Oh, That Smell

Hey virtual voyagers. You get an extra post today as we’re catching up with Randall. As you can see, he’s much closer to pulling into Hobart than this post suggests. Joanna’s heading to Tasmania Sunday night and looks to rendezvous with Moli and her Captian on Tuesday.

Day 119

Noon Position: 43 50S. 130 39E

Course/Speed: E7

Wind: W15-20

Bar: 1025

Sky: Overcast, occasional drizzle

Sea: SW6

Cabin Temp: 60

Water Temp: 55

Miles last 24 hours: 170

Longitude Made Good: 164

Total Miles: 16,449

Miles to Hobart: 775

I bought a selection of dry sausages in Ushuaia, the kind that hang from the ceiling in butcher shops, and have been adding them to stews ever since. I’ll bring one out from the larder (forepeak) and hang it from the fan in the galley. It fills the cabin with a rich and earthy punk until consumed. If memory serves, I was eating through the last one when we  encountered our big gale a few weeks back. In any case, there’s no sausage hanging from the fan, and I have assumed that the above noted rich punk now coming from the starboard side of the boat and across from the galley was from a sausage that went orbital during the knockdown.

As we are soon to make port and likely to be inspected by the authorities, today I made a diligent  effort to track down the sausage. I cleaned out all the cupboards, emptied the bookshelf, removed my boots from their cubby;  I cleaned behind and even inside the diesel heater, all to no avail. There was simply no wayward sausage to be found.  I was standing over the heater pondering my next move when a sock bonked me in the head.

I have three pairs of heavy wool socks that I rotate through, and when they are not on my feet, they hang from a string over the heater. The heater is not used during passages, but I figure the socks have a chance to air dry as they swing back and forth. When the sock bonked me again, I noticed the fanning effect filled my nostrils with a familiar scent. Wait a minute! The smell is coming from my socks, which, after nearly 60 days of intermittent interment in damp rubber boots have taken on a distinctly sausage-like aroma. Rich and spicy as my socks have become, I have not been tempted to add them to stews. Moreover, I promise to put them and other, equally aromatic outer-wear into plastic bags before making civilization. Fast sailing these last days. Mo has been running before a lovely westerly that, sadly, is soon due to peter out. I’m still pushing to get ahead of the coming low; am shooting for landfall in five days.