A More Recent Adventure

    Considering the following was happening a year ago this month, I thought it appropriate to post. It's from some notes I wrote to Latitude38. Some of it is a little generic. I suppose I could write about the rest of the trip next, we did double Cape Horn under sail alone... Special thanks to Erica for nudging me back on here...

     ...After spending the past six years working and sailing, including two winters of school in the Netherlands, I’ve ended up here; as mate on the gaff ketch Tecla, sailing from Alaska to the Falkland Islands via Galapagos, Easter Island and Cape Horn. 

    Tecla, an ex-herring drifter, was built in the Netherlands in 1915. She has been family-owned and operated by the Sluiks since 2006 specializing in sailing adventures around the world. She completed a circumnavigation in 2014, and since then she has spent the summers exploring from the Netherlands to Scotland, Iceland and Greenland. This year (2019) will take her far from home through the Northwest Passage to some new destinations including Alaska, Galapagos, Easter Island, Falkland Islands, South Georgia, Chile, and the lost continent, Antarctica. By next summer she will have completed a circumnavigation of the Americas. She is 38 meters LOA, and sails with a total compliment of 16. 12 guest crew can join for any of the legs. Sailing as a guest includes standing watches, steering and helping with the sail handling.  There are two winches on the foredeck for trimming the main topsail halyard and the jib sheet, but everything else is hoisted by hand with purchases, which is why team work is so important. The guests live in 2-person cabins with ensuite toilet/showers, and stand watches in a 4-on, 8-off rotation. No experience is required for the guests, so a lot of my job is teaching, which is quite rewarding. Helping in the galley and maintenance projects keep me busy alongside the sailing itself.

    I’ve found there is much to be gained from sailing these traditional ships, from vigilance and hard work to a healthy respect for nature and the forces that occur at sea. Not only are there the physical aspects, but also the mental ones; patience, trust and everything else that comes with living with so many other souls for months on end.  You learn to appreciate the little things in every day, and all the burdens of life in a twenty first-century first-world country suddenly lose their priority. People talk about the benefits of a “digital detox” but this is so much more. There are also endless things to learn about how to sail the ship well and how to maintain it. These ships have histories, and sailing them allows you to become part of it.

    This trip from Alaska to the Galapagos is an unusual one. Tecla completed the Northwest Passage in 47 days from Illulissat, Greenland to Nome, Alaska, arriving on September 16, 2019. Because of the uncertainty of the ice letting her through to the Pacific side, the guest bookings couldn’t be confirmed until a few weeks in advance of her arrival in Nome. So this trip we were 4 to Dutch harbor and now only 6 on board. Being on time for start of the Antarctic summer also meant that this trip would be limited to one stop (Dutch Harbor). So we’d be spending a lot of time together offshore.

    With this long passage in mind, I stuffed a few issues of Latitude into my bag as I left home. Man, were they a hit on board! My watch mates, Australian and Dutch, found the “Latitude Thirty Eats” excellent breakfast perusal material. Soon there were discussions on the demolished derelict boats, the Baha-Ha-Ha profiles and of course the Letters. 

    The leg from Nome to Dutch Harbor was a rough one, and we were only 4 at that point. The Bering Sea is a wild place filled with depressions even during the best time of year. The short steep waves are similar to the ones in the North Sea, and they are incredibly uncomfortable. There was an ugly looking depression on the forecast, so we set what reefed sails we could and flew almost the whole way at 8 and 9 knots. It took our full strength the hoist the main with 3; any sail changes required all of us, which means less sleep if the weather changes while you're in your bunky... The rugged coast of Unalaska Island was a welcome sight, and we took shelter in Dutch Harbor for a few days. Dutch Harbor is quite famously the seasonal base for many Bering Sea fishing boats, and despite being surrounded by glaciers and extinct volcanoes there is very little going on besides the fishing industry. Oh and wild blueberries!

Approaching Dutch Harbor

    After our departure from Dutch, I was impressed at the size of the Gulf of Alaska! As we sailed rather quickly east to get on the right side of the Pacific high, our position on the small-scale chart crept along like a tiny lethargic bug. Eventually we were able to start our way south with the wind, and that was when we started going like a rocket. In fact, our progress was so good that it allowed us to make a stop in Santa Cruz. Having been mostly away sailing the last six years, it was a very special experience for me to bring a ship into my homeport! It was a meeting of worlds seeing Tecla anchored in Cowells.

Close-hauled day on the Gulf of Alaska

Sunset in Santa Cruz

    We had another epic sail leaving Santa Cruz, but eventually the wind petered out and left us rolling around about 200 miles off the Socorro Islands. Some lighter breezes slowly pushed us towards the equator, but the rest of this trip has been wrought with light airs and mixed seas. Not only was the weather trying, we received news from the officials in the Galapagos that we now required an inspection and hull cleaning in Ecuador before being allowed to stop in the Galapagos. This meant sailing right past the islands to Salinas. It was a little demoralizing. However a nice little puff of wind came up yesterday to blow us the last little way into Salinas. We are now stocking up on some nice fresh veggies and with the inspection hopefully finishing Monday, we will be on our way again. 

Messy mid-ocean hitchhikers

Swimming in a calm

A Living Tradition

There were some things in life I left to sort out when I first went to sea, thinking the salt and the rolling swell would help me come to some conclusions on the direction my life should take. Ironically, here I am thousands of nautical miles later and in some ways no closer to knowing where I'm headed. But I have made some incredible discoveries in the meantime, many of which have confirmed to me that the sea is indeed a good way of life despite its hardships, and it has its place in the modern world as well.

Sailing around on a tall ship may sound extravagant at first; time and money thrown into an old steel hull, some rigging and a crew to sail her to exotic locations. We're not transporting cargo or doing extensive scientific research (we do record and transmit our weather observations though), so many would be inclined to think it's just a millionaire's hobby, a weird sort of cruise taking wealthy people on holiday to unusual places. 

But a tall ship is so much more than that; if the above description was what we were all about then I can assure you tall ships would no longer exist. 

Before the days of steam or Diesel engines, the oceans of the world were traversed by sail. Countries invested fortunes and men invested their lives to sailing. It was a way of life, a catalyst of world trade, an efficient mode of transportation. 

There were also hundreds of years of tradition along with that; how a ship should be kept, the hierarchy of the crew, and a proper way to do everything. With natural fibers and manpower, we sailed the seas until the advent of the marine engine. In a rush for speed and perhaps warfare, the big old ships were left to rot and rust, and an ageless way of life was nearly lost. 

Fortunately for us, there were a few who realized the importance of keeping it alive. There is much to be gained from sailing, from vigilance and hard work to a healthy respect and understanding for nature and the forces that occur at sea. Not only are there the physical aspects, but also the mental ones; patience, trust and everything else that comes with living with fifty other souls for months on end.  You learn to appreciate the little things in every day, and all the burdens of life in a twenty first-century first-world country suddenly lose their priority. 

And that is what we share with those who come sailing with us; a change of pace and a different way of life that challenges how society has trained us to think. The most profound experience that we encounter is not the destination but the journey. A tall ship is a living tradition, and not one that should be forgotten.

Bergies and Penguins...

"...Morning Coffee with Klaas, Marianne and Sophie in the wheelhouse this morning seemed surreal. The portholes were spattered with massive soppy snowflakes, through which we saw fantastic blue and white icebergs floating past. Nick's voice crackled over the radio now and again as he stood ice watch up on the foredeck, and I thought myself a bit lucky that today was my turn being the galley fairy. The bosun was concerned last night about keeping the new foredeck wet, but today that won't be a problem... The snowflakes were turning into a thick slush on the deck and the clock was nearing seven; time to get breakfast started and spend some seriously emotional moments chopping onions. As I crossed the main deck a particularly nice berg with an aquamarine arch rolled past. Just another coffee break on Europa."

Working on the ship, one often forgets where we are and the everyday natural wonders that we sail past. Life just simplifies and condenses itself (especially if one happens to be sleep deprived) until, if one is not careful, one finds oneself smothered in the plight of the deckhand - trying to please both the bosun and the cook, keep the voyage crew happy by including them in the sailing but also keeping the officers happy by doing so in a timely manner. It's quite the balance. But once in awhile, a particularly nice day or a giant blue iceberg, or an extra few hours of sleep will remind one that we are past the end of the world, in the wilds of the seventh continent, and about as close to raw, untouched nature as one can get.

Some of that nature includes the Penguins. I must admit I was a bit skeptical at the start of my first trip about the penguins, mainly because there is so much hype about how cute they are. But after seeing my first penguin it all melted away because they are indeed cute, they have to be one of the most unique and cute things I have ever seen. Watching them happily waddle down the beach to go for a swim, wings outstretched behind them for balance is something I'll never forget. They are incredibly awkward on land, amazingly graceful in the ocean, and just all around adorable.

There is much more that I saw in Antarctica, some great moments with nature and with mates, some that can't be described in words. The sheer ruggedness of the landscape took my breath away, and the amount that it changes in just a month is awesome. One of the more special moments was a morning on the second trip when I scrambled on deck with a mug of tea and was taken aback with rays of sunshine, seventy-meter-high glaciers nearby and ice everywhere. It was difficult to see exactly how Eric has got the ship into this position because we seemed to be completely surrounded, and Jordi, our lead guide was simply ecstatic. This was a new place for everyone, even Jordi hadn't been here before, and it was the furthest south Europa had ever been. There was too much ice for the tenders, so the morning was spent cruising Europa around among the bergs in unsurveyed waters. What else is there to say, really, it was a unique experience where everyone was lost in the beauty of Antarctica. 

So I would say this venture, one I didn't see myself doing even a few years ago, was a smashing success. Maybe I haven't figured my life out, but I've made some incredible discoveries about life and how you choose to live it. If you take the opportunities that arise, however unlikely they may be, they do have the potential to take you to some incredible places, physically and mentally, and bring you to new perspectives that you never would have considered before.

A Place Lacking in Yellow Birds

From mid-September:

I have seen the Canary Islands mentioned many times in various literature over the years, but no real descriptions. So in my ignorant mind's eye I pictured some tropical islands with nice yellow dirt (I tried to not imagine little yellow canaries everywhere because that would be overdoing it). That image was great until the other day when we actually made landfall in the Canary Islands.

Far from tropical or yellow, a dry barren land rises up into mountains and old volcanoes surrounded by a light blue sea, and an African sun peeks through clouds overhead. The closest thing it reminds me of is Baja but with touristy little beaches crowded with swimmers and street vendors. It is, as the first mate told me, "Europe's sunbathing destination."

The ten day leg from Lisbon to Las Palmas was a nice one. Despite starting in a fairly calm anchorage in Lisbon, most of our new guests were seasick the first evening, and continued to be so as we beat through some weather the first few days out. There was a poor woman looking green at the rail next to the pin for the t'gallant halyard. I got a few guests to help me hoist the t'gallant, and as we got the sail near to being set, I called "two-six, heave!" The woman heaved over the side while we heaved the halyard home. I do hope she felt better afterwards.

Those first days also tested us a little as a watch. There were quite a few new people with us, and the first night we had to hand and furl the courses (those are the big bottom square sails) while some of the bigger swell broke near the bow and washed across the main deck. If the forecourse hadn't been flogging it would have been humorous seeing two of the new crew forget about hauling while they stared at the sea swishing around their knees. After your first experience like that, though, you get used to the elements changing, and you learn to cope with it.

The rest of the leg was smooth sailing, although the wind could have been a bit more favourable, direction-wise. The weather became warmer, the voyage crew found their sea legs and we made landfall in the sunny Canaries.

A Day During Refit

After only two weeks in Santa Cruz, stepping off the bus at the shipyard still felt like coming home. It also made an impression on me because most of the crew were at the bus stop on their way to the chill out pub. It was a good reunion, it felt like I hadn't seen them in ages, and so much had happened while I was gone. Now that I've been back for a week, Santa Cruz seems like some dream I had; the long days blend together and I often forget what part of the week we are in.

Refit is an insanely busy time, and for lack of creativity, I will give you a typical day on refit in Zaandam.

Wake ups are at 0630. Usually I wake up a little before though, because it is entertaining to hear the person doing the wake ups getting more impatient as they go from cabin to cabin. The first cabin will get a greeting of "good morning sweetie pies, it's 0630. Time to wake up." then it gradually degrades to the last cabin "Time to wake up. It's 0630. Unfortunately."

0715 we all meet on deck (or in the deckhouse if it's raining) to discuss the plan for the day. Usually Erik will give us a rundown on the bigger picture, followed by Klass remarking on the weather and then it is the bosuns' turn to give out the jobs.

This whole period has been full of showers and clouds, "Dutch skies" they call it. Today was pretty wet, but perhaps not as much as yesterday. My morning began setting up the steering gear area for a second coat of primer (we rustbusted the day before, then acided and primed yesterday), then we had to move the ship forward a bit. After that we began priming and finished the steering gear area 20 minutes before morning coffee. And the rest of my day was spent serving wire rigging on the quay.

Serving is how we protect the steel rigging from moisture. First we melt Lanolin and Stockholm tar into "Slush" which we brush liberally onto the bare wire. Next take strips of old cotton sheets, dip them in slush and then wrap tightly around the wire with the lay. This is called parcelling. Finally we are ready to serve the thing! There is a very specific way to set up the service, but basically it is wrapping twine around the wire against the lay. We use a special serving mallet to keep constant tension, and you have to either pass the spool of twine around as you go, or make a spool on the wire that you push in front of you. Final step is to tar the new service with a recipe of paint, varnish and more stockholm. Voila!

Hello Northern Hemisphere

Well, that catamaran trip was something I could have lived without... But changing the subject and jumping ahead in a mighty leap, here I am back in the northern hemisphere and awaiting a plane at the San Francisco airport to take me to fair Amsterdam of the Netherlands.

Now if you've been reading my posts in succession, you may be asking, or rather demanding irritably how I have managed to make that leap since the May post, but it will all unfold presently. 

I happen to have just been home for two nice weeks due to my eldest brother's forthcoming nuptials, which were in the works for about as long as it takes for freshly picked raspberries to go mushy. However, it was a lovely wedding (no mushy raspberries present) and I enjoyed meeting the bride and getting to know her a bit. The other highlight was meeting my seven-month-old niece for the first time. 

I am very much anticipating my return to Holland because it will be nearing three months that I have been crewing aboard the bark Europa (http://www.barkeuropa.com). Owing to some good friends met in Australia, I stuffed my pack and flew from Melbourne to Amsterdam in June to work a three week refit aboard Europa. It was like getting hit over the head with a brick, but the nicest, softest, luckiest brick that ever was made. There was organization, there was real food, there was a bunk for me, there were captains present and a good crew. The work was hard, the days long, but it was a rewarding experience. Some of the jobs included replacing the maintopmast, rust busting in the bilges, tearing apart and rust busting cabins, and my especial "small person project," prepping and painting a tight corner of the forepeak. I will always remember that project, partly because it took me close to three days to complete, but also because I was in the thick of it when Klass, one of the captains, popped his head in and said, "well Krista, I suppose you want to sail with us?" I looked up and vigorously nodded my heavily masked head. He smiled, "well then, you can sail the races to Norway with us."

The race was an absolute blast, as well as a bit of a crash course in Europa-isms for me. I'd been aboard for three weeks before the start of the race, but refit didn't give me much chance to learn the pinrails or the process for maneuvers. Europa has thirty sails she can set, each of those sails having at least three lines running to it, and usually more. The race also gave me a chance to experience how she sails...

In the right amount of wind she felt like a yacht, it was incredible. The skippers like to sail her, and when they sail her they set all sails possible for the conditions. In a reasonable wind, with sails trimmed she heels a bit and man is it a beautiful thing. 

We hit a little weather as well and had a steady 27-33knots of wind for about 24hours mid-race. Most of our fifty sail trainees became seasick; one of the exceptions was a brave young man who we observed running a sort of puke-bucket brigade. He would come out of the deckhouse, carefully lug the bucket to the leeward side of the main deck whereupon he would deposit the contents over the side, rinse the bucket in the streaming scuppers and make his way back inside. After he handed the fresh bucket back he would stand near the door, listening. Sure enough, a few minutes later he would perk up and scurry into the masses of teenagers holed up in the deckhouse, and emerge on deck in a continuation of the routine. This was highly amusing for us to watch from the wheelhouse during a coffee break, although thanks to the Swedish watch system there wasn't a whole lot that didn't amuse us. 

In the Swedish watch system, the crew are divided in half. The daylight hours are split into two watches, the first from 0800 to 1400, and the second from 1400 to 2000. Then comes the trickier part; the night hours are split into three watches: 2000 to 2400, 2400 to 0400, and 0400 to 0800. The nice thing about it is you get to see different parts of the day because of the odd number of watches, but it takes most people longer to get used to biologically. It took me about a week to get into. And even after you get used to it, conversation and senses of humour tend to spiral in a weird downwards direction. I won't say it isn't entertaining though. 

During the aforementioned weather we blew out the inner jib, but were able to bend on a spare; that was an exciting job. And although we were close hauled the whole race, we placed third overall in our class. We had a leisurely cruise back to Amsterdam after a few days in Fredrickstad; we sailed along the coast of Denmark and then went through the Kiel Canal. Arrived in Amsterdam July 22nd, and then it was packing off to California for me and preparing for a second refit for everyone else. The second refit is on til August 31st, but the fantastic thing is we get Sundays off this time! I may even make it off the ship and out of Zaandam to see some of Amsterdam.

A Taste of the Modern...

It's funny how places can suck you in and it's a fight for life to get out, like quicksand. Well, Sydney Harbour Tallships is one of those places, in the best and worst of ways. There are some absolutely awesome people I had the privilege of knowing, but also some not so nice people, but mostly people who didn't live in reality. I will leave it at that; it took me five months to survive and escape.

So with many goodbyes and a feeling of new-found independence, I caught my last heaving line on Campbell's Cove wharf, strapped on my backpack and caught the train up to Newcastle. The first part of my traveling adventures began in Bulahdelah with some really fantastic friends in what I can only describe as being very similar to a Swiss Family Robinson sort of home. Ruby the cattledog wasn't as good at herding cattle as she was at chasing Antechinus, and as the rainy season was approaching I met many hungry leeches as well. I also had the privilege of being a roady for the local rock-n-roll band, Brew Ha-ha, when they did a grand gig in Forster, which was a really good time. 

Further adventures brought me through Bellingen, a lovely place full of rivers and pastures, to catch up with some shipmates, and then I decided it might be worthwhile to see the big red rock. It is big, it is very, very red, and it truly is out in the middle of nowhere. There are, in fact, two big red rocks out there. But there is an interesting feeling about the place, it's very peaceful and quiet and the sheer massiveness of Kata Tjuta and Uluru remind you that you truly are a tiny speck in the vast universe. Interestingly, the rocks go for quite a ways underground too, making them the two largest rocks on the face of the earth. 

Next was my brilliant fumble in scheduling, and thinking a 20hr bus ride wouldn't be too bad. It was from Alice Springs to Adelaide... And it was pretty long. Buses are not my favourite anymore. 

Onwards to the mystical Whitsunday Islands, where I spent Easter aboard a boat that sailed through a few of the islands. Situated at the south end of the Great Barrier Reef, there is some fantastic diving and the whitest sand beach you will ever find. Ninety-nine-point-something percent pure silica. 

The newest development is crewing as a third person on a passage from Brisbane to New Caledonia aboard a new Corsair 50 catamaran. After months of fat lines, belaying pins and gaffs, it is indeed strange to be using electric winches and roller furling. It's also a bit of an infamous passage to be making, strong headwinds and tails of tropical storms often garnish the course to Nouméa. But we are watching the weather and hoping for a good trip.

 

Catching Up: The Bundaberg Trip, Part II

We had one glorious afternoon off in Bundaberg after the photo shoot and the three of us girls high-tailed it to the marina showers. The salt, sweat and grime (and fishoil in my case, as the first mate had me oiling the standing rigging during not-the-smoothest-day-out and I quite successfully oiled myself as well) of ten days’ sailing having been washed away, we felt like new people indeed. We were so stoked that we took a picture so we could remember in times to come what it was like to be clean. 

Now back to the vinyl sticker problem… We took an early start to our next publicity stop, Brisbane, and arrived a few days before we were due, which gave us a little time to figure out just what we were going to do about those sails. There was an interesting storm that was passing through as we neared the port, and we anchored in a pretty cool spot off of Morton Island, Tangalooma, a sanctuary with long white beaches and bright green vegetation. The next morning was tempting for a swim in the turquoise water, but by that time an executive decision had been made that we would hand paint the sails. Circumstances were dire and now the distilling company was threatening to sue us because we had sent the "wrong" ship... So we had to use any means necessary to make this tasting an unreal experience. 

While I scrambled up to the t'gallant with another crew to strike the sail and lower it to the deck, the second mate and bosun did some paint tests on a scrap canvas. Our black oil-based paint bled through the canvas, so we would have to use primer underneath it. The captain made a call to the marina we were to dock at and asked about a warehouse or grassy area we could lay some sails out...

A few hours later, up the river and safely tucked into Rivergate Marina, we had a tracing party of four working on the t'gallant and replacing some missing letters while the rest of the crew struck the course and dragged that out onto a well-trimmed lawn just above our dock. After the tracing, the priming began, and then the black as the primer dried. We had four days to finish all 5 of the branded sails, which included the outer jib and the mainsail (these were branded on both sides), so our days began at 6am and finished when the sun went down. Mr first mate made himself head of the painting team (which was the entire crew excepting the cook at certain times of the day) because he had been trained at a prestigious art school where, he informed one of our hands who was herself a professional impressionist painter, they taught "real, proper drawing and art, not all the fartsy common feel-as-you-paint-it impressionism crap." So that was fun.

Miraculously at the end of the four days, we had all the sails finished and bent back on except for the mainsail. But we wouldn't be hoisting it anyway, so we had one side finished that we decided to hang off the boom and that was good enough for now. The evening before the big tasting event was to take place, the rep for the marketing company came down to discuss the photo shoot with the captain. She nearly gasped when she was informed it would possibly take more than ten minutes to take the ship off the dock, set the sails, turn around and come back in. Our skipper gently noted, "well, this ship weighs 300 tons, she has an old engine, and the tide will be moving through the river tomorrow, so she's not the easiest thing to just pull in and out." However, that had no effect and she seemed to leave with the impression we must be a bunch of mad idiots. That was only the start of the rudeness shown us by the marketers, but I digress. 

The next morning was clear and bright with only a few clouds in the distance as we unfurled all the sails and cleaned up the ship to the last detail; we were sure this photo shoot and tasting were going to be flawless. The photo shoot went off without a hitch and those guys seemed quite happy with it. Then we waited for the tasting which was to start at two. It was about noon when the distant clouds rolled closer and became darker and more ominous, and then it started to rain... Thunder rolled and lightning struck an made it's way closer, and about then we were informed that the tasting had been moved to a secondary venue due to the weather. As we slogged up the ratlines to furl the sails, the second mate called down to me, "they say getting struck by lightning isn't a problem, so long as you're not near anything wet or high!" 

Hopping further down the coast, we continued to paint the backside of the mainsail underway. There were a few rainy days, so geniuses that we were, we dragged the sail into the lower saloon but unfortunately the single fan we had was no match for the fumes and we had some very entertaining afternoons... The Newcastle tasting was cancelled as well, so we continued down and near the last week of November we pulled into Broken Bay, which is just a half-day's sail North of Sydney. The next morning we were due for our epic entrance to Sydney Harbour (technically Port Jackson) at dawn under full sail, to be photographed by a helicopter. But we had just the one day at Pitt Water to enjoy ourselves and catch our breath. 

It was a Thursday, and we calculated that since it was the third one of the month, it should be Thanksgiving. It wasn't, incidentally, but we enjoyed an Aussie sort of thanksgiving with a big dinner and a birthday cake for one of the kids. It was a good day. We weighed anchor at midnight and booked it down the coast for the grand entrance.

I was lying in my bunk, listening to the rain on the deck above me and the rushing of the wind in the rigging and dreading the thought of getting up, when the silhouette of the second mate leaned into the doorway. "Good morning, it's wet, cold, miserable and it's time to get to work." I jumped into my bibs and foul weather jacket and slogged out onto the deck. It certainly was wet, cold and miserable. The safety lines were set up in the midships, and in the predawn mid-blackness I could make out the captain and the mates at the helm. We rolled heavily in the beam seas, and a slosh of green water swept across my bare feet, not the warmest, but also not the coldest I've felt. I didn't want to be awake. I was contemplating my warm dry bunk when the second mate came stomping forward. "You ready to unfurl the t'gallant?" I always got the t'gallant, no matter what. I guessed it had to do with being the youngest deck crew, but I usually didn't mind the climb to the highest sail. However, it was dark and we were rolling; this was going to be an effort.

I clamped my hands onto the shrouds and started the climb as the ship swung away from me and I became more horizontal. The roll slowed down, I wrapped my arms where I was and the ship rolled towards me until I was hanging over the ocean. Then we started back the other way, and I climbed a few more feet, and so it was the whole 90 feet up over the futtocks and finally onto the t'gallant yard. The yard was worse because I swung to the left and felt like rolling off the end of the yard, my feet at a sharp angle to the footropes, and then I swung to the right and felt like slamming into the mast. Anyhow I scrambled out to the end, took the sheet off the yard and worked toward the center unfurling the gaskets. The second mate nipped out on the starboard side and did the same thing, and it was very nice having another person up there to make you feel more sane. As we finished the sky was turning purply and the rain lightened a bit; it really was quite beautiful out. 

The only issue was the overcast-ness, and indeed as we came through the heads at the appointed time we failed to sight any helicopter. We were also informed that Southern Swan would be hosting the grand exhibition at the Sydney wharf (because, you know, they had wanted the black ship this whole time), and so we would be relinquishing the bottle of rum and instead taking the five daysails that Swan was scheduled for. It felt like a kick in the gut, but that's life sometimes. In contrast, despite the craziness and all the goings-on, it had been a voyage of a lifetime. Some of the worst times, the funniest and certainly some of the best too, had all been part of the unique experience. Ironically, the mainsail we had painted turned out to be the new $30,000 main (the skipper owner was NOT happy, and it's still a mystery how we should attempt to remove the paint...). The helicopter did show when we were inside the harbour, and for all their troubles, there is the picture below that made the newspaper. Unfortunately you can't see our handpainted sails, but you will see those in the next picture, which is one that I took.

I have concluded that everything that the trip was about, promoting the rum company via the press, turned out to be pretty disappointing, especially after all that work. The marketing company were real jerks, and from a superficial (and possibly financial) perspective, the whole voyage was a waste of time. But on the inside it was a success. We had a great crew that came together as a strong team and did almost the impossible, we had two great captains that led us through the insanity and I came away with some great friends and a wealth of knowledge and experience. Thus must end the tale of the Bundaberg Voyage.

         

Catching Up: The Bundaberg Trip, Part 1

Where do I begin recounting the past three and a half months of my life?... It’s been one crazy ride after another on this ship in more ways than one. I gained the most I’ve ever gained, and also lost the most I’ve ever lost, was the happiest I’ve ever been, and nearly the saddest I’ve ever been, stood up as the best person I’ve ever represented, and also fell as the worst person I’ve ever known. There were the most grueling days of work, but also the most beautiful days of easy sailing. I dealt with some of the most frustrating people I have ever met, and spent time with amazing people I will never forget. These experiences have taken more effort than I’ve ever spent in one place, and been more rewarding than anything else and more disappointing than anything else. But most importantly it has changed me and opened my eyes to more possibilities than I ever imagined.

The whole trip to Bundaberg was just ridiculous from the start. “Bizarre” is the term Mark latched onto at one point, and it describes the entire trip perfectly. From start to finish, there was not a twist or turn that was expected or simple.

I showed up in Sydney and was thrown into the midst of a quicky-refit on Southern Swan. Painting, scraping, retensioning the rig, repairing the foremast, fixing the fire pump, mousing shackles and seizing footropes, painting liferings… Close to our scheduled departure date, I was helping Joe stuff some caulking into the hull and realized the full magnitude of what we were trying to achieve. Swan had not been to sea in a least ten years; she had passed her last survey for the harbour when out of the water for a few days - that was when one of the shipwrites had accidentally poked a chisel straight through the hull… And she was to sail about 900nm up the coast to Bundaberg, Queensland and back. Luckily she had to be surveyed for coastal waters before we could leave.

On our scheduled departure date the surveyor came aboard, and was surprisingly happy with the entire ship and crew and pronounced himself quite satisfied with granting us the papers, somebody at maritime just had to produce a signature which should have been in the next 3 days. So we said our goodbyes at White Bay and headed over to Little Manly cove. For the next couple days we finished bending on the sails, stowing the provisions, going through P’s laborious SMS manual – after eight hours one day we weren’t halfway through – and preparing the ship in general for departure. Still no paper from Maritime, and as the window for making it to Bundaberg in time was closing, one afternoon Mike decided that since the person he spoke to agreed that Søren would do instead of Swan, we would swap with the Søren Larsen.

Now that would seem a simple enough solution at first, but then you have to factor in that the Søren was in the middle of a full daysail schedule, and wouldn’t be returning to White Bay until 2300. No matter, this is Sydney Harbour Tall Ships, and they achieve the impossible regardless of the cost. Twelve crew aboard Swan, about fifteen aboard Søren, their belongings, ships provisions, equipment all had to be swapped at 2300. That was crazy. One young man who had joined that very day quit, and morale was not the highest as we passed everything from raw sugar to marlinspikes back and forth between the ships. At about 0330 the swap was complete and we steamed Søren to pumpout and topped off the fuel. As we left for the open ocean it was decided we should break into watches, so Al and I struggled to prop our eyelids open and Nikki kept us company on the bow until 0800. We were on our way.

I suppose I should mention why we were sailing to Bundaberg. Dan somehow landed us a gig with Bundaberg Distillery Co. as a promotion for their upcoming 125^th anniversary. The gig sounded easy; arrive in Bundaberg on the 7^th of November for a photo shoot with branded sails, pick up 4 empty rum barrels and sail back down the coast, stopping in Brisbane and Newcastle for tastings and photos and making a dramatic entrance back through the Sydney heads at dawn on the 22^nd of November. In return the rum company would pay for a new set of sails for the ship, so it was a good deal for the ship. Bundaberg originally chose the Swan for the task because a) she is black, b) she apparently looks like a rum or pirate ship, and c) she is black.

There was also the matter of the branded sails. It had taken 3weeks to get Swan’s brandings; the designs were simply screenprinted onto some stretchy material that was then sewn on top of the sails. But now we were taking Søren, so we left her second, older set of sails at White Bay and sailed with the new set up the coast. Dan would in the meantime work on getting the old set branded and drive them up to Bundaberg for us. That in itself was another crazy adventure, but more on that end later.

The trip up the coast was an experience like no other, it was a bit of a slog to begin with as well. The engine on Søren is an ancient 4-cylinder, 2-stroke diesel beast that spews oil from the exhaust as she chugs upwind in heavy weather. Jon our new engineer had been recruited for the trip because of his extensive knowledge of the Caterpillar engine that Swan had, but now we were on Søren and that posed new difficulties. However, Jon stepped up to the plate and spent hours upon hours learning the ins and outs of the beast and keeping her running.

Adjusting to watches can take a bit of time as well, and the first week out was a bit rough as the crew struggled with sleep deprivation and seasickness. Certain personalities can get wearing as you become more sleep deprived as well, and from the start there were some combinations that were just brewing trouble. Nothing too dramatic happened on the way up, but I will just say the officer of my watch was not my favourite person aboard. From receiving a ten minute lecture on how to properly clean a butter dish after dinner to getting woken up two hours after getting off watch by raw, grey, chopped flying fish in my face, by the time we reached Bundaberg I was a bit short-tempered towards him.

We wouldn’t have made it to Bundaberg in time either, if it weren’t for a nice southerly that helped us out a few days after leaving Sydney. It was the most impressive weather front I’ve seen yet. We were motoring with a few limp sails into 10 knots from the Northwest; looking behind us the clouds started moving faster over us, a few black wispy ones raced towards us and then spiraled upwards like wraiths and in a few moments we were hit with 30 knots from the South. It was phenomenal. We set nearly every canvas we had and flew northwards along the coast at a great rate, sometimes reaching 12-13 knots (Søren will do 10 generally), with spray flying over the bow and the seas increasing. There were a couple rough days in the middle there, but we made it to Bundaberg on time, barely.

We arrived in Bundaberg at 0300 on November 7^th, dropped anchor up the river, got a few new crew aboard, unbent the outer jib, t’gallant, lower tops’l, course and mains’l, Dave arrived in a small tender with the branded sails and we bent those on, weighed anchor and moved down river to the pier for the 0900 photo shoot and meet with the big Bundaberg rum guys. The only branding we were able to get in the short week it took to sail to Bundaberg was vinyl stickers – vinyl that was designed to adhere to Dacron, not traditional canvas… As we bent the sails on, we could tell the branding wasn’t going to stick, especially sailing down the coast back to Sydney. To be continued…

Musical Tall Ships

Well, sorry about the delay between posts, I had this fantasy of sitting down and thoughtfully composing an incredible post... But as life would have it, it's simply been a crazy week, or two weeks. Here's the basic idea.    

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              We got an opportunity from Bundaberg Distilling Company to sail to Bundaberg with their 125th anniversary logos on our sails (this is aboard Southern Swan, the barkentine), pick up a half dozen barrels of Bundy rum and hop back down the coast to Sydney - a realdeal rum run. In return we get a new set of sails (without logos) made for Swan. Sweet deal you think. I arrived in Aus at the start of an intense 2week refit to get the Swan seaworthy- she hasn't been past the heads of Sydney Harbor for probably a decade. Bundaberg is about 900nm North of Sydney, so this was quite a trip to prepare for! In addition to the refit and training a crew for the trip, the Swan had to pass a specific survey in order to travel in near coastal waters; this included a short trip with the surveyor demonstrating man overboard and fire drills. Incredibly, we passed the survey, but the documentd went to some government office for a signature and hasn't been seen since.                                              

We anticipated getting the go-ahead, so went across the bay to Little Manly Cove and have been anchored there for two days bending on sails and doing last minute things. As we only have a limited time to get there the decisiob has finally been made that we shall take the Soren Larsen to Bundaberg instead as she already has her papers in order. However, it is 11pm and the 11 of us must pack ourbags , the pantry, and the bosuns locker, and switch everything with the Soren Larsen when she gets in from her evening sail (there are about 15people living on Soren who must move their belongibgs to the Swan). Its going to be one heck of a night! 

PS. Plank juice is a French Canadian tradition that involves putting some water into old rum or whiskey barrels. You turn the barrel ine plank per day and you eventually end up with rum inside from the wood absorbing the water and releasing the alcohol. mmm. Also, will add pictures when possible (doing this from a smartphone at the moment)!

First Day Off, Awww Yehhhh.

I consider myself very exceptional at being spontaneous, but I think this is olympic status for dropping myself right into the middle of things. The flight over the puddle was long, arduous, and just, well, what flying normally is over a 30hour period. One nice thing though was landing in Fiji just at sunrise, it was quite beautiful.

Immediately off the plane in Sydney, I found the office of the Sydney Harbour Tall Ships, and "enlisted." Bam. Thrown on a ship, stuffed my belongings somewhere in the hold, and started working. It's gotten better since then, though, and the amount I am learning is enormous.

The company has 4 ships, the Soren Larsen, the Coral Trekker, the Southern Swan, and the Wangi Queen. There are some issues going on with the port of Sydney because some of the people in charge don't like seeing all the ships in one place or something, so we are constantly shuffling them around between the pier by the opera house, White Bay which is a commercial area, and the maritime museum.

I've been put to work helping refit the Swan, as she's supposed to go on a trip to Bundaberg next Monday (not this coming one) which I might be on (I also just moved onto the Swan). James, the captain in charge of the refit is really nice and I'm learning a lot from him. Long hours though, the other day we were at it from 7am to 8pm! I've cleaned out the captain's quarters, which was a pretty grimy job, stripped, sanded and oiled the mainmast with linseed & diesel, and today I got to be the rigger's apprentice and help this guy fix and retension the lanyards for the shrouds (I know they're not called shrouds, but I forget what the proper name is) which was really interesting. Other things the rigger taught me was the legend behind the Matthew Walker knot, and how to make Plank Juice from old rum or whiskey barrels, a French-Canadian tradition apparently.

I've also been learning to climb the mast and go out on the yards - it's pretty intimidating at first! This company is one of the few left that have you go up without a full body harness clipped in the whole way, which is very cumbersome. We do have waist harnesses (no leg straps) that clip onto a wire when you climb around onto the top and you're hanging backwards, and onto a safety line when you're out on the yard, but the rest of the time you're on your own. As James said when he was taking me up there for the first time, "nothing like the natural fear of falling to keep you safe; you'll be surprised how strong your hands and arms are." 

And so, my adventure has begun. The folks here are all really nice and helpful, so it's made the transition easier. Some of them are even helpful with how to improve my accent, "You Americans say 'Oh Yeah,' but around here, you gotta learn to say 'Aww Yehh.'" That's all for now, Cheers! 

A Broken Dream Revisited

It was a connection I didn't know I still had. It had been made so long ago, in a formative stage of my youth, another life it feels like. Perhaps she was the first vessel I turned my eyes upon after the notion of having my own boat had entered my head.

At my age then, she seemed a nicely sized boat, her twenty-five feet encompassing all the space I could possibly need. She was glorious with her forest green hull polished glassy, nifty brass portholes, varnished teak and mahogany. No engine, but she didn't need one, oh no. Norm took her out regularly and skillfully brought her back in under sail every time. True, she was all wood, but she had been well kept by a man who loved her. She was beautiful with a name to reflect it. Adagio. She had a character all her own, I talked to her sometimes as I paused in my dock wanderings. She was small and cute, but strong and well built. I dreamed about her and she filled me with ideas and ambition.

Some time went by. I returned to Moss Landing and found that Norm was no longer able to keep Adagio, she'd been given to the wooden boat lady to sit with two unfinished projects. Remembering my connection, I asked about her. It was a price far beyond me, something I couldn't be prepared for. So I let her go, I let her stay and I moved on in life. I went to school and experimented with different areas of interest, I suppose I developed my mind. Time passed anyways. Adagio languished by herself and became a neglected derelict. I forgot about my dream, only the passing fancy of a child.

But I was wrong. A piece of my heart stayed somewhere amongst the green paint and dark mahogany. Perhaps first inspirations stay with you like that. She did, at any rate. I realised that as I looked at two pieces in the scrap yard yesterday, a little bow piece and a little stern piece. Old paint on them, still cute and dainty, traces of her lines in them yet. Years after that first notion, boats make up most of my life and a day hardly goes by without a trip to the harbor or the smell of teak and varnish. And little Adagio is gone without the breath of new life I dreamed of giving her, the love and care that she deserved, the sailing she longed to have. She was my first dream, she owned a corner of my heart, she gave me inspiration. I didn't realise all she was to me, how influential she was, how she impacted my life. And now she is gone.

The Heart of the Sailor

The Ocean, it is pulling me off the shore. How badly I want to go with her and learn her secrets. Ever since I was a child she has called to me like a siren with alluring sunsets, bright sunrises and a calming voice echoing with the waves. She holds everything I need to live, but also possesses a finicky temper that could kill me without a thought. I have no desire to conquer her, for I believe that to be impossible. I only want to know her, to understand her complexities and her moods.

There are other things I love in this earth, but none that demand my heart like the Sea. It is as if I am left with no choice but to pursue her until my last breath has been drawn from me. It is hard to believe that she will allow me human love either, for she possesses other hearts as well. Perhaps we are meant to be fellow slaves to the same end, ceaselessly striving to understand that incredible force of nature, that Ocean...

Some Thoughts from Rockwell Kent

"Only the voyager perceives the poignant loveliness of life, for he alone has tasted of its contrasts. He has experienced the immense and wild expansion of the spirit outward bound, and the contracted heartburn of the homecoming. He has explored the two infinities - the external universe - and himself."

...

"What forces men on to the deliberate quest of miseries and danger? Are they remote yet deeply rooted habits of a race which once delighted in adventure for the gain it held, that still assert themselves against the very soul's desire for peace and the mind's clear understanding of the paths that lead there? Is it a far-visioned life-force maintaining itself against the disintegrating allurements of ease, a militant expression of the subconscious will that's cognizant of individual weakness, an assertion in contraries of the complex of inferiority? Is bravery the cloak of cowardice?" 

It is a bit wordy, I know, but when you get through it it's really a great piece of work. I find it quite interesting, the whole idea of our inherent desire for comfort and peace but also our thirst for adventure and everything that could cause discomfort and disrupt whatever peace there is. Humans are contradictory beings. Sometimes you'll be out in the cold and wet, and all you want is to be dry and wrapped in a blanket in front of a fireplace, and you ask yourself "why am I out here? How did I let myself be fooled into thinking this was a good idea?!" But eventually you pull through, and after you are wrapped up in your blanket, you start to think "hey, that wasn't a bad idea... It makes this blanket worth so much more." It definitely gives value to things that otherwise would be commonplace. Appreciation comes from perspective, so if you change yours often, I believe you will appreciate more things in the long run. 

Advice In Passing ~

To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen, who play with their boats at sea - "cruising," it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot or will not fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about.

"I've always wanted to sail to the South Seas, but I can't afford it." What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of "security." And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone.

What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense. And we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.

The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.

Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?

~Sterling Hayden

The Enchanting Pacific

I had not been out on the bay in so long. It was fantastic. Heading back into the harbor, the ocean was the most intriguing purple color... it always amazes me how it changes while the sun sets. As you grow up, your perspectives change and you get new dreams and ideas about what you want to do with your life, but when it really comes down to it I think your heart's original intentions come back. There's so much out there, and so many chances to take a fork in the road, but sometimes there's this pull that tells you where you were meant to be.

Tuesday evening was extremely encouraging, and it reminded me "oh yeah, I can write." Sometimes I just dump whatever happens to be on my mind into this page of cyberspace, and don't even think about it. Some of it is good, and a lot of it belongs in the recycle bin. Now that I actually have time, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get back into the habit of writing...

This was my scribble during the 10minute prompt. I honestly have no idea where the scene came from or the characters, for that matter. The prompts were "Despite" and "Trust."

    "Despite the fact that I trust you, I'm still leaving."
    She looked into his eyes as she said this, and saw a piece of his soul shatter. Utter despair replaced his previous look of hopefulness, and he leaned against a post on the station as he caught his breath. He looked at the large station clock. It was 5:53.
     "But what about the commission they offered you? It would only take a couple weeks."
     She lifted her delicate fingers to her veil and laughed. "Like I would want to spend 2 weeks painting that family. Their faces have no symmetry. It's 1907, I have many better opportunities awaiting me in New York."
     There was a quiet confidence in the way she daintily lifted her bag to the train steward and raised her skirts to board the 2nd class car. But she turned around once, the red curls along her temples swished in the light wind. The sun was setting, and he once again was looking hopeful. It was 6 o'clock.
    "Will I see you again?" he asked.
     "Goodbye."

And yes, I invented the phrase "she saw a piece of his soul shatter." It was perhaps the best thing I got out of the whole deal. But it is still a nugget. There are some things I really like about it, and others I absolutely hate. It was completely spontaneous, I've never written about 1907 or had any ideas to. Perhaps someday it'll be useful for something.Till then it will float about in my subconscious ocean of unorganized imaginations.

The Books Are In...

I left school far behind as I walked out of my logic final about three weeks ago. But here I am, hitting the books yet again in midsummer. Life is ironic that way. I kind of wanted to wait a bit before taking the plunge to attempt the sixpack license, but knowing school starts the last day of August didn't leave me much time to weigh pros and cons. However, it's different when you're studying something related to your passion, something that goes beyond a requirement or a letter grade. I wish the rest of school was that way. More points scored for the School of Life, ahem....

Saw a beautiful boat today. She'd be a really nice "The boat" but her pricetag is far far beyond me. If I managed to make it big sometime in the future then I would definitely think about it. I think she'll be gone long before then. And its too much footage for me to tackle by myself at this point. Always good to keep the ideas flowing though, you never know where the future will spin your path.

Celestial Navigation & the End of the World

Today I was informed about many spectacular things I never imagined could be floating out there. The end of 2011 is the end of the world in the Mayan calendar. 2012 is apparently the year we reach a "solar maxim" when the sun puts out an enormous amount of solar flares containing electromagnetic radiation, which apparently will destroy most of our satellites, and possible fry our electrical grid, which may take years afterwards to reconstruct so it works again. Needless to say, we will lose all internet, cell phone, and basically any electronic form of communication. We will be informed 6minutes before it hits by a satellite put up specifically for that purpose. Amazing theory. Can't wait to see if it happens.

First navigation class. I realized afterwards that I probably went way too fast with the concepts. Not many questions, and haphazard lame answers to the few that were asked... Please remind me I never want to be a professional teacher.

Page 3 of Goltermann is coming along, I'm so happy to be on to the beautiful theme in Bminor, it's so sonorous compared to the lively 1st and 2nd themes. Like something you want to sing whenever you see something beautiful. It's like a flower opening, a ripe apple falling to the grass, the sail filling with wind on a downwind course, the perfect ride on a fantastic wave, the unconditional love of the eternal Father.

New Experiences

One of the newer things in the last 6 monthsish is my joining the Santa Cruz Sea Scouts, which has been an interesting ride so far. There are some things I like about it, and other things I do not, which I will not be specific about. Last Thursday through this Monday I went on their summer cruise; this year it was to Monterey (we have a green crew, so they decided against going to Catalina/So. Cal).

The ride to Monterey was pretty nice; I'm the appointed Navigator, so I taught a couple of scouts about how plotting a course etc. works; we also saw a couple of Humpbacks and a pod of dolphins go by. Not so nice was the fact that the radar is not currently working (although it was only light fog, its still a good safety), and, once we got over to the anchorage, the doubts about whether the anchor windlass was functioning... AHHH! Anyways, Monterey was nice and cold an' foggy, like it usually is in June, July and August. Some of the crew went swimming, and I think I took a nap, I don't remember... Day #2 I spent about 6 hours (morning till after lunch) learning about taking apart outboard motors, and I actually learned alot, so it was a good learning opportunity. After that I went ashore with Andy, our executive officer, and Brent, junior officer, and we walked to Sand City to get parts for a water line that busted, and look for some fuses for the radar, and Trader Joe's (always good :). Next day we decided to head for Santa Cruz, trip over etc., which is not really noteworthy.

Our second day in Santa Cruz (we anchored right off the wharf, in front of the Boardwalk) we walked through the Boardwalk and went on the Big Dipper (woooot!), stood around watching the salt water taffy machine (wooot!) and walked along the railroad tracks and did a loop to avoid the Boardwalk on the way back. Hiked along West Cliff Drive to the lighthouse/surf museum where I found some awesome postcards (hey, I was on a trip, okay, we had to act like tourists...) and headed back to the ship. This was all very entertaining, as we were in a sarcasticly humorous way. Yes, "sarcasticly" is a word. As of... now.

Back on the ship, Brent and I decide we need to take the Lido 14 (sailboat) out. No big deal, I'm the person in charge of sailing anyways. It's a pretty breezy afternoon with no clouds overhead, and there's some boats from the harbor out scooting around by the mile bouy. Brent is newer at sailing, but I put him at the tiller anyways, because that's how you learn; sails up, we cast off the Steeves and head out for some fun.

I explain a little about how the steering for sailboats works, and what angle to aim for with the wind. We get going pretty fast, and heel a little; I'm trimming the sails for optimum speed... Then we're sailing really fast, and we're almost standing up on the windward side of the boat, so I tell Brent we might want to tack.

WHAP! We tack, but we're still blasting along like snot, so I say let's head downwind a bit, but we're already heeling way waaaay over, and then we're going up into the wind (which gets you going even faster); I'm thinking I should let out the sails (the last chance to avoid capsizing), but it's those self-locking cleats that suck to undo when you're in a hurry, and I can't get on the other side of the boat 'cause we're heeling so much, and it's slow motion as some water comes over the gunnel, and then WHAP - we tack; at that point Brent loses all rudder control as she rounds up again, and -slooow motion- we heel waaaaaaaaay over, and its so far over we can't keep balance, then all of a sudden we're in the air, and SPLOOSH!

Luckily, we're both wearing life jackets. The boat finishes flipping completely over as my head pops out of the water and Brent gets untangled from the main sheet. The water actually didn't feel very cold, because we were both so shocked about actually capsizing the boat. I'd never flipped a boat before, so I didn't have much of an idea about how to right one, but we definitely learned how. We hauled ourselves up on top of the hull and stood on one side, standing on the gunnel. Andy came by and helped us out with three other people, and we finally managed to right it. We realized that because the bow of the Lido is a big cubby, it's the heaviest part and is super full of water, so to right it you have to stand close to the bow and kinda roll it on the bow, which lets the stern come up and over first.

Some lifeguards came by and were a huge hassle, even though they meant well. We bailed some of the water (there was SO much water) before the lifeguard boat came up and told us we couldn't... anyways, we managed to tow it back to the ship, and I believe that's the closest either of us have come to the first stages of hypothermia. Big excitement of the trip, and a good learning experience to boot. At first it was a shock, and I felt really bad about it, but later it was pretty funny. There were a bunch of people on the wharf taking pics of us, and we kind of regretted not having a video of us going over (our faces must have been comical to see).

That's the latest, and I thought I should try and write that out in story form for the explanation and entertainment of those who weren't present. In other news, I'm contemplating rearranging the shed for at least a study area, and feeling like I should try and do some creative writing... It's summer, after all, and I have till the 31st, and it's going by way too fast.

Rare Occurrences

Well, I seen to be having more energy today, the third day at sea; I’m finally adjusting to the watch schedule. I had a lot of energy during my watch last night, which is funny because a couple things happened that were out of the ordinary.

I actually got some prime sleep during the late afternoon, with the exception of weird dreams that left me puzzling about something I couldn’t remember. My regular watch is from 9pm to midnight. I was in the subconscious, during some weird dream, when there was a cold tapping upon my arm. It scared the heck out my subconscious self, and I awoke to find myself gasping in fright. It was my mom waking my up for my watch. Nothing can scare me when I’m sleeping, absolutely nothing. That was the beginning of an unusual evening.

We had been sailing without the motor when I had gone to bed, and I must have slept through the period in which the engine was running. I got up, brushed my teeth (that always makes me feel less groggy), and headed up into the cockpit. The hatch to the engine room was open, and I heard my dad doing something on the engine.

“Oh yeah,” my mom mentioned before going to bed, “the engine’s been overheating, and dad’s trying to figure out what’s going on.”

The GPS beeped while I looked at our speed and position: 2 knots, and about halfway from Cabo San Lucas to Puerto Vallarta. The voice came from the engine room, “Krista, are you up?”

“Yep,” I answered.

“We’ve got something plugged in the water intake, so I need you to keep us going under sail for a while.” I thought upon this while me and Julie pulled the genoa out and trimmed the sails in the 3- knot breath of wind. The engine almost never goes out. I heard a comment from below that there was a squid stuck in the through-hole. This was getting to be a weird night!

About a half-hour later, the mutant, deranged, foot-long squid having been pried out of the through-hole, dad went to bed, and I sat in the cockpit, the motor rumbling away once more.

I should have mentioned that it was an otherwise beautiful night, with the constellations blazing overhead, and about 3-5 knots of wind off the beam. Julie hung out in the galley, while I listened to music, checked the horizon, radar and GPS, enjoying the warm weather. It went on that way for a long time, and I suppose I just figured dad would come up for his watch when it was time.

I went in the galley for some water, and found Julie sacked out on the seat, and the clock reading 1am. It was the last of the rare occurrences of that night. Dad is never late for a watch; on the contrary, usually he’s a bit early. I chalked it up to the squid being caught in the through-hole, and today has been surprisingly ordinary compared to last night.