Date: February 21, 2018.

Day: 100 (I was off by two days in last post).

Noon Position: 45 46S 65 01E.

Course/Speed: E7 Wind: NW15.

Sky: Clear.

Temps: Cabin got to 62 today. Amazed. Miles last 24 hours: 133.

LMG: 128.

Total F8 Miles: 13,389.

The southern ocean has dealt us a kind hand the last three days. Winds have been consistently light to moderate and the skies, Bright and open. Except for the Wandering Albatross, one might say he was transiting a trade wind belt. Nights have been clear too. Orion marching high. Sleep has been deep and long. Last night, a full eight hours in two-hour stints. I Am feeling much myself again.

Mo is mostly back to her clean and ordered self. The soggy towels have been hung to dry two days in a row and are now simply damp, making them useless. I’m still digging glass from between floorboards, but we’re down to the small shards. Repair is also underway. I have removed the shattered solar panel and gifted it to the sea. The section of rail that bent in and over the winches, making them almost has been cut away and a lifeline reeved in its place.

As to electronics, troubleshooting today appears to have put back into service the satellite compass, wind instruments, autopilot, and tank levels, and to have revealed that the AIS transmission unit is faulty and was crashing the other instruments. Not sure the fault as yet. Radar is still offline. Its router was waterlogged and so far the spare has failed to boot at all. FleetBroadband is still offline. I have disassembled the AA battery charger, rinsed its parts in fresh water and am letting them dry. These small batteries power my headlamps and other flashlights, without which night work and engine work are difficult. Ditto the Iridium GO. I’m pleased. Feels like progress. Now it is dusk.

Winds have risen this afternoon to 20 knots and the forecast calls for 30. So I took a second reef in the main. I crave another long, calm night. Winds have responded by dropping to 12 knots. The main is even starting to slat. Welcome to the south, where nothing is ever the same. (End)

Heads up from Team F8. If you’re watching Randall on the tracker please note that the tool he uses to submit both these blog posts and his location charges it at night. When it’s charging it’s not sending us his coordination. As of today he’s almost exactly 12 hours ahead of the US so when we’re awake the tracker is waiting. Go figure. Anyway, didn’t want folks to think it was broken. #teamf8

Quick note from Jo and Team F8 before you read through Randall’s report from Moli. First – you should be aware that this whole thing was typed out 160 characters at a time on the Garmin InReach, the only communications tool currently working aboard Moli. Team F8 then had to copy and paste each section to build this and upcoming posts. Hence the slightly stilted language.  Second – as Randall always does, he’s trying hard to be real with all his readers about the experience, what happened and how he’s feeling. Know that I just communicated with him and we’re back to jokes.

Team F8 and I will continue to copy and paste the 160 characters until we fix or replace the Iridium GO. Sadly no photos until then but I’ve asked him to make sure he keeps taking pictures.

Enjoy the dramatic read! Jo

Blog Report.

Date: February 19

Day 100.

Position: 46 05S 61 15E.

Course/Speed: ENE6 Wind: NW: 20.

Bar: 1022.

Sky: nearly clear.

Temp: 57! Feels like summer!

I pulled the working jib and put up the storm jib at 4pm. Winds had increased to a steady 30 – 35. Remarkable however were the seas, steep and breaking and far larger than one would expect from 35 knots. The dominant swell was west with a smaller train from the northwest and another, inexplicably, from the south. I put Mo on port tack, taking the dominant swell slightly on port quarter and hunkered down to watch.

At 1900 I was typing here in the pilot house when Mo was knocked flat to starboard. Water came pouring in the starboard pilot house dorade vent, the only one I’ve left open so we can have at least a modicum of fresh air below. The laptop was soaked but miraculously survived. By this time it was dark and solid cloud cover, there was no visibility at all save the faint white of a wave just before it hit the boat. I rigged a port-side sheet on the storm jib so we could gybe and take the swell to starboard, but without visibility and knowing there were three trains, choice of tacks seemed a pick-your-poison at best. The only danger I saw was that as the wind came into the southwest, we’d be pulled more abeam the northerly and westerly swells. That hadn’t happened yet, so I left Mo on port tack. No more knockdowns, so by 11pm I started sleeping.

At about 2am we were knocked over again. I could hear the wave come on us. The sound is like being overtaken by an angry jet engine. Then your 40,000 pound boat is thrown as if it has all the heft of a dog toy. I could see from the pilot house that the starboard rail had been bent in from the impact of the boat’s fall onto the solar panel lashed to the rail. Lines were all ahoo, but there was no other damage. By this time there was light enough (ship’s clock is still set to GMT+3) to see. The wind had started to come more into the west, so I gybed Mo around.

This, I felt, gave her a less sharp angle of approach to the westerly swell and she seemed to ride better. I was clearly incorrect in this assessment for an hour later we were knocked hard over to port. I was sitting in the pilot house when the hit occurred. The sensation was of being slammed to the ground. The port side window over the navigation station shattered. It was well underwater at this point, and green water gushed in. In a moment the boat righted. I remember seeing the water flow in, over the navigation desk, onto the floorboards in a big, heavy stream, but the shattered window didn’t register until I looked up and could see the clear ocean and jagged glass.

What action to take first wasn’t obvious. Three immediate priorities: 1) stop the hole; 2) get the water out; 3) find a way to make Mo safe in these seas. By this time winds were 35 to 45 knots; gusts higher but nothing quite 50. We’ve seen worse, I thought, but the seas were tremendous. And the crashing white of the wave throwing itself bodily forward resembled surf-break, wide and long and all-consuming. I pumped water from a full bilge while I thought how to plug the hole in the broken window.

With the bilge half empty, I retrieved two hatch-boards from the forepeak and bolted them together, one on each side of the window. The boards were not quite the right shape and left small voids on two corners, which I filled with silicone. That done I finished pumping the bilge, which only took 10 minutes until is sucked air. The next step, the only option left, was to deploy the Jordan Series drogue. This seemed to take hours. Though flaked for easy deployment, the rough weather meant it had wedged itself deep inside the locker and had to be hauled out hand-over-hand into the cockpit and reorganized.

It was nearly 10am when it began streaming aft. The boat stopped. I pulled the storm jib and felt a gush of relief. Finally, we felt under control. Below was a wreck. I began mopping up and doing a mental assessment of the damage. Chart Plotter OK. VHF OK. Iridium GO, dead. Glass everywhere. Water everywhere. Grab towels.

Winds seemed to have moderated, but the swell was still fast and mean. Even on drogue we were hit hard from the stern, white water regularly in the cockpit and slamming the companionway hatch. I had been at clean up for two hours when I looked up to see we were lying ahull. I went into the cockpit and gave a yank on the drogue bridle. It didn’t yank back. I pulled it in and found the drogue had parted at the splice where it joins the bridle. The metal eye was all that remained. I have lavished untold care on the bridle, which has needed repair, but my assessment of the drogue was that it looked nearly perfect. There was rust around the eye at the lead-end splice, but the splice always looked sound. Lying ahull in this sea was out of the question, so I put Mo before the wind under bare poles.

In our first big blow, this had not worked, but this time I went dead downwind and Monte was easily able to maintain steerage. We rode-out the rest of the gale this way without incident.

Damage assessment: port aft rail bent in over winches; solar panel shattered; port window in pilot house shattered; dead electronics include Fleetbroadband 250 (weather, email, photo, video); Iridium GO (tracker and email/weather backup system); single sideband radio; Emtrak (AIS transmission); Radar; AA battery charger (for headlamps); Metoman barograph (barometer); Winspeed instruments; GPS compass (works erratically).

Working: chartplotter, vhf radio with AIS receive (as long as satellite compass with AIS receive works. Also the Garmin Inreach, being used for this report and now only communications tool left. Monte is fine. Otto is fine. The boat is sound; no damage to sails or rig. I also escaped mostly unscathed. Bangs and scratches, as one would expect. Bruised right calf and welt on the back of right thigh—unknown origin. Left hand and wrist swollen from when momentarily caught in drogue, which jammed a winch as it deployed, but all parts move without pain, so I am calling it a sprain.

The stove works fine too, so I can make hot coffee, which is more of a relief than you can know. What’s Next: Am making slow way in general direction of Australia. Was my general course anyway. Port of call unknown.

At 3700 miles onward, we have time to think about that later. Of electronics, the Fleetbroad band gives me lights and both wind instruments and satellite compass have worked sporadically, which suggests connection issues at the NMEA 2000 junction box. This gives me hope for the Radar as well, which routes through the same box. The others, Iridium GO, SSB, Barograph, AA battery charger, Emtrak AIS transmit are waterlogged and beyond hope.

What could I have done differently? 1) Deploy drogue when I saw that the seas were outstripping the wind. There’s an adage: “it’s not the wind we worry about; it’s the waves.” I read the wind and thought we’d seen worse, so pressed on. Given what happened with the drogue, we can see what good the drogue would have done. 2) I could have gybed earlier so as to take the main swell at a less sharp angle. But in pitch dark, choosing my angle would have been a crap shoot. With three trains, it feels there were few good options. And too, Monte had very tough time steering a course at the height of things because the rudder would practically stall out on the back side and trough of waves. Our course was as wide as 45 degrees at times. Otto would have done no better. So, answer: I don’t know. I still can’t get over how crushingly large and heavy were the seas for a blow whose average winds were 35 to 40 knots. In hindsight, their character felt like what one gets when wind is pushing against current—a line to look into later.

For the moment I’m putting Mo in slow mode, heavily reefed, so I can sleep (am bone tired even after two good nights of sleep) and put below decks back together. When I stop to think about it, I’m terribly disappointed and feel like I’ve let Mo down. I’ve gone from the man who was going to sail all five oceans in a year to the man who broke his boat in all five oceans in a year, etc. Luckily there’s not much time for such thoughts. And that’s my report. More as we continue eastward…

Hey Virtual Voyagers!

Quick update for everyone following.

1. Windy TV tracking. Later today (we hope) this should be back up and running due to the awesomness of Tedde and the team at Follow My Challenge. We’re linking our secondary communication system to the Windy TV app. I don’t have an idea of the frequency of the updates yet but you’ll get one at least once a day.
2. Randall’s updates. We have a “hack” for this too. Unfortunately, in the short term (about a month) we won’t have images he will be writing updates. They might not be as frequent but you will get them.

Next steps. Randall is heading towards Australia to pull in for this round of repairs.We’re going to wait until then to think about how this will impact the larger project and the timeline. As always, we will figure it out.

Thanks for all the notes of support!

Team F8

Hi all!

For those who follow Randall on his tracker. Do not panic. He’s fine. His tracker is not. I’m sure you all noticed the stormy weather over the last 24 hours. There were, of course, shenanigans. Randall is drying out and figuring things out and we’re going to try and get the tracker back online. Until then, we’ll continue to keep posting here as we get updates.

#staytuned.

Team F8

Day 96

Noon Position: 47 03S  53 43E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: NW 20 – 30

Sail: Working jib, two reefs

Bar: 996

Sea: NW to 12; N to 7

Sky: Clear, for the moment

Cabin Temp: 56

Water Temp: 43

Miles last 24-hours: 136

Longitude Miles Made Good: 131

Miles since departure: 13,057

In the Heart of It

We’re in the heart of it now, the heart of what this low has to offer. Winds are mostly middle 30s, but blowing up a gale down here is a very gusty business, so 40 and above is not an uncommon. Neither is 18. Seas are steep and confused, and they’re dealing Monte his fair share of curve balls in the form of gusts followed by lulls, or seas that knock us sideways and essentially stop the boat in her tracks, a tough business for a wind vane. I get dirty looks whenever I go on deck.

It’s evening. Have been running under storm jib now for a couple hours. Wind are on port quarter and a heading more or less east. Seas are mainly northwest with the older train coming from the north. The older train is not very substantial at this point. Am taking the larger train slightly to port; the older one unfortunately is on the beam, but it is rarely breaking.

Night is coming on.

I need to pay attention here. All for now.

Day 95

Noon Position: 46 48S  50 31E

Course/Speed: ESE7

Wind: NNE20 – 25

Sail: two reefs in working jib and three in the main

Bar: 1012

Sea: N6 but steep

Sky: Overcast with rain

Cabin Temp: 52

Water Temp: 41

Miles last 24-hours: 151

Longitude Miles Made Good: 143

Miles since departure: 12,921

0750 Land Ho. Ilse Crozets. First the upraised clouds and then the smudges on the horizon. Isle Cochon, surprisingly big and round; quite high because I’m 39 miles south of it. Then to the east, Isle Pingouins, much smaller and just shy of 20 miles distant.

I didn’t expect to see land, and it’s an emotional shock. Exciting. Eerie.

Then they are swallowed by cloud.

But their evidence is all around me in vastly increased bird life. I’ve seen my first Cape Petrel and first Giant Petrel, and then all the usual suspects, Wanderers, Black Browed, White Chinned Petrels, Prions, Skuas. An exciting day.

Weather from the north is building. We bash. I ran with the small staysail and three reefs in the main for a time, but it was too little sail. The working jib is back up and just in time for 30 knots. Rough ride.

The real low arrives tonight when this wind turns east. Long day and night ahead.

Some background…

The Crozet Islands (French: Îles Crozet; or, officially, Archipel Crozet) are a sub-antarctic archipelago of small islands in the southern Indian Ocean. They form one of the five administrative districts of the French Southern and Antarctic Lands.

History

The Crozet Islands were discovered on 24 January 1772 by the expedition of French explorer Marc-Joseph Marion du Fresne, aboard Le Mascarin. His second-in-command Jules (Julien-Marie) Crozet landed on Île de la Possession, claiming the archipelago for France.[2] The expedition continued east and landed at New Zealand, where Captain Marion and much of his crew were killed and cannibalized by Maori.[3] Crozet survived the disaster, and successfully led the survivors back to their base at Mauritius. In 1776 Crozet met James Cook at Cape Town, at the onset of Cook’s third voyage.[3]Crozet shared the charts of his ill-fated expedition, and as Cook sailed eastward he stopped at the islands, naming the western group Marion and the eastern group Crozet.[2] In the following years, sealers visiting the islands referred to both the eastern and western groups as the Crozet Islands, and Marion Island became the name of the larger of the two Prince Edward Islands, which were discovered by Captain Marion on the same expedition.[2]

In the early 19th century, the islands were often visited by sealers, to the extent that the seals had been nearly exterminated by 1835. Subsequently, whaling was the main activity around the islands, especially by the whalers from Massachusetts. In 1841 there were a dozen whaleships around the islands. Within a couple of years this had increased to twenty from the United States alone. Such exploitation was short-lived, and the islands were rarely visited for the rest of the century.

Shipwrecks occurred frequently at the Crozet Islands. The British sealer, Princess of Wales, sank in 1821, and the survivors spent two years on the islands. The Strathmorewas wrecked in 1875. In 1887, the French Tamaris was wrecked and her crew stranded on Île des Cochons. They tied a note to the leg of an albatross, which was found seven months later in Fremantle, but the crew was never recovered. Because shipwrecks around the islands were so common, for some time the Royal Navy dispatched a ship every few years to look for stranded survivors. The steamship Australasian also checked for survivors en route to Australia.[4]

Between 1924 and 1955, France administered the islands as a dependency of Madagascar. Crozet Islands became part of the French Southern Territories in 1955. In 1938, the Crozet Islands were declared a nature reserve. In 1961, a first research station was set up, but it was not until 1963 that the permanent station Alfred Faureopened at Port Alfred on Île de la Possession (both named after the first leader of the station). The station is staffed by 18 to 30 people (depending on the season) and does meteorological, biological, and geological research, maintains a seismograph and a geomagnetic observatory (IAGA code: CZT). The Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty Organization ( CTBTO ) has listening equipment on the island after the CTBTO disclosed that two of its stations, the other being on Ascension Island, detected what is believed to be an underwater, non-nuclear explosion off the coast of Argentina and believed to be a fatal accident of the ARA San Juan submarine in 2017.[5][6]

Geography

The Crozet Islands are uninhabited, except for the research station Alfred Faure (Port Alfred) on the East side of Île de la Possession, which has been continuously manned since 1963. Previous scientific stations included La Grande Manchotière and La Petite Manchotière.

Climate

The Crozet islands have a maritime-influenced tundra climate (Köppen climate classification, ET). Monthly temperatures average around 2.9 °C (37 °F) and 7.9 °C (46 °F) in winter and summer respectively.[7] Precipitation is high, with over 2,000 mm (78.7 in) per year. It rains on average 300 days a year, and winds exceeding 100 km/h (60 mph) occur on 100 days a year. The temperatures may rise to 18 °C (64.4 °F) in summer and rarely go below −5 °C (23 °F) even in winter.

Flora and fauna

The islands are part of the Southern Indian Ocean Islands tundra ecoregion that includes several subantarctic islands. In this cold climate plant life is mainly limited to grasses, mosses and lichens, while the main animals are insects along with large populations of seabirds, seals and penguins.[7]

The Crozet Islands are home to four species of penguins. Most abundant are the macaroni penguin, of which some 2 million pairs breed on the islands, and the king penguin, home to 700,000 breeding pairs; half the world’s population.[10] The eastern rockhopper penguin also can be found, and there is a small colony of gentoo penguins. There is also an endemic subspecies of the duck Eaton’s pintail. Other birds include black-faced sheathbills, petrels, and albatross, including the wandering albatross.

Mammals living on the Crozet Islands include fur seals, and southern elephant seals. Killer whales have been observed preying upon the seals. The transient killer whales of the Crozet Islands are famous for intentionally beaching (and later un-stranding) themselves while actively hunting the islands’ breeding seal population. This is a very rare behaviour, most often seen in the Patagonia region of Argentina, and is thought to be a learned skill passed down through generations of individual orca families.

The Crozet Islands have been a nature reserve since 1938. Introduction of foreign species (mice, rats, and subsequently cats for pest control) has caused severe damage to the original ecosystem. The pigs that had been introduced on Île des Cochons and the goats brought to Île de la Possession—both as a food resource—have been exterminated.

Another on-going concern is overfishing of the Patagonian toothfish and the albatrosspopulation is monitored. The waters of the Crozet Islands are patrolled by the French government.

In popular culture

A 2012 French film, Les Saveurs du Palais, begins and ends with scenes in the Crozet Islands. The film’s protagonist, a grandmotherly chef from the Périgord region of France who signed on as cook for the research station, had once been the personal chef to President François Mitterrand.

In the 1978 novel Desolation Island, the fifth book in Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey–Maturin series, the fictional frigate HMS Leopard is severely damaged in battle in the southwestern Indian Ocean. The crew attempts to make landfall for repairs on one of the Crozet Islands. But they miss the island and continue to drift towards the east, unable to reverse direction.

Day 94

Noon Position: 46 45S  47 02E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: NW20

Sail: Big Genoa, poled out (damn but it looks huge)

Bar: 1014

Sea: NW6

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 57

Water Temp: 45

Miles last 24-hours: 159 (I set ships clock back an hour, so this was a 23-hour day)

Longitude Miles Made Good: 147

Miles since departure: 12,770

Yesterday, Valentine’s Day, my wife posted an article on this site remembering warmly how things began for the two of us and what we have in common, even when proximity is not one of those things. Meanwhile, from the other side of the planet, her adventuresome husband posted an article about … the weather.

I have made the Figure 8 as public as possible, yet I still struggle with the sharing of things I hold as private, especially those things that are difficult and private, like my feelings about being away from my wife so frequently and for so long.

She’s earned the appellation “Best Wife in the World” for letting me go because it’s the one thing no cruiser I meet can comprehend, that I am off on a solo sail *and* am happily married to a woman who is not with me. When I tell the story, I credit that we met later in life (I was 40); we had our careers and our passions in order, that we don’t have the responsibility of children, that Jo comes from a sailing family, so understands (though does not share) the desire to explore exotic places by boat, and that I talked about my blue-water inclinations on the first date.

But the other half of that story is that my wife is an enabler. For some reason I can’t explain, she believes people *should* pursue their passions, and she is quite happy to push them over the starting line–shove in some cases–even when it appears to be to her disadvantage. Who knows if I would have quit a good job in San Francisco to cruise the Pacific if Jo hadn’t, on one of our hikes, said, “Do it–or quit talking about it!    ” Or if, later, I would have launched from Mexico for Tahiti-and-beyond instead of Hawaii-and-home if, when I proposed the plan that would have me gone an extra year, she hadn’t said, “I think you should do that.”

So lucky me…I get to go. But when I go, I’m gone, and there’s the rub. Some of it is a sense of guilt for abandoning my manly responsibilities–delivering morning coffee, taking out the trash, weeding the yard, cleaning the gutters, unstopping the plumbing, jump-starting the car. But mostly it’s the company I miss, our walks, our long conversations at the dinner table, and the life we have built together that is put on hold when I let go the dock lines.

What I want to to express is simply that adventuring, for me, is emotionally complicated. I am fortunate beyond measure to be able to do what I’ve dreamed. Do I wish, at this moment, that I was at home mowing the lawn instead of watching a Storm Petrel dance at wave-top at 47 degrees south? No. Do I question my motives when there is a big blow bearing down on Mo and me that I’m not sure how to manage–when the risks of this reward loom? Yes.

And when the sea is its obsidian-blue and crashing, when trains of waves roam like immortal giants, when Orion rises right over the mast and the Southern Cross is still there to starboard, when the wild albatross glides in from afar, when the horizon is open and flecked with white in all directions, seemingly to infinity, when a day on the ocean feels like I am seeing the world truly and for the first time … do I still miss my wife? Yes.

—

Mail service being spotty mid ocean, I woke early on Valentine’s Day and pulled a card from my stash, composed a brief note, took pictures of the cover and the note, and emailed these to Jo. It was bitter-sweet, expressing affection for this woman I will not see for another six months. It heightened the sense of seperation rather than a sense of connection. But it also gave me pleasure to think she might feel warmed by the thoughts, and it fulfilled a duty that I enjoy fulfilling.

And then I utterly forgot to tell you about it.

Day 93

Noon Position: 46 33S  43 26E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: W20+

Sail: Twin headsails poled out

Bar: 1015

Sea: W8

Sky: Clear

Cabin Temp: 54

Water Temp: 42

Miles last 24-hours: 176

Longitude Miles Made Good: 162

Miles since departure: 12,611

The difficulties of the night have been balanced out by the joys of the day. In the night, wind came into the middle 30s, and I struggled to get the twin headsails reefed right down without putting undo strain on sheets and the poles. When I went to bed, it was with the feeling that things still weren’t at their best.

But the morning came on clear and sunny. And the wind had eased. I unfurled our wings and we flew. By noon Mo had turned in another solid days run of over 170 miles and nearly 4 degrees of longitude.

Then I had a change of heart and turned Mo’s head due east…because of Rio de Janiero.

Have I mentioned, I hate Rio. I’m sure the city is lovely, but the expanse of sea just off its coast produces all the bad weather we have experienced since Ushuaia. Small, inoffensive lows that quietly sidle their way into the larger ocean pick up steam as they make their southing, and by the time they get below Cape Good Hope, they’re big and tight and roaring mad.

The one I’m referring to is at moment looking coy at 43 48S and 12 28E, but by they time it gets to my position of two days ago, winds near the center are forecast to be 50 plus. Add ten to that number is my experience.

My plan has been to make rapid northing. The target until noon was 46S and 46E at which point I’d turn east and push hard to make the top of Isle Crozet before the strong westerlies arrived. Being over the islands would allow me ample sea room to run off to the northeast if needed. It also meant that I’d get less powerful winds.

Complication. I was studying the islands this morning and the words “Antares Bank” caught my eye, an expanse of shallow water that extends a full degree north of the group. Pause for thought. Deep sea banks can cause large seas to pile up and break dangerously. One of the most famous of such banks is off Cape Horn where water shallows from several thousands of feet to a few hundred in the space of a few miles. Seas that have had the entire Pacific in which to roam are suddenly fenced in from below, and they react by shooting skyward and falling in on themselves. There is a now famous story of Miles and Beryl Smeeton who were attempting to round the Horn in their Tsu Hang and were pitchpoled due to such seas.

So, I’ve decided to go under the Crozets. The target now is some 370 miles east and just past an inconvenient shallow spot southeast of the most easterly island. If I get (and use wisely) the forecast winds between, there’s a good chance I’ll be well beyond the islands before this gift from Rio arrives.

Day 92

Noon Position: 47 18S  39 28E

Course/Speed: E6+

Wind: SWS 15-20

Sail: Full working jib

Bar: 1027

Sea: SW8, steep

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 50

Water Temp: 38

Miles last 24-hours: 169

Longitude Miles Made Good: 155

Miles since departure: 12,435

This morning at 8 o’clock we passed beneath Marion Island, the larger of two in the Prince Edward Island group. When I came into the pilot house early, it was evident that something had changed as bird numbers were way up, especially prions, of which there were so many one had to think in terms of flocks. At our closest we were 45 miles south of the island, so no land was visible. The day was murky; we would have had to be close-in to spy it in any case.

The increase in birdlife around us is explained by an excerpt from Wikipedia, generously supplied by David R Kelton and waiting in my inbox when I first logged on for the morning’s weather:

“At least twenty-nine different species of birds are thought to breed on the islands, and it is estimated the islands support upwards of 5 million breeding seabirds, and 8 million seabirds total. Five species of albatross are known to breed on the islands, including the wandering albatross, dark-mantled, light-mantled, Indian yellow-nosed and grey-headed albatross. The islands also host fourteen species of petrel, four species of prion, the Antarctic tern, and the brown skua, among others seabirds. Four penguin species are found, including king penguins, Eastern rockhoppers, gentoos and macaroni penguins.”

Those numbers seem fantastic for islands, the largest of which is barely six miles across, but breeding sea birds are not usually particular about square footage.

Some of the first surveys of sea birds on these and many of the Southern Ocean islands were conducted, not by government or a university, but by a private citizen named Gerry Clark, this in the late 80s and in a small boat he built himself.

“I love the sea. I love birds. I love adventure,” writes Gerry, “In what better way could I indulge myself in my latter years than to undertake an expedition in the great Southern Ocean,” an expedition called THE TOTORORE VOYAGE.

Gerry owned an apple farm in New Zealand, where he built his 33 foot TOTORORE and set out, at the age of 55, to establish a base-line of seabird populations, then unknown, on the little-explored, remote and practically inaccessible islands of the Southern Ocean. The story is harrowing and brave and includes two dismastings, severe boat icing, and many other survival situations. It must rate as one of the most daring small boat voyages ever to succeed.

I switched to the twins at noon, as wind has come more into the west, and spent much of the afternoon “tuning” them in an ever increasing wind. We race tonight in winds touching 30. Mo hums when she surfs down the short, steep swell. Feels right on the edge.

Day 91

Noon Position: 48 11S  35 41E

Course/Speed: ENE7

Wind: SW20

Sail: Working jib out full

Bar: 1015

Sea: SW7

Sky: CLEAR!

Cabin Temp: 47

Water Temp: 39

Miles last 24-hours: 171

Longitude Miles Made Good: 163 (We made 4 degrees of longitude–only the second time so far.)

Miles since departure: 12,266

Mo’s motion woke me at dawn. Winds had backed into the southwest, driving the boat north and Mo lurched and shoved her way into a sea leftover from yesterday’s blow. I gybed to the northeast and that eased things.

I had thought to return to my bunk but was awake though it was just 5am. The day came on clear and sunny. I had a coffee and then another and then began to lay out into the cockpit my ever increasing collection of wet things, gloves, socks, shoe insoles, hats, fleeces, galley towels, floor mats, even my sheepskin boots that “never go on deck” needed airing. The sun was strong and wind was strong, but the cold (the cabin never got above 48 today) meant things dried slowly. Then a sneaker wave slapped Mo’s flank, sending spray over the entire aft half of the boat. Everything was soaked. My second layout out of wet things was more strategic.

Winds had eased some by mid morning, so I went to full sail and we flew, dancing on the edge of control but never quite sliding out of it. Monte gave me a wink. We were all having fun.

All morning I worked on deck because I could; and I went without my foulie jacket because I could, but when I finally came below for a pot of oatmeal, I was on the verge of shivering. My hands tingled from the cold.

Yesterday was our 30th day at sea since departing Ushuaia on January 12th. I’d like to say that after 30 days sailing at 47 degrees south and below, I am finally comfortable and in the groove. But I am not. There is too much raw power down here for one to settle in. One is constantly anticipating future days and weathers or cruising the deck for gear that is on the verge of failure.

Today the lashings on Monte’s control lines let go without warning, this after 10,000 trouble-free miles. The cover on the main halyard has chafed where it rubbed against the running backstays during the last blow. The poles have begun to work back and forth in their mast socket, and thus far I’ve not been able to stop them. The use down here is hard use; the lows are one after the other.

At times one can resent the birds that are so perfectly adapted to this environment. Even the tiny storm petrel, hardly the size of a mouse, is running at wave-top during the heaviest of weathers, while I and my tank labor on.

But that resentment is balanced by the fact of seeing them at all, and with my own eyes, of watching Mo crest a wave beyond imagining, and another, of experiencing this inconceivable world.

Day 90

Noon Position: 48 55S 31 41E

Course/Speed: NE7

Wind: W30, gusts to 40

Sail: Storm Jib

Bar: 1002

Sea: NW12

Sky: Clear

Cabin Temp: 50

Water Temp: 41

Miles last 24-hours: 150

Longitude Miles Made Good: 141

Miles since departure: 12,095

The front, dark and heavy, moved through with rain, but not much more wind than we’d had. That was at 6pm. Two hours later I put the storm jib back up. Winds had moved to a steady 30 knots and the barometer was still dropping. By midnight you could feel that the weather was on us by the roar in the rigging. The wind gauge oscillated 20 – 40 knots, due west. A note in the log fron 1am says, “Wind ranges are stunning. Blowing 17 to 45 now but the running average is 35-40. One gust to 50 so far.” At 2am I thought I’d seen what this blow had in mind. I’d not touched the storm jib sheet or Monte’s control lines in several hours, so I hit the sack.

The morning came on clear and wind howled. The sea, now mature, ran high from the west with smaller trains from the southwest and northwest. Mo got shoved around as if she weighed like a bird.

In the late afternoon, the wind began to ease, and then the swell stood up and started to break. This is the dangerous time, and I was keen not to repeat the knockdown Mo and I experienced in the Pacific back in December at a similar point in that gale. That event happened at night, so what the dynamics were, in fact, are not to be known, but I think I was pushing a course that put the boat too beam onto one of trains.

Here we had a dominant west and a smaller northwest swell, and the later was again beam on. I adjusted Monte as best I could, trying to take the west swell a little to port without being even with the northwest train. This mostly worked. A few seas caught Mo just out of step but only one broke bodily onto her, pushing her over and (somehow) opening a galley cupboard. The contents, dishes, flatware, and that evening’s beer, flew toward the head. The can of beer exploded against the bulkhead. One dish fragmented into a million pieces; I know because I had to lift them from the floor by hand, having misplaced the dustpan. No water in the boat.

Now it is evening and the sea is down. The working jib is out and pulling and we make a happy 7 knots in a 25 knot breeze.

Day 89

Noon Position: 49 22S 28 14E

Course/Speed: E5

Wind: N20-25

Sail: Staysail and main

Bar: 987

Sea: NW10

Sky: Drizzle and Fog

Cabin Temp: 51

Water Temp: 40

Miles last 24-hours: 109

Longitude Miles Made Good: 83

Miles since departure: 11,945

South, south the wind keeps pushing us until we bottom out at 49 23S at 10amf. The fog is inescapable, and even the birds have given up and gone elsewhere. Not a soul down here but us.

Then ever so slowly the wind turns into the north and hardens, first to 20, then 30, then 35.

We are still close hauled to make a little better than east. I reef the main once, twice, three times; then the jib. Finally I change to the small orange staysail and main with three reefs. That is comfortable and fast.

Seas are steep and break readily. Water everywhere. When on the foredeck on all fours letting go the staysail gaskets, I break a cardinal rule, which says never stick your leg out toward the weather rail. A sea climbs aboard and into my foulies to the knee, then back down into my boot. Lucky–left leg only. Another time a sneaker wave throws me bodily against the shrouds. Water down my front. I’m wet all over.

By 3pm I’ve seen 38 and 40 on the meter where the forecast calls for a flat 30. We are too fast at 8 knots and I don’t know where this wind is going. I drop the main and button her up for a blow. This is a task in a big sea, dropping the heavy boom to its crutch without losing control, lashing the cradle cover where the main likes to blow out in higher winds. It takes a solid hour. Now we are running under staysail only.

As reward for our hard work, winds drop to 25 and the sky is clears. Our speed, 4 knots. We wallow.

I am beat. I have lunch, a can of tomato soup with a can of whole fish bought in Ushuaia. Then I go back on deck, drop the staysail and let out half the working jib and again make a course east at a respectable speed.

The sun makes the sea sharp and clear. Above it, now, are Albatross, count them, six, eight, ten. Black browed, gray headed and Wandering.

Sail set, I go below, change into dry clothes and nap lightly for two hours.

Sundown. Winds are easting a bit and have pushed a little south into our course. To weather, a dark mass. Phase two approaches…

Day 88

Noon Position: 48 29S  26 12E

Course/Speed: ESE5

Wind: NE10

Sail: Main and working jib full

Bar: 1003

Sea: N4

Sky: FOG. Can see maybe 30 feet past the bow.

Cabin Temp: 51

Water Temp: 39

Miles last 24-hours: 144

Longitude Miles Made Good: 138

Miles since departure: 11,845

On deck this morning, another sprinkling of critters, maybe fifty from bow to stern. Mo ran all night with wind on the quarter and then the beam and took a fair bit of water over the cabin, which deposited these shrimps liberally over the boat’s supposedly non-wetted surfaces. As a measure of how high the spray got–I found one stuck at arms length up the working jib. Like being shot from a cannon and ending up stuck to the top of the circus tent.

This afternoon I got out the macro lense and was amazed at the detail. A body and appendages that could be made of spun glass they are so clear and delicate. Big, black but blank eyes that appear to be designed to distinguish one thing–light concentrations. And overall, more the body form of a grasshopper than a shrimp.

What are they? Why are we seeing them here, on the Atlantic side, and not on the Pacific? What do they eat and who eats them?

Species distribution is interesting to contemplate. Why is the Albatross prevalent here and not in the northern part of the south Pacific or anywhere in the Atlantic? Likely because the wind is here and these waters produce more food. Too far north and a gliding bird runs into the Horse Latitudes, where it would be reduced to paddling like a duck and dunking for flying fish.

But the flying fish, for example, is a different matter. Why is it limited mostly to the tropics and not here and why is this shrimp not there?

Lacking access to facts, the contemplation typically ends right about there.

Tactics. We carried on to the east until 10am, and I thought maybe we’d skirted the area of calm in the forecast altogether. I smiled. Lucky us. But then the wind began to veer itself in that direction and drop right away, and it was decision time again.

One thing singlehanding provides is a wealth of decision-making opportunities and an unambiguous delegation-of-responsibility flow chart.

After poling the various stakeholders and checking-in with the board, I’ve decided to break with protocol and make the decision myself. I’ve chosen to follow the wind down and down until it comes back at first into the north and then northwest starting tonight.

Was that the right decision, asks a still small voice. We’re almost to 49S now.

My sense of increasing vulnerability the further south we get to one side, the weather forecast for the next week shows very similar wind velocities between 47S and 50S and plenty of opportunity to work north later in the week.

But shouldn’t we tack north now, says the voice. The wind will veer sooner to our favor up there.

No. See that swell from the north. The moment we come about, we’re nose into it. We’ll go nowhere with 10 knots of wind true.

But what if the wind goes due east; should we tack around then?

Worry about that if it happens.

As I type wind has backed from 80 degrees true to 50 degrees true. Let’s hope that’s the sign the change is coming.

—

Opened my first jar of Branson Pickle today, a delicacy first discovered aboard Arctic Tern, on which I was crewing the Northwest Passage in 2014. Thanks to Les and Ali Parsons for the introduction and for teaching me to bake bread on a boat.

Ate the last San Francisco orange today. Brought aboard on October 28, 2017 and still delicious.

Day 87

Noon Position: 48 00S 22 49E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: NNW 25

Sail: Main and working jib, both with two reefs

Bar: 1006

Sea: NW6

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 52

Water Temp: 38 (!)

Miles last 24-hours: 174

Longitude Miles Made Good: 170 (4.24 degrees of longitude–best day by far)

Miles since departure: 11,701

Snapshots.

Midnight. It is raining. Total darkness except for the glow from running lights. The white steaming light is on too, illuminating the foredeck and the working jib, half rolled in and pulling hard.

I am standing in the cockpit and have been for some time now. I’m trying to figure my next move. One forecast calls for the current 25 knot winds with some gusts to 30 to hold for a time and then diminish. Another says winds are going to mid into the 30s. In the latter scenario, I want to fly the small orange staysail; in the former I’ll stay with things as they are. Mostly what I want is not to be on deck again in three hours. The set I decide should last the night. I look into the darkness and feel for the wind to tell me what it will do. Its only hint is that it’s not changed much since sundown. In the south, that’s not much of a hint.

The boat lights throw themselves bravely into the darkness and are quickly consumed. But sometimes they bring back a breaker or two, a pale swoosh as Mo heaves. Then my eye lands on something close in and too small to be a breaking sea. As we approach, it resolves into a gadfly petrel perched on the water, presumably sleeping. Mo rushes by, her gunnels missing the bird by but a few feet.

With a start, it spreads its wings and is immediately over my head. It hovers there gray and white against the black, it’s quick, broken movements suggesting rebuke, as if I am Acteon “who discovered the goddess bathing and his hounds tore him.” Then it backs away and is covered by the night.

That’s it. Nothing more happened. I decided to leave the sails as they were. I went below and to my bunk and to sleep. But for one brief moment that night I saw something; I caught glimpse of a secret.

Two nights ago, northerly wind pushed us below 48S, a magic line I was hoping not to cross again until the approach to the Horn. All day the wind has been veering north and tonight it will continue to veer east, pushing us even further south. How far I do not know but I think on it with a certain dread. It is as though the southern ocean is a giant whirlpool sucking us slowly, ineluctably to its center. The old whalers talked of this, of encountering cruel winds that pushed them further down and down until the days began to grow dark and ice formed on the rigging. Some never came back from that. It’s a very Kurtzian place, the south.

Day 86

Noon Position: 48 02S 18 35E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: NW 15-25

Sail: Working jib full, wind on port quarter

Bar: 1003

Sea: W10

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 53

Water Temp: 42

Miles last 24-hours: 163

Longitude Miles Made Good: 155

Miles since departure: 11,527

Yesterday. A half day of open blue sky and sparkling blue ocean. At 47 and a half south. If I had not seen it, I would not have believed. I spent the entire morning shooting video (below), whose images I loved so much I could not edit any out, but instead am presenting a full five minutes of boat on ocean from various angles.

The night before had seen one squall after another taking winds to 30 and requiring I run the twins reduced so I could sleep. That made the hours of uninterrupted sun the more surprising.

In the afternoon the world reverted to its mean, cold self. Cloud came in heavy and wind increased to the low 30s, due west. I rolled in the twins, then rolled in more. Then more.

Overnight I ran with just a scratch of a working jib, and we flew.

And in the morning, on day 26 of our departure from Ushuaia, we passed under Africa, or, to be more specific, under the longitude for Cape Town, after 3,567 miles of easting.

This circumnavigation around the south is variously known as a “passage via the three great capes” or “the five great capes” or just “the great capes passage.” But however it is called, Cape of Good Hope, at the southern end of the continent of Africa in longitude 18E, is one of the biggies. In our case, though, the title is appropriate in name only as said cape is a full 800 miles north.

For me its a first big step. If the the story of our time in the south has three chapters, this concludes chapter one (Cape Horn to Cape Good Hope) and will see us, in a few days, pass from the South Atlantic Ocean into the Indian. The next chapter will conclude when we pass under Cape Leeuwin in longitude 116E, which defines the southwestern tip of Australia and is just over 4,000 miles further on. The last will be the return to Cape Horn.

No formal blog tonight. An active weather system is moving in during the time I usually write, and I need to be on deck.

Spectacular day. Blue sky for its entirety and a nice fast wind. Also our best run in a while: 171 miles over the ground noon to noon and 165 longitude made good miles. That’s 4 whole degrees of easting in 24 hours. Need many more of those.

Day 84

Noon Position: 47 26S  10 46E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: W20

Sail: Twins, two rolls

Bar: 981

Sea: W8

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 50

Water Temp: 42

Miles last 24-hours: 142 (Another 23-hour day due to setting ship’s clock back.)

Longitude Made Good: 133

Miles since departure: 11,192

In the morning, the working jib woke me. Rattling and banging against the shrouds, it confirmed my bet had been a poor one. Wind had not built overnight. Rather, it had gone to calm, and my decision to run conservatively–jib only–to follow the forecast rather than the hint of an evening breeze already on the wain had cost us miles.

I rose and launched the twins before coffee. Too much day has already been wasted, I thought. But this too was a mistake. Usually I play it slow in the morning, deferring major deck work until the wake-me-up hot drink and, if it’s cold and wet, a hot breakfast. We’re in a hurry, but we’re not racing. Without my usual jolt, lines became tangled and I, confused. The work was slow.

First it drizzled; then it rained. All morning the hefty swell shoved at Mo like a bully, and by way of proclaiming this an insult, she slapped her sails and jerked at lines in their chocks. I was on deck frequently trying to tune out this chafe-making, and each time I came below, I brought with me more wet. Boiling water for another coffee fogged the windows. The ceiling dripped with moisture. The little rug in the pilot house was visibly saturated. I was already cold and it was only 6am.

All the while we made a measly 4 knots.

I had expected another good mileage day. Two in a row! But no. We wallowed.

—

The swing between confidence and its lack I find difficult to manage. One day we make good miles and I am happy; the next is like today, and I sink. We have so far to go, I think, as many miles back to Cape Horn as we have already come from San Francisco. And in this ocean I feel exposed. A rank novice in a realm that eats novices like candy. So much I don’t know. So many mistakes already made. So so far… Am I like Santiago? Have I gone too far?

But I don’t want confidence or its lack, I think. Both are an annoyance, a distraction. Did you ever want of confidence in the Pacific? No, you just sailed. You did not think.

What I want is to be here, to figure out this groove, to ride that swell, to catch today’s wind in the sails just so. To solve this problem knowing that tomorrow there will be another. To watch that albatross and know that I am privileged to observe his absolute grace. To learn how to survive in this wild place. That’s the dream. That’s the plan.

But one does not simply divorce oneself of emotion overnight.

In the afternoon, a break! Wind has been building. Mo is making time again, wings spread wide. And then like a curtain being drawn, the sky clears. Puffy clouds and blue. I stare up as if seeing something for the first time. The log says this is our fourth short burst of sun since departing Ushuaia twenty-four days ago.

Then it hits me. Sun! I dash below for all the wet things I can lay hands on and spread them in the cockpit. I open hatches. I mop up the floor; wipe the ceiling.

Then I sit on deck with my boots off.

A black-browed albatross plops in the sea next to the boat and watches as we pass.

I am in the heaving cobalt blue southern ocean, and I get to lock eyes with an albatross.

Day 83

Noon Position: 47 40S  7 32E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: NW 15 – 25

Sail: Working jib out full

Bar: 993

Sea: NW 8

Sky: Overcast

Cabin Temp: 53

Water Temp: 41

Miles last 24-hours: 163 (moved clock back, so this mileage from a 23-hour day)

Longitude Made Good: 156 (best day for easting since started tracking LMG. This constitutes 3.81 degrees of longitude and brings our average LMG since Ushuaia to 136 miles a day. Up from 133. Goal is 150.)

Miles since departure: 11,050

We’re riding over a large low pressure system, which has backed off a bit this morning. So, I’ve taken the opportunity to do a small chore on the list for a while, that is, change out the starboard working jib sheet.

See video for the rest…

Day 82

Noon Position: 47 21S  3 43E

Course/Speed: SSE4

Wind: NNW10

Sail: Twins poled

Bar: 1008

Sea: NW 4

Sky: FOG FOG FOG

Cabin Temp: 52

Water Temp: 42

Miles last 24-hours: 142 (I set ship’s clock back one hour yesterday; so this represents a 23-hour day. Still disappointing.)

Longitude Made Good: 123

Miles since departure: 10,887

Busy day, both from the standpoint of sail management and from that of chores in prep for our next series of lows.

Wind did a one-eighty on me again last night. Came on deck at 3am to find our easy and fast reach east under double-reefed main and working jib had described a gentle but rapid curve to the northwest without spilling a drop of wind. Ran out the poles, put us back east and then returned to bed. Mo rolled in the fresh swell and sleep was illusive.

I know these wind shifts are coming, but their actual arrival is never quite what the forecast suggests. In this case, from below the only indication we had changed course was that Mo started to pound as she turned into the north swell.

Winds went soft in the middle of the day but are building again and are increasingly northwest with more north forecast overnight. I gybed the poles after lunch–what a mess of cockpit lines that exercise makes!–and am now waiting to see how long I can carry the two headsails before having to shift back to main and working jib. I’d be pleased if the weather decided that before my sleep cycle began, but am not ever so optimistic.

A cold dry fog all day, so I’ve been happy to have the sail work and chores to keep me warm.

The chores are items I’ve wanted to get banged out before the next lows and include putting a few more wraps on the large genoa furling drum; I also lowered the line’s entry angle so that it won’t chafe on the upper lip of the opening when the sail is reefed (#fail; still chafes).

I havn’t fixed the aft compartment manual bilge pump yet (ugly job to get to it) but did bail a few gallons out with a portalbe electric pump I keep for just such occasions. The pump has about 20 feet of hose attached and a length of electrical wire nearly that of the boat so that I plug the pump into the battery bank and still get it to any compartment that may need drying out in a hurry.

The water is getting into that aft compartment via a pipe elbow near the transom used for the passage of electrical wire, now plugged with silicon. This is one of the many items in the category of “It Just Never Occurred to Me”–forgivable in many boats, but not one headed to the south.

I’m also moving the ship’s clock back an hour each day until we get to Greenwich Mean Time–yesterday, today, and tomorrow–so it’s already 5pm as I type and is starting to get dark.

Found cans of chocolate stout in the bilge a few days ago. Nice way to end a cold day. Click send. Open can. You see my motivation to finish.

Day 81

Noon Position: 47 24S  0 40E

Course/Speed: E6

Wind: NW12

Sail: Working Jib and Main out full; wind abeam

Bar: 1011

Sea: NW3

Sky: Rain

Cabin Temp: 51

Water Temp: 42

Miles last 24-hours: 160

Longitude Made Good: 145

Miles since departure: 10,745

Today’s post is a video log. Enjoy.

PS. In the video I reference then current wind conditions as north at 10. By way of update, the Southern Ocean is now producing north winds at 25. Were on a close reach with two reefs in everything and headed SSE.