Tearing Ourselves Away From Hiva Oa

Only afterward did I realize that we'd had the rare opportunity as sailors to gauge our sort-of recovery time, that is, the period of time after being at sea before one can genuinely say he is ready to sail once more. We let a week float by without much afterthought, though it had to be at least in part because we had found so much activity and energy in and around Atuona. As quickly as we began to make friends with the local youth, we started to get to know our fellow cruisers. Having all completed long passages on small boats, there is often an immediate camaraderie among cruisers, as there usually is among groups of people with any sort of connection. Soon there were three or four other boats with whom we felt we readily mixed. We began to spend the Hiva Oa evenings on someone's boat drinking wine and sharing stories.

It was one of these crepuscular cockpit cocktail hours during which I first experienced real language confusion. We sat in the garish aft outdoor settee of a fifty-or-so foot catamaran with a crew of hysterical latinos. The boat was on delivery from Panama City to Raratonga in the Cook Islands and Juan, the Venezuelan captain, had along with him two Panamenos, Eric and Orlando. The latter didn't hang out much, but Juan and Eric were exuberant, jolly and hilarious. There was also the crew of s/v La Luz, Doug and Suleka, an American and a Panamena who had arrived from the Galapagos on their 26 foot sloop just after us. The conversations with this crowd could get downright rambunctious. There we had sailors thrown together after long, lonesome passages with food and drink, just enough gregarious and loquacious personalities present to create a tornado of languages and conversations. After working constantly on speaking French, I would find myself mixing languages terribly and unintentionally as I sat translating to Spanish for Eric a joke and the subsequent banter originating elsewhere in English. This amid an unstoppable train of joking and discussion. These were incredibly entertaining times and, though it was surprising how much I could confuse myself in mixing my limited Spanish and French vocabularies, I enjoyed the resulting potpourri. I am not one who resents the active co-mingling of languages; in fact, I think it a delightful metaphor and embellish accordingly.

When the sun rose on those splendid nights we managed to fill our days well. We met still more locals who fit us out with copious fruit: papaya, breadfruit and pomplemousse one day followed by a huge stock of bananas the next. Two of our local friends came down to the beach at the anchorage one evening to show us the proper way to scorch a breadfruit and to enjoy some of the fine piahana- local liquor brewed from fruit, coconut being the favorite on Ardea. These guys, Mauiki and Teiki, were endlessly generous; we regretted not having brought the prime trading artifacts- guns and ammunition for hunting goats and pigs. One could easily make an order of magnitude markup on 12 gauge pump-action shotguns or .22 caliber rifles. The ammunition is highly valued, too; we heard of one cruiser trading ten .22 rounds, which would run you less than a dollar at a Walmart in any state other than California, for a whole pig ready for the spit. Despite our lacking, these guys and many others treated us with genuine kindness and generosity; this has been an ongoing experience in the Marquesas, which, we've noticed, seem to fit the rare bill of improving with each deeper excursion.

One morning, friends on s/v Black Dog and s/v Off Tempo invited us to share in a day's car rental to visit ruins on the other side of the island. Dana and I took them up on the offer and enjoyed amazing views traveling over the bumpy dirt road to the north side of Hiva Oa. We explored the me'ae at I'Ipona, which consists of the variably intact remains of ceremonial structures and associated tikis. We ate a picnic lunch at the beach. Our friends insisted on sharing their bread, cheese and chocolate after watching Dana and I consume numerous bananas and some pomplemousse, which had also been our breakfast, for the second meal of the day. Later we headed to Ta'a Oa, a town a few miles west of Atuona, which contained another site of archeological significance. The latter site was more interesting, in my opinion. It was set among amazing, huge breadfruit trees extending up a valley. There were also numerous other trees as well as hibiscus and tiare shrubs. The ruins themselves were more tangible, too. Our favorite spot was the raised stone platform with a recessed vertical dropout in the middle into which a bound human offering was allegedly let before being bludgeoned in the skull repeatedly, this being made easier with the shoulders flush with the floor of the platform. It seemed to make sense, though we haven't corroborated this story and it was told by Doug, who was also touring about and who's interest seems to be drawn toward the darker cultural revelations. In any case, we were excited to get to see some of the island. We also noticed a good break at Ta'a Oa and resolved to find some surf with Doug in the coming days.

The ol' fertility tiki.

We had originally planned to spend just a few days on Hiva Oa, but one simply gave way to another and we still felt no compulsion to leave. The next day, we hiked to the top of Mt. Temetiu, the tallest peak on the island. It was a grueling, precarious, magnificent hike. The peak was cloudy but it was incredible to be above the cloud line. It was a fantasy world. The vegetation was different- green, red and yellow ferns created a lake of plants out of which sprung tree-ferns, surely an inspiration to Dr. Seuss, and ti, with long lanceolate leaves branching left and right in a single plane along a waist-high stalk. The path wound through incredible, sheer rock formations with fascinating bits of lichen and moss decorating any crevice or ledge that held water. It took the better part of the day, but it was well-worth the trip.

We had a couple more days in us yet; we partied with the locals as the whole island joined for a two day talent show/cookout/dance in Atuona. At the wharf, we cleaned our laundry and, more importantly, all of the cushion covers for the cabin; Ardea looks, feels and smells much better down below. We even got some surfing in with Doug. The break at the beach in Atuona is finicky and irregular, but the water is so warm and the views so breathtaking, that it's easy to wait patiently for waves. In the end, we got some good rides and had a blast.

On our last night in Hiva Oa, we hung out with the guys from s/v Saltbreaker. They left from San Francisco and, shockingly, are around our age. We went over to their boat and enjoyed some of the five gallons of rum they brought across the ocean in a jerry can. Aside from the obvious fault of their also being a boat of three males, we had a riotous time; it's quite easy for the sailor to fall into hours of energetic story-telling. It was tough, but the next day, our tenth since making landfall, we had to force ourselves to leave Hiva Oa for Tahuata. We were sad to leave La Luz and Saltbreaker, though there's no doubt we'll catch up again; even so, we had only a 5 mile passage ahead of us and were meeting other friends in one of the most fantastic anchorages around, Baie Hanamoenoa. In an hour and a half we were at the new place. There were about a dozen other boats, but we gracefully snaked our way into a sweet spot, closer to the beach than even the catamarans (Ardea draws only 3'9”; this is proving to be very advantageous). It feels like ages since we were on passage. We've settled in and joined an excellent community. With each day comes adventure and our only real problem seems to be dragging ourselves from one to the next.

I'll add photos to this post soon- the connection is too slow for now!

Soccer for Dignity.

Baie Tahauku, where Ardea made landfall.

The social scene here was a little bit overwhelming at first. This little anchorage is teeming with cruisers from all over the world; the little quay where dinghies are tied up is frequently crowded with tenders of various sizes. There are Americans, Germans, French, Panameños, Canadians. And this is to say nothing of the locals, who bustle about the quay, fishing, paddling outriggers and trading fruit with the sailors. It's quite magnificent for someone who has been at sea for so long. I sat observing all of this activity when we first got here and I felt like a kid waiting to get in the gates at Disney Land. 

The walk into town isn't too rough. This is a view from the road.
Atuona lies in the valley to the right- the soccer arena is visible.

On our second day, Dana and I set out to the town of Atuona to find some of the more critical provisions we needed. The walk to town is only about 3 km but often cars stop to pick you up before you've even put your thumb out to hitch. We made it in quickly, but, as it was Sunday, everything was closed. The town is not very large- there is a small cafe, then the post office, the police station and a little market. Further in town there is a sort of parade ground, a school, a soccer pitch and a few more markets. We wandered through observing all of this in the typical quiet of mid-day when we met a young local guy named Nikola. Regretting spending three years in high school horsing around in French class, I struggled to communicate anything with my extremely limited vocabulary, though it was surprising how much we could get across given enough time and lively gesticulations.

Eventually we followed Nikola to a small restaurant up the road. We had asked him where there was a market that was open. He explained that there was none, but that we could by wine from the restaurant. So it was. We bought three one liter boxes of red wine and started back toward the town when the rain kicked up again. It had been raining on and off since we arrived, but this was a particularly long downpour. Nikola led us beneath an overhanging roof on the side of the road to wait it out. There were already a couple of other young guys there doing the same. They sat listening to music on a boombox and smoking. We sat down after shaking hands with each of them and opened a box of wine. As the rain slammed down all around us, cooling the air in a most welcome manner, we passed the wine around and slowly conversed. We told them how long we had been at sea, where we had come from and other basic things. Eventually, cheeks a little redder, they invited us to follow them down to the soccer arena.

We hadn't realized it before, but down by the beach there was an indoor soccer pitch, covered by tall corrugated tin roofs with open overhangs so that air flowed freely. When we got there, young people were all over the place. Everyone from teenagers to folks a bit older than us, mostly men, were watching or playing. The format was five on five, first goal wins and the losing team swaps out for a new opponent. If nobody scores after ten minutes or so, there is a shootout whereby the ball is pelted from about 20 feet away and the goalies, usually laughing at the impossibility of the task, pretty much stand there protecting their most delicate features and waiting for someone to miss. We saw a number of shootouts go on for quite a long time, but there had to be a winner so that the whole thing could go on.

While we were watching the games, nearly everybody around the complex came up to us to shake hands. The locals are incredibly diligent about greeting one another, going down lines of people and shaking with each and every one. We found this practice very comforting- even the biggest, most tattooed Marquesan would don an incredibly friendly smile and approach us with welcoming. Most of the time words were not exchanged, just the handshake and eye contact, but there was a distinct friendliness about it that was easily perceived. Players on the court would even walk over during a break in the action to shake hands with us and nod hello. It made us feel much at home where we had initially felt grossly out of place.

We sat watching our friends get ready to play. Some pulled out shiny bright yellow soccer shoes, others played in gellies with socks and still others played barefoot. We figured we were there to watch- it had been difficult to understand Nikola regarding that. But, when our team came up, they beckoned us on the court with them and, to our dismay, put us as the two forwards. So now, barefoot, having had only wine in our bellies and with a serious lack of talent, we stood on the court waiting to start, dozens of Marquesan eyes on the only two white guys.

We lost our first game, but, shockingly, Dana and I managed to avoid embarrassing ourselves. In fact, it was pretty clear that everyone was pleasantly surprised. Nikola, Christiano and our other teammates were pretty astonished when Dana and I had a few good runs at the net and managed to handle the ball without disgrace. Of course, nobody was more surprised than Dana and me; in spite of the fact that we were sore just from walking around after a month at sea, we couldn't refuse when we were coaxed to keep playing after our debut.

After the tournament got around to us again, we played as forwards but lost pretty quickly that time. By our third chance, we rotated positions and I ended up in goal. We won our first game quickly and I wasn't pressed very much as goalkeeper. The second game was a bit more intense. There were a number of corner kicks and attacks by the other team. I managed to make a couple of saves. Then, the whistle blew. Regulation time was over. We went to penalty kicks and I laughed with the other goalkeeper about how horrible it was to stand there and have folks in turn shooting as hard as they could. Making saves during penalty kicks was really not a priority. I tried but it was next to impossible as long as they could shoot it somewhere other than at my chest. Then, one of the opposite team got up and whiffed it. Just a terrible shot, missing the goal completely. Everyone in the place was laughing and heckling by now (as usual, the shootout had become pretty drawn out). So I didn't make a save, but now we had a chance to win and, as the fates would have it, it was my turn to shoot. As I set the ball on the mark I had visions of planting my foot into the concrete before the ball, breaking some toes or blowing out my knee. Or maybe I would just miss wildly, accept the due rancor and continue on. I was really just intent on not shooting it straight to the keeper- that would have been the most embarrassing result. So, I lined up and connected with the top of my undressed foot and managed to sneak it in the left corner while the goalie stood guarding his face and groin. Once again, in spite of the looks of pure shock on their faces, nobody was more surprised than me. Our friends on our team were by now quite proud of these white dudes they'd found and we gathered awaiting our next opponent amid the wide Marquesan smiles we've come to greatly appreciate.

Bananas, papaya
and pompomousse
(a larger, sweeter
cousin of grapefruit).

Our soccer extravaganza ended not too long after, when the ball developed a leak. We had tried blowing it up again and again but to no avail. The whole crowd sauntered away in various directions, still laughing and joyful. The experience was incredible for Dana and me. We had had a great time with these folks in spite of the language barrier and quickly thereafter began to find ourselves recognized around town. From there it was all too simple making friends and experiencing the incredible generosity and kindness of the Marquesans. The next day we would find ourselves carrying home breadfruit, papaya and pompamousse. The day after, a friend cut down a huge stalk of bananas for us and sent us back to the anchorage with enough bananas to distribute to numerous other sailboats. We'd be given delicious dried banana wrapped in banana leaves, the locally brewed coconut liquor and basically any fruit we might ask about. We have always offered to pay, but they would never accept. We had unwittingly found ourselves a part of the local economy (or lack thereof) whereby food was obtained from trees all over the island and shared freely. This and the joy of seeing familiar faces whenever we leave the boat has made Hiva Oa a very comfortable place. Having developed relationships with locals and other cruisers, it's been incredibly enriching to be here, especially after such a period of isolation.

Going to shore with cushion covers
and laundry materials.

We've managed to get a lot done in the week we've been in Baie Tahauku. Perhaps most revolutionary was cleaning all of the cushion covers from the cabin; most were smelly and several were downright gross, but now they are clean and the boat looks, smells and feels better. We're planning to leave soon, having now toured about the island a bit with some fellow cruisers and climbed the tallest peak, but we found out there is a party in town tonight, so, for maybe the third day in a row, we're leaving “tomorrow”. I'll write a bit more about more of our adventures here soon!

In need of a shave, but with fresh coconut juice.

Landfall.

Even after we had cleared South of the east-setting equatorial counter-current, we had a week of variable winds. It was the most difficult time mentally of the whole passage- highs and lows alternately flowed through our collective psyche with as many weather systems. As we edged closer to our destination, we became more impatient. Little did we know, we were in for some of the squalliest weather yet on the final two days of our approach to Hiva Oa.

This began last Friday night. I was on watch when the first cumulonimbus monster loomed toward us. The moonlit cloud with its colossal black belly was making a westerly course; I had thought it might pass to the north of us, but soon a light rain began to fall. Not long after, the characteristic sudden punch of wind hit, maybe reaching 20 knots. After a few minutes in the heavy breeze, the downpour began. Then, only about 15 minutes after it had started, the squall was gone. Thinking I would put out more canvas now, I gazed to the east to find that there was in fact a whole line of squalls; the big, black-bottomed cumulonimbus were spaced evenly to the horizon, separated by sections of thinner, white altonimbus clouds at a higher altitude. So we left the reefs in and endured a night of intermittent rain and squall.

The next day was to be our last at sea. We knew we weren't quite close enough to make it by sundown on Friday, but we would be anchored Saturday morning. Even with this comforting knowledge, it was a trying day. It began with our whisker pole breaking, slashed around too much in one of the breaks in the squall line. It is fixable, but not without parts, and the frustration at having made it so far without significant damage only to lose that equipment at that time was palpable. But we weren't through yet.

The sun fell on our last day at sea. It was nerve-wracking- we had been in the wilderness for so long and had become quite comfortable with the blackness and emptiness of the ocean, so now with land so near and the potential for traffic much higher, we were a bit edgy. The clouds associated with our friends the squalls never let up, so even then, 25 nm away, we still hadn't seen land and the night was darker for a waning moon and an unclear sky. Naturally, with me already wound up a bit, this was the perfect time for an equipment failure. And what piece of equipment would be best to lose in the last one percent of the journey, when it is surely needed most? That's right, the chartplotter, which, incidentally, is also the radar display! It was shutting-off intermittently, re-booting at will, and the display wouldn't turn on most of the time. So, on our last night, knowing land was near, occasional squalls still passing through, I had the pleasure of re-wiring the plotter. It wasn't a dire situation- we had the necessary paper charts and multiple back-up GPS units, but it was stressful enough anyway. Eventually the plotter started working again, though the display still acts strangely so I'm not sure if the culprit really was the wiring.

In the morning, one final insult occurred. We lost one of our sail covers from the deck. It was the third piece to the inevitable trifecta of problems, but even I was able to get over that pretty quickly because finally we could see land (in spite of my earlier calculations, which had been in the theoretical realm of clear skies and sunlight, we didn't see Hiva Oa until it was just 7 miles away).

At sunrise, taking in the magnificent green cliffs and watching breakers slam into rocks, we drank our last beers, smoked cigars and tried to wrap our heads around the feeling. There was so much anticipation of this event- for me, years. Our minds had become more accustomed to the sea than we realized, too. The whole thing seemed surreal. We had seen nothing save for one fishing boat in 29 days and now there was this huge piece of land teeming with life and color. From unending homogeneity, a uniform expanse, we were now amid breathtaking variation: topography, sounds, colors, birds, buildings. The result, though, was a sort of subdued reverie. We didn't dance about the deck cheering; rather, we stared quietly and thought to ourselves with a shrug, “Well, we made it.”

In the end, there is no ceremony or welcoming party or grandiose event. We just pulled into the anchorage, putted past the quay and dozens of other sailboats, and set the hooks, bow and stern. We talked to anyone that passed near, but other than that, we just looked around for a long time. Fittingly, it seems, as were the challenges, the fears, and the milestones, the sense of accomplishment and completion were mainly internal. It took a fair bit of processing, which at least for me was coming to terms with how remarkably simple and easy it all seemed in retrospect. But, eventually our minds turned from putting into perspective our arrival on a little boat to the new reality: we now have this little boat to explore to our hearts' content.

We've already met amazing people of both the local and transient communities. I'll share more about those experiences in the next post.

Our Passage by the Numbers:

Duration: 28 days 5 hours 22 minutes anchor to anchor

Total Distance: 2,808 nautical mile

Average Speed: 4.15 knots

Engine Hours: 33.7 (approx. 50% of our fuel consumed)

Fastest Day: May 6- 154 nm around 3 degrees South

Slowest Day: Er, well, our first day out (Friday April 13) was the worst at 36 nm, but I'll share some more details that might be more useful to other cruisers. We hit the ITCZ around 05N after which we had a string of days that looked like this: 68 nm, 76, 62, 52, 78, 78. After the last in that list (May 5, the 21^st day of the voyage) we crossed the equator. In the southern hemisphere our slowest day was 90 nm. The area between 05N and 02S held the worst conditions for boat speed. Between 05 N and the equator was the most annoying swell (mixed from NE, SE). Basically all of the significant squall systems we encountered were in the southern hemisphere. And, finally, the equatorial counter-current pushed eastward between 01.5N and 01S.

At the Equator

Halyard swings at the equator.

Enjoying our bimini made from a bed sheet and sail ties.

Harnessed in the cockpit for sure.

A French flag is just a Mexican Flag with lots of intense sunshine
 and a little bit of arcylic paint.

Approaching Hiva Oa.

Near the anchorage on Hiva Oa.

Catching unidentified pelagic crustaceans for dinner.

Earl Bob stayed two nights with us.

Fresh Fruit, Cold Beer, and People

In spite of the bit of turmoil thrown at us on our last day at sea (more later), we made it safe and sound, making landfall in Hiva Oa on Saturday morning. I've only just been able to get internet- most things are closed all weekend- but know we are arrived and anchored among some 30 other cruising boats amid the steep and beautiful cliffs of the South Pacific Isles. Green is a magnificent color!
I promise to provide a real post soon but now I am on a French keyboard and typing is painfully slow. Many thanks for all the comments- we truly appreciate hearing from home!

Cheers!!!

Not Soon Enough

I should start by saying that everything is great and both ship and crew are in good working order. That said, we're in shambles. We're so close we can taste it. There are lots of birds flying around. The southern cross is bright as all hell. We've been variably coasting, scooting or careening along the southeasterlies for... I'm actually not sure. A while though. Long enough to feel like we should be there.

Our anxiousness is made worse by meals declining in freshness, quality, variety and virtually every other positive descriptor. They have become, in a word, substandard. Some have been categorically bad. Fortunately, Neptune's tastes are perfectly inverse to our own, so when we sacrifice all but three small portions of a horrific one-pot-wonder to the sea, it's a win-win.

What's more, there are signs aboard of an alarming moral decay that appears to accompany idleness and cultural confinement. Yesterday, as I haphazardly shuffled through the now mostly ragged stack of magazines my parents brought us in PV for entertainment and a taste of home, I came upon one that I hadn't yet read. It was the April 2012 issue of Gentleman's Quarterly. Excitement poured through me; a lengthy magazine such as this could keep me busy for hours. Then, realizing what I'd become, I was ashamed. GQ. I even looked at the pictures of mostly British dudes wearing ridiculous outfits. On one page, there was a short bit dedicated to the latest fashionable man bags- totes, if you will. Or, as we call them in America... I'll leave that rant off right there with the comfort of knowing my siblings will be able to infer a suitable diatribe and with that a fitting memory of their floating brother.

Seriously though, there was a man-tote that cost more than two thousand pounds (Chittick: ?That's a heavy bag.?). Shocking. But I read it and, as you can see, I absorbed it into brain capacity that I might never get back. To be fair though, there were some great and well-written articles. And the presence of poignant political and cultural commentary among pages and pages of photos of men in colorful suits, men with shoes on, men with watches on their wrists, men with hair done-up, tatooed men with salmon-colored pants, men with nice non-baseball hats, men with man-totes, makes the whole thing all the more bewildering. It's like an encyclopedia of the preceding month in British pop-culture, sort of the insecure, one-upping offspring of Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair. But Chittick said there would be samples of things that smell good in it, so I read on and on. I read the whole damn thing and there were no free samples that might help combat the odor that... actually, I'm not going to describe the odor.

See I've gotten off track, but the point was that I spent the bulk of a whole day reading that magazine and I was glad to do so. And now I've gone and written excessively about it, allotting even more of my time and brain-thinking-power to GQ. As I said: shambles. The last week or so has been tough. Not the type of tough where it's actually physically or mentally strenuous or anything, but the type of tough like a six-year-old trying to sleep on Christmas Eve.

We've recently abolished the use of landmarks. They've been deemed counter-productive. First it was the ITCZ, then the equator, then the 1000 nm to go, then 500 to go, then 400. It's not helpful. If you're wondering what it feels like to have now only 230 nm to go in a 2750 nm passage, the answer is exactly the same as it felt when we passed the last imaginary line in our path that had been fixed in our navigational minds. Unspectacular. I long for the sweet smell of hibiscus; that- smell- is the sense I am most excited to reunite with land. And I miss exercise; we haven't walked more than about 15 feet at a time in nearly a month. It seems only the final landmark- the one on land- will assuage our restlessness.

I have wondered when this perverse relationship will end that has us feeling farther away the closer we get. Today, supposing that point might be when we finally see land, I got out some paper and figured at what distance from the island we'd be able to catch our first glimpse, knowing the highest peak of Hiva Oa to be 1276 m, according to Lonely Planet. Assuming we're perched on Ardea at a mere 5 feet above sea level, it's 95.171 nautical miles. Great. Of course, at this rate we'll come into that range at night, so it's moot. That was entertaining for a solid twenty minutes, though.

All this whining aside, we really are doing pretty well. Other than tiring of having to hear Dana's list of possible dinner ingredients (?Potatoes... rice... noodles... eggs... cabbage... alright, pick a starch.?), and just generally wishing for some variety in our activities and environment, we continue to be in high spirits. Ardea continues to kick ass like a ninja, albeit a really slow ninja with not so much of the stealthiness. We did end up motoring a fair amount, though I won't report the final numbers until we arrive, and we've had a couple of squally convection zones in the southern hemisphere so far. In fact, a few nights ago we got a real nice one where it was all rainy and I, on watch, got to yell for Dana to come help and we reefed with a vengeance and watched in the full moon as a line of squalls hunkered towards us and we cycled through 5 and 25 knots, dry and down-pour for an hour or two. The break in routine was exciting.

Also, last night we saw a ship. Dana and I were sitting in the cockpit late, moon still near-full, drinking beers and enjoying the incredibly comfortable night air. I nodded to a dot on the horizon, only visible when the swell was right and mumbled without enthusiasm, ?Think that's a ship or a star??. We each alternately assessed that it was a star, then decided it was probably a ship, then went back confidently to star, then went on to talk about something else. Within ten minutes we could see its navigation lights, so we turned ours on. It passed us another ten or fifteen minutes after that, close enough that we could hear the engines. I tried hailing them on the vhf, just to say hi (we hadn't seen a ship in weeks), but they didn't respond. It was probably a Japanese long-line fishing vessel, but we're not really sure. Exciting, huh?

And so we continue, safe and sound, weather agreeable if less windy than ideal, and really and truly almost there. We're at 07 degrees 16 minutes South, 135 degrees 54 minutes West. I'm not sure if Shiptrak shows the islands, but ?there? is 09 degrees 49 minutes South, 139 degrees 02 minutes West in Tahauku Bay near the town of Atuona on the island of Hiva Oa in the Marquesas Archipelago in French Polynesia. So, we're basically looking at Friday afternoon if it gets a lot windier right now, Saturday if there exists a modicum of mercy in the world, and Sunday+ should the status-quo be maintained.

We were told on the radio net the other night by some folks who already arrived that the town is about a 45 minute walk from the anchorage, but it was possible to get a car ride in. I don't know if these people have a fitness center on their boat or just take a sadistic joy in watching their legs atrophy, but you couldn't pay us to take a ride into town. When we get there, I'll walk the whole damn day and with a smile on my face.

Wearing my oceans on my sleeves.

As we swept along through the trade winds, we became fond of remarking in high spirits about ?riding the bus.? The bus being the 12 to 15 foot swell with massive long troughs that lovingly lifted us along at a couple extra knots. That with the consistent 18 knots of breeze and we sat back carefree and watched the ocean fly by. The whipping sea and foam mesmerized us. Time, too, was swept faster by the swell and our states of mind took on the pacifying undulation of riding the bus.

When we hit the doldrums, there was an equal but opposite effect on our perceptions and, in turn, time began to wear. The seas became steadier; before there was swell and wave and wavelet and ripple but now we were in a single order sea. No longer was the mesmerizing motion, the feeling of lift in every bone on every puff or crest; no longer did the sea whip by so quickly that the attention could not become fixed. In the doldrums, our gaze met a stationary sea and we stared with glazed eyes and could feel time slow and stick to our skins unhurried by progress. We were at the start of several days of decaying progress that left us on each day to conclude that we were about ten days from landfall- I chuckled ironically to be living Xeno's paradox (I'm in the middle of the ocean- I'll get philosophical if I want to, dammit). By this point in our voyage, it had become clear that we were part of the boat and the boat part of us. More than our fates were intertwined- our very moods had become linked.

We've all had to accept the fact our mental state is continuously influenced by the state of ship and sea. It's impossible not to know what's going on. Every sense is stimulated in ways that vary proportionately with wind and swell. The clanking rigging and thrashing sails of a becalmed ship cannot be mistaken for the rush of water along a moving hull, which, it cannot be ignored, is sometimes accompanied by the crash of waves and the whistle of wind through shrouds as conditions improve (or deteriorate, depending on your perspective, i.e., how long you've been becalmed). Similarly, the body is constantly shifted, sometimes contorted, in a manner befitting the conditions. Often the feeling is quite relaxing; sometimes, though, it is hardly tolerable, either due to physical discomfort or otherwise to the emotional fatigue that accompanies a motion that says, ?We're definitely not going forward. We may actually be going backwards.?

We aren't entirely at the whim of mother nature, but she and this little boat are part of our constant, unavoidable reality. When the reality becomes slow or frustrating, though we've remain quite even-tempered regardless, the air on the boat carries a quiet, introspective, sullen feeling. One quickly learns the futility of being angry about the conditions, for one has no control over the nature or duration of these things, but the mood will inevitably be effected for as long as a Ardea remains an ever-present extension of our bodies. Needless to say, our crawl through the doldrums got the better of what should be a state of content indifference to the passage of time. In short, we became incredibly antsy.

The squalls were for the most part disappointing. We managed to chase down a few like Dennis Quaid and Helen Hunt but it was mainly just rainy. We never got more than 12 or 15 knots of breeze in the squalls and otherwise had anywhere from 2 to 8 knots. On the other hand, we were never completely and utterly becalmed like we had been on crossing the Sea of Cortez.

Sometime toward the end of our second day in the ITCZ, things went from moderately annoying to utterly contemptible. We had entered an East-setting current of about a knot and a half, approximately matching our velocity-made-good under sail at the time. That put a damper on our little jaunt through the quiet blue wilderness. We crossed the 129th meridian several times only to slowly drift back over; eventually it became unbearable. Even though the ITCZ weather had cleared, we were still praying for any little zephyr that Neptune might send to fill our sails. None received, we motored straight South, planning to be rid of that current forever.

We sailed some and motored some more and finally after what seemed a lifetime, we approached the equator. We were starting to see signs of improving weather: cumulus clouds, not too dense, steady barometer, a more uniform swell and an improving easterly breeze. Under sail in about 10 knots, we crossed Earth's middle about an hour after sunrise on May 4th. We had a good breeze for the first time in days, but we didn't care. We celebrated jubilantly. After we crossed, we turned back and hove to on the equator. We dropped the main sail down and drank rye whiskey and swung on the halyard, flipping or flopping into the sea, praising sweet Neptune. Under the surface in that place on the planet is an amazing abyss of the clearest, bluest, saltiest sea. To swim down even just a little bit seemed a most daring and bold maneuver. It seemed like it would be so easy to get lost in that great yonder, but at the same time we were compelled to hold our breath and swim down and out into the nothingness like kids daring themselves into the dark doorway of a haunted house. It was fascinating to be there.

Eventually, we trimmed the sails and set a course South again; the wind held and has still held since then, though it is only around 10 knots and, in due course, our moods are similarly moderated. A day later, around a minute and a half South, we broke free of the easterly current and set our course for the great circle bearing, straight to Hiva Oa.

We're still anxious and will remain so as the quality of our meals deteriorates and the itch for dry land and all the niceties it brings increases. Having ruled out cryogenically freezing ourselves for a week, we've decided to go with good old fashioned patience. If we can manage to hold 4.5 knots boat speed, we will be there next Saturday morning; word on the radio net has it that a bigger swell lies ahead, so we may even break the old 5 knot mark for a while. Who knows- maybe we'll hop back on that bus, where spirits soar and time slips away unnoticed. Either way, we'll soon be arrived, whatever that means.