Tattoo Tuesday – Sporting the new ink, perhaps a bit too proudly
I’ve never had any interest in getting a tattoo. But strangely, in this confluence of time, place and circumstance, it seems oddly right to have someone I’ve never met draw painful and permanent marks on my body. Go figure. There’s something extremely meaningful to me about the month-long passage we’ve just completed; it represents a significant overcoming. After years of struggling to free ourselves from the cultural gravity of our lives in the US, it’s as if we’ve finally burst through and cleared the atmosphere to reach a certain orbit. The fact that we worked together as a team to reach our goal, and that we completed the passage despite having to turn back to Mexico once makes it even more special. This is a rite of passage.
Backside – Most visible are a compass and Marquesan crossThe Journey – Our passage with Manta as spirit guardianBrilliant Sun – Also representing strength
Polynesian designs have always intrigued me, the graceful yet primitive symbols represent clear concepts and are arranged to tell a story as much as to create a beautiful design. While it’s unclear where tattooing was originally developed, it has certainly been a significant part of Polynesian culture for thousands of years, as it is today. All through French Polynesia having a tattoo is not counter-culture, but culture. Nearly everyone here wears a tattoo. It’s a way of celebrating one’s life and family as well as an individual expression.
Karen’s Tattoo – Design wraps around to her ankleTurtle – We love them, but also they represent guidance and protection
After studying the meanings of various design elements and seeing some work done by a local artist named Moana, we take the big step and make an appointment. Tuesday is tattoo day. We’re all psyched up (it takes some oomph to overcome the fear) and come at the appointed hour to find out what they mean by “island time.” The island time translation for “Tuesday at 10am” is actually Wednesday at around 1pm, with several hours of standby time in between. That’s OK, we can do island time. At the end of the day (Wednesday) we have authentic Polynesian tattoos. Karen’s wraps around her ankle. Mine is a Polynesian band around my upper arm. I’m here to tell you the soft skin on the inner arm is pretty darned sensitive! In traditional fashion, the design elements tell a detailed story about this time in our lives, our passage, the courage and determination it took to get here and the fact that we did it together. It is intensely personal and I’ll wear mine proudly for the rest of my life.
Compass – Enata symbol representing Karen and I at the center
During our first few weeks in the Marquesas we’re starting to grow accustomed to some of the local wildlife. Regular rainfall creates many steep streams here in the Marquesas, and also in the Society Islands, and most of the these streams support large, freshwater eels – apparently not dangerous but very large and (my opinion) really ugly. Hiking in the Taioa valley with our Marquesan friend Paul, we encountered a pair of eels in the stream we were crossing. I can handle plenty of creepy-crawlies, but snakey things really freak me out. So, as we hiked through the 4 foot deep water, I was just a bit taken aback to see two fanged heads, each almost as big as a person peering out from under a large rock. When Paul went to “pet” one of the eels, it slid out from under it’s rock and past our legs to reveal it’s full 6 foot length, 10 inch diameter, and large anterior and posterior fins running from head to tail. OK, YUK! I’m assured these things are totally harmless, but I’m still warming up to the idea that they’re in most of the streams around here.
Freshwater Eel (Large) – Image courtesy s/v Harlow Hut
With decent rainfall, streams and lush jungly growth you might expect a decent population of mosquito’s & no-no’s (no see-um’s) and you’d be spot-on. Like authentic tourists, we’ve gone through several cans of bug spray, and we’re still covered in bites. Sarah seems to be particularly susceptible. She’s a human pin-cushion, the poor kid! All of us have been well covered in bites from just brief lapses in bug-spray coverage, and we’re getting used to the idea that the spray doesn’t prevent bites, just reduces the number of them. Although there is Dengue fever around, we’ve seen no symptoms yet – fingers crossed! Of course, somehow most of the locals casually brush the bugs off and seem virtually unaffected.
Bird’s Eye View – Drone shot of Daniel’s Bay courtesy s/v Harlow HutMarquesan Crags – There are many goats roaming on these rocksWild Goats – They apparently require an amazing viewRunning Wild – One of many wild pigs roaming in the Marquesas
One type of creature we’ve had no trouble getting used to are the Manta rays which frequently comb the surface of protected bays to feed. Distinctively marked in black and white, most of the rays we’ve seen are small (for Manta) but still impressive with 5 – 7 foot wingspans. They are magical to watch, cruising gracefully along the surface of the water, often just a few feet from our boat or dinghy. Their wing tips move slowly up and down, occasionally poking up from the surface, while they funnel huge amounts of water into their mouths. Likewise, we occasionally see green and brown sea turtles swimming on the surface, popping their heads up for a look around.
No matter where you are, it’s easy to get caught up in hype. When we arrived in Nuku Hiva most cruisers told us how sharky the water was. We had daily rains so the water was quite murky and it was easy to imagine sharky shapes drifting through the murk. In fact, they were not imagined. There are plenty of sharks here; black tips, lemon sharks and hammerheads mostly. We were understandably a bit spooked and stayed clear of the water, something that’s hard to do in South Pacific heat. The locals say “no problem, we swim there all the time!” The truth is, the sharks are very well fed here – there are fish aplenty, and people are not their natural food source. Locals suggest that, as long as you don’t tie yourself to a fish, you’ll be fine. It makes a certain amount of sense, but involves a paradigm shift for us. One needs to be ready to swim with sharks.
Reading the Signs – We spend a lot of underwater time speaking like thisFunny Fish – A pair of these stayed under our boat for a week
So once the water cleared up we began to whittle away at our fears, taking quick dips for bathing, cooling and boat maintenance. Although dark below, on clear days we can look down the anchor chain to a depth of 30 – 40 feet, or more. One late afternoon around 5pm I pushed myself to dive beneath the boat for an extended time and clean the through hulls. The cleaning went well and the 85 degree water felt heavenly! I swam around the boat and gave her a good scrub along the waterline. A few minutes after I got out of the water Karen gulped a subdued squeal. I saw turbulence swirling against the side of the boat and a hammerhead shark crossing back along the port side, moving quickly. From what I understand, this is no big deal. This guy was only 5 or 6 feet long, so probably not a threat to me, but still, it takes some getting used to. Apparently the worrisome sharks are the ones large enough to require large marine mammals (like seals) in their diet. “Large enough” apparently means a shark of 15 feet long or more. We have plenty of these in Oregon, but I’ve always tried not to think about them, and have never seen one. This experience did little to enhance my paradigm shift. Experienced divers and surfers are used to sharing the water with sharks, but I’m still growing accustomed to it.
Taiohae Bay, Nuku Hiva – A view from on top of the world
Getting rested from our month-long passage and previous months of preparations took a bit of time. After a week, we started venturing out from Taiohae Bay (pronounced Tai-o-hi-ay) to explore more of the island of Nuku Hiva. We hiked and dingied around Taiohae at first, slowly adapting to the language and the culture. We rented a car for a day and enjoyed incredible scenic vistas, archaeological ruins and the bliss of air conditioning. While we saw some wonderful sights, certainly one of the highlights of our exploration was the week we spent anchored in Daniel’s Bay, known locally as Taioa Bay (pronounced Tai-o-ah).
Sarah & I – Happily exploringBefore the Rain – Part of an amazing panorama taken on the pastures of upper Nuku HivaA View of Anaho Bay, on the North side of Nuku Hiva
Daniel’s Bay is at the foot of a deep-cut valley protected by dizzyingly tall 2000 foot walls, jagged and rough, with massive rockfalls and chutes that turn to rushing whitewater the instant rain begins to fall. This incredible valley was carved by the Hakatea Stream which courses through it’s depths and which makes the 2000-foot tall Hakatea Falls, the world’s third highest waterfall. We were lucky and honored to become friends with Paul, a local Marquesan, who is one of 10 people still living in this valley. Paul led us on a slippery, muddy, rocky 6-hour hike and swim to the foot of the falls. During the hike Paul told us how his family used to rule this valley, and the island of Nuku Hiva, as the royal family. When westerners arrived, Paul’s family was forced to give up their claim to the monarchy, but they continue to live in the Taioa valley. Of the valley’s 30,000 original inhabitants, the population has dwindled to just a few members of the original family. We were able to see stone carved tikis and impressive architectural ruins of the former inhabitants. The hike was an unforgettable experience, the swim challenging and exhilarating, but perhaps the most delightful part was connecting with the beautiful people of this valley and understanding, albeit briefly, how they live.
Hiking to Hakatea Falls – Our friend Paul (center)Brooding Tiki – One of many brooding tikis at a marae on Huku HivaHakatea Falls – A brief glimpse from the trail
After the hike we had dinner with Paul’s great-aunt and uncle, Monette and Mattias. Despite what must be a steady stream of cruising sailors hiking through their valley, these people invited us into their lives, sharing warmly and freely as if we were a long-lost part of their family. Monette laid out a spread of barbecued chicken, coconut poison cru, fried bananas, green papaya salad, Marquesan gnocchi, star fruit and iced lime-aid, all made from produce of the valley. The meal was delicious, made even more scrumptious by the exercise of our arduous hike.
Monette and Mattias’ home is extremely modest. Beautifully kept, it consists of nothing more than a simple shed roof supported by posts sunk into concrete slab. They use electricity sparingly, supplied only by a gasoline-powered generator for occasional power to a fridge box and a couple bare light bulbs. Their daily work is harvesting coconuts (copra) and the copious fruits which are (quite literally) falling from the trees all around them. They have what they need, so money has very little importance in their lives. Consequently, they live in a vastly different way than the hurried, quasi-panic we’ve come to accept in western culture. They are delightfully peaceful people who truly value personal interactions over material acquisitions. What a refreshing outlook; something to consider as we continue our journey.
We were fortunate to enjoy two meals with this family and are touched to feel like we’ve made new friends. It was in hopes of genuine experiences like this that we chose to live the voyaging life.
Giant Banyan – Perhaps 50 feet across at the baseApproaching the Base – Our path to the base of the falls took us, swimming, through the crackTriumph – Near the top with our friends from s/v Harlow HutLooking West – Our path leads this way
As I peer apprehensively into the inky darkness, the clock reads 04:07; still two or three hours from daybreak. It has been 26 days since we’ve seen land. Looking to windward, my eyes struggle to define a slightly darker shape rising from the ocean-sky darkness. I notice a familiar scent. After several minutes of sniffing at the air, I finally make out what it reminds me of; it’s the loamy, spicy-sweet smell of western red cedar bark, fresh and moist. This, and other earthy smells, trail from the shape; it is the island of Ua Huka, skulking 7 miles upwind of us but it feels so much closer, almost ominous and spooky, in the darkness. We spent the night hove-to, parked basically, near her shores but not wanting to make a dangerous landfall at night.
Approach to Nuku Hiva
We are sailing past Ua Huka now and onward to make our landfall on Nuku Hiva, where uncertainty awaits. Dawn is not yet at hand, but the darkness is beginning to seep from the sky. The already chaotic sea is mixed and warped and pitching with the refracted echoes of waves bouncing off a multitude of shorelines, all precipitously steep and angled like jagged teeth. The water is a washing machine. Having sailed from Barra de Navidad, Mexico, we are, apparently, on final-rinse cycle as we approach landfall in the Marquesas. I am alone on watch and apprehensive about the coming changes. The ocean, the wind, the simplicity of sailing – these are things we know. I wonder if we’re really ready for strange lands, different languages, unknown cultures and people. I begin to question what we have done to ourselves.
As purple island shades begin to clarify and resolve into the verdant greens and craggy browns of Nuku Hiva a thought crystallizes in my mind. It is the mantra the sea has washed upon us for the last month; we are not in control of what life throws at us, only of what we do with it. This mantra certainly applies to our passage, and as the sky grows pink and orange, I use it to buoy my apprehensive thoughts.
Sarah & I – on passage
I tried to have no expectations for the passage, but perhaps expectations are only human. I planned to pick the right weather window so everything would come together perfectly. I had great plans, but as in life, no matter your plans, you get what you get and you make the best of it. 2016 has been a difficult season for this passage. The lingering effects of El Niño are still being felt in the Pacific basin. This means light trade winds and increased squall activity. Generally, we had settled weather and very light winds mostly between 3 – 8 knots with occasional freshets to 10 or 12 knots. Despite expectations, we had 15 – 20 knot trade wind sailing for only 3 days. The light winds made it tough to keep the boat moving and required additional steering input to help the wind vane steer the boat. When our speed fell below 1.8 – 2.0 knots sustained, we’d motor-sail at a fast idle around 1400 RPMs. This meant a boat speed of 3.8 – 4.4 knots, depending on the wind. As soon as wind increased to 5 or 6 knots, we’d shut down the engine. In some cases, we sailed extra miles to keep the light winds at a useable angle – much better ahead of the beam than behind! We covered 2940 nautical miles at an average speed of 4.9 knots. Of that, 680 nm (23%) were covered motor-sailing and 2260 nm (77%) pure sailing. To my sailor’s mind that’s a difficult ratio to accept, but I know we would have spent at least another 10 – 14 days (or more!) bobbing on the ocean if we had only run the engine for charging. So it is. In any case, we are here in the Marquesas now. We feel very fortunate to have had settled conditions for our passage. Most of the fleet left Mexico 2 weeks earlier, close to our original departure date, and had exhausting, extremely rough and squally conditions for the majority of the passage.
My Favorite Nap Spot – Looking up from the V-Berth
With so many hours spent motoring one might assume that we put all our engine troubles behind us. Not so. Hindsight, they say, is 20/20. Had we known, during our hurried departure from Barra de Navidad, that our engine troubles were not resolved, would we still have pulled out? Yes, most likely.
Here are some notes from the passage:
FRIGGIN’ BIRDS
Our first departure from La Cruz was just after sunset. As we tacked out of Banderas Bay in the shifty evening winds we discovered the first of many issues on our Puddle Jump Passage. Our masthead-mounted wind transducer was not functioning. The transducer senses the wind speed and exact direction and displays that info in the cockpit, where it helps to sail the boat. During our stay in La Cruz we grew accustomed to the many ways cruisers try (and generally fail) to keep birds off their boat. It’s almost comical to survey the various, haphazard strings of tin cans, spider’s webs of line and upturned lawn rakes designed to discourage loitering birds. The birds are many; boobies, pelicans, and frigate birds being the largest and most offensive. The problem is not just the cement-like, fish-smelling guano they leave behind, but also the damage these hefty birds can do to sensitive electronic equipment such as our wind transducer. Frigate birds, in particular, are so aggressive and combative that they often attack each other, battling over territory, fish, or a coveted perch on the masthead. So it was, 10 minutes into our passage, that I determined in a fit of swear words how “Frigate” birds were actually named. One benefit of returning to Barra for repairs was that we were able to send Sarah up the mast and (very fortunately) were able repair the transducer for the remainder of the passage.
Two days out of La Cruz, we had to reel in and release an angry Boobie who managed to get tangled in our fishing line while going after the lure. He was OK in the end, but not very thrilled with us. Nor was the Shearwater who, despite much discouragement from our side, was determined to land on our (rapidly spinning) wind generator – ouch. He flew away, apparently still intact, but was no longer so enthusiastic about our relationship. Many, many other birds did various interpretations of the same “splat & slide” maneuver as the fellow who flew, feet first, into the side of our wind vane and slid awkwardly to the water. It’s hard to say what they were thinking, exactly, but they were certainly curious about us.
SERIOUS FISH
We didn’t have too many expectations about fishing, but had hoped to catch up with some tasty Pacific fishies during the passage. What we experienced was some serious fish-attitude. While we managed to bring in a couple small fish, we took some pretty serious losses. End of passage tally:
Batu Crew – with Notes
1 Bonita Super-yummy appetizer for 4
1 Yellowfin Tasty pre-dinner snack for family
Fish – with Notes
4 spendy Sumo lures Eaten & stripped from line
2 small squid replica lures Unceremoniously removed
400ft Spectra line (100lb test) Parted at rod
Beautiful – One of the few fish we caught on passageSean & I – Hard won!One That Got Away – Large Yellowfin Tuna flaunting it
We managed to get one very large, colorful (we think Mahi Mahi) close to the boat before the hook pulled out, or he put the moves on – can’t quite tell. The “BIG” one must have been massive, possibly a Marlin. He took the lure and ran. Within seconds we’d put out almost 350 ft of line and smoked the reel, the clutch on full lock-down. Even with both Sean & I clutching the line with gloves we lost another 50 ft of Spectra line before it (wisely) parted, ending the struggle. With our arsenal severely depleted, we took to making lures out of trash. Reports and losses from other boats were similar; these fish are not to be trifled with. Now in the Marquesas, we are changing our 120 lb test monofilament over to wire leader lines ASAP, hopefully that will help.
Dolphin Series – JumpingDolphin Series – The ThreeDolphin Series – Breaking the surfaceDolphin Series – Bow Rider
One thing we can say for sure is that flying fish are NOT likely to be on the endangered species list anytime soon. The ocean is filled with them, and they are crazy. Flying VOR, they do fairly well for themselves during daytime, launching off the wave crests and flying easily for several hundred yards, occasionally making multiple turns and re-launching, or pulling wave face touch & go’s. At nighttime, however, the flying fish launch blindly, and frequently land on our decks, or other unlikely places on the boat. One came through the galley hatch and landed on the stove. Several have landed in the cockpit and every morning during passage we need to do the AM sweep to clean the decks which are typically strewn with the recently deceased. *GRAPHIC CONTENT ADVISORY* One poor guy must have been a fast flyer, REALLY fast. He t-boned the coachroof with such force that he blasted both eyes out, one to each end of our 40 foot boat. He never saw it coming.
NIGHT WATCH
Once underway, our first priority is to keep the boat moving toward our destination, and we go until we arrive…somewhere. Different crews use different schedules, but we prefer to keep it simple and stay consistent. Therefore, Batu watches are 4 hours long, and each person stands the same watch schedule each day. Watch-standing is very serious business, as the watch is responsible for the safety & security of the vessel as well as everyone aboard. This passage was the first time for Sean and Sarah to stand full, scheduled watches, and it was a huge help. Karen & I handle the nighttime hours while Sean & Sarah take the lion’s share of the daytime so that we can get enough rest and keep meals, repairs, cleaning, washing & vessel maintenance going while underway.
Watch Standing Schedule:
Noon – 16:00. Karen
16:00 – 20:00. Sarah
20:00 – Midnight Peter
Midnight – 04:00 Karen
04:00 – 08:00 Peter
08:00 – Noon Sean
Karen on Watch
As one might imagine, a good cup of coffee can be a spiritual experience at 3:48 in the morning. Sadly, there are many, many things that can (and do) go wrong with coffee on a boat at such an hour.
French Press Boat Points (any hour):
1. ALWAYS be sure to wash & rinse travel mug carefully with FRESH water before using. We carry 150 gallons of fresh water and no water maker, so while at sea we wash & rinse all dishes in salt water and use a small spray bottle of fresh water for final rinsing. This works amazingly well for water conservation, but (if the final rinse is forgotten by the bleary-eyed watch) it has some pitfalls. Trust me – salty coffee is NOT tasty. We arrived in Nuku Hiva still on our first 75 gallon tank of fresh water, leaving at least 100 gallons to spare. Nice.
2. Be sure to use FRESH cream. I’m a bit of a sucker for half & half in my coffee. Sadly, I don’t much care for that powdery stuff. So while at sea we mix up UHT (ultra heat-treated) milk & cream, which will keep, un-opened, for up to a year but needs to be used quickly once opened. DO NOT tempt fate to see just how long this is. Keep the cream fresh, within 48 hours at least. Don’t ask how I know.
3. ALWAYS brace or hold the coffee pot and mug and cream for as long as you wish it to remain upright and not flying, sliding, tipping, pouring or otherwise getting ALL over the boat at 3:48am. DO NOT assume that the sink alone is a safe place to brace without tipping. You must use several stable items to brace the pot and mug and cream in the sink or there will be nothing but a very disappointing puddle remaining after the difficult (patiently waiting) brew-phase.
4. Be aware that ANY OPEN CONTAINER is subject to sloshing, spilling, pitching, splashing and/or flying. Despite this fact, one somehow has to transfer all ingredients to the mug, while controlling pot, pitcher, mug and self in a rocking, rolling, pitching, heaving galley. For extra credit, try it in the dark (so as not to wake sleeping crew) and add an intermittently failing headlamp. All I can say here is it’s amazing how much a boat moves while at sea.
Clearly, there are many more ways to screw up a good cup of joe, but the more mundane points have been eliminated in the interest of space.
Sean on Watch – Working on Log Entry
Despite the difficult hours, night watch is often one of my favorite times. Clear, starry nights are a miracle – almost indescribable if you’ve never been away from the backwash of manmade light. On this passage the constellations have become regular friends. Hello Orion, you are looking brilliant tonight! I so admire the belt and sword. Is that a great bear, Ursus Major, you’re aiming at with your bow? Oh, yes, I see him, making up one of the two dippers. There’s the North star, and a new friend, Cruz (the Southern Cross), only visible near and below the equator. There are many others that I wonder about and hope to get to know. Not all nights are like this, of course. Some are pitch black, almost zero visibility. These are the times when the bioluminescence can knock your socks off (assuming you’d be silly enough to wear socks here). Sometimes, the moon can be a warm friend, other times she seems cool and completely indifferent to our joy and struggles. On cloudy nights the nearly full moon shines it’s bluish beam through the clouds with such focused intensity that it looks like a searchlight, endlessly combing the ocean, moving in and out with the movement of the clouds. One night I freeze like an escaping prisoner under intense scrutiny as it combs over me crisp and bright, but in a moment it is gone, moving off elsewhere; I’m off the hook for the time being anyways.
IN “THE ZONE”
Because of our engine trouble and return to Barra, by the time we left for good (April 13), Batu was one of the last boats to leave Mexico for the Marquesas. Along with us were Michael & Melissa Harlow on their boat, Harlow Hut who had also been delayed for family reasons. We left a day or two and a hundred miles apart, but kept in touch via InReach and HF radio during the passage. It was a comforting thought to have another vessel within a couple hundred miles as we made the crossing.
Party at the Equator! 02:48 amCrossing the Equator – A big moment! Latitude 00 00′ 00.0″
One of the trickiest parts of this passage is the need to cross the ITCZ (Intertropical Convergence Zone) which separates weather systems from the Northern & Southern Hemispheres. The ITCZ, also known as the “doldrums” is an area of variable winds and intense convection, meaning storm cells and squalls. You would think that the ocean is just the ocean, but each area clearly has it’s own personality and the ITCZ is a bit like a watchdog. He can be pretty snappy, but you just might get lucky enough to catch him napping, as we did. For us the ITCZ was characterized by 60 hours of very light, shifty winds, clouds, and dark rain cells popping up everywhere – often forming right in front of the boat. Running through this mix of rain and variable winds were wave trains from the Northwest, Northeast, the South and Southeast, leaving a wet washing machine mix of chop and chaos. What we didn’t have were intense squalls with strong winds (several boats reported 50 knots or more) or nearby electrical storms (several boats were disconnecting radios and other electronics).
Once we emerged from the ITCZ we were very happy to get clear of it and cautiously monitored the weather to make sure it was not re-forming in front of us, as can easily happen. Just a day or two behind us, Harlow Hut had only a slightly rougher crossing through the Zone. We were skirting below the squall area, but could see the lightning at night in the distance and knew our new friends were “in there”.
THE ENGINE GUY
I’m not naturally an engine guy. I’ve never much liked, or trusted them (engines that is, not engine guys). I’ve always had better luck and more fun getting were I wanted to go under sail. But, there’s no doubt that a happy engine is a must on a cruising boat. Well aware of my bias, I’ve worked hard to learn and be proactive about taking care of our engine, a 39 year old Westerbeke 4.108 diesel. Before leaving La Cruz we had issues with the fresh water cooling system, scrambling to replace our fresh water pump and heat exchanger that were on their way out.
Because of shipping difficulties and tight timing, we left with a temporary heat exchanger, planning to catch up with the proper replacement in French Polynesia. All seemed fine, so we departed. One reason we turned back to Barra was an unrelated blockage in the raw water cooling; the other side of the cooling system. The blockage turned out to be quite a gremlin, clearing and popping-up intermittently. During the passages I figure that I spent 40 – 60 long, hot, pitching, hours stuffed into the engine room analyzing, disassembling, back flushing, replacing and reassembling the various parts of both ends of the cooling system – numerous times – to clear blockage(s) in the intake line and a subsequently destroyed impeller. After replacing most of the hose and re-plumbing the raw water intake to a different through-hull fitting (all while underway) we felt the issue was finally resolved. However, even after motoring without much drama for 160-some hours, we still arrived at the entrance of Taiohae Bay in the Marquesas, started the engine and found we had the very same problem again – no raw water. What this means is that you can’t run the engine for more than a minute or it will melt down to a steaming pile of scrap metal. We promptly shut down, turned the boat around and hove-to, resolved to figure out the issue. To be clear, I’m all about a good challenge, but this was a fairly trying moment for me. Another half hour in the engine room proved the issue had a completely new cause: a ciphon-break at the cap of the raw water strainer. Fortunately, this was easily fixed, and in less than an hour we turned around and sailed right up into Tahiohae Bay. We fired up the engine, picked our way through the Bay and dropped anchor at 11:30am local time on May 9, 2016.
Sean & Sarah – Ready to deploy the anchor in Taiohae
THANK GOODNESS FOR FRIENDS
The remainder of May 9 was something of a blur. We were warmly welcomed by a parade of friendly dinghies stopping by to greet us. All our friends from Mexico were encouraging and celebrated our overcoming the gravity of Mexico after having to turn back. We contacted the local agent and made a plan to officially check into the Marquesas the following morning.
We were exhausted, never even leaving the boat. Our friends on s/v Sarita were especially kind and dropped off a care package of fresh veggies, papaya and Brie cheese. We grabbed a bottle of wine, a knife & cutting board, and sliced up one of the better meals I’ve ever enjoyed before slipping into a very long sleep. My pleasant dreams were interrupted only a few times by the sudden, adrenaline-packed realization that nobody was on watch with land nearby!
So now we begin exploring the Marquesas, starting with the island of Nuku Hiva and tacking gradually Southward to Oa Pou (pronounced Wa Poo), Hiva Oa, Tahuata and Fatu Hiva. From what we have seen, these islands are extremely rural and rugged. The language, primarily French, is mixed with Polynesian phrases and names. The people are friendly and attitudes reflect the laid back undercurrent of the Polynesian culture. It is so surreal to be here that we’re still pinching ourselves to see if it’s all just a dream.
Any “dot” watchers may have noticed that we had a great sail out of Puerto Vallarta and were off and away to the Marquesas. About 3.5 days (400 nm) out, just past Las Islas de Revillagigedo (uninhabited islands of Mexico) we ran into some engine issues. We are a sailboat, so engine issue are not a complete catastrophe, but in this instance we encountered 2 issues, possibly related. One set of problems, we figured we could repair ourselves, while the other suggested a more serious problem that would need mechanics and possibly parts from the states. To be safe, we turned around and sailed back to Mexico to make repairs. The return trip took another 4.5 days tacking back into the wind. While underway, we were able to troubleshoot and pretty much resolve the first set of issues with our raw water cooling system. It took 4 days and several parts and pieces to do so, but felt good to get the engine itself back online.
Grand Bay Resort – Feels like a piece of Europe
We arrived in Barra de Navidad, about 135 nm South of Puerto Vallarta prepared for hardship, toil and possibly a serious diagnosis for our Paragon hydraulic transmission and Walter V-drive. We couldn’t have been more wrong. From the moment we stepped off the dock at the Grand Bay Resort de Navidad we were blown away. From the sprawling terraced stucco layout, to the lush opulent gardens, to numerous interconnected pools with sunken palapa bar this place is off-the-hook! We even had friends Dan & Tammy of s/v Anjuli on the dock to catch our lines. After a couple days of mechanical sleuthing, tweaking and testing the news regarding our drivetrain was even better.
Hot Tub – Between tub & slides, the kids lived in the pools!
So we’re fixed up and ready to go again! It’s a good thing too, because we’re now in Mexico illegally. Barra de Navidad is not an official port of entry, and we were not about to check into the industrial hub of Manzanillo for an unforeseen future. So off we go – fingers crossed for a successful passage to French Polynesia. Addendum – We successfully departed again on Wednesday, 13 April, with a nice Northerly breeze to escort us out to the trades. Adios Mexico, y muchas gracias!
Time flies. Without gloating (much) I have to tell you this winter is by far the most pleasant one I’ve ever spent. As a lifelong inhabitant of the Northern states I have always assumed that those in the South had at least some sympathy for those of us suffering numerous cold-climate severities. I was wrong. Honestly, if they give it any thought at all, it’s because they think we are crazy.
During this beautiful, pleasant winter we have spent the last several months focused on preparing Batu and ourselves for the next step in our voyage, coined the “Pacific Puddle Jump.” With only occasional breaks for fun and exploring the beautiful Costa Alegre, we have remained fairly busy with continual preparations for the upcoming journey. We don’t plan to round any great capes on this leg, but it’s still a pretty serious business as we will be, at times, thousands of miles from nearest land and ultimately plan to cover about 11,000 nautical miles over the next 7 months.
The first step is a trans-Equatorial hop of about 2,700 nautical miles (in a straight line) from Mexico to the Marquesas Islands. We expect the passage to take 25 – 30 days. For those unfamiliar with ocean voyaging, once underway we don’t stop. We work in 4-hour shifts to keep the boat going around the clock until making our destination. Communications are limited to HF radio and a Delorme InReach satellite communications device. With these tools we are capable of sending and receiving weather, voice, satellite text and very limited email using a special address. Food, water, tools and emergency services consist solely of what we carry on board.
Departure Planning – PredictWind
We plan to make first landfall on the island of Hiva Oa and spend about a month exploring the Marquesas before the next step, a several-day passage to the Islands of the Tuamotus. This group, in fact, has no “islands” at all, consisting entirely of coral atolls, nothing more than a doughnut ring of sand and coral with tropical lagoon in the center. While incredibly beautiful, the Tuamotus are also somewhat dangerous for navigation, so we plan to spend only a few weeks there before the next passage to Tahiti and the Society Islands where we hope to spend about a month. From there we will head in long hops to the various Cook Islands, Niue, the Islands of Tonga and then a long passage back to temperate (Southern) latitudes on New Zealand’s North Island. Once there we will likely stay for several months, regrouping, making decisions and preparations for the next step in our voyage, which remains completely open. We remain focused on one ocean at a time. Of course, our plans are subject to change without notice. One option may be to skip New Zealand, instead heading to the Marshall Islands in Equatorial North Pacific.
We will do our best to update the website and check regular email, however, I’m nearly certain that our days of excellent Internet access and cellular contact are numbered. When we leave Mexico we plan to “park” our US phone numbers and may not be able to access those accounts for months or more. Until we reach New Zealand or another long-stay center, Internet access will be limited to short connections in relatively developed areas with WiFi. Please be patient and remember to check our “dot” on the interactive map in our “About” section. While underway we update our position via satellite approximately every 2 hours. If we are moving, the astute observer may be able to calculate or guess our next landfall based on speed, distance and heading.
Sean is our Depthfinder – this is about 15 feetAnchor snubber – always good to dive on the anchor
At the moment, we are wrapping up long lists of projects and preparations. Karen is finishing massive provisioning, radio work and an excellent rainwater catchment system made of Sunbrella (10ft X 13ft). Peter is wrapping up a long list of rigging & mechanical projects including salt-water plumbing (for washing), increasing anchor chain, stowage, electrical and rig inspection. Sean and Sarah are helping with these various projects and working to keep up momentum with school. About a week ago we discovered what would have been some serious engine issues, but managed to find workable parts and address the problem proactively. We are very proud to have a happily purring diesel engine again – as of 10pm last night.
Extending anchor chain – Peter and SeanJoining chain using Seafit lap linksWorking in the engine roomTesting Karen’s water catchment system
Our goal was to be ready for a good weather window after March 15, and we’re past that point! Strong El Niño conditions negatively affect the passage to, and through, the South Pacific by making the trade winds on both sides of the Equator significantly lighter and increasing the chances of an out-of-season tropical cyclone. Last year (2015) capped the strongest recorded El Niño cycle and it’s affects are still in place. Most weather experts anticipate a return to El Niño-neutral conditions by June of 2016, however all are quick to point out that prediction is speculative. The bottom line is that we won’t know before we go. We have been waiting for the North Pacific High to solidify and strengthen off of California and the Baja coastline. This expanding high pressure reinforces the NE trades and compresses the hot, shifty & stormy Inter-tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ, also known as the Doldrums), making this zone easier to cross. We will likely stay North of the rhumb line course (straight line) staying in the NE trades and heading WSW until about 128N, then be looking for a good slot to drop South through the ITCZ and join up with solid SE trades as soon as possible, curving back WSW toward the Marquesas once South of the Equator. Our track will depend on the weather while underway, but may look like a flattened “S” shape. We are finally seeing the right weather conditions for our departure and plan to depart tomorrow.
To all our family and friends around the world, we’re off on a new phase of this great adventure. We will savor the experience – good and bad – and be thinking of you all as we go.
Packing provisions – we’re unlikely to starveAlmost every space is filledHydrovane self-steering underwayParting La Cruz Sunset – Adios Mexico!
One thing about voyaging on boats that has always been interesting to me is the aspect of accountability. The sea can be a very demanding and challenging environment. While this can be equally true on land, most environments we live in are generally more forgiving that the sea. At sea each crew member needs to be fully responsible for their own duties, and their impact on the rest of the team. In particular, each captain is ultimately responsible for the safety of crew and vessel. To be honest, I was surprised at first by the extra weight of that role. I had made several coastal passages and sailed double-handed to Hawaii with my good friend and salty sea Captain Chuck Shuster, but the first time the family and I sailed our own vessel off the Washington coast I felt the full impact of responsibility that comes with being captain of the ship. In general, it’s one of the things about our journey that feels right to me.
This responsibility affects our kids as well, and I think it’s excellent training for life. As crew, they each have serious duties aboard the boat. In harbor this includes galley cleanup & dishes, helping to scrape barnacles off the hull, and cleaning & hoisting the dinghy at night. At sea the kids take watches so that Karen & I can get the rest necessary to keep the boat going through the night. When on watch, Sean and Sarah have to make serious judgements to keep the vessel, and all of us, safe while underway. It’s not just convenient, it’s necessary, and it’s how we function as a team. While sometimes goofy and occasionally downright silly, the kids seem to sense the seriousness of theses important moments and rise to them. In voyaging, there are plenty of real moments to rise to; it’s another empowering aspect of the voyaging life.
On the flip side, we are each human, and therefore prone to mistakes and mis-judgements. As a consequence, things can come crashing down in a big way when our responsibilities loose their footing on top of our humanity. This is where responsibility turns into accountability. We were reminded of this three days ago when a forty foot sailing vessel, Rage, went on the rocks here in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle. What follows is my account of that sad story.
I was surfing with a friend who noticed the boat dragging on her anchor. By the time I made it back aboard Batu, we watched in horror and disbelief as Rage’s keel made the first impacts with the jagged rocks just off the point we were surfing from. I made several radio attempts to hail the Captaina de Puerto, but weekends are not well staffed and the office can be busy. I made a “securite” call on the radio while blasting over in the dinghy to see what could be done. By this time Rage’s jib had come partially unfurled from the shuddering impacts of surf pounding her on the reef. She had been pushed into 4-5 feet of water, not a good thing for a 12,000 lb wood & fiberglass vessel with a 6.5 foot draft. Someone produced a 150 foot nylon anchor rode and I volunteered to swim it in to attach to the vessel. Having just surfed this point I was somewhat familiar with the shallow, jagged, urchin-covered rocks and felt I could accomplish the task safety even in the 4-6 foot swell. Although 150 feet sounds like a lot of line, it doesn’t look like much when connected to an 8 foot dinghy and strung through the surf zone. Just after connecting the long rode to the stranded boat’s anchor line I turned around to see a particularly large set of waves rolling in with the dinghy in a perilous position The image of that little dinghy clinging to the vertical green wave face as white spindrift broke over her bow is one I will not soon forget. One dinghy overturned, a second, nearly taken. In the end, all people and gear were wet, but intact. I swam the nylon line over to a Mexican fishing panga who began using maximum RPMs to pull the stranded vessel off the rocks. When another large set of waves came the captain wisely chose to abandon the line and save his panga. We hastily assembled an Uber-kedge anchor using a 75lb CQR, Batu’s heavy, 270 foot braided nylon rode and another 100 feet of similar 1 inch nylon. Again, I swam the line in and, as darkness set, we placed the kedge outside the surf line to control the vessel during the rising tide. By this time we understood that Rage had reached her final resting point. With two-thirds of her port side stove-in she would not float again. Since that time we’ve joined the efforts to control the environmental impacts by removing fuel, oil, batteries and debris as well as helping the owner salvage anything of value from the vessel.
So why did this happen? I have an opinion, but it doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is that it did happen. Each captain and crew should be curious to investigate the situation so they can make better-informed decisions about matters of their own critical responsibility. Here’s what I know; Rage was originally anchored in about 20 feet of water plus 4-5 foot height of bow. The seabed is rocky and the owner was staying ashore at a nearby villa. Rage was using a 35 lb compact fluke-type anchor made by FOB. Despite having several fathoms of chain in the anchor locker, the anchor rode itself had about 30 – 40 feet of chain. The rest of the rode was nylon rope. By my estimate the total rode length (including chain) was between 75 and 100 feet long. Therefore the total scope was 3:1 or maybe 4:1. She began dragging just after high-tide with a 4 – 6 foot swell lifting the hull. Until she hit the reef, nothing broke or parted.
Rage was a very special boat, hand-crafted by the owner using a technique known as cold-molding; she was made using layers of wood covered in fiberglass. Building a boat like this is a monumental task, and she was well-done. From what I understand, Rage took over six years to build, she raced in at least two TransPac races (California to Hawaii), and she was fast. It must be a devastating loss for the owner. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured in the wreck or salvage attempts. Although the vessel was insured, it is my understanding that the owner’s claim was denied due to items in the “fine print.” Fortunately, the cruising community rallied to help contain the environmental impacts and salvage everything possible from the vessel. I saw his face, so I know that Rage’s owner & captain feels the full weight of accountability on his shoulders, and I can empathize with that. There’s a bare honesty and integrity in his acceptance. Sometimes I think the world could use more people like this, people willing to be fully accountable for their actions. How would the financial crisis of 2008 have ended if certain bankers and mortgage brokers had been forced to accept this type of bare humility and accountability?
I suppose what’s interesting to me about this is that nature, in this case the sea, judges with true impartiality. In fact, she’s wholly indifferent. Although this view of nature is somewhat stark and certainly unforgiving, it is as pure and real as it gets.
This week we added “solar charging” to the list of things that are working. This is huge. It’s so cool that sometimes it just seems like magic. Before solar we had to run the engine or the Honda generator for several hours a day. With the old refrigeration system, it was simply necessary. But once we replaced the refrigeration with a small Technautics 12v system, running the engine to keep the batteries topped up became a major chore. On a typical day we’d wake up, get coffee going and listen to the morning VHF radio net. After that I’d head up on deck to fill the Honda generator with about a gallon of gas. Given the rolling, pitching nature of a boat at anchor, this would typically result in at least some spillage and the subsequent string of expletives. Once finished with this messy task, I’d fire up the generator and head below to try washing off the smell of gas. Karen & the kids would head to shore or do whatever was on the agenda for the day, but someone – usually me – would have to stay aboard during charging. While the little Honda is pretty quiet, after many hours and days of charging, the smell of exhaust and the sound of that “quiet” motor was enough to keep me very on edge. Some days it was all I could do to keep myself from hucking that thing off the deck for one damned moment of silence! To keep the batteries at an acceptable level the Honda would run for 4-6 hours a day, typically running out of gas to indicate we were finished, for now. Even with that we were barely hanging on, with voltages ending at 12.6 or 12.7, mostly charged.
In contrast, our days with solar power are quiet and effortless. On a typical day we wake up, get the coffee going and clean off the solar panels while waiting for the morning radio net. Even loaded with dew, the panels are already pulling in between 4 – 6 amps before I clean them. We listen to the morning net and eat breakfast in the cockpit, watching bait fish churn next to the boat pursued by the occasional dorado (mahi mahi), pelican, or booby. After breakfast we go about our day. I usually check the solar input a few times a day as it ramps from 3-4 amps in the early morning to about 20 – 22 amps by midday. We run the inverter (converts 12v to 120v power) for several hours to power sewing machines, charge computers, etc, but most importantly we are free to leave the boat unattended, all day if necessary. She takes care of herself now. By evening we gather back aboard to make dinner and check the battery voltage. Most days, we’re pulling in between 90 – 130 amp hours, enough to leave our 540 amp hour house bank and emergency start batteries topped up to 12.8v, which means they are very, very happy. No more stink, no more noise and no more ties binding us to an engine running fossil fuel! It’s hard to express how amazing this is; all of this power comes from the sun, and it’s free. I want to put solar panels on everything!
We have many boat friends who are curious about the technical details of our installation, so I’ll share them here. We started by considering where on the boat we could mount panels and how we might do it. Batu has a long boom with maybe 6″ of clearance between the back of the boom and the backstay. Without a large metal arch behind that location, our options were limited to the stern quarter side panels or the dodger & Bimini tops. We considered stern side panels, but to properly mount in this location would require some metal work. We would need to replace the lifelines with stainless tubes welded in place. We spoke with several cruisers with panels mounted in this location. Most said it was OK, but they worried about damage from wave strikes and other boats. One set of friends lost a panel and sustained damage to their stainless infrastructure from another boat docking carelessly. In the end, we decided mounting panels on top of the dodger and Bimini was our best option for inexpensive mounting and hassle-free operation. It was a difficult decision because it required a complete re-working our sun awning which keeps us cool & breezy when not underway. Our boom leaves very little clearance in this area, so we decided to look at flexible panels which are less than 1/4″ [5mm] thick. Several friends suggested flexible panels from Renogy, but these are not currently available. We ultimately purchased four 100w flexible mono-crystalline panels made by HQST, virtually the same panel as the Renogy. Since most solar panels output higher voltage than batteries require for charging, we bought a Blue Sky 3000i MPPT-type charge controller. MPPT controllers cost a bit more, but can increase the charging output by 20 – 30% by converting the extra voltage from solar panels into additional charging current. For maximum efficiency, we calculated wire sizes based on the length of runs for a maximum voltage drop of less than 3%. By careful estimation of our power usage we calculated that we needed to replace 75 – 100 amp hours per day. Our hope was that the solar installation would produce slightly more; maybe 100 – 120 amp hours per day. In practice, we’re doing just a bit better than we’d hoped. The extra capacity will help us stay charged on cloudy days or when sails shade the panels while underway. At this point we couldn’t be more thrilled about the conversion to solar; it is the boost we need to feel energy-independent while heading to the South Pacific and beyond. Heading south and west, we will not be able to plug into shore power for at least a year or more.
Solar Back-end – Wired for Minimal Voltage Drop
This entire process leads me to think about what’s going on with energy conservation and use of renewable resources on land. With due respect to all parties left and right, I have no political agenda other than finding a better understanding of the world. One of the reasons we pursued the voyaging life was to truly understand what it means to have full accountability for our energy usage. The best way to describe my previous, suburban attitude about energy use would be so say I was “disengaged.” Knowing we might save $50 a month by changing our home’s halogen lamps with energy efficient CF or LED replacements didn’t really affect me. I like the light from halogens, and damn it, I work hard; there are already plenty of things on my “to do” list! It is difficult to be engaged when the system itself (i.e. the cost of electricity) underestimates the real cost of energy. The vast majority of power in the U.S. is generated using coal, natural gas, nuclear and oil resources. None of these power sources are sustainable and each has significant environmental impacts which are not accounted for in the cost of electricity. What if even a small percentage of homeowners were to make a push for solar? What if 10% of suburban homes were to streamline their power usage, install LED bulbs and put 2000w of solar panels on the roof? What if all new home construction included a basic solar package? The ramifications are huge. When we return to our home in Oregon we will certainly discuss it. The value of energy finally means something to me, and all things considered, the cleanliness and simplicity of solar power has me fired up.
On January 10, 2016 we got to see the Farley Mowat, an old coast guard boat, bought by an organization by the name of Sea Shepherd. There was a very large gathering of people that were interested.When we finally got aboard the Farley Mowat they took us up into the boat and showed us around. We got to see how things worked, and what type of supplies that they used.
The boat was repurposed and launched in 2015. The boat is a 110ft vessel currently used for the purpose of saving the Vaquita dolphin, a species that only has 100 of its kind left. The Farley Mowat also stops illegal whaling, and helps other types of Dolphins.
The Vaquita dolphin is a solitary animal, that doesn’t have a beak like many Dolphins and lives in the northern part of the Sea of Cortez. It is one of, if not the most endangered species in the world.
THE ENDANGERED VAQUITA DOLPHIN
HOW THE FARLEY MOWAT HELPS: OPERATION MILAGRO II
Operation Milagro II is an operation that helps the Vaquita Dolphins. But while they are doing operation Milagro II they also help other whales and dolphins. There is a protected reserve in the northern part of the Sea of Cortez where the Vaquita live. The Farley Mowat is headed there now. Recently the Mexican President came to give law enforcement small patrol boats to help the Sea Shepherd organization protect the reserve. Once they get to the reserve they find and pull up illegal nets that the Dolphins can get stuck in and suffocate. The nets are put there by pangas, smallish fishing vessels, that go up there to fish.
PANGA
Sea Shepherd organization also travels to Japan to help prevent the Taiji Bay dolphin massacre, where the locals trap pods of dolphins in a small cove, pick the prettiest one to sell to Sea World, and kill the rest of the pod. The Farley Mowat lures the Dolphins away from getting trapped by playing dolphin’s sonar recordings in the water to make sure that they get away safely.
Recently, the sailing vessel,belonging to the Sea Shepherd had a sighting of a Vaquita dolphin, which gives everyone proof that the Vaquita are still alive. The Sea Shepherd is a wonderful non-profit organization that inspires me, and I hope that it inspires you too.
We are fortunate to be out in the world to savor perhaps more than our share of sunrises and sunsets. It’s one of my favorite aspects about our voyaging path. These reflected memories shimmer and grow even more meaningful when, far from the sunrise, sleep is elusive. Later today my family will gather in my hometown near Rochester, NY to remember and celebrate my Mom’s life. She died peacefully at age 86.
My Mom was a saint; she pretty much had to be to put up with my brothers and I when we were young. I’m afraid her unfailing kindness and compassion were sorely tested. I would say that she never raised a hand to us, but strictly speaking, that’s not quite accurate. She never raised more than a wooden spoon to us, specifically to my brother Mark, a point which would invoke peels of laughter for many years to come–despite being well deserved, the spoon broke on impact with his butt. A lesser person might have gotten out the kitchen knives, but Mom laughed too. I think she felt it was a sign for her to embrace her kindness rather than try to deny it. In truth, I’ve never met a more compassionate person. She was a vegetarian for over forty years; she valued life in all forms. I can clearly remember her using a glass to capture spiders or other creatures who found themselves inside our home. She would speak softly as she released the wayward bug on the back porch “off you go….”
Despite her overwhelming softness and kindness, Mom was fierce in a way. She was passionate about her convictions. She had a way of looking a person in the eye to say “this is how it’s going to be, got it bub?” She loved nature and was passionate about protecting the environment. Even in the 1960’s and ’70’s when recycling was almost unheard of, she did it religiously. If one of us kids put an apple core in the trash instead of the compost there would be hell to pay. I was raised on non-homogenized milk, fresh pressed carrot juice and bread baked from home-ground wheat. The mere suggestion of something pasty like Wonder bread, Fluff-a-nutter or Fruit Loops would be enough to bring out “the look.” Fierce.
Something else Mom was fierce about was living in the moment. Being present, fully awake, and plugged into the here-and-now is an experience that takes work. This was the way Mom cherished life. For as long as she could, she made it a point of discipline, her work: to savor each moment. This is how I remember my Mom. I celebrate her life with tears streaming down. Times like these are a bracing reminder that, like each day, life is finite. Each moment is a choice and an opportunity to cherish life. This is why we are voyaging, and Mom would understand.
At the end of the day, if we’re lucky, the sun bathes the world with the warmth of orange light, and the shadows grow long. At the end of a life, if we are fortunate, the shadows of memory grow long and reach out to draw up the night like a blanket as we lay ourselves to rest. What I learned from Mom is: until that moment comes, be kind, be compassionate, and cherish fiercely each moment of your life.
