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.
April 29, 2019
Day 206
Noon Position: 04 00N 32 21W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxW 6+
Wind(t/tws): NExN 11
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Puffy cumulus and haze
10ths Cloud Cover: 3
Bar(mb): 1014
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 83
Relative Humidity(%): 73
Sail: Working jib and main, close reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 132
Miles since departure: 27,681
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 4,731
Leg North Days: 40
Avg. Miles/Day: 118
If there was doubt yesterday, today there is none. We have at last departed the Doldrums. Proof: a steady and building wind from the northeast and a sky with nary a squall. What cloud we have is dry, cottonball cumulus. (There is also an odd, milky haze in the air.)
I changed down from the big genoa to the working jib at dawn. By 10am, I was putting a reef in the main and a tuck in the jib. Both are out now as wind is easing with sunset, but our speed is still averaging 6.5 knots.
—
Our next waypoint, Bermuda, to which I have drawn a rhumb line course of 310 degrees true for 2,500 miles. That distance will take the better part of 20 days, so we’ll see what has developed by then, but Bermuda announces the next transition zone. Here the Trades give way to the Horse Latitudes, a belt of high pressure and calms (compared the the doldrums, which are a belt of low pressure and calms).
How the calms look when we arrive will decide on which side we take Bermuda. The shorter route is to the east of it, but that gives the greater risk of light airs.
Decisions for later.
—
Battery charging is still a problem, an unanticipated problem.
In the wind here we do not see the big blankets of Sargasso weed of days ago, but it is still a constant companion in the form of long, thin ribbons running parallel to the wind. And it’s wrapping the Watt and Sea hydrogenerator propellor, which I clear at least once an hour.
We got half the juice from the generator today that I would expect in non-weed conditions.
I hear this weed is much worse in the Caribbean, and of course, just east of there is the eponymous Sargasso Sea.
So, we may be in for a difficult few weeks of battery maintenance.
I pulled some of the weed on deck for a closer examination. What I had previously called berries are, I read, the air sacks that keep the plant afloat. And nestled in this particular batch were small crabs and minute shrimps with long, clear feelers that looked like spun glass. These are two of many species that make the Sargasso a rich, complex animal environment.
April 28, 2019
Day 205
Noon Position: 02 23N 30 51W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NW 5
Wind(t/tws): NExN 6 – 8
Sea(t/ft): NE 3
Sky: Clear then squalls
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1015
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 84
Relative Humidity(%): 74
Sail: Big genoa and main, close reach on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 64
Miles since departure: 27,549
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
Leg North Miles: 4,599
Leg North Days: 39
Avg. Miles/Day: 118
I dropped sails after dinner, and we drifted for several hours. A heavy sea. Mo rolled terribly. I had to wedge myself into my bunk to keep from being tossed around.
By midnight, a light breeze with drizzle; I put us on port tack and heading northeast. At least there is some north in the course, I thought.
But by 4am, our course was due east. Wind had begun to swing north, and was pushing us back into the belt of calms. Even so, I chose to do nothing for a couple hours. Would this wind settle in or die away as had the others?
If anything, when I came on deck at 6am, the northerly was fresher. And now it had some east in it.
I tacked around immediately, before coffee, even before making a log entry.
Yes, we’re now taking a northeasterly on starboard tack, headed northwest. This is our first taste of the NE Trades. At last.
Still, a pretty slow day. After lunch, we were becalmed for an hour as a squall passed overhead, and I can count five wind-robbing squalls as I scan Mo’s horizon. Missing them will be a matter of luck.
But it appears we may be easing out of the Doldrums. 
April 27, 2019
Day 204
Noon Position: 01 19N 30 57W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxN 6.5
Wind(t/tws): SW 11
Sea(t/ft): Various to 3
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1015
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 85
Relative Humidity(%): 72
Sail: #1 genoa and main, reach, PORT.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 51
Miles since departure: 27,485
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 4,535
Leg North Days: 38
Avg. Miles/Day: 119
By “day in the life,” I mean today…
2am. From my bunk, I hear the familiar thwap thwap. The sails are telling me we’re becalmed. I rise and silence them. Rain.
6am. Rain has cleared but the sky is heavy. No wind. No choice. Batteries are down by half. I begin motoring after the first cup of coffee.
10:30am. Engine off. A light breeze from the southwest has filled in. I raise the main and spinnaker, and we take off at five knots.
The spinnaker is a thing of beauty. Not like flying a kite; rather, like flying a kite the size of a house and the shape of an amoeba that, when filled, takes on perfect proportionality without being symmetrical. It’s not possible, you say to yourself, that such a shape can hold wind. And yet the proof that it can is right in front of you.
The sky clears. The wind freshens.
Then suddenly, the wind is brisk. The rail is in the water, the foot of the spinnaker too. We’re rounding up hard. I spill some main, grab the tiller and pull for all I’m worth. My best effort maintains wind abeam; I can’t get the head to fall off. The spinnaker dumps and then fills with a crack. I look to windward; more coming.
I abandon the tiller, let fly the spinnaker sheet, and dash forward to lower the sock. This system, the sock that comes down over the spinnaker, robbing it of its wind, is the genius that makes this winged amoeba manageable.
Except not today.
The sock won’t lower. Is it jammed? I examine the head of the sail. No, all well, except now the spinnaker is flying out to windward like a bed sheet for goliath caught in a gale. It goes out so far I can’t see the end of it, and the pressure on this mass of gossamer is making the sock a bear to lower. I can lower it, I find, but I have to lock myself to the rail with my legs and heave with everything I’ve got.
Great. The sock is down. I start to lower the halyard. A few feet of line slip through my hands, and now the foot of the sail is in the water. It begins to fill. Quickly half the sail is pulled overboard. I’m sitting on the deck hauling in heaps of white, sopping wet material. It spills from my lap and covers the deck around me; with my free hand, I’m stuffing it down the forward hatch as fast as I can, all while other heaps of material are flowing over the rail. It’s a losing battle I somehow win. Slam down the forward hatch; the beast is caged at last.
Noon. I unfurl the genoa and we take off at seven knots, wind abeam, heading north northwest. Wait, a double take. Yes, a steady seven knots!
2pm. We’ve gone from cloud to clear and into cloud again, a solid wall of cement gray and then the rain starts. Torrential. An hour later, it’s still torrential. I’m collecting in buckets and letting it flow into the tanks. Soon I’ll have so much water aboard, I’ll be able to sell it to the city when I get to Newfoundland.
3pm. Wind has eased, but through the downpour we still make five knots.
The rain clears away as the sun sets. The sky lifts. The wind dies.
6pm. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Becalmed. I lower sails.
April 26, 2019
Day 203
Noon Position: 0 29S 30 52W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 2
Wind(t/tws): S 4
Sea(t/ft): Various, to 4
Sky: Clear (now)
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1016
Cabin Temp(f): 90
Water Temp(f): 86
Relative Humidity(%): 68
Sail: Spinnaker.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 33
Miles since departure: 27,434
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Leg North Miles: 4,484
Leg North Days: 37
Avg. Miles/Day: 121
Becalmed overnight, again.
With sundown, wind goes to zero, and the sea rolls Mo such that the sails are grinding themselves to bits.
I drop them at 6pm.
In the wee hours I climb on deck, and I can feel wind on my face. But the anemometer says that wind is three knots. I go back to bed.
At 5am, I wake to a downpour. I can hear it on the coach roof from my bunk. Wind on deck is brisk (relatively speaking). I open the big genoa, and we make four knots northwest.
I feel hope. Could this be the wind that takes us through?
By now we’ve had enough rain to rinse the boat, and so I open the tank caps and let the rain run into the tanks straight from the deck. Water is two inches thick in the scuppers. I also catch five gallons from the main cover for washing clothes.
The rain clears but not the sky. Wind moves aft and goes light. I raise the spinnaker. Within an hour, the spinnaker won’t fill.
The sky clears now. Wind moves forward but is still barely a whisper. I douse the spinnaker and go back to plain sail. We average one and a half knots, slowly making way through great carpets of golden weed.
Now it’s hot. I wear shirt and hat for protection. We inch toward a wall of cloud.
Late afternoon, we enter the wall. Wind to twelve knots from the northwest. Rain. We make five knots close hauled due north.
Hope. Could this be the wind that takes us through?
Over an hour, the wind slowly eases and backs into the north. We’re driven off northeast, but at one knot.
As I type. Drizzle. No wind.
The weather forecast continues to call for northeast trades in this sector. How it can miss the presence of horizon-to-horizon squall cells is baffling.
I’d motor in a heartbeat to get out of this, but my reserves are low. I used more fuel in the south for charging than I anticipated. I can’t motor endlessly, and I don’t know where the end of these cells is. I also can’t motor haphazardly as, given cloud and no speed, our charging has been low. I must use the engine to charge, so must wait until that is required.
—
Today is my lovely wife’s birthday.
This is a big one, and I was due to be home. The Figure 8 would be completed. I’d be in the study writing a fabulous adventure book and preparing for my interview in Oprah’s garden.
But then the Indian Ocean happened, and I had to start over.
I “had to,” which is to say “I wanted to.” I recall floating that idea to Jo in Hobart after the knockdown. And I remember her reaction. It was the same reaction she’s had for every wacko idea I’ve had since I first started talking about singlehanding. She was fully supportive.
I like big dreams, and I’ve had them since I was young, but I don’t think I can pull them off–and so I don’t start. It’s taken my wife, who says, “I think you should do that,” and later, “You’d better get on with it or stop talking about it” to get me to act.
Quite simply, without her to push me, I would not be out here now. My only regret is that I can’t be there today to support *her* and help celebrate her special day.
Instead of me at home, what she got was a birthday sentiment stuffed into a champagne bottle and tossed over the side.
Given our way of late, she may get that note before she sees me again!
April 25, 2019
Day 202
Noon Position: 0 14S 30 22W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WxN 3
Wind(t/tws): N 3 – 4
Sea(t/ft): Rollers coming in from all around
Sky: Squalls, huge, with rain but not much wind
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1015
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 87 (odd inversion re above)
Relative Humidity(%): 73
Sail: Big genoa and main. Spinnaker up for a time before noon.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 39
Miles since departure: 27,401
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Miles: 4,451
Leg North Days: 36
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
Becalmed overnight. And, as I type it’s two hours after dark and sails are down again. Wind showed promise during the day, but that was all it showed. We’ve made good fourteen miles in the last eight hours.
You are likely looking at the tracker and wondering–and yes, my forecast also shows a lovely wind from NNE at 10 – 15 in this sector. Sorry folks, that wind does not exist here. In fact, no wind of greater than 3 knots has existed here in memory.
I could go on…
But instead, a video from this morning with some images of what it is to be becalmed…
April 24, 2019
Day 201
Noon Position: 0 19S 30 04W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 3
Wind(t/tws): SW 5
Sea(t/ft): 1 – 2 various directions
Sky: Dark cloud entirely, heavy rain
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1016
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 85
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Big genoa and main.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 62
Miles since departure: 27,362
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Miles: 4,412
Leg North Days: 35
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Wind remained light at north and east most of the night but died away altogether by early morning. I lowered the main, rolled up the jib, and we drifted for several hours under a starry sky.
The Big Dipper is hull up now and creates a lovely arc from Alioth and Alkaid in its handle through to Arcturus and on to Spica and Corvus. At Corvus the line veers sharply to the right and terminates in the Southern Cross. Except for perpetual cloud on the horizon, I think I might have seen Polaris, and so could have connected both hemispheres in one sweep.
With sunup, a light wind from the south preceded a dark wall of cloud. We were soon overtaken and spent most of the day in that “super-cell.” Heavy rain and brisk wind at times.
At 5:15PM today we crossed the equator and re-entered northern waters. It was October 25th of 2018 when we crossed into the south, and we have been there ever since. 
With sundown, the cell has evaporated and so too has the wind. The water is glassy; the sunset, worth a million dollars. But I’d trade it for some wind.
Sails are down again.
We drift.
April 23, 2019
Day 200
Noon Position: 1 09S 29 20W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 4
Wind(t/tws): E 6
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Cumulus with some squalls
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1015
Cabin Temp(f): 90
Water Temp(f): 87
Relative Humidity(%): 69
Sail: All three sails flying.The #2 poled to starboard. Broad reach.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 136
Miles since departure: 27,300
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Miles: 4,350
Leg North Days: 34
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
By my estimation, we entered the doldrums this afternoon. The marker was pretty clear, our soft but steady easterly softened by half and turned northeast. Sundown. For several hours our average speed: 2.5 knots.
Squalls overnight. I was on deck almost every hour easing sheets or hauling in again. Rain. Giant lines of cloud backlit by a moon so bright it almost hurt the eyes.
—
Now the dominant bird is the Booby. I say dominant not like in the south, where it would indicate most of many; but rather here to mean the only bird sighted and one or two a day for days on end.
The book I use for identification draws no distinction between the Pacific and Atlantic *Sula* species. What I am seeing are the Red Footed (Sula sula) and the Blue Footed (Sula nebouxii), just as on the other side. But without the book to set me straight, I would say these two oceans host entirely different birds.
For one thing, the Atlantic birds are lithe in comparison to the chunky monkeys we have in the Pacific. And for another, they rarely dive.
In the Pacific, the Booby is entirely a diving bird. From thirty to fifty feet up, he’ll plunge head first into the sea in chase of fish several feet below the surface.
Not so here.
It’s happened so often now, I’ve recognized the pattern. Booby arrives on the scene and hovers just forward and downwind of Mo, patrolling back and forth and lying in wait for a flying fish. As a flyer is flushed by Mo’s “predatory” black hull and takes flight, it invariably turns into the wind, and so the Booby gives chase by dropping down from behind and accelerating quickly with deep, strong wing beats.
The chase can last through several waves, say four to seven seconds on average, and almost always ends with the bird shooting straight up into the air with nothing to show for his effort. This strikes me as odd in that the flying fish has eyes that point downward in order to better apprehend predators coming up from below; anything coming from above is in the fish’s blind spot. That I am wrong may explain why the Atlantic Booby is a slender being.
On only two occasions have I seen success. Instead of the chase ending in a splash as the fish escapes back into its mother element, the finale sees the fish being caught by the tail and flung into the air as the bird swoops up, catches the fish, this time by the head, and downs it in one go.
I clapped and gave a cheer the first time I saw that!
The bird went straight to the water top and sat there. Not surprised, I thought, as the fish it had just eaten was big, about a quarter its own size. But within five minutes, the Booby was on patrol again, swinging back and forth across Mo’s bow.
April 22, 2019
Day 199
Noon Position: 3 12S 28 21W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 6
Wind(t/tws): E 11
Sea(t/ft): E 4
Sky: Cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1014+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 91
Water Temp(f): 87
Relative Humidity(%): 66
Sail: All three main sails flying. The #2 is poled to starboard. Broad reach.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 149
Miles since departure: 27,164
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Miles: 4,214
Leg North Days: 33
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
A fair wind overnight and today that’s made the fairer by flying a boat load of canvas. All three working sails are up and filling, and the breeze is starting to veer, if begrudgingly, south of east. Maybe tomorrow we can fly the spinnaker.
We are fortunate to be carrying this wind deep into the ITCZ. Monte and I do the Holy Cross and twig a backstay each time we pass but are otherwise silent. Mum’s the word.
Last night, lightening flashes down wind and well below the horizon. They sent shivers down my spine. There’s something deeply frightening about lightening. Only three bursts.
Today, as evening has come on, the sky has covered entirely. There are mares tails cirrus, a full and dark altocumulus level, and cumulus below that are wanting to grow into squalls. It could be an interesting night. No lightening yet.
—
Today’s story is weed. But first …
At 8:30am I was taking a sight when I noted a darkish hump floating on the water half a mile away. Its shape struck me at first as being that of a long derelict sailboat on its beam’s end and half submerged; it’s size, roughly that of Mo’s. Even in binoculars the shape didn’t resolve to anything more specific, except that the color was similar to that of a whale and the roundness too. We were quickly by.
On reflection, it’s hard to imagine how a keel boat could float on it beam’s end, and so I’ve reasoned it was a dead whale.
Right after this, Mo began plowing through thin rafts of weed strung out in long lines running parallel to the wind. It grew thicker midday but has now dissipated.
The weed is yellowish brown with small leaves and berries and is reminiscent of pickle weed. I’m new to these parts, but my guess is this has been our first encounter with Sargassum, which we should see en masse later as we pass near the Sargasso Sea. It fouled both my lure astern and the hydrogenerator propellor multiple times, so the less of it in future the better.
Granted, not a very intersting story. Tomorrow, how the boobies catch flying fish. That’s much more fun.
—
In the late afternoon, our first jet since… Well, this may be our first at all this passage. Africa to South America, its course. 
April 21, 2019
Day 198
Noon Position: 05 20S 27 02W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW
Wind(t/tws): ExS 9 – 11
Sea(t/ft): E4
Sky: Alternating clear, then squally
10ths Cloud Cover: 1 – 8
Bar(mb): 1014+
Cabin Temp(f): 90
Water Temp(f): 86
Relative Humidity(%): 68
Sail: Big genoa and main out to port, #2 poled out to starboard, broad reach, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 121
Miles since departure: 27,015
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Miles: 4,065
Leg North Days: 32
Avg. Miles/Day: 127
A strange night. Altostratus covered the sky by sundown and stayed there. Its layering was thin, allowing the full moon to shine through with here and there a star, but beneath this, dark squall clouds built. A light, hot wind threatened to do nothing more than die away altogether.
I lay splayed and sleepless in the cabin, still 89 degrees at midnight. By dawn the squall clouds were getting serious, and I began preparing for a dirty day. But soon after sunup, both the stratus and the squall clouds melted away.
I am used to squalls dissipating as the sun sets. I have no understanding of what dynamics allow for convection overnight but not during the following day.
Winds have filled in a bit and veered a bit such that I can finally fly the poled-out working jib to starboard. Yes, all three working sails up. Our average speed, just shy of seven knots.
—
When I came on deck for the third time, I flushed a black-winged bat-like object that had been perched on the dodger. I had forgotten my glasses and my headlamp, and so retreated to the cabin to retrieve them, and when I returned the bat-like object was hovering over the aft rail, where it eventually made a landing. Even by moonlight, I could tell it was a slender, tern of a bird with a small neck and a long, sharp bill. I watched it in the dark for a long time. It watched me too.
When I switched on the headlamp and made a move for the winch, it launched. Long, delicate wings moved with a chaotic rapidity; all over the feathers were brown to black except for a shot of white above the bill. Its upset call, a low rattling. A Noddy.
I went on with the business of adjusting sail and was about to retire when I noted a lump on the end of the genoa pole. I had flown the pole earlier that day, but then the wind had backed to the beam again, and I’d opted against setting the #2 to windward. As a gesture of hope, I’d left the pole in its ready postion, extending out over the bow.
Here the Noddy found an awkward perch. The pole was too large for its tiny feet to grasp, and what boat motion there was, it felt in the extreme. The bird never even folded its wings but remained half airborne, dancing delicately upon its roost. Now the motion of a second Noddy on the wing became visible in the dark.
And about then I heard the swooshing.
In the moonlight, I could see the water move. The Dorado have returned for a feed, I thought. But to feed on what? The headlamp on its brightest beam resolved the mystery; below the water I could see the jetting gray cylinders that were dolphins shooting under the bow and accelerating far beyond Mo, only to return at full speed and jet under the bow again. Under the moon and the light of my lamp, they were cold, pale bullets. And then they were gone.
I can understand why a bird might want to come to rest on a boat rather than the water top. One avoids getting wet or being dunked by a wave just as he is commencing a snooze, but most importantly, on a boat there are no predators from the deep who might come to nibble at his feet.
By now the Noddy had figured out the genoa pole and seemed secured for the night. And as I made my way back to the cockpit, I saw his mate had made a landing on the outboard motor.
“All good?” I asked as I descended the companionway ladder.
Both Noddies … nodded … their consent.
By morning they were gone, but they had left the customary gratuity of their kind, a small dollop of white and black excreta.
April 20, 2019
Day 197
Noon Position: 07 10S 26 16W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxN 5.5
Wind(t/tws): ExS 10
Sea(t/ft): E 5
Sky: Cumulus, some heavy, and cirrus
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1015+
Cabin Temp(f): 90!! (the high was 94)
Water Temp(f): 86
Relative Humidity(%): 64
Sail: #1 genoa and main, reach to broad reach, starboard.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 147
Miles since departure: 26,894
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Miles: 3,944
Leg North Days: 31
Avg. Miles/Day: 127
A brisk wind these last twenty-four hours gave Mo a nice push along till late morning. The breeze has been less kind this afternoon, tailing off as a deck of altostratus moved in. Cloud covered the whole sky by sundown and for the first time since we departed 40S.
I’m having to be careful not to push too hard. For the second day in a row, I begin to feel light headed by midday. Too much strong sun and not enough fluids. Have donned a hat and am on my third liter of water as I type.
—
There are signs our ocean environment is changing.
A bird flew through my sextant shot this morning, and when I followed its path, the terminus was a throng of like birds, Sooty Terns, perhaps. As many as twenty.
Loping, looping flight and a raspy call. At the margins, a solitary, all white bird, which I imagined to be a Fairy Tern.
In the afternoon, a single, large storm petrel. Species unknown, but it was the largest of its kind I’ve ever seen.
Also in the afternoon and while taking the measure of the wind, I noted unusual movement in the water near Mo, which turned out to be a school of Dorado. They were swimming as if in a wolf pack off to starboard in anticipation of Mo’s flushing something interesting, like a pod of flying fish.
Flying fish we see regularly though infrequently, and overnight Mo typically scoops a couple into her scuppers. We’ve seen so little animal life at all in the middle Atlantic that as I tip these unfortunates over the side, I fear that we may have inadvertently reduced the population of flyers to a critical level. Surely there can’t be more than a handful. 
The presence of a pack of Dorado suggests otherwise.
The pack remained off to starboard for several hours, bluey-green and yellow darts surfing the inside of the small, blue waves and matching our pace with ease. Then, after a long time, and more from a sense of duty than desire, I dug the lures out of the forepeak. And when I finally lowered a bright orange hoochie into the water, the Dorado were gone.
April 19, 2019
Day 196
Noon Position: 09 28S 25 24W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 5.5
Wind(t/tws): ExS 12
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Cumulus and some cirrus
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1016+
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 85
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Big genoa and main, full, reaching/broad reaching, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 132
Miles since departure: 26,747
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Miles: 3,797
Leg North Days: 30
Avg. Miles/Day: 127
It took me a while to figure it out. Why I was perspiring so heavily in the cabin while doing nothing at all. But it’s the wind, of course, which is now generally aft of the beam at 10 or so knots. Consequently, the breeze below is much reduced. And man, it’s hot.
—
Today’s video is a miracle. Actually, that you are seeing it is a miracle. For three days, the app I use to edit and compile video has failed to export this one. The machine whirs for five minutes and then crashes. Nothing I’ve tried, and I’ve tried a lot, has worked until–magic–this afternoon export complete. Not entirely sure why it worked, so we’re not out of the woods yet–but this video is out.
Huge thanks to my friend, Kelton, for the assistance in trouble shooting. Help desk and technical forum emails have been flying. I’m sure I’d still be stuck without his intervention.
The video is a longish collection of out-takes and action shots from the Cape Horn to Cape Horn loop. BE WARNED: I was unable to edit any of the sound. So the on deck shots are very loud with wind. Best to turn down your volume control before the fun begins.
I’ve been wanting to “show off” more of the south for some time, but the sailing got in the way down there, and I fell behind on videos. Glad you are finally able to see this one. I hope you will agree, it’s quite a place.
April 18, 2019
Day 195
Noon Position: 11 33S 24 42W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 5
Wind(t/tws): E 10
Sea(t/ft): E 3
Sky: Hazy cirrus; some puffy cumulus.
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1016+
Cabin Temp(f): 88
Water Temp(f): 85
Relative Humidity(%): 64
Sail: Working sail, reaching to starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 131
Miles since departure: 26,615
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 29
Leg North Miles: 3,665
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Not sure if wind fell lighter overnight, causing us to slow down, or if we were slowed by taking the wind aft of the beam. In any case, we were slower. Winds are steady but quite light; rarely over 10 knots.
I should be flying the big genoa, but we are back to wind just forward of the beam this afternoon, and that sail is a bear on a reach. At least that’s my excuse. I’ve not changed sail in so long, I’m not sure I recall how.
A bird. A small petrel: larger than a stormy, smaller than a small gadfly; long, delicate wings. No idea what it was. Only bird in days.
—
I have been dabbling in a new-to-me set of celestial navigation tables. Published originally in 1930, they are, in fact, not new at all, but were a part of the collection of tables my father used when he was an officer in the American Merchant Navy.
The book is titled HANSEN’S EX-MERIDIAN TABLES. According to the inside cover, dad bought the book in 1944 in Liverpool, when he was serving on the S/S F.H. Newell. It’s been tucked away aboard Mo this entire voyage and was only broken out a few days ago.
The tables have been compiled by a Capt. L. F. Hansen, and his instructions in the preface, written for the professional mariner of the 1930s, took some study on my part but have yielded a simple technique for getting one’s latitude.
As you may know, a favorite sight of the sailor is the noon shot for latitude, “the cornerstone of the navigator’s day,” to quote Tom Cunliffe. The sight is easy as it does not require time to the second of GMT; the calculation is also easy and produces a latitude directly; e.g. 47 degrees 27.7 minutes south.
The calculations for forenoon and afternoon sun shots require more look-ups, more steps, and give you intercepts, i.e. lines on a chart, and where they cross, there you are. All fine and good, but it’s reassuring (and did I mention easy?) to know ones latitude.
The problem is that the noon shot has to happen at your local noon. If you miss it, it’s gone until tomorrow.
Enter Capt. Hansen, whose tables calculate where the sun will be for a time AFTER noon.
So, if a cloud was blocking your sun at noon but the cloud is gone by 12:45pm, you can take your “noon” shot at 12:45pm, consult Hansen’s tables, dig out a correction for degrees and minutes to add to your working, and there you are. You’ve got your latitude, cloud be damned.
I’ve used the book these last six days. It took the first three to get the interpolations down, but now my off-noon sights are nearly as close as those of noon.
The sun is said to be “on its meridian” when it is directly overhead; thus, “Ex-Meridian Tables.”
As far as I can tell, the tables aren’t made anymore. Fell out of favor. Don’t know why.
April 17, 2019
Day 194
Noon Position: 13 36S 23 578W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): WNW 6
Wind(t/tws): E 10-12
Sea(t/ft): E 4
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1016 (up and down between ’14 and ’18)
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 83
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Working sail full, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 149
Miles since departure: 26, 484
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 28
Leg North Miles: 3,534
Avg. Miles/Day: 126
Wind still steady from the east or just north of. I’ve been running more north than is strictly necessary now just for the speed and ease of balance. Mo loves apparent wind just forward of the beam; it’s her fastest point of sail. And she (or Monte) actively dislikes it just aft of the beam and tends to wander off. Aft of the beam is the course we want; forward of the beam is the speed we want. Speed wins another day or two.
—
One question from the Figure 8 comments section I thought deserved to be singled out.
Forthwith…
Michael La Guardia wrote:
One question that struck me the other day as I thought about your journey: does the world feel bigger or smaller? On the bigger side, you’re taking the true measure of the globe. You know it mile by mile, and wave by wave. Getting around is taking a long time and requiring incredible persistence. But on the smaller side, you now have a complete circumnavigation of a continent under your belt and are half-way-ish through two more. I know the more places I visit, the less they seem unknown and far off. So how is it for you? Bigger or smaller?
Randall: A well posed and interesting question. Given that I remain in the throws of the adventure, my ability to reflect upon it is limited. It’s like asking a marathoner on mile 17 what he thinks of his experience. That said, here are a few disconnected thoughts near the topic you pose if not directly on it. Again, thank you for the thoughtful question.
-The south still feels big and raw and unpredictably powerful. I have no sense of having taken the measure of that ocean at all. Spending time there is the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing the uncut wildness of the world, for which I am utterly grateful. Its beauty is as beyond description as is its utter inhospitability. I was excited to enter, was thoroughly ready to exit while could, and would return in a heartbeat (later).
-One’s world on a boat at sea is really the boat and, on clear days, three to five miles in any direction. When beyond the sight of land so long, one loses the sense of bigger or smaller as, within a range, each day is much the same. Sure, bigger seas, smaller seas; bigger cloud, smaller. Blue sea, green sea. Many birds, few birds. Cold, hot. But the ocean world never gets bigger than the visible horizon and the boat only gets smaller and smaller.
On many days there is the sense of being on a conveyor belt; that is, being stationary as the world flows by you. The days pass. The sun rises and sets. The moon waxes and wains. And the water keeps flowing, always flowing. The world is infinite water, from all observation, but only three to five miles in diameter.
-Bigger: for all my time out here, the size of the ocean continues to surpass my comprehension. It just goes on and on. The surface area of the Pacific alone is sixteen times larger than the area of the continental US. The earth has no bigger feature than ocean; in fact, there is no other feature remotely competitive with it.
-Smaller: it can be sailed, explored, circumnavigated by a vessel whose average speed is less than 6 knots. The earth must be a small place if I can get around it in Mo inside a year!
-Vast: some of my favorites are the clear, moonless nights when Mo is creaming along and the black sky above is luminous with stars from horizon to horizon. The Milky Way is a bright river and there are so many points of light that the constellations are overwhelmed. Even Orion is hard to find. On nights like this Mo and I are not sailing the ocean so much as the heavens. On nights like this one can almost feel the vastness of the universe and its desire to be explored.
April 16, 2019
Day 193
Noon Position: 15 59S 23 17W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxE 6
Wind(t/tws): E 12
Sea(t/ft): E 5
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1017
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 82
Relative Humidity(%): 68
Sail: Working sail, full, close reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 144 (good day!)
Miles since departure: 26,335
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Days: 27
Leg North Miles: 3,386
Avg. Miles/Day: 125
Good sailing last two days. Even wind. Mo is consistent in head and speed. Have barely touched the tiller or sheets yesterday or today.
Woke to a visitor in the scuppers, a rather large flying fish that, in the night, had not managed to escaped the Monster Mo.
Interesting to examine the fish. Their bodies are shaped like inverted triangles with big eyes pointing down to see what must be their main foe, the Dorado, as it charges up from depth. And note that the lower tail fin is longer than the upper. This is usual and is because the lower is used to propel the fish *when it’s flying.* It sticks down into the water like an outboard motor.
This one was meaty. Felt I should have had him for breaky. But no. Over the side.
Thank you to all Virtual Voyagers who have been kind enough to wish me well in the Figure 8 site comments after the second Cape Horn rounding. Joanna sent in that batch of comments and a few after, and though I read all with relish upon receipt, I’ve not had time to respond until now. Again, there are simply too many comments for me to reply to all, and so below are responses to those who asked questions (or nearly did).
Again, many thanks to all of you for following along.
—
Richard Goldstein wrote:
Have you been replenishing your water?
Randall: Yes, in fits and starts as rain and storm allow. I departed San Francisco with 200 gallons aboard and use approximately one gallon a day. At last count, I’d caught 62 gallons of water. That last rain event was on March 25, and at that point my math showed we had 90 gallons aboard for an anticipated 60 or so (!) days of northing from Cape Horn to St John’s. Now that we’re in the tropics, I don’t anticipate another rain event until the ITCZ.
–
Eric Moe wrote:
Your confidence level in Moli must be really high right now. I keep thinking about the workout the windvane is getting. Must be a constant maintenance item.
Randall: Indeed re Monte. You know your wind vane is working hard when the bolts fastening it to the hull start to loosen. That happened last month and was a real scare. All fixed now, but I’d never thought that was remotely possible. In fact, I’m surprised how well Monte has held up given that he works 24/7. Nothing else on the boat works that hard. He just goes and goes and goes. Of course, he also drinks up all my Madeira, but that’s another story…
–
Andy Barrow wrote:
Congratulations Randall! I have good (sailing) friends in St. John’s who would be happy to take care of you. Are you planning to stop there?
Randall: Yes, that’s the current plan. I’d like to arrive by early June and depart by early July, wind gods willing…
–
Richard Goldstein wrote:
By the way, what was the final story with your engine/alternator problem?
Randall: Good question. I did a series of voltage drop tests (a month ago) that led me to a loose connection in the main switches panel. The looseness didn’t seem enough to cause the issues I was experiencing, but once tightened, I’ve not had another problem. Of course, I don’t really know because I’ve not used the engine for more than a few hours since discovering the problem, but it looks fixed. Loose connection–the most basic and anticipatable problem imaginable.
–
Darrell Oike wrote:
I’ve been talking about your trip with people I know and have been asked why I think it is that you have run out of beer when only half way through your journey. I tell them that beer is heavy and that now your lighter boat will sail much faster. Perhaps, more simply, you just really like beer. I wonder if you will regret your poor rationing once you get back into the tropics.
Randall: HA! Well, as you will recall, I said I’d stashed away a case of light, lemony stuff that I couldn’t stand in 45 degree weather. THAT is being made quick work of now that the cabin is 86 degrees. But it won’t last more than another week or two. To answer the question: I ran out (or will) because I couldn’t bring myself to pack another pound on Mo.
–
Charles M wrote:
I truly hope that the achievements of Jon Sanders, don’t lead you into a competitive thought process. In NFL football terms, a Dion Sanders (neon dion) only happen rarely. The competitors in the game at that time, just had to look an marvel, and salute. Your accomplishments will stand alone, in your name. Get home safe.
Randall: Good thoughts, Charles. No competitive urges here. I’ve done what I’ve done and know the effort. Sanders deserves great respect for his accomplishments, and not just for the distances but for where he sailed, the size of boat he sailed in and the available technology at the time. Incredible voyages. Hats off.
April 15, 2019
Day 192
Noon Position: 18 29S 22 50W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxW 6
Wind(t/tws): ExN 15
Sea(t/ft): NE 4
Sky: Cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1019, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 83
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Working jib and main, close reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 139
Miles since departure: 26,191
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Days: 26
Leg North Miles: 3,241
Avg. Miles/Day: 125
Wind has stayed blessedly consistent the last 24 hours and the sky clear. On a 12 – 15 knot northeasterly we’ve made good time.
As I type, it’s approximately 1,000 miles to the line (the equator). Now the question of how we handle the approaching doldrums comes to the fore.
Conventional wisdom has it that a sailing vessel should stay to the west of that belt of calms, and a daily examination of weather at the ITCZ these last weeks shows that to be good advice. Calms there are, but toward the South American coast there is often a light wind bridging the southeast and northeast trades.
Of course, once through the ITCZ, winds come on strong and makes the entire run of coast to the west a lee shore, so don’t cut the cape too fine. Currently we’re edging slowly west and toward a waypoint about 400 miles east of the Arquipelago de Fernando de Noronha at 4S and 32W.
—
I came on deck this morning to find clear evidence that the skipper has relaxed the footware policy for the crew. As is only right and just when the temperature rises from 45 to 85 degrees in three weeks.
—
Now that it has warmed up, my craving for calories has dropped way off. It used to be that my breakfast was a Clif Bar followed by a big bowl of muesli, and often I’d continue scrounging after that.
This morning, I had the requisite Clif Bar and forgot to eat the Muesli until noon.
—
No birds again. Only the occasional flying fish. Strikingly lonely here.
—
Mo spends plenty of time heeled to 20 degrees and pounding, which can be an uncomfortable ride after a time. But I am pleased to report I found a lovely napping position in the cockpit.
April 14, 2019
Day 191
Noon Position: 20 22S 22 08W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxN 6
Wind(t/tws): ENE 10 – 15
Sea(t/ft): ENE 5
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1018, falling ever so slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 86
Water Temp(f): 82
Relative Humidity(%): 68
Sail: Working jib and main, close reaching, starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 135
Miles since departure: 26,052
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Days: 25
Leg North Miles: 3,102
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
If you like blue, this is your place. Under a broad sun, the ocean is a field of undulating sapphire with such texture and richness that the eye searches its depths longingly for it knows not what. I stand at the weather rail, ostensibly studying cloud in an attempt to ferret out the next squall. But in fact, I am staring into the blue yonder; hypnotized by blue, bathing in blue.
I scoop it up for cleaning dishes expecting to bucket blue, but the blue escapes the bucket.
Always and forever right there and out of reach, the big blue.
I’m struggling to balance Mo today. Same old story. Wind fluctuates. I reef after hours of being heeled so much I pull a couple Gs just sitting here. The wind drops. After an hour of this, I pop the reef. Wind jumps.
I’ve opted to stay over-canvased. We do a steady six knots with here and there touches of seven.
—
Not a bird today. For a week the only bird species I’ve seen is the Atlantic variant of the White Chinned petrel, which was our constant companion in the south and one of my favorites.
The White Chinned gives the unmatched grace of the Wanderer a run for its money. Small by comparison (in overall size, just smaller than a Western Seagull), they are stocky, compact and efficient gliders and live in a covering of chocolate brown feathers, save a tiny spot of white, a stinger, just under the bill.
In the south, they would often accompany Mo all day in groups of three to five and would frequently swoop in close over the radar tower to examine the odd gesticulations of her passanger (I was just saying hello).
The Atlantic variant is quite different. For one thing, it sports a mask of white that gives the impression it is wearing a Batman costume. For another, it usually travels alone. Yesterday near sundown a group of five played around the boat for a time, a first. None at all today is also a first. We may be exiting their range.
It is strange, this lack of bird life here after the recent months of avian fellowship. If we were northing in the Pacific, the Cook Islands would soon hove into view. The “kreck” of Tropic Birds would call me on deck. Boobies would be competing for night accommodations on the rail.
But I guess that’s the difference. We’ve not passed close to any islands, as yet.
April 13, 2019
Day 190
Noon Position: 22 43S 21 31W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NWxN 5+
Wind(t/tws): ExN 6 – 9
Sea(t/ft): E 3 – 4
Sky: Cumulus. Only one squall by noon.
10ths Cloud Cover: 4
Bar(mb): 1020+
Cabin Temp(f): 84
Water Temp(f): 83
Relative Humidity(%): 71
Sail: Working jib and main, full, reaching to starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 123
Miles since departure: 25,917
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Days: 24
Leg North Miles: 2,967
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
In the evening of yesterday, we slipped at last over the high and into the Trades. The day had been squally, muggy; the zephyrs, indifferent. But then the sun set. And as dark came on, the sky melted away to clear and a cool breeze filled in from just north of east.
At first, it was only eight knots, a near gale compared to four, but by the time dinner had been eaten and the washing done, wind was twelve knots. By midnight I was tucking a reef into the main. Mo charged off.
The reef shook out soon after sunrise and wind today has oscillated, but has never dropped away to threadbare as it has done so often this last week.
We are on the move again.
—
That said, I’m still on deck at all hours helping Monte negotiate squalls. Last night after just such a bout and when we emerged into the open, I was stunned to see the handle of the Big Dipper well above the northern horizon. Think on it. North! We are making our return, and here is indisputable evidence.
The Southern cross is still very high astern. I’d guess it declines at something like 50 degrees or better. So, I’m curious to see when it sets vs when Polaris bobs above the sea.
My photos of the night sky are nothing but black, so you’ll have to settle for a crude drawing.
One joy to be had in the tropics is a consistent view of the sky. Thus, not only am I back at daytime celestial navigation, but I can now continue with star memorization.
The aid I use is a poster-sized map of the astral sky hung in the pilot house and often consulted.
At first glance, the map looks impossibly busy, but it is actually quite concise. The stars depicted by name are only the 57 used for navigation and only the constellations key to those stars are pictured. The lines you see between stars are the identification pathways. Think of it as a street map. Only the destinations have names, but what you are memorizing are both the destinations and the connections between them.
Another benefit of such a tool is that you see the whole sky in one frame, but it is easy to break out certain segments for memorization. For example, while running south in the Pacific, our early night consisted of The Great Square and Cygnus clusters. So, those got memorized together. Now my early night sky is Orion, Scorpius, Corvus and Crux. Start small. Go for just the stars clustered around Orion. Then expand out. It’s a lot of fun.
The map is produced by Celestaire and is also on the back cover of their Site Reduction Tables (H.O. 249). I recently asked Ken Gebhardt, my contact there, how such a thing came to be. Apparently, the map was used by the Airforce as a memorization aid for pilots through at least the 1950s–back when celestial navigation was a requirement, not only for graduating the Academy, but also for, well, finding where you were.
Celestaire also makes the sextant I use, the Astra IIIb. If you are the least bit curious about celestial navigation, their site is a fun browse.
April 12, 2019
Day 189
Noon Position: 24 45S 21 16W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NxW 3
Wind(t/tws): ExN 4-5
Sea(t/ft): NE 2- 3; S 5
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1021+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 82
Water Temp(f): 82
Relative Humidity(%): 73
Sail: Big genoa and main, reaching on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 93
Miles since departure: 25,794
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 23
Leg North Miles: 2,844
Avg. Miles/Day: 124
Better mileage, hard won, and still slow.
Wind light and unsteady; add in squalls, and the result is that I am at the tiller several times per hour to chat with Monte. Here, and after the usual pleasentries, I make offhand and “if you please” suggestions regarding course, which I want to be due north, not 30 degrees either side.
Monte mentions that “the wind she is fickle” and that things might go easier if I trimmed the genoa just so, which I do. Then he gives a meaningful glance at the main. I trim that too. I do not remark that I have trimmed these two many times already today. And Monte does not remark it either, but he eases north.
I go below. North does not last long. I bring Monte his requested restorative against the heat, a Madeira with a splash of seltzer, and we start again.
All day and half the night in like form. All for around 3 knots of speed.
Am ready for steady wind with a tad more oomph. Likely a day or two before that fills in.
—
Wash day. Starting with the socks that have been hanging in the main cabin for months and smell like fetid sausages wrapped in wet dog and served with a side of peat bog.
A soak in salt water. Drain. Again. Drain. Then a soak in salt water with laundry detergent. Lots. Massage with feet (now squeaky clean). Let soak. Then three salt-water rinses.
Now the socks are drying. Once they are more or less dripless, they’ll get a rinse in fresh water and another extended dry. I have a couple gallons set aside for just these and for some long overdue long underwear.
Already the cabin smells like daisies.
—
When my wife read about the state of some of my well-worn clothing, she wrote:
“Speaking of, my dear, remember I can bring you new cold weather undergarments for the Arctic when I come to St John’s. From what I can tell, what you’ve been wearing should be burnt, preferably while you are at sea and away from civilization. By way of expectation setting: none of that stuff you’ve described is making it into my car, let alone the house. And no, we do not need more rags.”
April 10, 2019
Day 187
Noon Position: 27 33S 21 23W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 3.5
Wind(t/tws): WNW 6
Sea(t/ft): NW 1
Sky: Squalls
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1019+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 79
Water Temp(f): 79
Relative Humidity(%): 81
Sail: Big genoa and main, close reaching on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 77
Miles since departure: 25,626
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 21
Leg North Miles: 2,676
Avg. Miles/Day: 127
Slow gets slower as we push deeper into the high. Wind has tailed right off and the sky has gotten intensely cloudy and confused. The breeze outside squalls is 4 – 6 knots and in which we’ve been averaging 3 knots. Monte has steerage but not much else.
It’s evening.
Over the last few hours we’ve ridden through two line squalls. Actually, I don’ think that’s the proper meteorological term for this phenomenon, but I don’t have a better one. Imagine a solid line of cloud, flat on the bottom, connected up like a river, and snaking from one horizon to the next. It flows forward like a wave and is preceded by a phalanx of towering cumulus. Inside could be anything, more squally cumulus or high, indistinct cloud and rain.
The first was rain. The second carried a punch of wind as we came under the wave that required I luff the entire main for twenty minutes. Mo took off close reaching; rail in the water on the big genoa alone. This one we are still in, though the winds has subsided to something like 10 knots. The leading edge of this giant is a great U-shape of cloud, the bottom of which is traveling east. We entered through one arms of the “U” and will exit the other by dark.
Past the the edge of this one are two massive squall clouds pouring rain in a vertical column.
So, it’s back on deck for me. Looks to be an active night. 
April 9, 2019
Day 186
Noon Position: 28 42S 22 01W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExN 5.5
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 10
Sea(t/ft): NW 2
Sky: Clear, but big cumulus ahead
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 10-18+
Cabin Temp(f): 81
Water Temp(f): 77
Relative Humidity(%): 82
Sail: All working sail full; close reaching on port.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 144
Miles since departure: 25,549
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 20
Leg North Miles: 2,599
Avg. Miles/Day: 130
Good wind overnight and until early afternoon when our luck finally ran out.
The day had been utterly clear and sun-soaked, and a cooling northwesterly riffled the water, sending up silvery sparkles from the cobalt surface. But ahead was a wall of towering cumulus whose towers did not lean but billowed straight up. That was a pretty clear sign we’d come to the end of what has been a long stretch of solid sailing wind.
We’ve averaged about 3 knots since entering squall territory.
—
A day of firsts:
-This is the first it’s been over 80 degrees in the cabin since day 30 of this Figure 8 attempt. That was on November 3rd of last year; we were in the South Pacific, our position, 22S and 128W. The next day we would sight Henderson Island.
-The first flying fish since the Pacific tropics was sighted today. Actually, two were seen. Now we see the occasional Gadfly petrel and smaller, brown petrels, but still only one or two at a time.
-The first tropical squalls of the Atlantic were encountered today. Some rain. Not much wind.
-I changed out of my long-legged under-layer fleece and into short briefs today. I’d been wearing that fleece since…well, hmm…long enough that I don’t recall how long, long enough that they had an earthy tang worthy of its on space on the aroma wheel–somewhere between, say, moldy truffles and spoiled sausage and very close to disgusting. The change represents some of the most fun I’ve had in weeks, partly because the briefs were not just fresh, they were NEW out of the bag. What luxury!
-First day of fresh air everywhere in the boat since the Pacific, as I finally put all the dorade vents back in service. I had covered them with a stainless steel plate to keep overwhelming southern seas from pumping water into the cabin. The plates were on the boat when I bought her–an essential item for a boat headed to southern high latitudes. I had also stuffed a rag in the ceiling hole of the dorades, and when these came out, an aroma of long unwashed wet dog filled the cabin such that I had to spend an hour on deck pretending to chat with Monte. Wow, what a smell! Thankfully, it flushed out after a bit.
—
The cloud-sky is lovely and complex. But it means we’ll be very slow for several days and until we can reach the trades.
April 8, 2019
Day 185
Noon Position: 30 35S 23 41W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 7
Wind(t/tws): NNW 16+
Sea(t/ft): NW 5
Sky: Alt cum and strat
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1017, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 77
Water Temp(f): 73
Relative Humidity(%): 87
Sail: Working, sail, close hauled, port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 150
Miles since departure: 25,405
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 19
Leg North Miles: 2,455
Avg. Miles/Day: 129
A fast night. Somehow I found Monte’s sweet spot, and with two reefs in everything, I didn’t have to touch sail or tiller line all night. And our course, 30 degrees on the button. Excellent. Rough, but excellent.
Today has also been fast. We’re averaging 7 knots at moment, but the wind is beginning to ease. I think morning will initiate the next chapter of this northing saga: Getting Through the South Atlantic High. At moment there are nearly 600 miles of light to no wind between us and the Trades. It’s a broad swath, this calm. No going around it. Time to break out the oars.
—
Just after writing last night’s litany of complaints, the VHF radio sounded.
“Mohla, Uloos.” it said. The signal was strong; the vessel, close.
I dashed on deck to check the horizon for lights, a fishing boat without AIS hailing its partner, perhaps? The only ship on the scope was a bulk carrier named BK ALICE; she had passed unseen half an hour ago, was now well to the SE.
Nothing on the horizon.
The radio again. Same call. Very strong.
“Mohla” and “Moli” are not such similar sounds but similar enough to warrant an exploration. I grabbed the mic and said, “Uloos, sailing vessel Moli.”
Nothing.
Again.
“This is Uloos,” said the radio.
“This is Moli, did you call for Moli?”
Silence.
“Yes, Moli. Yes, yes, I called.”
“Good evening,” I said, and then, not knowing how to proceed, “How may I help you?”
“Yes, hello,” said the voice. “I just want you to know that I think it is very brave, going to sea in such a little vessel. It requires very much courage.”
The voice, from a man I judged to be in his thirties, spoke softly and with precision. The accent, I thought, might be Indian.
“Thank you,” I said. “What vessel are you calling from?”
“Uloos, the ship, we have just passed.”
“Oh, are you the BK ALICE?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, that is me. Alice. Yes. Alice. I just want to ask one question. How do you do for food? And for fuel? I mean, on such a small boat, how is there room?”
I explained that for a singlehander, my boat was not very small, that I could easily carry a year’s supplies. That being a sailboat, I mostly sailed and so did not use much fuel.
“And where are you bound?”
“To St John’s, Newfoundland; then the Arctic and home.” I briefly described the Figure 8, the southern ocean rounding, the Northwest Passage, 180 days at sea, etc.
“Ah, that is very good. A very beautiful voyage. I have very much respect for your voyage. Thank you for your time, and I hope you have a good evening…”
“WAIT, wait,” I said. So typical, these ship guys…one question and they ring off. “And where are you bound?” I asked.
“I am bound for Kandla, India, arrive 5th May.”
“And what is your position?”
The man began to run through his coordinates, “Thirty two degrees, zero three decimal five minutes south…”
“No,” I interrupted, “I mean your position on the ship, your job.”
“Oh, I am the first officer. My name is Biko. I am from Indonesia.”
We signed off soon after as my transmissions had been deteriorating during the brief call. Mo’s masthead VHF antenna quit months ago, and I’ve been using the spare mounted on the radar arch; thus, my rage is poor.
But, though brief, and for reasons not entirely clear to me, the call was a real pick-me-up. Sure, it is pleasant to be appreciated, but it was more that–something to do with receiving respect from a professional mariner, a man who makes his living out here.
April 7, 2019
Day 184
Noon Position: 32 25S 25 46W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 6
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 16 – 18
Sea(t/ft): NW 4
Sky: Solid altcum layer with cum and strat beneath
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1017+ steady
Cabin Temp(f): 75
Water Temp(f): 73
Relative Humidity(%): 90
Sail: Working jib, one reef; main two reefs, close hauled.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 130
Miles since departure: 25,255
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 18
Leg North Miles: 2,305
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
A godforsaken bit of water, this.
Same ritual overnight; wind accelerates; I kit up and reef. By the time I’m back in the cockpit, another reef is needed. That’s at 11PM. At 3AM I wake to find we’re doing 4 knots and headed east. Wind has dropped way off. Let out reefs. Rain. Let out more reefs at dawn. All reefs back in by noon.
A thick, light-blocking sky today such that I made the first two log entries by headlamp. The upper deck is horizon-to-horizon, without definition and relentlessly, unforgivingly, utterly gray; the lower deck is a mix of billowing gray squall cloud and gray stratus. Rain off and on.
Wind cycles between 10 and 20 knots. I’m constantly adjusting Monte and the main in a vain attempt at balance and a straight course. NxE we can do and E, all other points of sail are fleetingly attained.
Between the rain and the humidity (80 – 90 percent for a week now) everything below is sopping. It’s pointless to attempt to wipe up the floors because none of the tea towels are dry enough to do anything but move the water around. I don foulies before going on deck in order to keep from getting more wet rather than to stay dry.
Below is stuffy and sticky and cloying. The breeze through the dorades is so saturated it drips from the vent cowlings. But go on deck for a bit of fresh air and you’ll catch a face full of spray in no time. The only safe place is huddled under the pup tent.
Not a bird. Not one. Nor any other sign of life save now and then a piece of plastic trash or a passing ship, of which there is at least one on the scope every few hours. If outbound, they all seem to be headed for Singapore. All bulkies so far.
The anemometer quit today; its twirly bit at the head of the mast has inexplicably stopped spinning. It has been iffy for some time now, and I suspect has been underreporting blows in the south for a while. I am now reporting wind via a handheld. It’s a only a convenience, the masthead anemometer, but sorely missed, especially true wind direction.
Wind we have, and that is good. That is very good. But it is unremittingly ahead. We have been close hauled or close reaching on port for two weeks and are barley making a degree of northing a day. At this rate it will be nearly a month to the equator, and we have yet to reach the Horse Latitude calms.
And how we pound! I mean really, how much more of this can she take? 
