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.