On the Way to Paradise. Daily Life and Raising Children, Food and Exploration Plans, with 25 Knots of Wind for Three Days Straight. Seems like we’ve only been under way for a little over three days, but overall fatigue has already begun to build up. Maybe it’s because for three months now peace is something we can only dream of? Three days on Mangareva don’t count—we didn’t have time to catch our breath. But even the first two weeks of the passage to Easter Island weren’t quite so dreary. During and after Easter Island it was exhausting, yes, but somehow more cheerful too. And that’s not even mentioning our anchorage at Pitcairn, with a record number of floods and frayed nerves. But now there’s just no spark somehow. The mood spreads to everything: the food seems tasteless, we don’t like the films, and I can’t bring myself to edit our own film because the project is stored on a flash drive, the connection between the computer and the drive is loose because of corrosion, and the boat is rolling heavily. Everything could get jolted loose and freeze. So we’re waiting for either the waves to subside or the inspiration to vanish. I’m afraid the latter will happen first. This time the route to the Marquesas seems endless, even though this morning we had only 400 miles left. And in three days we’ve covered a record 430. .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, The wind is a steady 25 knots; last night it even reached 30, with gusts up to 35. Thank Neptune it’s blowing from astern. Because with 25–30 knots on the nose, we’d have been worn out on the very first day. Depressions and cyclones keep passing through; the ragged grey sky and foaming crests make it feel as though there are no paradise islands anywhere along our course. The Aleutians, at best—that’s roughly where we seem to be heading. Turquoise water, palm trees and white sand simply do not exist. The swell rolls in at 4–5 metres. When it reaches six, it washes over the hatches and coachroof, and we even had a flood in the forward cabin, although the sea is following. And following seas don’t usually leap into the forehatch. A nasty drizzle is falling—a sun shower, ha-ha. Not that it’s actually sunny, just barely bright enough to create a greenhouse effect. Like Grandma’s greenhouse. Except hers smelled of tomato vines and cucumbers. Here it’s simply muggy. Even Laduska, our resident prodigy, flatly refuses to sit down to her exercises; she only reads or watches films or plays with dolls. Which is good too. And she also fights with Nastya—over the Nevzorovs’ book (the one about the Pacific), or a place in the aft berth, or some other perk. And then she complains:
“No, she’s not a sister, she’s some kind of hitter!”
But she complains in such a way that we all laugh—about Nastya crawling under the table after her (that’s where our young sailor has made herself a den) and driving her out of it, hitting her. Or hitting her as she drives her out. Our young sailor pulls the face of an offended little hedgehog and giggles too. .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, For the second week now, we’ve been fending off the bananas and citrus fruit we stocked up on at Pitcairn. First they all ripened in unison, and the menu acquired fried bananas, dried bananas, fresh bananas, and bananas in cakes. And now the oranges are all starting to go soft and rot together in the net hanging above the saloon settee. Which means all the fermenting citrus juice runs straight down onto the settee. And every time it comes as a surprise, even though you sorted through the fruit literally a couple of hours earlier. We won’t even mention the pot-bellied papaya that we initially mistook for a pumpkin and shoved farther back. Especially since it wasn’t the only one. Banana cakes have gone from being a treat to “Oh, banana cake again.” Though overall, the banana situation aboard is better than the orange situation: out of 20 kg, we threw away only 2 bananas. The spoilage rate among the oranges is somewhat higher. The crocodile hasn’t been biting ever since it bit through our bait line. .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, And somehow I desperately want to go home—to sleep on our balcony above the river, to drink tea on the terrace. If you go to stay at our Gingerbread House, enjoy it there for us too, all right, guys? Andryukha says:
“When we get home in two years, we’ll set up a study on the balcony and spend two months editing video there.”
“But we’re going home for four months.”
“Right. And we’ll spend two of them editing.”
“Yeah, and we’ll hang a sign on the door saying ‘Nobody’s home,’ otherwise we won’t get anything done.”
“And we could charge admission to outsiders and visitors—to the Museum-House of the Round-the-World Sailing Expedition. About 500 roubles.”
“Oh, exactly! We’ll save up for a drone!”
“Yeah, and our own people will shout from the kitchen garden up to the balcony: ‘Come and have tea!’ And we won’t have the willpower to resist. So how much editing will we get done?”
In short, as you can see, there’s no way out. When YouTube will get a new film from us is anybody’s guess—the weather’s no good for editing, though what does the weather have to do with it? Someone asked us in a letter why we post so few videos.
“There’s no internet—that’s the thing.”
And apparently there won’t be, perhaps not until New Zealand. We’ve decided to wait out cyclone season there. Unless we hare off in search of Maria Theresa Reef. Yesterday we started studying the chart in detail and plotting a route via the mythical island on the 37th parallel and on to Cape Horn. Then Nastya saw that we were serious and burst into tears:
“You’re crazy,” she says. “I don’t want to go to Cape Horn,” she says. “I want to go to New Zealand.”
How is one’s adventurous spirit supposed to spread its wings around here?... .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, We’ll have to search for the 37th parallel in New Zealand and follow it. In Search of Captain Grant. Land, land, New Zealand! While I was complaining about life, evening fell, the sails caught the trade wind, and the swell eased a little. We’ll see—perhaps life is looking up after all? Our current coordinates: 15.37° S and 136.05° W. .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, .. ,,,,,,,,,, . .. ,,,,,,,, . ,,,,,,,, Here’s something I’m curious about, guys: does anyone look up the coordinates we give here on a map? Write and tell us if you’ve ever checked—I'd love to know how many Paganel types there are among us. )))