— When we reach Vladivostok, we will go for a walk and immediately buy pelmeni!
That is how our gastronomic fantasies begin.
— Yes! And Russian sweets. And ice cream! And chocolate-coated curd bars! And varenets or ryazhenka! — What is that, Mum? — Right, and what are we going to pay with? the captain wakes us from our imaginary feast. — All our cards are finished. The final one expires on 31 March. — What about cash? — There is no cash.
So we will arrive in Vladivostok, survive all the inspections, and somehow start finding money.
We simply do not know how yet.
And we are not even considering the possibility that in another month and a half the money itself may melt together with the snow.
“Less health and fewer nerves, more and more desire to go home.”
Something like that.
Three weeks is the optimal length for a long ocean haul.
After that you simply begin living in the rhythm of “well, we just have to endure it.”
And you endure while foaming ridges of waves crash into the sides of your floating home, the motion prevents sleep, the windvane cannot cope with gusts, and there is salt in your hair.
The Marshall Islands lay directly ahead, one or two days away.
We are passing them non-stop as well because we have no information about uninhabited atolls in the northern part of the group.
We had planned from the start for a non-stop passage — Oceania was still closed because of Covid — so we did not download information about possible secret anchorages in the Marshalls.
Now a red warning lamp has illuminated next to the word “patience”, and the crew has begun allowing itself the thought of breathing out for a day or two beside some land with palm trees.
Palm trees are compulsory. Do not offer us guano. We have already passed enough islands rich in nothing else.
In any case sailing here in the tropics is easier than in the Southern Ocean.
But this last week, and especially the last three days, has reminded us why we dislike sailing in trade-wind latitudes.
Heaaat!
And the wind is strong but not remotely from behind.
The weather was awful…
The trade wind has decided to blow constantly from the north-east, so we are forever bouncing across it.
During the last few days it has really got going: ragged twenty to thirty knots, with gusts above forty.
The boat cuts into five-metre waves. Streams of water run across the deck and force their way through gaps around the hatches, taking dryness and good humour with them.
Just like the good old days in the Southern Ocean, or the battles toward Easter Island and Pitcairn, we fly from one wall to another.
Except that we now find ourselves thinking that the Tasman Sea — without a heater, wearing three jumpers and a hood — was more pleasant than this.
Heat melts something lazy, exhausted and worn out of the crew.
Any attempt to crack open a hatch ends with a bucket of salt water poured over a head, a mattress or a wall.
The sea splashes cheerfully across the floor and through the fruit boxes.
Water even comes in through the companionway.
From eight in the morning until eight in the evening it is +30 to +32°C inside our “yaranga”.
Though a floating home at this temperature should not be called a yaranga. It is more like a Bedouin tent.
Only instead of a sea of sand, there is an ocean.
And we are still supposed to work and study while sweat mixed with seawater runs down our faces.
— Will we ever arrive? the girls and I ask more and more often.
The captain jokes about our hatred of heat, and I ask him: — How can someone as freedom-loving as you sleep in air this stuffy?
He can.
He is made of flint.
We are made of flint too, of course.
Show me many children or twenty-year-old young women who can sit with their parents without internet on twenty square metres of little boat in an endless wrinkled ocean, month after month, reading books, studying, maintaining whatever comfort is possible and radiating love toward those around them.
Do you know many?
I do not.
So we will endure. What else can we do?
Land is close — only about 3,600 nautical miles remain.
That is still a great deal for a non-stop passage, but there is no other option. The pandemic and the terrible political situation have made free travel almost impossible.
Micronesia was among the first countries to break diplomatic relations with Moscow.
And Micronesia — not Moscow — is directly on our route.
We will fly past like plywood over Paris.
You know, I want goodness and love to rule the world so badly.
May that happen.
Otherwise, what are we supposed to believe in?
Enormous thanks to Anatoly K. and Vladimir K. for supporting the ship's fund and our morale.
Thank you to everyone who contributes to the expedition budget through YooMoney.
Thank you for the comments and messages on the website. They make all of us very happy.
You can find our real-time position under the Route tab. It shows the track from the Rockstar Iridium 360 tracker provided by MVS Telecom.
Sent by satellite on day 22 at sea.
Coordinates: 8°39′ N, 173°10′ E.