Smiling Footprints

All Is Well

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 00:21:00 +0000

Oh my god, I've just made purple bread. How do I do it?! Two days ago I
made purple cauliflower soup (the colour thanks to a kumura – sweet
potato- I picked up in Isla de Pascua), and green bread; yesterday I
made some quite unpleasant porridge from quinoa and tomatoes... and
today, really trying to make something nice for a change, I seem to have
produced purple bread. The purple is, I hope, from the raisins I
included and not from WD40 on my hands.

Don't get me started on hands- eek. Andy's are worse than mine but we do
both look like we have a fairly unpleasant skin disease, especially
immediately after they have been submerged in a bucket of salt water
while doing the washing up. I thought we'd have gnarly tough hands of
leather by now but the continual wetness instead has brought out white
blisters, splots, and continually peeling skin. Along with the various
scrapes and cuts they feel fairly raw. Not tough at all.

I look over and see Andy asleep on the sofa/couch/bed/bunk... the only
one on the boat that fits the width of an average human (who designs a
boat with a too-narrow bunk?) He's got a scraped knee, bruised foot,
black fingernail, lacerated finger, and I'm sure various additional
unseen injuries. I think we might just start eating Arnica as a daily
food supplement.

Life today is good, really good. No longer am I the moany old cow
complaining about incessant rain, too-big waves, lack of sleep, lack of
amenities etc etc... damn it, we're sailing across the flippin' Pacific!
That's right: The Pacific! Our boat is smaller than everyone else's, and
more basic, and more open to the elements, and it's harder to change
sails or auto-steer, but it's going west just as well as everyone else,
and has less to break and less to fix. Sure, we could have added all
those additional comforts... but then we'd still be not here, not
sailing, always preparing for never-never land.

Yes, today is a Good Day. We have no wind, absolutely no wind, and are
bobbing around in the middle of just about the most remote patch of sea
you can imagine. Four hundred miles west of Easter Island, six-hundred
miles east of Pitcairn, a place we probably won't be able to anchor
anyway. Another two days after that to the Gambiers and a more assured
resting place.

Every other sailor in the world would, I'm sure, be going mad with these
conditions. The lack of wind, the lack of direction... but I'm just
loving rocking around in the safe, flat, calm, quiet sea, clear blue sky
and sunshine, puffy clouds, a bird even flew past earlier. The weather
report shows we can expect some wind later today or tomorrow so we're
not worried about never arriving... or about running out of water en
route, for now anyway. Time for a rest.

It is amazing how much weather conditions can differ in such a short
space and time period (and the effect they have on your mood). Four
boats left Easter Island around the time that we did, and every evening
we check-in on the HF radio to see how and where each other are. While
we were facing crazy winds from the south, Neptune was motoring north,
not far from us, and the other French boat was entirely becalmed. The
Canadians who nearly bumped into us on day two are now experiencing
almost identical conditions, and remain a safe 70 miles away. Let's try
and keep it that way.

It's not a race. Part of me wants to be just us out here, really living
it. Feels like it's somehow cheating, checking in with others and
analysing their navigation decisions. Then again, it's incredibly
comforting knowing that other boats are out there and know where we are,
just incase... you never know. It reminded me of backpacking, age
seventeen, 'on my own' around New Zealand, Australia, and parts of Asia.
I don't think I was ever actually on my own for more than one day, or
didn't need to be...I just didn't have any other person with whom I was
continually travelling. Even in the Pacific, we people trying to 'get
away from it all' still act like magnets to each other. Is it human nature?

But then again, Easter Island was too crowded for us – a whole six other
boats! And so we looked at a map to see where we might go next that's
sure to be quiet. I think we're going to go South, towards Rapa and the
Australs, and the opposite direction from Tahiti.

But first... I'm getting excited about our next destinations. Pitcairn
possibly, followed by the Gambiers. A good friend of ours has been
sending us information about Pitcairn from the web... try and forget
recent history and the reason why you might have heard of the place, it
sounds amazing.. fruit, veg, fish, crafts, local community, and best of
all a local dialect that's a cross between 18^th Century seafaring
English and Polynesian!

So. All is well. Just wanted to make that point as I think I've been a
bit negative lately. Damn it,- we're sailing across the Pacific, how
cool is that? Not always easy, no, but I can't think anything else I'd
rather be doing right now, or any better place to be doing it. Bring on
the purple bread!

Squalls On

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 18:04:00 +0000

Before leaving the UK, I visited two seperate friends, both girls with
lots of sailing experience. I was seeking tips, advice, general
encouragement. What I got was an amusing surprise. The one, currently
skippering a 60' private yacht across the Pacific, told me to take
medicated talc and nappy rash cream. The other, an experienced dinghy
racer, told me to take thongs. Not for the look: to reduce the area of
soggy cotton against skin. Nice.

I hoped that I had missed the opportunity to expand on the delights of
wet weather sailing, but alas, no. It is back with us in force. Put
delicately, your rear end spends a lot of time being wet and salty, and
no number of Gore-Tex layers will prevent this. On the journey from
mainland Chile we wore thermals and shorts, thermals and jumpers,
jackets, hats, and ever-present 'foul-weather-gear', or foulies. As we
moved further north and west, to Easter Island, we each shedded maybe
one layer in that concoction, but not more. And we discovered the secret
of board -shorts over thermals: they at least attempt to dry between the
soakings, unlike cotton anything. Cotton, wool, polyester, cushions,
pillows... it doesn't matter the material, once it has been hit by salt
water it will never never dry. The hygroscopic salt, so wonderful at
soaking up red wine stains from white carpets, similarly soaks up all
moisture from the air.. of which, you might imagine, there is much. So
we now take our shorts off before we sit down. We have inside and
outside clothes. We cover our cushions with sheets or canvas. And we be
the soggy arse brigade when outside.

For the first few weeks of the trip I was terrified of 'itchy bum' as Jo
so delightfully referred to it, but the warmer we go, the greater our
chances of drying out between soakings. For those people continually
sailing in colder climates though, hats off to you... no-one mentions
that in the books. Actually, there's lots that's not mentioned, or maybe
I'm reading the wrong books. This sailing mallarky is bloody hard. Even
Andy announced a couple of days ago as we met for a morning brew, "It's
not easy, and it's not fun". I had to work hard to resist asking the
obvious, 'so what the – are we doing here then?' Easy, fun.. I guess I
knew it wouldn't always be those, but these last few days haven't even
been enjoyable. Grumble, grumble.... it can't all be about the smug
feeling of self-satisfaction that we'll get on the other side.

So you'll have realised we have left, left Rapa Nui, left Easter Island.
It is behind us, to our north and east and there's no going back. We did
briefly contemplate it yesterday, when the lumpy seas and general
wetness had managed to beat both our spirits down at the same time, but
the idea of return was no more appealling than that of soldiering on.
Ugly weather is ugly whichever way you look at it, and our recent
experiences mean we now feel safer facing it out in the open blue, with
only ourselves to contend with, than either near rocks and land, or
other boats. Plus, French Neptune left on the Friday and we're still
following the trail of fine cooking that wafts behind him.

Rapa Nui, Easter Island, what can I tell you about it? On the journey
there I had read the relevant chapter in Jared Diamond's 'Collapse', and
during nightshift the night before arrival I had polished off 'The
Little Prince' (again). So, as land came into appearrance, I was struck
almost simultaneously by how this once thoroughly forested, lush, and
self-sustainable island was now almost entirely barren due to poor
land-management by humans; and also how those isolated barren hills were
exactly the shape of a boa constrictor that has swallowed an elephant.
Other than these two things, I'm hesitant to share much more as our time
there was so limited. Indeed, I wonder if we are the only tourists ever
to not take a single photograph, or visit the magnificent Moaii statues.

We had heard amazing things about Rapa Nui and were prepared for magical
places, mysterious history, friendly people, and a terrifying surf
approach between boat and shore. The latter, at least, I can confirm.
There is only one place to anchor near the main town, and there is only
one place to land a dinghy; navigating between the two involves passing
by all the local surfers, of which there are many. And they're there for
a good reason.

Andy did a stellar job, I didn't even pretend to offer. We donned
swimwear, triple-bagged everything and took only the bare minimum (hence
no camera), watched the waves, and then he ROWED. Rowed like hell
between the surf, between the rocks, between the astonished people, and
whoosh(!)ed us straight onto shore. Even more impressive, he managed to
row us back out again at the end of the day! This was possible on our
first and third days there. On the second, Andy hitched a lift on a
dinghy with 15hp outboard motor belonging to a neighbouring yacht...
seemed a safer bet for transporting our broken hydrovane and his bent
anchor. They set off to find a workshop and I was left with the wreckage
that is a boat after two weeks at sea. To be fair, it was heaven: my
first time entirely on my own for what felt like months.

On our fourth day, the surf was big. Only the pros were out with their
boards. We hitched a ride yet again with our new friends, along with
empty fuel drums and a huge bag of laundry.We made it to the bay safely,
only to be covered by a wave upon arrival. But hey, we arrived. Another
yacht in the bay had less good fortune,-on the return leg their dinghy,
complete with four people and provisions, hit a wave and was upturned.
The navy and surfers came to help them out but it was a shock
none-the-less. Several hours later our french friend gave up waiting for
a break and put his entire dinghy and outboard inside a fishing boat
that took him home. Not a good day for rowing. And an indication of the
swell to come.

The main town, Hanga Roa, is a town without much of a centre, with
terrifyingly high prices, a school, a football field, an impressive
coastline, and a full complement of both tourists and locals. The locals
seem a fairly even mix of Chileans, Rapa Nui natives, and families with
both cultures, and were on the whole pretty friendly. The climate is
warm but not exhaustingly hot. Beyond this, I can only really talk of
the amazing mechanic, Don Carlos, who gave Andy open use of his
workshop, and a new 1"steel bar, to fix the Hydrovane; and the inside of
the fruit and veg market and internet cafe. The highlight for me?
Definitely the fresh and sweet pineapple juice.

Don Carlos was not only a godsend in terms of his workshop and
materials, he was also a genuinely friendly guy, proud of his Rapa Nui
heritage and happy to talk about it. His friends all call him Gringo on account
of his surname, Edwards, but nothing else about him was very European.
The name came from his British grandfather who had come over as a
manager for Williamson Bafour and Company, a scottish shipping company
that ran the wool trade on the island and was essentially the de facto
government for much of the 20th Century. The rest of Don Carlos' heritage
was pure Rapa Nui, a culture and language that is still alive today despite
very aggressive assaults on the people by Europeans and Peruvians after the
culture itself almost self-exterminated due to using up all the island's
resources. In addition to being the island’s main mechanic, Andy discovered
that Don Carlos was also the local expert in animal castration,and was about
to neuter a horse that very afternoon. His other victims had included donkeys,
chickens, cows, sheep, and even a rat.. "just to see what would happen" (he got
fat). Among equipment lying around the workshop Andy also found an enormous
harpoon for spearing tuna, and we're happy to report that our broken hydrovane
shaft will be put to a similar cause. Carlos didn't accept any payment for the work
we had done there, not from us or the other two yacht-related jobs that
visited during our stay... he just asked that we put his name in cruising guide
books and spread the good word.

We fully intended to stay much longer, maybe a week, maybe three.... so
those first few days were dedicated to recuperating from the journey,
tidying up the boat, doing laundry, checking email, fixing the
hydrovane, and, in my case, fixing me. I was exhausted, I ran a fever
for three nights that we were there, and all I wanted to do really was
sleep and rest.

Then came the weather predictions. Filthy filthy north west,- to which
our anchorage would be open. Had we been alone, I suspect we would have
sought shelter in a different bay on the south side. However, there were
seven yachts visiting at the time (3 USA, 2 Canada –incl. us, and 2
French) and the idea of all running for cover to the same place didn't
appeal much either. Neptune, our old friends from Puerto Montt, decided
to leave. As did the other french boat, one day later. Around this time
we checked weather again: the filth was predicted to stay five days.
What is worse, five days lumping around in an anchorage near other
boats, or five days battling it out in the big blue? Neither really
appealled but we cut our losses and left.

And that's that.

So, to those of you who were looking forward to reports from Easter
Island... please tell me about it when you visit, if you visit. I am
told it's the most remote place in the world but that's certainly not
true, unless you measure remoteness by distance travelled to get there
by sea (and who does that these days?). 747s were flying overhead as we
arrived, languages from every country could be heard walking down the
street, and imported goods from around the world were for sale at
exhorbitant prices. We saw some of the smaller statues.. they look much
like the photos, but never saw the famous large ones. And I really
regret missing out on the 'statue factory' inside a volcano on the other
side of the island. Still, we reached the place, bought a little fresh
food (not as much as I would have had I known we weren't returning), got
clean, got rested. And, as an aside, got initiated into Pacific Cruising.

To be honest, those first few days felt more like an introduction to the
cruising world than an exploration of the most remote and magical place
in the world. By other people's standards it seems seven yachts isn't
that many but to us, it was a crowd. And of course we were part of the
making of it. Still, made me realise how spoiled we have been 'off the
beaten track' until now (Andy met one other boat in his three months
journey north through the Chilean channels). It also made me look at
ourselves with new eyes.

To the other boats in the harbour, we must look very small, and very
basic. Our story and age also places us at the younger, and possibly
more naive, end of the spectrum. To me, this is still an adventure,-
exploration of the unknown. I guess after twelve years of cruising it
becomes more of a lifestyle. And with a lifestyle choice come lifestyle
comforts: water-makers, refridgeration, showers, washing machines,
internet, ship-spotting technology, spare bedrooms, kitchens with a sink
you can wash up in, sails you can unfurl and furl up without leaving the
cockpit, and huge covered spaces to watch the world go by at night
without ever having to get wet in a squall. These boats are in a
different league from us. I feel very young, but I also like our
simplicity.... especially in good weather.

So, what was the filth? Was it that bad? Did we make the right decision?
Who knows. The seas weren't terrifying, we weren't preparing the storm
anchor, I wasn't scared for my life... so that's a step in the right
direction I guess... but it was powerful. Powerful Weather.

We're hurtling along, wind on our side, black cloud looming on the
horizon. It looms more and then is upon you, Bam. Winds soar, the boat
fights, the waves break right over the deck. High winds, boat leaning
over... two nights of that was amazing sailing- school for me. What was
terrifying to start with was almost a game by the end.. here it comes,
wait, wait, ok, BAM, release the jib, release the main, go to Otto, now
thankfully back with us, and direct the boat downwind, maybe tweak the
steering wheel a bit, back to the sails, let them out out out, this
thing isn't letting up. As the boat turns down with the wind waves stop
breaking over our side, that's something, but we're hooning along. It's
ok, I had downwind sailing school last month, I can hold this. If it's
too much for Otto I just hand steer 'til it passes. But before that: the
rain.

And what rain. A patter, a skitter, and then impailing down upon you.
Wet, wet, wet. So wet there's no point even trying to hide from it, just
keep guiding the boat. And as the rain sits over your head, the wind
abates, the boat wobbles all over the place, time to tighten up those
sails agin, redirect the boat to our course, get very wet.

One plus to the rain (and did I say, when it rains it really rains), is
that we now have full water tanks again. We were very low in Easter
Island and not able to fill up from shore but thankfully our new
Canadian friends have the worlds largest water-maker/desalinator and
passing on 100L to us was for them no big deal. Still, that left another
100L of empty water jugs ... that we managed to fill purely by catching
rain during one 20 minute squall - and no fancy technology either, three
buckets hanging under the mainsail and it just poured right in! While
one bucket was collecting water, Andy and I decanted the other full
buckets into 5L and 10L jerry cans that live below our floorboards. So
simple. So delicious. So natural.

Two, three, days of this? Squalls, they are called. In one nightshift I
timed squalls lasting 30-40 minutes seperated by lulls of about 15
minutes. No rest for the wicked. And we made so little headway.. either
going nowhere between them, or hurtling in the wrong direction when
they're upon us. But for me, it was ok, we were not out there to make a
course, we'd either be here or there, facing these winds in a bay with
six other yachts. I stick with this choice.

Two days after we left, Andy looks out of the hatch, 'I see sails'.
You're kidding. We call all the people we can think of on the VHF.
Neptune is at least a day ahead of us, it's not him. The other French
boat passed us after five hours on day one and was far north of us;
would be strange if they had changed their course. Thankfully we have
scheduled a daily radio chat that's not far off... indeed, it's our new
Canadian friends, of dinghy, anchor, and water-maker fame. They left the
morning after us (after a rough night at anchor) and already are close
on our tails. Nice to hear their voices but underlines again the
difference between big and little boats: speed as well as comfort. All
well, 'til they call up an hour later. The squalls are in, none of us
can see a thing, the best course they can make is due South and they're
worried they might hit us.

That's nuts: what are the chances? So we spend the nightshift on proper
alert for lights from another boat. We didn't escape all the way out
here just to bump into someone!

As I finish this off, the winds have calmed somewhat, we're making good
progress in a reasonable direction. Better yet, the new weather reports
show south easterly winds on their way tomorrow that should push us back
towards where we want to go. Which, ofcourse, we're not really sure of.
Our GPS is programmed for Pitcairn Island, famous for the Mutiny on the
Bounty and still inhabited by descendants of Fletcher Christian.
However, I am yet to read a guide or meet a person who recommends
stopping there with a boat. My choice? Sail a couple of days further, to
the Gambier Islands that have a safe protected bay, and catch a cargo
ship to Pitcairn. Is that cheating?

Nocturne

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 22:48:00 +0000

Or: Upon discovering the dictaphone feature in our cheap chinese mp3 player

March 8, 2230-0130

"I'm lying on my back, staring at the windvane on the top of the mast.
Green light on one side, red on the other. Whirr of Keith by my left
ear. Beyond the windvane and the lights, a skyful of stars. I'm watching
the arrow as it flicks between two critical tabs that show the wind is
directly behind us. If the arrow goes beyond this point, the sail luffs,
makes a slappy flappy noise. I guess its not good for the sail; I also
don't want to wake up Andy. Then I go up to Keith's control point and
press a minus or a plus to change the direction which we're going. I
have to do that right now.

-pause-

Well, we seem to be holding. Night-shift becomes much more interesting
the more I learn about sailing. To start with it was all I could do to
not touch anything. Andy would set up the windvane, set up the rudder,
set up the sails, and get it just perfect and my job was to not touch
anything, look out for ships every ten minutes, and wake him if the
winds or the waves got too big, or too scary. As a result, I felt quite
powerless, and quite useless. And quite dejected. As time has
progressed, the dynamic between us has varied. There are some days when
he does everything, and I just stay inside. I'm sure he thinks I'm very
lazy, or otherwise uninterested. Both of which are, to a certain extent,
true. But I think it's also just my way of not getting upset because I
don't understand it.

Every few days I get annoyed with myself for not knowing more about
sailing. For not getting it, for not understanding, for not doing more,
for not even being able to walk around on deck without falling over or
hanging on for dear life. I raise these points with Andy and he looks at
me as if to say,- what do you want me to do about it? how hard can it
be?- And I don't know if he knows just how hard I do find it. Some days
I just want to cry, just be good at it.

Unfortunately it wasn't my life's dream to learn to sail. And right now
my motivation to be good at sailing does not stem from a fascination
with sails and wind, like it does for most of the sailors I meet. It
comes from a –

what's that noise? sounds like a big wave coming. We're riding over it.
Ha,- the wind's picking up again, the waves are whirring a bit more
loudly, the sails flapping... there's a heightened excitement in the
air. I'm still watching the arrow. We seem to be holding course well.
Why do the waves sound so noisy? And what was that clutter? Huh-
something just went flying, I don't know what it was.

What was I saying? My motivation to want to know how to sail, that's right..

My motivation to want to know how to sail stems from the fact that we
are sailing. And I don't want to be scared. And I don't want to be
entirely dependent either. So that when the wind does puff up, or the
waves puff up, I can remain calm, and lucid, and feel in control. Like
if you're driving a car, and the traffic lights go red. Or there's a
steep hill ahead of you and you need to shift gear suddenly. Or you're
on a steep hill, and the lights go red, and you have to wait, doing
clutch control. That used to terrify me when I was learning. Holding a
car with clutch control at the top of a steep hill in central London. It
took all my energy, focussed on my ankles and my feet and my toes. And
now, you barely notice it, it's almost enjoyable, feeling the car
driving forwards, sinking back, held on that balance between
acceleration and gravity. So it is with sailing I guess. I've got big L
plates on my front and my back. And it's driving me mad.

I look at my watch: 1:15. Time to give Andy his fifteen minutes notice
before he takes over. I've enjoyed this hour though,- has made
night-watch more interesting. Makes me feel engaged and connected to the
activity that we're currently - engaged in. Like a part of it, rather
than just a passenger."

***
0430-0730

"Me again. Back on night-shift. Looking at the windvane. Drinkin' a
cupatea. Eating crackers and marmite. The windvane kissing that corner
of the –of the – circle. Eating crackers and marmite. Once I start, I
can't stop. It's a bit like sleep: once I start, I can't stop. I find it
so hard to get up. And then once I am up, especially for this shift, I
have to keep myself awake somehow to start with. So I drink tea and eat
snacks.

Snacks is one thing I did not buy enough of. Well, there's lots of
things I didn't buy enough of. I didn't really know what I was doing
when I was buying provisions. People said 'write down all the meals you
might have and then multiply by the days that you're going to be away.
Or make a menu plan for two weeks and multiply by the number of weeks
that you're going to be sailing.. And they were serious. And really, I
tried, but really I couldn't think of two weeks worth of meals, let
alone nine months of meals. And I also had no idea what I was going to
be eating, or wanting to eat. For instance, back in Puerto Montt, Andy
and I barely ever ate pasta, but here we're monsters for it. The same
goes for biscuits and crackers and midnight snacks.

Now, if I'd have thought about it, and said to myself 'why don't you buy
as though for yourself when you were a grad student pulling late nights
in the lab', well I'd have shopped perfectly. I wouldn't have bought any
of the lentils or black beans or chick peas or rice or any of that
healthy stuff that we don't seem to be touching. I would have just
gorged on peanut butter and marmite and crackers and nuts and dried
fruit.. and.. o, and also Berocca and Ribena and a million different
flavours of tea.

When I read the various books about cruising, they all came across as so
twee, and quite annoying. Especially the cookbooks. Don't get me wrong,
some of them were extraordinarily useful; they've told me how to grease
my eggs and sterilise my fruit, and- our sailing friends here even
recently told us how to preserve butter, by keeping it in a jar with
seawater. The books are also full of baking recipes, absolutely crammed
full. It made me think that we'd have all the time in the world for
cooking, and for cooking up yumcious treats. Now, there's a couple of
flaws in this plan... the first being that I'm not much of a baker, and
I don't really like to cook. The second being that we don't have an
oven. But thirdly, nothing about the motion of the boat, or the
annoyance it is to create anything in the galley, is mentioned in these
books. There's some days, the last thing you want to do is be in the
kitchen, work in the kitchen for several hours. But maybe the urge will
come. I guess I need to find some recipes for some good yumcious snacks
that I can make in a frying pan.

Talking of food, we're nearly out of carrots, we've finished our
tomatoes, we've finished all of our fruit except for the citrus. We've
got left: half a marrow, a ton of onions, potatoes and garlic, three
butternut squashes because apparently they last forever, and a shriveled
up old beetroot. Which for me is surprising considering the mountain of
fresh food we set off with six weeks ago, or whenever it was now. It
lasted pretty well. The plums did much better than the peaches, which
did better than the nectarines... no, plums did better than the
nectarines which themselves did better than the peaches. The bananas, oh
my goodness we had so many bananas. The last good ones got flambéd with
rum by Jaimes, that was delicious. Rum and sugar. After that the
remainders got successively thrown overboard. It was like sacks of
liquid banana puree. Again, I know I should have made banana bread out
of it, but we hadn't even figured how to make bread at that stage. Now
we have. Andy made an amazing loaf the other day in the pressure cooker.
Something didn't smell quite right afterwards, I'm not sure if it was
the metal -on- metal of the sieve and pan that we'd jerry-rigged inside,
or the fact that you're not meant to use a pressure cooker without
putting water in it, I don't know. But it definitely was bread-like.
Which opens up a whole world of possibilities for us.

Mostly we cook up some kind of main meal at lunch time or mid afternoon
and that morphs into an evening meal later on in the day. Sometimes we
really crave carbs: pasta pasta pasta potatoes. And then other days,
weirdly, meat pops up on the menu. Something which I barely ever eat.
We're slowly getting through the jars that I made before leaving. Eight
jars of mince and four of steak. I remember when I made them it was a
disgusting job. I remember thinking how strange it was that having never
cooked mince in my life, ever, I was now cooking it off in a pan; so
much that I was cooking it for hours and hours and hours. But it seems
to be doing the trick, and is preserving well. These jars are amazing.

What else about food? O, we've got some eggs left. We've got twelve
greased eggs and three fresh eggs from Juan Fernandez. They'll go soon.
We set off with .. about 50 or 60.. I guess I should have taken more. We
were warned about it before we left,- apparently an egg costs two
dollars in the South Pacific. Hey, I guess if we want it badly enough
we'll pay the two dollars. If we don't, then we'll go without eggs, no
great hardship. It sort of reflects the overall philosophy that we've
got. Some people buy for nine months and then never spend anywhere they
go. We firstly don't have the cupboard space for that. But secondly, I
just didn't have the capacity within me to buy that sort of volume of
food. As it was, I bought at least three full trolley-loads of food in
the supermarket, as well as numerous shorter trips. I was so embarrassed
on one trip when I had two cart-loads that I checked out one cart, went
to the car, and then came back to check out the other cart.

And I figure people in the South Pacific,- they eat, they live. They
must have food somewhere. So we'll find stuff on these islands. And if
not, we'll fish and have rice. We've got enough rice to get us all the
way to New Zealand.

Right, my eyes are lagging. I should try and find some other activity
that will keep me awake for another couple of hours.
Ciao."

To Tweet a Blob: “Passaging”

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 01:24:00 +0000

Last Sunday I wanted to update our position on the 'smilingfootprints'
map; but had nothing to say. 'Passaging', I wrote, and sent a tweet that
made a blob that showed where we were. To tweet a blob. I like that.

Not long after, I received an email from a close friend – what does that
mean, 'passaging'? I guess that means night-watches again? She had
caught me out, hiding behind words that not I even really understand. So
easy. Blobtweeting.

It got me thinking. During the last weeks I've come to realise why I
have found so many books about sailing really dull, even when they come
highly recommended. All that terminology. If you don't know what it
means, it's not exciting. Running Under Bare Poles, Hoving-To, Lying
Ahull, Beating, Beam Reach.... I never wanted to use them, or even hear
them, but they're actually really convenient terms to use, if you're
sailing. I still struggle though,- even simple concepts like 'falling
off' and 'turning up' – both relative to the wind and pretty important
to get right, still take my brain three steps before it can make an
informed choice on which way to turn the wheel. And even then I don't
always get it right.

So I apologise, and, yes, passaging means watches again. It means days
of sailing without stopping. I think that's all it means actually¸ the
rest is ancillary. Making a passage between A and B. In our case, Juan
Fernandez to Easter Island, also known as Isla de Pascua or Rapa Nui.
Miles from anywhere: the passages on either side of Easter Island will
be the longest we will have on this journey across the Pacific, and this
is the longer leg. About 1600 nautical miles (1 nautical mile = 1.85 km).

Easter Island is famous for big statues, ancient cultures, and being
remote. I look forward to finding out what more there is to it. The
rudder on our hydrovane broke yesterday, maybe something that can fix it
could be sent to Easter Island.. that could take weeks (a smile with
that). But then again, some people aren't even able to stop there for
one day due to big seas and weird winds. We're now using Keith, the
electronic autopilot, to steer us while Otto has a rest. Bit by bit we
learn the strengths and weaknesses of all our tools, ourselves included.

It's not so easy to write while on the move, so excuse any lethargy that
might come across. Between each sentence I have to look up, seek out the
horizon, imagine a gulp of fresh air. We are 'beating', and hard. An
appropriate term considering how it feels. Beating - sailing as close to
the wind as possible because ideally we'd be driving right into it. The
boat is on a steep angle, waves regularly wash our lower edge, and it's
a bumpy ride. There's a forward backward rocking as we fight across
waves, and a side to side permanently changing lilt. I have strapped
myself and laptop into a corner of the boat near a 12V plug, fortified
by cushions and lee cloths. A lee cloth is a piece of material that is
tied up on the non-wall side of your bed at night,- to stop you rolling
out. Right now all my weight leans against this.

Passaging means watches, yes. And we may have finally found a routine
that works for us. Three hours on and off, 10pm-1am (Rhian); 1am – 4am
(Andy); 4am-7am (Rhian); 7am onwards (Andy). Then if necessary we catch
up on dozes during the day. Suits our natural tendencies well- I am an
owl; staying up late is a joy, getting out of bed however, is always a
struggle. Andy is a lark, bouncing into the day with a smile on his face
while I hide under my pillow. At last, our incompatibilities on land
become a strength at sea. When the conditions are tough or we're both
dog tired, like when we left Juan Fernandez, we drop down to two-, or
even one- hour shifts. Hard on the sleeper, always woken just when
you're going deep, but critical for the watchperson struggling against
all odds with those matchsticks in her eyes. At the other extreme I
pulled an all-nighter a few days ago: the night was calm and clear and
the engine was on so I was happier outside and he was able to sleep off
the last week of exhaustion.

March 2, 2200-0100 shift, diary entry:

It's an almost perfect night, my first, which makes it yet more so. The
moon, almost full and directly behind us, shines a bright path onto the
water. The ocean, The Pacific, finally living up to her name. Gently she
rocks us, lightly the wind blows from our side. And we glide forwards. A
soothing lap and swell surrounds, that is the only noise. The stars were
bright and many, earlier. Before moonrise. Now they are clear pinpricks.
I don't need them for navigation tonight – Otto is steering- but I can
tell how far we are drifting from our course by the location of the
moon. It's a clear night with just a few streaky clouds near the
horizon. Lap of the sea, puff of the sail, whisper of the night.

We saw the sun this evening too, it felt like for the first time. A
beautiful evening sun and warm air. All afternoon I wore only shorts and
a fleece top, my first time out of long johns and a multitude of other
layers. (For nightshift, I'm back in full foul weather gear.)

We even both had a wash today- what indulgence! The first wash and rinse
is in seawater, then the last with precious fresh. Andy likes to stand
in the cockpit, starkers, and pour buckets of cold water over his head.
Me, I prefer to splish splash at the salty stage and then at the end
douse myself in luxurious warm fresh water, cup by cup. Over my head, my
hair, my body, soaking up the warmth. Either way, we both get clean. And
today was the first time it was 'not-cold' for the experience. Still
chilly, but the air carries a new hint of warmth with it. And when the
sun occasionally peaks out from behind a cloud, the water holds a new
depth of blue. We are heading north, to the warmth.

I'm enjoying this evening. At last. My first. The last week has been
harrowing and exhausting, and before that our sailing was far from
tranquil. I dearly hope there are more nights like this to come. In the
long term I am told there will be: isn't that the Pacific Dream? In the
short term, however, we are told by weather reports to expect more
north-westerlies: right where we want to go. This frustrates Andy more
than me- he doesn't like being pushed off course. Me, maybe I'm less in
touch with our destination or journey but does it really matter if the
passage takes us 15, 20, or even 25 days in all? We have food for months
and wind is free.

---

How quick I forgot this exhausting motion of the wind against you! This
morning we just gave up and 'hove-to' for a few hours, waiting for the
wind direction to change. It had been steadily moving from north west to
west all morning, until the best course we could make towards Rapa Nui
totalled 0.3 knots. That is to say, we might have been traveling at 4
knots (nautical miles per hour) but in any hour only got 0.3nm closer to
our goal. Knowing there are southerlies on there way, we chose to take a
break.

That motion though- that 'hove-to' movement that I was so happy about
when we first discovered it,- it's not pleasant. Drains your whole self
of all energy, and all dreams. We slept in seperate bunks, struggling to
wake, and finally tried to get up and be useful. Felt like climbing out
of a vat of tar.

The wind eventually turned, it's now to the south west so we're still
beating (we want to go west), but we're also making good progress. Now I
know why it's important to keep moving. Nothing to do with schedule,
more about morale. Like the difference between sitting in a train that's
stopped (and you don't know why), or one that's moving, even if the
latter is the slow train that delivers you to the same destination,
three hours later .

When the hydrovane broke yesterday, we had a few hours bobbing in the
sea wondering what to do. There were options, neither of us were
worried, it was just a question of choosing the right option. Or
strategy. Figuring out why it broke, well, that could wait. The rudder
shaft, a 25mm diameter steel bar vertically connecting windvane
mechanism to rudder, has bent at an angle of 40 degrees such that it's
lower end is now above sea level. And to this was attached our hydrovane
rudder- no wonder it has been oversteering in a particular direction
lately. Lately. Since we left Juan Fernandez. Since we left...

In the first few days after leaving I played the scenarios over and over
in my head, and kept asking new questions. What if's-? How is-? Where
are-? The response from people around the world was also quite
overwhelming,- at the time we had no idea this was global news, we had
no idea of the source of the quake. What if our phone had been on and my
brother had our number? Would it all have been very different? We
received more emails than ever: on one day 23 came in one shot.
Twenty-three,- how I laugh! In my old job 230 emails would seem a lot,
100 in a day not uncommon, and here I am surprised by 23. But I'm not in
my old job, and we're not permanently connected... usually we dial up
every few days for a new weather check and send/receive of emails. We
don't have internet, and we can't check our regular gmail addresses from
the boat.

The heightened connection was staggering. I am especially thankful for
the news updates that my brother Felix would send; and also for the
ability through tweets and blogs to very rapidly tell folk that we were
ok. This interconnected world ain't so bad,- we just need to know how to
work it best for us. There was a time, in the 230-emails a day phase,
that I felt it was working me.

I have memories that make me smile as well. When Alex, the dad, had cold
feet. "What size boot do you wear?", we ask. "41". Smiles. Good thing –
41 is the only size we can offer. And the boy Pablo asking where I'm
from, trying his school English on me. 'This is a tsunami.' Is that the
same word in every language? A few days later, drying the few clothes
that we inherited in the exchanges. Kids socks, a top, leggings, a
teenagers jacket. So it was true. And we were tired, utterly tired. It
was true.

Memories also return every time we eat fresh produce from the Blue House
in the square, Casa Azul. Crispy lettuce and rocket, green tomatoes
turning red every day, cucumbers, mint, basil, chives. We've had more
salad this week than all month; it tasted wonderful. And today we ate
bread made with rosemary from Pedro's garden. I guess this is the last
remaining food from those stretches of land.

Back to Otto's rudder shaft, it must have got a donk. That's a
tremendous pressure would be necessary to bend that. But then,- there
were trees and houses around us. Who knows what was underneath, or how
shallow it became at times.

So we're floating around in the big blue, no self-steering windvane. We
have an electronic autopilot called Keith but Andy has little faith in
that from prior experience. He also has a book, by Lee Wooas, called
'Sheet To Tiller Emergency Self Steering'. Of course he does. That
involves jerry-rigging a staysail (a third sail, between the jib and the
main, that we don't have), and running lines from it to a tiller (that
we also don't have, but could in theory create, after disengaging our
hydraulic steering), and then connecting the tiller and staysail with
ropes and pulleys so that together they hold a course, each offsetting
the other.

I can see Andy loves this idea. It's a truly beautiful concept. We even
start putting together a makeshift stay (the thing the staysail would go
up) but in 30 knot winds even Andy realises the better of it.

Me, I'm all about Keith. I understand Keith. He steers the wheel to a
set course on the compass, just like me. He doesn't notice wind, he
doesn't care if we're motoring or under sail. Just like me. I figure if
I can steer a course, so can he.

To my immense relief, Keith is currently holding course, and I reckon
doing a not-bad job of it. Of course, when the wind direction changes he
doesn't know so we have to pay attention and change sails and course
accordingly, and he also doesn't steer just-so, perfectly in tune with
sails and wind like Otto was, and he also makes a slight hum when
turning the wheel, but hey, him working means I can sit here and write
this, so no complaints from me.

[Why 'Keith'? Named after a friend who helped us with calibration when
the unit was new. Calibration means driving around in circles. Keith had
just arrived in Puerto Williams, the southern tip of Chile, after
sailing solo and non-stop from New Zealand, via Cape Horn, in 56 days.
Anything but circles. Asked how the journey was, he replied in his
understated Kiwi accent, "aw yeah, read a few books".]

It only vaguely dawned on me, while we were bobbing around in the blue,
just how far away we are from anywhere. Right here. Half way between two
of the most remote places in the Pacific. That's even more remote than a
remote island. We don't have enough fuel to drive to the next landfall,
we need wind, and we need help steering: one night alternating
hand-steering on the way to Juan Fernandez nearly killed us both.

While Andy was dashing around deck developing new systems to save us, my
daydreams drifted. Did I ever, as a girl, dream of marrying James Bond?
I hope I didn't, but if I did, I got it wrong. Be careful what you wish
for. Marrying James Bond implies I'm the same me, and next to him would
therefore feel continually clumsy, inept, and inadequate. What I should
have dreamed for, if that is what I was hoping for, was to become like
one of James Bond's girls. Not just leggy and gorgeous, but also savvy
with ropes and helicopters, fearless, quick-thinking and calm in times
of emergency, able to fire perfectly and dodge bullets at ease, and of
course walk out of the ocean looking amazing even when projected on an
IMAX screen.

I don't know what Andy sees in me, (and thankfully he's not James Bond)
but it's surely none of the above. In fact, his latest amusement,
guaranteed to make him chuckle at any time of day or night, is the large
italic inscription on my board shorts. (We have found that board shorts
are the perfect intermediary layer between thermals and waterproofs, but
that's another story.) Scribbled all over them, in various fonts and
hieroglyphics, is the word 'Quickstep'. Nothing could be less
appropriate. While he prowls the boat like a cat in a tree, I'm still
staggering around on all fours. Half toddler, half drunk. I have donked
my nose, bashed my knee, gained uncountable thumps and bruises, and
require approximately six-times the time he does to get anywhere or do
anything. When I stand, I wobble; when I sit, I slip and slide. I don't
know if it's more upsetting to him or me to admit that deep down, in my
core, I'm a landlubber. I love the sea, and I love that we're here doing
this, but I don't know that I love it less when looking at it from a
place that doesn't move.

What's the point? What's the point? We're sailing across the Pacific –
there is no point. Slowly I'm becoming accustomed to this concept. We're
not changing the world, we don't know where this will lead, there is no
grand plan. Years ago, when Andy first asked if I would accompany him on
this adventure, I scoffed. What good does it do floating around the
world in a concrete tub? How does that make a difference to anything? I
was doing far more important stuff in my j.o.b. Was I far more important?

Well, I still have no answers, and that's a beautiful thing. And I'm not
looking so hard anymore either. Maybe I was onto something when, tired
but happy at having survived the first leg of the journey to Robinson
Crusoe Island (and probably a bit emotional), I scribbled down:

"I feel a deep inner peace, that we have made it here: to the starting
line. There are few things more rewarding than making your dreams come
true. So first, start dreaming, and dream well. Next comes the hard part."

Tsunami

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 23:23:00 +0000

The motion of the boat was strange that night; I couldn't sleep. She
rocked forwards and backwards - not the uncomfortable side-to-side 'yaw'
we had been accustomed to throughout the week. Then again, maybe this
was normal, I didn't know, I just knew I was restless. There were
gurgling noises, I closed the drains from both toilet and sink and
checked our position outside. Still in the same spot, by the quieter and
less inhabited east side of Cumberland Bay. We were tied to a mooring
buoy, courtesy of the Navy I guess. This is a huge block of concrete
resting on the sea floor attached to a very long line of heavy chain and
designed for holding ships several times our size. Andy had dived down
and inspected it on our first day here,- far more secure than an anchor,
assuming the mooring is a good one, and much easier to arrive at and
leave from. I guess the Navy also like us to use them: so they also know
that we are held firm.

At 4am the boat started rocking in all directions. We jumped up, Andy
checked the ropes.. behind us it looked like we were flying through the
water although we were still tied firm at the bow. Then an almighty
roar, resonating around the bay. 'Oh my god', I hear Andy outside....'o
my god'... it's a really dark night but looks like there are – houses,
floating. 'There's been a landslide.' He asks me to start untying the
dinghy,- he's not going out in that though, surely? I'm outside now,
water is flying past us in big whirls, carrying trees and, yes, it looks
like roofs. We think the hill right by us has collapsed, horrible, but
very local.

The water is now soaring out towards the open ocean, carrying with it
all objects in its path. We hear cries and calls from people, people in
the houses, people in the water in the houses. It's dark. With head
torches and lights we are shining beams around.. towards the voices,
'swim to the yacht, swim to the yacht' Andy is shouting top voice in
spanish. Thank god he's got the sense to not go anywhere. This is no
landslide though we have no idea what it is.

Where's the Navy?, I'm thinking. Where's the rescue team? Surely an
island like this has a volunteer rescue team? There's no-one here, just
people shouting, and us. And a few flashlights now from people on shore.
But where are the emergency services? We call up on the radio, VHF
channel 16. At first no-one replies, then, eventually. And gradually
more torch lights start appearing on shore.

Next thing Andy has reached over the side and pulled a boy onto the
deck. Pablo, age 14, shivering, covered in oil and cuts, soaking of
course. Looking for his family 'Mama! Papa!' the strained voice of
terror. I get him inside for a short while, get him warmer and dryer,
into a warm jacket, briefly wrapped up in a sleeping bag but he won't
stay long. He needs to be outside searching. I put the kettle on and
then immediately off again when strong fumes surround us,- petrol,
diesel, later there is a strong noise of gas bottles hissing. Gas
bottles that have been ripped from the houses they used to supply.

Two more boys climb on board. I think Andy lifts one, the other climbs
on while I hold his arm. He's older, late teens, strong. And wants to
save people. The boys now calling to everyone, 'come here, come to the
boat'. There are other boats in the water now. And a Navy boat,- at last
a Navy boat is near us I think with relief. Only to realise it's
unoccupied, dragging fast on it's mooring. Andy and the three boys are
fending the boat off – one wants to jump on and start it but none of
them know how. On the other side a rooftop is pushing up against us, and
next – a house. 'I'm holding back a house!' Andy shouts. He's fending
them off with the wooden oars from our dinghy.

Further away, a family are stranded in the top floor of a floating
house, they see us and swim. We throw a rope to them, they grab it on
the third try. Thank god. Right next to us now. Andy pulls up a young
girl, light as a feather. Now for the other three...no, no, they've been
pulled past us and the father has let go of the rope. Deliberately. He
won't leave his wife and son. NO! The older teenager with us wants to
jump in and swim to them. This time we manage to dissuade him but later
he'll go swimming again, and thankfully return.

An inflated zodiac dinghy has drifted up to us. Andy ties it on, we can
use that somehow, we have an outboard we could put on it. The boys start
focussing on that. I'm inside with Francisca, sweet waif of a shivering
child. Age seven, huge eyes, wearing a wetsuit that I suspect saved her.
She's talking about dying, her dying, her mother dying, her family.
She's terrified, shaking. Gradually she warms up, calms a bit. I hold
her and hold her and hold her. But she's got guts this one. She's feisty
and determined and also wants to go outside. Ok, as long as she stays
with me.

We're out there for a while, calling, talking, listening to the cries.
Pablo joins us, good news, he's found his family,- they're alive. He is
relieved. He talks with Francisca, who is she, who was she with, where
were they living? I'm surprised he doesn't know her – it seems her
family are visitors to the island. Bless her, she's trying so hard to
stay awake but the little body is exhausted. We're telling the radio,
shouting to the boats – we have a girl here, Francisca, she's ok, she's
here, she's ok.

A fishing boat pulls up to us, full of people. The driver is completely
naked and freezing. This is madness. It's still dark dark dark. As I
find him clothes the three boys join him, and three other people join
us. It's Francisca's family: joy! Her mother, her father, her brother.
Dear God, thankyou. Yes, they confirm, this is their whole family. They
huddle in one big hug in our cockpit.

The hours continue, but slower now. Still calls and shouts. We get the
kids dry and into bed. Blankets, jumpers, hats, socks... they're all so
cold. Now the mum too. Talking, sleeping, talking. What the hell-? The
father is strong and warm now, working with Andy outside. They're
hacking away at the trees that are tangled up in our mooring. Trees, big
trees, ropes, all sorts of debris. I can't even imagine the force this
mooring must have held at times. We have shifted for sure, but we're
still holding. And it's a relief to think they are cutting the debris
free too.

There's a light flashing nearby, floating. We can't make out if there's
a person with it. Andy and Alex get into the zodiac and try to
investigate but can't get our outboard working: too many lines in the
sea. The sea which is now calmer. We feel safe on the boat, in the bay,
but there are still cries and calls all around. So we feel helpless too.
The calls are not near us now. How far did this thing reach? Gradually
we start piecing together the night. This was no landslide. This as a
wave, a huge wave. And the calls and shouts continue in the distance.

Time passes.

Waiting for dawn.

Time passes. More shouts, lights, calls.

As light approaches we start to digest the damage. Not just this corner
of the bay, the quieter corner that is mostly rocky beachfront and a few
cabanas. The whole town front has been wiped out, gone. The navy boat
that floated past is wrecked on the rocks. Pedro, our friend Pedro, he
has a beautiful house right on the water. Two stories, modern design,
light, open plan, wood and stones, his home and his business- a hostal,
a bar, a meeting place. I blink. Pedro's house is gone. Not there. The
shops I bought supplies in yesterday. Gone. Oh my god- the Navy didn't
answer because they were hit too. The whole bay, the whole town, a
wreck. People's lives – but it's only later that I start thinking about
that, about the consequences.

From a distance it seems that the wave must have reached about 70 or 80
metres inland from the shore. The family's cabana was situated at a
height of about 40m, so we know it reached at least this far up.
Thankfully the island is steep so many houses stand above this level.
Still, it seems the 'main-drag' was hit. This would include all public
offices, the school, many houses, many shops, the town square.

Clearly we're not leaving today anymore. We want to stay, we need to
stay. We want to help. It's an unspoken given.

The Navy calls us on the radio, they speak through the father, Alex, who
himself speaks excellent English, and is ex-Navy. There has been news
from Valparaiso: another wave is coming. The whole town is being
evacuated to higher ground. And we need to leave.

At first the family choose to stay with us, then they choose to be taken
around the corner, to a hostal on a hill. A plan is quickly devised:
we'll take them near the hostal, they'll then leave in the zodiac. Simple.

Sail covers off, chaos strapped down, engine started, mooring lines let
free, careful navigation through debris in the bay, we motor around the
corner, the outboard is started, the family get in the zodiac, they're
off. They're safe. We're safe. It's over. We watch them head for safety.
We watch in horror as the outboard stops running. He can't get it
started. They are drifting again, for the second time tonight, no oars,
helpless. This can't be.

The mountainous island thankfully has steep slopes so we can drive back
up to them – the water is still quite deep. We tow them a bit closer,
then pass the oars and I climb in too. We'll lose our outboard but never
our oars,- we need them. Alex rows us all to land, they climb out, I row
back. Ever aware that a second wave could be pummelling towards us.

Grab oars, ditch dinghy, ditch outboard, climb on board, - get away from
land -. This is insane. They are safe. I see them waving from the rocks.
"Please explain that we wanted to stay", I want to say, "we were told to
leave". I feel like we're running away, cowards. The only people able to
leave. I don't want to leave, but we have to. We only endanger ourselves
and others by staying.

We stay in radio contact with the Navy for about 6 miles. They ask us to
go 10 miles offshore or 150 metres depth. We also hear Pedro on the
radio. He and his family are safe, we will try and email his brother
with the news.

As light came up we saw the wreckage. The rubble. I can't get that image
out of my mind. I desperately want to go back. So does Andy. We have
reached the 10 mile mark, we are out of radio contact now, we don't know
what to do. Our hearts say "return", our heads say, "continue". Already
we have seen three planes arriving and heard that a Navy ship is on its
way. Support has arrived. We would like to go back, stay a few weeks,
help rebuild the town. But today isn't about rebuilding, today is about
finding people, roofs over heads, feeding families. And grief. Emergency
response. Definitely not a time for voyeuristic visitors either.

Ten miles offshore the winds and seas are pushing us exactly on course
for Isla de Pascua, Easter Island. 1629 miles away. We make the decision
with our heads, our hearts screaming in defiance, and set the sails for
west.

Update following Tsunami

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 22:48:00 +0000

For those who have not yet heard, we are fine, and safe at sea following
a huge earthquake in Chile and resultant tsunami. In time one of us will
write about the experience but we wanted you to know first that we are
safe. Thanks to those of you who have sent messages of concern, and
information,- you hear much more via the global media than we do.

At the time that the tsunami hit we were moored in the Cumberland Bay,
Robinson Crusoe Island, Juan Fernandez Islands. We had intended on
leaving later that day (the previous day being a Friday, not recommended
for mariners!) Indeed, we were both deeply glad that we stayed the extra
day although it was horrific. The island had received no warning, and
the first we knew were crazy wave motions around the boat followed by a
loud roaring sound. At one point our boat was fending off two houses and
a navy boat, along with its mooring, as well as entire trees. There were
many shouts and calls from the sea, and we managed to help several
people onto Zephyrus while the island was still waking up to what was
happening. Initially three boys and one young girl, later the boys were
reunited with their families and the girl's family joined us on board.
Dawn broke about 4 hours after the event, and only then could we see the
extent of the devastation. Shortly after, the navy advised us that
another wave was expected, and asked that we leave the bay for the
safety of deep water. This we did, after ensuring the family was landed
safely to a high place. We left Juan Fernandez in shock and deep
sadness, thinking of our friends there, and gradually processing the
implications. Our hearts very much called us to return, to help in some
way, but our heads rationalised that there was little we could do at
this stage, and we might risk bringing more danger to the place by
returning. Plus, the winds and seas were already carrying us on a direct
course for Easter Island...

We are both very sad, but safe, and Zephyrus is sailing well. We have
traveled about 148 miles since yesterday morning and have 1485 more to
go. Lots of time for reflection.

Robinson Crusoe Island, Juan Fernandez

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 03:17:00 +0000

Good-by Robinson Crusoe Island, goodbye Juan Fernandez Archipelago. What
a magnificent place you are. Standing tall, volcanic eruption out of the
sea, the top of the Andes, the rest below water, mountainous terrain
none-the-less. A walk from one side to the other starts us in lifeless
desert, the 'white land', harsh winds nearly knocking me over as we
cross saddles connecting Pacific to Pacific. After half an hour some
signs of life, there are small shrubs. And there are cows,- COWS! What
do they eat? They are skinny. Who thought to bring cows here? COWS? Of
all things, to a global nature reserve, to a place with infinite lobster
and fish, to the most arid and lifeless corner of this rocky terrain. I
feel sorry for the cows.

Every corner we round brings a new ecosystem. The shrubs become small
trees and bushes that cling to the ground, then a wave a soft grasses
across one hillside. We are climbing steadily, away from the rocky beach
brimming with fur seals, their barks resonating off every wall. Away
from the dry and rock, into the green, the green grows larger, small
trees become tall trees, after a couple of hours we even come upon
water, fresh from the mountain. Looming above us, jagged, ominous, huge
peaks. The leaflet says 'unreachable'; Andy is salivating. The island
contour is magnificent. Jagged, tall, rocky. In places you can see how
the lava melted, and stayed in that form. It crumbles in my hand, I am
glad he's not climbing though I know those climbs fill his thoughts. The
path climbs steeper, we have been walking for several hours now. No more
cows, a few horses, the rock back there, it was like the desert, like
the middle-east, but surrounded by blue sea. Wild. Wild. In every sense
of the word.

The path climbs steeper, I am getting out of breath, I am tired. Why am
I so tired? Oh yes, we were listening to the local band at 3am.
Climbing, climbing, feels good in my legs though they are tired. The
music was fantastic, the whole bar singing along "Juan Fernan-dez". The
singer-songwriter a local hero, in his 50s or 60s, belting out the songs
to a chorus of kids who have clearly been nurtured on them. Music gives
a place heritage. Behind him he is supported by his three sons on
guitars and drums, as well as a three others on bongos, marakas, and
double bass. The one drummer son is on a set of twin conga drums, no
drum kit here. The sound is incredible, pure joy. Passion. They love
this island, they are proud, and rightly so.

The men are gorgeous. There is defintely a 'look' around this island and
it's all about the machos. Long hair, pointy beard, scarves and bandanas
aplenty, and of course fit bodies resulting from life on steep hills and
open sea. Chilean blood through and through, grown up in an island
visited by european explorers for centuries and famous as a pirate
haven. There is buried treasure here for sure,- we've heard the stories,
met the seekers. Buried in the 1700s in a landscape that has been
continually growing, that's a lot of digging.

Back to the hike, we're on the steep part now, just past our first
waterfall, so delicious. Suddenly we are deep in jungle, ferns taller
than me, feels like a rainforest. Lush. Watch out for the orange
hummingbird – in all the world she only lives here. It's fantastic, was
I really in a desert 2 hours ago? Now in the jungle and next, as it
becomes steeper still, we have trees, huge trees, I'm in a temperate
forest! The earthy smell, tall trees, rocks that we climb upon like
steps, feels familiar, takes me back to northern europe. There's no view
beyond the trees and my feet on the rocks and then –pow- pop out the
top, on the crest, that's right: we're on Robinson Crusoe Island, in the
Juan Fernandez group of islands. We're in the middle of the Pacific,
middle of nowhere, on this huge rocky island. And there's people here too!

That side of the island, where the walk began, is uninhabited. This
side, the one we are entering, holds all the human life. There's a navy
ship visiting today,- it's here for three days and brought two hundred
people with it. Tourists, family members, friends, navy personnel. The
town has come to life. As we climb down the peak, towards the town, we
pass about twenty people on their way up, to the viewpoint. Though in my
opinion everywhere around here is a viewpoint. Have I said it is
magnificent? Impressive, grand, powerful terrain. Most fo the folk are
hiking, some are on horses. The concentration of people today was also
the reason for the gig last night. Later I meet two of the brothers in
the band, one lives on the mainland.. it's a special thing for them to
all get together and sing like that. It's a special visit from the boat:
only occurs twice a year, bringing students in and out, both times in
both directions. We meet several people from the island coming back for
a three day visit to their family. The boat takes 30 hours and goes
twice a year. A plane goes three times a week but only seats about 10
people and costs US$800. There's also a monthly supply ship... but cargo
only.

Remote? Of course it's remote. I love it. I love the people, the
scenery, the resourcefulness, the lobster. The lobster is delicious. On
our first night our french friends invite us over for a lobster welcome
on their boat. ("Where have you been- we've been here three days! Bad
weather? No, we sailed all the way, fantastic. Why didn't you go further
west early on? And motor in the calms? Could have avoided those three
days of beating...") I'm happy to see them. That was no storm, just a
learning curve for us.

On their last night we had a lobster barbeque on the beach. Lobster is
what this place is all about. Don't kill them by dropping in boiling
water, our fisherman friend explains, much more humane to put them in
fresh water ('sweet water') for fifteen minutes. Then they just go to
sleep. If you put them in hot water they sometimes kick off their legs
as a defence mechanism. So brutal, we are told. So we put them in a bag
in a river and sure enough they die in a way that for me, at least, is
more gentle. And they're delicious. With potatoes baked in the fire, and
some wine. Who needs more?

I repeat, this place is all about lobster, at this time of year at
least. And the fishing. On our second day we try to buy a fish but
clearly the catcher will get a better price from Santiago. So we catch
our own. Jaimes supplies us with a fresh fish every day except the day
Andy went hunting with the spear-gun and brought us back our own. We are
loving the fish, loving the protein... such a change from the pasta
craving we had at sea.

The folk here really aren't much bothered by our presence. I love that.
None of this excitement at new visitors in town. Tourism is a low-level
constant. Always a few 'plasticos' flying in, flying out, rocking up on
boats. A yacht or two every couple of weeks at this time of year. Not
bothered. Non-islanders are plasticos: superficial rubbish that floats
in from the sea.

Face-to-face the locals are friendly enough, I like that too. We buy
eggs from Trinidad and her family, John takes us out to the start of our
hike, Ximena bakes us a cake, the nice people in the blue house sell us
fresh food from their garden: tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuces, mint, kale,
chives... delicious. The day after the barbeque we had lobster salad...
mouth-watering freshness, all local. Even the navy are welcoming and
friendly.

Above all, amazing hospitality from Pedro, his family, and his
friends... the most precious for me was the welcome to the island when
we arrived, and the saludos waves as we leave. Makes the visit feel
complete. They also recommended hikes, did our laundry, made us
piscos... and took us diving. Oh yes, back in the blue. Inside the blue.
I have been diving before, but I count on my fingers that it's 17 years
ago. Pedro holds my hand the whole time, pointing out the moray eel,
fish feasting on a sea urchin, underwater somersaults by fur seals. I'm
only a little dissappointed that cinematography these days is so good:
it's just like the nature documentaries with an underwater camera.. but
with a darth vader soundtrack, that's me breathing too heavily. I've
guzzled my tank before the others are half way through. But we're here,
we're really here!

There's always more to say, there's always more to do as well. I could
stay another fortnight. I could live here awhile. I'd be content if this
was our destination. Jaimes and Nicole have sailed on, however, and it
seems it's time for us too. The weather right now is good, we hope for
fair seas and following winds. Easter Island is fifteen or twenty days
sail away, the longest leg of the Pacific crossing. Maybe that's why I
want to stay awhile more.... I could stay a long time here, I know that.
It's a climate and terrain that I love. Not too hot, a little wet, a
great sillhouette against an overcast sky. But we won't stop here, we'll
move on. And we should do so in time for the weather to still be good in
our future destinations. I know we should.

Today is a Friday, no good for sailing. Ask any mariner. We leave tomorrow.

Neptune's Sea Trials

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 19:44:00 +0000

The god's delivered our wishes. Because sometimes our greatest fears are
also our deepest desire. Me, I wanted to learn to sail, and said I was
concerned about the nightshift when Andy would sleep. In truth however,
I wanted to be on the other side of our first storm.

Andy, he wanted to get going, have the adventure begin. But I think he
also wanted to be tested, to know he was up to the task. He spent the
last days on mainland Chile putting together our emergency grab bag,
constructing a sea anchor, and reading a book on heavy weather sailing.
Doesn't take much to guess what was on his mind.

And so we set off.

Into the waves, into the sea, into the blue yonder. All was well. We had
wind, we had waves, we had a good sail. We even got the self-steering
working. A hydrovane called Otto, named after the previous owner's
father who 'never stopped working'. Otto is elegant, and intelligent,
and sensitive, and of course hard- working and attentive. I spend much
time in awe of him, gazing fondly as he does his thing. Which is to
steer us, at an angle we choose relative to the wind.

Otto has three parts, all which move in a different plane perpendicular
to each other. For those less mechanically interested, call them head,
body, hips. The head senses where the wind is, looks directly at it
(rotation around the y-axis), then cocks to one side or the other
depending on which side the wind is stronger (x-y plane). T he cocking
of his head, (not a nod or a shake, but a nepali hello) makes the body
section turn as though bowing (y-z ), which in turn makes the hips twist
(x-z). The hips move the rudder. Steered one way the boat moves to the
right, which changes our relative angle to the wind. This makes the head
stand up and sniff out where the wind has gone, before cocking the other
way, triggering body and hips to steer us to the left. And so we subtly
wave our way forward along a chosen path.

The first day went well, I even managed to write about it. On the second
night we lost the wind. Andy started the engine while I was asleep, we
had a vaguely philosophical middle-of-the-night discussion around the
theme of 'what's the point of motoring when you're trying to reach New
Zealand?', and shortly thereafter the engine was turned off and my shift
began. What joy: mirror calm, no wind, a sky full of stars, and ocean
blue all around. A nightshift without having to worry about sailing- my
spoken wish granted.

Next day the winds arrived. And the waves got big. And I said to Andy,
whites of my eyes clearly visible, "IS THIS NORMAL?" (the wind was loud,
you had to shout). And he replied, " I DON'T KNOW".

Feb 13^th , diary entry:

"THE OCEAN IS MIGHTY. The Ocean is MIGHTY. SHE IS MIGHTY. Do you
UNDERSTAND? SHE IS HUGE. She's not angry, she's just BIG. And POWERFUL.

Who do you think you are that you can just climb aboard and float
across, aided by man-made GPSs, telephones, and how-to books? JUST WHO
DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

The Ocean IS mighty. And here we are, floating on the surface like a
cork in a tub. Or a lake. Or a tumultuous river. Yes, a cork in rapids.
The cork will be fine and so will we. But we have learnt many lessons
already. Number one: the ocean is...."

When, at last, after hours of sleep-deprived tactic changing, we hit
upon the secret recipe for 'hoving-to', we watched in awe as enormous
rollers that had previously been crashing us about instead melted
beneath. We both shouted at the sea

he: "IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?!!!"

she: "OK OK! WE GET IT! THE OCEAN IS MIGHTY!"

When 'hove- to' the sails and rudder steer opposite ways so you stay
relatively stationary. Exhausted but happy, incredibly relieved, I wrote
in my book. "The night will no longer be terrifying. I no longer want to
cry, tears that say 'I want to go home'. Here is our home. And she's
teaching us every minute. Taking the hits and bouncing back while we
learn how she likes to be treated."

Hove-to, we're still bashing about, the ceilings and walls creak,
objects slide within our cupboards, anything that dangles exacerbates
the motion. No, by ordinary standards this is not pleasant but I feel
elated – we are safe.

Somewhere along the line Otto stopped working, or rather, we stopped
trying to get him to work. We were reading all the books, trying all the
tactics. The wind was directly behind us so to start with we just had a
storm jib up. That's the smallest sail, up front, looks like a tea towel
but tough as leather. With just that up we were still hurtling along, at
times surfing down waves at 12 knots. (I repeat the question, "is this
normal? is this ok? we'll know one day.") We throw a rope off the back,
in a loop, and that slows us down quite a lot, feels more controlled.
Then two ropes. But we're still flying. Something happens, I'm not sure
what, and we see if we can stop. We take down the jib, so there's now no
sails, and pull in the ropes. If you leave the boat to bounce around
like this it's called 'lying ahull'. Is meant to be safe but feels
horrible. We have a little cuddle but it still feels horrible. Then we
discover the miracle of hoving -to, and then we sleep.

The next day we follow advice of a boaty bible (Eric Hiscock, Cruising
Under Sail):

"... in my opinion, the only safe course will be to run before it under
bare poles. In that end-on position the hull offers the smallest target
to the elements, and as there is headway, the rudder is not subjected to
unnatural strains. Running before is, of course, the action that would
be taken anyway if the yacht's course was down wind at the time the gale
started, and has the merit that all the time miles are being made good
in the desired direction; this is important for morale because few
things are more disheartening than being stopped at sea due to stress of
weather, unless one is in urgent need of a rest. But running calls for a
strong and alert helmsman, for in the conditions now under discussion it
is, in my view, imperative that the yacht be kept stern on, or nearly
so, to each overtaking sea, otherwise the risk of her broaching-to will
be greatly increased. The feel of the wind on the helmsman's neck and
ears will be his best guide..."

Of course. I got distracted around the time he said 'of course' and
didn't even want to know what 'broaching - to' entailed.

And so it was that for twenty hours we alternated in one hour shifts
hand- steering the boat down waves that were hurtling upon us from
behind, magically dissolving underneath (providing we were
concentrating), with no sails up and three ropes trailing out the back.
If you lost concentration and the course changed by more then about 10
degrees, WHACK, on the side by a great big wave. And you're awake again.

It was intense. I remember thinking ' this is the hardest thing I have
ever done', and scouring my memory bank for harder times. THWACK. Don't
think. Not about anything, the past the future, your friends, even this
moment. Just feel the wind on the back of your neck and keep it there.
Could it be that, with physical exhaustion, you reach a point where
learning goes straight to the body, bypasses the mind and intellect
entirely? No longer do I even care where the wind vane is pointing above
me. Not in my head, my body needs to do the steering.

I am so tired, so very very tired. We have been on and off shift since
9am and now it's 4:30am the following morning. Andy is sleeping and I
have to hold it together for just another 30 minutes. My eyes are
drooping, can I steer with my eyes closed? Just from the feel of the
wind on my neck? No, that's dangerous: too close to sleep. As a new
tactic I try staring directly into the wind to keep myself awake.
Clearly the flaw in this plan is that the wind is meant to be behind me.
So at least I know how to steer: if I'm looking over my right shoulder I
should be steering to the left, until I swing my face the other way and
greet the wind coming over the other side. Maybe not ideal for centering
our path.

It's hypnotic. We're surfing along with waves, at the speed of the
waves, slightly slower as we're trailing ropes. We pick up speed just
after the wave roars under us, when we're on her back. Seven, eight
knots maybe. Four of five between the crests. It's thrilling, and
amazing: no sails! I had no idea,- look, lesson one,- the boat sails
without sails. Zephyrus showing me the basics first, the importance of a
deep keel and a nice boat shape. Even with no sails she is a safe place
to be. Maybe tomorrow she'll teach us about the sails, one by one.

THWACK. I've been daydreaming again. Shit, passed the point of no
return, waves beating us side-on, bash bash bash. This'll wake him up! I
steer hard to the left but to no avail. We are lying ahull and it feels
horrible. Every wave whacks on our side, rolly rolly boat. Shit. ANDY
AAANNDEEE. Maybe there's no point in calling,- let him sleep his final
15 minutes, we're lying ahull now anyway, going the way of the waves.

His head pops up. He assesses the situation. He's not bothered, it's
5am, we've done pretty well and we're both knackered. I thought we'd
bring her back round but no, we put up some sail to hove-to and get some
kip for a few hours.

9am, there's a radio sched that we call in to and give our position:
nice to have people know we're out here. Next thing I know I see Andy
climbing out of the cabin, bare-chested, no lifeline. And then he's
hanging off the back of the boat. What the -?*! The winds have dropped
and he's focused on getting Otto working again. Still blinking I plot
our position and look for clothes for outside. RHIAN, he hollers, GET
OUT HERE and for some reason I just can't move quickly. It's like
climbing through honey. "NOW!" Trousers, boots, jacket, lifejacket.. it
all takes so long and he's freezing outside. When I finally arrive I see
he has literally been immersed, head first, in the sea. Soaking, salty,
cold, he doesn't need me anymore: he's had another idea. It's partly
thrilling,- we're in a storm, he's dangling off the back, he has a great
body... but mostly I'm pissed off with him for not waiting for me before
starting his heroics. We've been hove-to for three hours for god's sake,
another ten minutes wouldn't kill him. But no, he's all about action.
Me? I'm still asleep. I can steer though: I know I can hold a course
even in this dog-tired state.

I'm steering, he's put the storm jib back up and is now fiddling with
Otto. I'm steering, I'm in the zone. My hour starts now. I'm asleep but
we're on course. Wind on the back of my neck, slightly on the left,
compass needle at 330. Keep those two things together and you'll be
fine. "Let go, mate", I hear a soft voice beside me, "let go". I let go.
I'm not steering, he's not steering, the boat stays on course. Otto is
back. Otto is back. "Rest your weary bones". I sit in the cockpit and
cry. Cry and cry and cry, from sheer exhaustion, and happiness. Relief
and appreciation, joy. All that I care about in this very moment: we're
not steering and the boat is holding course. Then I sleep.

Feb 16^th , diary entry:

'It certainly does feel like we're being put through some kind of sea
trials. First the no wind, then the high downwind, and now, after a
brief lull, it's swung around to the north-west, right where we're
trying to go, and picked up to thirty knots or more. We're 'beating'- on
a tight angle to the wind, waves swooshing over one side every one or
two seconds. At least we have the hydrovane working so we don't have to
steer. Still, Andy has resolved to pull an all-nighter if conditions
stay like this. If things got out of control in this it could all happen
very quickly.'

Clearly, I have no idea what 'things', 'out of control' and 'it all
happen' refer to but that's what he told me and I'm sticking by it. It
sounds wild out there, we're up on an edge and flying through the night,
sails taut, ocean water roaring along our decks. But it's thrilling too.
And we're back in the comfort zone,- sailing into the wind is something
Andy has done loads of, and even I have done a bit of... but it's slow
going, bashing towards our goal, and never quite towards it, always a
bit to the west or a bit to the north.

These conditions are predicted to continue for three days.

At 8.45pm on Feb 17^th I hear the cry, "LAND AHOY". Almost unbelievably,
there, on the horizon, a misty blob of tall mountainous land. LAND! Who
would have thought it: way out here right in the middle of all this ocean?

Imagine the people who first stumbled upon this place. It's so
unexpected, even for us who have been following a GPS to get here all
this time.

We're 46 miles away, we can see land. Surely we'll be there by the
morning. That last night shift was a joy. Tired, but ever closing in on
our destination. Otto steering. Me, not even bothered by nightshifts,
loving them infact. Has this been some kind of sea trial by Neptune?
This short hop from mainland Chile to Juan Fernandez, just an inch or so
on the table-sized chart we're trying to cross. It surely feels like it.
At the other side I know our french friends are waiting; they left the
same hour as us but arrived three days before. Is he Neptune in
disguise? I felt so safe the whole time, like a summer camp adventure...
they let you think you're out there, in the real thing, but there's
always a safety net. Right?

9am on the 18th and we still had 26 miles to go, that wind coming
straight from the island, never letting us make much headway. Slowly we
watch the island getting closer. It still looks mystical, shrouded in a
curtain of tomorrow. Never never land. I must be tired. Robinson Crusoe
Island, sounds like a place of fairy tales too, and for sure a hide-out
of pirates for centuries. But that's tomorrow's story. Today, we have
got to the other side. I think we might have even passed the test.

_ _

Deeply Lovely

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 22:23:00 +0000

The ocean feels immense, and safe. Deeply lovely. Reaching this place
felt like the necessary slog to a favourite high space,- be it the
undulating ridge of the Malvern hills or the Tibetan plateau, the climb
is never my favourite bit. Some might argue that our height hasn't
changed at all from yesterday to today but I argue contrary: the depth
below us has dropped beyond comprehension. It's all just a matter of
perspective and baseline. Leaving the coast of Chile, entering the
rolling mass of water, pushing on up and through the heaving waves, felt
like a climb. And the motion reminded me of weebles. How it must feel,
being a weeble.

For those of you too young or old to relate, or of a different cultural
upbringing, weebles are about the size and shape of a medium easter egg,
are made of plastic, and have a perfectly round hemi-sphere for their
lower halves. I think their top half vaguely resembled humans. They were
fun to play with in the bath because they always pointed upwards. What I
never gave them credit for, however, was the amount of side- to- side
motion they were continually responding to. Indeed, though weebles
looked like little fatties, they must have had incredible core strength.
Who needs pilates when you've got ocean, or bath, all around to work
those muscles?

I was washing up this afternoon, in the cockpit as usual, two buckets of
sea-water, one with soap and one for rinse, and a pile of things to
scrub. While Andy was deeply involved with developing new methods to
improve our velocity (both speed and direction), I was entirely occupied
with holding the two full buckets between my legs – a good inner thigh
workout-, the pots and pans around my circumference – good back
stretching -, and my torso somewhat vertical to the horizon- surely
great for the stomach muscles. Needless to say I wasn't too appreciative
of the physical advantages of the system, I just momentarily found
myself dreaming of a house... or a boat with a proper sink.

Then I looked up and remembered where I was and it all seemed too
ludicrous to be true. It wasn't just the three hours of big rolly waves
that were the hike here,- the whole last years, and even last week were
part of it. We were waiting in Puerto Ingles for eight days in the end,
sitting out crap weather. Two of the nights we even ran a night watch
for fear of our anchor dragging again.

To be fair, our time in Puerto Ingles was, for me, much needed. When we
arrived we were 'ready', but when we left, I actually felt ready. We
fixed things and found homes for items, learned to move around this
space and each other without going insane, and also had the great
fortune to be waiting to leave with another yacht.. conveniently owned
by a couple who not only have several years sailing experience, but have
also owned several fine restaurants in France. We ate like royalty and
have decided that if all other navigation equipment fails, we should be
able to smell our way across the Pacific, in their wake. Puerto Ingles
also offered us one more example of incredible Chilean hospitality in a
house overlooking the bay,- we left with happy memories. Yet again:
great people, terrible weather.

To my pleasant surprise, I feel much safer our here, in the big blue,
than.... anywhere we've ever been previously on Zephyrus. For sure my
confidence in the boat has grown as I've seen her respond to different
stresses (like me driving), but there's also so much less to bump into.
There's nothing to bump into. If I back the sails, we flap off in a
funny direction for a while; if the winds get too high we hove to (don't
ask, I'll hopefully never have to explain further), or throw out a sea
anchor (really don't ask about that one). Actually, I'm not going to
continue this thought, god knows what I might dream up next.

It feels safe, that's the point. It feels amazing. The weather gods have
been good to us, paid us back for waiting for the right time. Winds are
fair but not too strong; waves are big, so big they gently glide right
under us; the sun is shining, and a pair of wandering albatrosses
escorted us throughout our first day. I could stare at the sea endlessly
without getting bored and right now don't care if it takes two days or
two weeks to reach Juan Fernandez. Let the journey begin.

Finally, we have reached the starting line

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 16:13:00 +0000

I woke up and the world was quiet. Zephyrus rocked gently, a comforting
wind made things flap outside. Awash with relief, I let myself go back
to sleep, this time a resftful one.

Last night was windy. Yesterday was windy. We had forty knot winds in an
anchorage with 3m of water below us, making for energetic and choppy
waves. The guide book describes Puerto Ingles as 'sheltered from all
sides'. I don't like to think what an unsheltered location would have
been like.

In Andy's words, yesterday was 'exciting'. He used this term while
huddled in the cockpit, talking to his sister on our Chilean mobile. We
still have reception (obviously) and just when I had run out of things
that might make his day happier (tea, cake, tobacco, a drop in
wind-speed), he got a call from his three year-old niece. Perfect. There
was something weirdly comforting about hearing him chat to her about her
day, as though sat in a living room at home, while the world swirled
around his head and our backdrop changed at an alarming rate.

It wasn't so bad. Our anchor only dragged once, and we moved somewhere
else. Then the wind shifted and we were pushed to an area where the
depth meter read zero. So we moved somewhere with more depth but
unfortunately in swinging range of the only other boat in the bay. So we
moved again, back to where we started. All this over a period of about
10 hours, each time learning the art of winching up and dropping down
the anchor in high winds and weedy water, getting slapped about by
waves, sign-languaging to each other through the noise of the wind. It
wasn't restful, but the beauty of modern times is such that we knew it
would pass in the day. Our weather report predicted the winds to shift
around 9pm and die down before midnight. The navy radio warnings told us
that things would be calmer by 0000. And our barometer agreed, though
the dial did at one point reach the extreme of the scale and I wondered
what happens if pressure drops further. Does the dial continue round,
back into the high pressure zone? Does the instrument break in disbelief?

Weather reports that we have downloaded suggest that we'll have a
quieter morning today, and then high winds return this evening and
through tomorrow. The pattern continues for a few days so we won't be
going anywhere until the weekend at the earliest. Some people think it's
cheating to download weather. Others read forecasts as though they are
fact. We also have a tool on board that brings us real-time satellite
imagery for our own interpretation. Combined with the wind predictions,
this gives us a better idea of what's going on in the air around us, and
beyond. At this early stage in our adventuring I'm happy to use every
tool we have to prepare for what's to come. We can't avoid it, but at
least we can hunker down.

You find us today in Puerto Ingles, near Punta Corona, on the north-west
corner of Chiloe Island. Our journey here, through Canal Chacao, was the
last we will have had with land on both sides. Or any side. The Canal
flows fast with the tides, 8 – 12 knots in either direction, and far
faster than our boat would be able to counter. We had no choice but to
pick our time, and go with the flow. It was pretty thrilling, flying
along at 14 knots with no sails, watching the water surface changing
from crazy choppy to oily calm to whirlpooling eddies all around. Crabs
and other floating critters in the centre of the flow; magellan
penguins, seals, terns, and pelicans chasing the food source. I
confessed to Andy a few days ago that I was as equally concerned about
crossing Canal Chacao as I was sailing to Juan Fernandez, or even New
Zealand. Clearly more effort is required for each stage, but it seems
I've reached my threshold of understanding. Beyond this I cannot
perceive anything, so all there is to do is focus on today, or the next
phase.

The storm yesterday nurtured one end of this week's emotional spectrum.
At the other, last Sunday we had a complete surround- sound dolphin show
while on a day-sail with friends visiting from Puerto Montt. Leaping out
of the water, full body flips, walking on their tails and slapping them
on the surface, swimming in front, behind, under and around Zephyrus,
they came out to play. Teenage dolphins having fun, mother and child
swimming in unison, larger dolphins staying low, enjoying the delight
around. I wanted to laugh and cry and shout and scream and stay really
quiet with awe all at the same time.

So, day by day. We have finally reached the starting line, and now we
sit out these northerlies and wait for winds from the South to blow us
onwards into the next adventure.

Our Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 21:09:00 +0000

Leaving Puerto Montt was hard. Far harder than I expected. Made me
realise just how special some of the people are who we have met here.
One of the most difficult goodbyes was to a dear friend, Mani.. not
because the friendship won't continue, but maybe because this kind of
friendship is the type that's at its very best when you have time to
share together, in the same place, often.

Mani falls between my parents in age: let's say mid 60s. His beard, when
allowed to grow wild, starts pointing upwards to the sky, to his eyes.
His eyes and small are bright, his smile large, his hair thinning, and
he is tall, very tall, thin, and broad. A Big Friendly Giant.

We go on long walks, eat porridge, enjoy cakes and carrots, share
silence, and talk for hours. At a slow pace, with lots of spaces in
between. He introduced us to magical houses, fairytale people, lands
with lakes and mountains and forests. Through him we met our friends in
Chiloe, whose house we adopted several times before we ever met them;
through him we met our fairy godmother landlady and landed a log cabana
on the beach. We were welcomed into her family, we roamed her land like
it was our own, and we loved her dogs. Our last visit in Puerto Montt
was to her property, though she was away, for a long walk with Piglet
Pow and a final chance to pick lettuces and peas from her garden.

Through Mani I learnt of people who roam the seas, and met a few of
them. All the most magical navigantes, when they return to this port,
seek out their favourite Finnish friend. Many are solo sailors, intrepid
and a little crazy, with dreams of reaching extremes, or just a deep
need to explore. Some are families and a few are couples, though I met
fewer of these. Maybe the solo sailors have more time to enjoy a beer or
tea and talk, and talk some more. Mani listens and laughs, absorbing
their stories, believing every word, and making his own judgements as to
whether they are intrepid but sound, or just plain mad.

By trade Mani is an electronic engineer; his skills are continually in
demand by visiting cruisers. Not only does he know electrics and motors,
but he has lived most of his life on various boats. He knows boats. He
gave me tips on directing condensation away from electrical connections,
talked us through our alternator problems by phone, and helped us wire a
magical, critical, switch. And he laughs at electricity. 'Ha: it's
electricity, it rrreally makes no sense', rrolling his Arctic r's. To
Mani we were, I think, more than just another couple on just another
boat; he asked after us individually, learnt our stories, and helped me
to learn so many elements of this new world I am entering, from
electrics and washing-up, to soaking porridge the night before breakfast.

Mani's partner, who is currently studying in Europe, is the captain of
their boat. She is a powerful woman who was a solo sailor for many years
before they met. In Patagonia. On our last adventure he came to help me
drag a dinghy up the beach. The effort was fairly pointless as it was
low tide and the water was still ebbing. 'This is far enough', he tells
me,' the tide won't come back this high until at least 1am.' But I
continued to drag the boat so that I could tie it off on something. 'I'm
sure you're right, but I don't want to be the one responsible for losing
the dinghy'. He laughed in earnest, 'ah yes, I know that feeling: when
you're not the skipper it is always your fault'.

Before I arrived in Chile, Andy and Mani used to go on long walks every
Sunday. Initially I was concerned that my presence might interrupt this
tradition and friendship but they seemed happy enough for me to come
along. Truth be told, I was mostly observer and catcher-upper on these
adventures: the two elves share an approach to walks that involves no
maps, no plan, no time-scale, and usually no paths. They also have a
common disrespect for private property, although where possible will
avoid the plot containing a house and climb over barbed-wire fences out
of sight of the owner. But only where possible. Mani always carries a
six-pack of beer, Andy usually is entirely unequipped, and I carry the
rear with a pack full of cookies, jumpers, and carrots. We have always
returned to our starting point, somehow, usually several hours after the
novelty has worn off (for me), and either soaking wet or covered in mud,
but happy, and hungry. Which is a good thing, because my favourite thing
about Mani is that we share a love of eating.

In general, I don't like cooking for other people, or even much for
myself. It's more of a necessity when far removed from restaurants and
five-minute supermarket re-heats. However, I'll cook for Mani any day,
and enjoy every hour invested. For Mani, I have created sour biscuits
that taste of baking soda, charcoal'd sesame snaps, cauliflower soup
without any cauliflower, and chestnut pie without the pie. The successes
include a sausage, sun-dried tomato, and lentil casserole slow baked for
7 hours on a wood-burning stove, and a delicious carrot cake for his
birthday, six months late. However the experiments turn out, he eats
them all with a big grin and the declaration "deli-s-ious". And true to
his nationality, he finishes the lot. The prize meal, without a doubt,
was made with the components for an apple crumble but no oven. It got
fried and steamed instead and renamed Apple Stumble. We ate the lot in
one sitting.

In Andy's words,...

...if passing Puerto Montt way go and pass saludos with Mani sit quietly
inside a boat 'BiriBi' a ship that is a home in the truest sense: always
warm always welcoming share stories, tea, toast, porridge, fish, cake or
anything else mani is eating at the time, it will be shared freely with
a "Take you first"and if you have time you may even discover a Sweet
Chestnut tree on a beach where one day there will be a sauna beneath .

Gracias, y muchos besos

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 02:30:00 +0000

photo: Brian Budgeon

So this is it, we're off. Tomorrow morning, if things go according to plan (never a sure thing by any standards), we will be visited by the Aduana, the Armada, and Investigaciones. Or, customs, navy, and police. And with those three visits the three of us (Andy, Rhian, Zephyrus, or at least the papers of-), will hopefully all be approved, stamped, and allowed to leave. And then we go. [Not very far to start with.]

Chile has been great to us, Puerto Montt has been great to us. Actually, to be honest, Puerto Montt has been our home for some of our lowest moments so far... robberies, multiple illnesses, more robberies and incessant rain to name a few.... but the people here who emerged to support us during those times have been without exception amazing, and usually quite unexpected.

In addition, this is the longest Andy has ever lived anywhere in one go: over a year with only a few weeks off for relatively near-by travel. It's also the longest the two of us have ever spent in each other's company. So far, so good...

So, without further ado, goodbye Puerto Montt, and thankyou all. We have very fond memories of our time here.

photos: Francisco Izquierdo

Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:46:00 +0000

I am completely advice'd out. It's time to go. I have been given
advice on how to wash, dress, wear my hair, eat, drink, pack, clean
the toilet, ... even sleep. Anything we do that is different from
others is clearly inexperienced, and anything we do that's the same as
others can be improved. The only thing that no-one is giving me advice
on, and the only thing I could really do with advice on, is how to
sail.

I've done a bit of research lately, and am coming to realise that not
many people start their sailing career with the Pacific. Many cruisers
sailed as kids, or had an overlap period between work and cruising
when they went sailing on weekends, or joined family members or
friends on yachts for weeks at a time prior to their big adventures. I
don't think they get that really, I don't know how to sail. If Andy
fell overboard, we'd be in trouble.

But no, no-one has anything to offer on that point, in fact there's
just a spooky silence if I mention that I find sailing hard or, worse,
at times terrifying. Sailing is an art, a feeling, a dance, a sport,
just a thing you do, like walking or riding a bike. Come to think of
it, if you were asked to give advice on either of those two things,
what would you say? Just put one foot in front of the other, and stay
upright, it's easy. Just jump on and push and pedal and maintain
momentum and stay balanced all at the same time while also watching
for traffic and pedestrians and dogs and pot-holes. Easy? Try telling
that to a toddler, or a 6 year old.

I do in fact spend much of my time feeling like a toddler, or a six
year old. Standing up is hard, getting dressed is hard, feeding myself
is hard, and hardest of all is that everyone else around me is so damn
natural at all these things that it makes me want to SCREAM. Just like
a toddler, or a six year old. Yes, today I have entire and complete
sympathy for temper- tantrums, however seemingly pointless. On our
last trip I got myself into such a spin that both Andy and I wondered,
at times, if I should simply fly to New Zealand and meet him there.
Temper-tantrums are entirely natural; if any of you reading this are
parents, take a moment next time your child has a meltdown and give
them some credit for trying, just trying, in such a very difficult
world.

I sympathise also with the deep desire that kids have to be good at
things. To be competent, able, even relaxed. To not have to stick your
tongue out and frown with concentration at the simplest of actions.
Some people thrive on learning, the act of of gaining new skills and
knowledge. Not me,- I relish competence,- the act of having gained
those skills, and the ability to execute them well. It doesn't matter
if we talking public speaking, chemistry equations, ski-ing, playing
guitar, or cooking. I don't enjoy being sub-standard. Average is ok,-
I don't need to be a world athlete, but being continually the littlest
kid on the block, and generally a bit rubbish, is hard work. Not
helped by people ruffling you hair and pinching your cheek. Or
offering advice.

That said, when I can bring myself to grow up again, I must concede
that much of the advice has been extremely helpful, and likely other
of it will come in handy sometime in the unforseeable deep blue.
Flushing the toilet with tap water rather than sea when in a marina
has removed the smell completely, short-circuiting the ignition lamp
on the engine starter circuit identified our alternator problem, and a
complete lesson in calibration and use of a sextant means I'm now game
to pitch myself against the GPS. In the coming week, as we prepare to
leave, I'll also be cashing in on advice: covering eggs in vaseline
and rotating them regularly (to keep the yolk far removed from the
shell), boiling and then filling jars before pressure cooking them to
preserve meat, buying spare crocs, shorts, and several tonnes of
sunscreen, and filling our jars of grains with bay leaves to prevent a
weevil invasion. Plus, this weekend I intend to wash our fresh fruit
and veg in chlorine bleach and dry it in the sun before wrapping each
individually in newspaper. We have also been given a fishing lure
guaranteed to find us food us for several weeks, mapping software with
charts for the entire world (that communicates with our GPS and shows
us where we are in case my sextant readings leave something to be
desired), and enough films and audio-books to keep us from speaking to
each other ever again.

Thankfully I can immediately disregard all advice concerning the
importance of cold beers and baking cakes as we lack both a fridge,
and an oven.... and no, I don't want to know how to make Ma's best
crumble in a pressure cooker.

Jan 2nd: Learning Curve

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 20:48:00 +0000

Andy's voice interrupted my world of tea, toast, and general
wakingupness, "we're going to start sailing in a moment." Right. What
does that mean exactly? "Nothing to worry about, it should be relatively
smooth." Right. I think that means I'm meant to do something.

We had already lifted the anchor and started motoring out of the bay
where we had slept. "Sailing" must mean that the sails are going to go
up, and that usually means tippiness. But his second clarification meant
not too much tippiness. Ok, so I'm meant to secure stuff down, but don't
have to be too anal about it. Check. Cupboards, boxes, stuff in the
forepeak, check. The kitchen is a mess, I was pondering that when the
call came. I'll put these annoying little gadgets on the stove that stop
pots falling off. And turn off the pan. More pondering, I'm really not
even awake yet. Maybe he meant something else,- maybe he means he needs
me on deck to make the boat start sailing. Right, ok. So I should put
wet weather gear on. But my hands keep twiddling these silly fittings.
"Ok, just hold her there, into the wind" comes the next statement. He's
entirely relaxed and happy, has no idea of the maelstrom of voices that
are going on inside my head. In his world, this is all really very
chilled out and (amazingly) even enjoyable. Right. Steer her into the
wind. That means going outside. That means clothes. Overalls, jacket...
can't be arsed with boots, crocs are fine. It's blustery out, but should
only be for a few minutes.

I stumble up the stairs and outside. He's already off to do stuff so I
go to the wheel and point the boat somewhere. Then I remember to look at
the arrow and point it that way, but not too far that way cos then he'd
get hit by the boom. The arrow points into the wind. Everyone knows
that, right? Well, it wasn't obvious to me.. I thought it showed wind
direction. Ie. the direction of the wind, pointed like an arrow would
point if I drew it on a map and wanted to show the wind direction. Tail
down and head up. So now I have to turn myself inside out. The salty
dogs out there keep telling me to get rid of the arrow anyway and use my
cheek. One old dog patronisngly told me how amazed he was when people
didn't always know where the wind was. We were walking through some
woods at the time, and he said, there, I feel it on my neck. Well, fuck
you, I thought. And wanted to run away.

Back to the cockpit, must try and pay attention. We went sailing with
some good friends a few weeks ago, had an amazing time. One of them
really seemed to enjoy himself and later I commented on that to Andy. He
said, "yup, he'd make a great sailor. He pays attention to detail."
Attention To Detail. Well fuck you too. Shit, mind wandering again,
where's that bloody arrow gone and what's Andy doing anyway?

I look up and somehow the mainsail has miraculously hoisted itself .
Andy tells me to 'fall off'. I pause and look at him quizzically. "That
way?", pointing to my left. Yes. We're going around, in quite a tight
circle, and the boat suddenly lurches to one side. I hear a clutter and
a crash from inside and say nothing, hoping he didn't hear what I did.
Then it lurches the other way and I hear more destruction noises. I'll
be able to sort it out in a minute, not to worry.

He saunters back to the wheel, big smile, obviously happy how smoothly
this is all going. I'm about to give him the wheel back when I realise
he means to put the jib up now as well (that's the one at the front).
Shit. Well, what's smashed has smashed. But maybe I should just have a
peek. Hmm, how to do that without leaving the wheel? "I'm just going to
check the damage inside" I say as low pitched and calmly as possible. He
glances inside, "you might want to push that drawer in while you're at
it". Fuck, I hadn't even seen that.. the cutlery drawer, full of our
sharpest knifes and other eye- gouging utensils, fully out.

Inside things aren't as bad as I had feared. The Cupboard Of Doom is
wide open but nothing has fallen out, guess I forgot to latch the doors.
The kitchen area has just about survived, thanks to three of the four
silly gadgets I was twiddling. No, everything fine. Except my mug of tea
is somewhere I hadn't left it, and entirely empty. Where the hell did
all that liquid go then? Out of a corner of my eye I spy that one edge
of our lovely new sheepskin is soggy,- could it all be there?- I wonder,
hopefully.

Outside again (couldn't stay in too long or he might get suspecting),
and it's clear there's no way to avoid putting the jib up. "What do you
want me to do?" I ask, trying to sound as helpful as possible. "What
would you like to do?" he answers, knowing full well I just want to go
back to bed and pretend the day hasn't yet started. "Well," I reply
smiling as much as I am able, "you know I hate putting that thing up but
I guess I should get more practice". He approves I think. I'm not quite
the keen bright- eyed and very excited crew mate he is probably hoping
for, but at least I'm trying to resist being as dourfaced and downright
rude as my inside voice is goading me to be.

I'm up at the front now. Here's the ritual. Unlock the wire just a bit,
then lock it again. Go to the front and connect up the sail. Then back
to the winch, unlock and winch as hard as I can while also looking up,
behind me, to my side, and at the guy whose driving. The first time Andy
made me do this he pointed a way so that it was really windy and
chaotic. I let go of the cleat at the end of the wire, which
subsequently went flying and wrapped around some more wires and, well
anyway, it was horrible and made me want to cry. We repeated the action
a few minutes later under much calmer conditions, which was when I
relaised he had made it deliberately difficult: trying to give me a
taste of things to come. Well, maybe that's how he likes to learn but
not me. Put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Since then, to
his credit, he's been gentler in his teaching methodology.

It went up, no bother, and we sailed, really well, at about 7 knots,
between a few islands to where we were meeting some friends. The sailing
was good, I even volunteered to steer for a while. "Is this good
sailing?", I asked after about 20 minutes? "Yes,"he replied, "but I like
the fact that you have to ask."

Calen

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 19:25:00 +0000

There is a magical house in a magical bay on a secret island that's lost
in the past. The beach, all shingle and larger stones, makes a stripe
along one side. It isn't the edge of the village, but rather a gateway
from it. Parallel to the shore, along the entire bay, float hundreds of
blue and white buoys marking the top of mussel farms. Slightly further
out, in a square on the surface of the water, orange buoys identify the
edge of a salmon farm. I wonder what this place must look like to a
seal: lines of mussels dangling on ropes, thousands of fish bubbling
within nets. Chemicals and food in the water (throughout the area) that
have been added to feed both. A three dimensional view of this bay would
surely be a lot less tranquil than mine.

The other access point to this village is by road. A dirt track runs
parallel to the sea, at some point dissolving in both directions into
beach. Small houses are scattered along the shore, along the road, and
in its most populated area, along a few roads. In the middle of this
cluster also sit a church, a couple of shops, and an old red fire engine
from the 1920s or 30s, still functioning, the pride of the village. A
bus visits twice a day, taking locals to and from work and school. The
Sunday afternoon bus is most crowded, taking passengers who stay away
for the week to their work and study places several hours away.

Chiloé is a special place. Before visiting I was told it remained 100
years in the past, and had the highest population of churches in the
world. Both may be true, and I don't get the feeling anyone wants it to
be any different. If anything, there are many projects trying to keep it
the same, but with the comforts of this century. I look up from my
keyboard to see a pig walking along the beach, past a small chilean flag
on a post. Out in the bay float two beautiful wooden boats built
entirely by hand by local craftsmen. I am surrounded by books recording
Chiloé folklore, artwork, music, and faces. One of them tells of the
vibrant indigenous communities still living on the nearby islands.
Others are full of photos of boats, the building of boats, the stories
and uses of boats, the history of these boats. The next village along
from here, San Juan, is a boat-building hub. All wood, mostly
traditional 'lanches' with a wide bellies and shallow draft so they can
easily beach at low tide. I guess if we intend to explore the world by
boat, I'll be seeing more of this industry.

Zephyrus is moored in front of this house. It's our third visit here,
and this time we are proud to have arrived by sea. We are having a few
quiet days here, making things good, cleaning, sorting, preparing, and
enjoying. We expect some friends to arrive to celebrate New Years eve
and after that we'll head onwards again, or maybe around. Maybe even
around the island for a taste of the real Pacific on the other side.

The Muntt

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 20:16:00 +0000

December 23rd, 2009, Puerto Montt:

Rain is hammering down outside. Again. The water tank leaked. Again. The person who was meant to help us didn't show up. Again. The rain really is hammering down outside; I've never seen anything quite like it. This town, without doubt, has the worst weather I have ever experienced. Rain falls such that the entire sky fills with gray. It's almost monsoonal, but without the heat. I recently complained to a friend that it hadn't stopped raining "all week". He jumped to the defence of his hometown,- only on Tuesday had it rained all day he said: on all other days there had at least been a ten minute break for breath.

Andy arrived here in January, I arrived at the end of April, just as winter was ending in the UK and settling in here. Since that time we have been working almost continuously on the boat. From March until September she was 'on the hard' and gutted entirely. Everything on the outside was removed, down to the last cleat and fitting. And the same on the inside as well. The kitchen, the bathroom, even the tiles in the bathroom and an entire wall, the beds, the seats... they all got ripped out. And then the real excavation began. Under the forepeak, the batteries, the great lumps of lead that were discovered up front presumably to balance the weight of the engine, the engine, the instruments, all the valves that connect inside with outside, all the electrical wiring and plumbing, it was all taken out. And then came the slow and painful process of putting it back together again. In each case discovering new problems, struggling with buying or importing the necessary parts, learning the relevant spanish, and becoming accustomed to the local culture in order to cope with endless mananas and the local work ethic, or lack of.

It's been a slog and promises of a beautiful Pacific cruise remain like the proverbial carrot, always dangling sometime in the future.

A couple of weeks ago we went for our first sail and only then did I start to fathom just how much was taken out, and how much was put back on again. The big things would be obvious to many: the mast, boom, reefing points on the boom, sails, ropes, cleats, runners, liferaft, rudder, radar, navigation lights, and a load of things I don't even know the name of. But also every fitting, screw, instrument, light, cushion, cooking pot, tool, book, and picture has been deliberately added back to the boat's complement. So it was really a magnificent moment when she sailed, and she sailed well.

When I first arrived Andy already knew the boat inside out and had basic conversational spanish. I had neither, and felt like a spare wheel for several months. Last week Andy went away and I thought I'd remember what it was like to achieve something for a change. I decided to tackle one of the more looming jobs in his absence: replacing the water tanks. The details are tedious but essentially we have two 200L tanks under the floor, built into the hull, that leaked. There were a number of solutions ranging from filling 200 2L coke bottles to ripping out the entire floor and commissioning new tanks out of stainless steel. I opted for something that I thought was middle ground: ripping up only half the floor and commissioning one 100L plastic tank to fill the available space. The whole thing was meant to take 3 days. Over a week later, it is still an on-going saga. Andy returned to a 5 foot long hole in the floor partially occupied by a plastic tank that ruptured upon filling. By the time we leave we'll have a sound solution, but it's given me a lot of insight into how hard everything has been here, and why it's taken so long.

We are now at the point that most cruisers who have been hiding here for the winter were at when they arrived: we have a functional, sail-able, vessel with a few problems that need fixing. We also need to move ourselves and our stuff on board completely, provision the boat for several months, and, oh yeah, I need to learn to sail. The boat has to leave Chile at the end of Jan which, from here, means a long journey whether you go south, north, or west. I therefore look forward to several miracles occurring in the next month and reporting to you when we are finally out in the Big Blue Wet Stuff.

December 26th, 2009:

It's Boxing Day, and we're gone. On Christmas Eve we packed up the last of our gear, cleaned out of the cabana we have been renting, cleaned off the jetty we have been piling crap onto, and filled up with food and fuel. On Christmas Day, at 1pm, we pulled out of the marina and headed west. The weather was pretty foul: rain and wind, lots of both, but at least wind was one of the two. And we were on the go. Three friends joined us to celebrate the festive moment, as well as a pod of about 40 dolphins, interweaving our bow, surfing on the waves we produced. Pretty magical all told, despite the british weather. A couple of hours of powerful sailing followed by several more hours of eating and drinking. One of our guests was a musician so the night ended with the guitar being undug from our pile of stuff shortly before Andy rowed two of them ashore in the pouring rain to catch a bus back to The Muntt.

The boat sailed. She sailed beautifully. Boggles my mind really, what's been happening, and where we're going next.... but most importantly, she sailed, and she has a happy crew. Today we sailed a further 25 miles to a sweet spot guided by our remaining companion. For the next week or two we'll be exploring waters around the island of Chiloe, fixing things, sorting through stuff, learning our way around inside and out, and settling into the concept that next time we leave this rainy town that has become or home, we hope to not be returning for a long while.

Paul, and the PhD

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 22:43:00 +0000

Paul is one of the quirkier, and cooler, people I have met here.
Single-handing around the world from Vancouver, via the Southern
Ocean, with a tight budget and a very big heart. He flies a Canadian
flag, and has gentle Canadian overtones to his voice, but if you
listen carefully there's a born and bred scouser underneath. And what
a great Liverpudlian ambassador he is too. His father was a merchant
seaman from China, and his mother from Manchester I think. I'll have
to ask,- I asked far more about his Dad as he sounded so interesting.
He only ever spoke a pidgin English, with his kids as well, and could
cook perfect rice every time. Cover the rice with cold water so that
it comes just over your thumb, was that it?, and cook until all
absorbed. Must pay more attention.

Anyway, there are many interesting things about Paul, not just his
youth. On his way here he floated adrift with no wind for six months,
almost running out of both food and water, he speaks fluent Portugese
having lived in Brazil for several years, he travelled from here to
Buenos Aires and back in winter on a folding bike brought on his boat,
and he makes a mean cup of tea. The best bit though? He's a full-on
theoretical phycisist.

Initially when I caught him scribbling away, filling his notepad with
mathematical symbols, I thought this was an inspired way to pass time
through the dismal and endless rain of Puerto Montt. More recently,
however, he's been spied deriving even on sunny days. "I know, I know
I should be out there getting my boat ready, but I just really think I
might get something out of this..." and back he goes to his notebook,
squeezing those equations, scribbling furiously. Andy once decided to
creep up on him unawares; I was mortified... that one innocent 'boo'
might have undone three weeks of good thinking. And so I became very
nostalgic for academia, and a world where it's good to spend the day,-
thinking.

Alas, all who live and work in academia know this isn't the truth at
all, not even during a sabbatical. And Paul probably gets a lot more
pure thinking time on his boat as he sails than ever he did within
University walls. And he still has a good relationship with his home
University so he can publish while 'on the road'. Hey, that's a good
idea, a University Without Walls. I had to ask, what's he working on?
Quarternions, equations invented by Hamilton. Something to do with
four dimensional complex numbers but beyond that I was lost, which was
a shame, as I'd really like to get it, at least a little bit.

"What do you all do to occupy your minds then?", Paul once asked to an
assembled crew of tea drinkers in our cockpit. David, he fixes stuff.
Andy, he, well...actually, he's very good at hanging out with the
world. It's one of his qualities that I envy most, and am least good
at. I'm a pretty good daydreamer but without some kind of focussed
activity to bring me back they tend to get a bit dramatic, frequently
ending with deaths, storms, and occasionally time travel. Looking at
other boats, the cruising parents out there are of course eternally
occupied with parenting, and one woman I met loves to listen to
audiobooks on long passages. I have no idea what I'll do,- it's one of
the scarier aspects to the next year for me. In fact, I'm that scared
that I've even tried to learn how to to crochet and bake. I kid you
not.

So one day Paul and I were chatting, about everything and not very
much at all, and I mentioned that I thought building/refitting a boat
was a bit like doing a PhD. He pushed me, ofcourse, and we actually
got quite far with it. There are of course massive differences too, so
I requalified. Refitting a boat would be like doing a PhD if you were
trying to do something entirely new, and also documented every
decision you made along the way, and justified it based on other
people's previous experience, and then wrote a book about it at the
end explaining why you did what you did and how your boat is just ever
so slightly different from any other boat, and how this contributes to
the overall development of boats. So, really, building a boat is
nothing like doing a PhD at all, except for all the slog, all the
endless problems that you meet and have to find a solution to, all the
new skills you never wanted to have that it demands you learn, and
hopefully the satisfaction at the end. A PhD should be a ticket to
exploring the waves of your mind; a boat, well... just a different way
to explore the world.

In the last few days Paul has set off for South Georgia, and then
South Africa. He will, without doubt, encounter the unknown. Big seas,
beautiful albatrosses, stunning landscapes, terrible weather, and a
lot of time with himself. Many people here think he's crazy,- he's not
taking any means for outward communication such as a satellite phone
or radio transmitter, he's not downloading weather data every three
hours like most of us trying to play God, he's not expecting it to be
easy, or trying to make it easy. But he's prepared, and he's ready,
and mosty importantly he knows how to make an excellent brew, and sit,
and think.

Test Posting

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:47:00 +0000

This is a test, to see what it looks like if we post to the blog via
email (as opposed to internet)... which will be the only way we can
post once we're get into the great blue wet stuff. Oh yeah, and I
attach a photo of Andy working hard.... to be fair, it's a photo of
him enjoying the first sail after nine months of complete renovation
pain. He deserves to enjoy.

We are sailing

noreply@blogger.com (smilingfootprints) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 14:46:00 +0000

our virgin voyage...

Jerry's Ferry

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:29:00 +0000

Last Saturday was pure fun. It rained, it hailed, the wind howled, the sun shone, the the rain returned and so it continued. The day before Andy had been caught in a (spanish) conversation along the lines of:

english version:
" do you like boats"
"yes"
"great, I'll sign you up for tomorrow then"

spanish version:
"do you like racing small boats"
"yes"
"great, I'll sign you up for tomorrow's regatta then"

And so it was that we found ourselves, for the first time, actually splashing around in boats, untethered. (Andy in a dinghy, me in a rather larger yacht belonging to a friend.)

The boat theme continued into the early evening with the launch of Jerry's Ferry,- as the below video presents. Jeremy, Vanessa, Kila, and Max have made the brave move of moving off their boat and the cruising/homeschooling lifestyle they have enjoyed for the last three years, and into a beautiful house on an island opposite the marina and school on the mainland. In order to make those howling winter (and, it seems, spring) days more tolerable for the daily commute, this extraordinarily cute boat was commissioned...

(for those who have been asking for a Zephyrus update, here is a relatively calm moment captured on video...)

Music in Zeph

noreply@blogger.com (smilingfootprints) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:24:00 +0000

Hopefully the last, but no means the least important, in a long list of electrical installations in the boat... the sound system is wired up.

Red Light

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:15:00 +0000

A Monday afternoon, early evening; the pause after work and before the party (there are many parties here). Tonight we celebrate because our friend Jean is leaving, heading south through the channels of Patagonia, towards his home in Puerto Williams. We like to say that this, Puerto Montt, is southern Chile, but it's the banana belt compared to Williams. 'Puerto Williams' evokes memories of glaciers pouring out of mountain valleys, a small frontier town with dogs and horses on every corner, and a tiny bar that served us the most delicious hot chocolate I have ever tasted. Partly the warm drink and friendly welcome, mostly the transition from outside: cold cold windy and cold.

We celebrate becuase Jean is leaving. A week ago was a party to celebrate the departure of Francis and Christine. She was fantastic, elements of Mrs Pepperpot, elements of Ellen Macarthur. Strong, small, twinkly eyed, had sailed across the Atlantic with just her teenage son several years ago. When she and Francis met, they both had several sailing years, and boats, behind them. One marina woman definitely not fulfilling the couple stereotypes. She spoke no word of English or I French, so we communicated initially through sign language and mutually non-existent spanish. By the time they left our spanish had improved only slightly and my fondness for her had rocketed. Truth be told we only chatted a handful of times but I was a little sad to see them go. On the whole though everyone here is happy to say goodbyes. Makes a nice change.

Many of the yachties here are French with representation also from the Netherlands, South Africa, Switzerland, UK, Sweden, Finland, Canada, the US, and, earlier in the year, Germany. The lingua franca roams between english, spanish, french, and whatever combination of words those in the conversation feel like throwing in. It's not uncommon to hear people speaking and responding in entirely different languages. I used to speak reasonable German, at least enough to be understood in most situations, but now whenever I seek for German sentences bad spanish pops out instead. And so we muddle on.

Today has been rainy. We've seen a lot of rain here. Two days ago it was hailing. By that afternoon the clouds parted to reveal three stunning snowcapped volcanoes and a setting sun over the Pacific. The next day was yet again ming. But we are told that summer is coming, and that when it does arrive we shall rejoice. Not only that, but el nino is also coming. To the waters across which we hope to sail early next year. I'm not really sure of the implications of that at this stage but we're keeping our ears tuned to the salty seafarers wisdom while also learning where to look for latest predictions from met services online. I have great respect for both sources.

Today was a pottering sort of day and as such we got lots done. Bought electrical and plumbing odds and sods in town, pulled a rag out of a tube it had got lodged in, secured cables, reorganised batteries, fired off emails and made skype calls to source good liferafts and software for the satellite phone, and generally took note of what will be done this week. In the afternoon Andy was called off to help a friend move a boat and I got Zeph to myself. We had a lovely time. I wired in a 12V cigarette charger (for charging computers, not lighting cigarettes) and a red light. Both took longer than they should have, but I enjoyed the process. The cigarette lighter twirled around and around in the hole we had made for it so I had to bodge a washer out of a floor mat that was first too large and then too small and then just right (the washer, not the mat).

The design of those 12V sockets really is stupid; I would even argue redundant and dangerous. Exactly finger size, and especially interesting to small and curious fingers. And I know no-one who uses them to light cigarettes any more,- even those few friends I have who drive and smoke at the same time use a lighter. But lots of us use the 12V socket for powering mp3 players, cool boxes, computers and mobile phones. So why not design a more sensible socket for that purpose and fit those in cars and boats instead? Consider it technological progress.

The red light was particularly satisfying because it was a complete process from start to end. I had to wire the bulb holder, attach the switch, solder them all together, crimp the other ends, cut out the relevant bit of cable running through the boat and choose the right wires (blue and green, not brown), put it all together, screw it to the ceiling, and even managed to tidy up before Andy got back. When he asked 'what did you do today?', I wondered over to the front of the boat, fiddled for a switch (not ideally located), and on came a red light. Made us both laugh. Not, perhaps, the most important step forward for our Pacific plans but you know, every little thing ...

Unfortunately for Andy it seems I've re-discovered an interest in simple electricity. If he's not careful we'll have a boat full of redundant switches and flashing lightbulbs for every day I'm bored at sea. Now there's a threat....

A Floating Boat!

noreply@blogger.com (smilingfootprints) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 20:55:00 +0000

August was quite a strange month for us, mostly dominated by return from a great trip to Peru followed immediately by being burgled.. for the second time in a short number of weeks. A comedy of errors resulted in two items being returned to us, but only because one of them conveniently gave an exact GPS location of its whereabouts so we could track it down... to a police station! Computers, cameras, and video camera all nicked too (and not found) so that's our excuse for silence on the bloggy front. Plus a general lack of interest in writing about blah crap stuff like the above. The truly great news of the week, however, is that Zephyrus was put back in the water last Monday... and we now have, for the first time in 5 months, a boat that floats. Better pics to follow but for now these were taken by a neigbour who was there right as the bubbly was popped.... cheers!

Home, in Pelluco

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:58:00 +0000

Andy happy to be home

What is home?
It must be a feeling, not more or less.
Where my family is? No, not that, they are not here though home is where I'm at.
Where my friends are perhaps? Again, really no. There are people here I'll smile to see but my dearest friends are miles away.
Then what is home?
The place of my belongings? Not even that. The things most dear to me were stolen not long ago, and the rest can all be replaced. Mostly books and clothes.

Home must be the space where you can be.
Alone, with a partner, with friends, or with tea.
Home is the place where I can be me.
Indeed, home is the place where I must be me, for what a sad misuse of space if even here I cannot see, or try to be, what I need most.

***

It's twee, I accept, and just a doodle that I scribbled when we got back, but glad I was to be [back]. Indeed. Christopher Robin and wellington boots, we are back on the land where we stomp in puddles and mud and go on long tromps with dogs who think we are theirs. It's good to be back, we have a lovely cabana, a wood burning stove, and a glorious view of the sea. This is our temporary abode while Zephyrus is overhauled and it's delicious.

The day after I burbled the above we were burgled, for a second time. Now we truly have nothing of value left in our home except the kind of equipment only appreciated by those who love mountains, a lot. Needless to say it was fairly rubbish but the outpouring of rage amongst people here who we barely know has been quite moving. People of all walks and connection to us are not only upset by the break-ins, but also have a sincere wish that we leave here with positive memories of the place and the people. Which we shall. There are good and bad folk the world over but if the good keep feeding me donuts I'll leave here smiley and happy and raving about the South.

walking home from the bus

Inca Gods and Human Ants

noreply@blogger.com (Rhian) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 22:26:00 +0000

The Gods look down on everything, and always have. Up high on a hillside overlooking Ollantaytambo I see an ancient town, still built on Inca foundations. From the main square to the north run alleys built of stone, and between them lie courtyards, each surrounded by rooms, usually on two storeys, that make homes, and always have. Days are hot and nights are cool, a warm wind blows with surprising force from the west.

Ollantaytambo sits in a valley on the Urubamba river, and has steep hills on all sides. To the south-east I can see the river meandering here through gentle countryside, from the Sacred Valley, apparrantly a land of plenty. To the north-west however, the scenery changes. Hills become mountains, the valley more like a ravine, and the river travels on to Machu Picchu, and eventually the Amazon. (I have become keenly aware of how quickly the environment changes during these last few weeks in Peru- with Cape Farewell we hiked down from high Andean puna grassland, through cloud forest and into rainforest in a couple of days, and the climate changed from freezing to baking within a week.)

I am on an eastern wall, sitting in an old Incan granary, or so my guidebook speculates. Across the valley, and town, is a steep hill defined by terraces and half built temples, at least 500 years old if not much more. Winding amidst these is a constant ant-trail of humans, imported by the coachload every day from Cuzco. When I see the huge coachpark at the base of the ruins, I wonder how many of them even get to walk around this beautiful town and breathe in its dust.

Seeing the human tourists from afar is enough for me - I read through the tour in my book and imagine my way through the great stones, picking out various features from a distance.

This is only our third such site, and each one has been a different experience in both location and strategy. The winner by far was Sacsaywaman, on a steep hill above Cuzco, at sunrise, shared only with a few local kids and teenagers enjoying their Sunday morning by playing in this great open space. And play they do... football, volleyball, basketball, hopscotch, and any number of made-up amusements in all the streets.. all ages, you name it, it´s being played in Peru!

The second site was Machu Picchu. We didn´t do this one quite right, but then it´s difficult to know what right might be. The dream, ofcourse, would be to hike in. But the Inca Trail is booked until September and if you do hike in, you have to join a guided group. Andy as part of a guided walking group? I can´t quite see it. We opted instead for the train, a glorious journey by any standard (and from any train- the tourist prices range from $40 to $220!).. and chose to spend the night nearby in Aguas Caliente in order to get in early. Which we did... arriving at 5am for the first bus, at 5.30, we joined a queue with over 200 people in front of us. (I´m not exaggerating - we were on bus number 10 and each had a capacity of 200 to 270 depending on layout.) Machu Picchu itself is ofcourse incredible but I need a couple more weeks in Peru to decide if the visit is great enough to outweigh the tourist machine that takes you there. And where does the money go? Train plus bus plus entry will cost even the lowest budget non-student about $150, and that´s not to mention food and accommodation.

And now we´re in Ollantaytambo. In the Sacred Valley of the Incas. And I can understand why. The climate is perfect, the people gentle, and the great river is said to reflect the Milky Way. At night the Southern Cross and Scorpio shine bright amongst the southern hemisphere stars, and point us in the direction we are headed: south, back to Chile.... the slow way.