Post 32
December 16, 2010
11:10
The white horses are galloping high on the tops of the building waves that shove and smash Walk On as she tries to cut through the steep seascape. The trade winds have found us again. 15-17 knot winds embraced us again last night and then strengthened to the low 20s with the convective power of the sun aloft. They wind have rejoined us at a fine time, though. It looks as if we've made enough easting to beat to our destination on just a single tack. We're very much looking forward to a Marquesan land fall and have created a high stakes game out of guessing what day and what time the anchor drop will fall on; the highly sought prize: a cold Hinano.
I've learned a bit more about my fellow seafarers in our first extended passage together. One of the most intriguing things about a sailor is how he or she utilizes his or her ample free time on passage. All unnecessary boat work should be left to quiet beautiful anchorages, so what does one do? Each of us still does the normal activities in varying proportions: reading, writing, and cooking, but each also retains a unique hobby. Larissa derives much pleasure from making her toe and fingernails absolutely perfect, Michael has rediscovered a video game from 10 years past that he enjoys playing, and I, of course, have the uke. We still hold onto an ever-important semblance of independence through all the interdependence necessary the survive on this little boat in the middle of the largest ocean.
On the subject of independence, an interesting phenomenon arose after we set out to sea. We've ended up spending larger portions of our time isolated from one another. This naturally-evolved buffer prevents, or slows, many of the social problems experienced by the crews of yachts undergoing extended passages. Since Walk On has several comfortable, yet distinct, living spaces: the cockpit, the quarter berth, the fo'c'sle, and the airy main saloon, we can always find our own niche throughout the day. Whenever the soul strives for a moment of solitude to do a little reading, writing, reflection, or repose, an open location is always near at hand. With freely-acquired social leaves, the people aboard hold a higher morale and the social bonds remain tighter because clashes of character and personal flaws (of which everyone has) aren't exasperated by their perpetual presence.
December 17, 2010
10:30
"Christmas is over," uttered Mike while looking at the most recent weather charts of our area. This phrase perfectly captured our current situation. Our beautiful weather window has slammed its panes. This morning the reinforced La Nina trades (an effect opposite of the famous El Nino) have settled down upon us. Under a double-reefed mainsail, staysail, and mostly-furled genoa, we uncomfortably beat through the dynamic landscape that's piling up from the fresh 20 knot winds.
With the extra winds waft a slight anxiety for an anchorage. The crew now longs to make landfall. To be honest, I don't really much mind. Now that I've gotten my sealegs, and my seamentality to accompany it, I could be out here for months without noticing a minute has passed. The reason for their longing is that these bigger winds go hand in hand with bigger seas, thus more motion and salt spray, and thus less sleep. I claim it builds character.
Last night I decided to switch my dawn watch with Mike's midwatch (00:00-04:00). This would finally allow him a full night's sleep and would give me a chance to get reacquainted with the Pacific's more mysterious side. The midwatch has recently garnered a strange appeal to me. While the flanking watches both boast transitions from light to dark and the converse dark to light, the midwatch provides only the deepest of darkness. The person standing the first watch enjoys the company of the fading sunlight until the moon takes over with its comforting light and the sailor on the final watch, the dawn watch, gets the cheerful prospect of a lightening sky that brings upon a bright new day. There's no comfort in the midwatch. Once the moon has set, all you know is the boat and its motion imparted by the empty, dark sea.
I gently woke up for my midwatch from a light tap on my shoulder imparted by Larissa. After suiting up, I went out into the dark. The large, gibbous moon was setting under a distant squall that painted it yellow like the moon on a 4th of July night. It quickly set and all that was left was a sky full of stars and the sea void of anything. I could do anything but read my book on this dark night. Quite a bit of time was spent watching the dance of the phosphorescence swirling in Walk On's wake. It being mostly overcast, I also spent much of my time reading the dark blotches above for approaching squall lines. The rest of the night was spent hallucinating ships on the horizon and then subsequently investigating these hallucinations. The watch passed quickly in my timeless state of mind and, before I knew it, the next watchee had risen to make his cup of coffee.
True entertainment (much to the chagrin of another seaman or seawoman) can be derived from observing a freshly-roused sailor moving about at some ungodly hour. Their bodies, still groggy from the melatonin of sleep, stumble like a landlubber's. Even after a week out at sea, the whole time in rugged seaway, a newly-waken sailor will stumble about, grasp for handholds, and fall like a drunkard until one's sealegs are quickly reacquired. I can say with a certainty that most boat-inflicted bruises are received in the sailor's pre-coffee state.
December 16, 2010
11:10
The white horses are galloping high on the tops of the building waves that shove and smash Walk On as she tries to cut through the steep seascape. The trade winds have found us again. 15-17 knot winds embraced us again last night and then strengthened to the low 20s with the convective power of the sun aloft. They wind have rejoined us at a fine time, though. It looks as if we've made enough easting to beat to our destination on just a single tack. We're very much looking forward to a Marquesan land fall and have created a high stakes game out of guessing what day and what time the anchor drop will fall on; the highly sought prize: a cold Hinano.
I've learned a bit more about my fellow seafarers in our first extended passage together. One of the most intriguing things about a sailor is how he or she utilizes his or her ample free time on passage. All unnecessary boat work should be left to quiet beautiful anchorages, so what does one do? Each of us still does the normal activities in varying proportions: reading, writing, and cooking, but each also retains a unique hobby. Larissa derives much pleasure from making her toe and fingernails absolutely perfect, Michael has rediscovered a video game from 10 years past that he enjoys playing, and I, of course, have the uke. We still hold onto an ever-important semblance of independence through all the interdependence necessary the survive on this little boat in the middle of the largest ocean.
On the subject of independence, an interesting phenomenon arose after we set out to sea. We've ended up spending larger portions of our time isolated from one another. This naturally-evolved buffer prevents, or slows, many of the social problems experienced by the crews of yachts undergoing extended passages. Since Walk On has several comfortable, yet distinct, living spaces: the cockpit, the quarter berth, the fo'c'sle, and the airy main saloon, we can always find our own niche throughout the day. Whenever the soul strives for a moment of solitude to do a little reading, writing, reflection, or repose, an open location is always near at hand. With freely-acquired social leaves, the people aboard hold a higher morale and the social bonds remain tighter because clashes of character and personal flaws (of which everyone has) aren't exasperated by their perpetual presence.
December 17, 2010
10:30
"Christmas is over," uttered Mike while looking at the most recent weather charts of our area. This phrase perfectly captured our current situation. Our beautiful weather window has slammed its panes. This morning the reinforced La Nina trades (an effect opposite of the famous El Nino) have settled down upon us. Under a double-reefed mainsail, staysail, and mostly-furled genoa, we uncomfortably beat through the dynamic landscape that's piling up from the fresh 20 knot winds.
With the extra winds waft a slight anxiety for an anchorage. The crew now longs to make landfall. To be honest, I don't really much mind. Now that I've gotten my sealegs, and my seamentality to accompany it, I could be out here for months without noticing a minute has passed. The reason for their longing is that these bigger winds go hand in hand with bigger seas, thus more motion and salt spray, and thus less sleep. I claim it builds character.
Last night I decided to switch my dawn watch with Mike's midwatch (00:00-04:00). This would finally allow him a full night's sleep and would give me a chance to get reacquainted with the Pacific's more mysterious side. The midwatch has recently garnered a strange appeal to me. While the flanking watches both boast transitions from light to dark and the converse dark to light, the midwatch provides only the deepest of darkness. The person standing the first watch enjoys the company of the fading sunlight until the moon takes over with its comforting light and the sailor on the final watch, the dawn watch, gets the cheerful prospect of a lightening sky that brings upon a bright new day. There's no comfort in the midwatch. Once the moon has set, all you know is the boat and its motion imparted by the empty, dark sea.
I gently woke up for my midwatch from a light tap on my shoulder imparted by Larissa. After suiting up, I went out into the dark. The large, gibbous moon was setting under a distant squall that painted it yellow like the moon on a 4th of July night. It quickly set and all that was left was a sky full of stars and the sea void of anything. I could do anything but read my book on this dark night. Quite a bit of time was spent watching the dance of the phosphorescence swirling in Walk On's wake. It being mostly overcast, I also spent much of my time reading the dark blotches above for approaching squall lines. The rest of the night was spent hallucinating ships on the horizon and then subsequently investigating these hallucinations. The watch passed quickly in my timeless state of mind and, before I knew it, the next watchee had risen to make his cup of coffee.
True entertainment (much to the chagrin of another seaman or seawoman) can be derived from observing a freshly-roused sailor moving about at some ungodly hour. Their bodies, still groggy from the melatonin of sleep, stumble like a landlubber's. Even after a week out at sea, the whole time in rugged seaway, a newly-waken sailor will stumble about, grasp for handholds, and fall like a drunkard until one's sealegs are quickly reacquired. I can say with a certainty that most boat-inflicted bruises are received in the sailor's pre-coffee state.
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