Passage to Easter Island. Day Nine into the Wind
Why do so few people live their dream? Because living your dream is hard—I’ve been thinking about that line from the film Territory since this morning. Though the original actually said: because most people are too afraid to live their dream.
Right now, the dream is a series of simple actions. Getting out of bed at four—awesome. No, weakling. The captain is still on watch, creaking away at the winches over there. And you’re lying against a wet wall. Headache? Drink some water. Covered the window with an extra curtain—one tick in the karma column. Washed the dishes while lying across the sink—another one. Now to fill up with water. Better make it two bottles, so I won’t have to go down to the galley again for longer. And take the kettle while I’m at it. The electric one takes a whole hour to boil anyway; the children will be awake by then. If you manage to have a wash, your spirits creep upwards like a barometer after a storm. If, freshly scrubbed, you don’t get drenched by a wave on the way to the wheelhouse—lucky you! It takes half an hour to talk yourself into a trip to the heads, pardon me. You’re slammed down the companionway, knocking tables over. And you brush your teeth while you’re there, smearing toothpaste over only the very edge of the mirror—well done you!
Today’s plan includes an act of heroism squared: fill a bucket with water and rinse the salt out of two and a half sets of wave-soaked bedding. Then dry it. Otherwise you’ll be sleeping like a homeless person on the old bedding all the way to Easter Island. And the wet stuff will turn into a mouldy salty lump in a fortnight.
And the children and I also do our exercises. Our young sailor has really got into them. The main thing is not to fly overboard while bending down. Without exercise, we’ll succumb to physical inactivity. Then the only way we’ll be able to walk is under ourselves. .
The swell is up to 5 metres. We’re flying along at 7 knots with the third reef in. For Lady Mary, that is warp speed with the wind bang on the nose. The most important thing during three weeks of beating into 20 knots is not to let despondency set in. Spoil yourself with an evening shower and fresh clothes, drink plenty (otherwise you get a headache). Make delicious breakfasts. For the second day running, Laduska has been coaxing us into making muffins, and somehow we manage to mix the batter and pour it into the moulds. The captain puts them into the oven—he’s the most roll-resistant among us. The kitchen ritual is turning more and more into acrobatics: you cook with one foot braced against the mast. And the muffins come out geometric, like triangular prisms laid on one face: a parchment crust on one side, and about four centimetres of sponge cake on the other. .
Some monster bit off our lucky wooden lure. No sooner had the captain fitted a squid lure to the now-empty fishing line than yet another mahi-mahi went for it.
“That’s it! Don’t put the line out again!” the children shout. “We’re sick of your fish!”
For now, we’ve run out of jars for preserving fish, so the captain has started drying the new catch. He cuts it into slabs and hangs them in a garland beneath the solar panels. Though last night the fish necklace got wetter rather than drier.
We’re counting the days and miles more and more often. There’s more and more feeling behind Nastya’s and my “I’m so bloody sick of this rolling!”—at the moment your head meets a bulkhead, or your bare stomach plants itself against a sizzling frying pan.
I keep wondering: how did we, complete greenhorns four years ago, beat around the Mediterranean in 45 knots? That whole winter, I don’t remember the wind ever dropping below 25. And I only learned in the Canaries that 45 knots counts as a storm. Yet now it’s only 22 knots on the nose, only one week, and here I am grumbling :). .
The mattress in the aft cabin is soaked, on the side you roll towards when the boat heels. At first we thought water had spilled from a bottle. But the mattress is getting wetter every day, and it’s salty (who the hell knows where the leak is). We sent our young sailor to sleep under the table in the wheelhouse (the forecabin is wet too, and you get thrown around more violently there). Nastya spends the night in the cockpit locker. At the upper end of the aft berth (port side), the first mate has rigged herself a narrow single berth, wedged along its lower edge with the dry part of the second mattress so she won’t roll onto the wet plywood. What a brain-teaser I’ve written! I wonder if anyone understood what that looks like? ))
During the night, the waves calmed down a little, but the wind began to dance. Fifteen to twenty knots abruptly turns into thirty, and we have to bear away or the galloping becomes completely insane. But if you bear away onto a beam reach /wind from the side/, the rain lashes through the only opening left open on the yacht—the companionway hatch. To avoid shutting the “little window,” you head up again. There’s no dozing on a watch like this; you have to help Iron Felix /the windvane steering/. On the other hand, after this month we’ll kiss any land we reach, even if, instead of Easter Island, we accidentally end up on Wrangel Island :).
In the morning, a thick bar of rainbow burst into contagious colour through a break in the clouds. A cheerful Lada and a gloomy Nastya crawled out into the cockpit. I hugged them both and sang:
“Forward, comrades, boldly, in step! Our spirits will be strengthened in struggle!...”
To truly feel happiness, you have to know unhappiness. Once we drop anchor, stop flying from side to side, and wash all the salt off our little floating home, we’ll be absolutely happy! At the very, very edge of the Earth :). Rapa Nui, we’re coming to you!
Easter Island is 1,130 miles away; we’ve covered 830 miles from the Galápagos.
Coordinates: 12°54′ S, 96°14′ W.
Friends, thank you for being with us! The whole crew simply blossoms when we read your comments and messages on the website!
P.S. While we were getting ready to send this post, enough adventures happened to fill an entire day. We’ll tell you about them tomorrow now ))