May 23, 2019
Day 230
Noon Position: 36 30N 59 08W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): W 6
Wind(t/tws): NxW 15 – 20
Sea(t/ft): NW 10
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1021
Cabin Temp(f): 70
Water Temp(f): 71
Relative Humidity(%): 50
Sail: #2 genoa and main, two tucks, close reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 112
Miles since departure: 30,587
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
Leg North Miles: 7,428
Leg North Days: 64
Avg. Miles/Day: 116
Though the Pilot Charts suggest my route is a fair one, reality appears to be otherwise. My sense is that I made the turn north too soon, and that, combined with a cold spring, mean I’m out of position with the approaching lows, both of which are contrary coming and going.
How to slice them has flummoxed me all day. I run and rerun each new forecast trying to find the optimal path, and I just don’t see one.
The first is the larger of the two, and the most obvious strategy is to ride its southerlies to the north and east. But if I do that, I end up in the heart of the beast with forty knot winds that do an about face and blow from the north at forty the next day.
The wind velocity doesn’t worry me so much as the direction shift with high wind. Seas are, even now, pretty muscly. Far more importantly, by the time the low has passed, I’ll be east and downwind of St John’s.
To ride the winds out and down, say to the east and then southeast presents the same problem. And if I don’t make significant northing in this first low, then I have the same problem with the second.
Fifteen-thousand miles below 40S never presented this kind of problem, but then down there we were riding on top of the lows, not trying to carve a path through them.
—
By noon today Mo was already further east than I like, so l tacked around and have been sailing due west for several hours.
Tentative: I may sail due north on the coming southerlies and then ride out the northerlies on drogue. Not ideal as it puts me in the way of the second low.
—
When not running routing scenarios, I got the boat ready for heavy weather again. The dorade vents are now covered with their stainless steel plates; the floor boards are screwed down, the bilges are dry.
In the afternoon I gave Monte a little spa treatment by running new tiller and vane lines and tightening up on various nuts and bolts. 
May 22, 2019
Day 229
Noon Position: 36 36N 6116W
Course: ENE 6
Wind: NNW 20 -25
Sea: NNW 14
Sail: #2, three reefs, close reaching
Noon to Noon miles made good: 115
We’re biting into the underside of our first North Atlantic low. Winds are the stiffest we’ve experienced since Cape Horn, and are made to feel all the more so because I’m trying to reach to the NE in a strong northwesterly. I doused the main at noon, by which time the rail couldn’t keep its head above water. Mo is down to a triple reefed #2 and making six and seven knots.
What is surprising is the heft of the seas. This morning when the sun was still dominant, the water top looked like a potato patch shoal. But as the day has progressed, and wind built, the seas have stacked up in a way that would make the southern ocean proud. Fourteen feet is not a stretch.
I’ve been in foulies all day and for the first time in two months. Likely be in foulies for the duration.
It’s still, as they say in policing, an active crime scene, so I need to get back on deck.
May 21, 2019
Day 228
Noon Position: 34 48N 62 05W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxE 5
Wind(t/tws): S 10
Sea(t/ft): S 3
Sky: Altcumulus. Looks like a front to the south
10ths Cloud Cover: 7
Bar(mb): 1019, falling. 1016.5 four hours later.
Cabin Temp(f): 82
Water Temp(f): 72
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Twin headsails out full. Running.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 87
Miles since departure: 30,370
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
Leg North Miles: 7,211
Leg North Days: 62
Avg. Miles/Day: 116
Overnight, a steady wind filled in from the south. Light and weak as gossamer. On deck at 2am with the moon full overhead, I could not feel wind on my face as we made our 2.8 knots to the north.
Today is a different story. We are beginning to feed into a low coming down from the NE. Winds are 15 knots from the SSE. Mo is in lather. Though happy about this, I would be happier if the wind weren’t scheduled to be 25 knots on the nose by this time tomorrow.
But at least we will have *measurable* wind for a few days!
—
I’ve been dabbling in a classic of navigation known informally as Lecky’s Wrinkles. The full title is *Wrinkles in Practical Navigation by Captain Lecky,* published in 1925.
I don’t know about you, but I associate “wrinkles” with a small body of helpful hints and suggested improvements on a particular subject, sewing or painting a house or, in this case, celestial navigation. My only other experience of wrinkles is boat builder Thomas Colvin’s pamphlet-sized wrinkles in seamanship.
So imagine my surprise when Lecky’s arrived in the mail some months ago, a veritable brick at 756 pages before appendices.
Though a relic, I have found it easily as readable as contemporary works on the same subject, but the book’s age and heft have meant that when it flies across the cabin, it suffers unduly.
Thus, today, I tried a bit of open book surgery with that universal remedy, duct tape.
—
Back in shipping. It’s been a couple weeks since we’ve seen a commercial vessel, but yesterday three outbound bulkies appeared on the scope at one time, all stacked in the same lane and beelining for the Strait of Gibraltar. Mo was, of course, sandwiched in the middle, but we all had plenty of room.
Today, a tanker, the Minerva Atlantica, passed within a mile. She came out of the NE and was bound for a mysterious port listed only as USPGL.
Even from the start, the scope showed us on a collision course. Though as a vessel under sail, I have the right of way, I decided not to press the issue with 800 by 200 by 100 cubic feet of steel and petroleum product making a sluggish 9 knots; I took what the Rules of the Road call “early and significant evasive action,” which, in this case, was a turn to starboard of 30 degrees about 40 minutes before our closest point of approach.
The Minerva acknowledged this maneuver by doing absolutely nothing, which was fine by me.
May 20, 2019
Day 227
Noon Position: 33 212N 62 09W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNE 4
Wind(t/tws): SExE 6
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Thin Altostratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 8
Bar(mb): 1024
Cabin Temp(f): 77
Water Temp(f): 71
Relative Humidity(%): 56
Sail: #1 genoa and main, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 78
Miles since departure: 30,283
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
Leg North Miles: 7,124
Leg North Days: 61
Avg. Miles/Day: 118
When I mentioned our slowness in the context of *regression to the mean* in a recent post, I was hoping the mean we finally regressed to would be something like 135 miles a day. In the last week, however, we’ve had only two 100-plus mile days. Mo can crank out 1,100 miles a week without coming up for air, but this week we logged but 651. So our mean just gets meaner and meaner.
We are finally above Bermuda, however, and have answered the question regarding on which side we’d take her. Port.
—
“Have you explained why your first stop is St John’s?” asked a friend recently, “Not New York, Boston, Camden, Lunenberg, Halifax, to name just, well, five?”
It is a good question, and the answer is simple: I never considered going anywhere else because a) St John’s is decidedly on the Figure 8 route and b) it has the required marine facilities and big grocery stores. And did I mention, it’s right on the route?
Actually, I did flirt briefly with the idea of Boston, thinking that goods there would be cheaper and marine facilities, more diverse. And though it does save some 500 miles of sailing on this inbound leg, Boston is so far west that it adds 1,000 miles to the leg up to the Arctic. So, I’ve decided to stick to the most logical stop.
St. John’s is less than a thousand miles north now. In any worthy wind, we’d be there before the end of the month. But when your average speed is 3.9 knots…you don’t do the when-do-we-make-port math.
—
Today’s Bodger
I’ve been worried about not having an anchor windlass switch. I have no plan to anchor prior to making port, but St John’s is in high latitudes and in the way of icebergs coming down from Greenland, this in a heavy iceberg year and an anticipated landing month that is not yet summer. Which is to say, I want to be ready to anchor in an emergency if need be.
Hot-wiring the switch is easy enough, but imagine hot-wiring in the dark of night in the rain on a cold, gale-racked and unfamiliar coast. Clearly, having a switch is better.
After scrounging around in the odd-bits box, I found a below-decks-only, three-way switch. It looks to be as old as the boat and unused. After installation and testing (it makes the windlass go), I packed its connections with dialectic grease, wrapped that in duct tape, doused the switch lever in penetrating oil, and wrapped the whole thing in a zip lock bag. All this care because the anchor locker is not remotely dry in a seaway, not to mention in the rain of a cold, gale-racked and unfamiliar coast.
I think this bodger ought to do until a
new switch can be acquired.
May 19, 2019
Day 226
Noon Position: 32 04N 61 57W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxN 2.5
Wind(t/tws): W 4
Sea(t/ft): NW 3, a steep chop
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1024+
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 73
Relative Humidity(%): 48
Sail: #1 genoa and main, close reaching on starboard.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 99
Miles since departure: 30,205
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 7,277
Leg North Days: 60
Avg. Miles/Day: 121
I let Mo ghost along the remainder of daylight hours and then motored all night to the NNW. There was still a slight breeze at sundown, but even before the horizon lost all color, the water went smooth. In the dark of night and under a full moon, it was like undulating grease.
At dusk, a Great Shearwater trailed Mo, swooping in close to the transom and then landing feet and head first. She’d keep her head underwater for some time searching the turbulence of Mo’s wake for prey, then bob on the water till almost out of sight. Then in she’d come again for another try. This lasted until she could no longer see. I never saw a catch.
A light wind from the west came up before dawn, a clear indication that we’d made it to the top of the High, and by 10am, I’d turned off the engine. However, this wind was accompanied by a chop from the north. The result is that our speed most of the day has been two knots. Mo just can’t get up a head of steam–spends most of her time going up and down rather than forward.
—
When I began preparing what was to be the first cooked dinner aboard Mo in many weeks, I found the propane tank to be empty. I left San Francisco with four twenty-pound (barbecue style) tanks and have now used two. The first lasted one hundred and sixteen days and the second, one hundred and eight. I did a fair bit of baking on tank two but have cooked no dinners since the cabin warmed up, which may account for the usage numbers being so close.
—
We’re seeing more plastic now. A few large items and even some “micro” plastics are visible in the calms. Early in the morning we passed an upside-down running shoe. This brought back macabre memories of the fields of plastic we passed in Murre in 2012 while headed north out of Hawaii. This was a year after the tsunami that hit the eastern coast of Japan. Then, it was said, the shoes you saw in the water had feet in them when they left the shore.
Don’t get the wrong impression from the photos. Plastic items are still widely dispersed and are far less numerous than a) sargassum weed or b) jellies, which are everywhere. 
May 18, 2019
Day 225
Noon Position: 31 39N 60 58W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): N 5
Wind(t/tws): NExE 4
Sea(t/ft): —
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1023
Cabin Temp(f): 81
Water Temp(f): 77
Relative Humidity(%): 60
Sail: #1 Genoa and Main, Close Hauled.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 81
Miles since departure: 30,025
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 7,178
Leg North Days: 59
Avg. Miles/Day: 122
In truth, I never would have guessed we’d have a leg quite so dominated by light airs. It will be interesting to talk to the Atlantic’s old salts when we make landfall and see if I’ve committed a routing error, or have Mo and I just gotten a bit unlucky with the wind.
We are, ar least, coming to the end of the last predictably slow area on our jaunt north, The Horse Latitudes…
May 17, 2019
Day 224
Noon Position: 29 50N 59 43W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 5.5
Wind(t/tws): N 10
Sea(t/ft): N 2
Sky: Altostratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 7
Bar(mb): 1019+
Cabin Temp(f): 82
Water Temp(f): 74
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Working jib and main, close hauled, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 51
Miles since departure: 30,025
Avg. Miles/Day: 132
Leg North Miles: 7,097
Leg North Days: 58
Avg. Miles/Day: 122
I had wanted to achieve the 30,000 mile mark in style, Mo bombing along directly at her target in the vigorous lows of the North Atlantic. Instead, for this milestone we were under auxiliary power, making four knots to the NW, pounding into a light chop beneath an oppressively windless deck of cloud.
All evening the zephyrs teased us, for a time achieving just enough velocity to quiet the sails and raise the hopes of the crew before vanishing, only to return and vanish again. Around midnight there was no return. In the small swell, the main groaned, asking to be put out of its misery, which I obliged, and we drifted until dawn.
In the morning, the water was gently rolling glass, so we motored north and west until nearly noon. About then we passed under a dark wall of cloud that snaked from horizon to horizon, looking for all the world like a long inverted river.
On the other side, a brisk wind from the north, on which we’ve been close hauled to the west, working jib and a reef in the main.
—
Tim Henry, Editor at Latitude 38, recently asked if we’ve encountered much ocean plastic in the Atlantic.
The answer, surprisingly, is no. And this should be the place, too. As I type, Mo is sailing over an area on which the paper chart has printed “Sargasso Sea.” This is the accumulation zone; concentrations of everything floating should be higher here. Yet even the weed is less dense than I would have guessed.
It is problematic, mind you. I have essentially become a slave to the hydrogenerator, raising it and cleaning it of weed as much as four or five times an hour. But the concentrations are not that thick. In Arctic surface ice measurement terms, we’re seeing 1/10th to 2/10ths weed.
Typically it is free-floating, Seussian pompoms. Often it is organized into long weed streams running parallel to the wind and perpendicular to the wave train. Rarely it clumps together in large, heaving carpets, and when it does, the aggregation is usually caused by the coming together of opposing currents. The weed gets stuck at the boarder.
Sometimes in these weed clumps, a plastic bottle or other fragment can be seen. Yesterday, I spied a fish float, a plastic engine oil bottle, a toothbrush, and several other unidentifiable pieces, the most sightings in one day so far. In the calms, the occasional tiny fragment can be seen.
But that’s it.
It could be we aren’t quite north enough yet, or that the gyre migrates with the season. Beyond that I have no explanation for fewer plastics sightings here then in my home ocean on the other side of the American continent.
May 15, 2019
Day 222
Noon Position: 26 49N 59 39W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxE 7 – 8
Wind(t/tws): SxW 16 – 20
Sea(t/ft): S 8+
Sky: Overcast, squalls with rain
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1019+, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 81
Water Temp(f): 78
Relative Humidity(%): 69
Sail: Twins poled out. One reef in both.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 144
Miles since departure: 29,836
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 6,908
Leg North Days: 56
Avg. Miles/Day: 123
Wind built overnight, and by morning Mo was in full froth, churning out seven and eight knots under twin headsails. Heavy, ominous cloud with pounding rain. Winds peaked at twenty knots, but seas stood right up, producing the occasional creaming breaker down which Mo happily surfed.
We’ve entered the lower limb of a long trough of brisk south and southwest winds that, as of this moment, would take us all the way to St John’s if they held. But they will not. We may get another 24 hours of this, so I’m grabbing as much northing as I can while the going is good, even though we are being pulled back to the east.
Soon enough we will again be in the company of the light and variables, but by then my hope is to have achieved 30N or above. We won’t have topped the high at that point, but we’ll be within spitting distance, and, as of now, it looks like the high may be only one or two degrees of latitude wide. I’ll ford that lack of stream under engine if need be.
Miles to St John’s: 1,400 (rhumb line; actual may be much more).
Pleasant to be on the move again. There has been so little wind in memory that when it came time to reef this morning, I had to think it through. 
May 14, 2019
Day 221
Noon Position: 24 28N 59 12W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNW 6
Wind(t/tws): SSE 11
Sea(t/ft): SW 3
Sky: Squally; big thunderheads moving slowly
10ths Cloud Cover: 8
Bar(mb): 1022+
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 79
Relative Humidity(%): 60
Sail: Twin headsails poled out.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 60
Miles since departure: 29, 692
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 6,764
Leg North Days: 55
Avg. Miles/Day: 123
Mo made two and three knots most of yesterday and lay becalmed soon after the sun went down. I put away the sails, had a glass of wine in the cockpit, and admired the stars. Especially one bright object on the horizon to the west, which I did not recognize.
It twinkled like a star, but for whole minutes it stayed right there and did not slip into the sea as it should. Then I saw the shimmer of green and then red. “Sailboat WOMBAT” said the chart plotter.
I can count the number of times I’ve seen a sailboat out here on the first two digits of one hand, so this was something to take note of, especially as her heading was a direct intercept.
For the longest time it was unclear if she saw Mo. I finished the wine (things happen slowly at sea), switched on the engine and motored due north for a time to create some room between us. Her course, about 60 degrees true, lay for the Strait of Gibraltar; her departure could only be the Caribbean.
In the dark I never saw more than her lights, white above, green and red below, and later, white aft. She did not call on the radio and neither did I. I still wonder why we both stayed mum.
—
Some time back I mused over a strange weather phenomenon, namely squalls that, for a time, were forming in the night and dissipating with the day. For those unfamiliar with weather at sea, squalls are nothing more than what you would call thunder or cumulonimbus clouds. In this cloud, hot air is accumulating and rising as an organized mass; as it reaches altitude, it condenses and, if large enough, later rains some of its moisture back down to sea.
Note the root of accumulate, “to heap together” is the same as cumulus. Nimubus typically refers to the cloud’s rain potential.
During the day, the driver, that thing that heats things up and starts the convection process, is the sun.
But, lacking solar radiation, what on earth could create enough heat at night to form squall clouds, and having formed, how could they possibly dissipate when the sun arrived in the morning. I just seemed backwards.
Recently we received an answer, an email into the Figure 8 site.
It went like this…
“Randall,
“My name is Dennis Decker, and I’m a retired National Weather Service Meteorologist. I found your recent weather quandary interesting, and, as it’s a rainy day here in the mountains of North Carolina, I thought I would tackle your question about the diurnal tropical rainfall.
“A little reading reveals that it’s not an easily described process. One major component of night time tropical convection is the change in the vertical temperature profile. To put it simply, when it’s warmer than normal in the lower levels or cooler than normal in the upper levels, upward motion or convection will begin.
As you well know, the daily air temperature fluctuation over tropical oceans is very small even though there can be a lot of daily sunshine. That’s because the ocean absorbs most of the incoming solar energy. So, to produce an unstable atmosphere there must be cooling in the mid to upper levels. This takes place when an upper cloud layer radiates energy into space. This causes the atmosphere at that level to cool and the temperature profile becomes favorable for convection. During the day the same upper region can absorb solar energy and warm and stabilize the atmosphere.
“These are very subtle changes in the atmosphere and can only be observed over the tropical oceans. Over continents or islands the solar heating of the surface overpowers these subtle affects and produces a daytime rainfall maximum, as does the presence of fronts or organize tropical systems or surface convergence.
“Hope this helps.
Dennis”
Hey Dennis, many thanks for taking the time to explain the mystery of nighttime squalls. Much appreciated, and yes, that make sense now.
—
Today, found stuck to the side of the boat, the world’s smallest flying fish…
May 13, 2019
Day 220
Noon Position: 23 34N 58 45W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): N 2.5
Wind(t/tws): SSE 4
Sea(t/ft): NE 3
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1021
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 81
Relative Humidity(%): 44
Sail: Spinnaker and main.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 112
Miles since departure: 29,632
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,704
Leg North Days: 54
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
We sailed slowly north most of the morning, not for our course but to keep the sails full. At noon I raised the spinnaker for more speed and bore away. This, as it turns out, is the international sign calling for the wind to go from not very much to none at all.
Which it did.
Hard not to be frustrated. Forecast calls for light winds of nine knots from the SE that feed into a larger wind river to the west. Big difference between that and two knots of nothing.
Large squall clouds on the distant horizon astern have not moved all day. Raggedy desiccated cirrus ahead foretell more dead air.
Where is the wind? I expect flat calm in a week. Not now.
—
Today I replaced the anchor windlass switch with a switch from the spares bin. Nice weather for digging into the anchor locker, where lives the windlass.
The old switch fell apart in my hands the last time I raised anchor to begin this trip. That was Drake’s Bay just north of San Francisco in October of 2018.
Haven’t needed an anchor much since, but it might be called for along the coast of Newfoundland prior to St John’s. I did a neat job if splicing in the spare only to find it does not work.
So, we’ll be hot wiring the switch if the anchor is needed.
—
You know it’s approaching time to make landfall when…
The locker that held over forty packets of ground coffee upon departure now has nine.
The two milk crates that once were full of two-pound bags of muesli now have but two bags.
The locker that was bursting with toilet paper now has twelve rolls.
May 12, 2019
Day 219
Noon Position: 21 52N 57 54W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WxN 2.5
Wind(t/tws): ExS 4.5
Sea(t/ft): NE 8
Sky: Squalls
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1023
Cabin Temp(f): 90
Water Temp(f): 81
Relative Humidity(%): 61
Sail: Twins poled, running.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 108
Miles since departure: 29,520
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,592
Leg North Days: 53
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
The sails began barking before dawn, the main in particular.
While there are many reasons to appreciate a fully battened main (which Mo has) the battens and cars put hardware aloft that slaps and bangs horribly in light airs. The main came down after morning coffee, and I tried to squeeze a broad reach out of poled out twins. They too just ground and ground in a breeze I could barely feel on my face.
The problem is not just light airs but a large swell coming down from the NE that’s catching us flat on the beam. We roll so heavily that the sails simply dump whatever small wind they’ve been able to gather up.
Saint John’s is still 2,000 north.
—
Back on May 4th, S/V Voyager commented “Watching your course I think you are heading straight for Nova Scotia. Can you give some insight to how far west you think you need to be?”
After exiting the doldrums at about 4N, I set a course for Bermuda with the idea of rounding it to the west or east depending on conditions when I got nearer. Pilot Charts suggest Bermuda’s position make it a natural way point and a kind of hub where prevailing east and southeast winds begin to veer south and then southwest. Rounding to the west would get us nearer the north-setting Gulf Stream but would mean going further west than St John’s requires. Cutting too far east of Bermuda risks getting becalmed.
A scan of the ten day forecast doesn’t really shed light on which is the better option. A huge area of calm is building between our current position, Bermuda and Florida which will then resolve into a line of high pressure running east / west and cutting off access to any northing anywhere near Bermuda.
I could turn due north now (700 miles south and east of Bermuda) and ride the western half of the North Atlantic High, but to be well above Bermuda this far east risks the full force of low pressure systems coming off the northeast US and would still not avoid the developing calm.
Also, staying within reach of Bermuda gives me a fuel option if the North Atlantic looks like it might go quiet for an extended period.
Which is a long winded way of saying that I’m not sure. Am continuing to trend toward Bermuda and we’ll play the weather we get.
May 11, 2019
Day 218
Noon Position: 20 34N 56 33W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 4
Wind(t/tws): NExE 6
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Cirrus haze and cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1019
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 80
Relative Humidity(%): 60
Sail: #2 poled to windward, #1 and main out to leeward, broad reach, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 135
Miles since departure: 29,412
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,484
Leg North Days: 52
Avg. Miles/Day: 125
Wind picked up in the afternoon and stayed moderate (10 knots) all night. Died back with the day.
I think the rest of this leap to St. John’s will be like this: variable. Variable to weak winds for the next 15 degrees of latitude and variable to strong the rest of the way.
—
A day of animals.
One of the Skua’s returned, proving that the raviolis I fed it and a partner the other day were at least not universally fatal.
In the afternoon, dolphins were found to be cavorting under Mo’s bow. A pod of three. Monte shook his head, but I thoroughly approve. Water is so clear, could see them racing beneath the surface a hundred feet away.
Then in the evening, the line landed another fish. A dusky brown … something. I don’t know what it is, do you? Mostly eaten by now. Not as dreamy as a Dorado, but certainly digestible.
My wife recently sent to me a batch of your comments from the Figure 8 site with the subject line, “Most of April.” As usual, they were fun to read. Many thanks to all of you for participating in the voyage.
Some quick, short replies now…and more later….
-Pam Wall, that was a fun story about the passing ship and the bottle toss. Yes, those days are long gone. What did you do for self steering back in 1966?
-Stacey Sarkis, but they DO make good rags… Your comment was a good belly laugh. Thank you.
-Mike Dodson/John Martin, bet that was the first time a hairy, shirtless guy has ever got in and out of the DC airport without getting arrested.
-Skip Dubrin, NOW I remember. Thanks for the nudge re how we met. I’ve noted your name popping up in the comments but couldn’t recall. I’ve enjoyed the Crawford book on Celestial. Have gotten some good tidbits out of it. Glad your repair of the Yanmar held. That’s my experience too.
-Joe Hagan, that’s a Man-o-War? The ones we have in the Pacific are (I thought) so much smaller.
-Todd Parsons, the paint I used was Smart Solution by SeaHawk. Previous to that, ePaint SN1. Both are non-metallic, which I require as I have an aluminum hull. Neither is as strong as the copper-based paints. I do have a fair crop of barnacles on the aft quarter only, and I have been surprised how much they DON’T slow Mo down. We still do six knots in a ten knot breeze abeam and seven plus without too much more encouragement. Plan to de-barnacle in St John’s.
-Chuck Fulton, we’re on the way for a close pass of the Sargasso Sea. I’ll bet bringing up a bucket of weed there will be very productive.
-Jean-Pierre Declemy, re plenty of sea room for sails behaving badly, indeed. Another attraction to sailing beyond the sight of land: no one can see you when you screw up the spinnaker.
-Richard Goldstein, we’re doing fine on water so far. I’m still drinking from the forward tank, into which I put all my caught water. According to my calculations, it should have been long gone by now. So, either I caught more than I thought or drank less in the south, or both. Water tastes/smells sulfury, which is too bad, but sailors can’t be choosy about water taste; it just needs to be wet. The aft tank, untouched since before Cape Horn first pass, should still have 70 gallons.
-John of Owl, nice to see your name in the queue. I think of you daily when I use your winch handles.
-Kowden, I think that’s the first time anyone has remarked that the Figure 8 reminds them of a line from Saving Private Ryan.
-Eric Moe, let’s wait to schedule the Figure 8 Regatta until AFTER I’ve returned from the proof-of-concept run.
-Mary, the technology you want to google is AIS (Automatic Information System). In a nut, it transmits coordinates, course, speed, type of vessel, collision potential (and other data) ship-to-ship over VHF radio signals. Don’t leave home without it.
-Kurt, 40 knot winds are quite sailable, and besides, you know they will blow out in a day or so. The doldrums, on the other hand, could last forever. So, doldrums are worse.
-Chris, re swimming. Haven’t yet. Should.
-Ben Ransom, nice summary of Albatross flight. Sorry you weren’t able to be the discoverer of the mechanics of flight, but kudos for honesty. You’ve heard of Safina’s *Eye of the Albatross?*
-Ben Markowitz gets 50 demerit points for asking a deep and philosophical question. Clearly he did not read the Figure 8 Comments Bylaws where it it is stated that the WHY? question is off limits. Kidding, will try to answer in future post. But will say here that you are being too hard on your teenager for not understanding what I’m doing. That makes him/her sound quite reasonable; quite well adjusted. And all it means is that the passion pursuit he/she eventually comes to … will likely not be adventure sailing.
May 10, 2019
Day 217
Noon Position: 19 28N 54 27w
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxW 3.8
Wind(t/tws): WNW 4
Sea(t/ft): —
Sky: Squalls on al sides
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1017
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 90
Relative Humidity(%): 64
Sail: Big genoa and main, reaching on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 69
Miles since departure: 29,277
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,349
Leg North Days: 51
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
Most of the night we made between two and three knots. The sky started clear, but by morning, Mo was walled-in by heavy, black squalls. Nothing moved for several hours. Only when windlessness holds one prisoner in this way does such an intensity of quiet feel oppressive.
Then, just after noon, the squalls melted away and a cool, north wind filled in. On that we now make six knots on an empty sea under an empty sky.
—
I chose a challenging week on which to darken the chart plotter, and then I committed several bone-head blunders.
Firstly, we were passing under the sun on the first couple of days of this exercise. This phrase, “passing under the sun,” indicates that ship latitude and the sun’s declination (the celestial word for latitude) are converging. Ship and sun are nearly on the same plane.
In this case, when I switched off the plotter display, our latitude was just over 17N and the sun’s declination was approaching 17N.
The effect is that the day’s sun shots, which are attempts to triangulate your position from the sun’s different positions throughout the day, don’t produce a nice triangle of intersecting, you-are-here lines, what sailors call a cocked hat. Rather, the lines run nearly parallel to each other.
This does’t mean one’s results are wrong, they just appear less precise, and as such, they do not add to one’s confidence in his work.
Then I moved my watch up to GMT+4 and set the minute hand just slightly askew of its mark. That night’s star shots were a mess. A four second error in time keeping causes error of a mile in the results; so, you can imagine what being off sixty seconds will do.
Then I bonked the horizon mirror coming on deck and didn’t catch that I’d caused a two minute index error until the next day.
But we’ve worked through the bugs and have remained relatively sure of our position.
The most difficult day so far was yesterday. Recall that this is largely an exercise in dead reckoning (staying aware of ship position between fixes via compass and log), and you can imagine what light, fluky, ever changing wind will do. Now our course is northwest; now north; now west; now becalmed but moving with current. After a few hours of this, I’m lost. So it was gratifying to find that today’s dead reckoning was not too badly adrift from the noon fix.
—
Much of learning astronav is learning how to deal with error, because there is so much opportunity for it in the many steps from sight to fix. A three-shot sun fix (morning, noon, afternoon) requires roughly 60 separate actions; not one is the least bit difficult, but they are legion.
At first, you hedge your bets by taking multiple shots; if one doesn’t seem to be working out, move on to the next. But after a time you become confident in your ability to shoot a heavenly body (especially in middle latitude conditions), and so you take but one. If that shot fails, you backtrack into your calculations for the mistake.
Most errors are simple. Did you carry the one? Did you add rather than subtract? Some errors in time keeping are easy to remedy. For example, a shot that is out by around 15 miles is likely due to grabbing the wrong minute of time from the watch. Often if my corrected altitude and computed altitude aren’t close, I’ll scan the Sight Reduction Tables page for a computed altitude that is close and take its corresponding Local Hour Angle back into my computation. This often shows I’ve picked up the wrong data from the Almanac.
You also become fiendishly focused on accuracy. When recording an altitude, I often talk to myself as I read the result off the vernier. “That’s 34 degrees, not 35; not 39; that’s 45 minutes, not 35; not 40,” etc.
—
When it all comes together, it’s easy to feel The Great Navigator.
Then one must recall that there are more than a few people reading these reports who had to learn celestial to go off shore … because when they went exploring, there was no other option. In one generation, proven methods of way finding in use for hundreds of years, have been largely forgotten.
May 9, 2019
Day 215
Noon Position: 19 18N 53 16W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WxS 3.5
Wind(t/tws): E 6.5
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Mostly clear. Some mares tales in the morning; now gone.
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1018
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 80 (interesting that temp is rising)
Relative Humidity(%): 59
Sail: Twin headsails
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 115
Miles since departure: 29,208
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,280
Leg North Days: 50
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Slow but steady. What there is of wind is dead aft and in it we roll along at 3 knots on a small sea; the sun is hot, but not too hot; the water is refreshingly cool, and the neighborhood is quiet. Perfectly satisfying.
Yesterday, I took down the spinnaker before dark in favor of the twins for night running. I’ve flown the spinnaker at night before, but it means being on guard. We’re not racing, so why not go with an easier rig at little cost to speed.
I should have reset the spinnaker this morning but have been lazy, and there have been other entertainments.
—
The solo Skua returned shortly after noon.
This is a sad, empty stretch of sea for a Skua, a marauder by profession. Imagine a highway robber who stakes out an unused road or a grifter who unwittingly moves to the country. Just so, there is no way for a Skua to go about his business without the society of other birds, and that society is distinctly absent. One storm petrel. Two terns. That’s today’s count, beyond the Skua.
In the south, he was a terror to the Prions and the White Chinned Petrels. We’d encounter one every week or so, a big, thick, thug of a bird, recognizable from afar because he flaps hard and flies heavy. Absolutely no grace. Not the least interest in gliding. And he’s always chasing, for whatever others take from the sea is his to take in turn.
The Prions were more agile and their prey too small to be of enduring attraction to the Skua, but the White Chinned Petrels had a difficult time of it. As fast as they were, they could not outrun the Skua, and if the Skua made contact, he could do damage. The only defense: drop down to the water and stop hunting until the Skua chooses another victim.
Yesterday’s Samaritan cracker was of no interest. Neither was an almond lobbed in charity and kindness today. But when I began tossing raviolis from cans too rusty for my own consumption, I struck pay dirt. There’s something in the size and the softness of a Chef Boyardee beef ravioli that seems like seafood.
By mid afternoon, my solo Skua had a friend. Two Skuas trailed Mo for hours and between them ate four cans of raviolis.
We’ll see how much they thank me in the morning.
—
Two lures drug from Mo’s quarters today. They spent most of their time being retrieved, cleared of weed and re-deployed, but at about 3pm, there were a few splashes in the vicinity, and then the port lure line snapped taut. A small Dorado had hooked on. The water is of such clarity here that I could see the hooked animal and his mates swimming alongside before I began hauling in. In the blue water, the Dorado is eggshell blue, electric blue, yellow and silver and has about him a kind of shimmering sleekness.
I got him alongside and was lifting him aboard when he somehow flipped the hook. What a disappointment–a perfect dinner fish. But I gave him opportunity when I futzed too long with the camera and the gaff.
To my mind, the Dorado is one of the most beautiful of fishes; he’s what Monet would paint if Monet could get his mind off waterlilies.
May 8, 2019
Day 215
Noon Position: 18 54N 51 17W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): W 4
Wind(t/tws): E 5
Sea(t/ft): E 2
Sky: Light squalls, then clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 5 then 0
Bar(mb): 1020+
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 79
Relative Humidity(%): 59
Sail: Spinnaker and main; running dead downwind.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 135
Miles since departure: 29,093
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,165
Leg North Days: 49
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Wind light overnight. None of the squalls I mentioned in the previous post. Some dark skies, but no rain.
Wind went lighter still with the sun, and I’ve been flying the spinnaker since 10am.
It was the right move to haul west. But I should have done so a degree of latitude sooner.
—
Big Fish. (No Photos. You’ll just have to believe me.)
This morning. Mo is making four knots to the west.
I am standing over the stern deck just above Monte. I’m there to check out the windward horizon for squalls when I notice a shadow in the usually pale blue water immediately aft of the boat. As I watch, the shadow moves in closer, and it is with a shock that I realize we are being tailed by a large Sword Fish.
I can make out the thick, muscular body, the long bill, the sharp, sicle-like fins. He’s a real bull–at least a third Mo’s length. Think Santiago’s big fish for comparison.
Slowly he rides the under side of a wave in toward Mo. He swims in close, all the way up to the stern and there he gives Monte’s water paddle a mighty thwack with his bill. Then he eases back.
I dash below for the camera, and by the time I return he is patrolling from two waves away.
He stays near as long as I watch, sometimes surfing in closer, sometimes off to the side. Then after a particular wave, he is gone.
Little Fish. (Bad Photo.)
This afternoon. Mo is making six and seven knots.
I’m at the bow checking on the draw of the spinnaker when I notice two dark bullets in the water off to port. Two tuna about four feet long. They are running fast in Mo’s shadow, but when they move into sunlight, their backs shimmer the colors of the rainbow.
I run for my lure. I dangle it in front of them. I even thrown it at them. They do me the courtesy of looking at it, but their interest seems to say, “Very nice. Attractive bauble. Doesn’t look much like food. We’re here for food.” And then they continue surfing Mo’s bow wave.
They are hunting in just the way the Dorados were of a week back. From the darkness below Mo’s hull, they cruise in wait of the flush of flying fish. And then they give chase.
Today a rarity: I see a catch. First the flush of fliers, they scatter, maybe ten of them, like pearls being thrown upward by the blue waves.
But one is hobbling. He can’t quite get air born. I suspect a tuna has nipped the under part of his tail fin, which he uses like an outboard motor while flying. His outboard is spluttering. And then there is a splash from below and he is gone.
All of this is observed by both myself and a lone Skua that shows up around this time. Repeatedly, he lands near the bow as if to invite himself to the party. That’s a Skua for you. Always ready to help himself to someone else’s fun. I throw him a cracker, but he only pecks at it. He returns a look of disgust by way of thanks. 
May 7, 2019
Day 214
Noon Position: 18 21N 48 95W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxW 6
Wind(t/tws): NE 11
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1021
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 78
Relative Humidity(%): 55
Sail: Working jib poled to port, main to starboard, broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 158
Miles since departure: 28,985
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 6,030
Leg North Days: 48
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Not quite another 160 mile day; not quite.
Streak ended but still a solid run. In the last eight days, Mo and I have made good over 1,300 miles for an average of 163 every 24 hours. That may rival any week in the south.
We are nearing the end of the strong trades, however.
I’ve just come below from lowering the main for the first time since the doldrums. Now we are before the wind and making way under the poled out twins; our course, almost due west at seven knots. A large band of high pressure is building due north; I’m trying to stay below that.
Nights have been strange.
The pattern is this: days are clear or populated with dry, cottony cloud until late afternoon. Then squalls fill in. Typically, these evaporate by mid evening, leaving a starry sky overnight and until early morning, when we are again overtaken by squalls. These are large and powerful, but they, in turn, clear away after sunrise.
That last bit is the strange part–squalls developing from no apparent heat source overnight and burning off with daylight.
And each night is more intense.
For example, this morning I was on deck at 4am tucking in sail for a large, overtaking squall. I had two reefs in the jib and one in the main by dawn, and all the while we were under the same cloud cell. We rode this squall until 10am, when it finally ran out of steam and gave way to blue sky.
In no other ocean has Mo been fast enough, or the squall slow enough, that we could ride it so long.
Moreover, it’s a mystery to me how squalls can form overnight without heat from above. If they melt away after sundown (that I get) how do they form again, and more powerfully, before the sun returns?
—
Michael Scipione, thank you for the May 5th reply to my currents question. I had assumed the weed I was seeing was coming DOWN from the Sargasso Sea–spinning out of that high and riding the trades all the way west.
We still get streamers of weed on some days as we–to your point–move through this eddy and that. The weed is the only sign of current change, that and the re-appearance of the large zip-lock-sandwich-bag jelly.
Today it’s bad enough I can’t run the Watt and Sea. This may be a different species of plant: it does not float as high, nor is it bunched together so tightly.
I’m looking forward to making the “jump into hyperspace” in the Gulf Stream. 
May 6, 2019
Day 213
Noon Position: 16 58N 46 38W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 6.5
Wind(t/tws): NExE 10
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Altocumulus and Squalls
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1021
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 78
Relative Humidity(%): 63
Sail: Working jib and main, reaching, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 161
Miles since departure: 28,828
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,872
Leg North Days: 47
Avg. Miles/Day: 125
“Montaaaaay!” I say, climbing into the cockpit. “Welcome back!”
“Senior, but I am only right here,” says Monte. “Why must you yell?”
“I think you were napping and missed all the fun. We had to do a bit of work on your…”
“Senior, please to pardon, but Portolanos, we do not nap. Maybe very occasionally we will close our eyes, this mostly to ensure the proper moistness of the eyeballs–it helps with the seeing–but even then, we close but one eye at a time.”
“Aha, well then, I guess the rapturous sound I heard recently was not your snoring.”
“Indeed not. Possibly it was a dorado complaining that he had eaten too many flying fish. I am led to believe they do not like them raw. Bad for the digestion.”
—
Good news.
Just after noon today, I noticed Mo heading north at five knots. Just previously we’d been heading 310 true at seven knots. On deck I found Monte had broken a safety tube. The water paddle trailed behind the boat like a drowned fish.
Why is this good news?
This is the first safety tube we’ve broken since the Pacific, since before Cape Horn rounding number one. Mo is a Monitor safety tube breaker. I broke four or five during the first leg of the Figure 8 Voyage 1.0. And Tony Gooch was emphatic, “bring at least ten tubes.”
But I think through trial and error we’ve figured out that the safety tube failures were not due to Mo’s heavy tiller but rather to a safety line dragging astern that was fouling the paddle.
Having shortened that, the breakages have gone to nearly zero. Well, two, to be exact.
In fact, it has been so long since I replaced a safety tube, I had to think it through. Easy job though. We were back under Monte’s guidance within half an hour.
Poor portolano, he was enjoying a tiny, two-eye siesta, his first in many moons.
May 5, 2019
Day 212
Noon Position: 15 13N 44 31W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 7
Wind(t/tws): NExE 12
Sea(t/ft): NE 5
Sky: Cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 3
Bar(mb): 1019+
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 78
Relative Humidity(%): 61
Sail: Working jib full; main one reef, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 162
Miles since departure: 28,667
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,711
Leg North Days: 46
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
Six days over 160, and we’re still cranking.
—
I’ve been at astronav consistently since rounding up into the Atlantic forty six days ago, and yesterday marks a turning point.
Yesterday, I switched off the chart plotter.
The sextant I use is the Celestaire Astra IIIB. I bought it in 2005 from my local chandlery because it was the only sextant they sold. Not the only brand; there were no others in the store. I was about to make my first ocean crossing and wanted to learn celestial enroute but lacked the basic tools. This sextant looked like serious business and came in a lovely mahogany box and wasn’t too expensive. So I bought it without further ado and have been using it on passages ever since with great success.
With one exception. Stars.
Star sights are typically taken during morning and evening twilight, when the higher magnitude bodies begin to appear but the horizon is still visible. And I have tried often at sea to shoot stars during this time. I’ve done well when I can find the damned target, but that’s the tough part. Stars can be very dim.
The Astra IIIB came with what’s called a Whole Horizon Mirror (sitting next to the sextant in the photo). This is a coated lense that allows the user to see the whole ocean horizon with the image of the body (sun, moon, or star) superimposed onto his field of vision in its entirety. This lense is excellent for bright objects and makes “racking down the sun” a breeze.
But I found that the coatings on the lense applied just enough shading that seeing stars was difficult. To be fair, there are other factors, one of which is that I wear bifocals; another is that Mo is rarely a stable platform from which to find a pinprick of light in the heavens.
When I broached this issue with Celestaire, Ken Gebhart immediately recommended I try the Traditional, split mirror (attached to the sextant in the photo). This is the technology that every sextant employed before coated lenses were invented. And one benefit of the Astra IIIB is that it is designed to facilitate easy mirror swaps.
The split mirror is just as you’d imagine. Half the lense is mirrored and half the lense is clear. Thus, half of the image one is seeing is unadulterated horizon and half is of the sky in which resides the body being racked down. This playing halvsies with the image can take some getting used to and is a bit more difficult on a bounding boat, but there is no shading on this mirror.
And this has made all the difference for me. Now the stars I pursue are as bright in my scope as they are with the naked eye. For a couple weeks I’ve been shooting both sun and stars with the split mirror and feel I’ve made the transition.
—
Having, now, better access to stars, planets, and the moon means that I can get two or three widely separated (morning, noon, and evening) fixes on a day with good visibility, and this has been encouragement to take the next step.
It has dawned on me only slowly that the sextant work is the easy part. What’s hard is keeping track of one’s position in the interim; that is to say, dead reckoning. This moment-to-moment knowing is something that the chart plotter does with such ease, that unless it’s decommissioned, one has no incentive to get to know the compass or the log. Why learn to like oatmeal if someone delivers strawberry waffles to your bedside each morning?
So, it’s off. And I’m not lost. I don’t think…
To be honest, it’s not entirely off. The chart plotter is my AIS interface, and I still want the noon-to-noon mileage numbers, so the screen is off while the unit runs in the background. And I am relearning the mysteries of variation and deviation.
May 4, 2019
Day 211
Noon Position: 13 25N 42 29W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 7
Wind(t/tws): NExE 12
Sea(t/ft): NE 3
Sky: Altocumulus and beginning to look squally
10ths Cloud Cover: 7
Bar(mb): 1018+
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 78
Relative Humidity(%): 66
Sail: Working jib and main, reaching, starboard.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 165
Miles since departure: 28,505
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,555
Leg North Days: 45
Avg. Miles/Day: 123
Another solid mileage day. All I do is tweak sails in a bit, out a bit; adjust Monte’s tiller line in a bit, out a bit. And for that, Mo … scoots briskly up and to the left.
Can’t tell what the weather wants. Clear for a bit, then a heavy sky, even squally, this though it’s cooling, not warming. The barometer is up and down between 1014 and 1018, is never still. The wind, however, is blessedly constant.
Cool enough now to wear a shirt, to even sleep in a shirt. Ah, the luxuries.
—
Mo was visited by a pair of White-Tailed Tropicbirds today. They circled a few times, chattering all the while about something, “kraik! kraik!” And then they flew off.
The resulting photos have, I think, a painterly quality to them; thus so many.
—
I’ve taken a vacation from the work list since Cape Horn. But, predictably, the work list has not done the same. Rather it keeps churning out items, which I dutifully write into the little orange book for when I return.
Today, I dived back into boat chores, starting with the primary manual bilge pump that leaked all over the cabin floor last I used it. Disassembly showed no flaws, and bilge pumping today produced no leaks.
So it goes.
That said, in the process of removing the companionway ladder so I could get at the pump, I broke one of the fasteners used to hold the ladder in place. Repairing that took more time than work on the pump.
So it goes.
May 3, 2019
Day 210
Noon Position: 11 35N 40 20W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 6
Wind(t/tws): NExN 9
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Altocumulus
10ths Cloud Cover:
Bar(mb): 8
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 79
Relative Humidity(%): 65
Sail: Working jib and main, reaching, starboard.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 164
Miles since departure: 28,340
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,390
Leg North Days: 44
Avg. Miles/Day: 123
I’m not sure if we’ve ever had a run so consistent as this. Our totals these last four days, 161, 168, 166, 164 miles, respectively. Our average since noon today, 7 knots; so, this could be another. Our course made good on the chart: straight as an arrow at 311 true. It’s why the sailor loves a good trade wind.
Wind is not quite so consistent as the dailies suggest; it varies from about 8 knots to 15 from the NE. But that’s plenty to get us going.
—
I wish I could create a photo collage of the following, but for now you’ll have to settle for words…
We’ve moved through another transition zone. Changes have been subtle and not so subtle, but the result is that, having crossed some line invisible to the untrained eye, we are now in a different world.
It’s been coming on for a couple days, noticed by a slight thinning of the heavy streamers of weed and a few different birds. But yesterday the change crescendoed with our passaged through strange, turbulent, confused water on three occasions, each lasting about half an hour. Imagine a tide race in a bay near you.
What’s different?
The water temperature has dropped below 80 degrees. Today’s reading was 79 for the second day.
The Boobies are gone. Actually they made themselves scarce as soon as strong trades kicked in. For a week there was nothing, and then yesterday, two Tropicbirds and a Long-Tailed Skua in company. A few Arctic Terns. Then today, Gadfly Petrels and a couple Storm Petrels; these are Atlantic firsts for Mo and me. In the Pacific, Gadflies are the everyday bird in middle latitudes, so seeing them creates a sense of homeyness.
Previously, we’ve seen on the water top a large jellyfish with an air bladder extending above the surface. The air bladder has the general appearance and volume of a ziplock sandwich bag; it’s clear and is rimmed in pink and purple. After the transition current, those jellies are gone and have been replace with By-the-Wind Sailors (Velella velella), scores of them. These are small, blue jellies with small disks the size of half dollar coins that stick up into the breeze. They act as sails. Thus the name. 
Flying fish numbers have been increasing. Now I see fish of all sizes and not infrequently we flush a “flock” of twenty to thirty. A couple are caught by Mo’s gunnels every night. They were almost absent in the Doldrums and were scarce for a time thereafter.
And the weed is gone. Overnight, just gone.
This is a major relief as it means we can charge batteries with the hydrogenerator again. There will be more weed in our future, I am sure; but for now, it’s nice to have clean water.
Perhaps Michael Scipione, who has written about ocean currents in the comments section of the Figure 8 site, can weigh in on this recent phenomenon.=
May 2, 2019
Day 209
Noon Position: 09 40N 38 22W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 6.5
Wind(t/tws): NExN 12
Sea(t/ft): NE 5
Sky: Clear then solid altocumulus; then clear again.
10ths Cloud Cover: 6
Bar(mb): 1017
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 79
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Working jib and main, reaching, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 166
Miles since departure: 28,176
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,226
Leg North Days: 43
Avg. Miles/Day: 122
Mo is cranking out the miles as if she’s a space ship on a long, straight shot for deep space. Next stop, the rings of Saturn.
—
This morning at 6am, the cabin temperature was 79 degrees. That’s the first time the cabin has been below 80 in the morning since April 12th. At noon, water temperature was 79 degrees–first time below 80 since April 10th.
Even without the numbers, I can tell it’s beginning to cool; I’ve pulled a sheet over me at some time in the night for two nights running. Previously it’s been too hot for any cover at all.
—
Tropicbirds have visited twice in the last two days. In the Pacific, they’ll be seen routinely, if infrequently, anywhere between 30N and 30S, but this is our first sighting in the Atlantic.
Small, stocky, white birds that come in close to inspect Mo and her inhabitants, they give the impression of a dog looking for scraps.
There are three varieties of Tropicbirds: Red-Tailed, White-Tailed and Red-Billed. This ocean hosts the latter two. The most distinctive feature: as the name suggests, a long, quill of a tail feather.
Today’s inquisitor, White-Tailed. Immature. No long quill of a tail feather.
They also, both in this ocean and the Pacific, try to land at the masthead. They never succeed here or there. After many circlings, they give a “khraik” and fly off in disgust.
No food; no place to sit down; what use is it?
May 1, 2019
Day 208
Noon Position: 07 48N 36 18W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 7+
Wind(t/tws): NE 10 – 12
Sea(t/ft): NE 5
Sky: Puffy cumulus and haze
10ths Cloud Cover: 3
Bar(mb): 1017
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 80
Relative Humidity(%): 72
Sail: Working jib and main, main one reef, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 168
Miles since departure: 28,010
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 5,060
Leg North Days: 42
Avg. Miles/Day: 120
Another fast day. We are on Mo’s favorite tack, wind abeam. And we must be benefiting from the Guiana Current, which runs NW along the Brazilian coast at one to two knots, so says the paper chart.
Weed continues to be a problem. I see a thick line of it every 30 seconds or so and am clearing the Watt and Sea hydrogenerator prop every half hour. Probably should clear more often. Actually, today I didn’t run the Watt and Sea at all and am resigned to charging by engine every few days starting tomorrow and until we are well north.
Yes, Mo has two 100-watt solar panels on the aft rails, and sun we have in juicy abundance. But Mo requires about 75 amps of power a day for standard operations, and the most the panels typically produce during daylight is about 30 amps. One issue is that the sun angles are often wrong, and on our present tack the sun goes behind the mast in the early afternoon and never quite returns.
—
Pasta.
Do you know why I crave pasta?
Ashore I like pasta just fine but don’t go out of my way to find it. At sea, and especially of late, I can’t get enough.
Because of the heat now, I rarely cook, opting instead to eat dinner’s stew or chili or corn or beans cold and right out of the can.
But for pasta I will upset this pattern, even though it requires two simmering pots to steam up the cabin: one for noodles and one for sauce.
My favorite sauce includes a) a can of eggplant in tomato sauce and garlic; b) a can of stewed tomatoes; c) a can of cubed beef; d) more garlic, onions and herbs in the form of dried; e) a dollop of curry paste. Let that simmer for twenty minutes. Delicious.
But however good the sauce, it is secondary to the noodle–the thing that drives the craving. And not the healthy, whole wheat noodle, of which I have scads. Oh no, rather, I always reach for the standard, all-white spaghetti or penne.
Typically I boil up enough for two dinners, but find I must be careful or I’ll eat all of it in one sitting. I get on a roll. There’s something in the toothsomeness and the slight sweetness that makes one forkful follow another.
My record thus far–not that I’ve been attempting to set a record–is the consumption of a full pound of dried pasta in two days.
This stuff I could eat by itself or with a touch of butter and a light sprinkling of cheese. The sauce is a pain in the neck; I make myself make it so that dinner has some nutrient besides carbohydrates.
In fact, I think this is what drives the craving, the carbs, which are one quick step away from eating sugar.
But why this is happening now is a mystery.
April 30, 2019
Day 207
Noon Position: 05 52N 34 16W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 7
Wind(t/tws): NExE 12
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Same, puffy cumulus and that odd haze
10ths Cloud Cover: 4
Bar(mb): 1015+
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 83
Relative Humidity(%): 70
Sail: Working jib and main, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 161
Miles since departure: 27,842
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 4,892
Leg North Days: 41
Avg. Miles/Day: 119
We haven’t logged a 160 mile day since March 27th, a week after Cape Horn. But today we were fast again. It feels good to see Mo glide out the miles.
These recent slow, hot weeks have put me in mind of the idea of *regression to the mean.* It’s a phrase my baseball friend and I mutter to each other when our home team follows a glorious winning streak with a losing streak of equal profundity.
The trouble with baseball, of course, is that the season is monstrously long, and it’s this season length that makes the game a competition not just between teams but also between those teams and the law of averages.
If you’re a football fan, you have some justification in believing that your team may eventually have its perfect, loss-less season. But then, the football season is a mere 18 games compared to the 160 baseball teams must slog through. We baseball fans think our team has had a winning season if it finishes above 500.
Just so Mo and Randall. As we approach the 30,000 mile mark, the law of averages has begun to take its pound of flesh out of our dailies. At our height, and prior to New Zealand, we were up to 146 miles a day. I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself and Mo. We were flying. But then, surprisingly, the Pacific leg to Cape Horn slowed us down, and this leg north has been a crawl.
Still, we may win some miles back over the next two weeks.
A strange incident this afternoon. An intermittent target on the AIS monitor. When the alarm first sounded, the target was already close, only six miles off and headed right for us. But it kept blipping on and off the screen. This I have never seen.
Over the course of several blips, I saw the vessel was the HUANG G MING, a Chinese fishing boat. Thinking that their AIS may be malfunctioning, I altered course, slowing Mo and moving to pass under her stern.
HUANG G MING then altered course directly for us and did not alter course further until we had solid visual contact.
As she passed close under Mo’s stern, I could see the crew lining the weather rail, watching as Mo moved by. They must not see many sailboats.
