Syzygy Sailing

a quick note to tell everyone that karen and I just arrived in Fakarava an hour ago–this is the first time we have had internet access since departing Nuku Hiva on the 22 of May.  Since then, we have visited five other remote islands: Hiva Oa, Tahuata, Fatu Hiva, Makemo, and Tahanea, and we both have a number of blog posts already written that will be added in the next few days.

Everything is going really well.

Two weeks ago on Fatu Hiva we hiked 10 miles to purchase a phone card to call jon to leave a message on his voice mail telling him to meet us on Fakarava on the 14th of june–plus or minus 5 days.  Well we’re in the anchorage and haven’t been to land yet or talked to anyone or even been able to receive email, but according to Jon’s last two posts he may still be in tahiti, or here, or on his way here, so all looks well.

jon if you read this we are towards the north side of the anchorage, one boat to the north of the large dark-hulled megayacht

all stories to follow

This must start with Jerome, who while not Tahitian, still must top the list of kindness that I have encountered here.  Jerome is a couch-surfer.  Or more to the point he has couch-surfed before and now, being in the land of Paradise, hosts other couch-surfers.  I found him on couchsurfing.org, which I signed up on two days before my flight to Tahiti.  He, and another couple both replied nearly immediately that I was more than welcome to stay at their place for a few days.

What an incredible resource!  For all those travelers out there who say that want a more intimate experience, more contact and connection with locals, more exchange of culture, more of an insider’s view into some new place,  I can’t think of a better way than by staying with someone who actually lives there.  The experience seems so much different than staying in a hostel with other travelers.  And while that also provide its own benefits, mainly an excited sense of immediacy to do as many things as possible now, I feel like you just can’t beat a local’s perspective and knowledge of the area.

He has taken me to the beach, which interestingly enough, there are not that many of in Tahiti.  The postcard beaches are mainly reserved for other islands.  He provided me with snorkeling gear to use there, and my first time snorkeling in over a decade was fantastic.  He didn’t join in because it was overcast and 80 degrees, instead of the usual sunny and 85 degrees.  I told him he was spoiled and jaded.

Jerome owns his own jet-ski and so despite another day of overcast weather, I think he sensed my excitement to go and so three of us went ripping out over the lagoon and into the ocean.  It was in the ocean where it was truly fun, as Jerome piloted us over waves, jumping into the air and crashing down, more than once nearly knocking me off.  And then on our return to his place he topped 80 km/hour, skimming the flat lagoon and plowing into the light drizzle that had started.  Yes, even in paradise it rains.  In fact it has rained every day I’ve been here.

So thank you Jerome, for a great start to my trip.

At the market yesterday, I wanted to buy some breakfast and eyed some bananas.  I asked how much for two of them.  Apparently however, you are supposed to buy them in bunches of 6 or 7 and I wasn’t up for that much banana.  I smiled sheepishly as I tried to communicate, a poor attempt I’m sure as I know about two dozen words in French and no Tahitian.  The young, pretty, Tahitian smiled back, and she waved that I could simply have them.  Free breakfast!  Thank you Tahiti.

At a pier-side cafe, watching World Cup Soccer, a few Tahitians struck up a conversation with me.  Luckily they spoke English and we chatted about soccer, the weather (we had all escaped from the downpour that was deluging us) and Tahitian life.  They asked many questions about my trip and I tried my best to make myself understood.  It would be very nice to know how to speak French.  

They also told me, much to my chagrin, that the cargo ship I am taking today may or may not be leaving.  Apparently there is a strike going on with the fireman and some dockworkers.  I knew this, actually, as when my plane was above Tahiti they came on the intercom and said they were trying to negotiate a landing for us.  Negotiate a landing for us!?!? Not exactly what one wants to hear when circling your destination.

A short time later, my bill for my coffee disappeared, and in it’s place was another one, again with no bill.  Timmy and Joe had picked up my coffees and were now offering me donut-like rolls, insisting I take not just one but three or four.  I had to accept.  A couple of minutes later, I asked them how to eat some strange small fruit I had bought a couple dozen of from the market.  They laughed when I motioned in question as to whether or not I could bite into it.  No, no, you must tear it open and the fruit was inside.  They kindly turned me down when I offered them some, happy to simply give and not receive.  Tahitian kindness. Thank you Tahiti!

For the last three days, I’ve slept in a bed (incidentally a step up from the floor that I’ve been using for the last four months) and   when I wake up, I shower and then have coffee made in a kitchen with a fridge where I pull out some Gaia apples from New Zealand.  I choose those over the California varietals.  It just wouldn’t have seemed right.

I’ve gone into town and been able to buy generally whatever I want.  There is a grocery store two blocks away.  Walking to town, I pass a Porsche dealership, an auto-supply store, and a Fed Ex.  I know where the ACE hardware store is.  The drum of traffic is ever present as cars race by, and the hint of pollution hangs in the air.  The air overhead buzzes with planes.

The TV is on in front of me.  It’s a flat screen.  The computer next to it is constantly hooked up to the internet and so I have non-stop access to email.

This morning, I watched World Cup soccer in a restaurant while drinking a European style coffee with a thoroughly American style Starbucks price.  I played poker until 1 am two nights ago.  I lost.  Badly.

Some things, it seems, never change no matter where you are in the world.

I am not however, in Denver despite how similar all of the above experience might seem to the humdrum of my previous life.  I am in Papeete, Tahiti.

Tahiti is geographically almost as far from Denver as possible.  Likewise, my life now is nearly as far away as can be imagined from about a year ago.  The last year has been an incredible roller coaster.  I have been assailed with many difficult situations, happiness, depression, intense disappointment, renewed appreciation, lost relationships, and much to my delight a resurrection of another one I had long thought dormant or gone. Like a roller coaster ride pulling back into the station, My life has come full circle and I am once again about to join this sailing adventure we started planning now five years ago.  Six months, a year, two years, forever…. My mom I’m sure does not want to hear the latter, and to assuage her trepidation, I can’t imagine it either.

The year long roller coaster ride, however, had its affect, its ride while intense, has been emotionally exhausting, taxing.  Lately I have become nearly singularly focused on the transition from one ride to another, from one chapter of my life to another.  I’ve spaced out in conversations with friends, lost in reflection on the past year, and truthfully in moderate disbelief of what the next year might hold.  I am fond of saying right now that I am as happy as I have ever been, and what I have rediscovered in the last month has contributed to fairly well cementing that to be true.

I have not emerged unaffected, however from the year long roller coaster ride.  I told my dad I no longer have the feeling of unencumbered happiness.  He liked that phrase.  It is something between guilt, which is a terrible word to describe it, and quiet reflective pensiveness and appreciation of how my reality has settled and I have thus landed in Tahiti.  When you look at a baby or young child you can see that unencumbered happiness.  Bliss.  Now my happiness, while great, is more quiet, silently acknowledging that much happened which was out of my control to bring my here.  I suppose I am trying to respect that for the first time in my life, true sadness played a role in my being where I am in life, and that deserves acknowledgment from me.

After three days in Papeete, today I begin to travel to Fakarava.  In the Tuomotu’s internet connection is effectively non-existent, and so I am jealous of boats like Io who are able to update their blogs from their boat. Trust that I am writing frequently and prolifically, but updates may be slow in coming until we return to Tahiti, about a month from now I believe.  Now I must go catch a cargo ship!

Well, people, hold on to your pants because we are about to cross the pacific ocean.  This will probably be the craziest thing I have ever done, or ever will do.  The passage from here to the Marquesas–the closest island chain in the south pacific–is the longest straight open ocean passage in the world; we will be in the ocean out of sight of all land for between three and five weeks.

We intend to leave the day after tomorrow–there are many last minute details, paperwork, and logistics to be worked out, as you might imagine.  The boat is ready (more or less).  We are ready.  We are beyond ready, actually.  Most of our fellow cruisers departed a few weeks ago.  Check out Io, Totem, Capaz, Mulan, and Trim, to see what the experiences have been so far.  These folks have been posting to their blogs from the middle of the ocean, via a modem connected to the ssb radio coupled with sailmail software.  We elected not to spring an extra $1000 for the modem, so you won’t be hearing anything from us until after we reach the marquesas and find some internet again.  Our SPOT tracking device will post our location until we get out a couple hundred miles, then we’ll disappear off the map.

Despite the straight line on the image below, the actual path we take will be more of an S-curve: we go more directly west to begin with, then when we encounter the doldrums we turn south and go perpendicularly through them (minimizing our time in this squally no-wind area).  When we exit the doldrums we turn west again, directly for our destination.

This is the sort of adventure we signed up for, so we’re all gung ho to get going with it.  See you on the other side!

We left La Cruz on March 31st to sail south to Tenacatita, a little over a hundred miles down the coast, for a brief respite from the bustle of La Cruz. Jon had flown out for his spring break vacation from teaching, and was looking for a legitimate cruising experience, and Karen had read about a “jungle river adventure” to be found at Tenacatita, so that sealed the deal.

The wind was very light during the entire passage; the sail south was slow. I recollect sailing half the time, motoring half the time. We try to sail whenever there is sufficient wind to fill the sails, which puts us at a boat speed of about 2 knots. 2 knots is a fairly leisurely walking pace, so you can imagine how long it can take. We were in no rush, though–so 2 knots it was.

The anchorage at Tenacatita was tranquil and relaxing. There was a dolphin that lived in the anchorage, affectionately named “nacho” for a notch missing in his dorsal fin. Nacho was most interested in the boat 300 feet away from us, I think because it had a little dog that would run around the deck following the dolphin. Karen wanted to swim with Nacho–she has a lifelong dream to swim with dolphins–so she jumped in the water and started making various sounds intended to attract the attention (and affections) of Nacho over to our boat. The sounds succeeded . . . in making us laugh! I think Nacho sensed her need, because he stayed just far enough away–sometimes coming within 15 feet but no closer–during our entire stay in the anchorage.

At night, the phosphorescence was spectacular. One night we swam in it. Swimming through liquid light, making light by moving, little dots of light dripping off your hands and arms. Your whole body illuminated like some sort of superhero, like your body itself is radiating the light. It struck me as extra-terrestrial–not something that I knew existed on this earth.

The day after we arrived we serviced the outboard for the dinghy (finally), then packed up the dinghy for a day of travelling up some river through the jungle. It was a cool scene. Not, I must admit, a very impressive jungle–I think that experience is still to come–but it was fun travelling through this dark, narrow corridor of a river, barely wide enough for the dinghy in places, with a ceiling of vines and leaves overhead. At the end of the river we found a lake, which happened to be next to a town on the beach, which happened to be overrun by mexican tourists for the Easter holiday. We sat at a little food place next to the lake and spent the day like that, sitting there.

I have a good story about our first beach landing. There’s a hotel just up the beach from where we were anchored; Jon needed to arrange for some sequence of transportation back to Guadalajara to catch his flight. We took the dinghy in. There were small waves breaking on the beach, and it was fun to run in there surfing on a little wave until it got shallow then quick turn off the engine and raise it up and then jump out and drag the dinghy up on the beach. The waves seemed small and the trip into the beach was easy, so we were goaded into a sense of complacency. Trying to get back out, we were not so lucky. It’s all in the timing, I’m sure, but we did not spend much time trying to wait for a good window. Essentially, we dragged the dinghy into the water and went for it. As a result, we provided wild entertainment for a boat in the anchorage that happened to be watching this scene unfold. We got repeatedly thrashed by waves breaking on us, swamping the dinghy with seawater, and nearly flipping the dinghy end for end. I think we went weathered about 4 waves that had our number. Jon was up in the bow trying to hold it down as these waves lifted us to the vertical–on the last wave he was propelled vertically out of the bow straight into the air and crash landed back into the bottom of the dinghy. Unfortunately, the amusing part of the story would be the video and pictures that we didn’t take. On our way back to the anchorage we were hailed by the boat that watched it all unfold. They said they were sure we weren’t going to make it through the last wave, that we completely disappeared and then came launching vertically out of the white surf like a rocket. It was a hell of a fun time, that’s for sure.

(post dated–this post generally refers to events on 3/29 and 3/30)

At midnight Karen grabs my foot and gives it a shake. I take off my eye mask and take out the earphones I’m wearing which along with my I-Pod and Sarah McLachlan, had me asleep in minutes three hours earlier despite the noise of the engine.  I was surprised at how much louder the engine sounds at night versus during the day.  I suppose the new soundproofing in the engine room was doing something, but I couldn’t tell.  I stumble around for about 10 minutes, getting dressed slowly and wobbly.  I can’t find my headlamp or my sailing knife.  I want some light and so switch on a light in the cabin, and quickly move the switch to the red light setting that is supposed to preserve your night vision.  The cabin now resembles a submarine on high alert.  I half expect Gene Hackman to barrel down the companionway yelling “down ladder!”  I imagine us on high alert.  Matt is up, walking around and off-handedly comments that he and Karen stopped using the red lights.  They don’t really provide enough light to do anything, which I quickly found to be true, and your eyes adjust fast enough when you are up on deck. High alert deflates immediately.  The engine continues to groan away as we travel through unfortunately light winds for our passage.  I plop down at the nav station to look at the log book and the AIS chart on the computer.  My night watch is about to start.

Before I even arrived, we had started talking about sailing a day or two north to San Blas.  However, the weather seemed to be less than ideal to the north, so Karen found a entry in the cruising guide that talked about a fine anchorage to the south that had some snorkeling and a fantastic sounding dinghy river trip.  South it was.  Next came talk of who was going to take what watch.  I knew this conversation was coming.  And i knew exactly what I wanted.  The night shift.  Wake me up at midnight or 1 am and send me out.  I wanted this for a number of reasons.  One, I feel, (it’s not just a feeling, I definitely am) behind in this obscure scale of mine that measures “personal discomfort” investment into the boat.  I don’t have much of this.  Matt has, well it’s somewhat amazing he hasn’t collapsed under the weight of how much he has endured.  Second, I wanted to experience as much of the cruising experience as possible.  Taking the night watch fit nicely there.  Finally, it just seemed the nice thing to do, to let Matt and Karen sleep together through the night.

After examining where we were on the AIS, I head up on deck.  Matt joins me and says we should put up the main sail and the drifter.  I’m super excited that we’ll actually be sailing on my watch, at least to start, instead of motoring.  It feels so much more pure.  After Matt helps me put up the sail, he heads off to bed, and I’m left alone on the night watch.  An alarm is set to ring every 23 minutes.  After two iterations of the alarm, I’m starting to get tired, and so lie down in the cockpit, realizing that I’ll be sleeping during some of this watch.  I’m looking directly up at the stars, and soon I’m dozing off, 1/2 awake, 1/2 asleep, dully waiting for the alarm to go off.  It does, I go through the watch routine, and quickly get back to lying down.  This time I’m out quickly.  Thirty minutes later Matt is in the companionway reaching out to the cockpit to hit my feet saying “Dude, you slept through the alarm.  You can’t do that.  Put the alarm closer to your head.”

On the night watch, there is one main responsibility.  Make sure the boat doesn’t hit anything.  Two lesser responsibilities are to 1) sail the boat well so you get to your destination faster. 2) control the boat so that it is easier for others to sleep.  Matt and Karen’s system they developed uses a watch that goes off at set intervals.  Pretty much all cruisers have an alarm set for certain intervals.  Matt and Karen have the watch set for 23 minutes.  So every 23 minutes, it’s the job of whoever is on watch to stand up, or wake up if necessary, look all around the horizon for other boats or land, and make sure you aren’t about to hit either of those.  It’s fascinating what you can see at night on the horizon.  All night we were in sight of shore so lights from there abounded.  At various times, other boats were on the horizon.  It’s enjoyable to spot lights on the horizon and watch over the next hour or two as they slowly move in relationship to the boat.  Of course if they are moving that slowly, it’s probably another sailboat.  The fast lights are the ones to worry about.  The cargo ships.

Matt disappears back down the companionway, leaving me alone fuming at myself.  My first night watch and I’ve made a HUGE mistake.  Damn it.  Not how I wanted to start.  Not the impression I wanted to make on Matt and Karen that I was a competent addition to the sailing team.  I am furious at myself and embarrassed.  Sure, the likelihood that at the exact interval I fell asleep 1) another boat would be just over the horizon that I couldn’t see on the last sweep, 2) wasn’t on the AIS that would alert me to boats further out, 3) was headed on a collision course with us and 4)  did not veer off that collision course because they of course don’t want to hit us…. yes the likelihood of all that happening is low.  Doesn’t matter.  Sleeping through a watch interval is way out of line.  I was not happy with myself.

Later in the night, the alarm goes off.  It is strapped to the band on my headlamp now, directly next to my ear, and so it wakes me immediately.  I get up and start to go through the routine I began to do at every alarm.  I rapidly check our compass heading and speed.  I then spend longer than necessary gazing in a slow 360 degrees off into the distance, looking for lights.  Each time I see lights, I get our binoculars (Thanks mom and dad!!!) and using the internal compass of them, note the heading to the lights and try to discern where it’s going.  If I see a red light, it means I’m looking at the port side of the other boat.  If I see green, I’m looking at the starboard side.  You can also tell things by the location and height of the white lights from a boat, but I’m not as sure about those. Need to learn that.  Next I slide down the companionway, moving as quietly as possible past the quarterberth where Matt and Karen are sleeping, generally with the door open to increase airflow and keep it cooler in the cabin.  I  have a seat at the nav station and take a look at the awesomest part of the night watch routine: checking the AIS transponder which is linked into the navigation software MacEnc, on the computer.  Matt has discussed his love for it in the past, and I have to back up that opinion 100%.  After checking the AIS both for ships and to ensure we are headed in the correct direction, I head back up on deck and do a quick scan of the horizon.  Finally, I look at our sails and see if they need adjustment.  Then it’s back to reading, writing or sleeping.

At 2:30 am on the second night, I watched us thread the needle between two 900 foot long cargo ships doing 14-18 knots.  I had seen the two ships when they were 20 miles away on the computer, long before I would be able to see them on the horizon.  Nonetheless, as soon as I saw them on the computer headed straight for us, I excitedly hopped up on deck, grabbed the binoculars, and stared out into space to where the boats should be.  I was met with nothing but blackness.   A black sky with foreboding moon and a glistening, flat, black sea.  An hour later however, I could see lights.  Lots of lights.  High, towering lights.  That still seemed to be coming straight for us.  The AIS, though, showed their actual heading, and ours.  We would pass the first to our starboard, by a mere mile.  The other, five minutes later, passed to port by even less, about 1/2 a mile.  I didn’t sleep at all for that hour, and gained an enormous appreciation for the additional safety the AIS brought us.  I saw them when they were over an hour away and knew their exact heading relative to us.  If we didn’t the AIS, they would have been twenty minutes or less away on an uncertain course that would have looked extremely troubling.  With the AIS, we didn’t have to divert our course, and I felt no danger to the boat, though I did anxiously watch the AIS and the horizon for the entire hour.  I certainly was too excited to sleep, this being only my second night watch.  But I felt confidently safe.  Without the AIS, I would have had to hail the vessel, not always possible, and try and figure out a way by both ships.  I can envision this being a confusing hail, with both boats so close, heading in the same direction and with the approximate same speed.  With the AIS, there was minimal concern.  The rest of the night passed uneventful.  My second night watch slowly winding down, I finished most of the novel I was reading, enjoying the near full moon as it arced lazily across the sky.  My first real introduction to cruising.  I think I’m going to like it.

Today it is Matt’s birthday and also, in no small conincidence, it is Karen’s birthday as well.  They are also gearing up to be heading across the vast Pacific in about a week or so.  Good luck guys, and Happy Birthday!!!

Karen and I have been really excited by the number of people sending a drink our way, cheering us on, and we intend to put up pictures etc for each one under the “Drinks” page.  We’ve been busy taking care of logistics still, so we have a lot of catching up to do, in the way of drinking, but I want to say thank you to everyone out there who has sent a drink our way, and eventually we’ll get to all of them!

I think it’s appropriate to kick off the drink links section with a donation of Belgian beer from Jon (Haradon, one of the other owners of Syzygy), and the toast he wrote to go with it (which he asked Karen to read to me).  Jon wishes he could be on the trip currently, and is planning on joining us in June, but in the meantime he sent us to a pub in San Diego with Belgian beers on tap (he emailed us with two location choices).  Thank you, Jon, for the Belgian beer and the kind words as well.

The footage makes Karen and I seem ridiculous.  And maybe we are.  But it was a fun evening.  (please stay tuned for the toasts from other drink donors, and thanks again to all of you we love you!)