February 19, 2019

Day 138.

Noon Position: 47 26S  167 03W

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7

Wind(t/tws): NWxN 14 – 16

Sea(t/ft): NW 3

Sky: Stratus with some drizzle

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 1019+, steady

Cabin Temp(f): 70

Water Temp(f): 56

Relative Humidity(%): 70

Sail: Main and working jib, full. Wind on port beam.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 131

Miles since departure: 19,007

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Days since Cape Horn: 81

Miles since Cape Horn: 11,366

Avg. Miles/Day: 140

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 12

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 260 29

Avg. Long./Day: 3.22

Today we crossed the 168th meridian of west longitude. Cape Horn resides at the 68th meridian. One hundred meridians to go.

The poles came down at sunup and the main went up. Wind started to veer north in the wee hours, but it was light and our speeds, low; so I let Mo wonder while I slept. With day, we’ve done well. Wind has been abeam and in the middle teens for much of it. Mo clocked 44 miles in the six hours after noon (7.3 knots an hour) and all without breaking a sweat.

During our shot of morning sun, prions swarmed near the boat, swooping and diving in such a mass that I could’t follow the motions of one without losing it in the others. Then I noticed a large group of prions some ways off sitting on the water and facing Mo. As she passed, they ascended, flew a few hundred yards forward and alighted together, facing us. As Mo passed, they flew forward again and alighted. They did this for a solid ten minutes before I gave up watching.

A heavy deck of cloud slid in before noon and has covered us with such darkness I have been temped to put on my headlamp to move around the cabin. Now, drizzle and wind has hardened to over 20 knots.

I’ve spent much of the day reading about alternators.

In the afternoon, a lemon pound cake found its way into and out of the oven. I sliced off a warm end piece by way of testing my success, and next thing I knew, a third of the cake was gone. It just vanished.

February 187, 2019

Day 136

Noon Position: 47 16S  173 45W

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7+

Wind(t/tws): WxN 20 – 30

Sea(t/ft): W 10

Sky: Cumulus and squall clouds

10ths Cloud Cover: 7

Bar(mb): 1009+, steady. The bar has been between 1010 and 1008 for three days.

Cabin Temp(f): 60

Water Temp(f): 60

Relative Humidity(%): 70

Sail: Twins poled out, heavily reefed. Running dead down wind.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 162

Miles since departure: 18,734

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Days since Cape Horn: 79

Miles since Cape Horn: 11,093

Avg. Miles/Day: 140

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 56

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 253 47

Avg. Long./Day: 3.21

Brisk winds with squalls continue. Nights have been kind; wind and seas have been steady, allowing good sleep. But the days are a wild card of open sky followed by squalls, then open sky again. The open sky episodes blow hard. The squalls blow hard, but wind is quite variable. Thus, I’ve had to reef the twin headsails way in for the sake of energy conservation. It’s either that or sit on deck with a winch handle in my hand all day.

It feels good to be on the move again. Already we are 800 miles east of The Snares. Cape Horn is less than 4,000 miles on a rhumb line course to Diego Ramirez. We could do that in a month with fast wind.

Sadly, even below 47S we are not immune to calms, which will overtake us by tomorrow.

My biggest concern at moment is a hurricane coming down from Vanuatu by way of Australia’s east coast. The forecast suggests it will impact New Zealand in a week, jump it entirely, and then move into the South Pacific. At that point, it won’t be a hurricane any longer, but it will still be a storm I’d like to avoid. I’m pushing to be well east of it. Winds over the next six days are not entirely favorable for that strategy.

On that note, have you noticed the water temperature? Today both air and water were 60 degrees at noon. That seems incredibly warm for down here.

—

Sail repair has taken the better part of the last three days but is nearly done. One last row is all that’s required.

I had hoped for a neat job, but it’s turned into a bit of a Frankenstein with stitches going every which way. Sewing is just not something I do often enough to have an approach.

Broke two heavy awl needles (of three) and drilled one clean through my left middle finger.

But I think the result is strong. Time will tell. Maybe relaunch the sail this week. I’m eager to put it back in play.

February 16 (again), 2019

Day 135 (again)

Noon Position: 47 07S  177 42 *WEST*

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7

Wind(t/tws): WxS 25 (to 35 in squalls)

Sea(t/ft): W7

Sky: Squalls till about noon

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1009+, Steady

Cabin Temp(f): 64

Water Temp(f): 56

Relative Humidity(%): 59

Sail: #2 free footed to port; #1 poled out to starboard. About half rolled.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 152

Miles since departure: 18,572

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Days since Cape Horn: 78

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,931

Avg. Miles/Day: 140

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 44

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 249 51

Avg. Long./Day: 3.2

Last night before midnight, Mo crossed the 180th meridian and passed from east longitude back into west longitude. More interestingly, from a balance sheet perspective, we crossed the International Date Line, which makes today February 16, again.

What is the International Date Line? It’s the day I get to take my miles back!

I keep Mo on zone time at sea, the same kind of time we live by on land. There are 24 one-hour zones distributed equally around the globe at 15 degree intervals, which means that in order to stay on zone time, I have been moving ship’s clock forward by one hour every 4 – 6 days. For a sailor who is trying to maximize his daily averages, those 23-hour days are deeply aggravating. They make Mo look slower than she is.

Well, today is the day I get to balance the books. Because I have been adding an hour at equal intervals all the way around the world, I am now a day ahead and am in danger of arriving in port (somewhere) thinking that it’s today when, in fact, it’s yesterday. So, by custom, travelers crossing the International Date Line from west to east, as we are doing, relive the day they just left, and those going the opposite direction lose a day.

So, today is February 16, again, and it’s my 135th day at sea, again, which has put my daily averages back into respectable territory.

Of course, clocking 152 miles in the last 24 hours didn’t hurt either.

—

Blustery with squalls till noon. Winds: 19 – 29 with gusts to 35 and more when the trolls passed overhead. Dash on deck; sheet in; twenty minutes later, sheet out. Repeat. This kept me from the alternator and Wattsy tests (too rough, too active), so, I focused on the #2 clew webbing and got about half sewn up. I won’t win any prizes for my work, but it looks strong.

February 16, 2019

Day 135

Noon Position: 47 15S  178 34E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 6+

Wind(t/tws): SWxW 17 – 24

Sea(t/ft): W5

Sky: Cumulus and Squalls

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1009+, steady

Cabin Temp(f): 64

Water Temp(f): 59 (incredibly warm…we’re at 47S)

Relative Humidity(%): 66

Sail: Twin headsails; #2 to port and free; #1 to starboard and pole out.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 127

Miles since departure: 18,420

Avg. Miles/Day: 136

Days since Cape Horn: 78

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,779

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3.16

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 246 07

Avg. Long./Day: 3.16

A slow night has given way to a fast day. Rain in the morning. Then squalls till mid afternoon. Then puffy cumulus as the wind hardened into the middle 30s from the WSW. This surprised me, that the low would come with cumulus and not the solid deck and rain one expects. But as I type, the sky astern has grown dark and heavy. Now comes the low.

—

We are entering that part of the voyage where gear fatigue and wear has begun to show on multiple fronts, and each day, skipper must focus on keeping his ship together.

Today a knocking in Monte’s pinion gear caught my eye. Investigation showed that my bushing jury rig from a month ago needed a refresher. The forward bushing was worn by well over half and slipping out the front of the unit. Cutting one to shape and fitting it in place was no big job, but I have six new bushings left. Will they be enough?

Two days ago was spent opening, inspecting and cleaning all Wattsy (Watt and Sea Hydrogenerator) connections. Wattsy has started to drop amps during his charge cycles and all indications are its due to a fault in the line. I found no fault. Wattsy is essential. Will he last?

Yesterday I began troubleshooting the irregular failures in the engine alternator. Through the magic of internet introductions, I am being coached by a Chris Harris of Tweeds Marine in Christchurch, New Zealand, a man I didn’t know before three days ago. This unlikely arrangement came about when my friend, Gerd, posted a question for me on one of his forums, and Chris responded with specific and incisive questions. Chris is an electrical engineer who has worked with the likes of Skip Novak and Magnus Day; what good fortune! So far, no dead-ringer cause has been uncovered, but I am learning a great deal about the engine charging system.

Today, while I wait for Chris to digest the results of the alternator tests, I began work on the HOOD #2 sail that has been seated at the salon table this last week. Sewing is not something I take to, but with the help of The Speedy Sewing Awl, a mother-in-law gift from ages ago, progress is being made. This is the most intimate contact I’ve had with this sail since installing it on the bow in 2017, and the more I work with it, the more I am surprised at the clew webbing failure, because everything on it is finely and ruggedly constructed in the extreme. I’m eager to get it flying again.

Except for the engine alternator, all the above items have been in near constant use this and last circumnavigation, and have spent months in one of the most challenging sailing environments on the planet. I’m not surprised we’re seeing failures. It’s just that success requires these failures find fixes.

February 15, 2019

Day 134

Noon Position: 47 20S  175 26E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 5

Wind(t/tws): WSW 8

Sea(t/ft): W 2

Sky: Clear

10ths Cloud Cover: 0

Bar(mb): 1012+

Cabin Temp(f): 66

Water Temp(f): 57 (wow, warm)

Relative Humidity(%): 35 (wow, dry)

Sail: Twin headsails, poled; running.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 112

Miles since departure: 18,293

Avg. Miles/Day: 137

Days since Cape Horn: 77

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,652

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 33

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 242 59

Avg. Long./Day: 3.16

So slow. We haven’t had a 150-mile day in nearly two weeks. Fastest day in the last eleven, 137 miles, and that one is way ahead of the average. On four days, we’ve made less tha 100 miles. That’s more sub 100-mile days in two weeks than we’ve had since departure. The forecast predicts wind should pick up–a low is approaching, but each new forecast pushes its arrival out another day.

I’m trying to relax into it. Tough. Cape Horn ain’t getting any nicer.

—

Drizzly and rainy much of yesterday, but we were reaching until late afternoon. When the wind backed enough, and after the sails had had a bit of a rinse, I rigged the water catchment system to the main sail. Got two gallons before rain quit.

So far, I’ve collected 32 gallons of rain. I figure I need that much again to make it all the way north without rationing.

—

Since departing The Snares and The Traps, we’ve seen a number of commercial vessels on the AIS monitor. One cruise expedition ship headed for The Snares; two “bulkies”* headed round the island; a great many big (300-foot), Chinese fishing boats coasting north and south at the edge of the continental shelf.

Then, yesterday, a target popped up very close to Mo and on an intercept. That’s quite rare. Name: Evohe. Length: 82 feet. Vessel type: Sail. Oh, wait, that’s also quite rare. I’ve seen one other sailboat in the last circumnavigation and a half, and that was in the Cook Island cruising grounds.

No destination port was given.

Suddenly it struck me that the intercept was purposeful, that Evohe might also find the discovery of a Moli on her screen to be a rare thing, that she might be swinging by for a gam. Or could it be she knew of Mo and Randall and the Figure-8? She could take a few snaps as we sailed; could “report our position,” as was done in the days before satellite communications.

She was a mere four miles off, but stare as I did into the gloom, I could see no silhouette forming, no hull nor masts. The sky was too low and gray, my glasses too wet with drizzle.

I began to tidy the cabin. I cleaned the breakfast dish. I brushed my teeth, again. I exchanged my slippers for boots and put on foul weather gear.

Back at the chart plotter, I could see Evohe had made what looked like an even sharper turn toward Mo. What would she look like? An older, wooden, square rigged charter, perhaps. Or maybe she was a modern design, a sloop with one of those impossibly tall masts. I wondered where she was headed.

On deck. Still no sign of her.

We were both making slow way–Mo, a mere four knots to Evohe’s seven–so, I retrieved a bar of chocolate from the galley and sat down to wait. The chocolate, still cool from the cupboard, crunched satisfyingly. Evohe on the screen, still approaching. I folded the wrapper and set it down. I sucked my teeth. There, Evohe. Approaching. And then I nodded off.

This is the curse of the solo sailor. If he stops moving, he falls asleep.

When I woke, Evohe was well past. I dashed on deck for a look but without hope. I called on the radio, “Evohe, Evohe, sailing vessel Moli.” I called again and again and until Evohe’s target disappeared from the screen.

Only much later did I realize that Evohe’s course was direct for the Antipodes Islands and that our intercept had been random and without import, at least to her.

—

*Bulk cargo carriers. As opposed to container ships, for example.

February 14, 2019

Day 133

Noon Position: 48 05S  172 54E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 5

Wind(t/tws): NEE 19

Sea(t/ft): NE 5

Sky: Drizzle and Fog

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 1006

Cabin Temp(f): 64

Water Temp(f): 44

Relative Humidity(%): 81

Sail: Working jib and main, deeply reefed, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 127

Miles since departure: 18,181

Avg. Miles/Day: 137

Days since Cape Horn: 76

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,540

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 08

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 240 26

Avg. Long./Day: 3.16

No one who knows my wife, Joanna, would call her sentimental. Nor, being British, does she approve the California habit of hugging when clearly a handshake will do. She’s effusive and bubbly and extremely personable; she knows no such thing as having too many friends. But sentimentality is not her gig.

That said, on the occasion of both Figure 8 departures, Joanna has gifted me with deeply touching letters and a small collection of photos. Frankly, it has almost been worth leaving just to get such expressions of tenderness.

For the first Figure 8, I posted Jo’s letter on a bulkhead in the pilot house, where it stayed, and was often read, until the Indian Ocean knockdown, which soaked it and so much else. Its disintegration was almost as distressig as the other, far more threatening losses.

This year I got smart. I put the Figure 8 2.0 letter in a plastic bag, which I keep safe in a pilot house locker with the photos.

The photos are carefully chosen snapshots of our lives together, the trails we hike behind our house, trees in the neighborhood, Jo relaxing in the back yard, Jo having fun with her nephews, our muddy shoes after a hike in Kauai, a tree in yellow bloom we found in Hobart, a birthday card I delivered with morning coffee.

The colors I always find starteling. My world is gray–light blue, dark blue, white and gray. A sunset can be orange. A bird can be brown. These are mere accents. But happier than the shock of vibrancy are the reminders that my memories of these places and events, my memories of our lives together, are not simple invention. Those places do exist. Those happenings did occur. That woman is, in fact, there and will be there when I return.

I am grateful for that and for the reminders.

—

I have been sending Valentine’s Day flowers from remote places for years.

It started when MURRE (a 31-foot ketch I sailed around the Pacific in 2011 and 2012) and I were sitting out a February gale in Puerto Escondido. With a start one morning, I realized I had not made arrangements for Valentine’s day. Connectivity from the nearby village was poor, but I trekked in anyway, did a search for florists in my neighborhood, and chose a shop named Arjan Flowers, for reasons having to do with how the letter A sorts in a list.

The proprietor, a Mina Bolouri, received that day unlikely message. “My name is Randall. I’m a solo sailor writing from rural Mexico. Can you send flowers to my wife? Can this be arranged by email?”

It could.

I have used Mina ever since.

All subsequent Valentine’s Day requests have been sent from sea. Most have gone something like this message from last year: “Hi Mina. It’s Randall. I’m 1,500 miles below Africa attempting to circumnavigate Antarctica. Today we have a gale from the west. Can you send flowers to my wife?”

She could.

I’ve never met Mina. I don’t know the location of her shop. I’ve never seen one of her arrangements. Moreover, Mina has never expressed the least interest in the happenings of her nomadic client. Her responses from a Blackberry are short and efficient. She can send the flowers, and that’s that.

This year, I discovered that Mina’s email had not made the short journey from old computer to new, so many thanks to my neighbor, Mary Wildavsky, for sleuthing Mina’s contact for me.

Mina has promised to send photos of the arrangement and the shop, but today is her busy day, so these treats will have to wait.

Mina’s beautiful flower arrangement. (Sent in by Joanna)

February 13, 2019

Day 132

Noon Position: 47 36S  169 48E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 6

Wind(t/tws): NNE 17

Sea(t/ft): NE 3

Sky: Clear; thin stratus to the south

10ths Cloud Cover: 1

Bar(mb): 1009

Cabin Temp(f): 70

Water Temp(f): 55

Relative Humidity(%): 69

Sail: Working jib and main, one reef each, close reach

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 102

Miles since departure: 18,054

Avg. Miles/Day: 137

Days since Cape Horn: 75

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,413

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 31

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 237 18

Avg. Long./Day: 3.21

Sunny and clear when I came on deck at 6am. Wind had slowly veered into the north overnight, but it stayed light until midmorning.

During my pre-breakfast ship inspection, I discovered there had been a drama on deck while I slept. Up near the port chainplates, I found a small clump of feathers and a white, chalky deposit. As I looked toward the stern, there were further deposits in various colors, including black and Krill red, until, at the transom, there was one last feather and the trail stopped.

My guess: in the dark of night, a storm petrel or prion collided with the rigging and fell to the deck. It then hobbled (or rolled–they can barely walk) all the way to the stern before finding freedom by falling overboard.

Technically, we entered the Pacific Ocean when we sailed out from under Tasmania. This surprised me as I consulted the chart over coffee. I had considered (and still do) that one enters the vast Pacific when he squeezes his vessel through that narrow, tempest-wracked opening between The Snares and The Traps.

And it’s not just that those features function as the gatekeepers between one ocean and the next, but weather also seems to respect that boundary. The wind we ride at this very moment is from a powerful low to the west of New Zealand that has taken a sharp turn to the south as it approaches those islands. It is diving toward Antarctica as if purposefully to avoid entering the Pacific.

In any case, Mo and I have at last passed out of the Indian Ocean and have begun the long, last leap for the Horn. Only the nearby Bounty and Antipodes Islands will interrupt our view until once again we see (or don’t see) the big, dark rock at the bottom of South America.

The Indian had worried me the most, given its reputation and our recent experience of it, but what comes next is uncharted territory for me. Last year I turned north here and was home in two months. Now we press on to the east…

I recall that Golden Globe Race sailor, Suzy Goodall, was greatly relieved to enter the Pacific just a few months ago. “The Indian Ocean was horrible,” she said. Two weeks later her boat rolled and came up without its mast. So, let’s not be lulled by the name.

—

Distance to Cape Horn

As of today, we’ve crossed 237 of the 360 meridians that transect the circle connecting Cape Horn to Cape Horn again. That leaves 123 meridians yet to go. If we were to stay at 47S from here, that would give us a rhumb line distance of 5,033 miles (there are 40.9 miles in a degree of longitude at 47S). Adding ten percent for bouncing up and down gives us 5,536 miles. At an average of 140 miles a day, 39 days.

February 12, 2019

Day 131

Noon Position: 47 34S  167 18E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): –

Wind(t/tws): NNE 9

Sea(t/ft): 2

Sky: Overcast

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): –

Cabin Temp(f): 68

Water Temp(f): 56

Relative Humidity(%): –

Sail: Just getting ready to make sail

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 11

Miles since departure: 17,952

Avg. Miles/Day: 137

Days since Cape Horn: 74

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,322

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 0 10

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 234 47

I put on the anchor light after dinner and went to bed. On an ever relaxing sea, Mo rolled with the slow grace of a cruise ship. The bunk was still; all around was quiet. Quiet. Such unaccustomed  luxury, quiet.

In the night, our drift went to the west, a safe direction, and never more than a knot. Each time I checked, the answer was the same. Sleep well.

On deck at dawn, I found we’d been overtaken by fog. The sea was like glass and the albatrosses were down, white lumps on a gray expanse, randomly distributed as if they’d fallen from the sky when the wind died and hadn’t moved since. Two or three paddled over to Mo, a hint that scraps would be welcome, but offal being in short supply aboard, no scraps were offered. This ruffled no feathers.

After coffee, I started the engine. The alternator engaged immediately. I shut the engine down and started it again. Again, the alternator came to life. Am I chasing a ghost?

In the afternoon, a light breeze. I rigged sail and we began to make way ENE. While underway, I tested Wattsy. He produced power. I took all his connections apart and cleaned them; then tested again. Same. He works at somewhat below his normal output. But he works.

Correspondence with my friends Gerd and Dustin has not yielded the one and true fix for either problem. Current thinking is that it’s a connection issue and/or that I have (how can this be?) gotten salt water on the alternator. Another friend, Matt, writes to inform me that Invercargill is no Hobart, and that if it is refreshment I seek, it might be best to keep exploring.

Because neither unit is actually dead; because more trouble shooting can be done underway; because I’m unlikely to find the fix in Invercargill; because I’m on a schedule; because we now have a light northerly; and mostly because I want to, I’m pushing on to Cape Horn…

Like being anchored in a very large bay, these last two days of calm. To the southwest, I could see a low hump, The Snares; to the northeast, another low hump, Stewart Island. I felt enclosed around–how else could one explain such flat water?

But a quick glance at the chart shows we are at sea. We have never stopped being at sea…

February 12, 2019

Day 131

Noon Position: 47 34S  167 18E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): –

Wind(t/tws): NNE 9

Sea(t/ft): 2

Sky: Overcast

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): –

Cabin Temp(f): 68

Water Temp(f): 56

Relative Humidity(%): –

Sail: Just getting ready to make sail

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 11

Miles since departure: 17,952

Avg. Miles/Day: 137

Days since Cape Horn: 74

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,322

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 0 10

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 234 47

I put on the anchor light after dinner and went to bed. On an ever relaxing sea, Mo rolled with the slow grace of a cruise ship. The bunk was still; all around was quiet. Quiet. Such unaccustomed  luxury, quiet.

In the night, our drift went to the west, a safe direction, and never more than a knot. Each time I checked, the answer was the same. Sleep well.

On deck at dawn, I found we’d been overtaken by fog. The sea was like glass and the albatrosses were down, white lumps on a gray expanse, randomly distributed as if they’d fallen from the sky when the wind died and hadn’t moved since. Two or three paddled over to Mo, a hint that scraps would be welcome, but offal being in short supply aboard, no scraps were offered. This ruffled no feathers.

After coffee, I started the engine. The alternator engaged immediately. I shut the engine down and started it again. Again, the alternator came to life. Am I chasing a ghost?

In the afternoon, a light breeze. I rigged sail and we began to make way ENE. While underway, I tested Wattsy. He produced power. I took all his connections apart and cleaned them; then tested again. Same. He works at somewhat below his normal output. But he works.

Correspondence with my friends Gerd and Dustin has not yielded the one and true fix for either problem. Current thinking is that it’s a connection issue and/or that I have (how can this be?) gotten salt water on the alternator. Another friend, Matt, writes to inform me that Invercargill is a charming town and worthy in its own right, but it is not the metropolis of Hobart (He is Australian, so there may be some bias at play here).

Because neither unit is actually dead; because more trouble shooting can be done underway; because I’m unlikely to find the fix in Invercargill; because I’m on a schedule; because we now have a light northerly; and mostly because I want to, I’m pushing on to Cape Horn…

Like being anchored in a very large bay, these last two days of calm. To the southwest, I could see a low hump, The Snares; to the northeast, another low hump, Stewart Island. I felt enclosed around–how else could one explain such flat water?

But a quick glance at the chart shows we are at sea. We have never stopped being at sea…

February 12, 2019

Day 130

Noon Position: 47 52S  167 08E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): —

Wind(t/tws): ESE 15

Sea(t/ft): Slop to 4 feet

Sky: Cirrus

10ths Cloud Cover: 7

Bar(mb): —

Cabin Temp(f): 68

Water Temp(f): —

Relative Humidity(%): —

Sail: Drifting, sails down

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 90

Miles since departure: 17,941

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Days since Cape Horn: 73

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,311

Avg. Miles/Day: 141

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 11

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 234 37

Avg. Long./Day: 3.21

The Snares lie 20 miles to the SW; The Traps, 35 miles to the NE. In between is Mo, adrift.

I doused sail when the wind died in the early morning and went right back to bed. It had been a long night, crossing that northerly stream of wind and rain. But sleep was not to be had. At 5am, the AIS alarm sounded for the first time since Cape Horn. It told that a small expedition cruise ship out of Invercargill, the Professor Khromov, made slow (7 knots) way toward us. I watched with binoculars. The ship rolled heavily in the leftover swell. Two miles off it altered course to the W and away. An hour later, it altered course for The Snares. We never spoke.

By now the batteries were sorely depleted, down 142amps, that is, 25% or half of safely usable charge. For the last two days, I have not had access to the Watt and Sea (Wattsy) hydrogenerator (the lanyard downhaul had failed again), and much of the time had been calm in any case. So, I started the engine and motored slowly due east.

Three hours later I noted the alternator had stopped charging. I shut the engine down and deployed both solar panels and have been troubleshooting ever since.

One’s biggest danger at sea is compounding failure. I have three charging alternatives: solar, hydro, and engine. Today is sunny, but usually that is not the case down here, so solar panels in the Southern Ocean are a poor primary power source and hung on the rail, as mine are, they are a danger to themselves and others in heavy weather. Besides the lanyard issue, Wattsy has been acting erratic of late, cycling between high and low output for no reason I’ve yet been able to assess. That leaves the engine and its alternator, now also uncertain.

This issue also jeopardizes access to the autopilot (which draws on battery power); this would mean a failure on Monte’s part would be critical. A lack of steady power would mean severely reduced access to the Chart Plotter and AIS. Nav might have to go manual (can do) and AIS would go off until we made an approach (unlikely an issue in scarcely trafficked high latitudes). The stove uses a solenoid safety switch; this would have to be taken offline. Running lights would stay off. Flashlight/Headlamp batteries might go uncharged, making night work difficult.  Comms would be severely reduced. No tracker.

We are a mere 80 miles from Invercargill. Do these issues warrant a pull into harbor?

All this was running through my head as we bobbed.

In the afternoon I did basic troubleshooting. Alternator and switch wires are connected and secure. Fuses are not blown. I cleaned all the connectors on the regulator, which is in the engine room. Then I pulled Wattsy up on deck to examine his underside for chafe causes. None found, but I was careful in re-reeving the lanyard in ways I cannot be when hung over the transom.

In the evening I started the engine by way of a test. The alternator engaged right away. I shut it down and started again. Now it failed to work. What to do?

Out of ideas, I made sail–even though the wind was from the east. I put Mo close hauled and our course was either due S or a direct for The Traps. Fog rolled in at sundown and the wind died. Again we drift.

(Thank you to Gerd Marrgraff and Dustin Fox for immediate–and likely ongoing–assistance with troubleshooting ideas.)

February 10, 2019

Day 129

Noon Position: 47 33S  164 57E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 6

Wind(t/tws): NNE 23 – 29

Sea(t/ft): NNE 12-14+

Sky: Rain

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 1000+

Cabin Temp(f): 61

Water Temp(f): 54

Relative Humidity(%): 90

Sail: Working Jib “four” reefs, Main, two reefs, reaching.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 89

Miles since departure: 17,851

Avg. Miles/Day: 138

Days since Cape Horn: 72

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,211

Avg. Miles/Day: 142

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 11

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 232 26

No photos again. Same reason as yesterday.

Overnight I “hove to” with main only just to slow down. The forecast called for heavy N winds right off New Zealand’s south coast to extend out another day, and I was suddenly way ahead of schedule.

In the morning, the time seemed right. I made sail and began to drive Mo through the stream.

—

From my notes to a friend afterwards…

Well, that was a rough go.

Some of the steepest, maddest seas I’ve seen. Not ocean swell, but mean coastal stuff, except they were huge, 15-20 feet high with wide valleys; crests leaping into the air. Mo thrown around really hard. She was pushed to the windows once or twice only, but there were some breaking seas that missed us that could have been serious business.

I almost never wear my harness IN the cockpit (only other time was the Hobart approach); I did last night. Several times when inside the cabin I’d go weightless when Mo dropped off a wave. Very fast, hard falls. How a boat can take this kind of punishment…wow.

It was right to slow down. Can’t imagine crossing that blow at its height.

When first diving into that northerly stream, I had 25 – 30 NxW to NNW; nice fast wind a bit forward of the beam, though very rough. Small genoa, triple reefed main. But heavy rain all day, and when the rain cell moved over us, wind went to 15 and backed to NWxW and even W; seas stood right up. Would stay like this for several hours AND until I launched more sail, at which point, back to 30 – 35 within five minutes. Rush on deck to reef. Fooled me two of three times.

Had 35 and 40 knots as a last hurrah just before midnight when we were only 20 miles W of The Snares. Was just coming into shallow water…and it was preternaturally dark. Serious concern we might be thrown down or rolled. Wind tailed off soon after. Started sleeping at 1am. By 2am genoa slatting; 11 knots of wind from the NE; Mo heading S and straight at The Snares, easily remedied.

By dawn, calm.

Unfortunately, now I am in the wind shadow of South Island; plus there’s no serious wind till end of week.

The temptation to pull into Invercargill is not small. I can smell the lamb roast!

February 9, 2019

Day 128

Noon Position: 47 33S  162 46E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 5

Wind(t/tws): NNE 18 – 21

Sea(t/ft): NE 6 – 8

Sky: Overcast, Fog, Rain

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 999+

Cabin Temp(f): 63

Water Temp(f): 54

Relative Humidity(%): 83

Sail: Working jib heavily reefed; main , two reefs; beam reach

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 118

Miles since departure: 17,762

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 71

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,122

Avg. Miles/Day: 143

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 53

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 230 15

Avg. Long./Day: 3.24

No photos today. Am trying to conserve energy. More on that at bottom…

Disappointing days. I’m keeping Mo on the slow bell so as to avoid the very strong winds coming down from the W coast of New Zealand. I’ve run and rerun our mileage on the weather maps and figure that if we maintain 5 knots, we’ll just miss the 40 – 45 knot winds forecast to fill in W of the Snares Islands tonight around midnight and last through morning.

We can’t go too slowly, however, because these N winds are due to go from 40 to zero in the course of a long afternoon and to hover around zero for days. It’s unlikely we’ll make it past Stewart Island before we run out of wind.

Then what, I don’t know.

A part of me says I’m being shy. That I should just soldier on and take whatever lumps await us. But I invite that self to have a gander at the sea running now, a sea not associated with our winds here but coming from the high winds above us–steep and confused seas that already throw us around something fierce. I then invite that self to reflect upon the joys to be had at entertaining 45 knots of wind in shoal water while on a beam reach, for that’s what we’ll find between The Snares and Stewart Island.

So, we go slowly under gray and rainy skies as Mo gyrates and heaves.

Trying to get a sailing vessel to go a specific speed is an interesting exercise. Most of the day Mo has refused 5 knots, preferring 4 or 6 knots. Often I’ll reef a bit more so as to slow down only to find that by the time I get done and return below, the wind has increased and our speed is still too fast. Or the reverse.

Right now winds are 15 knots from the NNE. The number two is rolled up by half; the main has two reefs. Our speed, 5.5 knots.

Over the afternoon, I’ve worked us up to 47 and a half S and am now trending due E. The northing has been to add some cushion between us and the Snares, which sit smack on the 48S line.

—

No photos today. Am trying to conserve energy, and so the phone (which is also the camera) and other devices are off. Frankly, there’s nothing to see today anyway.

Several issues.

One, at slow speeds, Wattsy (the Watt and Sea hydrogenerator) produces very little power, and we’ve been slow for days now. Two, the solar panels are lashed below, not that it would matter, given the usual weather down here. Three, I need to be careful with engine usage. I’ve run the engine to charge batteries in the south more than I budgeted (I budgeted none) since removing the solar panels from the rails and since Wattsy has mysteriously decreased his output. Mo still has about two thirds of her fuel aboard, so we are nowhere near running out, but I want to maintain a healthy reserve for emergencies, a lesson learned from the first Figure 8 attempt.

What’s up with Wattsy I don’t yet know. The unit still functions, but amperages are noticeably lower than normal and they race up and down from, for example, +6 to -6 amps, as opposed to putting in a steady charge. Wattsy has also started chewing through his downhaul lanyard every several days, so during the next spell of calm, I need to figure out a way to pull the unit off the transom and examine the underside, which I can’t see or feel from on deck and where the chafe is occurring.

February 8, 2019

Day 127

Noon Position: 47 45S  159 53E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 6+

Wind(t/tws): NNE 30 – 40

Sea(t/ft): NE 14+ (steep and breaking)

Sky: Stratus with rain and drizzle

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 1000+, still falling (998+ at sundown; still falling)

Cabin Temp(f): 63

Water Temp(f): 53

Relative Humidity(%): 81

Sail: #2 rolled to fourth reef position, close reaching on port

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 130

Miles since departure: 17,644

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 70

Miles since Cape Horn: 10,005

Avg. Miles/Day: 143

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 06

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 227 22

Avg. Long./Day: 3.25

Frustration beyond measure. The forecast called for winds in the middle thirties with this blow. Actual: overnight, 30 – 35, gusting 40; this morning, a solid 40 – 45; till mid afternoon, 30 – 40. Gobs of rain I can’t catch because the sea we take on the beam is frothing with salt spray; southing we don’t need and can’t avoid even though we claw to keep our track; speeds of 6 and 7 knots we can’t use because in three degrees of longitude we must stop and wait for a big blow ahead of us to pass by.

And our reward for fighting through this mess? Calms on the other side of South Island. Calms as far out as the forecast cares to predict.

I sat up with the low all night. Winds built slowly but continually until, at 3am, I had but a nub of a headsail flying. I couldn’t see what was coming at us, but we could all feel it because Mo was thrown around terribly. Seas climbed aboard, laid themselves over the pilot house windows. When Mo fell off a wave, the landing was like cannon fire. Twice I checked the bilges for leaks; surely the hull cannot take this strain! Heavy rain. And a disheartening course slouching to the south.

Nothing loose below stayed put. The lid on my pot of beef curry ended up in the head, this though it was on the gimbaled stove (luckily the curry didn’t fly). A bookshelf on windward popped its keeper rail and the books launched into my bunk on leeward.

And all night the barometer fell and fell. And into the day. Even now, as the leaden sky begins to fade and we slog through heaping seas in a light and diminishing wind, even now it is down at 999 and continues to fall.

I have up a main with two reefs and a full #2. We crawl along at 5 knots. But I don’t dare carry more sail in such uncertain conditions.

Then, while I type this rant, the sky thins. Above there is blue; and to the west, a vivid sunset.

February 7, 2019

Day 126

Noon Position: 47 11S  156 47E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 6

Wind(t/tws): NNE 17 – 19

Sea(t/ft): NE 3

Sky: Solid altostratus

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar(mb): 1024+, falling quickly

Cabin Temp(f): 61

Water Temp(f): 55

Relative Humidity(%): 67

Sail: Main and working jib, double reefed, close hauled on port

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 122

Miles since departure: 17,514

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 69

Miles since Cape Horn: 9,875

Avg. Miles/Day: 143

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 52

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 224 16

Avg. Long./Day: 3.25

We’re are on final approach for passage under New Zealand’s South Island. Distance to a waypoint between Stewart Island and The Snares Islands, 400 miles.

Mo is pounding upwind since the high receded early yesterday. Thus, this final approach is a creepily slow one. And it’s just the beginning of what portends to be a difficult run of days, including both strong winds from not quite the right direction and a number of dynamic wind changes.

Tonight a locally-developed low drops down over us with winds forecast to 35 from E of N initially, then backing slowly to W of N. The challenge will be to keep from getting pushed too far S. My hope is that because the low is essentially coming to life right around here, the sea will not be too daunting and will allow us to maintain more easting than we might otherwise.

As I type, the big SW swell of yesterday is gone, and all we have is local chop from local wind, still under 20 knots. That said, the barometer is falling fast, down 1mb per hour for the last four hours since noon. So, I won’t be surprised if we are made to run off downwind for some hours overnight.

Consequently, I expect to pass The Snares well to the S.

After this low, winds stay strong from the N and NW except for one or two ridges (no or light and variable air) that move through quickly.

The final challenge will be a wide band of very strong N winds right off South Island into Sunday. At normal speeds, we’d be plonk in the middle of these, so I anticipated having to slow down to avoid.

I’ve spent the morning getting Mo ready; all the usual steps; pump the bilges, lock floorboards, seal cabinets, move sheets around to leeward, get the solar panels below. Additionally, I’ve taken the storm jib off the inner forestay and rigged the small staysail, this for better upwind work, if it comes to that.

And I spent the afternoon napping, as it will likely be a long night with little or no sleep.

Once around South Island, weather continues to be contrary as a series of tropical lows drop down from Tonga and cruise the E coast of New Zealand, creating headwinds for many days to come.

But that’s next week. We’ll worry about that then.

February 6, 2019

Day 125

Noon Position: 46 38S  153 55E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): SExE 4

Wind(t/tws): Waffling between 15 and 45 degrees 5 – 9

Sea(t/ft): SW 5+ E, NE 2

Sky: Altocumulus

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1031+, finally topped out, I think

Cabin Temp(f): 70

Water Temp(f): 58 (wow, warm)!

Relative Humidity(%): 48 (wow, dry!)

Sail: #1 and Main, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 98 (poorest day since the doldrums)

Miles since departure: 17,392

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 68

Miles since Cape Horn: 9,753

Avg. Miles/Day: 143

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 2 23

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 221 24

Avg. Long./Day: 3.26

First off, thank you to Robin Sodaro at HOOD in Sausalito for quick responses to my I-need-repair-ideas email. I came to the table with some bodges that would likely have worked fine, but Robin’s solutions were much cleaner. More on which in a moment.

There are only two crew members who work harder than the skipper. One is Monte, who plies his trade 24/7. The other is the #2 genoa, which is almost always flying. Exceptions are very light air, in which case it’s the #1 or the spinnaker, or very strong winds, in which case … well, nope, it’s still the #2 then as well.

For heavy stuff, Mo has a perfectly good, tiny staysail, and I had HOOD rush-order a more classically-cut storm jib between voyages. Neither has been up during this Figure 8 2.0. All the tough weather has fallen to a very tightly rolled #2.

So, the math: last year’s Figure 8 Voyage 1.0, at roughly 25,000 miles, was a solid six months of sailing, during which the #2 flew (a guess) 80% of the time. During the first 17,000 miles and four months of the Figure 8 2.0, his work has been nearly constant.

I was reminded how tough the sail is when I had it down on deck yesterday and was trying to fold it. The triple stitching on every panel and the triple reinforcement at the “reef” points make the sail incredibly stiff, even now. Folding is a wrestling match.

That said, and given the miles, I am not surprised the sail needs some care. I could, however, wish this fix was easier.

The Fixes

My Idea: I don’t have any one-inch webbing aboard, so my first thought was to use the soldering torch (with the pin-head attachement) to burn small holes in the clew reinforcement (there is so much reinforcement I’d NEVER get a needle through with a palm; likely not even a jack hammer) and then lace the ring to the sail with Lash-It (twine-sized Dyneema line).

Yes, Robin is still speaking to me after I put that solution on the table.

Robin’s Idea: Randall, you DO have one-inch webbing aboard in the form of sail ties. Cut sail ties to the length of old webbing. No, don’t use a solder torch (what a mess!), instead use a hand drill to ream out small holes in the reinforcement. Then sew the sail-tie straps over the old webbing.

Not yesterday, though. That was all about dousing and launching. I bunged the poorly-bagged sail in the anchor locker at sundown and called it a day.

Today, the sail has been properly folded and brought into the cabin.

Wind is light and variable–anywhere from north to east. We’re being driven south and into the heart of some upcoming nasty weather. So, today I’ve concentrated on sailing…

February 5, 2019

Day 124

Noon Position: 46 30S  151 33E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 5

Wind(t/tws): SW 13 – 15

Sea(t/ft): W 5

Sky: Mostly Clear; some squall and some light cum

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1025, rising

Cabin Temp(f): 61

Water Temp(f): 53

Relative Humidity(%): 64

Sail: Big genny out full; main one reef; broad reach

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 137

Miles since departure: 17,294

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn:

Miles since Cape Horn:

Avg. Miles/Day:

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 17

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 219 01

Avg. Long./Day: 3.27

Long day. Was on the foredeck (now don’t recall why) when I noted on the #2 genoa unusual chafe to the webbing that secures the clew ring to the clew of the sail. Closer inspection showed that of the four straps around the ring, the top two had worn through and the bottom one was a third gone.

Spent the remainder of the day switching that sail out for the spare in the anchor locker. The webbing is monstrously strong and likely would last some time. That said, weather between here and New Zealand is going to be challenging; best not to take the chance.

All day we’ve been slowly overtaken by a high pressure system. Winds are easing as the barometer rises; the cabin is 70 degrees. This provided a lucky opportunity for the sail change. Now or never…

Wiped out. A better update later…

February 4, 2019

Day 123

Noon Position: 46 42S  148 16E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7

Wind(t/tws): W 25 – 30

Sea(t/ft): W10+

Sky: Squall bands; then clear; then squall bands

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1011+, rising

Cabin Temp(f): 64

Water Temp(f): 59

Relative Humidity(%): 69

Sail: Twins poled out, three then four reefs

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 152

Miles since departure: 17,157

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 66

Miles since Cape Horn: 9,518

Avg. Miles/Day: 144

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 40

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 215 44

Avg. Long./Day: 3.27

It’s the kind of day you cancel appointments for. You don’t take calls. You pay attention.

We rode the low’s northwesterly phase overnight; brisk winds to 25. I had the twins poled out with a couple tucks in each and Monte set to keep wind dead aft.

The westerly phase filled in before noon and brought with it waves of squalls to blot out the otherwise blue sky. Winds increased to 25 and 30 with 35 in the squalls common. I reefed in the twins and stood watch when the sky darkened once or twice an hour. Some squalls came with rain. I caught a little.

Late in the afternoon, the squalls faded, leaving puffy cumulus and a bright, cold sun. Wind began to back into the southwest; as I type, it’s a steady 30 – 35. The twins are still flying, though now they are tucked in as much as I dare. Seas have grown with the day and are heaping and plunging forward. In the setting sun, their crests are a translucent, pale jade. A few times Mo has been caught just right and has surfed, roaring forward and throwing an impressive wave of her own.

All unexpected. The forecast called for nothing more tha 20 – 25.

—

Today we dipped the burgee for Hobart, now to the west of us, upwind, and as inaccessible as Timbuktu.

The MOLI burgee pictured is actually the burgee of the Cruising Yacht Club of Tasmania and was the gift of Daryll Ridgeway, my guardian angel while I was in Hobart last year. The warm hats I wear constantly, the same.

The burgee went to Mo’s crosstrees just after she rounded New Zealand’s South Island on her way home last year, and it has not been lowered since. It has, thus, nearly circumnavigated, and though very much the worse for wear at this point, I don’t plan to take it down till it has done so.

Lucky for me, Daryll gave me two such burgees. So, Mo will not be without her emblem for some many miles to come.

February 3, 2019

Noon Position: 46 27S  144 36E

Course: E 6

Wind: NWxW 15 – 20

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 145

A dynamic weather day. Rain and wind changes. Drizzle and wind changes. A huge trough passes over, with wind changes. Now it’s clear with cloud on the horizon. Hard to keep up. Have done complete sail changes three times and have been adjusting sail all day. At least that’s the way it seems.

Fast time east. So that’s good.

I’ve abandoned the idea of going below the coming high pressure area two days hence. Realistically, it would have required a dip all the way to 50S, a latitude I’m not eager to visit if not required. What’s more, the forecast for the region of ocean west of South Island six days hence is looking chaotic and difficult. At moment, it appears a better plan is to approach South Island from as far north as is practical. However, weather after the high does not look to be an aid to that plan … so, lacking anything better, make easting.

No time for more.

February 1, 2019

Day 120

Noon Position: 44 51S  138 02E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 6

Wind(t/tws): NWxW 15

Sea(t/ft): W 4

Sky: Clear (later, a stratus layer; then clear again)

10ths Cloud Cover: 1

Bar(mb): 1023, steady

Cabin Temp(f): 64 (S U M M E R !)

Water Temp(f): 53

Relative Humidity(%): 64

Sail: Twins poled out full.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 135

Miles since departure: 16,713

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 63

Miles since Cape Horn: 9,074

Avg. Miles/Day: 144

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 04

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 205 10

Avg. Long./Day: 3.26

A clear, steady night.

One squall, epic in size and darkness of hue and pouring a Niagara of rain, a squall that had been on the approach all afternoon, a squall that looked to climb up the taffrail and for which I put on foul weather gear and cleared sheets of their coils … was too late!

Ha ha ha ha, laugh I as the sun sets. And as stars begin to wink on, the squall fizzles and spits and melts away like the wicked witch, nevermore to harass the weary sailor.

He who plies the tropics will have no such good fortune. There heat radiates upwards day and night. But here what heat there is quickly vanishes with the sun, and lacking their connection to power, clouds simply evaporate.

Not always, mind you. We’ve been clobbered plenty at night by southern squalls, but often if the wind is light and the air dry, the squalls don’t have oomph past sundown.

And did I mention it was still warm, 55 degrees or so. I took my daily beer on deck for the first time in memory and watched as the constellations emerged upon the darkening stage. Orion right overhead; Leo to the east. Crux and its pointers, Hadar and Rigil Kentaurus, very high in the south.

No moon was due till later, and soon the sky shone such that the constellations receded into the melee of twinkling and were lost. With binoculars, looking upwards was like dipping your hands into a basket of pearls.

One wonders on these nights why we all aren’t astronomers.

I made a quick stew of quinoa, beef, black beans and tomatos and went to bed happy. And slept the night without touching a sheet.

I did come up for inspections, however, and on one visit, the southern horizon glowed neon from the Aurora Australis buzzing far away.

—

Birds change with the region. Now an albatross of any kind is a rare sighting, and the (chocolate brown) white chinned petrels have also pulled away. But in their place, now we have the storm petrel and the white headed petrel.

For days, a clan of stormies has zipped and skated around Mo, following in her wake for no other reason than that she is there. Pelagics of all kinds I find amazing, but that a bird no larger than a house mouse can live an entire life out here, that it can be seen St. Petering on days like today and on days of the worst weather, passeth understanding.

Then a new animal! A pod of Southern Right Whale Dolphins, fat like penguins and fast, played under Mo’s bow for a time.

January 31, 2019

Day 119

Noon Position: 44 21S  134 58E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7

Wind(t/tws): WSW 25

Sea(t/ft): W 10

Sky: Puffy Cumulus tending toward squall formation

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1019, rising steadily

Cabin Temp(f): 63. Wow, summer.

Water Temp(f): 55

Relative Humidity(%): 55

Sail: Working jib and nain, broad reach on starboard

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 150

Miles since departure: 16,578

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

Days since Cape Horn: 62

Miles since Cape Horn: 8,944

Avg. Miles/Day: 144

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 24

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 202 06

Avg. Long./Day: 3.26

Good miles today, but I’ve been having a tough time getting the full giddy-up out of Mo due to squalls.

Ran all night with a triple reefed main and double reefed jib, very conservative in 25 knots from the WSW, and was still up and on deck three times to ease sheets and help Monte get back on course when a troll passed through.

Easy day. We’re sliding into a high pressure system, and so winds are lightening.

—

Mo and I are now a mere 450 miles west of Tasmania; figure 3 – 4 days. Those who have been following along for some time may recall that a February of 2018 knockdown in the Indian Ocean put us into that island’s capital city, Hobart, in March for a bit of a refit.

Ten months later, Mo and I are approaching Hobart again, which has been the cause, today, of some reminiscence and the following prayer.

—

Dear Lord, deliver me from Hobart, I pray.

Let Mo not stray from the straight and narrow path to Cape Horn.

Or if not straight, at least let her head point generally toward the east,

And not the north. Let not her way lead to Hobart.

Please deliver me from the safety just east of South East Cape

Where, once around the cliffs and heaping black rocks and into

Recherche Bay, one is like on a mill pond and immediately free

From the ever raging temptest of the Great Southern Sea.

Deliver me from the long sandy beeches and still anchorages,

The manifold, Eukalyptus covered walks, and

The stark beauty of Mt Wellington. Deliver me from long drives

in the country with my wife. I wish them not.

On that note, please keep me from thinking of international airports

That could bring Joanna to me for a visit. Remind me not

of that cute room on the hill overlooking the Derwent in which

We stayed and enjoyed each other’s company now ten months ago.

Allow me not to be tempted by afternoon conversations with

Captain John Solomon aboard SOLE MIO, where we would share a

Glass of white wine or two, OK, maybe five, and talk about whatever,

But usually the sea and that time he sailed above the Aleutians.

Deliver me from the enticements of Sunday afternoon Dragon Races

With my friend, Daryll Ridgeway, and above all, keep me from thinking of

Usula’s lamb roasts aboard PIPER when she was moored upon

The glassy water of Barnes Bay. I wish it not (well, may be just a little).

I no longer wish the daily assistance of boatbuilder, Daryll, when putting

Mo back together, nor for the many trips to the chandleries,

The hardware stores, the advice, the conversation. Specifically,

Deliver me from those Roast Dinners with Daryll at the club.

I wish not for another visit with Sally, nor to be taken around town

To the best book store, the best coffee shop, the best place to buy

Dish Towels and the best wine. Nor do I wish for dinner at that famous

Waterfront Pub nor to talk about how to get fiber in my diet while at sea.

Please deliver me from the temptation of hot meat pies and sausage rolls.

And from all the other luscious pastries made daily at that lovely

Bakery up on the hill and on that street with all those other nice restaurants,

Which I visited each at least once last time, but now I wish them not.

Remind me not of the Maritime Museum, the Mawson Museum,

The bronze bust of Roald Amundsen near the water just like the one in

Nome, Alaska. (Now I have touched both noses.) Remind me not of the

Cricket matches, the stunning sandstone architecture, the street fairs.

Then there was this time I departed Hobart and came back to

Constitution Dock because of a busted radio and those two couples,

One on cruiser, John Barleycorn, and the other on a trawler named Storm Boy,

Helped almost without asking. The men soldered. The wife of Storm Boy,

An American, offered me a sandwich just after we finished shaking hands.

Then she made us all dinner. Then she offered apples from her orchard for my

Return to San Francisco. I’d never met either of these couples before and so

This serves as a really good example of the kind of hospitality I wish not.

In sum, please deliver me from the temptations of Hobart. Rid me of the

Memories of kindness and unrivaled amicability, the sense of fun and adventure.

I no longer wish to hear the cheery “Good on Ya!” nor “How’re you going?”

Nor do I wish to be called “Cobber” by Journeyman Ketch.

All these things I pray. Oh, and could you cool it with the squalls tonight?

I’d like to get some sleep.

Amen.

Quick notes from the publishing team. Yes the date is out of synch on this. Nothing is broken. Just some missed communications. Posting now so you can read all the answers. Note – if you’ve posted a question before Jan 21 then Randall hasn’t received your question yet. Stay tuned.

January 21, 2019

Day 109

Noon Position: 45 49S  105 59E

Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7 – 8

Wind(t/tws): SWxS 22 – 25

Sea(t/ft): W 8

Sky: Squalls in the morning cleared to cotton ball cumulus

10ths Cloud Cover: 8

Bar(mb): 1019 rising (1022 by evening; still rising)

Cabin Temp(f): 57 (48 overnight)

Water Temp(f): 50

Relative Humidity(%): 70

Sail: Working jib and main; both with two reefs; close reach on starboard

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 174 (Great day runs recently. I think we had some favorable current today.)

Miles since departure: 15,250

Avg. Miles/Day: 140

Days since Cape Horn: 52

Miles since Cape Horn: 7,616

Avg. Miles/Day: 146

Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 06

Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 172 35

Avg. Long./Day: 3.32

Squalls are evil forces sent from distant galaxies expressly to plague the solo sailor and his tiny vessel. They push us off course or steal our wind; they make us reef and then to regret the reef ten minutes later, and the one time we rush on deck without foulies, they dump with rain or sleet.

One squall after the other all night and into middle morning. Then they wandered off to be replaced by cotton ball cumulus, and just so, the wind evened-out at 25 knots. Much preferred.

To all appearances, it has been a tropical trade wind day. But don’t let appearances fool you. The temperature listed above is not what you will find on deck, and as we are upwind in a stiff breeze, Mo is throwing water around as if it were free, or at least on sale.

It’s so rough and wet that we’ve had to close both the pool and the volleyball court on the Lido Deck, and all guests have been asked to retire to the Casino or to their quarters. As I favor neither secondhand smoke nor gambling, I’ve spent the day in my quarters reading Wikipedia articles about Roman Emperors. It’s just what singlehanders do.

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YOUR COMMENTS

Joanna has sent over another batch of comments from the Figure 8 site. Again, thank you for being involved and for the encouragement. I can’t answer each one, but here are a few with questions or remarks that begged a retort.

Deb writes: I presume you like to get clean occasionally just to keep the scent down. How do you manage?

Randall: Regarding clean, there is only so much a person can do in a small boat. One’s own scent is not all that noticeable after the first … 100 days … and I do wash teeth, face, head and beard regularly. But I can’t wash clothes down here, nor bring more than a few changes, nor can I shower, as such. And frankly, these temps discourage sponge baths. I do have a quantity of baby wipes. And I think we’ll leave it at that…

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Mary writes: My, my, Randall, so many Hawaii connections! We should have a Hawaii end-of-voyage party for you when all is completed! Can you and Jo come???

Randall: Jo has been known to visit me in warm places, so there is a chance!

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Howard and Stephanie write: Well Really, Randall !! As a retired Kona coffee farmer, total devotee, roaster, and your friend, we really must have a prolonged heart to heart, and someday, a coffee tasting fest. You and Jo are invited to our home on Whidbey Island for that. Maybe my skepticism will be subdued and I will learn a lot… maybe not. What grind do you use that will fully extract in a few seconds with sub-212 degree water? And at what final temperature is the coffee roasted? Do you experience bloating of the sealed bags due to CO2 offgassing? As always, we eagerly follow along…

Randall: LOL. May I repeat from the vid’s opener? “Most adventuring types subsist the duration on instant coffee.” That’s the comparison, not the professional coffee house. 🙂 Many thanks for the invite to Whidbey. Would be grand. Hope all’s well.

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S/V Voyager Good to see your progress Randall. Do you carry any source of heat to warm and dry things out?

The boat has a Refleks gravity-fed diesel heater that I don’t use at sea (the flues are stowed in the bow) and a circulation heater that runs off engine coolant (hot) water, but that requires running the engine, which I would not do just for heat. I make up for that with layers and calories. I eat for three. That helps. And, in fact, you get used to lower temps.

It’s the damp that’s demoralizing after a time. Careful as one may be, he can’t help but track wet below, and it eventually goes everywhere. So the infrequent sunny days are a treasure and used to the fullest to dry clothes and dry and air out the cabin.

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Deb writes: How do you reach parts of the Monitor when underway and hangon in a seaway? Some in the GGR race are breaking safety tubes and then getting in trouble while trying to fix while hove too. I assume you have an autopilot you can engage?

Randall: Yes, the boat has a heavy duty autopilot, which I only use in very light air or when working on Monte. As to getting at Monte’s nethermost anatomy, I can reach everything when hanging over the side. I tether and hook my boots around the quarter cleats. Pretty secure, actually. Yes, doing a safety tube change in heavy weather is a tough job. It helps if you’ve done it many times before and have a full tube and paddle set-up and ready to swap. But the chances are you are going to get wet.

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Ben Shaw: Fog here, fog on the opposite side of the world. Must be to keep things in balance. Loved the SF Giants shout-out from the other side. Keep up the Mo-mentum. We’re really enjoying following and every couple days Norah says “it’s time to update Randall on the map.”

Randall: Hello Norah! I remember meeting you on Angel Island. I just wanted to say thank you for following along on a map. That’s very cool. I hope I can see the map at some point. And I hope someday you get to visit these parts of the world if you want to. You have to buy your own boat though. You can’t have mine. Sorry.

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tcgibb writes: The Totorore Voyage (please note correct spelling!! Americans always want to shorten things!) is one of the most amazing books about sailing the great southern ocean. I lost my copy and cry when I think of it. As for you I expect to see, in the future, a great tome on the trials and tribulations in both the extremes of the southern and northern oceans. By the way what’s your timeline for St. John’s? Maybe we see you there on Sage!

Randall: Hey Tony, thank you for the gracious spelling correction. Re Totorore, just incredible. Gerry would not consider up where I am…at 46S…to be Southern Ocean sailing…wind too light…too balmy. As to St John, it would be really MOST EXCELLENT to see Sage there. The best Moli ETA is–many months. But projecting: Cape Horn by mid March; St John in June.

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Eric Moe writes: I think it has been 222 days since Mo has had the kite up. Give Puffy a chance!

Randall: Not so. I flew Big Puffy on the way down. Did you miss it? Will attempt a kite flying session down here before we exit. Maybe.

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Satchmo writes: Thanks for sharing your breakfast and your character with us! You inspire my sense of adventure. May I request more video from the end of the whisker pole? Randall rawks.

Randall: Funny. I haven’t been to the cross trees yet, but I’ll try.

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Pam Wall writes: Randall, I loved this thoughtful assessment and do believe that you are breaking new ground as much as my hero, Captain James Cook! I remember my husband, Andy Wall, used to say to me, after many miles like you of self taught celestial navigation, and then breaking into the electronic world years and miles and landfalls later, “Don’t you think, Pammy,” he would say to me, “that Captain Cook would have given his right arm for a GPS?” !!!!! And so the world of invention goes, but without those to discover the almost unattainable, where would we be? No where!!! Love your posts and photos of brownies actually made me drool!!!!!

Randall: Hey Pam. I like Andy’s perspective on Cook. He probably would have been an early adopter. I was amazed to learn recently that not only did Cook have one (or two or three) of Harrison’s new chronometers–cutting edge stuff at the time–he also carried a barometer, also new and thought to be a useless toy by “true” mariners. I really respect Cook and contemporary, Captain Robert Fitzroy, for going against the grain and embracing new technology. Thanks for all your comments and for following along.

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Eric Mathewson writes: Randall ! Wow! Congrat’s on your 100th Day! Has been a lot of fun following your exploits. Keep up the great writing.

Randall: Thanks Eric. Best to you and all at WideOrbit. I’ve appreciated the support.

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Laurence M. Boag writes: How fun! Glad to see you are doing well and in such good spirits. I have been following your voyage with every post. I aim also glad to see the book case is still on the bulkhead and is functioning well despite a rough sea or two… or three!

Randall: Hey there. Book shelf hasn’t budged–even though overstuffed. Great add. Thanks again, Laurence.

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Skip writes: Thank you for sending this video. I know this can get expensive. Hearing your voice is great and watching your video is just so amazing. It makes me feel like I am onboard with you. To share these moments with you from such a remote part of the world is just amazing.

Randall: Thank you, Skip. Once I buck-up, it’s actually a lot of fun to make the video. And I am continually amazed that sending such a thing is even possible from sea. I’ve been reading Cook’s journals recently, and the contrasts between then and now couldn’t be more stark–on many levels, one being available technology.

Oh, and thank all the Virtual Voyagers for funding the equipment and data plan used to send in the videos.