Syzygy Sailing

Finally, this is a current post, written and posted in the present right here now. I wanted to bring everyone up to date with our wanderings, right before we drop off the map again for another couple of long passages. We need to be in Australia by November to avoid the cyclone (hurricane) season down here. We have been in the south pacific for three months already; we have less than three months remaining. Examine on the map how far we’ve come in three months and how far we have yet to go, and you’ll see that we really have to get our act in gear.

From Huahine, we intend to sail in more or less a straight line to Tonga, with three possible stops on the list: Palmerston atoll, Beveridge Reef, and Niue. We may stop at all three or none of these. Palmerston is in the middle of nowhere and has only a handful of people living on it. Beveridge reef is even more remote, and unique: it doesn’t actually have any dry land whatsoever–it’s a reef that rises straight out of the ocean floor and comes within a few feet of the surface. It would be surreal to anchor on a reef in the middle of the ocean, with no land in sight for hundreds of miles (this will be possible if the weather cooperates). Niue is large enough to have some civilization there, a town and supplies and maybe even internet. But who knows, we may pass up all three and just pop back up on the map in Tonga, 1300 miles west of here. Like I said, we need to put some miles under the keel prontospeed.

We’ve had lots of rain since we arrived here in Huahine. Refreshingly, the island is less developed (i.e. less touristy) than either Tahiti or Moorea. We picked up our last remaining provisions for the upcoming passages, and need only a jerry-can worth of gas for the outboard before we’re all set to go. We’ll probably get out of here in two or three days, weather permitting.

Unrelatedly, my cousin Derek is getting married today, perhaps this very moment, and I feel strange (and somewhat guilty) not to be back home attending. I wish him the very best–congratulations to Derek & Lauren!

Karen’s mom and my mom booked a vacation together to come visit us.  I love my mom and I love Karen and now I love Karen’s mom and so I’m glad they came halfway around the world to visit us. Thanks moms.

They flew into Tahiti and spent the night outside of Papaeete; the next day Karen accompanied them across to Moorea on the ferry while Jon and I sailed the boat across.

Jon and I anchored the boat just outside of Oponohu Bay.  After tidying up the boat, I set off in the dinghy to find the hotel.  It got dark and I encountered an obstacle course of reefs.  I was paddling, and pushing off coral with my foot, cringing when the bottom of the dinghy would scrape on coral, and constantly raising and lowering and turning the outboard off and on to avoid banging it on the bottom.  It took an hour and a half, the hotel ended up being about 2 miles away.  That part sucked.

But then the moms treated Karen and I to a few nights in the hotel with them, and that was simply fantastic.  It was wonderful to be off the boat, in a real bed, with a hot shower.  It had been over 90 days since our last hot shower in Mexico.  We ate good food and relaxed in front of the pool.  Heavenly.

We took the moms back to see the boat in the dinghy.  I should have learned from my trip the night before, but I have a short memory, and I’m stubborn.  It was daytime for this return trip, but it was also up into 15 knots of wind.  That dinghy isn’t too fast with four people on board.  Everyone was drenched inside of five minutes from the spray splashing over the bow, and it took an hour to make it back to the boat.  We had to bail the entire way.  It was a bit more than the moms had signed up for, I’m sure:

Later in the week we took the moms out to an area full of docile stingrays (the hotels have created this situation by regularly feeding them fish).  It was really, really incredible, to have stingrays come rub up against you looking for handouts:

(post-dated: we arrived in Tahiti July 16)

Rangiroa was our last atoll in the Tuamotus; the passage from Rangiroa to Tahiti took a day and a half.  Tahiti is the administrative center for all of French Polynesia, which includes the Marquesas, the Tuamotus, and the Society Islands (Tahiti is in the Societies, along with Bora Bora).

The passage from Rangiroa to Tahiti was tedious.  We were very fortunate to be sailing a beam reach, because the wind conditions were highly variable, from 20-30 knots the whole time.  Usually a squall is temporary–from a minute to an hour–but eventually it goes away and leaves better conditions.  This passage was like being in and out of squalls, back to back, all night long.  Wet, cold, and lots of work.  I was on-call all of the night to trouble-shoot various situations; twice the main got backwinded against the boom-preventer in big shift of heavy wind.  Jon stayed on watch most of the night, and I woke up whenever I was needed, thus we handled the division of work.  The waves were short and steep–every 10 minutes a wave would give the boat a good smack and spray the top of the wave all across the deck and cockpit.  We had a close call where one wave came in through a portlight across the cabin and managed to cover the computer station in spray–I was concerned that my laptop had been ruined, fortunately not.

In Tahiti, we tied up to a mooring just off of the “Tahiti Yacht Club”, north of Papaeete.  For $13/night we got the mooring and hot showers.  The water was opaque, dirty and frequently stinky.  No swimming here!

We used our time in Tahiti to take care of business, the first two priorities to find a new outboard motor and get lots of food at the grocery store.  Additionally we had to take care of the official check-in/out from French Polynesia.  Even though downtown Papaeete is a standard busy trafficky dirty and especially expensive city, it was still fantastic to have the resources available to us (here I’m thinking mainly of restaurants and bars and cafes).  We bought parts, new masks and snorkels, machetes, you know, the usual.  Naturally, we ended up staying longer than anticipated.

post-dated:  this refers to events on July 11

(for background, see this previous post)

We observed the solar eclipse from the atoll Rangiroa in the Tuamotus. It occurred around 10 in the morning, which is why in the pictures below Karen and I both look like we just got out of bed (jon was up at dawn). Jon found these cheap dark glasses for safely looking at the sun, which is why we all look like we’re watching a cheesy 3D movie.

It was great to observe a solar eclipse, though it was admittedly less dramatic than I had hoped for. The viewing party lasted about 30 minutes, so it wasn’t as rapid as I had expected, either, which gave me some time to drink my coffee, wake up a bit more, and appreciate it.  We were just outside the area of the total solar eclipse; on Rangiroa we had something like a 93% totality, and it turns out that 7% of the sun is a hell of a lot brighter than you would expect.  At its darkest, it had a magnitude of illumination equivalent to the sunset.

Originally we had planned on being farther south, in the path of the total eclipse, but it turned out to be incompatible with all our other route-planning considerations.  I do not regret our choice.

As a photographer, I was most fascinated by the color temperature of the light.  At sunrise and sunset we describe the light as very “warm”: when the sun is very low in the sky, its light passes through much more of the atmosphere before it illuminates our surroundings; as a result more of the blue wavelengths are filtered out, leaving a more orange, or “warm”, illumination.

–ignorable aside:
The expression “color temperature” comes directly from physics: as an object is heated, it gives off radiation (this is called “blackbody radiation” fyi).  The temperature of the object determines the wavelength of radiation.  At room temperature, objects give off long wavelength radiation, in the infrared spectrum (which we cannot see, except with the help of special goggles anyway).  When the object gets hotter, say a couple thousand degrees, the wavelength of radiation becomes shorter, and it gives of visible light that we can see (think of a piece of metal glowing orange in a forge).  The hotter it gets, the shorter the wavelength. Orange light is longer wavelength, bluer light is shorter wavelength.  As a piece of metal heats up in the forge, it goes from orange towards blue in color.  So, strictly speaking, blue is hotter, orange is cooler.  However, photographers got it backwards and refer to orange light as warmer and bluer light as cooler; admittedly this seems more intuitive.  Since it is rare to find a photographer who pays any attention to physics, we’ll have to forgive them the mistake.
–end of ignorable aside.

During the eclipse the sun was high in the sky, and so even though the amount of light felt like a sunset, the illumination it provided had the color temperature of the mid-day sun–far “bluer” than we observe at sunset.   In fact, it felt exactly like moonlight–this makes sense because moonlight itself is only reflected sunlight.

So if you want to understand what it was like, imagine a sunset with moonlight.

(concerning events: July 8th)

When on a passage, the people on board take turns being ‘on watch’.  While on watch, that person is called the helmsman.  They are in charge of sailing the boat, making sail changes if necessary, ensuring the proper course of the boat.  The helmsman can ask other people for help in doing a task.  Other people can take it upon themselves to tinker with sails, look at and adjust the course, etc. etc. if they are so inclined.  The captain (Matt), if he feels like it since he’s the captain gets to do whatever he damn well pleases and tell the helmsman to piss off if wants.  We, thankfully, have a benevolent captain (so far) who makes his requests much more politely.   In the end, particularly through the night, it is the helmsman’s job to make sure the boat doesn’t hit anything.

My first overnight watch was not particularly exemplary.  I was determined to improve upon this in my next one.  Our passage from Apataki to Rangiroa would provide me with the first opportunity.  I volunteered to take the midnight to 6 am shift .

Every 15 minutes the person on watch is supposed to at a minimum scan the horizon looking for anything we might run into.  15 minutes is the chosen interval aboard Syzygy as we believe it balances differing factors such as: how far you can see at night, how generally busy with other vessel traffic the area is, human comfort.  We have a wristwatch aboard Syzygy that has an alarm set to ring every 15 minutes.  I would wear it around the band of my headlamp so that it was always extremely close to my ear.  Just in case I was sleeping or simply had my eyes deeply closed.  I would even wear the watch during the day so that if I got busy doing something, when the alarm rang I would be reminded to, at a minimum, look around for other boats, land, check our course, etc.

Through the night, I noticed my life quickly become wholly defined by that alarm.  I would wait for the alarm before I would do almost anything, so that I would be less likely to be in the middle of something when the alarm rang.  I would plan to do different jobs by the alarm.  “After two alarms I will _____________.”

Here is my night watch, my life, as defined by those 15 minute intervals.

11:45 pm – 1200 am
Look for coffee maker.   Become frustrated at not being able to find it.  Attempt to light stove for coffee.  Continue frustrations at stove for not staying lit at a low flame, optimal for coffee making.  Not processing what Matt is saying to me about his and Karen’s watch because I feel like a zombie and nauseous.  I drink a large glass of juice because I know I need calories but can’t think of anything easy enough to make.  Stomach feels queasy from the rocking motion of the boat as it pitches and rolls 10 degrees to each side.

12:00 am – 12:15 am
Coffee finishes boiling.  up on deck listening to Matt.  During the first part of my watch I need to take down the whisker pole, and bring in the fishing lines.  At some point, we will need to heave to as we will have arrived at the entrance to the atoll but don’t want to go through the pass in the dark.  Stomach feels queasy; I think the rolling of the boat has increased to 15 degrees to each side, though I’m probably imagining it.   Eat granola bar for more calories and because a more full stomach usually helps me with seasickness.  Alarm sounds.

12:15 am – 12: 30 am
Look around the horizon.  Check course on computer.  Pour coffee into cup. stomach feels awful, it’s not looking good.  Boat is definitely, in my imagination, pitching 20 degrees to each side.  Alarm sounds.

12:30 am – 12:45 am
Look around the horizon.  Back down below to add milk and sugar to coffee.   I imagine 30 degree rolling pitches to each side, a roller coaster fun house of nasea.  Realize my stomach is done.  Stomach is rising. Need to get outside immediately.  Get halfway out the companionway, remember that I’m about to drape myself 1/2 off the boat and I’d better clip in. stomach in throat.   Fumble with the tether trying to get clipped in.  It takes ages. Stomach in mouth.  Finally can step on deck knowing I’m tethered.  Stomach in mouth, mouth forcibly closed to prevent a god awful mess in the cockpit.  Fall into the jack lines, stomach exiting.  Sit down on the boat, stick my head between the jack lines into a nice comfortable position and continue to throw up into a dark sea.  I have to time my events with the rolling of the boat so as not to coat the sides of the hull.  I’m not very good at this.  Alarm sounds.

12:45 am
I give the alarm the bird, heave one more time and then drag myself up to look around.  Nothing like taking a break from throwing up to look around for boat traffic.  Fuck me.  I then go back to the rail to hang out and watch water flow by the boat.  It’s quite a sight.  Mysteriously dark, the swell rising and falling.  I listen to all the unique sounds that happen.  Waves hitting up against the hull.  The rush of water as we accelerate down the face of the wave.  The ripples it makes as our boat cuts through at 6 knots.  Light glistens off the surface particularly from the moon.  Parts are eerily smooth, like an oil slick.  Others are little whirlpools, particularly as it eddies off the back of our boat.   Sea sickness seems to have gone away and I actually feel much better.  Alarm sounds.

1:00 am
Look around.  Get some water swish it around my mouth.  Back to the rail to watch some more water.  Able to sit up comfortably and look up at the stars.  The stars are a treat.  There are thousands, millions of them.  On a cloudless, moonless night, the faintest stars are visible barely there to the straining eye.  The brightest gleam dominantly.  A milky way band stretches prominently across the sky.  All new southern hemisphere stars to gaze at and wonder about.  I know none of the constellations like I do in the Northern hemispere.  A week later, safely at anchor and feeling much better, I’ll start making up names for constellations.  A particular group of three forming a triangle gets called Allison.   Tonight though, I just stare at them, looking at different ones as they glisten differently, sparkle with this color or that.  A shooting star darts by, long enough so that I only see it in my peripheral vision, have time to move my head and eyes to focus on it and it is still goes for another second.  Very cool.  Alarm sounds.

1:15 am
Look around. Check course on computer.  Get my coffee and bring it on deck.  Take my first sip.  It’s cold.  Begin contemplating the tasks I have to do.  Clean up the side of the boat,  some off the lifelines and a little off the side deck.  Alarm sounds.

1:30 am
Look around. Start bringing in the first fishing line.  I am able to do this sitting down.  This is good because I feel exhausted from my earlier bout of nasea.  Realize that our tackle box is still quite a mess, despite some effort and time Matt put into organizing it.  Once I finish pulling in the first line, I relax and wait.  I don’t want to start on the second line and have to stop if the alarm goes off.  I could look at the watch and see if I have enough time, but I prefer to just sit there and wait it out.  One minute. Two, three, four, five.  I probably could have pulled in the line by now.  Alarm sounds.

1:45 am
Look around.  Check course on computer.  Bring in the second line.  I endeavor to bring some semblance of order to tackle box while stowing the fishing lines.  Alarm sounds.

2:00 am
Look around.  Check course on computer.  Make a plan for the next two alarm cycles.  I plan to spend an extensive amount of time dealing with our course, checking our course on the computer, looking at how far we have to go, when we should heave-to, etc.  Tasks such as these can take up nearly an entire cycle as the computer program we use, Mac-Enc is woefully slow.  Embarrassingly slow for a program running on a Mac.  After the time-consuming check, I’ll spend the remainder of that cycle and the next cycle resting.  Then, I’ll begin taking down the whisker pole.  Alarm sounds.

2:15 am
I look around for longer then necessary, using the binoculars to stare off at the lights from shore, eyeing each intensely to make sure it is not, in fact, a boat that might head for us.  After doing the multiple tasks on a mind-numbingly slow Mac-Enc, I come back on deck and look around again.  There is not much time left in this cycle, but I lie down and watch the stars.  I close my eyes.  Consider eating and become nauseous at the thought.  I try to slow my breathing, trying to bring as much relaxation and rest as possible to a still awake but dehydrated and tired body.  Alarm sounds.

2:30 am
Look around extremely quickly, as it was just three minutes or so that I last looked.  Back to lying down.  I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift.  Idly thinking of people back home, what they might be doing, what changes are happening in their lives.  Has Allison found a job yet?  Has she gotten my letter?  Is not communicating for three weeks hard?  Did Dave’s school get approved? Has Maddi my niece gotten even more adorably cute?  I try and drift as close to sleep as possible.  Alarm sounds.

2:45 am
Still lying down in the cockpit with my eyes closed, giving myself 30 more seconds.  As I’m opening up my eyes, I almost sense it before I even see it. A bright light, 20 degrees up the horizon and behind us, a boat would have to be close, TOO CLOSE for a light that bright.  Close and large.  “How could I have not seen a boat like that before!?!?”  rushes through my head as I sit up with a quick start, brain fast into action as to what I’m going to have to do.  I then heave a sigh and collapse back down onto the cushions in the cockpit, done staring at the moon for now.  Thanks moon, thanks for that.  Look around.  I note an actual new light on the horizon.  Could be more shore lights, but I’m inclined to think it’s a boat.  Check course on computer.  Back up on deck, I begin going through the steps to take down the whisker pole.  On foredeck, unclip the pole.  Slowly bring twenty foot pole to rest on deck.  The boat has seen fit to make this task difficult by rolling 15 degrees to each side of vertical.  Standing is generally out of the question, and so I lean/sit on the dinghy which is tied upside down on our foredeck.  Pole down, a dozen more steps to go.  Alarm sounds.

3:00 am
Of course the alarm sounds right now.  I curse silently, then try and pin the pole down while I scan the horizon.  The new light has definitely moved closer.  Back to the whisker pole, I get the bridle off, loosen the topping lift so I can move the pole to it’s stowed position, Get the jib sheet off the pole, and begin moving the pole to the other side of the boat for stowage.  Alarm sounds.  Really? Already?

3:15 am
Look around. The light is now the shadow of a boat as it is slips by our port side.  I finish stowing the pole.  I then have to retrieve the whisker pole bridle and re-lead the jib sheet.  Alarm sounds.

3:30 am
Look around.  Check course on computer.  I wake Matt up so we can heave to.  He immediately notes the light, but I assure him it is moving away.  We then heave-to, which simply means that we tack the boat without allowing the jib to move to the other side.  This pins the jib sail up against the shrouds and stalls the boat.  The jib tries to take the boat down-wind, while the main and the rudder act to counter by trying to drive the boat up into the wind.  The idea is to completely stall.  Alarm sounds.

3:45 am
Look around.  A proper heave-to takes a bit of finesse.  Our boat is also not particularly inclined to completely stop in it’s heave-to.  We have slowed to a 1 knot however, from about 5 or 6.  Matt and I look at the sail, banter about how to get us to completely stop.  Matt starts to clean up lines and I say “Dude, go back to bed.”  “Oh yea,” he replies, “See you at 6.”  and disappears down the companionway.  Alarm sounds.

4:00 am
Look around.  Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

4:15 am
Look around.  Check course on computer.  Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

4:30 am
Look around.  Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

4:45 am
Look around.  Think that describing life in 15 minute segments might be an interesting blog post.  Open up Matt’s computer to start writing. Alarm sounds.

5:00 am
Look around.  Check course on computer.  Continue writing.  Then I think to myself, “Really?”  and head back up on deck and calmly this time, tether in, sit down on the coamings of the cockpit, move my head between the life lines and throw-up.  Alarm sounds.

5:15 am
Look around.  Gurgle some water and feel exceedingly good except for my pride.  What kind of a sailor am I that I can’t even look at a computer screen for a little while to type?  So what the boat is rolling.  How am I going to manage on a 5 day passage or 10?  At least I’m not doubled over and incapacitated.  Oddly, I’m actually in excellent spirits.  I just would like to be able to do something on watch other than relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

5:30 am
Look around.  Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

5:45 am
Look around.  Check course on computer. Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

6:00 am
Look around.  Relax and aimlessly watch the stars and the water.  Alarm sounds.

Matt gets up.  While my watch is technically over, there is stuff to do like getting out of the heave-to and then motor sailing back to the pass which we have drifted to the west of and then a pass to enter.  All things good for me to practice So I stay up and go through all of these.  The pass into Rangiroa is exciting, with tall standing waves from a mix of currents and wind.  The waves seem to tower over us as they roll in behind and then sweep under us.  We get to anchorage, and Matt lets me suss out our options for anchoring and then pilot us into place.  I’m not quite up to the task yet though, and so in the last bit Matt modestly gives out some directions on what to be doing.  Once anchored, Matt go about the various little tasks that all have to been done after anchoring.  We do these in silence.  I am reminded of when after a long rock-climb, or a hike out from a canyon, when you have to do those last miserable details.  We both know what needs to be done, and we go about it silently. After 45 minutes of slowly moving through these tasks, it is about 9 am.  I crawl into bed and pass out.

(concerning events: July 3rd -July 6th)

People have lived in French Polynesia for around 2000 years and ever since have been eating fish.  Lots and lots of fresh fish.  We have not been eating lots and lots of fresh fish.  We have been eating little to no fresh fish.  This vexes me to no end.  We had fresh fish once in the two weeks I have been here.  Native Tuomotians Ken and Martin caught it for us.

Karen is a fantastic cook.  She probably cooks the most dinners, though I cook my fair share.  Matt and Karen seem to have tired of their repertoire of recipes.  I certainly haven’t though and everything that Karen makes I think is delicious.  Everything that Matt makes I think is delicious.  Everything that I make…. well Matt and Karen eat it, so it must be edible.

But we all acknowledge that our meals are with drawbacks.  Nearly every meal is ‘x’ number of cans + [either] pasta or rice + alcoholic beverage of choice = meal.  Sometimes this is canned spaghetti sauce plus canned chicken plus pasta equals a meal.  Sometimes this is canned roast beef + canned corn + canned mushrooms + canned yams + canned gravy + boxed potatoes = meal.  I think they are delicious every time.  But something fresh would be wonderful.

When Karen makes various fresh bread, it’s a little slice of heaven.  Sometimes sourdough english muffin.  Sometimes tortillas.  Or sourdough french bread.  Or puffy donut holes with cinnamon and sugar, oh sinfully delicious.  So bread, bread we can do fresh.  Otherwise, cans.

I feel like we should be eating fish.  For one, it’s free.  For two, it’s not cans.

Matt and Karen reported no luck fishing while sailing across the Pacific and while cruising the Marquesas and the Tuomotus.  This poor showing on the part of the fish to readily enjoy our lures, combined with Matt’s reticence at the idea of cutting up live things with guts in them has led to a decline in fishing attempts onboard s/v Syzygy.  Who can blame them?  They never caught anything.  With my arrival, I bring fresh hopes and renewed vigor to the idea of fishing.  And an indefatigable arrogance that it has to be possible to catch something.  Anything.

And I have failed.  Failed as all other attempts at trailing lines has failed on s/v Syzygy.  Please other cruisers who are able to catch fish regularly,  tell us your exact set-up of trolling lines and how you catch fish, down to the minutest detail.  Because we are incompetent.  We have read a book and we have not learned.  Nearly all things done on this boat, all the sailing knowledge, all the boat projects completed are because we read a book and learned about it.  We read a book about fishing, but we cannot seem to learn how to fish.  Please tell us everything about your set-up.  Length of line out, type of knots, length of mono-filament.  Type of lure.  Color of lure.  Number of lures.  Depth of lure.  Time of day.  Depth to ocean floor.  Distance to land.  Boat speed.  Wind speed. Current. Hook size.  Hook placement within lure.  Allowable rust level on hook.  Bait used or not.  Leader weight used or not.  Chum used or not. Teasers used or not.  Pagan gods to whom you might give sacrifice in order to make the ocean share its bounty.  Please include video of ceremony, text of chants and incantations, list of all incense types used and step by step instructions for actual sacrifice.

I have, actually, caught some fish.  But I was only able to do that at anchor.  When we were in Apataki, and in having beer and an excellent lunch at the cargneage(boat haul-out center)/pension/restaurant/happy hour/pearl farm establishment, fishing was brought up with the family who owns all this enterprise, Alfred and his wife.  They said they had a surefire way for us to catch fish involving hermit crabs as bait and that next time we come to shore, they would show us.  The next day, we show up but Alfred is off fishing and his wife is gone.  Karen manages to relate to the very nice ancient lady that met us at the dock (Alfred’s mom??) our intentions.  So before we know it, this 80-ish year old woman has grabbed a hermit crab.  Matt and I are hustling around trying to watch every little step of what she does.  She then gets a hammer, one shot smashes the shell, grabs the hermit crab, one hand around all it’s legs and claws, the other around its guts and rips it in two pieces.  She threads it on the hook and done.  30 seconds have passed.  I am in awe.  In a couple of days, I will no longer be in awe of the process.  Instead, I will be a one-man professional hermit crab death squad.

We collect a dozen hermit crabs and head back to the boat.  At dusk, apparently good fishing time, I retrieve a hammer, a cutting board, and a hook.  I ask Karen to retrieve a video camera.  The nice ancient lady completed the steps in about 30 seconds.  It takes me 30 minutes.  So despite that it is now dark, I try to fish anyway.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  I take solace in the fact that it is pitch black out and vow to try again in the morning.

In the morning at 6 am I begin setting up to try again. Success!  Within a half an hour I’ve hooked two fish.  Karen comes on deck.  I ask her what to do now that I have a fish flopping around in a large green bin.  She says I have to kill it.  I don’t know how to do that I reply.  She fetches the book.  We read it.  We learn.  The fish dies.  Knife shot to the brain, one inch behind the eye.

After reading the book for each step in the process of gutting and cleaning we take the fish into shore to make sure that we can eat them.  Some fish you can’t eat because of a nasty little disease called ciguterra  I refer you to a blog post from our good friends Mike and Hyo aboard Io, Mike is a marine biologist and so can explain all the nastiness of ciguterra better than I.

Matt gets the job of cooking the fish and that night we finally dined on fresh fish.  The next night we again dined on fresh fish.  It was wonderful, albeit a bit bony.  Then we moved anchorages, losing our source for local knowledge of ciguterra (Different fish on different atolls have it) and we have not had fish again.  Back to cans.

So fellow cruisers, please help us become better fishermen and fisherwomen.  Please help us spare the cans.