Pacific Ocean passage. We continue battling our way towards the most mysterious island on the planet. One week at sea. A strong southerly wind is pushing us west, no matter how hard we try to make our way farther south. The Milky Way has spread itself above the mastheads, covering part of the Pacific Ocean. The ancient Polynesians imagined it as a monster, a shark or a lizard, but the comparison with spilled milk feels closer to us. Lady Mary bravely climbs the oncoming three-metre waves, carrying sail with the second reef in. We are still sailing close-hauled, and the waves are breaking over the deck. Late in the evening, water flooded the bed in the forward cabin through a narrow gap. Nastya was upset, grumbled a little and remade the bed. But here’s the trouble: she dogged down the hatch without due care. The hatch is covered by the dinghy from above, and that makes us complacent.
The day before, we had secured all the flying plates and rejoiced that we were heeling to starboard: the bucket of eggs was clinging primly to the provisions box instead of fighting for freedom in the galley. Flying raw scrambled eggs are no mere plates, let me tell you. (By the time this post was published, another batch of eggs had broken free—the container flew out of the cupboard. The whole family scraped the slime off the floor.)
Half past midnight, watch change. Nastya goes to sleep in the bow, and Andrey takes over the watch. Twenty-five knots right on the nose. The starboard shrouds supporting the mainmast have gone slack. The port ones are taut. We are heeling hard, and the sails are almost on the centreline.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!—the sharp sound drives the captain out onto the deck. The wire backstay has had enough of holding the mainmast back and, thrashing wildly, tears free towards the maw of the Milky Way. The block connecting the wire to the tackle has fallen apart. The skipper bounds along after the flying wire. On the fifth attempt, he manages to catch the end. Bracing himself against the helm pedestal, the side and the bench, the captain replaces and secures the block. The mast is no longer in danger.
4:30. The first mate wakes to an unfamiliar knocking beneath the hull. Propeller? Shaft? Bearing? We search every nook and cranny for the source of the sound. The bilge is dry, and the shaft is turning as usual. Nothing has changed inside. We leave the investigation until morning and put in the third reef—the wind is howling too furiously. If it were astern, we would be sailing as snug as Neptune’s own, but beating into it is exhausting. And every now and then we find ourselves remembering our first winters in the Med.
Our young sailor appears by the aft cabin:
“Can I sleep here? I haven’t slept for an hour because of the heel.”
“Lie down. But Dad will be coming off watch soon, and he’ll squash you.”
“Aaah!”—Nastya’s muffled scream from the bow. The bow has buried itself, and salt water has poured through the poorly dogged hatch straight onto her head. Our sailor is given a thorough rinsing and put to bed in the saloon. Ascending to the L-shaped couch, Nastya concludes optimistically: “This is the worst day of my life.”
We are all waiting for the wind to veer east. And the wind is waiting for us to get tired of waiting and turn, like all normal people, towards the Marquesas Islands.
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We are still corresponding by satellite with the procession of yachts that left for the Marquesas. We swap stories about how all 200 bananas ripened at once, or which lure gets the best bites on Fridays. Everyone has children aboard. Two Swiss yachts from the flotilla are sailing within sight of each other. How wonderful it must be to sail alongside friends!
On the domestic galley front: yesterday we cut open a watermelon—so, so sweet—and regretted buying only two. As for the three melons we forgot about, we got one and a half. The rest went to the sea. We continue drying bananas. The remaining half-palm is huddled against the mast; it used to swing around, but now it is afraid of tearing free and drowning.
Confirming the law, “If you feel something is wrong, deal with it immediately,” my T-shirt flew off the railings into the night. Well, it had been drying there, and because the railings were at the stern and the wind was from ahead, aerodynamics made the best clothes peg. Yesterday I thought, I ought to put it away, but by the end of the night there was nothing left to put away.
Something unusual: while watching the sunrise from the port side, I habitually cover the forward windows against the midday sun. And only on the third day do I realise—the sun now travels across the stern during the day, from the north! We are in the Southern Hemisphere, after all. And in fact, it isn’t spring here now at all. Nor will it be autumn by the time we reach Tahiti. :)
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Today is fish day: two mahi-mahi in a row were caught on a simple piece of wood (seriously, do fish have no brains at all?). Some went into ceviche and the frying pan, and some into fish soup and stew. Nastyka doesn’t like fish days 🙂—she doesn’t like having to scrub the dishes afterwards.
I’ve written a lot. It must be hard to read such a long wall of text, isn’t it? And the satellite doesn’t let every character through, either. Never mind: once we reach Easter Island internet, we’ll put the chronicles into decent shape. And we will definitely get there, no matter how hard the wind and waves try to drive us onto the well-trodden route.
We covered 120 miles in the past 24 hours; 1,410 miles remain to the Navel of the World. Coordinates: 8°44′ S, 93°55′ W. Until next time, friends :). It’s so wonderful to read your comments in the middle of the ocean! Write to us.