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October 29, 2018

Day 25

Noon Position: 11 16S 131 47W

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

Wind(t/tws): E- 13

Sea(t/ft): E 3

Sky: Clear, utterly

10ths Cloud Cover: 0

Bar(mb): 1016, rising

Cabin Temp(f): 86

Water Temp(f): 81 (Still!)

Relative Humidity(%): 63

Sail: #2 genoa and main, close reach. Likely go to #1 soon. Wind really tailing off.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 141

Miles since departure: 3,272

Avg. Miles/Day: 131

An idyllic day. Wind has softened and the sea has gone down. I’ve eased sheets and now we slide along at a respectable but unhurried pace over a big blue marble, utterly devoid of thumping drops off wave crests or spray in the face or anything remotely related to harship, not to mention birds, flying fish, sea mammals, or anything else except Mo and me.

Just sky and sea–and Mo and me plying quietly a world of our own.

I wax because beating into the trades is a little like being put into a barrel and rolled down an unevenly built, infinitely long stair case. You get used to the barrel after a while and you appreciate going fast, but it’s not ever comfortable.

Among other things, Mo is now a more even platform for chores.

I’m slowly working through the Southern Ocean prep list. Today, eye splices in the new genoa pole topnlift lines. All Mo’s running rigging was new when I departed on the Figure 8 a year ago. Since then it has all made a circumnavigation without a single failure. Granted, some lines took more punishment than others, but the only two I’m out-and-out replacing are the the headsail furling lines and the genoa pole topnlift lines.

The furling lines, especially the #2, spend a great deal of time reefed in the south, i.e. under load but moving slightly as the sail pressurizes and depressurizes while riding waves and taking gusts. Both were pretty chafed up and taped up by the time we got back to San Francisco. A furling line failure in a gale could be the end of the sail; so, those were renewed before departure.

The topnlift lines suffered from owner abuse as I learned how to balance the genoa poles in heavy weather. Early on I tended to run the lines too taught, asking them to maintain pole positioning rather than relying on the sail to do that. So, there’s been a fair bit of chafe at the line mast entry point when the poles are deployed. Owner abuse has been corrected but as these lines also second as storm jib halyards on Mo, and would disappear forever inside the mast if they parted, it’s better to replace and be safe.

So, today, eye splices in those lines for their snap shackles. It’s a splice that’s just complicated enough to look like a disaster a moment before the hat trick that turns it into a neat loop. Not sure my friend Kevin, head rigger over at KKMI, would approve; the cover around the eye is a little baggy, but then he’s not here to shake his head and mutter, “rookie mistake, Reeves. Rookie mistake.”

Now, if I could only remember to insert the damned snap shackle at the one and only opportune moment!

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October 28, 2018

Day 24

Noon Position: 08 58S 132 16W

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

Wind(t/tws): E 14

Sea(t/ft): E 4 -5 (finally swell is coming E. Whew. Easier ride.)

Sky: Light, puffy cumulus

10ths Cloud Cover: 2

Bar(mb): 1015+

Cabin Temp(f): 86

Water Temp(f): 81 (surprised at the continuing warm water)

Relative Humidity(%): 709

Sail: #2 genoa full, main one reef, close reach

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

Miles since departure: 3,131

Avg. Miles/Day: 130

Two Frigate birds followed Mo for a time today.

Frigates? Way out here?

Then I realized we are a mere 400 west of the Marquesas Islands, the most northern and eastern group in the French Polynesian archipelago, where also can be found Tahiti and Moorea, to name but two. Just think on it–within three days sail, we could be anchored off a sandy beach enjoying MaiTais at the …

No wait. It’s the Figure 8 Voyage. We must make southing. Always southing…

Today marks an intersting milestone. On this day a year ago, the first Figure 8 Voyage attempt commenced. Here more about that in this video from earlier in the afternoon…

https://youtu.be/e_a-n4p7w80

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October 27, 2018

Day 23

Noon Position: 06 36S  133 06W

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

Wind(t/tws): ExN 16 – 20

Sea(t/ft): SE 5

Sky: Cumulus and Squalls coming

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar(mb): 1014, falling

Cabin Temp(f): 84

Water Temp(f): 81 (surprising to see the water temp go up)

Relative Humidity(%): 75

Sail: #2 genoa, two reefs; main, one reef; close reach

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

Miles since departure: 2981

Avg. Miles/Day: 130

Our steady trade winds are a variable beast this year. An afternoon of clear skies, true wind at 18 – 20 and Mo with double reefs will give way in the evening to a turbulent, squally sky with winds going 12 just about bed time. I’ll wait to shake out a reef until midnight, and by three, it’s 18 – 20 again.

Sometimes the squally weather persists until noon; then clear skies will rein again, and always the wind is pumping between 12 and 20. We reef and shake out reefs as required and now can reef without putting on our glasses; without a headlamp at night.

But at least the wind is slowly backing north of east, allowing a course more for the Horn.

Now the question is how shall we pass Pitcairn Island, the three-mile square home of the Bounty mutineers at 24S and 128W, about 1,200 miles southeast of our current position. Last year we left it well to starboard, passing at nearly 126W on our 33rd day at sea.

But that may be a difficult maneuver this year, as we are so much further west; thus I am allowed to entertain the fantasy of seeing Pitcairn rise from the sea as we sail south. How many of the 50 residents, all descendents of Fletcher Christian and his cohort and the Tahitians they brought with them would come out to wave?

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October 26, 2018

Day 22

Noon Position: 04 22S 133 35W

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

Wind(t/tws): E 15

Sea(t/ft): SE 4-5

Sky: High Cumulus, some left over squall from the night; clear by afternoon.

10ths Cloud Cover: 7, 3 by afternoon

Bar(mb): 1014, rising

Cabin Temp(f): 86

Water Temp(f): 80

Relative Humidity(%): 82

Sail: #2 genoa full, main, one reef, close hauled.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 150

Miles since departure: 2884

Avg. Miles/Day: 129

When I bought Mo, she had in her port cockpit locker a hefty series drogue that had clearly been of great help to previous owners. I, too, put it to use in the south last year, twice and was amazed by its power. It was lost off the Crozets during the gale that broke Mo’s pilot house window, and, by the time I departed Hobart, had been replaced by a brand new Jordan Series Droge (JSD), made by ACE Sails in Rhode Island. (www.jordanseriesdrogue.com)

Once home, I sent the JSD back in for some modifications that included a stronger bridle and more cones. If memory serves, it is now 148 cones in total (for a boat displacement of 35,000 lbs), and you could probably lift the boat with the bridle, now of super-strong Dynema.

The design has improved greatly over the years. The old series drogue used a hefty one-inch polyline, and, as connections between drogue and bridle, marine eyes and gigantic shackles. It was a brute. Hefting it out of the cockpit locker was tantamount to lifting a dead linebacker, especially if it had got itself wedged under the spare line bag, as it was prone to do in heavy going.

The new drogue is (I’m guessing) a third the weight. Dynema has been employed for both the bridle and the first, roughly, half of the cone length, allowing a much smaller diameter (read, lighter) polyline for the after half of the drogue. The marine eyes and shackles have been replaced by eye splices wrapped in chafe gear. It is also a wonder of fabrication and represents just mountains of by-hand sewing and splicing on the part of ACE.

Today, I rigged the anchor weight, 25 lbs of chain, to the JSD and stowed it properly for deployment.

Next to it in the port locker, also rigged and ready for deployment, is a new addition, a Shark Drogue, designed and manufactured by Zack Smith and the folks at Fiorentino. (www.para-anchor.com)This drogue is a wonder in the opposite direction, that is, its design is minimalistic and the drogue itself is small enough to be stowed in its own day-pack sized bag. Instead of many cones, it uses one chute roughly the shape of a hot air balloon connected, on the bow end, to a beefy bale and at the stern, a tail line for the anchor weight.

So, why two drogues?

The two drogues represent two schools of thought regarding how a boat should ride out heavy weather. The JSD is commonly referred to as a “stopping drogue” and the Shark as a “slowing drogue.”

In short, once deployed, the JSD will bring boat speed down to 1 – 2 knots and keep the orientation of the boat stern to the seas. Lash the tiller, go below; you’re done (except do check for bridle chafe occasionally).

The Shark, on the other hand, reduces speed from, say, 7 knots down to 4 knots, which allows the boat to continue making way but in a controlled manner. Its adjustable bridle also allows the boat to be steered by the drogue if, for example, the rudder has been damaged or lost.

From my limited experience, in extreme conditions (an Indian Ocean gale with heavy gray beards), what I want most of all from a drogue is a guarantee that Mo stays at a roughly perpendicular orientation to the breaking sea. All the knockdown trouble we’ve had thus far has been due to a breaker catching Mo by the stern, turning her broadside and throwing her down. For this, it’s hard to imagine a better device than a JSD.

On the other hand, not all conditions in which one might want a drogue are like that. For example, during the week I hand steered Mo off our approach to Cape Horn and into the safety of Ushuaia, Argentina, I let Mo lie ahull at night in marginal conditions. This was because the JSD would have been too much work to deploy and retrieve every day of that week. Later we rode out a gale on the JSD just off the coast, but conditions were not extreme. In both cases, the Shark’s ease of use and steering characteristics would have made it an ideal solution.

In the *Shark Drogue Manual*,Zack Smith has written a very thorough review of both the Shark and concerns regarding to the JSD. Key among series drogue concerns is that the difficulty of deploying a series drogue often causes a skipper to delay deployment until the height of things, when such work is more difficult, even dangerous (yep, I’ve been there). Another issue is possible damage to the boat by the JSD due to the forces required to stop a boat in breaking seas (not an issue on Mo). And a third is that a stopped boat can easily take damaging breaking seas into the cockpit and over the boat (true, but in my experience, the oomph of a wave is not in the white water).

Based on Smith’s research, the answer, then, is a drogue that slows rather than stops the boat and allows the vessel to maintain control while working with the seas rather against them.

I love this answer, by the way. The JSD is a bear to handle. Though what it does, it does admirably, if there is a simpler solution, I’m all for it.

But what I’ve not yet gotten from Smith’s excellent booket is whether the Shark has the power to keep a boat under control in extreme conditions. When seas are steep and breaking and threatening to roll the boat, does the Shark have enough power to pull the boat back from the brink? At this point, I don’t know the answer.

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October 25, 2018

Day 21

Noon Position: 01 53N  133 40W

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

Wind(t/tws): ExS 15 – 18

Sea(t/ft): SE 5

Sky: Clear

10ths Cloud Cover: 0

Bar(mb): 1014, rising

Cabin Temp(f): 84

Water Temp(f): 79

Relative Humidity (%): 82

Sail: #2 genoa, one reef; main, one reef; close reach

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 136

Miles since departure: 2694

Avg. Miles/Day: 128

Let me disabuse you of your notion that trade wind sailing is all breezy fast and smooth as silk, that a week out of San Francisco you raise the spinnaker and don’t touch it until the lei-scented approach to Tahiti. That *might* be the case if Mo intended Tahiti, but she is, in fact, climbing her way south and driving hard into a stiff, steady trade and an earnest if contrary sea.

Hour after hour, she pitches high and slams down with a hull-rattling thud, a thud like thunder that portends to open her seams and will wake you with a stopped heart from the deepest of sleeps.   Immediately she drops into a trough, the rail digs up blue water, and the bow often throws its take all the way to the cockpit; Mo lurches once, twice, and then she charges on to do it again.

For two weeks, maybe more.

Steadying one’s self with three appendages at all times is required, and four is better, or one risks being flung across the entire boat. Pots on the already gimbaled stove must be locked in place or dinner ends up on the floor in the head. The peanut butter jar, left but briefly unminded on the counter makes a mad dash for my bunk. The flashlight, set on the floorboards so that one can reach for the screw diver, rolls into the bilge, as does the screwdriver when it is abandoned in an attempt to save the flashlight.

I’ll admit it, with a single reef in both working sails, I’m a wee over canvassed. Mo is heeled to the degree that there is more pressure on my back as I type than there is on my rear. But such is necessary when driving into such a sea. With less, Mo jumps up and down but lacks the oomph to accelerate after a knock.

Heaving or no, chores must progress. One of today’s was to stitch up the #1 reef strap for the main. This strap goes through the reef tack and has a ring on both ends, one of which is pulled down and slipped into the reef clip on the boom gooseneck when reefing. The first reef position gets the most use, and the strap appears to be showing it. The stitching is pulling apart. I thought it would be clever to do a stitch-up while the strap was in use, as it’s unlikely to come out of use any time soon. But the mast area proved quite wet today, and there was much less room to shove a needle around without pricking one’s face than I had thought. Still, got one good stitch in (red twine). More to come.

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October 24, 2018

Day 20

Noon Position: 0 21S  133 22W

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

Wind(t/tws): ExS 13

Sea: SE 3

Sky: Light Cumulus

10ths Cloud Cover: 2

Bar: 1013+, falling

Cabin Temp (f): 86

Water Temp (f): 80 (note big drop)

Relative Humidity (%): 68 (dry!)

Sail: #2 genoa full, main full, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 143

Miles since departure: 2558

Avg. Miles/Day: 128

It happened while I wasn’t looking. Somewhere around 3pm. While my head in a forward locker and Monte hummed softly at the tiller, Mo charged on across the equator, across the line, and didn’t tell a soul.

Monte: What is this? Is it your birthday?

Randall: (popping the cork) No, we crossed the line this last hour. Congratulations. (Takes a pull and hands the bottle to Monte)

Monte: Senior, that we are successful at crossing the street on the way to the market is no reason to open champagne. We will cross many streets…

Randall: Sparkling wine. And sure it is. We’re shellbacks. Not everyone can say that.

Monte: Not everyone can be a sailor just like not everyone…

Randall: Sourpuss! I’ll take the bottle back when you’re done.

Shellbacked, an old square rigger’s term for sailors who had crossed the equator. For me it is a term of highest romance. And for all his ill temper, I later noted Monte fingering the tattoo of a tortoise on his left shoulder, next to which are eighteen hash marks. Hard to imagine that. I’ve only been across four, now five, times. I don’t yet even qualify for a tattoo.

We’re a bit faster this trip. Last November 20th, Mo and I we crossed the line on the way to Cape Horn after 24 days at sea. Granted, we were at 127W, not 133W, but that will be dealt with in time.

Winds are quite light this afternoon. The sea gently rolls. Clouds are too lazy even to form. I’ve yawned twice after the wine. Might be an early night.

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October 23, 2018

Day 19

Noon Position: 02 42N 132 59W

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

Wind(t,tws): SExE 14-18

Sea: SE 5

Sky: Light, white cumulus

10ths Cloud Cover: 4

Bar: 1012+, falling

Cabin Temp (f): 84

Water Temp (f): 83

Relative Humidity (%): 71

Sail: one reef in the #2 genoa, one reef in the main, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 147

Miles since departure: 2415

Avg. Miles/Day: 127

Monte: Senior, please, this thing you are doing, this I think maybe is singing…

Randall: (startled from some work on deck) What? Was I singing?

Monte: It is sort of singing, possibly, if you take away the need for carrying of the tune. But my question is can you esplain me what is it, the song?

Randall: I don’t know. I’ll have to think. Ah, yes, Fiddler on the Roof, “If I Were a Rich Man.” It goes like … (starts to sing).

Monte: Yes, yes, I’ve heard it, lovely, most kind, deeply enjoyable. But can you esplain me the song. Why is it you now want to be rich. Yesterday you just wanted to sleep. You want many things.

Randall: I dunno. Contended, I guess.

Monte: You want to be rich because you are contented?

Randall: No, I mean it feels like we’ve made it over the first of many hurdles–we’re through the damned doldrums at last. We’re finally in clean, clear breezes that are going east ahead of schedule; the sky is blue and open. There was a tropic bird earlier. We might even cross the equator tomorrow. Things are going our way. Oh, there’s a song… (starts to sing).

Monte: (clasps hands over ears) Oh, forgive me, but I think a fly has got in my head, let me try to trap him. (Randall stops singing; Monte removes hands) No, I was mistaken. It was not a fly. But my question…this all makes you want to be rich?

Randall: Na, that’s just a happy song from childhood. In matter of fact, I think we’re pretty rich right now, don’t you think?

Monte: Yes, yes, it reminds me of a saying we have in my country …”When you wake up in a barrel of money, don’t sneeze.”

Randall: Ah. Hmm. We just say, “We’re in the money.”

Joanna recently forwarded a few questions/comments from the Figure 8 site. As you may know, I don’t have access to the interntet while at sea but am occasionally sent some of your remarks, and thank you very much for the interest.

From Howard and Stephanie – We were struck by the crossed genoa sheets on the great pic taken from forward. Would you explain why they are crossed? (back to southing post)

Answer: Hey Howard and Steph, those are the foreguys for the genoa poles. The control line starts in the cockpit, runs up the deck to a turning block near the bow and then crosses over to the pole on the other side. So, the port foreguy controls the starboard genoa pole. You seen them crossed on deck because I usually leave them attached to the poles and ready for deployment when not in use. Thanks for following along.

From Chuck Fulton – In your photo I see what appears to be reef points in the main, but no reefing lines in them. Do you have another way of securing the foot of your mainsail while reefed?

Answer: Hey Chuck, Mo has a pretty standard jiffy reef system on the main; that is, the reef tack attaches to a clip at the gooseneck and the reef clew is brought down to the boom by a line attached to the boom end. This line runs up through the clew, back to a block on the boom, and then inside the boom and up to the gooseneck. There I take the line to a winch and haul away. When the clew is nice and snug, the jiffy reef line applies some aft-ward tension to the foot of the sail; so, the reef cringles you see don’t need to be tied down.

And to Ben Shaw, thanks for the nice comments about the OCC and the Annapolis Boat Show. Glad Matt and Andy are interested. Maybe we can do a podcast while I’m underway (AFTER Cape Horn success). Best to the family, especially the wee ones.

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October 22, 2018

Day 18

Noon Position: 04 57N 132 00W

Course/Speed: SSW 6+

Wind: SExE 16

Sea: SSE 4+

Sky: Dry Cumulus (Squalls in the afternoon)

10ths Cloud Cover: 3 (afternoon, 7)

Bar: 1013+, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 88

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Percent Relative Humidity: 66

Sail: #2 genoa full, main 1 reef, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 106

Miles since departure: 2268

Avg. Miles/Day: 126

Another bizarre weather night after a day that suggested we were finally in the south. During the day, steady winds SSE to 15. After dinner and just as I was about to start sleeping, flat calm and heavy cloud. By midnight it was pelting rain and blowing smartly from the north.

I repeat, north.

Then it blew from the west.

Then it rained.

All night was like that.

By dawn, all done. Squalls cleared away and we were left with a sky of light cumulus, an open blue ocean, and a stiff breeze from the SExE…which we have made every effort to use fully so as to get below whatever evil sneaks into these parts when the sun goes down.

Among other things, I’d like a good day’s run and good night’s sleep.

On a practical note, I have no idea what the weather driver is for such phenomena. How can the day be clear and full of trade-wind promise (see attached video from a couple hours ago) and the night a chaos of contrary wind and rain. Three nights running.

As I type, a line of squalls to windward.

I’ll let you know tomorrow.

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October 21, 2018

Day 17

Noon Position: 06 28N 131 06W

Course/Speed: SW 4

Wind: SSE 10

Sea: S E W at 4; a real mashup of lumpiness left over from the night.

Sky: Overcast and squally

10ths Cloud Cover: 9

Bar: 1013, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 88

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Percent Relative Humidity: 74

Sail: #2 genoa, main, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 41

Miles since departure: 2162

Avg. Miles/Day: 127

The short story, “Make Westing,” by Jack London, is about a ship beating her way around Cape Horn into the Pacific. Day after day, week after week, the ship claws forward and is driven back, claws forward and is driven back, by the strong and changeable winds of the south. Ostensibly, the story is about this rounding, but in fact, it is about the captain, who becomes obsessed, even the point of murder, with getting his ship to *make westing.*

We are only trying to beat out of the doldrums, but days of this later, I feel a strong sympathy for this captain.

Yesterday grew clear in the afternoon; the wind, steady. I shot the moon and the sun for a fix. I had a beer, made a curry dinner and then watched the night come on with the satisfaction, again, that we’d made it into the trades.

But somewhere late in the evening cloud took the sky and we were overrun by a squall of rain so heavy I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it. The wind jammed us hard but then backed off a tick, and I thought, “it’s a squall; it’ll blow over quickly.” I eased the main, a fisherman’s reef, and let her ride.

But hour after hour the rain whipped and the wind increased, then eased, then increased again. I sat up with the boat as she churned her way slowly SW, then WSW, then SW again. I kept her pointed as close as could; there is no getting below this mess except by getting south of it.

The main complained, dumped and filled. Finally, at midnight I took a reef. At 3am I took another. Mo dove into the seas. Rain and spray ran through my foulies. I sat on a towel in the pilot house and napped but couldn’t give up my post. We must make southing.

At 5am, the squall moderated to showers. The wind steadied into the SSE, and I went to my bunk feeling vindicated; we’d held our course; we’d punched through.

An hour later, I came on deck to find Mo running off to the NW. The wind, not satisfied with our overnight bashing, decided to steal, unobserved, into the SW and pull us back to the N. We’d lost in an hour what it took three hours to gain overnight.

I tacked off to the E.

At noon we’d made 41 miles of southing for our 140 miles sailed.

I’ve never had such trouble getting out of the blessed damned doldrums and into clear air.

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October 20, 2018

Day 16

Noon Position: 07 02N 130 42W

Course/Speed: E 5

Wind: S 12

Sea: S 3

Sky: Squalls of rain

10ths Cloud Cover: 5

Bar: 1012+, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 88 (got up to 91 at one point)

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 83

Percent Relative Humidity: 74

Sail: Big genoa and main, full, close reach.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 77

Miles since departure: 2121

Avg. Miles/Day: 133

According to my log from the first Figure 8 attempt, it took 18 days of sailing to get to yesterday’s rough latitude of 7 30N. It took only 15 days this time around. However, we are 7 degrees, about 417 miles, further west of last year’s position of 122 40W. Getting around hurricane Sergio had a cost.

With that in mind, I’ve been looking for opportunities to grab back some easting. I thought I had one this moring. Wind had slowly backed to just W of S and then suddenly went SW. I put Mo about and we took off SE. A straight shot to the Horn. Woohoo!

Then the wind shifted and our course was ESE, then ExS, then E; then a touch N of E. I waited. Our course rose. Then the wind died. Rain.

So much rain I could fill my water bottle from the sail cover spigot as if filling from one of those vending machines at the airport. Then I washed head. Still it rained. So I took a full shower under the spigot. Still it rained.

We drifted for a couple of hours. Then the wind went back to its now usual direction, SSE. So, off we go making more westing.

I’m not good enough with navigational triangles to know how much it will really matter. Cape Horn is still at least 5,000 miles off. Imagine a line from 7 30N 130W to the Horn and one from 7 30N 122W to the Horn. Is there enough of a difference to sneeze at? It’s not like I’m trying to get to a wedding.

The question is how much further west will we go? Last year we were headed due south by 129W. This year the SE trades look decidedly less helpful to sailors wishing to point their boats poleward.

I’ve re-rigged Monte’s control line, brining it into the cockpit where I can reach it and make course adjustments without departing the protection of the pilot house. For years, the line has been attached to the stansions, outboard of everything, necessitating one climb fully out of the pilot house and nearly the cockpit to pull the line. Nothing wrong with that, as several circumnavigations will attest. But the convenience of being able to make course adjustments in really foul, wet weather without having to get suited up or risk a drenching … I look forward to it.

Last of the bananas, now rotten, over the side. I’d intended to take two large green bunches. Somehow, I ended up with three. I just couldn’t keep up.

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October 19, 2018

Day 15

Noon Position: 07 49N  129 41W

Course/Speed: SWxW 5

Wind: SSE 10

Sea: S 4

Sky: Squalls and Altocumulus, Rain

10ths Cloud Cover: 10

Bar: 1013, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 83

Percent Relative Humidity: 77

Sail: #2 genoa; main, close hauled

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 95 (Our lowest mileage day this leg.)

Miles since departure: 2043

Avg. Miles/Day: 136

Light and variable overnight with heavy squalls of rain. I motored due south. It was either that or heave to. By morning, a usable wind. I made sail before coffee.

I’d say that by all appearances we’re out of it, beyond the gasping, sickly-hot reach of the doldrums. All day wind has been steady, if light, from just E of S. The sky is mostly blue; the squalls on the horizon are not so dark. The air feels dryer, and the water temperature has gone down one click.

But the forecast declares otherwise. A blob lays ahead of us, it says. But for the moment, I get to feel like we’ve pushed through to the (decidedly south) SE trades.

Just after dawn, a ship, the Ocean Echo, making 11 knots and dead for us. We’ve not seen many ships since getting below Panama, but each seems to have had a point of approach close enough to need attention. I fell off, and ever so slowly we passed.

Then, once our courses began to diverge…

“Moli, Moli…Ocean Echo.”

“Ocean Echo, Moli.”

“Hello. Good morning. You are a sailboat?” The voice was soft, even diffident, and carried an accent I did not recognize.

I don’t call ships. It feels presumptive–like yelling into a construction site just to shoot the breeze with the foreman. But I’m pleased when they call me.

“Yes. A sailboat. A sloop. Aluminum. 45 feet.”

“And…um…how there is room in such a…is there room?”

Ocean Echo is a bulk carrier. At 500 feet on deck, she’s small compared to the 1200 foot container ships common further north, but from her bridge deck, Mo must have been so tiny as to be difficult to see–even at our closest, 1.5 miles–a gray hull on a gray ocean, a mere spec being flung about by seas whose impact Ocean Echo didn’t notice.

I explained the room, the year’s stores; when departed and where, the destination.

“Oh. Ok. And your course. It is moving…very much. You do not steer…?”

I explained small ship, big sea and being steered by a wind device.”

“Oh. Ok. And your crew. How many are your crew?”

I explained I was “Singlehanding. Solo. Alone.”

“Oh. Ok.”

I feel a kinship with the mariners on these big vessels, at least after it becomes clear their behemoth isn’t going to run me down. The guys on Ocean Echo are 10 days out of Lima, Peru headed for Nindge, China with a heavy load of recyclables (I think); it’ll be two weeks before they make port. Long ocean passages, they understand. It’s what they do.

But I forget that my sense of a shared passion, of a common pursuit, is in my own head. The big ship guys haven’t the foggiest notion about sailboats. Likely they regard the crossing of oceans on such small, delicate craft–and without pay!–as incomprehensible, utter lunacy.

None have been so impolite as to say so, but the questions suggest it. For example, no bridge officer has yet responded to my answers with, “Oh, that sounds like fun.”

Evening. Wind is light from SSE. But the sea is large and lumpy, and Mo can’t get up the speed to point better than 60 degrees off the wind. Our heading is SW when our goal (Cape Horn) is SE. If I sail on, I sail away from our destination and risk sailing into a blob of calm, but at least I make some southing. If I tack, I’ll make east but no south and risk sailing back into the belt of calm. Such are the options of sailboats.

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October 18, 2018

Day 14

Noon Position: 09 24N 129 34W

Course/Speed: S 5

Wind: NNW 6

Sea: S 5

Sky: Complex cloudy sky. Squally.

10ths Cloud Cover: 9

Bar: 1013

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 88

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Percent Relative Humidity: 70

Sail: Motoring.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 102

Miles since departure: 1948

Avg. Miles/Day: 139

This is the realm of the cloud.

The whole-horizon photos included here are from just after sun-up. Each is taken toward a different cardinal point so that the entire sky can be seen in one moment. What struck me was the complexity of it. Is there a single cloud type not represented?

As for Mo and me, we are slowly working our way through the doldrums, this happy land of clouds and not much wind. The last part of the night and the morning were calm, the water heaving but glassy, and much of our time then was under power. In the afternoon, dark squalls formed whose size was that of ancient cities. Black rain columns were the parapets. Some of these seemed to produce their own wind, though they were stationary, and we glided around two in the afternoon, taking wind from the west at 10 knots, then wind from the NE at 8.

Nothing holds for long.

Often the base wind is 4 knots, easy enough to glide on if the water were flat. It is anything but. The seas from two hemispheres colide here, and Mo rolls and the rig whaps around. It takes a good 6 knots of wind to keep the sails full and quiet.

So we piecemeal our southing out of here-a-breeze, there-a-breeze, and in between we motor.

Unfortunately, the forecast suggests that wind will keep retreating just before us until about 6N, where the SE Trades should begin in earnest.

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October 17, 2018

Day 13

Noon Position: 10 16N 131 04W

Course/Speed: ESE 5

Wind: S 12

Sea: S 4

Sky: Cumulus and a layer of stratus above

10ths Cloud Cover: 9

Bar: 1013+

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 83

Percent Relative Humidity: 76

Sail: #2 genoa, full; main full, close hauled to starboard

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 129

Miles since departure: 1846

Avg. Miles/Day: 142

I was working below. Then the rain started and the wind accelerated to 20 knots. Mo was flying her working sail full; we’d been close hauled for hours, trying to make southing in this sudden south wind.

Mo laid right over and then Monte naturally put her into a riding position that spilled much of the wind. The effect was almost that of being hove too. Our speed, which had been seven knots, slowed to four. If I’d been asleep, I may not even have noted the change.

It’ll pass in a jiffy, I thought. It’s what squalls do. So, I didn’t move to reef either sail.

At about this time, came a visitor. Another boobie looking for a place to sit and preen. Again, as a nod to his kind, he chose his position badly. The solar panel perch acted like the ice of a skating rink beneath his pink feet, and he slipped around, a sensation clearly new to him.

The wind stayed steady and the water simply poured out of the sky.

For over an hour.

With no change to wind velocity or water density, except a heavy chop has set in.

So, you’ve sailed a bit and you think you’ve seen some weather. But always there is more you haven’t seen.

It has passed now, but I see another one coming. So will keep this short.

Mo and I got boisterous southerlies just after dawn. We’re try to use them to get a little easting in before tacking around and carrying them out and all the way around as they slowly back into the SE and carry us to the southern horse latitudes. But for this to work, I need to make a bit of south as I east. So far, all I’m getting is east. Feels like riding along a wall that bars one’s path.

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October 15, 2018

Day 11

Noon Position: 14 50N 132 30W

Course/Speed: SxE 7+

Wind: NE+ 20 (later NExE to 21)

Sea: NE 5

Sky: Close packed, low cumulus; some cirrus

10ths Cloud Cover: 7

Bar: 1016, rising

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 82

Percent Relative Humidity: 68

Sail: #2 genoa, one reef; main, one reef; reaching.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 154

Miles since departure: 1557

Avg. Miles/Day: 142

Under a sky of tradewind cumulus, Mo is burning up the road.

Wind was a steady 15 all night and has been steady at 20 all day. Mo takes this flat on the beam and flies, or does a damned pleasing imitation of flying for a heavy, flightless bird.

Since noon to now, 5pm, we are averaging (I say, averaging) 7.5 knots over the ground. Long pulls of 8 and 9 knots on the chart plotter make me smile. In fact, the only thing slowing us down, other than the physics of wetted surfaces, is the sea that’s running. It’s got up to 6 feet and shoves Mo off her mark occasionally.

But beyond the sea, Monte is having an easy time of it. The tiller hardly moves as we bee-line south, and I believe the famous pilot is getting in more napping than he’ll ever admit to. As evidence, this: when he nods off, his pipe falls from his mouth and usually finds its way into his boot. Typically, the smell of smoke follows, then some screaming. The pipe is retrieved, the fire put out, the pipe is re lit, and the cycle repeats.

While Monte has been at the tiller, I shot the moon and sun together for a fix … for the first time. The “ghostly galleon” is waxing but in her first quarter phase, and with the high hazy cirrus, her upper limb made a difficult grab. Took half an hour to work up the shots (21 steps for the moon, 17 for the sun) and half an hour to find the error that put Mo in Kansas, but the result was to within five miles by the end of it. Not bad for a first go.

Then I got a good bath with yesterday’s rain water, and for lunch, ate the last of the store-bought bread. Bread, cheese, red pepper spread, a delicious sandwich. Now its crackers or baking…

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October 14, 2018

Day 10

Noon Position: 17 23N 132 43W

Course/Speed: 0

Wind: 0

Sea: NE 3, E 2, SE 4, sloppy little mess.

Sky: Overcast and squally. Rain.

Bar: 1016, rising

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 79

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 79

Percent Relative Humidity: 81

Sail: All down. Effecting repair on main.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 118

Avg. Miles/Day: 141

Miles since departure: 1409

My “wind to take us to the doldrums” faded away overnight. In the wee hours, the dark and winking sky, where I’d charted Pegasus and Andromeda and Cygnus, clouded over. At dawn, the light NE wind was hot and oozy, and to the east was a monstrous looking squall.

The squall kept pace with us all morning, only inching closer over hours. But by noon, we were in the belly of the beast. Rain. No visibility. And as if to defy all that is right and good, our already zephyrous wind died away. Mo heaved. The main slatted. Bam.

Then I heard what sounded like hail on the coach roof.

It was not hail, and it was not unexpected. For two days, I’d found tiny fragments of black plastic on deck. I knew something was about to fail, but I’d not been able to suss what it was.

What it was: One of the main batten cars had burst, sprinkling its black bearings on deck.

First thought: God-damned middle latitude variables! Harder on gear than the Southern Ocean.

Second thought: Well, that’s it. No more main sail for the duration.

Third thought: No, that won’t do.

The broken car had pulled off the track and hung there at the first set of spreaders, about 25 feet off the deck. After a quick ponder, a short-term fix seemed easy enough, especially in what was now a flat calm.

I lowered the sail, removed the broken car (the plastic bearing keeper had split) and then undid the sail from the cars below this point. Then I moved all the free cars up one spot, effectively making the lowest sail attach point free rather than the attach point at the spreaders.

The reason for doing this was that a) the broken car was at a batten point, which really must have a car’s support, and b) bag in the sail aloft will surely snag a mast step at an awkward moment. Having bag down low is easier to manage.

This all took an hour, by which time wind had got up to near NE 20. I reset sails, and we were off.

This mast car and track system is a thing of beauty, but it suffers from overcomplexity. That is, there’s no jury rigging it once it’s broke. Once below, I had a scan of available parts in at The Hardware Store (locker A6 in the forepeak) and found, to my joy, some previous owner (Tony Gooch) had anticipated this need. The bearing keeper and at least a few bearings were in stock. Great, because I failed to acquire this spare, though it had been on the list.

All that will have to wait our next calm. Which I bet won’t be long in coming.

The rain gave me a chance to test my new water catchment system, which is nothing more than two small, plastic through-hulls installed into the main sail cradle cover. Got about ten gallons in 15 minutes. This batch tastes a bit of dacron but will be good for washing.

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October 13, 2018

Day 9

Noon Position: 19 20N 132 38W

Course/Speed: S 5

Wind: NNE 7 – 10 (NE 10 – 14 by mid afternoon)

Sea: NE 4, SE 4 (Both are rolling in from somewhere else)

Sky: Mostly clear. Some puffy cumulus.

Bar: 1018, rising.

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 84

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 79

Percent Relative Humidity: 59

Sail: Asymmetrical spinnaker and main. Port broad reach.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 101

Avg. Miles/Day: 143

Miles since departure: 1291

That billowing white cloud in front of us, aka the spinnaker, has been flying since noon yesterday and still is. All night it led the way, even when winds dropped to a whisper and the sea became glassy. Our 101 miles noon-to-noon are nothing to write home about, but that we did so well with so little is pleasing.

Today the mood is changing. Winds are up from the NE and have remained forthright and steady for several hours. Another indicator: the thin cumulus clouds are beginning to tower and lean, a sign of wind aloft. A different weather pattern is setting in, and with luck, this may be the wind that carries us all the way to the doldrums.

So now what is the strategy? We’re entering what I’d consider the hurricane danger zone. Though I was worried about Sergio, in our, then, latitude, winds were strong and cool from the north, and the water was also cool. It would have been an uphill battle for Sergio to reach us.

But temperatures are steadily rising. Today’s high of 84 was nearly ten degrees higher than three days ago. And in the interim, water temparatures have jumped to just shy of 80 degrees. It’s only going to get hotter as we make southing, and hurricanes love it hot.

Though the forecasts don’t show anything in the cooker for a week, I think it would be wise not to dawdle between here and about 10N, where we’ll pick up the SE trades. That 9 degrees of latitude can be got through in five days or less if we keep moving straight down.

That’s option one: keep heading due south.

Option two is to use this NE wind to grab a little easting. Sergio pushed us west a bit and the first few hundred miles of the SE trades will do likewise. Why not use these NE winds to get some of that back. Drop the big sail and take these brisk breezes on a reach to the SE. After all, we’re not attempting a westabout of Cape Horn.

If winds ease tonight as they have recently, I may ride the big white cloud one more cycle and decide in the morning.

Ate the first apple today. A nice treat in the heat of the day!

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October 12, 2018

Day 8

Noon Position: 21 00N 132 22W

Course/Speed: S 5+

Wind: NNE 7 – 10

Sea: NE 3

Sky: Clear.

Bar: 1700, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 82

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 76

Percent Relative Humidity: 61

Sail: Asymmetrical spinnaker and main, portside broad reach

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 101

Avg. Miles/Day: 148

Miles since departure: 1180

All night, the main slapped and banged its frustration as Mo lolled in a lazy, hand-me-down swell. As the hours of dark played out, the cloud cleared away. I could see Orion there above the mast and Sirius winking as if in code. But still the wind only exhaled to its bitter end, and by dawn we had four knots of nothing from the north.

By mid-morning, however, wind had filled in. It even felt fresh. I raised the spinnaker by way of a dare, which the wind took, and since then we’ve been riding a light breeze, unprecedented in its desire to remain steady.

Nothing seems more improbable than a spinnaker. From appearances, so fragile–a piece of gossamer tacked into the sky by three corners–but it floats there hour after hour as if a thing immobile, a piece of Sinbad’s flying shell or a fragment of the celestial sphere made manifest. It is mesmerizing to watch, and Mo too is caught up in the spell, for she isn’t pulled forward by the sail so much as she is compelled to follow.

The sail has imbued the day with a sense of wonder. With wind enough to loft us, the sea is again beautiful and as I gaze out over the empty ranges, empty save for a scattering sparkle of flying fish here and the white swoosh of a tropic bird there, I am reminded of Steven Callahan’s description of ocean as a “big blue desert.” That’s only fitting in these middle latitudes, but it is perfectly fitting. Here lives timelessness. Here, it has been like this forever.

Romance to one side, the rest of the day has been more practical in focus. Like making sure I know what time it is, in fact.

I recently received the following warning:

“The National Weather Service Marine Storm Warning announcements, broadcast on WWV and WWVH since 1971 will be discontinued after October 31, 2018. NIST radio station WWV broadcasts time and frequency information 24 hours per day, 7 days per week to millions of listeners worldwide.”

This is bad news for navigators who need to know the time exactly. Sure, my chart plotter uses precise GMT for its functions, but I’ve found its time *display* to be frustratingly unstable. Thus, for WWV broadcasts, I’ve been relying on an small, inexpensive Eton single sideband radio from Celestaire (www.celestaire.com), the makers of my sextant and other astro-nav kit. The radio can faintly pick up WWV on the 10000 kHz band with just the built-in, extendable antenna, but (note photo) clipping the antenna to the backstay makes the broadcast clear as a bell.

Thus, in preparation for the loss of WWV, I’ve started a time gain/loss study of the ship’s chronometers, a collection of cheap (under $50) Timex quarts wrist watches. Knowing their gain/loss rates will allow me to stay “on time” without WWV or the chart plotter.

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October 11, 2018

Day 7

Noon Position: 22 40N 132 40W

Course/Speed: S 4

Wind: NNE 8

Sea: NNE 4

Sky: Cear. Cumulus on all horizons but none here.

Bar: 1016, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 77

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 75

Percent Relative Humidity: 67

Sail: Both genoas poled out, third day. Main with three reefs amidships to dampen rolling.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 126

Avg. Miles/Day: 154

Miles since departure: 1,079 (A thousand miles a week is all we ask!)

“I’m glad to see you talking to Monte again,” said my wife in this morning’s note, “because that bit of crazy must mean you’re getting your sea legs. ”

Indeed. Today makes a week at sea, and I’m pretty much back in the groove.

By way of celebrating said groove, I put a message in a bottle and tossed it over the side. A first for me. Thank you Jim Walter for the wine the bottle *had* contained.

Other than date and coordinates, the message reads, “Tell my wife I love her and to get the leaves off the roof before it rains.” Given wind and current patterns here (1,265 nm W of Cabo San Lucas), I’ll be surprised if this one ever washes up.

I’ve done a one-week inventory of the fresh fruit and vegetables aboard. The only veg I brought was five heads of cabbage. That’s it. I am terrible at managing fresh vegetables at sea and have finally figured out that in a voyage of many months … why bother if you don’t want to.

Fruit is a different story. The larder holds two flats of apples, two big bags of oranges, and three bunches of green bananas. The bananas are going yellow all at once, as is their want–no news there. But I was surprised to find that one bag of oranges was half rotten. I wasn’t planning on eating them until the doldrums, as they should have lasted at least a month. Quite the disappointment.

Wind has backed off considerably over the last 24 hours, and it simply refuses to veer fully into the NE as per forecast. At 8 knots of wind, all Mo does is roll and all the poled-out genoas do is bark, so I’ve pulled them and put us on a port tack broad reach. New heading: SE.

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October 10, 2018

Day 6

Noon Position: 24 43N 132 13W

Course/Speed: SxW 6

Wind: NxE 7 – 12

Sea: NNE 6+

Sky: Mostly clear

Bar: 1016, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 75

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 74

Percent Relative Humidity: 69

Sail: Both genoas poled out; they take wind on port quarter.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 144

Avg. Miles/Day: 159

Miles since departure: 953

Sergio is on his way toward Baja, which opens the gate south. And if that wasn’t enough good news, we now have brilliant sun.

Suddenly, the sea is a living jewel, an undulating, sparkling sapphire under an azure sky, and I think to myself, if we must have a heaven, this would do nicely.

The wind, however, remains unabashedly inconsistent. Now from a touch W of N; then swinging all the way to NE; then back. Now 8 knots; half an hour later and it’s blowing 17. And the swells rolling through are not from here; some bigger blow up north made them.

Monte (my Monitor windvane) has been steering since W of the Farallon Islands, and lately his course fails the straightness test as he follows this snaky wind.

Monte: Whoa! I steer most beautiful-like. Porque this insult?

Randall: Hey, no criticism. You tend to favor wind direction as your guide is all. So our course these last couple days wanders back and forth a bit. That’s all.

Monte: Why all this talk of straight, Senior? Why? Look out there. Do you see one straight thing before you? No, not at all. All is with curve: the waves and the waves inside the waves, the clouds and the clouds within them, the shape of the sail, the hull of the boat, your cabbages. Even the horizon, which he looks a little flat, is a round. We follow the wind because she knows the way; she knows her way around. (Monte says the last bit slowly and with emphasis and then breaks into laughter.) Ah. Whee. Whaa. I am very good today.

By the way, Senior, you seem better.

Randall: Better?

Monte: Yes. On the first few days, you were not yourself. You did not see the beauty; only the loneliness and the very long way ahead and no comfortable bed next to your wife. Now you seem … like you are one of us again.

Randall: Leaving can be tough. We weren’t home long…

Monte: …long enough for me. After a time my Seniorita she starts talking about making plans; then I know it is time to go.

Randall: …and the South will be difficult, as we now know from experience. I have a different plan, but is it the right plan? Did I prepare well. Am I strong enough.? Do I have the will to make it non-stop to the North? And the North, gah; I just want to get there…then we’ll see.

Monte: You only have to want it and to be ready. The rest will take care of itself because the rest you cannot control. In the mean time, I am pleased to be again your famous Portolano. Now, if you will leave the steering to me, I would be most obliged!

And so I have.

Mo has been a smoother ride since I put her before the wind. So on to some hygiene chores, like a shave and a haircut.

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October 9, 2018

Day 5

Noon Position: 27 06N 131 53W

Course/Speed: S 6+

Wind: NExN 12 – 17

Sea: NE 8 – 10

Sky: Overcast. No sun shots today.

Bar: 1017+, falling (1015 by 6pm)

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 72

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 71

Percent Relative Humidity: 71

Sail: Both genoas poled out and swung to starboard; wind dead on port quarter.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 153

Avg. Miles/Day: 162

Miles since departure: 809

I should have suspected something right away.

The bird, a drab-colored boobie, began landing protocol at dusk. He circled Mo rapidly thrice and then came in with a flurry at the port lower shroud. This would have been a poorly chosen and uncomfortable perch if he’d made his mark, but instead he crashed bodily into the wire as Mo swung sideways down a sea.

Rendered momentarily flightless by the shock, he fell like a flailing, dirty rag into the main sail cover, which attaches to the boom and opens upward. Wing and tail tips, all that were visible above the cover’s rim, fought around for a bit, and then went still. He’d realized he was in luck. His accidental perch was all sail cloth and as soft as pillows.

I watched the action from the cockpit and was half willing to leave him be except that boobies are messy guests, and the main sail, though on its second circumnavigation, is still mostly white. I let him rest for a moment and then shook him back into the air.

Finally, he settled for his night’s accommodations on the bow. He experimented with the guys and sheets for a time, but in this brisk northerly, none held still long enough to be relaxing. Finally the bird simply sat squat on the anchor locker lid, where he immediately tucked his head and went to sleep.

Now was my opportunity. I crept close and gave him a good look. None of his markings were distinct enough to tell me his species. Moreover, he seemed pretty small and thin for a boobie, and his feathers were all ahoo, and his left wing dragged. It was clear to me his name was Scraggle; all else was a mystery.

By this time, it was almost dark. I switched on the running lights and went below to cook dinner. Luckily for Scraggle, the wind remained constant overnight; no sail changes or even adjustments were needed. He rested without interruption, as did I.

The dragging wing and general sense of dishevel was one clue. Another was that in the morning, I rose before Scraggle even noted it was light out, and I was not up early. When he did pull his head back into the day, he was in no apparent hurry for breakfast either. In a leisurely and curious way he examined the large genoa as it billowed and snapped in the wind. He turned and looked up the mast and took a long gander at the poles. I half expected some commentary on my sail trim when he finally stood and hobbled to the weather rail.

Here, Scraggle perched on the furling line for a time. Then he climbed to the toe rail. Then he examined the life line above him, and it was evident he intended a try for that higher perch when a wave gave Mo a peculiar shove from astern. The bow dipped unexpectedly and Scraggle lost his footing. He fell into the sea, and I watched as he thrashed in Mo’s wake before achieving the air.

One would expect that once in flight, once Scaggle’s wings lifted him skyward and his lungs filled with the freshness of a new day, his stomach would have compelled him to get on the hunt. Not Scraggle. He circled thrice and landed right back where he’d started, on the toe rail near the bow, now facing inward.

Only then did I notice that Scraggle had not left me with the parting gift that is customary of his kind. The deck was utterly clean. Scraggle’s stomach had been empty when he joined us the night before.

Again, his grip was unsure. Within a minute, Mo took another faster wave and lurched; again, Scraggle lost his footing and fell into the sea. This time I did not see him in the water as Mo rushed by. I did not see him bobbing on the surface well astern. I searched and searched but did not see him in the air. I did not see him again.

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October 8, 2018

Day 4

Noon Position: 29 21N 130 33W

Course/Speed: SSW 6

Wind: NNE to NE 15 – 18

Sea: NNE to 10

Sky: Overcast with drizzle

Bar: 1020, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 72

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 69

Percent Relative Humidity: 74

Sail: Both genoas poled out; Mo is running dead downwind.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 166

Avg. Miles/Day: 656

Miles since departure: 164

Navigation alarms woke me at 2am.

I jumped into the pilot house to examine the chart plotter, which, in night vision mode, was really too dim to distinguish anything except that that it was on. And, in my rush, I’d forgotten my glasses. Imagine the bleep bleep bleep of alarms loud enough to call up firemen from sleep and a half naked man pressing his eyes close to of the a small screen. Searching. To no avail.

I returned to the salon, grabbed a shirt and glasses, and pushed the power button on the plotter. Ah. A little more brightness revealed the source of the alarm, a ship heading NW on a tight intercept, the Queen Kobe. She was listed simply as a “Cargo Vessel,” but I imagined her hold stuffed with expensive beef, beef that, given her meager 10 knots of way, she didn’t mind aging a bit enroute.

Such slow speed is unusual in a merchant vessel of size; fifteen to twenty knots is more the norm, so our intercept only very slowly intercepted. Then there was the fact that winds had increased to a steady 30 knots. With a double reefed main and #2 genoa, Mo was a bit over-canvased and made a crazy path through the ten-foot seas. One minute our closest point of approach to Kobe was 5 miles; the next it was 1.7. Nothing for it but to stay up to ensure that these vessels inching towards each other never, in fact, met.

Finally Kobe’s two white lights moved to starboard. By now it was nearly 4am. I put another reef in the main and slept until sunup without interruption.

Wind has veered more into the east, and I’ve let it push Mo to a course with more west in it than south. Our tack is a fast one, and westing on hurricane Sergio is not a bad thing. But the early morning and then the late morning weather forecast showed Sergio starting to make his turn toward Baja, so after the noon sight, I doused the main and put Mo before the wind with both genoas poled out. By now winds had dropped to 15 knots, and with both sails clouding out and full, Mo raced on.

What a pleasure to run before the wind in such a manner. Mo rolls gently like the ship that she is; she slides down the cresting seas throwing a roaring white wake while inside all is quite as a church.

I spent the afternoon at light chores, coming in for a snack or a rest when squalls brought drizzle; returning when the sun came out.

With Sergio heading east (and long my he continue to do so), Mo should have two more days of good wind. Will use them to press south.

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October 7, 2018

Day 3

Noon Position: 30 49N 127 50W

Course/Speed: SW 7 – 8

Wind: NNE 19 – 25

Sea: NW 10

Sky: Partly Cloudy

Bar: 1021, falling

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 73

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 67

Percent Relative Humidity: 66

Sail: #2 genoa, three reefs; Main, 2 reefs; wind starboard quarter

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 172 (Yes, second day of better than 7 knots per hour for a 24-hour run.)

Avg. Miles/Day: 163

Miles since departure: 490

Even though no ships woke me and no sail changes were required, I slept fitfully.

Overnight winds veered into the N, wandering between NxE and NNE with velocities between 25 and 30 knots. I let Mo run off more toward the west with wind on starboard quarter, and now that she took the mature NW swell on the beam, the movement below was less than somnific. There was only one position–supine, legs splayed–that kept me from being tossed like a sack of potatoes. I began sleeping right after dinner and was thoroughly done with trying by 3am.

At last, a bright, sunny morning. One flying fish on deck. (Is it me, or does it seem we’re too far north for this species as yet?) One roaming immature boobie searching Mo’s wake. One large storm petrel. Beyond that the ocean is an empty plain, a vast blue boulder garden through which one small, gray boat shoulders her way with confidence and some speed.

These are fast days, but I fear by mid week we will experience an ocean of a different sort; that is, calm. So far the strategy of rounding hurricane Sergio to the west appears to be working. Confirmation will come tomorrow or the day after when he follows forecast and heads for Baja. After that, from here to the line looks a big blank.

Breakfast this week is store-bought bread, jam and peanut butter; lunch is bread and cheese; dinner, the usual one-pot wonder. Last night, spaghetti with canned ground beef, canned tomato sause…and cabbage, the only fresh vegetable I brought. When on passage, I manage fresh veg terribly, so decided to skip it this time, except for five large cabbages that are being added to everything hot. In five days I’ve only used one half of one large head.

Am still searching for my at-sea rhythm. The break between the last voyage and this was, I am realizing belatedly, precious short. I wasn’t quite done stretching my legs.

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October 6, 2018

Day 2

Noon Position: 32 59N 125 37W

Course/Speed: SSW 7+

Wind: NNW 16 – 20

Sea: NNW 6 – 8

Sky: Overcast, squally, part sun

Bar: 1021, falling (1018 by evening)

Cabin Degrees Fahrenheit: 72

Water Degrees Fahrenheit: 67

Percent Relative Humidity: 76

(Note: I’ve added this last statistic just for the interest of it. One might think that, with water right there, humidity should be rather constant. We shall see.)

Sail: #2 genoa, full; main, one reef; tack starboard quarter.

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 172

Avg. Miles/Day: 159

Miles since departure: 318

Today was all about shipping. I had thought we were on our own when we worked through coastwise shipping night before last. But I had forgotten the Panama Canal. Today we’ve had ships on the scope constantly since 9am all angling down toward Panama or up from it. The last is exiting to the SE as I type at 5pm. I’m not saying that’s the last we’ll see of shipping, but the scope is now clear.

Total encounters: seven. Total sighted from on deck: two.

By name: Ultra Rocanville; K Asian Beauty; Glovis Star; Xin Ya Zhou; Maersk Gateshed; Cosco Harmony; HMM Blessing (Her Majesty’s Merchant Vessel?).

Only the last two were close enough to set off the AIS alarms, and the closest of these was three miles off. This was the Maersk Gateshed. So massive it did not appear to be moving. Length: 1200 ft (four football fields?). Width: 200 ft. Draft: 45 ft (it draws more than Mo is long). Speed: 20 knots.

Only the ocean could make such a behemoth seem small and far away.

Solid sleep last night in one and two hour shifts. Wind remained strong (25 knots) but consistent.  No deckwork required. I let Mo go, and she burned up the road.

Wind eased in the morning but has been cycling between 18 and 25 and between N and NNW all day with bright sun one hour and squalls the next.

The morning forecast continued to show hurricane Sergio recurving toward Baja within three days. I plan to follow my down-and-to-the-right course to about 25N and 130W (an approximate three-days-on position). If Sergio does recurve, I’ll head due south at that point. If not, will likely stop until Sergio declares his intentions. Water temperature is now 66 degrees; up from 59 on departure, but is still way too cold for a hurricane up here. Let’s see at what rate it increases with more southing.

Sadly, it looks like Sergio will suck up all the wind and leave a great load of nothing in his wake. This may be our fastest week for a while.

One flying fish on deck when I rose.

One sand fly remains. A wary bastard, but I’ll get him.