Don't Touch That Dial.

It occurred to me today that we've come to treat our daily radio time with great reverence. A technology we may formerly have viewed as archaic or obsolete, we now anticipate with child-like excitement; first-half-twentieth-century child, of course. We crowd around the nav station right around 0200 Zulu, which, these days, falls just before sunset. One might be sprawled out in the cockpit, lying with head at the companionway, or standing in the galley facing starboard, or maybe sitting up straight on the settee, leaning forward, feet firmly on the floor. That's literally all of the places available within earshot of the radio. Except, of course, the nav station seat, belonging to the person currently on watch, or to whomever they bartered the position out of laziness (getting our position report across can sometimes be a cumbersome process, countering the obvious advantage of being directly in front of the radio). And we listen with fervor.

I suppose it'll help to outline briefly what goes on during our daily radio net, in order to more accurately convey the degree to which it has become an event of importance to the crew of Ardea. Basically, the net consists of a roll-call facilitated by a net-controller, a job which rotates among three or four boats. The net-controller makes his or her way down the list, making contact with and receiving reports from each boat. Reports consist of position, speed, course, weather information and any info that might be of use to others. Because high-frequency radio relies on effectively bouncing radio waves off of a zone of the atmosphere (deemed the ionosphere), its range is dependent not just on the frequency, but also on atmospheric conditions at the time. Propagation conditions can have a big impact on signals. This problem is usually solved by relaying information through boats that are able to capture weaker signals, who then convey the information to the rest of the net, but it can be a very long process on nights when conditions are poor. When we first left there were considerably more boats on the roll-call and, depending on how many relays were needed, it took about an hour before spot came up.

Anyway, the whole thing gets more and more exciting as it progresses. See, the boats are listed on the roll-call in the order in which they left Mexico, so as the nightly saga presses on, it gets more relevant to us. We get potentially useful information as well as a means for comparison, which is the real kicker.

We aren't just sitting around the ham radio, listening to other boats read off their positions, sometimes over a period of several laborious minutes. We're writing it down, often frantically! And afterward, we chart the ones closest to us to see if we've gained on anyone. But charting is for after the net. It doesn't have quite the same action-packed, usually histrionic live analysis, complete with trash-talking, that we enjoy during the net.

I know what you're thinking, ?Connor. Dude. That really doesn't sound that cool.? But you're wrong!

A little quick mental math and we know about where our ?buddy boats? are, no charts required. And, although we haven't officially told any of them that we're racing, it's pretty obviously a contest, the buddy boat moniker being a fabrication, a cowardly tactic meant to catch us on our laurels. You can understand how emotions run high.

S/V Desolina, still about 100 nm south and 30 nm west (read: ahead) of us, might come in with his report; all three of us wait silently, totally still, as though movement or sound might obscure the signal. His position comes in- he hasn't increased his lead. Then, through garbling interference, like a ship through fog, like FDR next to a roaring fireplace, like the baseball announcer with the tying run at the plate...

?pppshhhshpppppshhhht boat speed psssshhht seven decimal zero knots.?

All three of us simultaneously come to life with the jerky motions of defeat. Chittick's shoulders relax as he sits back from the elbows-on-knees posture of anticipation and lets out a long, pained, ?Awwwwwwwwww.?

Dana stomps his foot and throws his head forward and back in a quick nod of disappointment, ?Dammit! Shit!?

I look down, let my forehead fall to my hand, uttering, ?That son-of-a-bitch.?

Our small victories are celebrated with almost as much gusto. That same night, a boat farther on than us decided to cross the ITCZ around 125W, a tactic we were decidedly against.

?ppppssshhht course of one nine zero magnetic psshhht motoring at four decimal two knots.?

Chittick: ?Motoring again? Oh come on!?

Me: ?Shouldn't have crossed so early. Yup, we're stayin North.?

Dana: ?What's their longitude again? Geeez.?

It's this type of banter that gives us entertainment. Obviously, it's mostly unfounded gossip, contrived criticism or completely invented stories built around little bits of patterned data we have about these other boats. But it's all in good fun and we find ourselves feeling like we know these folks that we've never even met simply because we know their radio personalities and have tracked their sailing progress. It might seem a little ridiculous to imagine the three of us huddled here claiming we'll never get becalmed like that boat or bemoaning another skipper's propensity for incredibly long transmissions or joking about how some controllers treat each contact like all the rest of us can't hear it, but we're fascinated with this contact with other people. Even though it isn't exactly a venue for conversation, we build conversation around it, venting our hyper-competitive natures and soothing the banality of our isolation. However crass or nonsensical are the resulting rambles on Ardea, the development of this ritual seems quite natural.

Having noted the evolution of this daily routine, I feel a connection with those whose forms of entertainment are lacking without some form of additional input. Somehow, the radio now seems like an interactive experience- the audience being as important as the broadcast; it simply wouldn't be the same without our collective banter, even if we're the only ones who hear it. It's like how my Mom always yells instructions at sports games even when she knows the players can't hear her. In like manner, we build ourselves some entertainment with what we have, and what we get is quite a bit more fun than even the most captivating episode of Pawn Stars.

Nevertheless, we're lucky to have been able to report today at 0200 Zulu:

Position: 08 deg. 20.9' N 126 deg 43.3' W
Course: 205 M (214 True)
Speed: 6 knots
Baro: 1011 mb
Wind: 16 knots NE
Swell: 2 m NE

We're sailing under the jib and the mizzen, with the main down and the main boom hauled to weather for stability. These days it's easy to see just how hopeful folks are when they wish one another fair winds and following seas.

Connor