Tawodi Sailing Adventures

27.08 S  109.26 W  Anchor down at Easter Island

On the busiest shopping day in the United States of America the Captain and I have purchased this moment; dropping anchor off Easter Island.  Funny how moments in time can be so expensive and yet so priceless.  It’s the Captain’s way to be marked by a sailor’s concerns- the nature of the anchorage, the size of the surf just yonder, contemplating cleaning the bottom of the boat, filling diesel jugs, repairing leaks; basically keeping this rolling adventure moving along.  I am more the perpetual tourist,staring in wonder at the happenstance of land in the middle of the ocean, passport in hand, ready to run the island, struck dumb by actually arriving here. I’ve imagined many things for my life but, for once, my imagination failed to come up with doing this, arriving here and, still having a whole world waiting.
For thirty one days we have contemplated the sky and water, the wind, dead flying fish and the shifting moods of each other. This morning at 8:30 the Captain spotted the hard lines of land, at 3:30 we stopped and now we contemplate trees, cars, people, fishing pongas, big statues; the good, evil and odd of society.  Of course we contemplate these things through binoculars because we cannot clear customs until tomorrow morning.
But we’re here.  We’re actually here.

21.30S 113.09W, Closing in on Easter Island. To see the position graphically, go here Where is Tawodi? .
In San Diego a friend of ours is getting ready to spend Thursday deep frying turkeys. The luxury of those birds- it may be one dangerous culinary feat but no turkey tastes as good as one that’s done time in a vat of boiling oil. The birds, the fried potatoes and the obscenity of pies after the birds and the fried potatoes- how we’ll miss all of that this year.

In contrast, my mother, holed up in the right coast denizens of Connecticut, will be putting sweet potatoes and marshmallows together in an unholy cassaroled mix that fuses into my brother’s favorite Thanksgiving dish. An offering to my sibling’s table that Mom, bless her pea-pickin’ little heart, lovingly provides and then patently refuses to even taste. I can’t blame her- just the thought of that recipe makes my teeth hurt. The Captains family, on the other hand, will have food. Lots of it.

Such was the description he gave of Thanksgiving with his family. “Food. Lots of food.” My man: so specific and detail oriented on one hand, so not specific and not detail oriented on the other hand.

As for us on Tawodi, we will be having canned chicken. Perhaps we’ll sculpt it into the shape of a turkey. Perhaps we’ll bake it or fry it or eat it cold. No matter what we do with the canned chicken we’re hoping to doing it with our anchor dropped and the crusty edge of Easter Island within shouting range. That right there may be meal enough for our tired bones. It may not happen on Thanksgiving precisely but here’s to hoping we make a fine holiday arrival.

The sailing goes along fine. A calming of seas and winds have brought a respite to the pounding we took for ten days. It’s nice to take a break from sponging up the water off the floor. It’s just fine to step beyond the protection of the dodger without being immediately soaked by a wall of seawater and it is down right groovy to move about the boat without grasping for the next hand hold. And, gosh darn it, but it does feel good to have the massacre of flying fish slow down a bit. Small pleasures

out on the deep blue that remind us to be thankful every day.

11.28 S 115.00 W Less than one thousand miles to Easter Island.
22 days. That’s our time at sea since a brief stop in Cabo San Lucas. Though this boat has covered thousands of miles this is the longest, by a week, she has continuously journeyed. The longest and some of the hardest for an old war horse. The Captain preaches that there are two things a boat should be able to face; light air and moving forward almost straight into the wind. The last three weeks of sailing testified to the truth of his sermon. We saw 13 days of banging around in the light airs

of the doldrums and 9 days of being hard over, pointing the boat’s nose as close to the wind as she can handle.

She works well with both but neither are kind to her. Light air leaves moving parts rubbing, banging- essentially gnawing away at themselves while riding just to one side of the wind’s face pummels the boat with walls of water and relentless stress.

Cracks in the armor start to show. Water finds its way through the best laid deck hardware.

The leaks we face are minor but to the Captain every one is a personal affront. When the first weepers began to show it was hard for him to not wear each new drip like an insult. Toss in the crew’s waning humor and one can imagine the covert grumbling that inhabited the cabin for a few days. Fortunately we’ve moved past that.

No matter how insulted, frustrated or tired we might be the ocean and the wind don’t care. Better to make miles and be happy for them than wish for a thing that can’t be had even though a chocolate milk-shake would be real fine right now.

We have a bit over a week of travel before Easter Island. The fresh vegetables have dwindled to potatoes and onions but we’re harvesting sprouts daily. The flying fish relentlessly slap onto our decks. Luckily the volume of water washing over us shovel most right back into the sea leaving them with their lives, a fish headache and a story about the time they were briefly abducted.

God willing and the creek don’t rise inside we just may be anchored off Easter Island for Thanksgiving.

4.58 N 111.43 W About 300 miles north of the equator and 2000 miles west of South America.
One day. What a difference it can make. Yesterday we were pirouetting. The wind was here and then there and then gone and then over yonder. Random north bound swells smacked us in the nose. It sounded like being hit by a cow at high speed- a big angry cow. The Captain referred to the swells as the ‘calling card of the Southern Ocean.’ ‘Interesting calling card’ I thought and then the wind would shift and die and we’d been spinning again only to come nose to face with another one of those calling

cards.

We motored through the night. Motored through the morning and then at 9 am the wind seemed willing to stay. By 10: 30 we had jib, staysail and first-reefed main pulling us along and our world was hard over on her right ear.

In twenty four hours we’ve driven ourselves from hot stillness and into wind. And we’re living in a fishbowl. All hatches closed tight and our ‘water-tight’ dorade, that we’d hoped would provide even a dribbling of air, has proven to be mediocre in the ‘water-tight’ department. Given time, lack of circulating air, a large quantity of garlic and beans and two human beings- the fishbowl could smell really interesting, really soon. Such is the perfume of the yachting life.

Now we have an up-hill climb to the galley and the bow often provides the opportunity to briefly experience zero gravity. Since that’s where the toilet is life can be all sorts of adventurous.

We hope that we’ve put the doldrums behind us but one must account for the puckish nature of Nature. We’ll count the doldrums behind us when we’ve made it around the world and back home again. Anything more would be hubris and likely to leave us adrift tomorrow.
We’d also like to give a hearty thank-you to Guy Stevens for resurrecting the photo-album on our website- Honest- we have no idea how it got broken. And also to the gentlemen of the Manana Ham Maritime Mobile Network- thank you Kevin, Ralph, Tom, Randy, Bill, Kermit and Jerry for being there. Without you guys the Captain would only have me and every good Captain needs more than one pair of ears to hear his story.

10.10 N 110.48 W- 90 miles west of Clipperton Island and about 600 miles north of the equator.
On November 4th the United States elected Barack Obama as their new president. On November 5th wind came back into our lives and the quartet of sharks were left behind to find another kind of flotsam. We’re not exactly fat with wind but there’s enough to move us along. After almost a week of speeds that could have been bested by old men using walkers who stop frequently to study on the birds, our moving over the water at an average of 4 knots seems a heady experience. Up and down it goes but

we are hopeful that our days as a semi-stationary shark feeding platform are over.

And as citizens of the United States traveling to foreign lands we’re hopeful that our new president-elect will make us a little more welcome in the world. Sitting in Costa Rica a few years back when George W. Bush declared war on Iraq, I found myself in the unenviable position of being asked to explain my country- explain George W. Bush, as if that were possible. With time the questioning got worse and left so many of us with a nagging sense of embarrassment over the state of our government while

leaving the world with a nagging sense of dislike for our country.

Here’s to hope that Barack Obama can not only provide solutions but can stop the relentless manufacture of new problems that affect not only our country but the world at large.

And here’s to wind. For a brief few hours the Captain had two head-sails winged out on either side of the boat and the main up and full. Nice to see that much canvas sucking up the air. Winds have shifted and we’re running on port tack, close reaching, debating over what kind of dolphins are playing with us today.

Aloha all,

There have been some questions asked which I’ll attempt to answer.  I know not everyone on this list will understand exactly what I’m saying, but here goes.

First of all, Self steering.  We have a giant autopilot capable of steering through most anything.  We’re not using it right now.  We have a tiny tillermaster that pushes the air-blade of the wind-vane.  This uses few electrons and will steer the boat down to about 1-2 knots boatspeed.  Any slower, and there isn’t enough water flowing over the water blade to move the tiller.  If there is good wind, (haven’t had much of that yet), the wind -vane will work with, well, wind.

We are bleeding electrons

Not much wind means the wind generators do nothing.

Two freezers and 90plus degree temperatures eat lots of power.  We lose about 25% of our charge every day.  That means we run the engine to recharge every day, or every other.

Twin headsails almost always means twin poles.  My fixed length pole (which is J, or 13.8′) rides on the mast.  When it is down I have another car riding above the first with a ring.  This allows the adjustable pole (12-20′) to clip on and extend to the other side.  Both poles are supported with topping lifts and foreguys.

The boat is broad reaching on port tack.  The main and the number 2 jib are to stbd.  The main is all out and prevented with a line from the end of the boom to the bow.  The shorter pole is out to stbd aft of the forward lower shroud, at nearly 90 degrees.  The port pole is extended to full length and run at about a 60 degree angle to the bow.  The  #1 tape drive jib is run up the port slot in the furler.  This holds the clew of the port jib forward enough that it feeds air into the slot and helps fill the #2 jib out to starboard.  This amount of sail area allow 6-8 knot boatspeeds in 10-14 knots of wind, which is only 6-8 apparent.

Other configurations to follow.

Once we get into the consistent easterlies, we’ll most likely just beam reach with jib and main.

Hope this clears things up for those of you who care.

And if you’re confused about anything remember Kathleen’s favorite phrases; “Apparent wind is merely the sum of two vectors”, and “Tiller toward trouble!”.

I’m not sure what that last one means.

Stay with the boat!, have fun.

Well it seems as though the collective breath holding is over.  We have felt the effect of so many exhaling at once, a little wind again.
We both have high hopes for the Obama-nation.

We are sailing south at around 7 knots in 10-14 from the e.n.e..  We’re broad reaching on port tack with a second jib to port on another pole.  That’s twin jibs, with poles, and a full main (prevented).  Temperature is in the 90s.

We are about 200 miles north of Isla Clipperton, a holding of France.  We are now south of Mexico.

J.S.A. (just sailing along)

16.54 N 109.50 W.

Caught a fish, a tuna a couple of days ago. Big flashy green and yellow thing with eyes too big for comfort. Stephen made contact with a couple of amateur radio networks so he has someone to talk to other than me- thank the gods. Went from using the strong, super-electron sucking auto-pilot to the wind-vane helped along with a small,non super-electron sucking tiller pilot. Chafed partially through the clew of the headsail. Said Happy Halloween to each other on Friday and then, on Saturday, what

we thought was light wind became no wind and we began the game of trying to drift in the right direction.

The heat stayed but the air, the air stopped moving and our lives began to melt. Toothpaste, lotion, carmex, vegetables, my skin, the adhesive holding up a photo- all of it started to go soft. The freezers went into hyper-drive while strange smells began to emanate from the dry-food lockers.

A quartet of sharks started following in the late afternoon, waiting, I suppose, for the big floating thing to finally die. They were like miniature great whites but who cares about the size, it’s the teeth that matter. Their slipping presence made the idea of an afternoon swim seem less fun than roasting alive in the windless and sharkless confines of the boat.

And so Stephen started talking about sailors and the art of patience. At first with a smile and then with a grimace and by late evening the waxing lyrical about patience was eking it’s way painfully through gritted teeth as he sat, watching his boat chew away on herself. Sails, blocks, lines and crew all gnawing away at their respective bits.

‘Race of attrition,’ he kept muttering and then ‘entropy’ followed by more, unintelligible words. I sat quietly and tried smiling reassuringly. It probably looked like I was sneering- it’s so hard to be perky when you’re living in a pool of your own sweat.

So here we are in what feels like the expanded waist-line of the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone, drifting, practicing patience, pondering our ‘race-pace’ idea and trying to will a little wind our way.

Personally I just hope we shake off the sharks soon.