"We are at play in the field of the Lord," to paraphrase a great piece of work. Well, yesterday, at least at play in the lagoons of atolls. It is interesting to see how different boats deal (or not deal) with the commonality of all the laborious tasks that make a sailing venture like this possible. I have seen crews become so lost in the beast that they constantly search to find some task to do while they let a jeweled isle of paradise pass them up, probably never to be seen again. If one looks hard enough, there is always a mundane task one could find to kill a day. I have also seen the opposite in sloppy crew, where those necessary tasks are not addressed and eventually have come back to haunt those sailors and without fail, always at the worst times. They are typically the first to call themselves sailors and the first ones on the VHF calling and cursing the boat or a chart for the their failures. Never curse the boat. We, the fair crew of the BEG, have found the happy-medium in chores, preventive maintenance, and doing what we all have come here to do: experience the world in all its beauty and harshness and to see it looking through eyes of truth. What I have seen, what I have learned is that we share more commonalities in the people we meet from these many cultures than differences. We may not speak their language in prose, but we always manage to make friends wherever we go (if there are people to be found). I am at play in the field of the Lord. We are at play in the field of the Lord.
We have experienced the greatest of the Tuamotos on the isles of Makemo and Tahanea (aka shark city-more about that in a few). We have lived the reason why they call this the "Dangerous Archipelago" and "Labyrinth" and so far have managed well (the sound of knocking on wood). The passages into the lagoons had coral heads, narrow entrances, and extreme currents if you hit them at anything other than slack tide. We hit our entrances, well-timed by the Captain, and still we feared the possibility of being spun. It's spectacular to see and even better to be done with, with an anchor set firm and another sunset casting purples and oranges beams across the paling sky. After the sun went to sleep, Mom fixed a wonderful rib-eye dinner with baked potato and green beans. It was the best dinner we have had in months. Between her cooking and our not having had such a luxury for months, our plates barely needed to be rinsed off.
Our last anchorage, I could have spent a week at and still wanted more. Her name was Tahanea and her beauty more alluring than the call of a siren. But like a siren, she certainly had her dangers in the form of packs of black tip sharks. Now, I'm a friend of sharks and have defended them in my duties as a Ranger for the great state of Florida. I encouraged people at all times to release them. A set of jaws makes for a nice mantle-piece but such over-harvesting of certain species has depleted the populations of many of the apex and some of the smaller species. Not the case in Tahanea. As soon as we had anchor set, 6 black tip reef sharks began to circle the boat and continued for the majority of our day stay there. After accomplishing some tasks on the boat, Dad and I wanted to get in some spear-fishing. Typically, we are not the type to be afraid if we see one or two sharks circling around but when there are more, they take on a pack mentality. I only know this, from a dive yesterday on a beautiful ledge of coral. Thirty feet down, I began seeing grouper in the 3 foot range and better (impressive) but as I was hunting the grouper a pack (yes, pack) of black-tips began following me around. That brought me concern level up a bit. After I took a shot at a grouper and missed, the pack got closer and every now and then, one would make a quick turn in and come directly toward, veering off at about three feet as I pointed the bang-stick (.357 Magnum shell in a pressure activated head attached to pole when hit against something makes that something have a very bad day). This worked for a while. I continued to see some of the largest and closely-grouped grouper of my life. I carried on and was pursuing them while keeping count of the sharks and where they were in relation to me. Safety off on bang-stick, check. I caught something out of the corner of my eye and the largest of the pack (200 lbs or more?-didn't grab him to weigh him), was closing in fast and directly for me. Kicking out of the way, I hit the shark just behind the gills with the bang-stick. No discharge of the gun (backward motion of me did not allow enough power to drive firing pin into primer?). That shark bolted a distance but remained in the ever-tightening circle. I spun around like a top keeping my eyes on all of them. I found a rock and tested the bang-stick. Boom! It seemed only to interest them. After a quick reload, I decided to call it quits and headed for the surface while the sharks followed me up. "We are out of here!" As I kept my face in the water and on the sharks, I could see large grouper from the surface, ironically, protected by beasts that would eat them if I speared them. Dad helped me into the boat and we continued on to find another less sharky area (meaning only 2 or 3 sharks around you at any one time)not too far away. It ended up being another great day and I didn't lose any appendages over it. Fresh grouper is on the menu for tonight. I have been requested to do my coconut carrot curry sauce drizzled over a sautéed panko breaded grouper filet a la San Blas (archipelago off of Panama). :)
I did have to use the bang-stick on two sharks that day (quick, humane kills). I have a new love for that piece of necessary equipment for diving in these waters for there is no shortage of sharks in this locale, nor shortage of grouper, and there is only one of me.
We are now, en route for a two-day sail to Papeete, Tahiti. The only sharks I intend to find there are the merchants selling black, gold, and all different color iridescent pearls. I think, in the end, I will have more respect for the sharks that swim in the water. We celebrate today, as the Skip has been 6 months sailing the "Brown-Eyed Girl" and doing it well. As always, love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
On the way to the Tuamotos (from Jared)...
We find ourselves in squally seas but making 8.5 knots toward the Tuamotos, our first land-fall (God-willing and good captaining and crewing) being Makemo. With 77 beautiful isles in this chain, how does one choose an atoll to approach? Factors include danger of the pass-entrances into the atolls, depth of the pass and draft of your boat, time of your arrival and how long is one willing to wait for the proper tide to enter (entrances through atolls must be made no more than one hour before or after slack-currents at other times may reach 13 knots and the passes are extremely narrow and coral ridden), and what are your desires (ladies-Pearls, guys-places to buy pearls for ladies while managing to hunt the elusive spiny lobster and grouper). Keeping the boat off the coral will be our primary concern, obviously. These waters are riddled with the holed hulls and broken dreams of those who underestimated the dangers of the Labyrinth. After all, they are known as the Dangerous Archipelago and The Labyrinth. Not too sure I like those names. This will be a crucible and one of the most dangerous of all parts of the journey. The upside being, in the last few weeks the crew of "the Brown-eyed Girl" has never run better. We continue to become one cohesive unit, a well-oiled machine. We have been tested in our night watches with torrential squalls. The radar at night looks like a mine-field exposed with the squall lines exposed by the green radar returns. We go from 4.5 knots to 9 knots SOG in the snap of a finger with winds of 35 knts. or more. We usually are not looking at the anemometer but popping the jib and reefing the main. We always try to "shorten sail while wind's still fair, to keep our keel from hitting air." Occasionally, though, they slip up on you and take you by surprise. Radar isn't 100% effective in determining whether one will be dodged or slogged. Either way, The Cap, the BEG, and I have managed to keep the lady afloat and flying. We made 176 miles yesterday, often more. Not too shabby.
As I look back in our wake and think of the Marquesas, I know I will always recall her being one of the greatest times of my life and most beautiful places I've laid eyes on in this world. Her rugged, volcanic terrain intermixed with the greenest, lush tropical hillsides and her people who are genuinely fond of sailors as they feel a kinship with our nautical wheelings and recognized my love for the hunt (great goat hunt), make this a place to be remembered. It is easy to see why so many artists like Gaugin, Matisse, Stevenson, and a slew more became entrenched in this lifestyle. It holds something for everyone, unless of course you need honking horns, traffic jams, congestion, and light pollution. You won't find those here. I don't know if I've ever seen stars shine so bright or breathed cleaner air, though sultry. Fishing and spear fishing were top-notch. I harvested, among other things, a large octopus while free-diving that once I wrangled it out of the rocks, began to crawl up my arm. I know Octopus taste good, but I was unaware of their battle tactics. I'm convinced he was going for my mask and snorkel (can't blame him). They are the smartest of the phylum Mollusca, but is that saying much? What does it say about me that he almost got the better of me? haha. For a minute, I didn't know who had whom. In the end, though, dinner was exceptional, though slightly chewy, that night. They tell me the Tuamotos will be better in the fishing and spear fishing departments. I don't know how they could be. But I'll continue to be optimistic.
So in 24 hours, we will hopefully have made landfall and donned our dive gear. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl"...out
As I look back in our wake and think of the Marquesas, I know I will always recall her being one of the greatest times of my life and most beautiful places I've laid eyes on in this world. Her rugged, volcanic terrain intermixed with the greenest, lush tropical hillsides and her people who are genuinely fond of sailors as they feel a kinship with our nautical wheelings and recognized my love for the hunt (great goat hunt), make this a place to be remembered. It is easy to see why so many artists like Gaugin, Matisse, Stevenson, and a slew more became entrenched in this lifestyle. It holds something for everyone, unless of course you need honking horns, traffic jams, congestion, and light pollution. You won't find those here. I don't know if I've ever seen stars shine so bright or breathed cleaner air, though sultry. Fishing and spear fishing were top-notch. I harvested, among other things, a large octopus while free-diving that once I wrangled it out of the rocks, began to crawl up my arm. I know Octopus taste good, but I was unaware of their battle tactics. I'm convinced he was going for my mask and snorkel (can't blame him). They are the smartest of the phylum Mollusca, but is that saying much? What does it say about me that he almost got the better of me? haha. For a minute, I didn't know who had whom. In the end, though, dinner was exceptional, though slightly chewy, that night. They tell me the Tuamotos will be better in the fishing and spear fishing departments. I don't know how they could be. But I'll continue to be optimistic.
So in 24 hours, we will hopefully have made landfall and donned our dive gear. As always love and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.
"Brown-Eyed Girl"...out
Friday, April 16, 2010
Goat curry (from Jared)
We set the anchor in the little harbor as the sun began to make its fall into a deep sleep. Gazing ashore, we saw a Polynesian family having a beach party and carrying on no differently than we all have done. Parked nearby we noticed a truck. Mom was arriving after a several day, multiple-leg flight from the states with many bags of goodies the Captain and I had asked for and the prospect of hoofing it up to the airport on that dusty road and then making our way back with the luggage didn't seem too appealing. Maybe, if we could speak a little French, we could arrange a way to get one of them to take us to the airport to pick up the Brown Eyed Girl. I ran down into the cabin and got on the computer. I typed in my English-French dictionary what we needed to say and made our way via dingy to the pier and hopefully, to the family before they packed up their gear and headed on their way.
As we wound our way down the path to the beach, I hoped we could befriend these people, if only to be nice and hopefully to make our lives a little easier. As the Skip and I made our way onto the beach, a resounding "Bon Soir!" came from the family and smiles flashed on their faces. One of the young boys was carrying some spear guns up to the truck. I liked these people already. "Bon soir!", we returned and walked over to the patriarch of the family, a large Polynesian guy with a big grin and Polynesian tattoos adorning his body. At one glance, you could size this guy up as being the best of friends or worst of enemies, with best of friends most likely being his choice and definitely being ours. I handed him the paper explaining our situation and he agreed to meet us in the morning. He looked at me and looked at his boys and in English far better than my French or Polynesian said, "You hunt?"
"Love to hunt," I said with a big grin on my face hoping he was about to invite me on a goat hunt.
"I take your dad to airport. Pick up mom. You hunt with my boys the goat in the morning. 9 AM you be ready," he said with a smile from ear to ear.
I looked at the Skip and he gave me a nod. He wanted to see the lady, right away, and knew how much I needed to get a hunt in. The skip and I shook hands with the man and headed back to the BEG.
At 0900hrs sharp, there was the truck pulling in as we headed into the pier. We piled into the back and shook hands with the boys, the eldest proud to be carrying a single-shot shotgun and a few shells tucked in his pocket. His empty rucksack told me the possibilities of getting one would be good as surely the meat would be processed in the field and stuffed in the pack to be carried back down the rugged volcanic hills we began to climb in the truck. 10 minutes into the truck ride, the truck stopped and the boys piled out.
The eldest looked at me, broke open the shotgun, dumped a 00 Buck shell into it, and said, "We go!"
I'm in fairly good shape, do a lot of diving, hunting, most of my activities revolve around outdoor sports but I will tell you these boys were more goat-like than the goats in climbing up and down the large volcanic boulders as we made our way to the peak on the isle of Nuka Hiva. They were great hunters. They moved quickly and yet, their feet cupped the ground and little noise was made as we made our way through the sage and loose basalt. I kept up with them and was happy with that but my eyes had to keep checking my footing, when a hunter who knows his land eye's are looking for a slight movement in the brush, the glint of a horn in the morning sun, or the horizontal line of a back in terrain that stands vertical. They knew the food source, a small seed the younger son showed me and pretended to eat. We moved quickly and then it happened quickly, as it often does. A wise animal trying to hide was found and the gun roared once and two families from different cultures, half a world apart, would eat from the same animal. Time was not wasted in getting to business and I wasted no time in getting photographs of us all and our future meal as the young men hung the ewe from the tree and dressed it out.
Hours later the young men, gazed at the printer on the boat with amazement. They shouted in glee, words I will never know, but understand, as the printer kicked out the photos of the two brothers with their trophy. Mom, Dad, and the patriarch arrived shortly afterward and our two families drank coke with ice and communicated with the best language of all, smiles (with some hand gestures and the patriarch's English thrown in a times). It was a superb morning. Tonight I shall fix goat with a carrot coconut curry sauce. I will think of them and wonder if the young men are looking at their photographs.
Brown-Eyed Girl out ...
As we wound our way down the path to the beach, I hoped we could befriend these people, if only to be nice and hopefully to make our lives a little easier. As the Skip and I made our way onto the beach, a resounding "Bon Soir!" came from the family and smiles flashed on their faces. One of the young boys was carrying some spear guns up to the truck. I liked these people already. "Bon soir!", we returned and walked over to the patriarch of the family, a large Polynesian guy with a big grin and Polynesian tattoos adorning his body. At one glance, you could size this guy up as being the best of friends or worst of enemies, with best of friends most likely being his choice and definitely being ours. I handed him the paper explaining our situation and he agreed to meet us in the morning. He looked at me and looked at his boys and in English far better than my French or Polynesian said, "You hunt?"
"Love to hunt," I said with a big grin on my face hoping he was about to invite me on a goat hunt.
"I take your dad to airport. Pick up mom. You hunt with my boys the goat in the morning. 9 AM you be ready," he said with a smile from ear to ear.
I looked at the Skip and he gave me a nod. He wanted to see the lady, right away, and knew how much I needed to get a hunt in. The skip and I shook hands with the man and headed back to the BEG.
At 0900hrs sharp, there was the truck pulling in as we headed into the pier. We piled into the back and shook hands with the boys, the eldest proud to be carrying a single-shot shotgun and a few shells tucked in his pocket. His empty rucksack told me the possibilities of getting one would be good as surely the meat would be processed in the field and stuffed in the pack to be carried back down the rugged volcanic hills we began to climb in the truck. 10 minutes into the truck ride, the truck stopped and the boys piled out.
The eldest looked at me, broke open the shotgun, dumped a 00 Buck shell into it, and said, "We go!"
I'm in fairly good shape, do a lot of diving, hunting, most of my activities revolve around outdoor sports but I will tell you these boys were more goat-like than the goats in climbing up and down the large volcanic boulders as we made our way to the peak on the isle of Nuka Hiva. They were great hunters. They moved quickly and yet, their feet cupped the ground and little noise was made as we made our way through the sage and loose basalt. I kept up with them and was happy with that but my eyes had to keep checking my footing, when a hunter who knows his land eye's are looking for a slight movement in the brush, the glint of a horn in the morning sun, or the horizontal line of a back in terrain that stands vertical. They knew the food source, a small seed the younger son showed me and pretended to eat. We moved quickly and then it happened quickly, as it often does. A wise animal trying to hide was found and the gun roared once and two families from different cultures, half a world apart, would eat from the same animal. Time was not wasted in getting to business and I wasted no time in getting photographs of us all and our future meal as the young men hung the ewe from the tree and dressed it out.
Hours later the young men, gazed at the printer on the boat with amazement. They shouted in glee, words I will never know, but understand, as the printer kicked out the photos of the two brothers with their trophy. Mom, Dad, and the patriarch arrived shortly afterward and our two families drank coke with ice and communicated with the best language of all, smiles (with some hand gestures and the patriarch's English thrown in a times). It was a superb morning. Tonight I shall fix goat with a carrot coconut curry sauce. I will think of them and wonder if the young men are looking at their photographs.
Brown-Eyed Girl out ...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Some pictures from Jared.... Naturally mostly of Jared
Jared has added a little weight on the trip...
Dinner. (And probably breakfast and lunch as well.)
Nope, no risk of skin cancer here.
Unclear who can run faster....
Monday, April 12, 2010
Mom arrives (from Travis)
My mom has arrived on the boat in Nuka Hiva (in the Northern Marquesas) as of Monday night our time, having traveled from West Palm to Charlotte to LA to Tahiti to Nuka Hiva. Quite a series of flights! But I heard from my dad tonight and she is happily there. Eventually they work their way down to Tahiti over the next few weeks. If you are on Google Earth check out the cool atolls that they will hit on the way down....
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Map (from Travis)
This screen shot from Google Earth gives you a sense of the scale of the passage across the Pacific. The line is their track....
Scars (from Jared)
You all know that scene from the movie "Jaws" when Brody, Quint, and Richard Dreyfuss's character are sitting around the salon showing off their scars and laughing about them? I lived that the other night. There we were, the Captain and me and some speared fish on the deck of the "Brown-Eyed Girl" anchored of Hiva Oa in the paradise of the Marquesas. We had just dived with Manta rays and the Skip had taken a couple nice fish.
"Hey Captain, you think these black sea-urchin spines stuck in my index finger will fester?", I asked. He had tried to remove them several days back with no success. They were and still are buried too deep to remove with the prying of a needle and no lidocain (ouch).
"Nah, they will probably work their way to the top", the Captain replied. Probably? I have never like "probably" as an answer when it comes to things regarding my health and I've always hated needles and that's what a black sea-urchin spine (or five- have a couple in my forearm from wrestling with an octopus to get him out of his hole free-diving at 45 feet-Octopus won)is. The sodium bicarbonate and water solution I had made to dissolve the spines had helped but not alleviated the problem.
"Hey Cap, what about this numbness in my index finger from the yellow fin tuna caught on the handline? Will that go away? It's been like three weeks."
He returned with a factual and not-so-reassuring, "Probably. Nerve regeneration occurs at one mm. a day, if it occurs at all."
I must have had a perplexed, possibly worried, look on my face when I said, "The tip of my finger isn't that big, Skip. How's your arm doing, by the way?" He flexed it and looked at the scars from the surgery that connected tendon to muscle.
"Yeah, it's doing well. Not a hundred percent, but coming along. My ribs are the problem. That dinghy ride the other day beat the hell out of me. You mind cleaning off our dive gear while I clean some fish? Look at those scars on your feet. Those are from you not wearing your dive boots in the San Blas islands, right? Were the conch, worth it?"
"Affirmative. Not a problem. Stay the hell away from those wasps that keep checking in on us. One nailed me on the tip of the finger as I entered the cockpit and placed my hand on the canvas." The wasps here have some special Marquesan Tiki mojo going on to punish those who spear fish. I am convinced. We had just hours before visited the largest of all Tikis in the Marquesas before I was stung. After a long climb up a verdant mountain we found ourselves among the basalt stone remains of the Chief's hut and this large stone face placed among smaller stone heads. I wondered if my scream and epithets from that wasp sting made that face cringe or smile.
The Captain grinned and asked, "Weren't those the same wasps you said would leave us alone if we left them alone?"
"Apparently, accidentally placing one's finger on one isn't leaving them alone. Time to wage war on 'em.", I laughed and sprayed another one in mid-air with the fresh-water hose and watched it fall to the deck. I grabbed a dive-fin and sent it to the happy stinging grounds in wasp heaven. "I doubt it will leave a scar like this bullet ant left on my left index finger", I said holding my finger out. "That was Guatemala in the year of '93 and still there is a scar..from a miserable little ant. Just once, why can't I get a cool scar? Why can't I just have one of these black-tip reef sharks I keep seeing leave a little rub-burn wound as it passes by me in the water and does one of those 'food or not food checks'? Now, that would be a scar worth taking my shirt off in a bar and bragging about."
The Captain just shook his head, smiled, and grabbed the filet knife and got to work. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about the next leg, the next anchorage, and soon, being reunited with the lady on the isle of Nuka Hiva. I returned to cleaning the gear and began thinking of my lady and when we would be reunited.
Well, you all get the picture. The Skip and I are a little beat-up and wouldn't change it for the world. Scars remind us of our wins, draws, and losses. As always, miss and love you all. Merce, te amo. Will be posting pics as soon as I get that thing I remember as "internet?".
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
"Hey Captain, you think these black sea-urchin spines stuck in my index finger will fester?", I asked. He had tried to remove them several days back with no success. They were and still are buried too deep to remove with the prying of a needle and no lidocain (ouch).
"Nah, they will probably work their way to the top", the Captain replied. Probably? I have never like "probably" as an answer when it comes to things regarding my health and I've always hated needles and that's what a black sea-urchin spine (or five- have a couple in my forearm from wrestling with an octopus to get him out of his hole free-diving at 45 feet-Octopus won)is. The sodium bicarbonate and water solution I had made to dissolve the spines had helped but not alleviated the problem.
"Hey Cap, what about this numbness in my index finger from the yellow fin tuna caught on the handline? Will that go away? It's been like three weeks."
He returned with a factual and not-so-reassuring, "Probably. Nerve regeneration occurs at one mm. a day, if it occurs at all."
I must have had a perplexed, possibly worried, look on my face when I said, "The tip of my finger isn't that big, Skip. How's your arm doing, by the way?" He flexed it and looked at the scars from the surgery that connected tendon to muscle.
"Yeah, it's doing well. Not a hundred percent, but coming along. My ribs are the problem. That dinghy ride the other day beat the hell out of me. You mind cleaning off our dive gear while I clean some fish? Look at those scars on your feet. Those are from you not wearing your dive boots in the San Blas islands, right? Were the conch, worth it?"
"Affirmative. Not a problem. Stay the hell away from those wasps that keep checking in on us. One nailed me on the tip of the finger as I entered the cockpit and placed my hand on the canvas." The wasps here have some special Marquesan Tiki mojo going on to punish those who spear fish. I am convinced. We had just hours before visited the largest of all Tikis in the Marquesas before I was stung. After a long climb up a verdant mountain we found ourselves among the basalt stone remains of the Chief's hut and this large stone face placed among smaller stone heads. I wondered if my scream and epithets from that wasp sting made that face cringe or smile.
The Captain grinned and asked, "Weren't those the same wasps you said would leave us alone if we left them alone?"
"Apparently, accidentally placing one's finger on one isn't leaving them alone. Time to wage war on 'em.", I laughed and sprayed another one in mid-air with the fresh-water hose and watched it fall to the deck. I grabbed a dive-fin and sent it to the happy stinging grounds in wasp heaven. "I doubt it will leave a scar like this bullet ant left on my left index finger", I said holding my finger out. "That was Guatemala in the year of '93 and still there is a scar..from a miserable little ant. Just once, why can't I get a cool scar? Why can't I just have one of these black-tip reef sharks I keep seeing leave a little rub-burn wound as it passes by me in the water and does one of those 'food or not food checks'? Now, that would be a scar worth taking my shirt off in a bar and bragging about."
The Captain just shook his head, smiled, and grabbed the filet knife and got to work. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about the next leg, the next anchorage, and soon, being reunited with the lady on the isle of Nuka Hiva. I returned to cleaning the gear and began thinking of my lady and when we would be reunited.
Well, you all get the picture. The Skip and I are a little beat-up and wouldn't change it for the world. Scars remind us of our wins, draws, and losses. As always, miss and love you all. Merce, te amo. Will be posting pics as soon as I get that thing I remember as "internet?".
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
Friday, April 2, 2010
Changes in Longitudes, Changes in the Crew, Yellow fin Tuna, and a saved life and lost finger
From Jared:
We arrived from Hiva Oa to our present anchorage on the paradise isle of Tuhuata. My apologies for not for not keeping up with the blog but I have a good excuse in the fact that we have been terribly busy with boat repairs and the like (April Fool's!). Well, in all honesty, we have been busy with trying to fix continued failing refrigeration, finding lost anchors (turbulent anchorage) in 40 feet of depth with 6" of visibility, hauling diesel from the station in 5 gallon jerry cans, provisioning after our eighteen day and 2950 NM journey from the Galapagos (go there, make it happen, nature lovers), fixing halyards, changing filters, giving and receiving help as being part of a team, and accomplishing myriad other details that keep us away from becoming complete bums (we are working really hard on that one). All you sailors out there reading this can relate to these things and can relate to why we keep on doing 'em :). In our 6? days (remember what I said, time is relative..relatively unimportant on a journey like this one..except for the racers in the crowd, they love to run, gun and keep time), the only land-fall downtime was spent walking up to Paul Gaugin's grave and paying "respect" to a guy who left behind his wife and kids to apply oil to canvas. Eccentrics are, well...eccentric. Luckily there are none of those around here (April Fool's!). We also had a nice lunch and dinner at Alex's, a family run ordeal run by a great guy who served 23 years in the French Foreign Legion. He decided to put down the rifle, marry his Polynesian love, and pick up the skillet. Excellent cooking! Tres Bon!
18 days. 18 days. Not seeing land for 18 days (and fortunately our winds were excellent) can be quite trying at times but I guess that is what makes landfall all the sweeter. Even with all the details of sailing, one still must manage a way to keep his/her mind occupied. Dreaming of monster fish that broke our lines helped me out. Thinking of loved ones does me better, though. The whales kept us company, though we are still looking for sperm whales, especially a white one. If we see him, we shall bid him a long, happy life.
Previous First Mate Tom Toohey, has decided to leave the Brown-Eyed Girl and help out our friends Jochemm and Jutta on the boat "Chessie". We wish all of them safety and happiness in their journeys. I would like to commend Jutta on her saving the life of her husband when he fell overboard in the middle of the Pacific (in transit from the Galapagos to the Marquesas) while cleaning a fish. These fish are dangerous business...even when expired! Jutta managed to toss line, drop sail, and lift her husband over the transom in inclement weather. She is quite a petite lady so it goes to show you that it is the size of the fight in the lion and not the lion in the fight that really counts. Divine intervention and skill played a major role, too. Way to go, Jutta!
Speaking of fish, First Mate Bucky Metz landed a beautiful 46 lb. yellow fin tuna on handline with much help from Captain and crew in backing down the boat and dropping sail. Without the mechanical advantage of rod and reel and me being too darn stubborn to put gloves on (helps me feel the vibration of the tail and the inception of the next run), I have lost some sensation in my right index finger. We caught that fish one hour before arrival in Hiva Oa last week after losing every fished we hooked over 2950 NM of passage (big bills, black and blue marlin we are pretty sure). Perseverance paid off and once in port, we fed ourselves and a lot of people in the World Arc with great sashimi, but my finger keeps telling me that the tuna really won. If I can find some time today, I will varnish the tuna tail so I can try to convince myself that I won that battle.
On a sadder note, our new friend Patrick (S/V Thetis) lost his entire left index finger in a coconut-chopping mishap while trying feed people at a beach party. He has been sailed back to Hiva OA where he will receive proper medical attention in Papeete. We all wish you the best, Patrick! We hope to see you again and soon. God speed! A proper shout-out to the Captain for responding in the dark of night and for trying to render as much medical attention as he could given the situation.
On April 12th, the fair lady and namesake of the boat will be joining us again. We gladly anticipate the day. Hi, mom! We love you and miss you. My fiancee, Mercedes, will be joining us in South Africa. Such a long time away. Te amo, bebe!
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
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We arrived from Hiva Oa to our present anchorage on the paradise isle of Tuhuata. My apologies for not for not keeping up with the blog but I have a good excuse in the fact that we have been terribly busy with boat repairs and the like (April Fool's!). Well, in all honesty, we have been busy with trying to fix continued failing refrigeration, finding lost anchors (turbulent anchorage) in 40 feet of depth with 6" of visibility, hauling diesel from the station in 5 gallon jerry cans, provisioning after our eighteen day and 2950 NM journey from the Galapagos (go there, make it happen, nature lovers), fixing halyards, changing filters, giving and receiving help as being part of a team, and accomplishing myriad other details that keep us away from becoming complete bums (we are working really hard on that one). All you sailors out there reading this can relate to these things and can relate to why we keep on doing 'em :). In our 6? days (remember what I said, time is relative..relatively unimportant on a journey like this one..except for the racers in the crowd, they love to run, gun and keep time), the only land-fall downtime was spent walking up to Paul Gaugin's grave and paying "respect" to a guy who left behind his wife and kids to apply oil to canvas. Eccentrics are, well...eccentric. Luckily there are none of those around here (April Fool's!). We also had a nice lunch and dinner at Alex's, a family run ordeal run by a great guy who served 23 years in the French Foreign Legion. He decided to put down the rifle, marry his Polynesian love, and pick up the skillet. Excellent cooking! Tres Bon!
18 days. 18 days. Not seeing land for 18 days (and fortunately our winds were excellent) can be quite trying at times but I guess that is what makes landfall all the sweeter. Even with all the details of sailing, one still must manage a way to keep his/her mind occupied. Dreaming of monster fish that broke our lines helped me out. Thinking of loved ones does me better, though. The whales kept us company, though we are still looking for sperm whales, especially a white one. If we see him, we shall bid him a long, happy life.
Previous First Mate Tom Toohey, has decided to leave the Brown-Eyed Girl and help out our friends Jochemm and Jutta on the boat "Chessie". We wish all of them safety and happiness in their journeys. I would like to commend Jutta on her saving the life of her husband when he fell overboard in the middle of the Pacific (in transit from the Galapagos to the Marquesas) while cleaning a fish. These fish are dangerous business...even when expired! Jutta managed to toss line, drop sail, and lift her husband over the transom in inclement weather. She is quite a petite lady so it goes to show you that it is the size of the fight in the lion and not the lion in the fight that really counts. Divine intervention and skill played a major role, too. Way to go, Jutta!
Speaking of fish, First Mate Bucky Metz landed a beautiful 46 lb. yellow fin tuna on handline with much help from Captain and crew in backing down the boat and dropping sail. Without the mechanical advantage of rod and reel and me being too darn stubborn to put gloves on (helps me feel the vibration of the tail and the inception of the next run), I have lost some sensation in my right index finger. We caught that fish one hour before arrival in Hiva Oa last week after losing every fished we hooked over 2950 NM of passage (big bills, black and blue marlin we are pretty sure). Perseverance paid off and once in port, we fed ourselves and a lot of people in the World Arc with great sashimi, but my finger keeps telling me that the tuna really won. If I can find some time today, I will varnish the tuna tail so I can try to convince myself that I won that battle.
On a sadder note, our new friend Patrick (S/V Thetis) lost his entire left index finger in a coconut-chopping mishap while trying feed people at a beach party. He has been sailed back to Hiva OA where he will receive proper medical attention in Papeete. We all wish you the best, Patrick! We hope to see you again and soon. God speed! A proper shout-out to the Captain for responding in the dark of night and for trying to render as much medical attention as he could given the situation.
On April 12th, the fair lady and namesake of the boat will be joining us again. We gladly anticipate the day. Hi, mom! We love you and miss you. My fiancee, Mercedes, will be joining us in South Africa. Such a long time away. Te amo, bebe!
"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...
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