56° South, and 50 Days on an Ocean Passage

56° South, and 50 days on an ocean passage. A preface for everyone who has only recently joined us. Friends, our circumnavigation has not veered off course, come to a halt, or even slowed down. South of the equator, it is tropical storm season, and instead of quietly waiting it out in New Zealand or on an equatorial atoll, we decided to make a trip around Cape Horn. Along the way, we conducted a scientific field study of the phantom islands of the South Pacific, including the Maria Theresa Reef made famous by Jules Verne. You can find the expedition chronicles and results in our previous reports. By the end of hurricane season, we plan to return to our route and continue westward across Oceania. To fulfil a childhood dream, we decided to take a 10,000-mile detour. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. The fog is creeping right up close. Today we’ll leave the radar on continuous watch and let it monitor the floating ice. Once a week, as if on schedule, albatrosses glide past the wheelhouse windows and immediately disappear—they’re not particularly curious. The wheelhouse has become our main living space by day and even by night. Tonight, Andryukha and I slept head-to-toe on the watch settee. Without the extra back cushions, it is actually quite comfortable. Nastya and Laduska occupy the aft cabin and the crew quarters respectively. In the evenings, you can see your breath in the aft cabin—how romantic! But an hour with the heater running brings the fairy tale down to the mundane level of comfort. Every part of the yacht apart from the wheelhouse lies below the waterline, so all the warmth tends to creep away from the periphery towards the centre of expedition life. A sweltering 11 degrees. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. On our 50th day in the Southern Ocean, it is not only the likelihood of encountering icebergs that emerges from the fog, but also the issue of group psychology. Because, let’s be honest, the crew is getting tired—and mentally even more than physically. Tired of the monotony and the rolling, the isolation from the world and the bitter cold. Nastya and I are probably feeling it more than anyone, owing to our sensitive dispositions. Then comes the young sailor, although given her age and temperament, she is as carefree and cheerful as ever. And Andryukha is the most indefatigable of us all. He says he feels so comfortable with us that he never gets tired at all. Just look how incredibly lucky the captain is to have us! But here’s the interesting thing: aware that our fatigue is accumulating, we are becoming more tolerant of one another. We readily forgive flashes of irritation, say more affectionate things, and hug more often. As though the mind and heart know what must be done to survive, and bring everything best in us to the surface. . . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. We haven’t carried all our sails for ages; we use only the small jib (the foresail) and a reefed mainsail. In strong winds we leave only the jib up and fly along at 7 knots. When it is blowing 20 knots, we add the main with two reefs and sort of crawl along at 4–5 knots. More often than not, we choose conservative tactics. Sometimes we deliberately head east instead of south, waiting for a cyclone to sweep past to the south. Or, as now, we bear away south because by nightfall a southerly wind of up to Force 8 will arrive and drive us north. We let the strongest part of this cyclone pass ahead of us. But as well as its force, the southerly wind will bring Antarctic cold. If it is now 11–12 degrees above zero inside our little home in the morning, with a southerly wind it may be only 5–8. Maybe I should sleep in a hat? Although we have already adapted to the chill. We heat the place in the morning and evening; then it stays warm for almost the entire day, and by bedtime it is quite tolerable, even cosy. Little lights twinkle before bed, the tea is hot, the chocolate is delicious—though, admittedly, it’s almost our last bar. And a film, invariably something uplifting. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. When, on New Year’s Eve, not a single Father Frost can find you because you are at the oceanic Pole of Inaccessibility and the GPS says that the nearest land is Antarctica, 2,868 km away, your subconscious helps you survive in a way you do not normally think about. It clings to old connections and traditions. And you yearn for the holiday you have known since childhood, with fairy lights and Olivier salad, the Kremlin chimes, and the story about how every 31 December my friends and I go to the bathhouse... .. That way you feel your connection to a hundred million other people, and so you are neither alone nor cut off. Around day 48–50, those same roots keep you afloat. The 11 degrees in the morning remind you of a log house during a hard frost. You stoke the stove in the evening, and it is warm. In the morning, you crunch across the crisp snow to the woodshed, wearing felt boots on bare feet, or even flip-flops. The stove huffs and puffs and does not catch straight away. And you realise just how incredibly lucky you are right now! There is no need to stoke anything, and no long wait for the house to warm up. And the heater does not smoke. It smells slightly of diesel, yum-yum, and only at first. But alas, there is no waft of burning leaves. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. And home was wonderful. Nastya would get up at seven, and I would light the stove and put the kettle on. Then, after seeing our sailor off to school, I would write or read in the kitchen. A candle on the glass table, a pretty cup of coffee—or, better still, fresh country milk with spices. The logs crackled, the walls smelled of cedar, and the heated floor warmed my feet through my furry slipper-boots. And Laduska slept upstairs in our huuuge bed. During our final season back home, Andryukha had already been in the Canary Islands for three months preparing the yacht for the circumnavigation. Meanwhile, we girls kept house in the Gingerbread House and waited for me to finish healing my body and piecing my soul back together before setting out across our first ocean... .. I hardly miss life in the city at all—only our home in the fairy-tale mountains. .. .. So there: my subconscious has latched on to home and land, warmed itself and drunk its fill, and now we can return to the Southern Ocean. To the point at 56 degrees 00 minutes south, 98 degrees 12 minutes west. Tonight we will cross into the final thousand miles before Cape Horn. We’ll have a celebratory breakfast to mark the occasion. The coming ten days of the passage may prove the most difficult. For now, the wind has strengthened to 30 nautical miles per hour. We neatly bore away from 45, and now we are donning our spacesuits and going out on deck to take down the mainsail before dark. Our fingers are freezing even inside our gloves. Lady Mary is flying half-sideways into the icy night; once again, we’ll have to sleep on the wall. We’ll telegraph further developments via satellite... .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Dear friends, thank you for your comments, likes, shares, and amazing support from shore! Every morning we can hardly wait to get online first thing and read the messages you have sent us. The ritual is even called Morning Mail. You are the best in the world! . .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. And a separate, huge thank-you for fuelling the expedition via PayPal.me/TravelyFamily to Nina R., Ivan M. from the USA, Konstantin K. from Moscow, Viktor S. from the Leningrad Region, Dmitry P. from Khabarovsk, and Andrei G. from Israel. You are becoming part of our team and motivating us to write new reports. Together, there is so much we can do! .. .. We wish absolutely everyone the most invigorating January!