Hawaii Bound

December 18, 2010

04:45

Ah, dawn watch again. On this peculiar morning the sun is rising with an incredible warmth. First light at sea is usually a cold, gray essence that slowly emerges from behind the horizon to fill the whole world with blues, and grays. This one is different. The southern hemisphere summer haze puts a different color in the light and it warms the body and the soul with an all-encompassing yellow glow that slowly, but inevitably, turns to daylight.

And with the sun comes the resurgence of the trades. Yesterday's and last night's 25 knot winds have left their mark on the ocean. A sizable swell pushed up by the fresh breeze is slowly flattening out, but they're still a good 8 feet with 12 footers frequently rolling through. These are not something we want to be beating into. Yet Walk On, despite her hefty steel hull, rises magnificently above the crests and gently settles through the troughs.

We're about a day out from Ua Pou and we're motorsailing again. Apparently our easting wasn't enough once the wind filled in and backed to the north. We pinch the wind with minimal sail set and a boost from the prop. If the wind and all the other factors cooperate, we should be with our hook in the mud by tomorrow.

December 28, 2010

09:15

We've settled back into the Marquesas. After the nearly week long beat, we sailed for the closest possible landfall, which turned out to be good ol' Nuku Hiva, my first Polynesian landfall 7 months ago to the day.

The night before we made anchor, the trade winds were as strong as ever with plenty of squalls to show us what's for. We were able to take momentary refuge in the lee of Nuku Hiva's massive plateau, but all anchorages would take some windward beating to get to. We knew we'd have to brave it, so we sailed out on the north side and aimed for the closest bay: Hatiheu. By the time the lights of civilization had started to sparkle at the foot of Nuku Hiva's massive silhouette, the moon had set and the squall lines were beginning their march with us underfoot. Being prudent sailors, we decided to hold off until first light to make landfall.

At about two in the morning, Michael went below and I settled in for my watch during the darkest hours. We had, by chance, situated Walk On into a slow forereach (a tactic used to stabilize the vessel, similar to heaving-to, but instead of slowing drifting leewards, the boat sails slowly up into the wind) that she held bravely throughout the night. I made myself a big, piping cup of espresso and settled into a comfortable nook in the cockpit. The night passed pretty quickly as I played mind games to keep vigilant. A few 30 knot squalls rolled over us, but with such reduced sail aloft, no action was necessary. I saw the Aranui III (one of the supply ships for the Marquesas) pull into the bay just as we were setting sail to beat in. I hoped he wouldn't take all the good parking spots. By the time the first rays of the sun were peeking above the horizon, we had good sail up and were beating hard towards Hatiheu. As we entered the bay, we saw there was plenty of parking space and this was a pretty fine anchorage after all.
It has nearly everything going for it, except one of the most important features for cruisers. It's wide open and easy to maneuver into and the landscape is absolutely gorgeous. Sitting in the bay, one is surrounded by towering volcanic spires and steep mountainsides that are covered in palm trees from former copra plantations. Atop one of the crumbly spires miraculously sits a white-washed statue of a saint. How it was transported up there puzzled me throughout the entire stay. Besides the impressive, upright landscape, this anchorage is the greenest one I've seen in the northern Marquesas (Mike and Larissa report Fatu Hiva in the Southern Marquesas was lush), where the effects of the La Nina-induced drought are still clearly visible even though we've now passed into the "rainy season". Hatiheu also features a nice niche of civilization: a magasin has the basics and fresh bread is supposedly available every once in a while if it makes it from across the mountains. But as I mentioned, Hatiheu has a major downfall: a lack of a location to moor a dinghy. The large, concrete quay is bare of mooring rings and the beach runs a good surf at all times. We were left to taking turns going ashore and giving each other rides.

January 2-5, 2011

We soon tired of the continuous roll of the anchorage and were looking for a stable surface to sleep on, something we had lacked since Rangiroa. I, being a previous patron of this lovely island, suggested the next-door anchorage of Anaho. After much hyping up, the Mike and Larissa were convinced by my tales of golden shores and quiet waters to weigh anchor. In less than an hour, we were safely anchored behind Point Messange in Anaho Bay.

Nothing had changed and it was as heavenly as it ever was. The point still protected the anchorage from swell, the long beach still stretched around the entire alcove, and the mountains still towered high above it all. I was back in Anaho after 6 months of seafaring through Polynesia. Coming back felt like returning to a place I had lost touch of since childhood, but everything was still the same size. When cruising, it's pretty rare to return to a location you've been to in the same sailing season. Most of the time it's up anchor and say good bye for a long time. This is because most cruises are planned on a downwind circuit: Long Beach-to-Mexico, Mexico-to Marquesas, Marquesas-to-Tahiti, Tahiti-to-Bora - all downwind. But we reversed this trend by going dead upwind from Tahiti to Nuku Hiva, a path not spanned by many in sailboats.

Despite the mild hardship in heading back up north against the trades, it was rewarding to dig my toes back into Marquesan sand after nearly half a year of being away from it. Going back really gave me a sense of time passed. It's hard to pin down dates in the mind's perspective when I hardly know what day of the week it is 90% of the time. When we putted back into Anaho, I was able to look at my log and get a grasp of time once more. Six months it had been. This is what six months feels like. If you're following me.

We hung around Anaho for a few days getting plenty of rest and regaining our sense of adventure. As it always happens, we were reluctant to leave the calm waters, but Christmas was fast approaching and we couldn't go without a fine Christmas meal. Taiohae was made our next destination. It was an uneventful sail over. Mike and Larissa dug the little town of 2,000 people (the largest in the Marquesas) for having a nice balance of scenery, markets, and soft-serve ice cream on the quay. As I was the acting resident Marquesan on board, I showed them the ropes of the town [that must have originated as a sailor's expression]: the bank, the shops, the delicious ice cream, and the beautiful church. Just before Christmas we stocked up on a fine assortment of meats: some ribs and a slab of entrecout and then headed over to quiet Daniel's Bay just a few miles to the west. A fantastic Christmas lunch barbeque was had in my bay.

Even though the bay was, as in all Marquesan anchorages this season, dry as a bone, vertical cliffs made it pleasing to the eyes. They extended up nearly a thousand feet and completely bordered the west reaches of the bay. On entrance we saw the scar of a dry waterfall that, when running, is said to be one of the top 5 tallest in the world.

We weren't the only ones with the idea to sail over to Daniel's Bay for a quiet Christmas. As we cleared the point and looked down into the bay we saw 2 catamarans swung at anchor in the shallow limits of the bay and by the time we left two days later, 7 boats, including ourselves, were sitting in the small bay. After Christmas we took a small foray to Daniel's beach, had a second tumbling night of sleep, and then decided it was high time to begin preparations to leave French Polynesia. We soon motorsailed back to Taiohae. Although it was upwind, we took it on two tacks and it turned out to be short and pleasant.

Now it was time to get down to business. Final plans were laid down for provisioning. We accomplished these leisurely over a few day's time with many ice cream breaks in between. By the time our final day came in Taiohae, we had bellies full of ice cream and few pockets full of Pacific Island Francs left. Being the good sailors that we are, we spent the remainder on booze for the upcoming New Years and possibly the passage if any was left (none was besides Neptune's bottle of wine - I'll get to this). Early the next morning we upped anchor and set sail for Anaho, the bay we had deemed fit to be our final touch of French Polynesia.

The trade winds had died down a bit since our upwind beat from Rangiroa and as we cleared Taiohae's Sentry Rock, we were met with the kind 15 knot easterlies that I've undoubtedly been spoiled by. We took the upwind portion on two tacks, fell off on a beam reach to fly up the eastern portion of Nuku Hiva, and then executed a precision jibe around the northeastern point and rounded up until we sailed right into the mouth of Anaho.

A troubling sight presented itself as we came around the southeast point of the island. Just as we cleared it, a cruise liner emerged from the depths of the Pacific bound for Taiohae. Why would I be so troubled by a cruise liner, of which I've seen hundreds by now? Every island, bay, or port that I've visited on this voyage where a cruise liner calls is diminished by materialism. I'm not saying it's a cause, but it's surely a correlation. A sign of things to come, perhaps. It would be terrible to see the people of the Marquesas become corrupted by the quickly-globalizing world. They may lose their pleasure derived from being generous and living off their own land in trying to keep up with the Jones's. Big screen televisions and oversized automobiles may soon replace their well-tended gardens and artisan work. The houses may cease to be lit by candle light and noisy diesel generators will be brought into each bay ruining the ambiance and the night sky. Visitors will no longer be opportunities to display their inbred generosity and will soon be looked at as opportunities for monetary gain. This new mentality is already seen imbedded in people of the inner Society islands and if the Marquesan's aren't careful, it will be sure to debauch their way of life as well. The Marquesas is like to be a very different place in 10 years.

As it neared the island, the cruise liner repeatedly tried to hail the port captain of Taiohae and after quite a few attempts, the operator of the local radio station had to inform him that Taiohae didn't have a port captain. I was glad to hear that they still retain their non-commercial tendencies. Chalk one up to the preservation of the Marquesan lifestyle.

As we entered Anaho, we found ourselves to be the only ones in the bay and happily dropped anchor in the most protected area and cracked a few Hinanos. Our final stay in Anaho was one of the best stays we've had in any anchorage. We arrived the day before New Years and kicked our feet up for a moment. Stunning, glowing sunsets behind the mountaintops were the norm and turtles and mantas greeted us a few times. As always, the strip of palm-tree-lined, golden beach glowed enticingly when the sun shone on it. The swell was non-existent in the anchorage behind the point, but crashed on the distant shore so we were gifted with the calming white noise of surf at night. The trade winds ran through the anchorage nearly unabated for all but the last two muggy nights of our stay giving us . But the item that made the bay truly magical this time was, as usual, the people we met.

It was during the first afternoon of our stay. The sun was bracing itself between the mountaintops and the tide was slowly flowing out. Standing out against the bright, sun-mirroring water were a couple of black silhouettes skidding across the small waves on a couple of kayaks. I couldn't resist. I walked up to the foredeck and loosed the yak into the water. It only took a moment to hop on and paddle out to the humble surf.

I was greeted with wide smiles as I surfed the baby waves and soon got to chatting with Laurent, a man who was vacationing from France with his in-laws in Polynesia. Before I went off to dispatch my 'longshore duties (a fresh water shower at the beach's spigot), he invited me and the rest of Walk On's crew to his New Year's festivals. The next morning (New Year's eve) he paddled out to make sure we were coming to the party. And what a party it turned out to be. There was everything one could hope for: dancing, a a magnificent feast, fine wine, and spectacular champagne at the drop of the ball.And, after the big event, the greatest fireworks show Anaho had ever seen - the 6-shot Roman candle I gifted Mike on Christmas. The crew, tired from the taxing lifestyle of the tropical sailor returned to the boat after navigating the coral-head-lined channel without event.

Sadly, our newly-made friends were to take leave from Anaho the next afternoon. We bid one another farewell as they cruised out of the ocean-locked bay on a plywood powerboat and then soon got down to business. Laying on the beach is a hardly-known hose that dispenses the purest water in the Marquesas. According to the generous owners of this hose, the source is an underground spring from up on the mountainside. Rain or shine, drought or monsoon, the hose always gives us crystal clear water. We needed 1200 liters of it (that's about 300 gallons my American friends) which we would be taking in 100 liter trips. From timing high tide, the chore was made easy. One could fill the bottles in the dinghy without having to cart them an inch.

After we filled the boat up to her eyeballs with the tasty water, we decided to set aside a couple days for frolicking in order to give French Polynesia its due goodbyes. I took it upon myself to hike the horse/human trail that straddled the bays of Hatiheu and Anaho. It was reported to be an easy hike, so I tuned and dropped the uke into my backpack for a few strumming recesses on the way up and paddled in. The trail was carved right through the thick brush alongside a dry river bed. After stepping off the banana plantation set in front of the trail, I was quickly in the wilderness. Stretching, bending palms trees made up much of the foliage, but acacia, tiare (gardenia), hibiscus, and citrus trees were bountiful as well. Being in the wilderness once more, I had to play the part of wilderness explorer. It wasn't long until I was tromping off the beaten path to collect limes for our voyage and using my ever-handy Leatherman to slice open young ferns and coconuts for sustenance. I think the life of the ancient Marquesan would have suited me well.

After a few uke interludes, I reached the saddle between the mountains that marked the summit of the trail. The view of Anaho was nice, but Hatiheu was shrouded by overgrowth. This would be the last panorama of Marquesan land to reach my eyes for a while; I wanted more. After a short and understandably convoluted chat with a French family hiking the opposite way on the trail, I set my eyes higher.

Off to the side of the trail's summit, was a steeper, less-beaten path that went in an enticing direction: up. I zipped the uke up tight and continued along it. It wasn't long before the trail turned to dry brush and became much less hospitable, but I just couldn't stop myself from ascending. Several times I came to knolls, saw a higher one ahead, and continued onwards and upwards for glory. After 45 minutes of brush clearing assisted by a couple of stiff branches, I was at the base of the highest knoll on this side of the bay. It was a little vertical, but I scaled it hand over foot over ukulele.

The view from a top was splendid. Hatiheu and Anaho were both visible and the unruffled Pacific Ocean stretched on into infinity. I perched myself on the windy knob that was marked only by scattered piles of goat droppings and I felt I was the first man in the world to scale this minor peak. It requiring a christening of sorts, I committed three apt acts: a magnificent holler at the top of my lungs, a carving of "Ka'oha Nui" in the soft volcanic rock, and singing into the wind while shredding on the uke. Eventually I made my way back down and was overjoyed by the sensation of removing my hiking shoes and sticking my toes into sand. I was content with my final Polynesian adventure and the day after the next we upped anchor and set sail for the Sandwich Islands.

January 6, 2011

17:00

We have begun our sail northwards.

January 7, 2011

13:00

Well we're in the middle of the ocean under a beautiful sky and on top of a beautiful sea. Although it's still disputed in some circles, I believe Ferdinand Magellan's label of "Pacific" was an apropos observation. At least for this particular stretch of the ocean.

Ever since leaving Anaho, three days previous, we've been beam reaching due north. The winds are a stable 15 knots, the squalls are rare, and the boat is steady. Walk On reaches at a brisk 6 knots towards the equator. Once we give Neptune his due offerings, we can only sail north and hope that the ITCZ isn't too wide. After meeting back up with the trade winds of the northern hemisphere, we'll veer northwest and (hopefully) beam reach right to Hilo, Hawaii in the US of A. Out of the many 'ifs' that are enclosed in any bluewater cruise, the most prominent one is 'if' the wind will cooperate on our way across the northern hemisphere.

As all my friends and family in California may have noticed, there are a lot of North Pacific storms spinning off the Aleutians and making their way down to the lower latitudes. While these don't generally seem to make their way all the way down to Hawaii, their massive force does tend to interrupt the regular NE trades that should prevail in that area. Trade winds are reported to blow only half of the time in this season.

January 8, 2011

10:00

First of all, I'd like to wish a happy birthday to my lovely mother! Mike and Larissa let me use their satellite phone to call her from these deep waters and although the voice modulator made her sound pretty alien, I'll always recognize the voice of my favorite momma.

By the looks of it, that may be the biggest event of the day. The weather is as fair as a babe's hair with 15 knots still sitting on the beam. The sky was void of clouds all last night and up until just a few hours ago this morning. The trades acted their part last evening by dropping off with the sun and since we needed a charge on the battery bank, we motored through the diamond-studded night sky without event. Mike and Larissa took extended watches due to the tranquil state of affairs and I actually had to rouse myself at dawn after the tossing and turning that precursors waking from a full night's sleep.

18:00

The sun has lowered past the horizon and my shipmates have taken to their berth for a bit of shut eye. The wind has eased as it did last night, but Michael and I unleashed the fury of the full mainsail before sunset. This is the first time I've seen her with all her sail set and what a fantastic amount she hold aloft. As a result, she comfortably skids over he softly rolling swells on a broad reach. It's fantastic sailing that, if the sky is any indication, won't be changing soon.

We are still surrounded by a vast, misty void above. Today's coppery sunset with highlights of verdigris, illuminated all three clouds in the sky at dusk. Michael and I have come to the conclusion as to why we are cloud void without any change in weather. During one of our frequent meteorological snippets of chat, it became clear that we are probably crossing through the most distal fingers of the Peru current (also known as the Humboldt current). This cold water current stems from the Antarctic and runs up the western face of South America only to veer west at the equator. It would also make sense for this current to be reinforced by this year's La Nina effects.

It has huge repercussions on the coast of South America and the Galapagos archipelago that sits directly in its path. The air and water is much cooler and and upwelling of sea life comes with it. Out here, 4000 miles away, its indicators are lesser, but still apparent. The first, and least dubious, being a noticeable fall in water temperature. The air has also turned so cold that we go as far as to wear shirts during the day. The next indicator is deduced: the complete lack of cloud cover. This would coincide with a cold water current because the lower temperature of the water would reduce the surface evaporation that forms clouds. This current, although frustratingly west-setting, has some fine benefits.

The declared favorite of the crew is of course the absolutely smooth sailing. What a fine break from the upwind passage to the Marquesas. Many of the other benefits are only noticeable at night. Due to the clearness of the sky and the slenderness of the moon, the stargazing is a true spectacle. Every pinprick of light in the universe is visible above. I struggle to work out the most telling constellations with my limited astronomical abilities. The Southern Cross now winks a mere 10 degrees above the horizon while the Magellan clouds still stand high in the sky. As we reach farther north, I can expect these to make a slow drop below the haze of the horizon. Miles before the drop of Magellan's clouds, should come the rise of the Great Bear, Ursa Major. My familiar Big Dipper will be the first friend to welcome me back into the northern hemisphere.

This feeling of humbleness upon the smooth Pacific is further reinforced by my latest readings: Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana, Jr. His is a classic sailing tale that speaks of the happy happenings and hardships - but mostly hardships - of his voyage while twice doubling the Horn during the golden age of sail. I found it comforting to look up from reading, "When climbing the mainmast to reef to top gallants, I was literally pinned to the mast by the horizontal sleet." [a paraphrase] to see that same ocean rolling gently beneath me and a sweet breeze. Among his harrowing stories of terrible storms, he talks much about a California past. He sailed the coast in the late 1830s, before the Gold Rush and before much Yankee settlement. His business there was the hide trade with the Mexicans and the Indians. I found his account very interesting, and was impressed upon by a spot of homesickness from reading the names of all of California's lovely coastal Spanish towns. Norcaler's (if that's a proper term) would be glad to know that even before the establishment of San Francisco as a mere village, Los Angeles was referred to as "hell".

January 9, 2010

05:00

Sunrise and sunset: the only things that break the monotony of passages through the smooth, tradewind-brushed swaths of the Pacific. The winds are still constant from the same direction and at the same velocity. On coming out this morning I found the whole sky dappled with alto-cumulus and stratus of all shapes and sizes. This may be an indicator of changing weather.

January 10, 2011

07:40

Yet another beautiful day on the high seas. We crossed the equator yesterday an hour after sunset and gave our sacrifices to Neptune hoping to garner favor from his northern reaches. The captain give him the first gulp of Walk On's last bottle of wine, I presented him with a piece of strawberry cake frosted with nutella, and Larissa gave him a few pretzels to complete the meal.

We've come to believe that our gifts were well received as the west-setting current has turned to a northwest setting one (that's in the exact direction of Hawaii if you're not too geographically inclined). Coinciding with the favorable change of set, the drift is now nearly 4 knots. Allow half a knot for leeway on a broad reach and that means we're boosted by a 3.5 knot current. Wow. 9-10 knots speed over ground isn't a rarity.

January 11, 2011

02:45

Yesterday was our sixth day out. On outset, we arranged a rotational watch schedule that gave everybody a chance at the lonesome midwatch and the magical sunrise watch. My time has run out on the sunrise watch and I've been bumped back into the darkest hours.

On waking this morning, I heated up the pork n beans let on the stove and took my steaming bowl outside with me to check out the scenery. I had stepped out into a pitch black void. Clouds covered all signs of anything existing beyond Walk On's bulwarks. My eyes did slowly adjust over the course of 20 minutes and I was able to make out amorphous blotches lining the sky, some darker than the other.

We're now at about 4 degrees north and the wind is starting to show flukey tendencies. It died and came back a couple of times and I trimmed sails appropriately.

For a moment the layers of stratus cleared and I was presented with the Big Dipper low and dead ahead! It's two stars pointed straight down to a misty Polaris (the north star) just above the horizon. It feels good to be in the northern hemisphere and to be greeted by my astronomical bretheren.

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