Special treat for everyone. With a ton of shenanigans we’ve figured out how to allow Randall to be interviewed at sea. Today’s show is from fellow sailor and circumnavigator Matt Rutherford.
January 28, 2019
Day 116
Noon Position: 42 51S 125 23E
We’d done 102 miles as of noon.
As it turns out, I was over-cautious with this third low.
I deployed the SHARK drogue again at 4pm and then slept until 10pm, when weather started to come on. I then made a cup of tea, dressed in foulies, and sat up with the low until 3am, well after the forecast called for it to peak. Winds never got much above 30-35, and they were more in the high 20s. All good sailing wind, except for the heavy, lunging sea. And it was too late; the drogue was out.
At 3am, I hit the sack and slept till 6am.
Winds now were a steady 20 – 25, and the barometer had come up a couple points. After coffee, I hauled in the drogue.
Just as it had yesterday, the drogue line had twisted and wound up the bridle, but as before, only to a certain point. Thus, the swivel on the drogue and the swivel I added on the bridle appear to have failed; or maybe it takes quite a lot of twist to activate them.
In a previous blog I reported that retrieving the SHARK is moderately easier than the Jordan Series Drogue. That should be amended: it is MUCH easier. Still, 300 feet of line takes time to get in out of the sea.
We resumed sailing at 10am. Our course, The Snares: 1778 miles at ExS.
Lots of wasted motion in the last few days; now we’re very far north of New Zealand and my precious average daily miles have taken a big hit.
I’m eager to get moving fast again. 
January 27, 2019
Day 115
Noon Position: 42 56S 123 04E
We’d done 101 miles as of noon.
Ran slowly ExN on drogue all night, and morning found us up above 43S. So far north! So far back down to The Traps and The Snares at 48S.
I pulled the drogue in before noon. The line had wound itself into a knot overnight, and I wanted to unkink everything before tonight. The drogue has a swivel at its line attach point and I’ve added another at the bridle. We’ll see if this helps.
Hauling it in when wind is 25 knots was a challenge. It’s considerably easier than the Jordon Series drogue (most anything else would have to be), but it still took one and a half hours to reel in 300 feet of one inch line with a big red balloon pulling at the other end.
The line has been unkinked; a swivel attached, and it’s ready for a re-deploy later in the day.
The forecast keeps saying the same thing; high winds coming. The low is maybe marginally less intense, but not where it counts, and I’m expecting 35 – 45 knots cresting at around midnight over a sea that is already heavy.
It’s early afternoon. I’m going to grab a quick lunch (probably out of the can) and hit the sack for a couple hours. Expecting a long night.
January 26, 2019
Day 114
Noon Position: 43 26S 120 52E
We’d done 146 miles as of noon.
I woke to find that Wattsy’s (the hydrogenerator’s) down haul had parted in the night. The unit dragged at the stern, luckily. I’m always afraid I’ll come on deck one morning to find it washed away.
We were still short 30 amp hours of charge, so I spent the time directly after coffee hanging over the stern. Fresh weather for such an exercise. I had to lie down in a puddle of deck wash. Right arm got dunked up to the elbow by a sea, but beyond that, I got away clean.
By noon, the low friction ring that holds the down haul in place had come un-lashed from the unit. Again I found it dragging from the stern. By then wind was in the low 30s and I had other things to think about.
Namely, speed. We were going too fast; even with a four-reef jib we were punching a hole in that low that would arrive on the marrow. I needed to slow down. By 2pm seas were steep and bullying, and we’d been knocked hard once by a gusher. A certain chaotic look to breakers. Nothing too serious, but I decided to deploy the Shark drogue, a slowing drogue, by design, before things got more difficult. Besides, I wanted to test it before the arrival of the big low.
The Shark swam by 3pm. Immediately our speeds went from 7 and 8 knots and more when surfing to 4 and 5; 6 and 7 when surfing. The slow-down was comforting. The ride felt gentle. Moreover, there was perceptible stabilizing effect with drag astern. Seas that came crashing aboard didn’t bowl us over. Nice surprise: Monte could steer at those slower speeds with the stabilizing effect of the drogue.
Rode it all night. Downside: as winds subsided, Mo became abominably rolly. I could have helped things by flying more sail. Slept instead. Another: the line became twisted way up and into the bridle. I was concerned it would twist all the way TO Monte, but I checked it every hour, and that didn’t happen.
—
A black night with rain. I visited the deck several times to make adjustments to Monte. In the wee hours I saw eery glowing tubes in the water. At first I thought they were resting birds, but I could see them glimmer in the inky darkness even past the range of the of running lights. None quite close enough to get a flash light down to them, except I could barely see this pointy, oblong object from about a foot to two feet in length. When there were many, they were separated by 20 – 30 feet and more on both sides of Mo. I presume squid but don’t know.
January 25, 2019
Day 113
Noon Position: 44 54S 118 10E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 6+
Wind(t/tws): WNW 25 – 30
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Low stratus (but the day has seen both rain and clear skies)
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1004+, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 50
Relative Humidity(%): 61
Sail: Working jib, two reefs, broad reach on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 139
Miles since departure: 15,804
Avg. Miles/Day: 140
Days since Cape Horn: 56
Miles since Cape Horn: 8,170
Avg. Miles/Day: 146
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 0
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 185 28
Avg. Long./Day: 3.31
I’m trying to slow us down a bit, and that’s the main reason for the lower mileage these last two days.
The issue is that if we are too fast and thus get too far east, we’ll be in the heart of the third low in this series when it drops in late Sunday. By that time, we’ll have had three days of strong wind, and the forecast continues to show that low as the big kahuna of the three. So, I’d like to play it extra-cautious and just graze its western edge. To do that, I can’t let Mo charge off, as is her want.
Winds have been building all day. As I type, 35 knots, rain. So, going slowly now is a challenge, even with a double and triple reefed working jib. 
So, I’m considering throwing out the Shark Drogue (for the first time) when we’ve made our northing; the target is currently 44S, which we should pass by tomorrow noon.
Buttoning up and battening down today. The main is lashed to the boom. The leeward jib sheet is moved over and run through blocks nearer the bow (this allows me to switch sheets as I reef small without going forward); I’ve cut the chafe from Monte’s tiller line and the jib sheet; the poles are stowed; the lines wrapped so they don’t bang the mast; bilges are pumped; floor-boards locked.
We’re almost ready.
A friend shared a screen shot of the Longue Route Race Tracker last week (http://longueroute2018.com). This is the French (Moitessier) version of the English Golden Globe (Knox-Johnson) Race currently nearing its completion (well, completion for some). The tracker is interesting because it shows all the boats in the south this summer, not just those of its race. Mo is even there, and is the furthest south by far. I’m flabbergasted by the number of boats in this ocean this year.
January 24, 2019
Day 112
Noon Position: 45 52S 115 10E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 6
Wind(t/tws): SSW 17 – 20
Sea(t/ft): W 8
Sky: Overcast, flat gray
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1010, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 50
Relative Humidity(%): 65
Sail: Working jib and main, broad reach on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 139
Miles since departure: 15,665
Avg. Miles/Day: 140
Days since Cape Horn: 55
Miles since Cape Horn: 8,031
Avg. Miles/Day: 146
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 19
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 182 28
Avg. Long./Day: 3.32
Flat gray sky and a nearly flat gray sea. The only excitement is a wind that refuses to settle, but rather meanders from just S of W to just W of S and blows at either 10 knots or 23.
Big weather is on the way. Three lows, one that arrives tonight and blends into another on Saturday that, with a small break, opens the way for the third on Sunday/Monday. It’s the second and especially the third of these lows that will carry the punch.
I have been edging N since this morning in an attempt to work into a less violent quadrant of the second and third lows, but this afternoon’s forecast shows the third has deepened and become quite powerful. In response, I’ve changed my course to a charge NE. I’d really like to get into the 30 – 35 knot region of these beasts, but that may take skating all the way up to 44S. Should be doable in the two to three days allotted.
—
I have been reticent to relate the following incident because I fear you will think it too fantastic to be real, the mere imaginings of a wayward sailor too long between ports. But I assure you, it all happened exactly as I have recorded here…
*Enoch Delivers a Message*
Monte and Randall breakfasting on the taffrail. Randall is eating a bowl of cereal. Monte is finishing a plate of eggs on toast with ham and sauce.
Randall: It is a wonder to me where you find these foods aboard.
Monte: A deep sense of mystery is healthy, Senior. I congratulate you. (Lifting a glass of pale claret). Salude! (Leaning back, satisfied) I don’t know much about your Benedict Arnold, but he divined a most excellent breakfast.
Randall: Pardon the correction, but I believe that dish was named for Saint Benedict, the famous 12th century monk. He had a taste for eggs and a tart sauce, especially the morning after his weekly inspections of the monastery cellar.
Monte: (crosses himself) Then may God bless and keep him.
Randall: Though I wouldn’t mind a plate of fresh eggs about now, or rack of lamb, or …
Monte: …ah, or a beautiful roasted chicken rubbed with lemon and garlic and served with broiled brussel sprouts and fingerling potatoes. (smacks lips)
Randall: What, you have those too?!
Monte: No…just Eggs Benedict. Well, and the fixings for Eggs Florentine. And the ingredients for a Denver Omelet. And ham and bacon. Some small amount of creme fraiche. A few scallions. But nothing else…
(A heavy KATHUMP on the foredeck.)
Randall: Whoa, did we hit something?
Monte: (has turned away) I think the mast has fallen. I cannot look.
Randall: (rushing to the foredeck, stammering) It’s a … it’s a … a … bird, Monte. A huge bird.
Monte: (right behind) Mi vida!, Senior. I think he is a chicken. My prayers to the virgin are answered. Do you see any potatoes in the scuppers?
Randall: I’ve never seen you pray to anyone, much less a virgin.
Monte: I will start tonight after dinner. Senior, the chicken, I think he is lost. Can you tell him where he is?
Randall: He’s right there, but that’s no chicken, Monte; it’s a Wandering Albatross.
Monte: Well, I thought he looked confused. What do you suppose he’s wandering about?
Indeed, just forward of Mo’s pilot house sat a big white bird with a long neck and a curved pink bill. His landing had been a rough one, and he was, at that moment, still recovering his composure. Slowly he picked himself up with his narrow, white wings, straightened his feathers, and then sat on his haunches, looking proud and somewhat aloof.
Randall: Monte, did you see his wings? They were as wide as Mo, each tip touched a rail. And just look how big he is. (starts to approach)
Monte: (urgently) No, Senior, if he is the albatross, he is not for eating! It will bring the curse. (to self) Though he is quite plump.
Randall: I’m not gunna eat…
Bird: I am Enoch. My name is Enoch.
Monte: (screams) Hooo! It talks, Senior. Oh, no. This is very bad. People in my village say…
Enoch: My name is Enoch, and my kind have sent me to relay a message.
Randall: You … you can talk!?
Enoch: Why of course I can talk. How else would you have me say things?
Randall: But I’ve been calling to you, well, I mean, to all the albatrosses that pass by, ever since 30S and not one has responded.
Enoch: It is why I am here.
Randall: You’ve come to answer my questions!
Enoch: Not exactly.
Randall: Well, at last! Because I have soo many questions. Like how do you soar without flapping; do you sleep in the air; how do you know where to go?
Monte: And would he taste good in a pie, I mean, if it did not bring the curse?
Randall: And where are you from? Just for starters.
Enoch: All of these questions have reasonably long answers, but before we begin, and with your kind permission, I would beg you permit me to…
Randall: Wait, you said you’d come to relay a message. How do you know about us?
Enoch: …to relay my message. (closes eyes)
Pause.
Randall: Well, OK.
Enoch: (opens eyes) I will begin now. (with oratorical airs) Months ago, our elders noted a disturbance in the wind and upon the waters. They dispatched our strongest scouts to go out, to explore the nether regions of our world and to discover its source so that we could remedy the disturbance and restore order. (closes eyes. pause.)
Monte: Senior, I think the chicken is sleeping.
Enoch: (opens eyes) And when they returned, it was with grim news. They had indeed discovered the source of the disturbance in the wind and upon the waters. And so, after many deliberations, they have sent me out to relay my message to you. (closes eyes)
Randall: To us? What do you mean, to us?
Monte: I think he said, “to you.”
Enoch: (opens eyes) The message that I have been sent to deliver to you that our kind hopes will restore order and subdue the disturbance in the wind and upon the water, the message that I am to deliver to you… (pause. closes eyes.)
Monte: This is a very long message. No wonder he is tired.
Enoch: (opens eyes) …is that when you attempt to make contact with us as we pass your ship; when you call to get our attention… (pause)
Randall: Yes?
Enoch: We ask with all humbleness and sincerity and the good will generated by an ancient and ever peaceful race…(pause)
Randall: Yes?
Enoch: …that you not whistle.
Monte: (gasps) SENIOR!
Randall: But…
Enoch: AND FURTHERMORE. Furthermore, and with kind regards to the muses of melody and with their blessing, we additionally request that… (pause)
Randall: I’m not sure I want to know.
Enoch: …that you not yodel. Either.
Monte: I knew I liked this chicken!
Enoch: IN FACT. In fact, I have been asked that I make this point emphatically, if you must…
Randall: Well, how do I call to you, then?
Enoch: …call to us, that you simply … wave.
January 23, 2019
Day 111
Noon Position: 45 58S 111 52E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): SExE 6
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 15 – 20
Sea(t/ft): W 5
Sky: Layered stratus and altostratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1014
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 66
Sail: Twins poled out full.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 143
Miles since departure: 15 526
Avg. Miles/Day: 140
Days since Cape Horn: 54
Miles since Cape Horn: 7,892
Avg. Miles/Day: 146
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 23
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 179 09
Avg. Long./Day: 3.32
Today’s news is that by early evening, Mo and I will have crossed half the meridians between Cape Horn and an east-about course ending in Cape Horn again, this just as we begin to dip under western Australia.
Notice, above, total longitude made good of 179 degrees and 9 minutes as of noon; that leaves 51 minutes (roughly 35 miles at latitude 46S) to 180 degrees, or half the degrees in a circle. Which is what Mo and I are doing…going around a big circle.
So, half way took 54 days.
It’s impossible not to count those days forward. Distane to Go (DTG) to Stewart Island, south of New Zealand’s South Island is 2,303 miles; at 145 miles a day, 16 days. From there to Cape Horn is 5,185 or another 36 days. So, that math says 52 days to a Cape Horn return.
But those are rhumb line distances, and sailboats don’t know from straight lines. By way of example, to get half way, we’ve sailed 7,892 miles. But if we’d sailed cleanly along 46S, our mileage would have been 7,502. That’s a 5% overshoot, a penalty for following wind and waves. My experience is that a 10%, even a 15% overshoot is common.
But let’s add just 5%. That makes DTG 7,488 + 374 = 7,862 / 145 = an estimated 54 days yet to go to Cape Horn.
Oh, right. We’re half way!
Big weather comes in on Thursday and continues through the end of the week. Let’s hope it’s go fast weather, not slow down weather. Right now, it looks like that could go either way.
Wind went light overnight. I woke to sails slatting gently on a small sea. A full moon. Cloud seen only as an erasure of stars. The morning lumed flat gray; rain in the distance never approached. Wind had moved west after coffee. Mo unfolded her wings.
Today, as weather was finally subdued and the sea, quiet, I employed my Monte jury-rig and with success.
Mo is the perfect boat for what I am doing, but she does have her idiosyncrasies. One is that her rudder is very large and her tiller, rather short. This means that steering her requires more power than a boat with a different steering arrangement.
Upshot: Monte, the Monitor Windvane, works harder on Mo than he might on your boat.
One effect of this work is that two bushings in Monte’s pinion assembly have worn out, or to be more specific, have worn away, as I found today when I attempted to replace them (see photo of a new bushing next to all that was left of an old one).
Monte was back on the job in an hour, and his pinion assembly is, once again, nicely snug.
Hopefully that job buys us another 15,000 miles.
—
While up in the wee hours, I noticed that the Watt and Sea hydrogenerator wasn’t charging. It’s inverter glowed yellow, not the typical purple that says amps are going into the battery.
Yellow. Bad color. My heart seized. I’ve come to rely heavily on this device, but unlike Monte, it’s not something I know how to repair.
In this case, it was just barnacle encrusted kelp that had wrapped the propeller and stopped it spinning.
One and a half circumnavigations this device has seen, and that’s the first time it’s caught on weed.
Title: Big Sky
January 20, 2019
Day 108
Noon Position: 45 44S 101 12E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 7
Wind(t/tws): WxS 20 (also SWxW when squalls come through)
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Open, then squally; lots of sun and cumulonimbus
10ths Cloud Cover: 8
Bar(mb): 1012+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 48
Relative Humidity(%): 61
Sail: Twins poled out full
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 161
Miles since departure: 15,077
Avg. Miles/Day: 140 (!)
Days since Cape Horn: 51
Miles since Cape Horn: 7,443
Avg. Miles/Day: 146
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 48
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 168 29
Avg. Long./Day: 3.30
It’s been a big sky day here on the ranch. Expanses of powder blue above and all the way to the cobalt blue water top we had, but rarely. More usual was a profusion of light, white cloud; leaning towers like one sees in the tropics but never down here, and squalls.
The squalls defined the day for Mo. When they moved through, they bent the wind and sped it up, and Mo would take off like she’d been stung by a bee. I’d rein her in only to find that five minutes later we were wallowing; then I’d have to kick some giddy-up into her pace.
We’ve seen so many changes to wind direction and speed that I’ve come to the end of the day with a strange set of sail flying. In a word, all of it. Both genoas (one poled to starboard, the other free to port) and the main–and it’s all double reefed. I’m not recommending this, by the way; it’s just how things have turned out.
—
Recently, a friend noted my coffee video and asked how I clean the It’sAmercianPress. My standard maneuver is to take the small canister of grounds to the companionway hatch, stick my arm out, just my arm, and give the canister a brisk flick to leeward. Sometimes this works as intended, the intention being that a neat hockey puck of grounds will fly over the side. More often it’s a bit like tossing a mud pie, with results as pictured.
—
Electrical projects today for the skipper. One being to replace the switch for the tracker device, which stopped working this morning (the switch, not the tracker). Wouldn’t want you to get lost, now would we.
January 19, 2019
Day 107
Noon Position: 45 49S 97 23E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7 – 8
Wind(t/tws): WxS 15 – 21
Sea(t/ft): W10
Sky: Big sun, an open sky. Big squall clouds to the NE
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1006, rising slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 55
Water Temp(f): 44
Relative Humidity(%): 63
Sail: Twins poled out full
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 153
Miles since departure: 14,916
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Days since Cape Horn: 50
Miles since Cape Horn: 7,282
Avg. Miles/Day: 146
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 41
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 164 41
Avg. Long./Day: 3.29
A glorious night of sleep. Wind stayed W hour after hour despite a forecast calling for it to back into the N. Each time I came on deck prepared to haul down the poles, things were unchanged, and I returned to my warm bunk feeling the luckiest man in the world.
Equally glorious, a full day of sun. Not terribly warm sun, but bright and drying in any case. And again, the wind has stayed dead W.
I’ve not done much today beyond lay out wet things and make a to-do list. Mostly I’ve admired my surroundings, the white chinned petrels, the tropical, towering cumulus, the asure blue ocean … though I have mulled over learnings from our most recent big wind event.
Today’s thoughts:
1. More sail is not necessarily better.
The knockdowns we experienced during the first Figure 8 attempt convinced me that I was being too conservative; putting up the storm jib too soon and taking it down too late. From what I could see (most of the fun happend in the dark) Mo was broaching, sliding slant-wise down a sea and rounding up but with so little speed that Monte couldn’t course-correct before the wave struck. So, I vowed this time to keep sail up and speed up; this would give Monte the needed control. To that end, I’ve not had the storm jib out once this go around.
I think that was the right call; however, it can be overdone.
In the last couple blows, I’ve noticed that as wind increases, Mo still can come off a sea and round up, even when at speed. Recovery is faster with that speed; Monte does have more control, but it’s still many (tense) seconds to get back on course. I reasoned this was *not* due to more sail forward as that would tend to push the bow off the wind, but rather that the hull and rig, themselves, were acting as a sail when presented to the wind as the boat rounded and that they exacerbated the situation. So, I left sail up.
During this blow, that problem became dangerously uncomfortable. So I went against the vow and reduced sail to a dish rag … and Mo’s tendency to round up was reduced. The implication is that too much headsail is, at least in part, driving the tendency to round in high winds.
So, it’s back to square one for me and high wind sail management.
2. The barometer tells the tale.
I had just read in David Burch’s MODERN MARINE WEATHER that “a pressure drop of more than 2mb per 3 hours is a significant drop, implying the probable approach of strong winds, especially when this happens for two consecutive 3-hour periods.” So, when I saw pressure dropping by 4mb in two consecutive two-hour periods (!), this in the early morning when NW winds were still below 30 knots, I knew we were in for it. The bar continued to drop 2mb every two hours for the next eight hours.
3. The final, SW phase of a low can carry a punch.
My experience is that the final, SW phase of a low is usually less windy; that a gale usually goes out softly. Not so, this low. The SW phase saw initial easing of the wind, but then it filled back in and blew over 40 for two more hours.
4. The crazy happens late in a blow and at night.
That the crazy happens late in a blow should not be surprising. By this time winds have been strong for some hours, seas are large and breaking. As wind eases, its downward pressure is released, and seas tend to heap and tumble. But that the finale of a blow always seems to happen in the dark is just flat-out unfair.
5. All learning is provisional, and the provision may remain inscrutable.
This makes two points. One, the decision to gybe Mo in the SW phase of the low so as to keep stern to the the westerly swell was the correct and rational decision. I don’t know why it failed so spectacularly in this low. That said, the evidence it was failing was pretty clear at the time, and I have wet foulies to prove it. Hanging onto the “correct” decision against evidence would have been precarious. Learning: gybing around late in a blow is not always the right move. Why? Dunno.
The larger point, two, is that each low is different; that as important as it is to have at the ready a collection of storm tactics, it is equally important to let them go if/as they fail, even when the failing tactic is sound and has worked before. This can be tough to do. Remember, there is quite a lot of fear rumbling around the pilot house as things are coming undone. Keeping a rational head going is a difficult business.
Ok. Enough philosophy. Back to sun bathing.
January 18, 2019
Day 139
Noon Position: 45 43S 93 42E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS
Wind(t/tws): NW 15
Sea(t/ft): W 15 (left over from yesterday’s low)
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1001
Cabin Temp(f): 55
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 80
Sail: Twins poled full
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 138. For yesterday, Jan 17, 162.
Miles since departure: 14,762
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Days since Cape Horn: 49
Miles since Cape Horn: 7,119
Avg. Miles/Day: 145
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 16
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 161 00
Avg. Long./Day: 3.28
Yesterday began at two-thirty in the morning, when the effects of the approaching low started to become apparent. The barometer had been dropping fast since 10pm, from 1010 to 1002mb in four hours, but now a gentle, 20-knot breeze went decidedly N of NW and quickly hardened to 25.
At midnight I’d taken down the poles and put up the main. Now I dropped the main instead of reefing it (no reason for half measures), lashed it to the boom, and went right back to my bunk. This would be my last chance for sleep, I knew.
By 4:30am, winds were a steady 30 knots, and the barometer had fallen another four points to 998. Now there was light enough to make out the action beyond Mo’s gunnels. Seas were smack on the beam but plenty manageable. The sky, a color between charcoal and cement, felt as though it were pushing down on the water.
The system’s front hit us at 6am. Winds 35 to 40 with frequent and long, pumping gusts of 45. A heavy, pelting rain. Barometer down another two points. I tightened up the working jib to my “fourth” reef position and wondered if I should take more.
Within an hour the front had passed, and then the low settled in to do its business, blowing a steady 25 to 35 from the NW. Seas began to heap up and fall inward. During gusts, the tops were blown off. Long, wide crests broke together and stained the black water with large patches of cream and ice blue. The barometer kept on sliding. At each two-hour log entry, it was down another two points.
Then, ever so slowly, wind began to back into the W. We reached the top of the low at 2pm, when the barometer finally flattened out at 989. But the wind pressed harder–40 to 45 was common. The log reads, “Seas big; some plunge-breaking, often heavily.” Two hours later, “Crazy, mish-mash heavy sea. Pyramidal.” At 5pm, “Long gusts to 50. Working jib down to a hanky. Speed down to 6 and 7 knots, but Monte has much better control.” At 5:45, “Our first roaring surf down a wave.”
To this point, Mo had handled the seas with a sure-footed grace; always at the center of the surrounding chaos, her decks seemed as still and solid as mother-earth. Yes, there were times when she stumbled, fell off a sea and was thrown over to the windows, but she came back to rights and shook things off so quickly that the fall seemed hardly worth mentioning.
This changed after dark.
Unlike the first Figure 8 attempt, this time around most of the lows we’ve encountered have come to their maturity during daylight. Just so, this one. And having spent the day engaging it, I felt I had a sense of the field of action and could gybe around with confidence when the time came.
By sundown, the barometer was up six points from its lowest and wind had eased into the low 30s while continuing to back SW. All according to plan, I thought. The wind was pulling Mo further and further abeam the sea, and at 8pm, I judged it time. We gybed around from a course just N of E to one just S of E.
Within the hour, winds returned to blowing in the 40s, and soon Mo was being thrown down hard. One time, as I was entering the pilot house, a sea broke smack on the starboard quarter. I remember hearing it come out of the blackness. I remember looking up as if looking at the sky, and there was a white wall heaving at us. It hit with a slam. Mo went all the way over. Water everywhere. Down my foulies and past me into the pilot house. Cockpit a bathtub. Lines pulled from their coils and thrown over the side. A mainsail reef line at the mast ended up trailing aft and fouling the hydrogenerator propellor all the way at the stern. The jib sheet (the one in use) wound around the heater flue.
I got the message. I put Mo back on her original course of NW. No more knocks. Luckily the water in the boat hadn’t done any damage to electronics, and I soon had the area mopped up.
By now it was 1am. I’d been up for twenty hours; was wet through, achingly cold, beginning to feel undone. Wind had eased significantly; the time had come to start adding back all the sail we’d withdrawn so long ago, but I did not. I left Mo with but a handkerchief of a jib, tore off my foulies and hit the sack. I didn’t even set an alarm.
January 15, 2019
Day 103
Noon Position: 46 30S 82 58E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxE 6+
Wind(t/tws): W 15 – 20
Sea(t/ft): W 4
Sky: Overcast. Rain squalls before noon.
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1009, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 47
Relative Humidity(%): 81
Sail: Twins pole out full.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 148
Miles since departure: 14,309
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Days since Cape Horn: 46
Miles since Cape Horn: 6,665
Avg. Miles/Day: 145
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 35
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 150 15
Avg. Long./Day: 3.27
Fog all night. Early in the evening, I could see a half moon to the NW, hazy, pale, cold, and a star here and there, but without context, they went unnamed. The reefs stayed in though the wind faded as the night matured; we still made our six knots. Enough till morning.
I woke to rain but just quick squalls. By ten o’clock the sky had dried without clearing, its shade of gray had brightened without becoming bright. And I made a course change.
Mo and I are easing N now. The forecast calls for a heavy low to move through here on Thursday, and I want to be a bit more on top of it–46S is the goal, or a touch more, depending on the wind. Almost as important as northing is continuing to run E. Between here and Wednesday noon‘s projected position will see 50 knots on Thursday, but if we can get another good day’s run in, we’ll be in the 30 – 35 wind range. That’s the target: 30 – 35.
Much of the afternoon was spent on deck at various “marline spike” jobs. One that pleased me is pictured, the swapping of the lovely, large snatch blocks for the genoa pole after guys for lashed-on low friction rings. That after guy is rarely under load and the heavy block knocks back and forth as we roll if the line isn’t perfectly tensioned by the crew.
It’s a thing barely noticeable on deck, but the inside of a boat resonates like an acoustic guitar, and for thousands of miles, that knock, knock, knock has been like a burr under my saddle.
But the low friction ring will re-establish quiet and a sense of order.
Slate gray, steel blue, ice blue, clay green. Then, rarely now, a brown bird; rarely because most have fallen back, not wanting to leave the rich environs of Kerguelen. Then gray again; white gray; charcoal gray; burgoo gray. Ice blue; slate blue. Gray.
January 14, 2019
Day 103
Noon Position: 46 35S 79 23E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 8, 9 and 10 knots
Wind(t/tws): WxN 17 – 19 (overnight 25 – 30)
Sea(t/ft): NW 10
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1008+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 60
Water Temp(f): 47
Relative Humidity(%): 84
Sail: Working jib poled port, 3 reefs; main to starboard, 3 reefs; broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 176 (!)
Miles since departure: 14,161
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Days since Cape Horn: 45
Miles since Cape Horn: 6,517
Avg. Miles/Day: 145
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 15
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 146 40
Avg. Long/Day: 3.26*
We worked through a small depression overnight with NW winds to 25 and 30. Rain. When I came on deck in the morning, Mo was creaming through nearly flat, ice blue water at 9 and 10 knots. Clearly, we had a whopping current with us, but for how long I can’t say. By noon, we’d racked up 176 miles (7.3 knots, hour after hour) since the previous noon, a number we’ve approached but a handful of times this voyage.
By 2pm it was all over. Our speed hovered around 6 knots; winds were down; seas were tall and lumpy. Though Mo’s head pointed E, her course over the ground was NNE. Our current had gone from E to S and was now pushing us N!
It feels like we have been crossing a vast, counterclockwise-spinning whirlpool, and if so, we’ve yet to find its outer edge as I type.
I caught rain for a couple hours this morning and netted only a gallon. Three reefs in the main and a bumpy ride make catchment a challenge. That said, the gooseneck location of the main cover drain is working better, if only because I can get to it without leaning over the rail.
To date, I’ve caught about 20 gallons, the equivalent to 20 days of water on normal ration.
How does my gallon of water per day get used?
64 oz = 2 x liters clear water for drinking
24oz = 2 x cups coffee in the morning
12oz = 1 cup tea in the afternoon
10oz = water for breakfast muesli
8oz = 1 cup water for cooking pasta/quinoa/mashed potatoes/polenta (prorated: one meal lasts two days)
7oz = water for washing head and beard (prorated: assumes ~1.5 liters every 7 days)
2oz = misc; i.e. spray bottle of soapy water for washing dishes; spray bottle of clear water rinse for glasses, sextant, etc.
127oz = total usage. A gallon is 128oz.
One gallon a day is living the high life. There’s plenty of room for conservation in the above numbers.
Mo carries just under 200 gallons of fresh water in two keel tanks. Assuming the voyage from home to first stop in the American or Canadian NE will take 220 days … I need to keep catching rain.
–
Now a heavy fog has settled in. The twins are out and we slosh and roll due E. In the afternoon, I attempted to make way through my Practical Navigation book (Parallel Sailing is the lesson) but fell asleep soon after opening the cover.
—
*I’ve removed “Longitude Miles Made Good” and swapped in “Average Longitude Degrees per Day” since Cape Horn. I don’t sail one longitude, so the mileage number was always a bit of a estimate. Average Longitude per Day is more interesting as it figures directly into the number of days it will take to achieve Cape Horn again.** The current average of 3.26 is low and is still carrying the weight of all our fiddle-farting around between the Horn and Hope. Recent days’ average is well above 3.5.
**Answer: about 62.
Oops. We we were a bit late with posting the video of Randall’s breakfast on today’s post. So just in case here it is again. Don’t want you to miss it!
Team F8
January 13, 2019
Day 101
Noon Position: 46 26S 75 53E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7
Wind(t/tws): WxN 10 – 15
Sea(t/ft): W 3
Sky: Overcast with drizzle
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1018, stable
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 50
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Twin headsails, poled out; running.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 161
Miles since departure: 13,984
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 44
Miles since Cape Horn: 6,341
Avg. Miles/Day: 144
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 54
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46S): 161
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 142 25
I woke to a W wind and doused the main in favor of the twin headsails before the second cup of coffee. There had been a persistent drizzle since first light, so the rest of the morning was dedicated to refining my water catchment system off the main sail cover. This entailed moving the drain on the cover all the way forward near the mast. By the time I finished, the drizzle had retracted back into the sky; a test of my success will have to wait.
In the afternoon, more brownie baking (it was too late in the day for bread) and the discovery of a new way to dry socks using the exhausting heat from the stove.
Quick thoughts on 100 days at sea…
How am I doing physically?
Beyond the minor cuts and bruises typical of life on a boat, I have thus far escaped injury. The leg cramps and headaches mentioned in previous logs have not returned, so were either one-offs or are being controlled by exercise (admittedly intermittent) or better hydration.
In recent weeks, I am wrestling with shoulder pain, however. Both are quite soar and gristly and can give me sharp starts if strained too much. Part of the issue is overwork/repetitive motion (winches) and part is poor posture during hours of sitting in the pilot house. I’ve incorporated stretching into my daily routine and am generally being more careful as both shoulders need to last the duration.
I feel minor but chronic fatigue. How much of this is physical and how much is mental (more below) is unclear, but I notice I move more slowly on deck than when in other latitudes and I seek rest between heavy operations. Given where I am and what I am doing, this is not unexpected.
Am I getting enough sleep?
Yes. My pattern is to start sleeping soon after dinner (9pm is normal) and to sleep in shifts until 6am. Shifts are one hour if I need to pay attention to weather or other boat issues overnight, or two and three hours if things on deck are stable. Occasionally, (e.g. last night) I’ll turn off the alarms and sleep the night through.
I take brief naps in the pilot house most afternoons.
How’s my appetite?
Non-pareil. I eat constantly. Beyond the Vitamin C forgetfulness of last month, my nutritional needs have been met fully. Except I wouldn’t mind a pizza right about now.
How are you mentally/emotionally?
It depends on the day. The combination of the continual gray, damp, and cold that defines this part of the world, the need to be ever alert, and the strain of heavy weather can be a trial to one’s optimism. The route is long and, amazingly, still in its early stages, and I am most definitely feeling how much of a marathon this marathon is going to be.
Symptomatic of what we might call emotional fatigue are my anger outbursts, mentioned in previous logs. This emotionality is neither new nor surprising, but beyond the enervation entailed in being angry at an inanimate object (a wet tangle of line that warps around one’s boot just moments after being neatly coiled), it is additionally frustrating that I can’t muster the discipline to control it. Take a breath; try again tomorrow.
Oddy, one element of discontent has been how little time I have for anything but working the boat. I brought books on astronavigation, trigonometry (of all things), and meteorology, but haven’t had serious band-width for any of them since about 40S in the Pacific.
And for the first time on any cruise, I have recently felt very far away, even a sense of isolated from those I love. This too seems appropriate as it is true, in fact.
But these difficulties are, in my estimation, minor and, as Cook has said in his Journals, “Such risks are the unavoidable companions of the man who goes on discoveries.”
I keep busy; I stay to a schedule; I focus on the day, on the sailing, and on my excellent partner, Mo, who weathers all without the least complaint.
And I am always cognizant of the privilege I have been delt to be down here at all. No other ocean will ever be so full of awe as the one where flies the Wandering Albatross.
January 12, 2019
Day 100
Noon Position: 46 21S 71 14E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7+
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 19 – 23
Sea(t/ft): NW 4
Sky: High overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1020, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 73
Sail: Working jib poled to port; main to starboard, broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 142
Miles since departure: 13,824
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 43
Miles since Cape Horn: 6,180
Avg. Miles/Day: 144
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 25
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46S): 142
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 138 31
Up in the night, again. At about one o’clock, wind had finally found its way into the north. I gybed the poled-out jib and main by the light of a headlamp in soft and noticeably warmer winds. The sea felt relaxed. Above–briefly and between cloud–Orion marched his way across the sky, a rare sighting. I quickly reeled off the stars I knew: Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Alnilam, Rigel. None more were visible. Then right back to bed.
We’ve been running on that sail configuration all day. Apparent wind hovers one side or the other of 135 degrees (a broad reach) and between 15 and 20 knots, and on that we fly our way E.
Except for the gray above and the birds below, this does not feel like the Southern Ocean. Back under Cape Good Hope are two storms of monumental proportion, two colliding galaxies battling each other for dominion over an area half the size of Africa. In the end they will eat each other, as is their way, coming together with no more effort than two drops of water on a counter-top. But below, and all the while, the water will rage.
Here, however–for the moment, maybe even for the next week–wind is gentle and consistent … and I am not complaining.
I repeat: I am not complaining.
—
Day 100. Lots to be said about 100 consecutive days at sea. But not now. Today we have the second in the Meals on Mo series. This one: Breakfast…
January 11, 2019
Day 99
Noon Position: 46 08S 67 49E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 5.5
Wind(t/tws): WxS 15
Sea(t/ft): WSW 3
Sky: Mostly cloudy; Stratocumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 8
Bar(mb): 1023+
Cabin Temp(f): 57 (46 degrees in the cabin when I woke)
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 71
Sail: Working jib poled to port; main to starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 148
Miles since departure: 13,682
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 42
Miles since Cape Horn: 6,038
Avg. Miles/Day: 144
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 30
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46S): 146
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 135 06
Strange weather day. We are riding the bottom of a small high. Winds have been due to veer from SW to W to NW and lighten significantly as the high moves over us and then on to the E. Accordingly, this morning I poled out the working jib, but left the main up, thinking I’d jibe around as the day developed. That combination, poled out headsail and main, can handle a wider wind range than both headsails poled.
Wind direction hasn’t budged all day, but it has strengthened to 20 knots and more.
I argued with the weather for a time, lecturing it on its duty to perform according to plan. I won the argument; how could I not? Still, wind has stubbornly remained WSW at 20. I’m not unhappy to have 20 knots of wind aft, it’s just that my sail plan makes me slower than need be. I had anticipated a changing wind day, after all. My muttered rebuke, “this damned wind is costing me miles.”
Splashes of sun in the afternoon. Good, because both sets of foulies need airing, as do the sopping galley tea towels and, now, my two favorite hats and some heavy fleece.
I went on deck last night without donning my foulie jacket, which I never do in such brisk weather, especially when Mo has spent the day tossing spray everywhere. But wind had eased. Decks were dry, and I just wanted to let out a bit more jib, a quick operation.
And I was about done too, when WHAM!, Mo launched an entire bathtub of water into the cockpit. For a brief moment, it was like standing under a waterfall. The second of my two favorite hats, soaked, as were my layers, including the second of three sets of heavy fleece. One clean and dry set left.
Screaming mad.
I’m not a screamer ashore, but at sea I can have a hard time controlling emotions when things go contrarily, which they do with some frequency down here. I can reason with myself. I can ask, What would Epictetus do? Remember, he says to fret only over things you can control. But in the moment, the outburst…bursts.
The odd thing is that there’s no one here to be mad at…but me. I’m the one who failed to put on his jacket, after all.
But the damned sea! Did it have to toss up a wave just then? A little deference would be appreciated once in a while. 
January 10, 2019
Day 98
Noon Position: 45 49S 64 19E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7+
Wind(t/tws): SWxS 25 – 30
Sea(t/ft): SW 12
Sky: Clear; puffy cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 4
Bar(mb): 1013, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 41
Relative Humidity(%): 78
Sail: Working jib; three reefs.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 160
Miles since departure: 13,534
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 41
Miles since Cape Horn: 5,890
Avg. Miles/Day: 144
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 49
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46S): 159
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 131 36
Wind shifts brought me to the deck twice last night. The 1am visit found Mo heading due N on a fresh southwesterly and required a full switcharoo from one tack to the other. This means rolling up the headsail (so as to get it around the inner forestay) and moving running backs and vangs from one side to the other. In the rain and 25-knot winds. It took a while. At 3am, wind had built such that I had to douse the main altogether. Then I lashed it tightly to the boom. More rain.
So, I set as a goal to take today on the slow bell. And I was well on my way to accomplishing this–I had a nap soon after breakfast and then indulged in cookies and tea–until Monte’s tiller line parted.
Mo rounded up and hung there as I was reading in the pilot house, a tricky business in the short, steep seas that resulted from a morning of 30-knot winds. A peer over the side showed the line had parted about a foot up inside the Monitor frame. That’s not happened this trip, and I can’t imagine how it would as there’s not a thing up there to chafe on. I did an end for end on the line and re-rove it. We were sailing again within 20 minutes.
This is one of the things I like most about Monte: I can usually fix what breaks. Gear that gets used as much as a wind vane is going to need maintenance, and Monte is simple and robust enough that his issues are within my meager powers. Not so an autopilot. If it fails, I’ll likely trouble shoot it for a week to no avail.
Blue skies and a sparkling sea today, but I saw none of it. We close reached all day with a tiny jib, hanging onto our easting as best we could against a stern, unforgiving SSW wind. Mo threw water everywhere and even threw me a few times. So, I tried to stay below and stay put.
Wind is back down to 25 as I type, and I’ve been able to put a bit more S in our course. We need to get below 46S before a calm rides over us and stalls our progress for a day.
Cold on deck. I typically work the deck with bare hands, which were beet red when I came below after raising the main just now. I have fingerless gloves at the ready; these are warm even when wet, but the wool in the palm makes my grip on railings and line feel slippery and unsecure. I use them only rarely.
Birds are back. Those are white chinned petrels in the photo at the top of this post.
January 9, 2019
Day 97
Noon Position: 45 59S 60 30E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7+
Wind(t/tws): NW 17 – 21
Sea(t/ft): NW 4
Sky: Overcast. Fog for several hours.
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1008, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 48
Relative Humidity(%): 81
Sail: Working jib poled to port; main out to starboard; broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 151
Miles since departure: 13,374
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 40
Miles since Cape Horn: 5,730
Avg. Miles/Day: 143
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 36
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46S): 150
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 127 47
Slow night and too much northing. I left reefs in expecting wind to veer into the NW and strengthen after midnight. It did neither, and Mo worked up above 46S, which we didn’t need. Winds have come on fresh from the NW this afternoon, and so we’re slowly drifting back S a bit.
I could have risen and made sail changes but chose to sleep. Each time I rose to examine our course, it seemed the detour was minimal and easily corrected in daylight. This is a frequent strategy. I figure that on such a long haul, adding a few more miles for the privilege of being rested is a fair trade. My limit is usually plus or minus 30 degrees off intended course.
Assume I’m asleep for 8 hours and that during that time Mo is making 6 knots or 48 miles for the night. If my course is off by a flat 30 degrees all night (very rare), I will have sailed 6.43 miles more than necessary to get to the same longitude. I’ve cost myself an extra hour of sailing for a good night of sleep. I approve. (The math: 30COSx48-48.)
The day has been dominated by fog, thin enough vertically to allow in the sun, but thick enough horizontally to be thought of as heavy. Mo’s made a steady 7 knots since noon.
—
Yesterday at 7:30pm local (gmt+4), Mo crossed the antipodes and was for a brief moment on the exact opposite side of the world from home. This was longitude 58E. San Francisco is 122W. If I were simply doing an around the world, I’d be on the return run now, the downhill slide. Think on it–13,374 miles (today’s total) would be half instead of a third of our total anticipated Figure 8 distance, and I’d be back at the house by April.
Not the plan.
—
Bird counts have dropped off markedly since we left the Crozets behind. White chins sat on the water in small groups in the fog and scolded each other with their loud chit-chit-chit. But that was the extent of our entertainment until the repeated swoops of a light mantled albatross this afternoon. 
January 8, 2019
Day 96
Noon Position: 46 18S 56 54E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7
Wind(t/tws): WNW 26 – 31
Sea(t/ft): W and NW to 10
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1005+ steady
Cabin Temp(f): 54
Water Temp(f): 47
Relative Humidity(%): 80
Sail: Working jib and main, three reefs, broad reach to reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 157
Miles since departure: 13,223
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 39
Miles since Cape Horn: 5,579
Avg. Miles/Day: 143
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 40
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 47S): 151
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 124 11
Winds remained in the W most of the night, oscillating between 25 and 35. Mo wore just a double reefed working jib and rode like a mechanical bull. This was not so noticeable from my bunk, which is in the depths of the the main cabin and well below the water line, but try to make a cup of coffee and you risked your life.
At 8am, we passed just north of where Mo was knocked down in a gale last February 18th, a knockdown that broke a window in the pilot house and let in enough water to sink most of our electronics. It also stole the drogue, which parted at the bridle eyesplice. That put us into Hobart for two weeks, essentially finishing that year’s Figure 8 attempt.
If things had gone to plan, I would be home with Joanna right now and tending to the coals in the fire place (the power is out and she reports a fire is currently her only source of heat), but she’s managing that today while I’m a world away and on attempt number two. Life was due to return to normal in 2019. The Figure 8, which has been in-build since 2013, was to be done deal. Not so. And around here is where that changed.
I’ve been keen to get past this area without damage. No matter the likelihood of lightening striking twice, its anticipation has made me quite nervous over the last days, and to see the seas here as chaotic as I recalled…
But about an hour before noon the scene began to shift. Big seas we still have, but they’ve lost that jagged edge, their malicious intent. And suddenly the current is with us. Mo’s been pulling 8 knots since noon.
—
When I feel like I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, when I tire of gray skies and gray seas, my own company and canned Shepherd’s Pie for dinner, again, I pull down my copy of THE TORTORE VOYAGE by Gerry Clark.
Gerry, a merchant mariner turned New Zealand apple farmer, a lover of birds, the sea and adventure, built a 36-foot bilge-keeled sloop in his barn and set out with short crew to circle the Southern Ocean, visiting all the islands he could get to along the way. This was in 1983. His goal was to aid in bird conservation efforts by establishing population statistics on those islands, many of which hadn’t been visited since the demise of sealing.
The voyage is glorious and full of disaster, or possibly the glory is due to it.
West of Prince Edward Islands (we passed beneath these a week ago), his vessel, Tortore, was rolled and lost her mast in a storm. The story of her limping into Marion Island, the difficulty of jury rigging in a dangerous anchorage, the loss of Gerry’s crew (who had to return to school), the loss of his self-steering gear west of the Crozets followed by more jury rig attempts at Heard Island; the five times Tortore rolled on the return to Fremantle…
Gerry’s will to survive; his unwillingness, maybe his lucky inability, to entertain dispondency, his adoration for where he was despite its trying to kill him…
Actually, no; now that I think of it, it doesn’t cheer me up, this book. But it makes me realize how good I have it, and that’s something. 
January 7, 2019
Day 95
Noon Position: 46 58S 53 14E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7
Wind(t/tws): WxN 17 – 26
Sea(t/ft): NW 10 – 12
Sky: Partly Sunny
10ths Cloud Cover: 8
Bar(mb): 993, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 41
Relative Humidity(%): 75
Sail: Working jib, two reefs
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 161
Miles since departure: 13,066
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 38
Miles since Cape Horn: 5,422
Avg. Miles/Day: 143
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 55
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 47S): 161
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 120 31
Two pleasant milestones today. One, we’ve achieved an average of 143 miles per day since rounding Cape Horn. This, to me, is a magic number as it means we’re cranking out 1000 miles a week. With wind and better management, Mo can do more, but that’s not at all bad.
Two, we have now crossed 120 of the 360 meridians between our first Cape Horn rounding and our second. One third of the Southern Ocean loop is in the bag. It’s tempting to start doing the math on the miles and number of days it took to get here and to project that forward. But don’t. The Atlantic part of this leg saw lots of northing and southing and was, thus, very inefficient. Between here and the Pacific should be faster.
I’d wanted to swing by the Crozets for a peek, but the wind wasn’t for it. We passed 33 miles under Possession Island at 6am. Now that we are E of the islands and are back in deep water, we are really in the slosh pit. The sea is even more steep and chaotic than yesterday and has the distinct resemblance to the kind of seas one gets in wind-over-tide situations. I’m betting the current here reverses or creates a large eddy behind the islands.
Add to that today’s squalls where wind is either 19 or 39 from W or SW, and Mo is having a tough day. She’s getting thrown off some of the larger seas, rounding wildly one way or the other. I’ve had to slow down a bit to give Monte more control (the opposite of my general philosophy).
Re the confused seas here, Michael Scipione commented thusly on the Figure 8 site a few days ago…
“Randall-for over a year this issue over the area around the Crozets has piqued my interest and I have been tracking the ocean dynamics and following your second attempt. On the east coast we are very sensitive to the effect of the Atlantic’s Gulf Stream on waves and weather.
“The answer may lie in the merging of two main Summer current streams. The tail end of Angulhas running ESE has warmer water than the West Wind Drift running E to ENE. The Angulhas produces a lot of eddies on its southern edge that confuse the seas with a predominant wave pattern from the SW. Add to that the falloff of ocean depths which probably magnifies the eddies further. The ocean temperature gradients on maps in the area around the Crozets are unusually tighter than elsewhere in the southern Indian Ocean and I have been noticing that the wave height is larger along a band on the Southern edge of the Angulhas there.”
Amazing to think that Africa could have an effect all the way down here. Thanks for the research and the thoughts, Michael.
We are trending ENE partly because I want a little northing and partly for the beneficial wind angle, and our heading takes us directly to the spot of last year’s knockdown, a mere 80 miles distant as I type.
Though this is the strongest weather predicted here for a week, I’m eager to get well beyond the effect of the islands.
January 6, 2019
Day 94
Noon Position: 46 44S 49 19E
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ESE 7
Wind(t/tws): WNW 29 – 34
Sea(t/ft): NW 10
Sky: Rain
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1000+ and falling
Cabin Temp(f): 54
Water Temp(f):
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Working jib with two reefs, broad reach tending toward a reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 168
Miles since departure: 12,905
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 37
Miles since Cape Horn: 5,261
Avg. Miles/Day: 142
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 03
Longitude Miles Made Good (at Lat 46 30S): 167
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 116 36
Winds slowly increased all night. I put the main on three reefs at 10pm and doused it altogether at 2am. We’ve been on a double reefed working jib ever since. With winds in the mid 30s, seas have build to a sloshy 10 – 12 and are tossing Mo about. But she can handle this and more.
Gray day. Rain has kept me cabin-bound most of it while the Albatross still gets to play outside.
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Joanna passes on your Figure 8 site comments every week or two, and I very much enjoy reading them. Thank you all for taking the time to be involved and for enjoying the Figure 8 adventure with me.
Sadly, I can’t respond to every one but have selected some of the more pertinent questions for answers below…
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Jan writes: Do you have help with your weather routing? How does that work? Or are you sorting it all out just yourself?
Randall: Jan, greetings. I sort it out myself. I use Predict Wind GRIB files for wind and pressure (this came with the communications package I’m using). Essentially, GRIBS are a simpler version of the wind data you see on the Figure 8 tracker. I pull a forecast twice a day that runs out a week and make decisions from that.
In the past, I have gotten loads of help in understanding weather down here from people like Tony Gooch (who sailed this boat for 16 years and did a solo, non-stop round the world form Victoria in 2002). But I do overall and day-to-day planning and wouldn’t want it any other way.
Mary writes: I too am anxious to hear what effect the loss of the larger wind vane will have. Will it make Monte insufficiently responsive in lighter air?
Randall: Hey there, Mary. Sorry I wasn’t clear. I have several, one might say many, vanes aboard. Mike Scheck and the folks at Monitor have made sure I’m well stocked. It’s just that *that* vane and I had worked together for so long, I felt, much to my surprise, a connection. And no, there was no chance of turning Mo about for a retrieval. It was, as they say, a dark and stormy night.
On that note, Connie M, thanks for the thoughts re same. I appreciate your understanding, and it’s nice to get pings from you and Tony on the F8 site.
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Todd writes: I wonder, do you think this time around you have less problems from experience in the Southern Ocean, just lucky, or a bit of both?
Randall: Todd, I will be most happy to answer that question in depth from the safety of the Atlantic doldrums, or better yet, a bar in St John, Newfoundland (first scheduled stop). But as I’m less than one third of the way around this Southern Ocean loop, I think it’s a bit premature for me to be expounding on that question. Feel free to remind me later…
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Dan writes: I have two questions; How do you deal with sea sickness? Is it ever a problem when you first set sail? And how do you deal with loneliness?
Randall: Hey Dan, re your first question, I’m not prone to motion sickness. I can get a little queasy in very rough conditions when doing close work, like (ehem!) typing an answer to your question in a gale near the Crozets, but generally it’s not an issue. I have also found that, for me, when it is an issue, the uneasy feelings are often associated with being out of control and frightened. My first ocean crossing was on someone else’s boat, and I was queasy below quite often. The boat smells were unusual, the motion was extreme, and I was exhilarated but scared. On my own where the smells are mine and the decisions too, this is rarely an issue.
As regards loneliness, again, not prone in that direction. I have many interests, like solving my own problems, and love being on the ocean. Those go a long way toward forestalling loneliness. I do, however, get lonely when I’m frightened. In a big sea and a tough gale, I can get sucked into the “Why am I here when I could be home safe and cooking a lovely dinner my beloved wife” mode of thinking. This recedes as the gale moves off east, and I tend not to give it much weight. I know Joanna loves me and will accept me back (after I’ve showered); and I know she supports this venture. I look forward to being home, but would not abort the voyage for it.
That said, I’m only into day 94 (of 210 non-stop to St. John?) of the Figure 8. Between here and Hobart is a famously tough stretch, and I’m now officially on the opposite side of the world from those I love. I’m beginning to feel that sense of isolation; to feel the grind. I’ve bitten off a lot; can I chew it? Etc. So, let’s keep the loneliness question open and see what develops.
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Steve writes: Not sure what kind of camera you’re filming with or if its weatherproof, but I for one would love to see some footage of the big seas you are encountering. Of course, you are probably too busy managing the boat to whip out your camera.
Randall: Hey Steve, I use an iPhone almost exclusively. Pretty tough device, actually. My best wave shots so far are in the Handel video. You’d be surprised how shy waves are. The moment you get up on deck with a camera, the sea goes still as a lake. But I’ll keep trying.
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Chuck writes: You say, “Lock the floorboards over the engine and close the diesel tank vents (if the engine has been run).” Under what circumstances have you been running the engine? I was under the impression that you were running 100% on wind.
Randall: Hey Chuck, I try to run the engine every week or two. It’s awfully cold and damp in the engine room, but I have motored some as well.
Two reasons:
A) I crewed on a boat similar to Mo in size through the Northwest Passage (NWP) in 2014 and discovered that the Arctic is mostly motoring. Winds are fickle and often light, and you are in a hurry to get through while you can. In fact, I’m not sure any pleasure vessel has sailed all the way through the NWP, much less in one season. So that killed the 100% wind idea early on.
B) I’m on a schedule. I MUST get to the Arctic by early August if I want to get through the NWP in one go. The passage is nearly 6,000 miles and is usually only open for about 60 days. You get one shot if you get a shot at all, and I can’t miss it. Moreover, I’ll need time to stop somewhere in the north for more provisions (I left with a year’s supply, but will have eaten ten months of it by that time) and for unforeseen repairs. So, I’ve given myself permission to motor through the flat calms I encounter and keep the miles rolling.
The log says I’ve motored for 48 hours of my 94 days to date (most of that was in the Pacific doldrums). That means I’ve been 100% wind 99.97% of the time.
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Nick writes: I’m currently preparing my Christmas roundup of favourite inks for 2018. I’ll give you one guess for which ink gets top spot? Fondest wishes from your UK fan base! Nick
https://nickstewart.ink/2018/12/27/my-top-12-inks-2018/
Randall writes: Hey Nick, Merry Christmas. Thanks again for producing Randall Ink. That was a cool surprise and I love having a bottle aboard.
