95 Days After Tasmania One day in 1992, when I was in Year 11, recruiters from a sewing vocational school came to our school: come and train with us as industrial sewing-machine operators, and you’ll have a fine life. Anka and I, along with three fine lads from our class (who definitely weren’t dreaming of careers as industrial sewing-machine operators), went along on a tour of the place for a laugh. It was dry and warm there, with attractive displays and easy entrance exams. We had a good laugh and went off to apply elsewhere, each to their own choice. Only Anka went into sewing—though at a different vocational school.
What am I getting at? Being an industrial sewing-machine operator is a very important travel skill. And I have it in spades—I’m stitching miles of awning so that, at anchor, we can cover the coachroof from the blazing sun. Then we’ll be able to do schoolwork and write something worthwhile at temperatures below +30. And I’m doggedly pursuing that dream, sewing yet another hundred-metre stretch of awning that has been taken apart into panels.
Next up is repairing the sprayhood—the canopy over the companionway that protects us from the sun, wind and water. For several years, the boom (the spar attached to the mast that supports the foot of the mainsail) rubbed against one of the sprayhood hoops, wearing indecent holes in the triple-layer reinforced fabric. I kept worrying that our sprayhood would collapse at the feet of an astonished public before we even reached Polynesia. But the destruction ended in an instant: at Suwarrow Atoll, the captain sawed 4.5 cm off the boom, making it shorter and leaving it about three centimetres clear of the hoops. The tatters and exposed hoops spoil the boat’s appearance and point an accusing finger at the first mate’s conscience, but they aren’t falling off.
I remember how awful it felt to start cutting and sewing a new sprayhood when we were in Panama. All those oblique lines, with one-millimetre polyethylene sewn in, darts and triple layers filled me with gloom bordering on horror. The only thing scarier was the crocodile that liked to bask in the sun by the exit from the pontoon at Shelter Bay Marina. But Gennady wasn’t aggressive, while the sprayhood still had to be sewn—on that very pontoon. Four years have passed since then, and here it is, our dear old friend, demanding attention again. Maybe we can make it all the way to Vladik like this? Surely it’ll last another three or four months?..
From time to time, we get passable internet aboard the yacht at an outrageous price, and Lada manages to join her class online. Though because we’re 13 hours behind Moscow, lessons begin at 8 p.m. and end at midnight. It’s quarter to eleven now, and the young sailor is still bright-eyed, joking online with her classmates. We don’t let her stay up past midnight, and sometimes she conks out at ten, but it would be a shame to give up entirely on this rare opportunity to study with her class and teacher.
We’re waiting for an answer from the Tahitian authorities about formalities, provisioning and repairs, and the captain and I are having heated debates about vaccination. Being vaccinated might make it easier to enter some ports in an emergency. I’m almost afraid to ask what you think about vaccinations, so I’ll simply add that the crew’s mood and condition are excellent, and land is close. Besides, the first mate has just polished off the second tin of foie gras, which had been safely hidden away in the stores for three months but failed to escape its fate. Foie gras, commonly known as “goose-liver pâté,” lives up to its grand name only when spread on fresh bread. It’s pure bliss, guys! We’ll make dough again tomorrow—there’s still something left to spread on the bread.
Many thanks to Gleb K., Sergei G., Isycon GmbH, the owners of cards *2770 and *8156, and everyone who stays in touch and supports the ship’s kitty via YooMoney and PayPal