June 25, 2018
Day 179/7
Noon Position: 37 13N 156 00W
Course/Speed: NNE7+
Wind: SSW17-20
Bar: 1026, steady
Sea: NE/S3
Sky: Overcast, frequent drizzle
Cabin Temperature: 72
Water Temperature: 63
Sail: Twins poled out full, running
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 169
Miles this leg: 987
Avg. Miles this leg: 141
Mo is not a racehorse, but she can keep up when the wind is right. Yesterday it was fast on the beam, and Mo turned in a 7-knot average day giving us nearly 1000 miles on the week. By my calculation (best guess of a route) we’re 1800 miles from home. That’s about thirteen days at 130 miles a day.
Debris hunting has been good the last few days. We’ve not found what we came to find, deposits large enough to warrant a satellite tracker, but the field has been “rich” in other types of debris.
Over the last week, I’ve set aside several hours each day where all I do is observe and collect debris. And I’ve started counting using a rudimentary classification system: 1) SUP (small unidentifiable plastics) from minute up to 1 sq ft; 2) LUP (large unidentifiable plastics) from 1 sq ft and up; 3) IP (identifiable plastics of any kind and of any size). These three sets I apply to two buckets: a) things seen within 30 feet of the boat; b) things seen in excess of 30 feet from the boat.
Here’s how June 22 looked using that system:
0730 – 1000
SUP 0-30ft = 10; 30+ft = 0
LUP 0-30ft = 1; 30+ft = 1
IP = 5
1) Fish buoy, 1/2 mile distant.
2) Plastic lid; e.g. for milk bottle, near boat.
3) Square, five gallon bucket, broken, near boat.
4) Trash can lid, near boat.
5) Skien of orange ship mooring line.
Fifteen sightings in two hours.
By way of comparison, here’s June 23:
0900 – 1200
SUP 0-30ft = 27; 30+ft = 2
LUP 0-30 = 1; 30+ft = 4
IP = 11
1) Large black fish buoy.
2) Bottle, e.g. shampoo.
3) Fish Basket (retrieved, catalogued).
4) Bottle, e.g. clear squeeze bottle.
5) Bottle, e.g. dish soap.
6) Small orange fish buoy.
7) Bottle (2), e.g. for pills, white.
8) Rope, 3 feet, approx 1″.
9, 10, 11) 3xfish buoys, one orange, one yellow, one small and blue.
That’s 45 items of plastic seen from Mo in three hours time of steady looking and is the busiest day of finds we’ve had so far.
At other parts of the day, I’ll collect debris using a net I’ve rigged to a 15-foot pole or a metal hook rigged to a pole that’s even longer.
Likely the two most significant hauls so far are a large white calk tube made for a calk gun (similar to what’s sold at Home Depot for Liquid Nails and Silicon in 10.5oz size). On it the word “Shinjia” and two asian characters; inside was a crab and an “eel” type animal. The next day I brought up a whole fish basket decorated with large barnacles and crabs. Inscribed on its side were two asian characters.
Remember the goal: to help ascertain if Japanese marine species have been colonizing ocean plastics. Am hoping the above two specimens can shed some light.
General observations this passage vs 2012 (the year after the Japanese Tsunami):
2012: we encountered much more debris between 35N and 45N than we are this trip. Much of the debris was identifiable and floating at or above the surface: shoes, desks, chairs, a hard hat, tooth brushes, hair brushes, etc. Yes there were fish buoys and other SUP, but recognizable domestic items were common.
2018: almost all plastics are at or below the surface, making them very hard to see at any distance from the boat. The only items predictably floating on top of the water are the fish buoys. I have retrieved a piece or two that have been at sea so long, they are suspended below the surface (sinking slowly). Domestic items are less common while fishing industry items (fish buoys, fish baskets) are more common.
Today is dreary. We are running NE on the tail end of a passing low. Rain and a heavy sky…but good sailing. On my plastics patrols I’ve seen maybe a tenth of the usual concentration. I fear I may now be above the main body of the garbage patch.
June 24, 2018
Day 178/6
Noon Position: 35 00N 158 20W
Course/Speed: NNE8 (must have a current with us)
Wind: SE14
Bar: 1030, dropping
Sea: NE/E8
Sky: Overcast, drizzle
Cabin Temperature: 72
Water Temperature: 67
Sail: All plain sail
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 159
Miles this leg: 818
Avg. Miles this leg: 136
Wind veered into the E and stiffened after sundown. We’d been pounding into a hard sea all day, a hold-on-with-five-hands, punch-you-in-the-gut kind of sea. I was worn down, so I put two reefs in the working sails and began sleeping right after dinner.
Around midnight, alarms started going off, first the VHF radio and then the chart plotter. Each device has its own loud speaker in the main cabin, where I sleep, and they are both purposefully obnoxious as hell. A person would have to be half dead to sleep through either. Both together are enough to make Beethoven’s ears bleed.
The reason for the alarms was a ship, the Manifesto, a tanker bound for Balboa, making a perpendicular course to our own and passing but a mile ahead. I could see his twin white lights at nine miles, and at 16 knots to our seven, his stern light within twenty minutes. Nothing exciting at all, and I was headed back to my bunk when the radio spoke.
It started with a blowing sound, “hoof, hoof.” Then, “Sailing vessel Moli, this is the Manifesto.” The voice came through clearly but quiet, as if respectful of the hour, and carried a gentle Spanish accent.
I responded quickly, by way of proof I hadn’t been sleeping.
“Yes, sir,” said the voice, “I just wanted to know if everything is alright on the Moli. Are you in need of any assistance?”
I thanked the officer of the watch for his concern and assured him the crew of the Moli were fine.
“Ok then,” said the voice. “Ok.”
And that was it.
Why the question? I almost rang up again to explore. But it is my experience that ships, solid and true of course, don’t know quite what to make of small sailboats that bob and weave on their scope as if drunk. That seems the likeliest reason for the call. I let it go at that and returned to sleep, thinking warmly of the politness of the officer and his professional concern for the less fortunate urchins of the sea.
June 23, 2018
Day 177/5
Noon Position: 32 21N 158 35W
Course/Speed: N7+
Wind: ENE 17-20
Bar: 1028, steady
Sea: Lumpy and steep to 8 feet
Sky: Overcast
Cabin Temperature: 76
Water Temperature: 74
Sail: double reefed working jib; one reef in main, close reaching to close hauled
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 143
Miles this leg: 659
Avg. Miles this leg: 132
Herman, my friend the blackfooted albatross, swung near the boat just after dawn to say goodbye. He didn’t have to, of course. I knew the many visits of yesterday were a diversion while the wind was down. All night wind built slowly, and by the orange of sunup Mo was beating hard into a lumpy sea. Wind, real wind, meant Herman must get back on the job, back on the hunt, a hunt that will take him far and wide and at speeds Mo can only dream of. We’ve not seen another bird all day.
Now that we’re in the 30s of north latitude, it is beginning to cool. Temps are below 80 (76 as I type at 5pm). I must wear sleeves on deck and a light blanket over me at night. When was the last I did that? I can’t recall. For months getting into bed has simply required lying down. And to make the bed, I simply rise. Sleeping without cover of any kind seems uncivilized, primal–until you’ve done it for months. Then its the blanket that is cloying, heavy, unnaturally restraining.
—
My friend Kelton has asked to interview me on my blog. I can only suppose he thinks the Figure 8 story must be flagging, because he has submitted a list of twelve burning questions that I am to answer one at a time as the situation allows.
Today the situation allows.
Question #1
Which three foods brought you the most joy to eat on the voyage and which three foods do you crave that you cannot stock?
Answer
Starting back to front: It should be no shock that I miss fresh vegetables most. Without a fridge or freezer, the fresh foods I do stock on Mo don’t last long–a week or two for the highly perishable–a month or more for root vegetables and cabbages. One challenge is that the Figure 8 launches south and right into the tropics. I’d have better luck if I headed north first. Specifically, what I miss is the crunch of a good salad, say, a Ceasar or Kale salad; simple, steamed asparagus or green beans; roasted brussels sprouts with bacon and a balsamic glaze; barbecued corn; roasted summer squash.
And then contemplate this: barbecued peaches with clotted cream.
I’m not sure that “joy” is the right word for any of my foods, though they are all good, hearty eating. The no-kneed bread, fresh-baked aboard, has been wholesome and heartwarming, and my entrees–curried beef with rice; salmon and polenta; shepherd’s pie, chicken pasta, have really hit the spot.
More intersting to me is what has not worked. Two cases of canned Devon Cream (sweet cream in rice, an English specialty and quintessential comfort food). I’ve eaten one can. Canned hummus should be a winner, but I didn’t groove on the flavors of the brand I bought. Canned tuna. Not a fan. Why did I buy three cases?
And then there are the foods I like that still have gone unmade. Dishes calling for rice, for example. I brought upwards of 30 pounds of delicious, whole brown rice. Rice requires the pressure cooker. Not difficult to do, but just incrementally more difficult than polenta or dried mashed potatoes. So rice suffered.
Several of the cupboards that were chockablock when I departed are noticeably depleted. Soon it will be time to think through the provisioning plan again.
Devon Cream anyone?
June 22, 2018
Day 176/4
Noon Position: 29 59N 158 29W
Course/Speed: N5
Wind: ENE6
Bar: 1024, steady
Sea: NE and W to 1; NW to3
Sky: Overcast with high squalls
Cabin Temperature: 82
Water Temperature: 75
Sail: #1 and Main, close reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 117
Miles this leg: 516
Avg. Miles this leg: 129
The blackfooted albatross of yesterday has remained close today. Every hour or two, I’ll see him swing by and then land in the water just ahead. He’ll watch Mo as she passes from a comfortable perch on a flat sea and with a turn of the head that suggest intense curiosity.
Sometimes he’ll remain seated there until nearly out of sight. Sometimes he’ll take off as Mo comes abreast, paddling strongly with webbed feet while also flapping wings so long and narrow they look to fragile for that task. He’ll circle and then be gone on the hunt for a while. Just when I think that is the last of him, I’ll look up and there he’ll be, sitting on the water looking at me. I’ll wave or yell out, “H e l l o !” Typically he does not respond.
All day the pattern has been the same.
He must be young–no mature bird of the south would evince such attachment–or maybe he’s more gregarious than is typical of his type. Maybe this is his first foray into the wide ocean and he is wanting for company.
Whatever the reason, I’ve enjoyed the companionship. And too, I have by now enough association with the race of birds to know that at some point he will circle for the last time. It’s nothing personal; his world is large.
Other friends today included a trio of tropic birds. Their timing was perfect as today Mo chose to flush for them, and in rapid succession, a school of flying fish and a school of squid. The tropic birds dove and dove, crackling their voices excitedly in between. Then, when they were almost too heavy to achieve the air again, they did their looping dance above the mast and were gone.
In the morning we found a skein of orange rope undulating on the surface–thick mooring line used in commercial shipping. A flurry of emails with my sponsors in Honolulu. Tag it or leave it? What is big enough drift to warrant an expensive satellite tracker? This one did not quite qualify.
June 21, 2018
Day 175/3
Noon Position: 28 01N 158 30W
Course/Speed: N5
Wind: E5
Bar: 1021, rising
Sea: Less than 2 feet
Sky: Partly cloudy
Cabin Temperature: 84
Water Temperature: 78
Sail: Motoring (needed to charge batteries anyway)
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 115
Miles this leg: 399
Avg. Miles this leg: 133
Miles since departure: 25,803
Wind went very light overnight. Mo coasted on a flat sea while I slept. After morning coffee, I raised the spinnaker, which prompted the wind to die altogether. So we motored slowly for a few hours while I watched for debris.
It is in no way dense, the plastic we are finding, but it is here if you look. Sometimes you have to look hard. Then at other times you’ll see two or three or four things together. The line of things always runs east to west. Almost always the things are fragmented and unrecognizable. It is enlightening to contemplate that if a whole plastic thing–a mooring buoy, a laundry basket, a stool, a hair brush–is let ride in the ocean for years and years, the ocean and the sun will slowly break it to pieces. Just ocean and sun can do that; no rocks necessary. 
Also, deeply interesting to me is that any plastic piece the size of a saltine cracker and greater is home to something, sometimes many things. In quick succession I pulled three such sized items from the sea today, and each had a single fish using the plastic as a sunbrella. I put the fishes in a bucked of water while I photographed them and their abodes with the intention of returning them to the Big Aquarium after the session. But once separated from their residence, they up and died in a matter of minutes. 
—
I am waiting, sometimes patiently, sometimes not, for a Moli sighting. Moli, if you will recall, is the Hawaiian name for the Laysan Albatross. I bring this up now because we are well within their North Pacific territory and because I am seeing the black footed albatross. One followed the boat today, plopping in the water next to Mo as she passed, watching, then flying around and landing on the water top near Mo again. This went on for an hour. Then the wind came up and with that it flew away.
June 20, 2018
Day 174/2
Noon Position: 26 08N 158 55W
Course/Speed: N7-8 (we must have a beneficial current)
Wind: E12-14
Bar: 1017, steady
Sea: NE4
Sky: Clear now; high overcast this morning
Cabin Temperature: 83
Water Temperature: 72
Sail: All plain sail.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 163
Miles this leg: 284
Avg. Miles this leg: 142
Miles since departure: 25,688
Wind has been E and steady since late yesterday afternoon, this despite the forecast. I rose every few hours overnight in anticipation of a change, but it never came. It came today in the form of a diminishing breeze but now even that is steady again.
Each time I rose I also noted our guests were resting peacefully, they being a trio of red footed boobies that perched on the weather rail facing to weather. Two were traveling companions and checked in around dusk; the other noticed what a good gig the first two had landed and decided to share in the amenities. They were quiet enough guests, whispering only after 10pm; and they checked out promptly at the appointed hour of dawn. But I could have done without the mass deposit they left on the deck by way of payment. Possibly this is, in some small way, my own fault, for I am the one who has developed a fondness for these animals without a sphincter. I scrubbed all morning and can’t get the white out.
Sun sights are challenging these last two days. Yesterday was too cloudy, and even though I got the shots in, the results were unsatisfactory because the horizon was too close. Today the issue was celestial. We have passed under the sun. Sure, that happens every day, you say, but that’s not what I mean. Over the last week, we’ve been catching the sun up; that is, the sun’s astronomical latitude (its declination) and our terrestrial latitude have been approaching. Yesterday we passed it; were directly under the sun at about midday. The practical effect of this is that in the sextant the sun was in view at noon no matter what direction I looked.
Debris is present but sparse and consists mostly of SWUP (Small White Unidentifiable Plastic). In the morning I saw a glass bottle, a pint ice cream lid, and maybe 20 other SWUP items during my two hours of consistent watching. They’d clump. I’d see three items and then not anything for fifteen minutes.
In the early afternoon, a clothes basket floating opening up and, as I lifted it on deck, it became clear that the six fishes inside had been trapped there, likely since birth. I have no idea what they were, but they looked exotic. I took some photos and returned them to their home without setting them free, as there was a large dorado circling, ready to invite them to lunch. 
June 19, 2018
Day 171/1
Noon Position: 23 26N 158 42W
Course/Speed: N5
Wind: S8
Bar: 1016, steady
Sea: N2 (chop)
Sky: Overcast/Squalls and drizzle
Cabin Temperature: 84
Water Temperature: 80
Sail: Asymmetrical Spinnaker and main, running dead downwind
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 121
Miles this leg: 121
Avg. Miles this leg: 121
Miles since departure: 25,525
The haul home has started with motoring overnight in winds NE to W at 2 – 4 knots. Not a very romantic beginning nor very hopeful.
At 5am I came on deck to find Mo had trapped a visitor in the cockpit well, a Tropic Bird. My initial attempts to help him back into the air were greeted with a sharp beak jab to the hand. Ouch. A towel thrown over him did no better. The bird would shake it off before I could attack. Finally I used Monte’s air vane as a ramp. Obligingly the bird climbed aboard; I lifted him up and off he took. Not even a squawk of thanks. Left me with the usual gratuity: poop.
With daybreak came wind enough dispense with the engine, but it has clocked the compass throughout the day, NE to S to W and back to NE as I type. I’ve cycled through every sail, except the storm jib, and by now am tuckered out by the constant change and by my second day job…debris hunter.
Early in the day, we passed through slicks whose surfaces were covered in a yellow dust. I’ve presumed this to be volcanic in origin, but have no idea specifically. Later in the day saw a suspended goo in the first two or three feet of the water column. Miles of it. Something between scum and snot. I retrieved a net full and a close inspection didn’t narrow the range. It was slimy and yellow or clear and not much else. It had no scent. I declined to taste it. Sorry. I take my job seriously, but I do have my limits.
We’ve also seen plastics on the order of a specimen every 20 minutes or so. Usually sightings are bunched together. Usually the item is small (postage stamp to post card sized) is white and unrecognizable. Once I saw a small water strainer, a bleach-type bottle and what appeared to be a table leg, all within yards of each other. 
Late in the afternoon, I retrieved a barnacle encrusted fish float with two crabs calling it home. None to pleased to see me they were. I took some photos and gave it back to the sea.
Now wind is in the high teens from the ENE and Mo makes a handy 7.5 knots close reaching to the NNE. But who knows how long it will last. Squall clouds ahead.
Rain off an on. Cabin is closed up and hot as a sauna. 
June 18, 2018
Day 170/0
Noon Position: 21 27N 158 14W
Course/Speed: NNW6
Wind: NE9
Bar: 1017
Sea: NE1
Sky:Clear
Cabin Temperature: 84
Water Temperature: 82
Sail: All plain sail
For procrastinators, “departing is such sweet sorrow” would be better rendered as “departing will be better tomorrow.” In any case, that’s my relationship to making a timely exit from most any port.
I did exit the Waikiki Yacht Club more or less on schedule. On the Saturday, Mo and I motored 20 miles to the NW to Ko’OIina Marina, for that was the only spot on the whole island that sold fuel on a weekend. I had intended to put to sea immediately thereafter, but once Mo’s tanks were filled, the palm trees and the beech called, and besides, I knew the dismal state of the wind to the north where a big tongue of calm would be met just above Kauai. So I got a slip for the night … and then the next.
The disadvantage of the delay was offset by the reward of meeting my dock mates, John and Amanda Neal of MAHINA TIARRE III. We have crossed paths several times over the years but have never exchanged greetings until today. Very nice to have finally had a chat and to see the immaculate state of MTIII.
North Pacific weather has not improved. The tongue of calm remains, but by now I am tired of waiting. And as one cannot take a step without allowing his feet let go of the ground, so I have cut the dock lines and am back at sea.
As I type we are nearing the top of Kauai, some 40 miles to the west. Winds are light from the NE; the sky is clear, and the sea’s ocean blue is as stunning as ever. Maybe more so. How do people live without experiencing this blue? I breath it in as if it were super-charged with oxygen.
This is my fourth passage from Hawaii to the mainland, and while each passage has had its peculiarities, the strategy has always been the same; that is, sail due north, sometimes as far north as Seattle, and make a slow turn to the east as one rounds the top of the North Pacific High.
Departures for the three preceding jaunts have been August (2005), July (2012) and September (2016), and passage times have been 23, 26 and 20 days, respectively. In each case, the High has been well established. Not so this trip. Lows continue to sweep down from Alaska and leave great airless prairies in their wake.
Without a high to go around, I’m not at all sure of the strategy. 
Doctors Nikolai Maximenko and Jan Haffner enter the Waikiki Yacht Club promptly at the appointed hour. Maximenko is tall, clean-cut, in dress khakis and a pressed Hawaiian shirt. His stride is long and purposeful, but he is tipped forward under the weight of a shoulder-strung briefcase bursting with papers. Haffner, equal in height, is in jeans and a t-shirt. He carries only a camera and an air of nonchalance.
I’ve been corresponding with these men since 2012 when Murre and I made our solo leap to Alaska. On that 26-day passage, I collected marine debris and noted debris locations for Maximenko’s Pacific Research Center. I made daily reports; sent hundreds of photos.
As debris hunters, Murre and I struck gold when we located a half-sunk, panga-type fishing boat pumping in the swell at around 31N. Its submerged portions streamed long fronds of seaweed around which swam a school of Dorado. I circled for twenty minutes panting with excitement. The photos I returned were published in Maximenko’s findings.
I’ve not met either man in person.
We smile our greetings and shake hands.
Then an uncomfortable pause as we face each other. “Where shall we begin?” I ask.
“Let us talk for a minute,” replies Maximenko.
Three hours later, the entire contents of Maximenko’s briefcase have been spread upon the table in the club dining room. Maps of North Pacific debris by relative concentration. Maps of average winds over the summer. NOAA weather maps. White papers on debris distribution since the Japanese Tsunami of 2011 pulled 1.5 million tons of material into the ocean.
—
The conversation ricochets like a stray bullet. My questions: how much plastic is there? How does it get into the ocean? Where is it most dense? If there is so much of it, why can’t it be found via satellite?
“Randall, it is a sad, stunning fact that we know more about Mars than we do ocean currents. We have a general idea of the characteristics of the top few feet of flow, but beyond that, we cannot predict.
“It still amazes me that people think there is an island of trash in the garbage patch, a solid structure that one could even walk on. This is false. The Pacific Gyre is vast and ever-changing. Plastics are not short of space in which to drift. In fact, the garbage patch is so dispersed we can’t see it clearly by satellite. One pixel of satellite imagery is 25 square kilometers. We can’t see the garbage patch from space.
“We know generally how much plastic is produced and how much of it moves into the landfill; the remainder should be in the ocean. But when we extrapolate from our marine finds, we can only account for a fraction of the remainder. Where does it go? We don’t know. We simply don’t know.
This is Maximenko’s refrain, “we don’t know.” But the conversation continues, and as Maximenko talks, one becomes aware that, in fact, there is much he does know. But the field in concern is three-fifths of the planet and still largely inaccessible. Questions are coming on faster than answers.
“For example,” says Maximenko, “we think that current should describe long, slow curves due to the Coriolis Effect. But right now I have a collection of drift buoys in the ITCZ, and what we find is that once out of the consistent force of wind, the buoys loop, large loops inside of which are nested loops. It is as if the buoys are moons rotating around an earth which is, itself, rotating around the sun.”
Map of relative debris concentrations in the Northeast Pacific. The black line from Hawaii to the mainland is a great circle route. If only the wind blew that way.
—
The satellite trackers arrive. In the parlance of oceanography, they are “drift buoys,” small, white spheres the size of soccer balls attached to long blue tethers and heavy, stainless steel clips. A magnet near the bottom, once removed, activates the device, which can send position messages for up to a year.
We test them, argue about their ability to withstand what the ocean can offer. “What qualifies as large enough drift for a drift buoy?” I ask. Maximenko becomes thoughtful. “Well, Randall,” he says, “they are very expensive. Think of them as Rolex watches.” More he will not say. Because we don’t know what I will find.
—
Evenings since my arrival have been, for someone of my inclination, maximally social. I’ve likely not talked so much since my San Francisco departure in October of last year. Thank you to my Honolulu hosts for being so gracious.
With Doctors Nikolai Maximenko and Jan Haffner (right of me) and my friend Bill Gallagher, in town from San Francisco (to my left). Freshly brewed beer for Randall, fresh salmon and fresh kale!
Dinner and conversation with Mary Spadaro, Figure 8 Virtual Voyager and frequent commenter who has cruised the Pacific in a Tahiti Ketch.
A couple beers (and then a couple more) with Tico Jarek, who works for WideOrbit, one of my generous sponsors.
—
The route home looks long and slow; lows are still dropping down from the north and leave in their wake days of calm.
But one cannot get home without departing.
By the time you read this Mo and I will be at sea once again.
June 11, 2018
Day 170/49
Noon Position: 21 13N 156 40W
Course/Speed: W7
Wind: E20
Bar: 1016
Sea: E8
Sky: Clear
Cabin Temperature: 82
Water Temperature: 78
Sail: Twin headsails, poled out and full
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 145
Miles this leg: 6,395
Avg. Miles this leg: 131
Miles since departure: 23, 499
Overnight wind shifts aft and softens. Without the distraction of squalls, it is, at least, consistent in direction. We slip across Alenuihaha Channel unmolested. Here fresh trades pressed between high islands can accelerate to gale force. Tonight, no such trial.
At moonrise, I’ve heard enough from the headsail too blanketed to fill. I roll it up, letting Mo run quietly under main alone while I sleep. It’s considered risky business to sleep when working a coast, but the windward sides of the islands aren’t much trafficked. Still, I keep my shifts to an hour. A whole hour, what a luxury, this after three days of 30-minutes between alarms.
By sunrise, we are off Maui’s Pana Point. Big Maui, reclining lush and green under a blanket of alabaster cloud. After coffee, I lower the main and poll out the twin headsails. Mo wakes, takes a breath, breaks into a gallop. Finally, speed without having to live propped against a bulkhead, speed without spilled coffee grounds, bruised hips, toilet water that won’t stay in the bowl.
Then the long stretch to windward of Molokai, which we take as close as two miles off. Volcanic cliffs, entirely verdant, throw tendrilled waterfalls to the sea. At one point I count eight. Molokai, an island I know nothing about except that it is lightly populated by people who enjoy their privacy–this as opposed to its neighbor Lanai, which is privatized and whose citizens are largely tourists. Suddenly I feel drawn. Here, in Molokai, is an island on which one could lose himself, like a Gaugin on Atuona.
On we race. Winds are now 25 and more, and with headsails full, Mo’s bow wave roars. Molokai, like the others, reclines in its western reaches. Beyond rejuvenating rain, it is helpless, ravaged by time, low, barren as a rock.
This we pass into the Kaiwi Channel.
At one point we’ve had three islands in view, Maui, Lanai, Molokai, and now, closer to Oahu than any of those, I still cannot see our goal, buried as it is in the glare of an afternoon sun over a leaden cloud.
Slowly comes Koko Head as a silhouette; then Diamond Head. The sun sets over the island. On we press.
Near Koko Head, a change in the current. Seas stack up. Eager for the end, I refuse to reef. Mo reels like a tightrope walker near his tipping point, but she holds her course and barely ships a sea.
Dark. The glow of the island now, so bright Diamond Head is revealed even without a moon. Briefly, we do battle with a tug and long tow on an intercept. Mo graciously concedes.
And then we turn the corner. Then sails are furled. Then we are in the breakwater. Then we are moored. It is midnight. After 50 days at sea, here we are in the heart of a city, sleeping city, save for a police siren and that low rumble.
I tidy lines. Put out fenders. Wash dinner’s pot. Then I grab a beer and sit on the dock admiring Mo. What a thing, she is, I think. How thoroughly able and beautiful for it.
What does it say of a man that after weeks of longing for the comforts of port, he sits on the dock, longing to be at sea?
Day 169/48
Noon Position:20 08N 154 50W
Course/Speed: NW6-7
Wind: ExN15-20
Bar: 1020, steady
Sea: E4
Sky: Clear, then light Squalls
Cabin Temperature: 83
Water Temperature: 78
Sail: All plain sail
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 152
Miles this leg: 6,250
Avg. Miles this leg: 130
Miles since departure: 23,354
The overnight ritual of calls to the deck every half hour continued. Squalls blew 20 at their leading edge and 10 behind and from NNE to a little south of E. A tiring business pulling on Monte’s sleeve so often, but at least we had a goal, The Big Island of Hawaii’s Kapoho Point, which we rounded at 6am. Now we could take the wind on a reach and then a broad reach. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Curious to know how far away the Big Island might possibly be seen on the horizon, I did a Distance Off calculation based on Mauna Kea’s amazing height of 13,679 feet. The result: one should be able to bob the island at 137 miles, assuming it had a whopping big white light on the summit. Interestingly, and by accident, I did this calculation at 130 miles off and noticed the VHF started chirping with Coast Guard announcements almost immediately thereafter. Apparently the antenna is on the summit.
It was all theoretical though, given the squalls, and even at 30 miles there was no island. Only cloud where the island should have been.
In the late morning, I noticed two plumes in the SW rising from the sea, these from the volcano that’s been so active this last month. The land was still well sunk and the site of the eruption at least 60 miles away.
Only in the afternoon did the summit of Hawaii come out of the gloom, literally a dark conical mass rising above the diminishing squalls. Then later, to the right, the island’s northern flank, describing a perfect angle of repose all the way from mountaintop to sea.
It is hard to grok the size of the Big Island. Even from this far offshore it seems a massive hulk…because it is. All of the other islands in this chain could fit inside it with room to spare. All of the islands of French Polynesia could also fit within its land mass. It is large enough to have distinct climate regions; lush and jungly on the Hilo side; dessert on the Kona side. It’s mountains are so high that during certain seasons, one could be snow skiing in the morning and snorkeling with the tropical fishes of Kealakekua Bay in the afternoon. And this has all grown up from a (still active) volcano.
I’ve stayed so far out because the island tends to eat the wind, and I’m tying to avoid a big calm projecting to the NE. Not working. Wind has been easing all afternoon. To 6 knots now. 
Day 168/47
Noon Position: 17 43N 153 07W
Course/Speed: NNW7
Wind: ENE19
Bar: 1019, steady
Sea: E7
Sky: Overcast, squally
Cabin Temperature: 82
Water Temperature: 80
Sail: Working sail, one reef, close reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 170 (169.5…but I’m taking the half mile. Our best day’s run of this leg!)
Miles this leg: 6,098
Avg. Miles this leg: 130
Miles since departure: 23,202
Some may be wondering why our course has been beelining towards Hawaii since Mo and I entered the NE trades. The answer is that while the wind angle of the trades would not have allowed another course for northing, I do plan a quick stop in Honolulu…if I can get there.
I have an opportunity to participate in a science project on the leg home.
Back in 2012, I sailed solo from Kauai, the most northerly Hawaiian island, to Sitka, Alaska, and during that run I collected ocean debris for research scientists at the International Pacific Research Center and the University of Hawaii’s School of Ocean & Earth, Science & Technology. The year before, a large tsunami had mutilated the shores of western Japan and pulled into the ocean an estimated 1.5 trillion tons of debris. These scientists were tasked with creating computer models that would predict the course of the debris that remained afloat as it slowly made its way across the Pacific and when and where it would impact US shores.
To that end, the University put out an APB among local yachties. The scientists were desk bound, or at least weren’t keen on ocean crossings, and they needed outside corroboration that their models were accurate. I decided to help.
Between 35N and 45N I photographed and collected a tremendous amount of stuff: plastic tables, plastic chairs, plastic rugs, plastic filing cabinets, plastic rice bags, buckets, balls, hard hats, shoes, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and more. My greatest lesson from that exercise was that what we call debris, marine life forms call home. Every single item I pulled from the water had been colonized. On one afternoon, I found a lone packing peanut. On its underside was a crab hanging on for dear life.
About two weeks ago, and as Mo and I were passing the Cook Islands, I received a message from Professor Nikolai Maximenko, lead researcher for the 2012 project and my contact. He had another request.
In recent years, the amount of tsunami debris washing up on US shores has slowed to a trickle; however, since the first debris arrived, a steady stream of Japanese marine life has been showing up in US reefs. And this stream continues even though debris impacts have dwindled. How is this possible? The working hypothesis is that these life forms have colonized the debris inside the North Pacific Gyre (aka the “garbage patch”), the large area of calm in the North Pacific high that eventually traps much North Pacific drift.
Professor Maximenko’s organization has partnered with Mary Crowley’s Ocean Voyages Institute in San Francisco that will, next year, launch a large debris collection operation with a large vessel. But given the vastness of the area in question (some estimate the gyre to be the size of Texas), one ship needs a head start in locating debris.
Again, enter local yachties. Maximenko asked if I planned to sail between Hawaii and San Francisco any time soon, and if so, would I carry a small collection of radio satellite devices to be placed on any large debris deposits I might pass.
Clearly the answer is, yes and yes. I’m a sucker for citizen science.
—
So, I’ve been working toward the windward side of the Hawaiian Islands these last weeks in order to enable a fast approach to Honolulu and to avoid the volcanic smoke emanating from the Big Island this last month.
And it all comes to a head tonight. Will the wind cooperate?
For the last three nights, squalls have filled in after sundown, making life difficult for Mo and for me. I’ve been up every half hour to an hour to adjust Monte’s course, as the winds accelerate from 10 to 25 and yaw from NE to E. Over and over. I’m worn out.
Today same, except today the wind is decidedly NE. Now or close reach is a tight one, and hanging onto our rhumb line for a waypoint well off The Big Island’s Kapoho Point is a struggle.
As I write, we’re within a hundred miles of that turn. We’ll know by morning if we’ve made it.
Day 167/46
Noon Position: 15 06N 151 58W
Course/Speed: NNW7+
Wind: E20+
Bar: 1017, steady
Sea: E8+
Sky: Clear, a few inconsequential cumulus, so thin as to be translucent
Cabin Temperature: 88
Water Temperature: 85
Sail: #1 and Main, one reef each
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 161
Miles this leg: 5928
Avg. Miles this leg: 129
Miles since departure: 23,033
Speed. The last 24-hours have been NE trades at their finest; that is fresh and fast and at an angle that Mo adores. Yesterday we flew the big genoa while winds slowly built, and Mo slid along at 7 and 8 knots with apparent wind dead abeam.
Overnight, squalls–the last of them (fingers crossed)–slowed us for a time. Lightening to windward at one point, bright and often and close enough that I gathered the loose electronics–laptop, InReach, vhf radio–and put them in the oven for safe keeping.
By midnight we were back to working canvas and reefed down. Dawn came on clear and the wind roared in the rigging at a steady 20 – 25, dead abeam again. Seas have built and are now big blue buffalo charging east. Mo creams along, up, over and through, up, over, and through.
At this rate we may better yesterday’s mileage.
—
Yesterday was a poor day for position finding, the sky, flat and gray. But being the dutiful navigator, I went on deck at 10, noon, and 2, and, to my amazement, came back with an altitude each time, altitudes that worked up to my most precise running fix yet (likely blind luck, that). What was gratifying was that with a little patience and the right set of shades, the sun can be shot in what appears to the naked eye to be hopeless cloud cover.
To my amusement, I am proud of this developing skill. I am right to be proud of course, like a child is right to be proud when he learns to tie his shoe laces. An accomplishment for sure, a good place to start, but not the accomplished accomplishment.
What is ironic is that part of my pride is due to how rarely this skill is practiced by contemporary sailors. I like to think it connects me in some small way to greats like Captain Cook and the explorers of his era. In fact, it connects me more directly to ocean sailors from just ONE generation back, who had to know celestial navigation in order to get found.
One generation. That’s all it has taken for this method to be almost entirely supplanted by the admittedly infinitely easier and more accurate GPS.
Day 167/45
Noon Position: 12 36N 151 02W
Course/Speed: NNW7
Wind: E12 -15
Bar: 1014, rising before noon, falling after
Sea: E3
Sky: Overcast, solid deck with heavy cumulus under
Cabin Temperature: 86
Water Temperature: 82
Sail: #1 and Main, full, reaching at between 7 and 8 knots
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 149
Miles this leg: 5,767
Avg. Miles this leg: 128
Miles since departure: 22,827
Cloud rolled in as the sun set. I had planned a whole series of sextant star shots, but in the end was only able to nab Jupiter and Arcrux before I lost the horizon to gloom. Got a reasonable position if not exactly spot on.
Steady, fresh wind overnight diminished with the day and has gone into the east. I put out the big genoa mid morning. Wind has settled into the teens and is right abeam. Mo scoots along with purpose.
—
Unsatisfactory Conversation with a Flying Fish
Randall: Hello everybody. We have had a guest come aboard in the night whose name is Midge, and…
Monte: Senior, I think the little fellow that he said his name is Esmidge.
Randall: Oh, Smidge.
Smidge: Smidge. Yes, I’m Smidge.
Randall: Got it. Well, visitors have been few and far between this leg, so I thought since you have chosen to cast your luck with us, we could have a chat.
Smidge: Will it hurt?
Monte: Only during the listening part.
Randall: Given your condition, Smidge, I don’t think there’s anything we could do to hurt you.
Smidge: Ok then.
Randall: So, what’s it like living in the ocean?
Monte: Really? That’s your first question? He’s a small fry. Where else has he lived? What’s he gonna say?
Smidge: I dunno.
Randall: Ok, then what do you eat?
Monte: (rolls eyes)
Smidge: I dunno. Things that move that I can catch. Then I eat them. I like the soft ones best.
Randall: Hmm. V e r y interesting…
Monte: Senoir, please to allow me. Esmidge, how is it learning to fly?
Smidge: Oh, great! Mr Wilbur, he’s our teacher, he says I launch well but that I need to focus on distance and control. “‘Away,’ Smidge,” he says, Think ‘away,’ not just up. If you go only up, the Dorado will be there when you land. Nose down, tail out, Smidge. Nose down, tail out!” That’s what he says. But it’s hard.
Monte: (laughing) It is funny to watch the small fry, no? They go up and plop right back down or they push out and crash into the next wave. It reminds me of the little ones in my village who…
Smidge: “Control, Smidge, control,” says Mr. Wilbur. “It will save your life one day.”
Randall: So, on that note, how did you come to be on deck this morning?
Smidge: On what?
Randall: How did you get here?
Smidge; Oh, well. I was sleeping when I heard a great whooshing and saw a black monster chasing me, so I flew. It’s what we do.
Randall: (To Monte) Even the adults think Mo’s black bottom paint is a Killer Whale after them. (To Smidge) So you flew up?
Smidge: Well, yes. I was scared. And then I never came down again. Is this a Dorado?
Randall: Not exactly. And what lesson have you learned from this, Smidge?
Monte: Not all adventures end as you have planned them. That’s what I am thinking.
Smidge: Not to fly up?
Randall: Good, but how about this: don’t run from monsters that aren’t chasing you. OK NOW into the fry pan you go.
Smidge: (Screams) Nooooooo!
Monte: Senior, he is too small. Better to eat at toothpick. It has fewer bones.
Randall: (Tosses Smidge overboard)
Smidge: Whooopeeee!
End
Day 166/44
Noon Position: 10 18N 150 04W
Course/Speed: NNW6-7
Wind: E5
Sky: Overcast. High haze to windward; clear to leeward
Cabin Temperature: 88
Water Temperature: 83
Sail: Working sail, single reefs
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 130
Miles this leg: 5,618
Avg. Miles this leg: 125
Miles since departure: 22,723
A night worthy of ridicule, of scorn, of vituperate contumely squared.
I couldn’t see them as there was no visibility, but we must have continued working through squalls after dark. And though it was the greatest good fortune to have wind at all, the wind we got was a torture: back and forth from NE to SE (and even S), from 9 knots to 20 knots every half hour to an hour all night long.
I had a sense things might get interesting given the day we’d had, so I started sleeping right after dinner (8pm). By midnight I gave up sleeping and napped in the pilot house between oscillations. By dawn it–what ever it was–had passed. Winds have been steady and fresh all day. Mo is reaching under single reefs and 7.5 knots is not rare.
—
Apparently I’ve talked about reefing a fair bit in recent posts, which has given rise to two questions. The first came from my a non-sailor friend who asked why I was still tying knots to reef and hadn’t anything more clever been invented after all these years?
Mo’s headsails are roller furling, I explained, and the main has the standard jiffy reef system, so the only knots being tied are those that occur when the bitter end of the main halyard wraps itself in a loving embrace around my ankle just as I let fly the head of the sail.
Then I was told of this comment on the Figure 8 site from June 5:
Hi Randall,
Just wondering why you are always putting in reefs and then taking them out. Don’t you have any sail controls to flatten out your sails when wind picks up a bit?
Thanks,
Jim
Hey Jim,
Short answer: because the wind of late has been stunningly variable. But more to your point…
I presume you are referring primarily to the main. Yes, Mo’s rig has the standard compliment of sail controls. The main track is nice and wide; two block-and-tackle vangs run to each rail; I’ve rigged a Cunningham line through the purpose-built cringle, and there is an outhaul with a measurement strip at the end of the boom.
Of those, the track and the vangs get the most use. Having a vang that runs to each rail, rather than one to the base of the mast, means I not only can control sail shape, I also get much needed boom control devices. At sea, one does not usually have the luxury (or want the luxury) of putting the vessel into the wind to raise, lower, or reef, and having these vangs to act as a counter-pull to the main sheet helps keep things under control. A boom gone wild in a gale at midnight is a fast-pass to disaster.
As regards flattening, my experience on Mo is that that technique really only works at all when I’m sailing close hauled. As I rarely sail above 40 degrees apparent wind, this technique gets little use. The other issue with flattening from my perspective is it tends to de-power the sail, and when close hauled at sea, it seems one is also always bashing into it; so, often, a reefed/powered sail is a better choice (on this boat). For other points of sail, flattening tends to bring *more* of the sail to bear on the wind rather than less.
If I am wanting to buy some time, I’ll usually employ the other tactic; i.e. move the track back towards center, open the head of the sail and let spill that way.
Mo’s suit of sails are made by HOOD and are things of beauty. They’ve been heavily reenforced for the Southern Ocean and were new when I departed San Francisco last October. The main is 465 square feet and weighs as much as I do; it has five full battens with (now) standard roach and lots of extra cloth at the three reef points and extra layers over the reef tacks and clews. As such, she’s a heavy, full-cut sail, and getting her racing flat (i.e. the aft half of the top batten parallel to the boom) is just not in the cards unless I were to re-tune the battens. I’m not much inclined to do so given how rarely we’re close hauled at sea.
Besides which, complain as I (apparently) do, reefing isn’t that hard. It keeps the heel angle lower and often gives me a faster and gentler ride.
Thanks for the question,
RR
Day 166/44
Noon Position: 08 16N 149 19W
Course/Speed: NNE3
Wind: SE9
Bar: 1013, rising
Sea: NE 6-8; SE 3-4. Vile combo in such little wind.
Sky: Partly cloudy; squalls to windward.
Cabin Temperature: 88
Water Temperature: 84
Sail: All plain sail. Slatting terribly.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 136
Miles this leg: 5,488
Avg. Miles this leg: 125
Miles since departure: 22,593
“I told you not to talk,” said Monte., who is in lather, “Did I not say you never ever talk about the Doldrums or making your fine escape until you are almost home, not until you can see the light of Cape San Vincente or better, not until you are warped into the warf and paid the officer his small bribe for not mentioning certain articles found about the ship; not until then, and if you slip, if you, by mistake, say something like, ‘oh, what fine weather we have today,’ then you immediately throw a pinch of salt over your left shoulder and say, ‘I beg pardon, but have you seen my hat?’ And then the Doldrums they get confused and wonder about your hat and forget you are having a good passage. Everybody knows this, Senior; from Columbus to now everybody knows this but you. What a … how you say in your language…”
“Greenhorn?” I say.
“No. No no. That word it is far too kind.”
—
All night wind had been slowly backing northward and increasing until, at 3am, it was dead NE at 20 knots. I rose, put a reef in both sails and laid in a course for 40 miles windward of Hilo, a close reach to the NW that Mo could make handily. She raced off. The sky was clear. Arcturus overhead. A waning moon. I went back to my bunk happy. These were the NE trades alright. We had made it across with unprecedented ease.
At 6am I woke to find Mo pounding. In the pilot house I could see she’d slipped back to a course ENE and winds were back to south of east. I eased sheets and made her course north. The sky ahead was heavy with cloud and rain.
All morning wind eased and went south (south!) until by noon the sails couldn’t keep their wind. There is a hefty swell sliding down from the NE and a smaller one from the SE, and they throw Mo about like she is a bathtub toy.
At 1pm I took sails down. They made a terrible racket and I’m beginning to worry about them. The light and variable winds on this leg have taken their toll, and this suit has another loop to go.
So now we are motoring north in search of wind.
The weather files show us to be at least half a degree inside the trades with winds NE at 15.
Actual. ESE at 7, unless they are SSE at 6 or E at 5.
I should have kept my mouth shut!
Day 164/42
Noon Position: 03 53S 149 46W
Course/Speed: NNE6+
Wind: SE14. An hour later EXS 20 – 25
Bar: 1011, falling
Sea: E4
Sky: White cumulus cover the sky. An hour later, low and gray squall clouds.
Cabin Temperature: 89
Water Temperature: 84
Sail: All plain sail;
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 145
Miles this leg: 5,221
Avg. Miles this leg: 124
Miles since departure: 22,326
Prior to noon, I had nothing new to report. It had been a lovely day in the trades. But it’s been that for a week. How many odes to the color blue can one write?
Then the barometer dropped and the sky came down and the wind went to up, all without my noticing.
I was concentrating on working a sight when the wind indicator went to 20 knots and Mo laid right over. Both main and working jib were full at the time, as they have been since well before the Cook Islands.
When I came on deck the scene was like that of the southern ocean, except for the distinct lack of cold. Low and gray in all directions. Line squalls to windward. Ahead and astern, no horizon due to its being covered by a wall of rain.
I made my way to the mast and tucked a reef in the main. Back at the cockpit, I tucked two in the working jib. Now the wind indicator was at 25. I went back to the mast and tucked a second reef in the main.
This after days of wind in the teens.
Two hours later, the sky has lifted a bit and reveals mountainous cumulonimbus to windward.
I may have a busy evening in store for me.
—
We’re approaching the end of the southern trades. Within two to four degrees of latitude, they’ll have petered out entirely. This may be the bellwether.
—
It has been so gentle of late that I can work on deck all day without fouling up my glasses. Not today. Ten minutes at the mast and this is what I get.
Day 163/41
Noon Position: 01 43N 150 52W
Course/Speed: NNE4
Wind: SExE 7-10
Bar: 1009, steady
Sea: E4
Sky: Overcast (alto cumulus and cumulus)
Cabin Temperature: 88
Water Temperature: 84
Sail: All plain sail, reaching. Just after noon, up went the #1,
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 131
Miles this leg: 5,076
Avg. Miles this leg: 124
Miles since departure: 22,050
We are nearing the top of the trades. Winds are veering more into the south and becoming lighter, which makes for a very comfortable, cruise-ship type ride. Things set on the counter aren’t immediately flung to the floor. I can move about the cabin without being punched in the gut by the salon table or kicked in the shins by the stove. As long as one has no other place he needs to be, this is perfection. It would the purest torture if, say, one were best man at a wedding scheduled for next Tuesday.
I’ve been using the time to get good (read, at least consistent) at astro-navigation. The mostly sunny days and a nearly flat sea present about as ideal a lab environment as one could hope for. I’ve added planets to the morning, noon, and afternoon sun sights, and tonight, if this unusual overcast clears, stars.
I was in no rush to add stars until my shots of Saturn these last three nights turned out to be shots of Arcturus. Saturn, as it should happen, is four houses away and below the horizon when I’m at the ready.
From my friend Matt, lately of DRINA, the yacht that explored the Southern Ocean Islands while MO made her circuit, I learn that mine is the “manual” astro-navigation method and that the number “calculated” ways to find your position is as vast as the heavens.
He, a professionally trained mariner and all around bright guy, also enjoys practicing astro-navigation whenever he’s at sea. He asked the other day if I was familiar with Marc St. Hilaire.
“Sounds like a cathedral in Paris,” I responded.
“No, it’s my go-to site reduction method. Surely you know it. Crazy simple: COS Czd = SIN Lat SIN Dec + COS Lat COS Dec COS LHA. You use that, right?”
“Um. No, Matt. I use a protractor and a number two pencil.”
—
Of the below photos, there is a metallic quality to today’s blue ocean. Not sure why. Am guessing it’s the white reflection from the cumulus cloud, but it gives all a cool aspect that’s an unusual contrast to the electric sapphire and indigo blues.
The range and changeability of this one color, blue, is stunning.
Also, last night I tried to catch the moon, still nearly full, coming out of cloud, but the cloud grew as the moon rose. The shots this produced were amazingly painterly, eery and full of mood; reminiscent of Turner, I thought. 
Day 162/40
Noon Position: 00 90S 152 00W
Course/Speed: NNE6+
Wind: SE13-17
Bar: 1010, steady
Sea: E5
Sky: Clear
Cabin Temperature: 87
Water Temperature: 82
Sail: All plain sail
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 150
Miles this leg: 4,944
Avg. Miles this leg: 124
Miles since departure: 22,050
Early this afternoon Mo and I crossed the line at 152W and are now plying home waters–which is to say, the North Pacific–for the first time since we crossed to the south on November 20th of last year. Six months we have been in southern latitudes; alien, tempestuous, frigid, alluring, rich and wild latitudes.
Of course, this is not how I envisioned coming home. The route as designed brought me back into the Pacific via the Bering Sea. That disappointment to one side, it is nice to be entering familiar territory; Hawaii, the North Pacific High, that coast line way off to the east. I anticipate sighting the Golden Gate Bridge the first week or so of July.
We will be home a month or two…and then off again. Back to sea. Back to the south.
Following up on a theme in yesterday’s post, it has often struck me as curious that passing over the equator is called, by sailors, crossing the line. This has seemed a too prosaic descriptor for an idiom so given to allusion and metaphor.
But I discovered the reason today.
Sailors, for all their poetry, are practical beings, after all. And when one can be precise, be precise.
Day 161/39
Noon Position: 02 22S 153 08W
Course/Speed: NNE6-7
Wind: SE14-18
Bar: 1011, falling
Sea: E6
Sky: Cum 20%
Cabin Temperature: 89
Water Temperature: 84
Sail: All plain sail, reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 148
Miles this leg: 4,795
Avg. Miles this leg: 123
Miles since departure: 21,900
Wind has veered into the SE and lightened up a bit. Finally Aeolus’ idea of a practical joke aligns with mine. This is grand. Full sail; wind abeam; speeds consistently over 7 knots, and I can move about the deck, even to the mast, without getting a face and chest full of water. I get the joke. It’s really, really funny. Man, you can tell me this joke every morning for a thousand years.
A day of shipping. The GLORIOUS SAKURA made the alarms go off at ten miles just a touch after sunup. She must have been glorious at heart, because what became visible at five miles was a plain, old cargo ship, bound for “CN NTG.” Not sure where that is, but given her course (W), speed (13 knots) and ETA (June 16), it could be anywhere in the neighborhood of the Philippines.
Then this afternoon, the BBC MARMARA, bound Papeete. She never came over the horizon.
Though I’m pleased to get these confirmations that my AIS system is functioning properly, I am surprised to find shipping here. Seems to me we’re between middle of nowhere and nowhere still.
Where did these ships originate? Or, more properly, what great circle route puts them on an intercept with Mo?
—
Why are the steady breezes either side of the Doldrums called Trade Winds? My assumption: in the age of sail, such winds made for fast passages and we’re thusly good for trade.
But that definition has never been satisfying. Besides lacking corroboration, it has implied that the merchants who owned the ships named the regions, for certainly no sailor would apply such a flat, prosaic name to an area of such joyous sailing when the next region to the south he called the Horse Latitudes, and the one to the north, The Doldrums.
Here’s the scoop. “The name originated in the mid 17th century and is from the phrase ‘blow trade,’ which is to blow steadily in the same direction. Because of the importance of these winds to navigation, 18th-century etymologists were led erroneously to connect the word trade with commerce.”
“Blow Trade.” That sounds more like a sailor talk.
Source: The Dictionary (of all things).
—
Washed head and beard today. Finally calm enough. What a luxury, a clean head.
Day 160/38
Noon Position: 04 45S 153 44W
Course/Speed: NNE6+
Wind: ESE20
Bar: 1011, falling
Sea: E8
Sky: Cumulus to 20%
Cabin Temperature: 87
Water Temperature: 83
Sail: #2, one reef; Main, one reef, reaching/close reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 135
Miles this leg: 4,647
Avg. Miles this leg: 122
Miles since departure: 21,754
Two bits of news:
One, overnight we had a guest, a juvenile boobie (possibly redfooted). He attached himself to the dorade vent grab-bar above the pilot house at about sundown and went head-under-wing asleep. He was so invested in his snoozing that he never budged the several times I made sail adjustments in the night, this even though the sheet winch was but a foot from his perch.
I marveled at his success. Mo jumped and heaved, which is her want on this leg, such that I’m always attached by both hands and feet when I move about, but this bird could stay attached with just two feet and sleep into the bargain.
He woke at sunup, not at day-break nor twilight (I checked). As the orange orb rose above cloud, out came the head. A blueish face gave me a crosseyed look. Then he went off in search of breakfast.
He left parting gifts, as I expected, on the pilot house roof, squid, I’d say, given the inky quality of the ooze. I didn’t mind this contribution, but the spray on the working jib I could have done without.
Two, I came on deck mid morning to see why we’d gone so close winded only to find that Monte had broken a safety tube. This is the first such failure since February 2nd, and between then and now, Monte has steered (or should I say, piloted) the better part of a Southern Ocean lap, including gales and knockdowns, and two weeks of pounding in the trades. In round numbers, 12,000 miles of hard driving without a single incident.
It could well be that it’s the pounding in the trades that is the more evil on Monitor’s water paddle. Coming off a wave, even these little eight-footers, and landing laid over at the bottom puts a heavy shock load on the rudder and Monte’s water paddle. The break was at the fastener in the hinge–metal fatigue, I’m guessing.
In any case, I now have a spare safety tube and pendulum hinge already assembled. So, the time it takes to flip on the autopilot, fish the water paddle from the sea, swap out the tube and hinge, and re-attach all is down to Formula-One pitstop times. Or, in sea time, about fifteen minutes. 
Day 159/37
Noon Position: 06 58S 154 05W
Course/Speed: N5-6
Wind: E15-18 (20 – 25 all afternoon)
Bar: 1011, falling
Sea: E5
Sky: Cumulus to 20%
Cabin Temperature: 89
Water Temperature: 84
Sail: #2 jib full; main one reef, close reaching (double reefs in the afternoon)
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 137
Miles this leg: 4,512
Avg. Miles this leg: 122
Miles since departure: 21,619
Aeolus is a trickster god, it should be admitted. On the 28th day, he created the The Trade Winds, saying, “Blow trade will these winds. Now go forth and multiply.” And they do blow trade. But man, do they shift in velocity something fierce. I’ve reefed and un-reefed thrice today, which I think must entertain Aeolus. I sure hope he’s watching.
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That tired complaint to one side, it’s been a fine day on Moli, for today my sun sights yielded an accurate fix.
If find celestial navigation to be something like the opposite of going to the dentist; it’s fun to do; but the procedure is eminently forgettable. Each time I go back at it (I did sun sights all the way down the Pacific in November and December of last year–and not since), it usually takes me three or so days of sights to work out the kinks. This time it was *just* three days.
What I know I’ve learned from Tom Cunliffe’s little book titled simply Celestial Navigation, and the method I’m most comfortable with goes by the name “Sun-Run-Sun.” In brief, it requires three shots of the sun throughout the day, one mid morning and another mid afternoon to fix lines of position that include longitude, and a noon shot line of position for latitude. The “run” refers to the running fix in pilotage, only here one is running up to noon and back to noon the morning and afternoon lines of position from the sun.
Beyond the taking of the sights themselves, there are only six steps to the computation, but these require eleven look-ups. By “look-ups” I mean eleven bits of additional information needed to make the computation possible–seven in the Almanac and four in the Sight Reduction Tables.
I use the Nautical Almanac produced by the UK Hydrographic office and Sight Reduction Tables for Air Navigation, known more broadly as HO 249. (These were produced for WWII bomber navigators; they are simpler and quicker to use than the Navy’s HO 229, and they are wee bit less accurate–a fair trade on a bounding boat.) Having got all one’s ducks in a row, the math is simple addition, subtraction and division. No calculator needed.
But holy cow, are there ever opportunities for error. Wrong date, inaccurate read of the time, bad conversion of local time to GMT; bad sight taking, bad reading of the altitude off the sextant; wrong page in the book(s), number transposition, sloppy conversion of base 100 to base 60 (when finding local noon); failure to remember that most addition/subtraction is base 60 (it is time, after all); wrong latitude name in the sight reduction tables; wrong column; wrong column, wrong column.
Then there’s taking the sight itself. The boat is acting like a washing machine that’s just swallowed an elephant, this while you are trying to get an altitude accurate to the second off a body so far away it takes eight minutes for light to travel from it to you.
But today, success.
Local Noon position by
GPS: 06 56S 154 04W
SEXTANT: 06 57S 154 07W
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Someone on the site asked how often I use my sextant. I think the answer is “not often enough.” It’s immensely rewarding to find one’s position on the globe the “old way” (the *only* way until recent decades). And once the procedure is habit, it’s not hard to keep it up. But when the going gets rough, it’s the first thing to fall away…because it can. The chart plotter offers a position to the 100ths of a second every second of the day. And I don’t even have to push a button.
This is one reason I admire the sailors in the Golden Globe Race that commences in a month or two. Those singlehanders, departing from Plymouth for a non-stop lap of the world via the Southern Ocean, will find their position by sextant or not at all.
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First lone frigate bird sighting today. Easy to identify. They are the only pelagic that soars high up with the clouds.
Day 158/36
Noon Position: 09 15S 154 10W
Course/Speed: NNE6+
Wind: ESE20
Bar: 1010, falling
Sea: E6-8
Sky: Cumulus to 50%
Cabin Temperature: 88
Water Temperature: 85
Sail: #2 jib, 1 reef; main, 2 reefs, close reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 139 (I moved ship’s clock ahead one hour; so, a 23 hour day.)
Miles this leg: 4,375
Avg. Miles this leg: 122
Miles since departure: 21,619
Winds have freshened over the last two days, and now the challenge is in finding the set of sail that optimizes for speed without overtaxing the boat and pulverizing the crew.
Mo is amply rigged for a boat her size and her main sail, in particular, is a biggun. With apparent wind in the low to mid 20s, a reasonable apparent wind angle of about 50 degrees, and seas in the six to eight-foot range, we feel either hard pressed or under powered.
One reef in the main and two in the working jib allows us to fly at 6.5 and 7 knots, even when digging into and out of the swell. (Recent winds have allowed us a course NE while the sea that’s running has remained from the E.) But the ride is rough, and the angle of heel at a steady 20 degrees and more makes living below an exercise in survival.
Movement about the cabin requires all four appendages and often hips and shoulders. Cooking is nearly impossible as the galley stove is now to leeward, is effectively under you while you do a pushup on the cabinetry above it with your head in the flame. Even eating takes an awareness that with gravity so on its ear, one may need to sit up straight (good job figuring that out) or else his food won’t go down. Climbing out of the lee bunk in the middle of the night would be better facilitated mountaineering gear. And let’s not discuss the workings of the head beyond noting that one risks one’s life, and clean underwear, in there.
Also, with this sail configuration, we’re more vulnerable to the passing squall as it’s the main that discombobulates Monte in the gusts. Oh, and how Mo pounds. Every hour or so we fall off a wave and the *wham* in the boat and the shuddering of the hull are like we’ve run full speed onto a submerged reef. “She’s opening up,” I think. I look around for rushing water in the cabin. There is none. But my heart stops every time.
That said, two reefs in the main and one if the jib, while much more comfortable below and an easy ride through squalls, doesn’t really provide the power we need to keep speed up. Now our pace is more like 5.5 to 6.5 knots. The skipper has to avoid looking at the SOG indicator for fear of doing something rash. Where’s the damned spinnaker when you need it, he asks. No one answers.
Often in the Southern Ocean, I wished the main had a fourth reef point near the head. Now I wish I had a fifth between one and two. I can see Robin at HOOD sails in Sausalito shaking his head.
But all that’s just winging. In truth, we make excellent progress to the north at a clip of better than two degrees of latitude a day. At this rate, we should be at the equator well inside of a week.
