Dear Friends;
We arrived at Mal Island in the Ninigo Islands, Papua New Guinea, anchor down and set, at 2321 UTC (0921 local time) on Tuesday, August 9, 2016. During our challenging passage from the Republic of Palau we averaged 3.1 knots, about the speed of a brisk walk. Our fastest speed was almost 8.5 knots and our slowest, 0 knots. Our average speed for this passage was well below what we would normally expect, but considering we had days of almost calm conditions and Carina was carrying such a heavy payload, we were pleased we got here mostly under sail, using fewer than eight gallons of diesel.
Of the 12 days and 883 miles at sea, we had about 7 days of light winds where we were sometimes only able to coax Carina to speeds of 1.5 kts or so in the right direction. Our most frustrating 24 hour run found us only 30 nm further along on the trip. Other days we spent in near gale conditions with driving rain that reduced visibility to a point just beyond our bow. We barely squeaked by one approaching squall with roiling black clouds that could have made footage for a movie about Armageddon.
We had a few failures en route, as we always expect, and only a couple of those were of concern. Our mast collar developed a leak - an annoyance, our man-overboard pole flag retainer slipped down the backstay - only a problem for the service life of the flag, our apparent wind indicator appears bent - perhaps by a boobie trying to land on it, though we haven't yet been up the mast to check on it so we really don't know what's up. Three of the four bolts on the fairlead for our starboard main boom preventer failed, and we broke a Monitor windvane steering control line on day two. The last item was the only one that created a stressful repair underway. We solved the preventer fairlead failure by re-rigging both sides with new blocks to the genoa track. This is actually a better configuration than the one we were using.
The Monitor windvane control line failure is our own fault. We DID check the lines before departing, it is on our list to check, but we determined them to be serviceable. In hindsight, a poor judgment. The main problem was when the Monitor Windvane steering control line broke under tension in an intense squall, the line came completely out of the framework of the unit and was dangling in the water astern, and our self-steering was disabled. At the time we had waves of 2 meters or more, confused seas and winds at near gale force.
We immediately rolled in the genoa and hove to, lashing the wheel to windward (rudder to lee). This makes the situation much calmer, though Carina, bow to wind and "parked", still rode up and down the large waves that often buried parts of the windvane. We have a liferaft, anchor and outboard engine stored astern when underway and other bits such as fenders. Moving the movable, we attempted to reach the windvane to snake a new line through. Not. Using a stiffer line of the same size got us almost there, but again, we failed to push the new line out the bottom turning block so we could run it to the paddle. It finally became apparent one of us would have to climb out onto the unit on the stern of the boat, during the storm. Leslie, being more nimble, did so.
Tethered to the boat by her harness, she climbed over the pushpit and wiggled her small self onto the windvane's frame. Squatting on the frame, one hand gripping the pushpit firmly, she could not reach the block where the line was stuck, so she sat down on the frame and hugged it with her right arm, sticking her legs out the other side. As we struggled, Carina's stern was frequently sunk into wave troughs and Leslie's butt was submerged. In what seemed like hours, but was only minutes (with Philip gripping Leslie with white knuckles), she firmly grasped the end of the new line and pulled it through the hole in the frame and into the fitting on the paddle. Handing the line's end to Philip, he pulled it aboard, still gripping Leslie tightly until she came back over the pushpit. Breathing now, we tied a slipknot. The line we had fed through the frame was not the line we needed, so we still had to hand sew and tape-to-smooth the new line to the "messenger" and feed it through. This went smoothly and our new "Amsteel" single braid, stronger than steel, line was installed. We then replaced the undamaged starboard line since it was a twin to the line that had broken. The whole repair took us about 2 hours.
In an area of thousands of square miles of Pacific ocean, you would think that potential collisions would be astronomically rare. But on this journey, we had three huge cargo ships - of the dozen or so we saw - whose reciprocal track was EXACTLY 180 degrees from ours! This meant that, unless one or both vessels altered course, a collision was likely. This is a bit nerve wracking at 0200 on a "dark and stormy night".
It was here where our AIS instrument really shined. For you land lubbers, an AIS (Automatic Identification System) is an electronic device that every deep draft vessel plying international waters, and most pleasure yachts, carry. Many nationally-registered vessels, such as fast ferries in Indonesia do not have an AIS. And, even if an AIS is legally required that doesn't mean the vessel will actually turn the device on. Our buddies on the mega-purse seiners rarely show an AIS signal. But, when a vessel does transmit, and most large vessels we encounter do, they put out an electronic signal that shows the vessel name, flag, port of call, destination and - much more importantly - the speed and course which is translated by our instrument into a closest point of approach (in nautical miles) and a time to the closest point of approach (CPA, TCPA) relative to Carina. Carina's AIS puts out a similar messages, though we are a class B unit appropriate for our size, so we don't have as much power or as many details.
Because of this information, whenever it is necessary, we are able to call the other vessel by name on the VHF radio on the international standby frequency, channel 16, apprise them of our presence if they haven't already seen us, and discuss a possible course change. When we are under sail, we are supposed to be the stand-on vessel, meaning we have more difficulty maneuvering. In this regard, the motor vessel becomes the give way vessel and is supposed to change course. The captains or watch officers we talked with on this trip may all have had heavy accents but all spoke English and all were polite and professional and altered course by a few degrees to pass us at a distance of 1 to 2 nm. Once we realized that our chosen passage almost exactly followed a busy shipping area to Asia, our watch-officer - one or the other of us is on watch during the entire 24 hours - became even more diligent about scanning the horizon frequently.
Our passage from Palau was during a waning moon and we had many nights of inky skies where even the stars were hidden by clouds. It's a bit disconcerting to be rolling along at 5 to 6 knots without being able to see anything ahead of you except for what might show up on radar with the rain gain nearly maxed out (rain return being subtracted in an attempt to see a ship hidden in a squall.) We did see, in the daytime, two FADs (fish accumulating devices) along the way. These are large, metal floating cylinders about three meters long that are tethered to the sea floor sometimes, 4,000 meters (13,000 feet) below. FADs are unlit and won't generally return a signal on radar unless you are just about to hit them. Some fishing vessels with attach themselves to a FAD and have small boats fishing or tending to smaller floats. FADs were a constant worry for us.
Just eighty-some-odd miles from our destination, we paused long enough to toast King Neptune with a healthy tot of rum as we crossed the equator under sail for the 11th time.
Our arrival at Ninigo corresponded with dawn and as we motored against a light southerly wind down the western side of the atoll, its motus began to become visible in the rising sun. Checking and re-checking our position on a satellite photo we pointed Carina's bow towards the pass, ran its rapids and were soon inside the protected lagoon and at anchor. It seemed almost impossible to believe we were finally here at Ninigo after months of planning and our longer-than-expected passage. We were soon enveloped by the island community and it has been a great stay so far...we have much still to do and many stories to tell. Until then...
Your friends of the yacht Carina,
Philip, Leslie and fat cat, Jake
website: www.sv-carina.org
At 8/11/2016 and 7:16 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°23.54'S / 144°10.80'E
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Monday, 15 August 2016
Thursday, 11 August 2016
Hope Comes with the Wind
The words "Les, it's time" routed me out of the warm cozy rocking bunk into the dim red light of the main salon. It was 2130 and I'd been asleep about 2 and a half hours. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I rummaged around on the opposite bunk looking for the clothing I had deposited there. As the boat rocked beam to beam, I fumbled with dressing. "What's happenin'?, I mumbled" "Winds are shifting and I am having to head northeast. It looks like we're going to get a squall. Why don't you hustle out here and we'll heave to until it goes by." "Ok, sure". Quickly securing my inflatable harness I paused briefly at the companionway to clip onto my tether before continuing to the cockpit. Philip was in the midst of furling the genoa while the boat wallowed in the swell. I took the wheel, released the windvane steering device and took note of our point of sail as Philip pull the mainsheet traveler to the centerline. "Are we ready?" "We just need to get the preventer ready. Ok, got it" "Ready?" "Yep" "Wearing ship! She's coming around, wind abaft, coming over, now" - whomp - the boom moved across the boat onto the other tack in a motion dampened by the grip Philip held on a preventer line, and I kept the wheel to weather to bring her bow towards the wind. Settling in to a hove to stop, Philip handed me a line to secure the wheel to weather, then went below to brew some tea, record our position report and weather conditions, and begin his off-watch.
Standing up and looking around into the night to search for lights of ships, the blackness of the night seemed intimidating, particularly since I was anticipating the approaching squall. Bringing the radar out of standby mode, I studied the squall. A few minutes later, sipping tea, I tidied up the various control lines in the cockpit to kill time and ready us for the deluge. Time ticked ever so slowly. Luckily the squall was not intense and the rain was relatively light, at least by tropical standards.
As the rain tapered off, winds filled in and I was thrilled to determine that they were from the SE or even ESE as we had been given a prediction of southerlies; a wind that would not allow us to sail to Ninigo. Releasing the wheel, I wore ship again and sheeted in and then dropped the mainsheet traveler to lee so we would get a bit of drive and begin to move forward. Adjusting and setting the windvane to steer on our course of 180, or due south, I rolled out the staysail and Carina's speed rose a bit more and steering became more reliable. I then turned my attention to the genoa and sequentially let out furling line and cranked on the winch until I had about 1/3 of the genoa flying. By this time, Carina was zipping along at about 4.5 knots in about 10 knots of breeze, as hard to the wind as she points. She was balanced and heeled only a bit. With the momentum, she began to drive to weather even better and our course was actually east of the rhumb line to our waypoint 6 nm west of the west-most motu at Ninigo, so I eased the sheets a bit and re-adjusted the helm.
Standing up and gripping the dodger handhold, I poked my head up to survey the surroundings and could see nothing except blackness. The uncomfortable feeling of driving hard at unseen hazards made me stain my eyes and sniff the warm night air, though I was thrilled to be sailing after days of excruciatingly slow progress in mere zephyrs of less than five knots. Carina's motion was fluid and she hit each wave with gusto that surprised me given her payload. I was no longer groggy...I was having fun and happily anticipating arrival at Ninigo after almost 12 days at sea.
At 8/9/2016 and 0:56 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°23.54'S / 144°10.80'E.
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Standing up and looking around into the night to search for lights of ships, the blackness of the night seemed intimidating, particularly since I was anticipating the approaching squall. Bringing the radar out of standby mode, I studied the squall. A few minutes later, sipping tea, I tidied up the various control lines in the cockpit to kill time and ready us for the deluge. Time ticked ever so slowly. Luckily the squall was not intense and the rain was relatively light, at least by tropical standards.
As the rain tapered off, winds filled in and I was thrilled to determine that they were from the SE or even ESE as we had been given a prediction of southerlies; a wind that would not allow us to sail to Ninigo. Releasing the wheel, I wore ship again and sheeted in and then dropped the mainsheet traveler to lee so we would get a bit of drive and begin to move forward. Adjusting and setting the windvane to steer on our course of 180, or due south, I rolled out the staysail and Carina's speed rose a bit more and steering became more reliable. I then turned my attention to the genoa and sequentially let out furling line and cranked on the winch until I had about 1/3 of the genoa flying. By this time, Carina was zipping along at about 4.5 knots in about 10 knots of breeze, as hard to the wind as she points. She was balanced and heeled only a bit. With the momentum, she began to drive to weather even better and our course was actually east of the rhumb line to our waypoint 6 nm west of the west-most motu at Ninigo, so I eased the sheets a bit and re-adjusted the helm.
Standing up and gripping the dodger handhold, I poked my head up to survey the surroundings and could see nothing except blackness. The uncomfortable feeling of driving hard at unseen hazards made me stain my eyes and sniff the warm night air, though I was thrilled to be sailing after days of excruciatingly slow progress in mere zephyrs of less than five knots. Carina's motion was fluid and she hit each wave with gusto that surprised me given her payload. I was no longer groggy...I was having fun and happily anticipating arrival at Ninigo after almost 12 days at sea.
At 8/9/2016 and 0:56 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°23.54'S / 144°10.80'E.
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Sunday, 7 August 2016
Wayward Traveler
Saturday, while ghosting along just outrunning the flotsam in the water, a songbird, probably a swallow, landed on our wind generator. It was a pretty little thing with a swallowtail and a lustrous blue sheen to the feathers on its back. We lost track of it with our focus on keeping Carina moving. A few hours later it suddenly appeared - fell really - from the coaming into the cockpit. It looked distressed with its wings spread and head down. Philip gently lifted it and put it on a coil of rope and then offered it some water, After some hesitation, it drank the water, raised its beak to swallow, winked its eyes and rubbed its beak jauntily on the plastic water container. We thought perhaps with rest it might recover from its side-trip here, more than one hundred miles from the nearest land. What hope we had for our little passenger was dashed when it began to convulse and worked its way into the rain gulley on the lazarette. Again, Philip gently picked it up and relocated it this time to the top of our dinghy supplies bag on the stern where it seemed to find some comfort. Within an hour it was dead and we buried the poor little thing at sea.
At 8/7/2016 and 19:41 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°22.21'S / 144°22.20'E.
We were traveling 197T degrees true at 2.8 knots.
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At 8/7/2016 and 19:41 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°22.21'S / 144°22.20'E.
We were traveling 197T degrees true at 2.8 knots.
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Target
We have had a surprising number of deep draft vessels passing by us on this passage. Vessels traveling both northbound and southbound, and often from or bound for China. We have had to follow each one and in some cases communicate with the crew, to ensure safe passage of both of our vessels. Our AIS has been a fantastic tool!
At least half of these close encounters occur at night. Last night we had three vessels that passed within 1-1.5 nm of Carina within the span of about an hour. One of these vessels was going to hit us until we alerted its crew to our position and they politely agreed to alter course and pass 1 nm on our starboard side. All three of these vessels appeared on our 12 nm AIS screen simultaneously, surrounding our position. Lest you think these vessels are of minor concern, their statistics show they are generally over 200 meters long and moving at 14 knots. In this same patch of sea, were also two purse seiners, one of which had come right at us at full speed, NOT putting out an AIS signal but trackable on radar. It only passed behind after we cranked up the diesel and fled south at maximum RPMs and put a mile between us.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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At least half of these close encounters occur at night. Last night we had three vessels that passed within 1-1.5 nm of Carina within the span of about an hour. One of these vessels was going to hit us until we alerted its crew to our position and they politely agreed to alter course and pass 1 nm on our starboard side. All three of these vessels appeared on our 12 nm AIS screen simultaneously, surrounding our position. Lest you think these vessels are of minor concern, their statistics show they are generally over 200 meters long and moving at 14 knots. In this same patch of sea, were also two purse seiners, one of which had come right at us at full speed, NOT putting out an AIS signal but trackable on radar. It only passed behind after we cranked up the diesel and fled south at maximum RPMs and put a mile between us.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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Energy Wanted
We have been plagued the last few days with light winds, or no wind at all. We have also had swells from more than one direction at the same time, emanating from storms to our north. This situation actually takes more energy from us than a situation with a lot of wind. (Under conditions of fresh to strong winds, we can fly along ticking off miles with only minor adjustments to sheets or the helm or the neutral position of the vane, as long as our sailplan is balanced and appropriate for the conditions.)
When winds are light, there is so little energy, every deviation from the optimal point of sail, every disturbance of the sails - furling or unfurling, sheeting in or out - or every roll with swell disturbs our precarious sailing equilibrium and Carina's forward momentum is diminished. The fluid motion of the boat is suddenly interrupted and she bucks a bit and dumps wind from the sails, flogging the sheets and chafing the cloth. Desperate to continue to move forward, even if at a pace slower than you can walk, we are more attentive than we would be during watches when winds are stronger and the windvane and Carina are working together smoothly. Life seems in slow motion and we must attend to our self steering almost constantly. Thus, we have little time for ourselves and feel less energetic as the days fly by ever so slowly.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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When winds are light, there is so little energy, every deviation from the optimal point of sail, every disturbance of the sails - furling or unfurling, sheeting in or out - or every roll with swell disturbs our precarious sailing equilibrium and Carina's forward momentum is diminished. The fluid motion of the boat is suddenly interrupted and she bucks a bit and dumps wind from the sails, flogging the sheets and chafing the cloth. Desperate to continue to move forward, even if at a pace slower than you can walk, we are more attentive than we would be during watches when winds are stronger and the windvane and Carina are working together smoothly. Life seems in slow motion and we must attend to our self steering almost constantly. Thus, we have little time for ourselves and feel less energetic as the days fly by ever so slowly.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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Visitors
The day was hot and winds were light; the seas was almost glassy. Philip was off watch. Carina rolled back and forth in the ocean swell and Leslie was steering with her fingertips. Into this sultry day came the sound of a helicopter. "%$#@* purse seiners," she muttered to no one. (Purse seiners use helicopters to locate schools of fish and we knew there were boats in the area.)
First the sound came from the east and then from the west but she could never see anything and seriously considered that she might be hearing things; delusional from the afternoon heat and sleep deprivation. Then the sound got louder and over the western horizon came a helicopter zipping straight at Carina at what seemed to be a gazillion MPH. "Holy-moly, there's a helicopter heading right at us!", she called down the companionway.
It was a big orange 'copter with inflatable pontoons and a callsign RP-#### on its tail. Just before it got to Carina, it backed to the north and went around her stern at just above eye level about a boat-length away, flew up our port side and around her bow so close Les thought for sure they'd slice our forestay in two. They backed off a little and came up our starboard side and two men looked into our cockpit. One held an SLR camera and was apparently shooting our photo. The other, in goggles and ear muffs, held the controls as they hovered frighteningly close. Leslie gave them a big wave and a smile and a thumbs up sign, they smiled back and returned the gesture and were gone in the blink of an eye. The whole scene took place in a couple of terrifying minutes.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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First the sound came from the east and then from the west but she could never see anything and seriously considered that she might be hearing things; delusional from the afternoon heat and sleep deprivation. Then the sound got louder and over the western horizon came a helicopter zipping straight at Carina at what seemed to be a gazillion MPH. "Holy-moly, there's a helicopter heading right at us!", she called down the companionway.
It was a big orange 'copter with inflatable pontoons and a callsign RP-#### on its tail. Just before it got to Carina, it backed to the north and went around her stern at just above eye level about a boat-length away, flew up our port side and around her bow so close Les thought for sure they'd slice our forestay in two. They backed off a little and came up our starboard side and two men looked into our cockpit. One held an SLR camera and was apparently shooting our photo. The other, in goggles and ear muffs, held the controls as they hovered frighteningly close. Leslie gave them a big wave and a smile and a thumbs up sign, they smiled back and returned the gesture and were gone in the blink of an eye. The whole scene took place in a couple of terrifying minutes.
At 8/7/2016 and 5:45 UTC (GMT) our position was: 00°07.55'S / 144°24.31'E.
We were traveling 214T degrees true at 2.7 knots.
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Thursday, 4 August 2016
Kavenga!
I come on watch at just after 4 am, mug of hot milky honey-laced tea in hand. The sea is glassy and we are rolling side to side with the swell, sails taking the brunt and dampening the motion. We are drifting roughly east by southeast. Adjusting to the starlight, I focus forward and try to discern the horizon. There is a light there. And then it is gone in the ground fog. I glance at the AIS and then turn the radar into transmit mode. Nothing. The light reappears. Magnified by binoculars, it appears green and red and white. Are these navigation lights? Or is this a star? Going below I launch an astronomy program on the tablet. Morning stars this day are Sirius under Orion and in the SE - bingo - Canopus. Going back above, I look again in the binoculars and see now that the red and green I saw were not lights of some distant boat but explosions revealed these light years away in brilliant twinkling light.
By this time, Canopus has risen a bit more and has distinguished itself from the horizon and its reflection stretches towards Carina....a starpath of traditional navigation that would lead us to the Ninigo Islands. At this moment, a meteor explodes and a sea bird flutters nearby before disappearing once again into the night. I whisper a wish into the sky.
Canopus is the navigation star in the constellation Carina.
At 8/4/2016 and 19:11 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°15.64'N / 143°16.17'E.
We were traveling 111T degrees true at 1.3 knots.
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By this time, Canopus has risen a bit more and has distinguished itself from the horizon and its reflection stretches towards Carina....a starpath of traditional navigation that would lead us to the Ninigo Islands. At this moment, a meteor explodes and a sea bird flutters nearby before disappearing once again into the night. I whisper a wish into the sky.
Canopus is the navigation star in the constellation Carina.
At 8/4/2016 and 19:11 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°15.64'N / 143°16.17'E.
We were traveling 111T degrees true at 1.3 knots.
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Wednesday, 3 August 2016
Subdued and Surprise
With the new moon, the night glowed dimly under starlight and patchy friendly dark clouds. Winds were up, winds were down and we merrily sailed along on a beam reach towards our equator waypoint at 144-20 E. Watches changed like clockwork with warm tea for the groggy new watch-mate and life was pretty great.
On Philip's watch at just before 3 am he spied a squall approaching from windward. At 8 nm from Carina (as measured by radar), its downdraft hit, much to his surprise. Carina pulled her head to windward and heeled dramatically to port. "I could use your help up here", he called down through the screeching wind.
When I arrived in the cockpit in my harness and clipped in, he had taken in the genoa amidst much loud banging of sheets and cranking of a winch and was at the wheel wrestling Carina to lee as we flew through the sea along the edge of an ominous coal-black line squall. Radar showed a second band with an even-more distinct shear, so we agreed to heave-to rather than worry as to its violence in the black of night. I grabbed the preventer line and we both watched the anemometer as Philip inched Carina through a wear-ship maneuver and hove to. Tying the wheel to windward, I handed him his heavy fisherman's rain jacket in anticipation of the deluge to come. Confirming with him that things were stable, I crawled back into the off watch bunk in the main salon and was lulled to sleep by gentle up and down motion of Carina sitting calmly waiting on the rest of the storm.
Sirius has risen and is twinkling colorfully in the east but the sunrise is red, foretelling what we do not know.
All is well aboard the good sailing-barge Carina.
At 8/3/2016 and 19:38 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°40.28'N / 142°21.85'E.
We were traveling 121T degrees true at 5.0 knots.
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On Philip's watch at just before 3 am he spied a squall approaching from windward. At 8 nm from Carina (as measured by radar), its downdraft hit, much to his surprise. Carina pulled her head to windward and heeled dramatically to port. "I could use your help up here", he called down through the screeching wind.
When I arrived in the cockpit in my harness and clipped in, he had taken in the genoa amidst much loud banging of sheets and cranking of a winch and was at the wheel wrestling Carina to lee as we flew through the sea along the edge of an ominous coal-black line squall. Radar showed a second band with an even-more distinct shear, so we agreed to heave-to rather than worry as to its violence in the black of night. I grabbed the preventer line and we both watched the anemometer as Philip inched Carina through a wear-ship maneuver and hove to. Tying the wheel to windward, I handed him his heavy fisherman's rain jacket in anticipation of the deluge to come. Confirming with him that things were stable, I crawled back into the off watch bunk in the main salon and was lulled to sleep by gentle up and down motion of Carina sitting calmly waiting on the rest of the storm.
Sirius has risen and is twinkling colorfully in the east but the sunrise is red, foretelling what we do not know.
All is well aboard the good sailing-barge Carina.
At 8/3/2016 and 19:38 UTC (GMT) our position was: 01°40.28'N / 142°21.85'E.
We were traveling 121T degrees true at 5.0 knots.
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Tuesday, 2 August 2016
Perfect Sailing
at least for awhile.
Just after our morning SSB radio sched with Soggy Paws in Indonesia and Cardea in Palau, we shook out our reef and were flying full canvas once more. This we hoped would move us at a pace more likely to get us to Ninigo in the near future. That must have been the move that our friends the wind gods had been waiting for.
The wind picked up to double digits and we took off flying in the bright sunshine. For about six hours we enjoyed shiny-magazine-perfect sailing with winds abeam. It was hard to wipe the smiles off our faces.
With the bright sun built convective clouds and by afternoon squalls began to form and we had to take back in that reef. The passing of a particularly wet one of our stormy friends shut down the sailing winds and left us slopping through chop and back to sedate sailing.
We can't complain, the stars are out and we're practicing memorizing more of them. Antares sparkled off to starboard in the SW in the constellation Scorpio with Mars and Saturn framing them. Spectacular.
Overnight we had a chat with the Jin Xia Feng, a cargo ship that was heading at us on an exact reciprocal course. All 229 m of him was headed straight for us at 11 knots. Thankfully we reached the watch officer and they altered course 10 degrees to port and passed 1.3 nm to starboard. Gotta love an AIS.
For those who think a blog should include what you are eating - our foodie has been busy and keeping us stuffed with wholesome goodies. Even the first night out, seasick, he prepped a chicken soup but succumbed to nausea and abdicated the galley for the swabby to do the denouement. For six days now, our fare has been a succession of one pot meals: chicken soup, beef stew and chicken stirfry, with leftovers of all. Mc-pumpernickel grilled egg and ham and cheese-wiches, omelets or cereals with dried fruit and tea for breakfast, and lunch snacks, when we have them, of mini-wiches of triscuits, cheese and salami (thank you for the triscuits Chuck & Ivy!). And then there has been popcorn, that soul-satisfying whole-grain munchie. So, there you go, our "blog" now includes our menu. Touche.
p.s. we haven't even broken into the cache of cabbage!
At 8/2/2016 and 19:35 UTC (GMT) our position was: 02°15.79'N / 140°52.15'E.
We were traveling 128T degrees true at 2.5 knots.
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Just after our morning SSB radio sched with Soggy Paws in Indonesia and Cardea in Palau, we shook out our reef and were flying full canvas once more. This we hoped would move us at a pace more likely to get us to Ninigo in the near future. That must have been the move that our friends the wind gods had been waiting for.
The wind picked up to double digits and we took off flying in the bright sunshine. For about six hours we enjoyed shiny-magazine-perfect sailing with winds abeam. It was hard to wipe the smiles off our faces.
With the bright sun built convective clouds and by afternoon squalls began to form and we had to take back in that reef. The passing of a particularly wet one of our stormy friends shut down the sailing winds and left us slopping through chop and back to sedate sailing.
We can't complain, the stars are out and we're practicing memorizing more of them. Antares sparkled off to starboard in the SW in the constellation Scorpio with Mars and Saturn framing them. Spectacular.
Overnight we had a chat with the Jin Xia Feng, a cargo ship that was heading at us on an exact reciprocal course. All 229 m of him was headed straight for us at 11 knots. Thankfully we reached the watch officer and they altered course 10 degrees to port and passed 1.3 nm to starboard. Gotta love an AIS.
For those who think a blog should include what you are eating - our foodie has been busy and keeping us stuffed with wholesome goodies. Even the first night out, seasick, he prepped a chicken soup but succumbed to nausea and abdicated the galley for the swabby to do the denouement. For six days now, our fare has been a succession of one pot meals: chicken soup, beef stew and chicken stirfry, with leftovers of all. Mc-pumpernickel grilled egg and ham and cheese-wiches, omelets or cereals with dried fruit and tea for breakfast, and lunch snacks, when we have them, of mini-wiches of triscuits, cheese and salami (thank you for the triscuits Chuck & Ivy!). And then there has been popcorn, that soul-satisfying whole-grain munchie. So, there you go, our "blog" now includes our menu. Touche.
p.s. we haven't even broken into the cache of cabbage!
At 8/2/2016 and 19:35 UTC (GMT) our position was: 02°15.79'N / 140°52.15'E.
We were traveling 128T degrees true at 2.5 knots.
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Monday, 1 August 2016
Starlight
It was a magnificent starry night of meteors and dolphins - puhft!puhft! One squall brought us rain and good sailing, otherwise it was a slow motion glide under the arch of the milky way.
Drifting again as the sliver of moon rises with the dawn and mixed swell bounces us around, flogging the headsail. Dramatic convective clouds to the north bring a glimmer of hope of distant weather to generate wind.
At 8/1/2016 and 20:21 UTC (GMT) our position was: 02°56.49'N / 139°48.29'E.
We were traveling 112T degrees true at 1.0 knots.
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Drifting again as the sliver of moon rises with the dawn and mixed swell bounces us around, flogging the headsail. Dramatic convective clouds to the north bring a glimmer of hope of distant weather to generate wind.
At 8/1/2016 and 20:21 UTC (GMT) our position was: 02°56.49'N / 139°48.29'E.
We were traveling 112T degrees true at 1.0 knots.
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