This section encompasses a collection of stories and
passage notes written while underway during the first leg of Voyage
Two of Pacific Bliss, the 3252 nautical mile passage from San
Diego, California to Atuona Harbor in the island of Hiva Oa, Marquesas,
French Polynesia
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March 27, 2002, 0700
26º N, 118º 55'W
Wind WNW, 7.3 Knots True
Getting our Sea Legs
Pacific Bliss is quietly gliding through the night, a silent
spaceship traveling on to other worlds, only the swish-swish of the
water beneath her hulls and an occasional groan of the sails against
the rigging remind me that we are still at sea. It is a remarkable contrast
to my watches the first two nights, in which Pacific Bliss efforted
through a steep and turbulent sea, on a beam reach, hitting up to 10
knots, winds at 20 and gusting to 25.
During those first lonely watches, I was a little queasy and uneasy;
it had been an effort to bundle up in long underwear, fleece top, fleece-lined
sailing jacket, corduroy jeans, fleece socks and gloves, head covered
with my red fleece-lined cap snugly over my ears and velcro'd under
my chin. In addition, I had to learn the "cat-walk" and boat
noises all over again, creeping and crouching from one hand-hold to
another, the waves exploding in "bombs" as they swept from
one hull to the next.
This morning, as I write in my journal, I am more comfortable. I sit
at the nav station for a few minutes, then walk easily around the cockpit
to check for vessels also underway. The cap is off, the gloves are on
the settee, and my jacket is unzipped a little at the neck. Oh! The
freedom of unbundling. I yearn for the tropics and the shedding of more
clothes. As the layers come off, I am gradually shedding the layers
of care and worry and "stuff" that I brought with me from
civilization. In fact, I am amazed at how little I've thought about
home since we've been sailing. It is almost three full days since we've
left our well-wishers behind, waving from the dock.
As the seas have calmed, so has my spirit. We glide along easily, and
I can imagine days and days of this, no hustle and bustle, no cares
(except for the safety of Pacific Bliss its crew), no deadlines,
just endless periods of winds and calms, alternating according to the
whims of Nature.
Earlier on my watch, about 0400, the heavy cloud cover allowed just
a speck of moon, almost full now, hemmed in by clouds, dark black in
the center fading to purple-black at the fringes. The pale white moon
was eerily powerful against the inky darkness. By 0530, the sun peeped
through the clouds in the opposite sky, mimicking the effect of the
moon, creating a compressed world that allows only a glimmer of light.
Then by 0700, the sun turns the sky into a purple-magenta haze filled
with an orange center. It gradually disappears, tantalizing me, holding
its light in suspension until it breaks through in all its glory, much
higher on the horizon.
My watch over, I realize that we are now west of Cedros Island off
Baja, and turn on the SSB, dialing into the familiar Amigo Net. Memories
of our long slog up the coast of Mexico, during Voyage 1, flood back
into my consciousness. I realize how tired of traveling we were then,
close to the end of our 10,000-mile France-to-San Diego maiden voyage,
and remember how eager we later became to leave the land-life behind.
Today is the first day that I feel rested, bright, and alert instead
of immediately collapsing into my bunk, exhausted. A slight sore throat
and cough has now disappeared, as has all traces of the low-level seasickness
that I think we all encountered during the first two days.
Of course, when one feels good, thoughts turn to food. We had finished
off the wonderful batch of Pichelsteiner that Sabine cooked for us,
as well as her cookies and apple cake and Doug's sushi. Today would
be our first day to actually plan a menu and cook on board. "Life
is looking up," Gunter says!
March 27, 2002, afternoon
We are a silent ship, ghosting through fairly calm deep blue seas,
two-thirds of the way down Baja; the sloshing of the hulls through the
seas and the slight pulling of the preventer on the main is the only
noise. Gunter is reading in the salon, Doug and Armin are resting in
their berths, and I've been sitting at the nav station, reading Melville's
Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life. We are moseying along at 3.5 to 4
knots in only 8 knots of wind.
We don't feel guilty this afternoon: we have each completed our one
obligatory task for the day. Gunter reported that he looked for and
found a spare light bulb in the spare parts box in the sail locker to
replace Doug's reading light. I finally unpacked and stowed the last
of the bags I had brought on board, which involved lifting up the slats
under our mattress to get at the storage underneath. This is our last
look at some of these things until we hit the equator and have our "crossing
the line" party. Next, I pulled out the computer for the first
time and updated the 20-page provisioning list. At that point Gunter
said, "Save it. Tomorrow is another day. We need to stretch out
these tasks for the long passage ahead."
What a stark contrast from one week ago today! Then, we were conducting
our sea trials and boat repairs by day, still packing and provisioning
by night, collapsing into bed aching and fatigued with all the physical
labor it entailed. Now, we don't even think of much of anything back
there. The news, politics, entertainment-it has been out of sight, out
of mind.
It has been a day for leisurely stretching things out; the crew has
settled in nicely and we are all caught up in the torpor of the easy
life on board Pacific Bliss right now. The sky is still overcast,
but when the sun does break through, I move with my journal out to the
helm seat, swing my legs over the top into a lounging position. I have
shed my Pacific Bliss sailing jacket during the daytime, wearing
only my turtle neck sweater and jeans, and fleece socks.
The sea is a deep navy blue this afternoon, the horizon at least five
shades of lighter blue rimmed by blue-white cumulus clouds. These are
not the teals we'll see in the South Pacific atolls, but these colors
are beautiful in their own way. I photograph the monochromatic sky and
seas, dreaming about the reef-filled, sandy-bottomed seas to come.
Photo: Sunset west of Baja.
Photo
Moonrise
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