Storm and a change of plans. Sent by satellite. Chronicles of sailing across the Pacific at atypical latitudes. Breakdowns and repairs. And cheerful children.
The days pass in dreary yet eventful fashion. Since noon, a steady 25 knots has been blowing, the cyclone has hemmed us in with rain clouds, the solar panels have refused to work in these conditions, and even the watermaker keeps cutting out—the beam sea lifts the water intake above the water itself, and the unit spits in disgust.
“We’re going to tack now,” Andryukha announces. A 30-knot cyclone is heading our way, but at least it will be more of a following wind.
After this manoeuvre, everything that failed to go flying on starboard tack goes flying on port. And our nest in the wheelhouse heels in an unpleasant direction—the chicks fall out of it.
To give our luxuriant manes an evening wash and charge the batteries, we decide to start the engine—then we’ll have warm water. But the engine soon begins making whistling noises while simultaneously losing revs, and the captain suspects the alternator belt of stretching prematurely. We dismantle half the hold, and the jerrycans, bicycles, and other riches move into the aft cabin. After an inspection, the captain discovers that the belt is behaving itself, but the alternator bracket has cracked. So he starts sawing and drilling phallic-shaped pieces of metal, cobbling together something resembling a bracket.
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The 25 knots are still with us, the rain is pouring down, the boat keeps rounding up into the wind, and jerrycans and bicycles are flying around the cabin. Meanwhile, the wheelhouse and hold have become a metalworking shop.
So the captain doesn’t accidentally saw off something he might need, Nastya and I encase ourselves in jackets and go to reef the mainsail. We fly about the coachroof at full tilt, hang off the boom, and realise we need to do not 15 push-ups a day but at least 25. Because grinding the winches (which the captain does without a second thought) is a monumental struggle for us. Our waterproof jackets are soaked through. No sooner do we return, shivering with cold, than the wind rises to 27.
“Drop the mainsail!” the captain shouts from the hold.
Whimpering with joy, Nastya pulls her wet jacket over her bare shoulders while I run to untie the preventer (a line securing the boom so it doesn’t swing across). We put the yacht head to wind and catch the sail’s halyards as they strain to break free.
“Sweetheart, hold on! The main thing is not to fall overboard.”
We return once again, chilled to the bone, and I wonder how Andryukha manages not to freeze when he handles all this alone.
With only a scrap of headsail set, the boat is unstable and bears away to find a more comfortable angle to the wind.
“Off you go, girls—set the mizzen!” orders the captain, who has begun fitting his freshly sawn piece of metal to the alternator.
Singing merrily, we climb into our soaked jackets and charge off to the mizzen. At the winch, I start thinking again that I need to do more push-ups, and work harder at them. And how do women sail yachts single-handed—are they all bodybuilders?
While fitting the bracket, the captain discovers a bulge in the hot-water hose and replaces the reinforced hose. With all this work, we don’t sit down to dinner until nine.
After dinner, the waves begin dancing more wildly than before; the pressure cooker flies like a bomb onto the galley floor, smashing to splinters the container of salad that has slipped beneath it. Nastya, softly singing something untranslatable, trudges off (well, not exactly trudges—more like moving spider-fashion from bulkhead to bulkhead) to gather up the salad and secure everything in the galley again. Radiating, of course, her usual unbroken optimism.
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Two days later:
The waves are relentless. It’s a blessing we changed course and the 25 knots are at least blowing from astern. Three-metre waves—though I reckon they are already all of four. All in all, it isn’t very pacific in this Pacific )).
We downloaded the latest weather forecast. Pitcairn is two days’ sailing away. It’s already blowing properly there, and in three days there will be a storm, with nowhere to shelter from it. So we are tacking north, so that the storm catches us from astern or on the beam rather than head-on. We’ll wait out this whole mess in the ocean for an extra two or three days, drifting towards Pitcairn until it calms down there.
We are already within the Pitcairn Islands. They consist of the three islands of the uninhabited atoll of Ducie (and where did a Dusya come from out here?), the green and largest island, Henderson (5 x 9 km), and Pitcairn itself (4 x 8 km). Yesterday we passed 70 miles south of Ducie. Now, after changing course, we are approaching Henderson Island. The island is uninhabited because its cliffs make it inaccessible. Notably, Ducie and Henderson are coral islands, while Pitcairn is volcanic.
We’re flying along under jib at up to 7 knots.
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Nastya has based herself in the aft cabin for the entire passage. It is difficult to fall out there—the bed is enclosed by walls on three sides. She comes out only to eat and cook.
Ladunya solves Oster’s funny problems and devours books. For example, she read the second book about Karlsson in a day and a half. If she keeps reading at this rate, there will soon be no books left on board ).
And our young sailor has acquired the temporary nickname Toothy, which is about to change to Toothless—one of her upper teeth is loose. She’ll look funny soon.
Pots and crew members continue flying around the house. Everything needs to be lashed down. That is what we are going to do.
The big blow will be here soon.
Thank you so much for your comments, friends! Our happiest event, once every two days, is reading your warm greetings from the mainland.
204 miles to Pitcairn Island (we don’t know how many days we’ll spend storm-tossed on the way), 108 miles to Henderson Island.
Coordinates: 24°46′S, 126°21′W.