Eclipsed

On Tuesday the sun was out and the wind in the morning was a bit light but nice nonetheless. I sat on the bowsprit for a good long while drinking my coffee and watching the waves. Flying fish darted out from in front of the boat and made their way gliding gracefully over the waves; it's incredible how far they can travel through the air and I will never tire of watching. Like many creatures, they are something of a phenomenon, a fantastical bit of sci-fi nature, true as anything but yet so unreal. It's a hard life they lead, chased from the sea by the mahi-mahi only to be plucked from the skies by seabirds, the ultimate wanderers. I envy the grace with which they accept their plight; it's not easy to make such a constant struggle look so beautiful, but if you've seen a school of them take to the low altitudes, you can appreciate their skill.

Between flying fish, I watched the pummice float by; sometimes the rocks were solitary and sometimes Ardea would pass through long plumes of pebbles streaking the surface like so much flotsam marking a tide line. Eventually I got up from my perch and strung a wire coat hanger around the diameter of the opening of a mesh bag and secured that to the boat hook so I could grab a few samples. I knew from observing the rocks tossed by Ardea's bow wake that they were light, but was astonished nonetheless at just how nearly weightless were the ones I pulled up. I suppose this must be due in part to the fact that they were formed a couple of miles under the sea under immense pressure.

In the afternoon I approached a large mid-level cloud spanning much of the southwestern sky. I could see the rain falling in the distance. It's funny approaching such features; they seem imminent and to the sailor they represent change. One must be ready for the possible need to alter canvas or course, close hatches or secure the things that have settled in such a way as to be stable only under the current conditions. So I see a big cloud like this in the distance and I watch the rain falling and I just keep watching and watching but the truth is, it's still miles away and our convergence is not usually quick. Sometimes when you hit a squall line, the wind will jump a great deal instantaneously, but that doesn't really explain the habit of staring the squall line down for hours on approach. I tried to reason out why I couldn't bring myself to go below and read a book and return to check on the cloud a little later. I just couldn't, though. Watching the cloud was the only thing. If I went below or tried to read, my mind would only wander back to the cloud, wondering where it was and what it would bring.

I had been lucky the night before, effortlessly carving a path between the squalls. I didn't change course or canvas once. The cloud cover brought mist, but not a drop of rain. Saltbreaker was twenty-five miles southeast of me and got rain and squalls for a while. I wondered if this time I would have to deal with a big jump in pressure. I wondered if I should go take that whisker pole down ahead of time. The wind was light, though, and my speed was low; if I took down the pole I'd go even slower and the jib would flog.

The cloud came and brought rain but no wind. I was glad for the rain. I had sailed upwind and taken a good deal of spray for several days, so it was good to have a freshwater rinse for the boat and rigging. I did not care for a fresh water rinse myself as it was quite cool already and my tolerance for lower temperatures is nil these days. I went below and listened to the rain on the cabin top. It only last a half an hour or so and when the cloud left it took with it to the northeast every drop of wind. I sulked about the deck for a while, searching the surface of the sea through binoculars for any sign of breeze ahead. There was none. Reluctantly, I dropped all sail and fired up the engine.

I motored at about four knots for five hours. It was very loud and displeasing, though I was happy to take advantage of the electricity. I motored right on through my evening meeting with Saltbreaker on the radio during which they sunk my destroyer and thus took the lead in the game. I motored through the Drifter's Net, when I checked in with all the other boats spread from well east of me to Australia and everyone within a thousand kilometer radius was lamenting the conditions and either floating around or putting up with the noisy diesel eaters. The sea was calm, so I took the time after that to re-wire the chart-plotter in hopes that it might stop shutting off randomly and to seal the threads on the fuel filter output line to stop a slow drip that was wasting my diesel. Then, around about an hour before sundown, there was another cloud, a less menacing one. It brought a light, misty rain for a few minutes. The sun was very low in the sky, so it's warm rays were not blocked by the cloud overhead and soon there was a double rainbow visible astern. I stood on deck and watched it; I could trace both components unbroken from the sea across the sky and back to the sea.

After reveling in that for a while, I turned and looked out at the setting sun when I noticed a dark line on the water and my heart leaped. It was wind, I was sure of it. I got the binoculars and observed the little ripples on the surface, still a mile or so ahead. I was excited, probably unduly excited, since it wasn't a lot of wind. It would keep the sails full though, and I could sleep in peace that night. When I reached the wind line, I put the engine in neutral and coasted to a stop so I could feel the true strength and direction. It was probably around eight knots and it blew from the southwest. "That'll do," I said aloud. In about three minutes I was under full sail, close-hauled once again, making a great deal of westing. It wasn't ideal, but I would certainly take it.

The wind built through the night and shifted favorably toward the south. I sailed, still close-hauled, on a course of about 245 degrees making about 4.5 knots this morning as I made a nest of pillows on the lee side of the cockpit and sipped coffee while staring at the sun. I hadn't made it far enough south to see the total eclipse, but I was blessed with a clear sky, a reasonably warm day and a fair breeze with which to watch a partial solar eclipse and contemplate my infinitesimal existence for a few hours. Once over, I retreated to the warmth of the cabin feeling peaceful.

It's remarkable the effect of the wind on the state of mind. It's incredible fun, though, on this passage when tactics are so much at play. For so long things were quite simple. Sailing in the southern trades toward the setting sun requires little thought; one generally takes a bearing to the next destination, sets a course straight for it and otherwise only makes minor adjustments. The tropics are officially in my wake, though, as is the western hemisphere. The winds will likely move around the compass between now and arrival; I won't have the simple luxury of pointing straight for Opua and will have to plan carefully regarding the direction in which I will go askew in the hopes of capitalizing most on the future winds. It can be hard mentally, watching Ardea's vector composed of only a small fraction of the south-southwest direction of Opua. In a few days, though, the wind should shift to the west or northwest and I should be in good shape for a while. Ardea's average speed is down, but we can only hope to make up for it later. Until then, I'll keep dreaming of sandwiches and cold beer, staring at clouds and otherwise finding some kind of entertainment. About 650 miles to go.