacklines! This is an essential piece of safety equipment I harped at Michael. What else have we neglected... what are we thinking... who are we to think we can safely transit almost 3000 miles across this ocean if WE CANT EVEN REMEMBER TO PUT THE JACK LINES ON!!! Even though he may have shuddered at this omission under his skin, Michael calmly stays as cool as a cumcumber. We will put them on later he says, we've sailed in these kinds of conditions up and down the coast, year in and year out without jacklines on! Yeah you're right I begrudgingly agree, but....still.
Paikea Mist always seems to love the first chance to set herself free at sea. All that first day and night the north wind blew down on us making the night watch cool and the early morning hours downright cold. We dug out layers of clothing we had not been familiar with since leaving Victoria last September. All the same, we were making great time. At 8+ knots, our chart plotter boldly predicted that we would arrive at our destination in 15 days! We dug deep to ignore this information, knowing that the trip could not possibly unfold at this speed the entire way.
It's the beginning of our fourth day, and I am snuggled up in my new red down vest, harness on, cup of coffee in hand. It is my early morning watch and I am ready to witness the day unfold ahead of me. After miles and miles of emptiness, no sooner had I sat down when a bright light grabs my attention on the horizon to port. My binoculars confirm this is a vessel, not a star. Stars sometimes fool you as they lay low over the horizon. But my binoculars tell me that this vessel is a freighter. And to me, sitting on top of what seems a small cork on that huge piece of ocean, this vessel looks as large as a continent, even at 9 nms away. I set my coffee down and unclip my harness on my way down to the navigation center. Although it has been months since I have last used the radar to acquire a target, I am pleased to discover that the freighter is moving at 20 nm/hour and will pass in front of my bow with 4 km to spare. Phew. For amusement, and extra security, I try to raise him on the VHF, but with no luck. "Motor vessel in the vicinity of...do you copy?" Nothing heard. "HUMUNGOUS motor vessel out there, do you even see me?" Nothing. No answer, no AIS, nothing! A ship as large as a continent glides forward of my mast and makes its way to unknown ports, and I very much doubt he knows I am here. Paikea Mist and her crew are but a speck in the midst of infinity.
Six days out at sea, and I have ditched the snuggly warm red down vest. Probably forever, because the heat I am feeling, which I believe I am somehow generating myself by some kind of supersonic menopausal capability, is unbearable. After earlier enduring two labored days of drifting, drifting, and poking forward inch by inch by inch, we have finally caught up with the north east trade winds, and the tropical heat. These same warm trade winds have blown across this stretch of ocean for centuries, bringing thousands of mariners on this same voyage. And here we are, but a fragment of time passing by. Paikea Mist seems familiar with the trades and regains her earlier stirde. Even so, the ride is unforgivably bumpy. Bump here, bump there, bruise here, bruise there, 24 hours in 24 hours out. The movements are predictable, yet at the same time not. In response to these movements, my favorite stance is the tripod, one which instinctively broadens the stance and makes it somewhat less likely to be catapulted to some less forgiving corner of the boat. Okay so the stable surface leveraged against is at an angle already, and continuously moving, but at least it is something to hang your hat on. So I stand in the galley, feet planted well behind my pelvis, pelvis smack up against the rail, working hard to prepare a simple meal. All of which inevitably rolls off the counter with the next counter swell. Counter, counter...get it?
Day 10: Twenty-seven: That's how many flying fish found their last flight onto the decks of Paikea Mist last night. As day breaks and the hot equatorial sun beats down on them it is not long before they meet their sundried demise. Three: That's the number of flying fish that I find in our cockpit sculpers this morning. ONE: That's that one that came in the open hatch and landed at the head of my bed. Except I'm too tired to notice- Michael scoops the flapping fish out of the cabin as I sleep. It's a new spin on catch and release. Thirty one flying fish! That's 31 too many, stinky, scaley flying fish. Not so long ago and with great delight, I saw my first flying fish off the Baja Coast. The second one hit my friend Joanne in the shoulder as she sat in the cockpit. It smelled for hours afterwards. Out here on the Pacific, flying fish are the most abundant species, bar none. At times our moving hull shakes dozens and dozens of them out of the water. We watch in awe as they perform their amazing choreography of flashing flight against wind and over wave. And eventually directly onto our boat. Amazing beautiful, yet unbelievably smelly FLYING FISH!
Day 12: 3 degree North/ 125 W (right in the middle of the ICTZ) Life is supersized near the ICTZ, where the warm and wet air rises up over the equator. Thunderheads tower thousands of feet above, while rain squalls drop down on you in mere minutes. The squalls are interspersed with quiet and calm. You can't help feeling small out here, in the middle of the quiet calm ocean, especially at night. It's inevitable . But just now my eyes are drawn to the east, where a splash of orange lights up over the horizon. I'm startled out of my quiet calm- yikes- have I missed seeing a cruise ship approach? As I bring my binoculars to focus on the orange hue, I realize that I am seeing the moon rise over the ocean, although the actual moon is not visible, as it hides its bulk behind a big black ICTZ cloud. I am seeing only the glow under the clouds as the moon scatters its intense light across the water. The light slowly morphs and intensifies , backlighting the entire cloud in a 180 degree radius before me, like an eruption on the eastern horizon. I am witnessing a spectacular moonrise, not just any moonrise, but THIS particular one, offered only to those fortunate to be in this particular place at this particular time which = ME! At this particular moment, I am completely and wholly part of this landscape and my very existence feels stretched beyond reality, although that's probably because it literally is. Small, but whole, tiny yet significant, precisely because I am here, right in this very spot. So instead of feeling small and insignificant in this great big blue, I have never felt more connected to the overall grand plan and mysterious beyond. To celebrate I drink my beloved cuppa coffee in a real mug, one without a toddlers lid.
Gazing across the horizon, following the journey of one wave after another my mind falls back into its trance like state. Past memories flood into my thoughts and unfold in the most dynamic ways. My mind is amazingly open to anything, and right now I can relive any particular moment I desire. I feel the tiny hand of my daughter wrap my finger just after she was born. I stroke the tiny back side of her hand and feel its warmth. I smell the freshly shampooed hair atop my sons smooth head, and jiggle and tickle his soft belly. These past moments are alive, bold and clear and it is a joy to live them again.
Thirteen days, thirteen long days out at sea. Why oh why would anyone want to subject themselves to this voyage? Day in and day out, the same big old ocean engulfs us, day in and day out. Yet with hundreds of miles on either side of us, there is no turning back. We are still conscious, but barely. Of all the things I yearn for, my comfy recliner chair back in the family room beckons me the most. A cold morning that requires the donning of some cozy slippers and a hot cup of freshly brewed coffee to warm my insides and wake me up! Yesterday afternoon I succumbed to complete overheated exhaustion. I had only an eyelid of energy left in me. We have been following a 3 hour on/off shift since we left Mexico. But most times my psyche was reluctant to slip into sleep, and as a result I just couldn't glean the deep sleep my body craved to rebuild itself upon. It is at this point of the voyage I realize I am made from a different cookie cutter than my main man. While my determination is waning like the moon, he steadfastly marches on. He fixes the watermaker, replaces filters, replaces the roller at the top of the mast, repairs the outdoor VHF radio and interprets endless weather data all at the same time. He takes the 11-4 shift, I take the 4am to 9am shift. I finally piece together my first 3 hours of sleep since casting the lines.
Easter Sunday, April 3rd, just over 500 miles to go. The closer we get, the longer it seems to take. Paikea Mist has been on the same tack for days now. Genoa sheet in, genoa sheet out. Steady progress of 9 and even 10 knots! The movement is gyrating. I lie down against the lee cloth with my hips wedged tightly against the boat to secure me. My head is the ever moving dot on an etch and sketch pad. Bart Simpson is at the dials with a wild and gleeful look in his eyes, turning the dials willy nilly in relentlessly twisted patterns. My pin dot head and its vestibular system goes along for the unpredictable ride, 24-7. Michael says pick any ride at the fairgrounds and stay on it for 13 days and you'll get the picture, kind of.
Two days later, and 16 days at sea: Even Michael admits that this stretch has been tough. Fast, but tough. In one stretch of 24 hours, we clocked 210 miles. Now that's not so amazing say for a car, but that is FAST on a sailboat. The boat is taking a wet ride to the Marquases. Water is constantly lapping up onto the topsides so that all the hatches down below are closed tighter than a nuns legs. We don't dare open them not even for 'thirty seconds', it's just not worth it! Below decks it is dreadful, hot and sticky and well, dreadful. There is nowhere for this hot wet air to go, but onto you, your body. It sticks to you like a sock sticks to a wet foot as you try to pull it on. It turns your mind into mush. Take a shower and you feel so much better. For five minutes that is, then it feels like the last shower you took was a month ago. Try to focus, focus, reel in the anchorage, 50 feet at a time over and over again. You visualize the hook dropping and holding in the anchorage. And the calm, if you could only find the still, all would be well again. Thankfully the outdoor temperature is no longer the oppressing heat it was at the equator, it is just with the wash splashing over the top side there is no area free from the splash zone. So your options are wet and salty or wet and sticky. Hmmmph.
It's the early morning of the last day at sea. I am tuning into the morning Pacific Puddle Jump net on our SSB radio. We have been reporting our position to the net on a daily basis, and have had great entertainment following the progress of other boats that are making their way in the same direction. Paikea Mist, go ahead with your coordinates. I press down the mike button to give coordinates and as I do a huge yelp from above rings across the water. LAND AHOY! I have goosebumps running down my spine as I inform the net that we have just caught our first glimpse of Hiva Oa, and we are about to make landfall later that day.
Landfall, after 18 days at sea. Hiva Oa gradually magnifies as we approach the bay of Tahuka, just under the towering Mount Temetin, 1300 meters above. Like the mountain, everything we see and hear is intensified as we edge our way into the bay. The smell of land, woody and flowery all at the same time fills our nostrils. We hear and then see our first car rumbling down the road. For some reason this image sticks like glue, it is a shiny silver truck. We are too tired to tell if this is paradise, but it feels like it. The water on the bay rises up and down in a melodic swell. To us it feels dead calm. To celebrate we uncork a bottle of Californian Champagne, and indulge in a wonderful platter of freshly made appetizers. Although long lists of chores fetch out ahead of us, a warm feeling of contentment transcends us both. Our journey is just beginning. Again.