Summer on a yacht, the heat, a diary. The psychology of life aboard: how to turn a young sailor into a human being. The crew’s secrets of contraception. Spearfishing and fish with Olivier salad.
How to sleep aboard a yacht in the tropical summer
A Mexican summer on a yacht is very hot and wet. After two months, the summer heat and I have finally begun to coexist in harmony. Even the mould, diligently growing on every surface, is no longer quite so disheartening. I routinely pick up a cloth and cleaner and wipe down everything I see.
Since moving out to an anchorage, life has become altogether freer and happier. I shudder to remember the suffocating heat alongside in the marina. Though Puerto Aventuras was, of course, very nice!
For the past few days I’ve been sleeping on the coachroof under a canopy, because in the stifling aft cabin the bogeymen start appearing in my dreams from three in the morning—and if they don’t, I find myself thinking it would be better if they did; at least I’d be spending the night asleep :).
So Andryukha and I have a cast-iron method of contraception: he’s there, I’m here. It’s lonely on the coachroof without my husband, of course, but then you wake up in the morning and it’s lovely—the sun has risen right into your face, the pillows are damp, and a breeze is stirring the mosquito net. I definitely prefer mornings like these.
Sunrise over Isla Mujeres
Judging by the weather forecast, we’ll be here for another five days or so: a small storm is approaching. Then we’ll make the passage to the Cayman Islands—a British Overseas Territory in the Caribbean Sea, south of Cuba. There we’ll replace the Dyneema supporting the mast with wire rope, proudly known as a shroud. Sailing around with a bit of string somehow doesn’t look very respectable, even though it is special string—you could tether an aeroplane with it and, if you tied it firmly enough, it wouldn’t budge no matter how loudly all its engines roared.
Children aboard. Upbringing and psychology
We’ve fitted a windscoop over the hatch of the children’s cabin, and now the young sailors sleep until you wake them: it’s cool and pleasant in there, and they’ve even started covering themselves with their duvet covers. Today I woke Nastya at seven for lessons, while Ladunka rolled onto her other side, hugged her bunny to herself, and went on sleeping. The captain is stoically battling the heat in the aft cabin and is asleep too. It wouldn’t do to wake the captain: what if we go to sea tomorrow and he’s tired?
While we were away on our hike, Ladunka and her dad made a cardboard clock face. Yesterday they upgraded it with hands and numerals that nothing but alcohol can remove. Now she’ll learn to tell the time; she has already memorised the key points.
Lada has entered a new stage in the development of her character, with new traits becoming clearly apparent—among them, stubbornness.
“Sweetie, please pour some water for rinsing off. We’re going swimming now.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t know how.” And that was that. Pleading, explanations, and even threats once again failed to have the desired effect, so we decided to take a different approach:
“Okay, no water means you’re not going swimming. Or you can go, but you won’t rinse off afterwards.”
And I jumped into the cool azure water. Five minutes later one young sailor was splashing about beside me, immediately followed by the other (!). Soon the captain appeared, looking positively heroic: scraper in hand, mask on his face, ready to finish cleaning off the coral reef that had grown on the boat over the past month and a half.
We had a wonderful time diving and singing songs as we performed synchronised swimming astride polyethylene pool noodles, which for some reason we call “sausages.” Incidentally, all previous attempts to teach the child to dance had failed, despite her mother’s gifts for dance and teaching. And Laduska only likes singing songs of her own composition. The sole exception is the repertoire of the rock band Provereno. It was funny to hear her, at five years old, bellowing:
“Her hair is yellow, she has a stone for a heart, she has a sharp knife, and there is no escape from her. She... Your war, a war with yourself, a war with the fire that has engulfed the world, you’re no traitor, no hero; she, as you know, is your idol...”
...But in the water, accompanying our synchronised swimming, both Shainsky and Mary Poppins went down a storm.
Methods for overcoming a young sailor’s stubbornness
Half an hour later the crew climbed aboard one after another. Three of us rinsed off with fresh water and sat down to our morning tea. Lada appeared in the stern with a question:
“Where’s my water?”
“There isn’t any. Dry off, then go and pour some.”
And that was when it began! It turned out that the young sailor had an unbearably painful finger, and if she didn’t rinse it with fresh water she would die of pain, right there and then. Cries of “My finger! Oh God, my finger!” shook the bay for about ten minutes. During that time the young sailor dried off and, howling without pause, trudged away to pour the water. She learned how in five seconds. Still wailing tearfully, she returned with the water:
“Who’s going to rinse meeeee? Oh God, my finger!”
The most patient member of the crew—the captain—could take no more. He washed the child, dried her with a towel, and took her to the children’s heads to finish howling. A minute later Lada moved from the heads to the forward cabin, where, gradually lowering the decibel level, she finished the song “Oh God, My Finger” and began “I’m going to die of huuuunger now! Food, oh God, fooood!” After another seven minutes of howling, the young sailor spotted Mum in the galley:
“Mum, what are you doing?”
“Cooking porridge.”
“What kind?”
“Semolina.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
The pain in her finger receded in perfect synchrony with the hunger and suffering. Once the porridge was ready, Mum went to the cockpit to finish her tea, and the young sailor was not heard from for an hour and a half. In that time, the little person ate half a saucepan of porridge after helping herself to seconds, washed the saucepan and plate in salt water using the pump, rinsed them with fresh water, set everything out to dry, brought over her mug, and meekly asked:
“May I have some tea?”
For three days now, whenever she is asked to help, the young sailor first gives her habitual answer, “No, I don’t want to,” and then, quite unexpectedly, you find her peeling potatoes, for example.
The spinnaker pole makes an excellent diving platform, both from the top and from underneath
Food and the cinema aboard
Summer aboard a yacht in the tropics means not wanting to eat during the day. But for dinner, while I was struggling with a headache, Nastya made Olivier salad, and Andryukha poached us a fish with the speargun. This is supposedly a nature reserve, so fishing is forbidden, and the yachties quietly catch one fish at a time under cover of darkness. Andryukha practised with the speargun for two hours, and now we had a small snapper for dinner—though perhaps it wasn’t a snapper; who knows? But fried and served with Olivier salad, it was delicious!
We have once again entered a period of evening Harry Potter marathons. It doesn’t seem that long since we watched the films during our Atlantic crossing, but the children wanted to see them again, and the captain and I joined in for company. Fewer than two films remain, and then we’ll tackle some historical films again.
This summer aboard, our film library has grown broader and deeper thanks to films copied from various acquaintances. Now we need to organise and watch all of it.
West coast of Isla Mujeres
Where the Colombian sailed off to
Last night the trade wind unexpectedly began blowing from the opposite direction, and the sun rose practically astern, something it had never allowed itself to do before, always waking up neatly over the bow. That suits me: its rays can’t reach me from the stern.
I’m sitting on the coachroof writing while Lada sleeps. When she wakes up, we’ll go and sing songs while synchronised swimming. A lot of weed is drifting past on the water. This is a very weedy bay in general, with vegetation covering the sandy bottom. So the water remains clear until lunchtime; after that it already seems slightly murky.
Yesterday, two neighbouring yachts put to sea. Our Russian friends Vitaly and Ulya had lived aboard one of them for six months. They waited for us to return from the mainland, went with us to see the underwater sculptures, then sold the yacht to a guy from Colombia on Monday and set off by car around Mexico. In a week, they’re flying off to other shores. It is more fun, of course, to be anchored next to friends.
Meanwhile, the Colombian brought two more people aboard—one Black man and an older white man—and the next day they quietly weighed anchor and said adieu: off to Florida to re-register the boat. Then they’ll go via the Caymans to the Colombian island of Providencia. The owner will refit the yacht there, then take people dreaming of spending the summer aboard out on charters. He says he’ll be the first of his kind on the island—a charter operator :).
P.S.:
There: I wrote Mum a letter and ended up with a text for the website—no need to invent anything at all. I only added the bit from the diary about bringing up a young sailor, and that was it :). I really need to pull myself together and work more productively in the mornings, because during the heat of the day I can’t think at all. I sit down at the computer like a good girl and even do something, but the result is zero.
...
Wishing everyone joy, relaxation, and productive work!