A Day of Adventures. Day 11 of the Passage to Easter Island
If only I had known how this day would begin, I would never have dared air out the yacht after keeping her sealed up for days. And had my intuition carried me past noon, I would never in my life have asked the sailor to shove the frying pan into the lower cupboard. But that morning, my intuition was off flying in other latitudes.
I devoted the morning watch to helping at the helm and watching the waves: they had almost stopped leaping onto the deck. To make the saloon feel less like a greenhouse at noon in July, I decided to crack open the hatch in the coachroof. Three centimetres for five minutes seemed the perfect proportion. The window on the leeward side volunteered to provide a through-draught. I opened that too—the spray never reaches it. The waves were thumping against the port bow, barely splashing the foredeck. The kettle was boiling, the porridge was nearly ready, and the crew were rubbing their hands together as they chose an educational film to watch over breakfast.
Meanwhile, somewhere out in the ocean, a merry wave was rolling along. It was younger and livelier than the others and resembled an overgrown wolfhound puppy whose puppy brain had yet to grasp the destructive power of its gangly, oversized body. The new wave desperately wanted to play. But there were no dolphins in sight. And its grey-haired companions were worn out after a week of galloping and had no desire to jump any higher than two metres.
Then, all of a sudden, the sprightly wave spotted a sail on the horizon.
Yoo-hooo! Now I’m going to have some fun!—it gave a war cry and gathered speed towards Lady Mary.
The first mate was just about to close the hatch when suddenly... Well, you get the picture.
The wolfhound puppy crashed onto the deck in a welcoming embrace. A torrent surged across the table and cascaded down onto the settees and floor.
Holy moooouse!!!—the first mate howled.
She leapt into the saloon and flung the iPad and laptop out of reach of the sea that had broken in. Then she glanced at the instrument panel beneath the other window.
Holy—!!!—Waves were dancing over the instrument buttons, watches, cables and torches.
Andreeeey!—This cry held a thirst for the storm. The clouds could hear in it the force of rage, the flame of passion and the certainty of victory.—Heeeelp!
The captain is omnipotent. He will appear, bravely mop up the sea with my dress, and the wires will not corrode, nor will the modem be flooded by the sludge seeping through the shelf. Cap is omnipotent. And he is already grabbing the dress.
A mere two hours later, the table, shelf and electronic odds and ends had been rinsed with fresh water, the floor washed, the settees dismantled, the cushions were decorating the chart table and the throws had been rinsed out. The saloon was festooned with scenery for a production of Flood at the Textile Factory. We did not dare hang anything outside to dry—the salty spray was still reaching the cockpit.
“Well, Marinochka, shall we air the place out again?” the captain smirked, finishing his eighth cup of tea while certain others had yet to start breakfast.
After a snack, the young sailor settled down with a book, Nastya set about making lunch, and I moved to the starboard side and started doing the laundry.
Bucket on a rope into the ocean. Once full, the bucket is sucked into the sea and tries to drag the laundress to the bottom. The laundress remembers tug-of-war competitions. Lower the centre of gravity towards the deck, give a sharp pull, and o-one! And t-two!—haul it up, pour it out. Again: o-one, and t-two, and th-three! Put the wrung-out bundle on the coachroof, change the water... O-one and two, and—
“This needs to be captured: laundry, close-hauled sailing and heeling all in one shot. Nastya, the camera!” My voice was full of the determination of a Hollywood director.
Crash! Owwww! Oooooh! NOOOO!!!—came from the galley.
After the shrieks and scrambling noises, the young sailor’s head appeared in the hatch:
“Mum, the eggs!”
That answered the question of why Nastya, the camera and even Cap would not be appearing for quite some time.
For ten days, a four-litre saucepan holding half our supply of eggs had stood under the stove, minding its own business. Once, only a container had fallen out—and from a different cupboard at that. About five eggs went soft-boiled across the floor; we managed to use the rest.
“Where should I put the large frying pan, Mum?”
“There’s room in the lower cupboard. Just be careful—the eggs are in there!”
Nastya carefully put the frying pan into the cupboard, then closed the door just as carefully and, she thought, firmly.
Fifteen minutes later, on a sharp wave, the saucepan, unable to tolerate this infringement of the rights of Pacific eggs, burst the cupboard door open. Two dozen went soft-boiled under the sole boards, into the ridged bottoms of the large food crates, along the mast and down into the bilge... Of the fifty eggs, four remained uncracked. Another dozen and a half could be used tomorrow; twelve that were gathered up immediately flowed into a saucepan.
Three hours of washing, unpacking and repacking crates, sobbing and complaints about life from the sailor (the rolling was still severe), emergency assistance in the form of Mum—and we had a sparkling galley, a faint smell of egg rising from the bilge (it will start stinking of rotten eggs tomorrow), and an egg diet instead of a fish diet.
By then evening had arrived. Omelette for dinner. Some of the last batch sloshed into the oven.
As a memento of the morning wave, salt water was discovered inside the satellite modem case. And for the first time, the connection failed. Not a single incoming message—from the weather forecast to emails and notifications—was received. But a hundred kilobytes of data were successfully gobbled up. Will we have a connection from now on?—That is the question. We are not even sure this post will reach the website (.
The following evening, we marked having one thousand miles left to Easter Island. The wind is easing and shifting aft onto the quarter. Judging by the barometer, we are entering a high-pressure system moving up from the south. That promises a calm. (All this had already happened on the 26th.)
We crossed 16° south latitude. We are getting the blankets out.
Coordinates at the time this report was sent: 16°10′ S, 98°21′ W.