Monday, January 17, 2005
we made it!!!
We are here in Charlotteville!
YAY!
More to come, just wanted to let y'all know!
love the pangaea crew
a day before landfall?
The end of this passage approaches us in a flurry of numbers and sky. Fate has played a few bittersweet tricks on us in the last 48 hours weather wise. It goes from tropical hot with little puffs of wind to squally heavy rainfall with winds from all sides. On the one hand, Achim and Coby want to get there sooner than later, but reefing and unreefing isn't their idea of excellent recreation after 2 weeks of almost no sleep. So, for example, we just let out more genoa, and we can probably ride this new speed for a few hours, until the next squall comes in and they have to wrench themselves back out to trim...
The kids, meanwhile, are little go to sleep wake up playing pooping machines. I'm amazed at how they both find things to amuse themselves even in these rocky rolly, mommy ain't gonna help conditions. Toni came in a few minutes ago, for example, proudly showing off a sailboat she made out of pink, blue and yellow drinking straws and tape.
"Arts and Crafts," she announces. Legos fly around the cabins along with uncapped felt pens, naked Barbie and Ken dolls, handmade flowers with pipe cleaners. I've given up tidying around them, opting instead for watching the clock's time to go mixed in with a bad thriller and making B L and D for hungry men, less hungry sweet-toothed kids and a noshy mamma.
So, what has it been like? As you will see from the sound of our various updates, my experience aboard may take a different hue than that described by Coby... but we're in the same boat! A lot of time rolling back and forth. An amazement at the amount of vast expanses of water. A feeling of closeness for us with the kids. An excitement to be seeing land again, and not just any land... an enchanted one. We love Tobago and are thrilled to be reuniting with the people (the Daniels and keens-Dumas families in particular) and place (you name it, if it's on Tobago we miss it!)
We have our work cut out for us once we land... but no major deadlines! We hope to keep it that way, too. The first thing I hope to do once we throw the anchor overboard is to jump into the crystal clear waters of Charlotteville.
Today we will eat the last of our prized dorado. Never did catch another bite after that one, but one big one is better than none. I feel so good about everything we've accomplished. Even the bickering between Achim and myself, and with him being so tired believe me there's plenty, has surprisingly became less important and substantial rather than being magnified by our pending landfall. In the old days of cruising, our bumping of heads used to cloud the beauty and enjoyment of the whole experience. I guess my life feels fuller now, and I realize that this too, shall pass, and we won't remember the little moanings and groanings, just the big, swooping, sailing picture. At least that's what I hope.
In the last days, it's been fun to get emails from my parents and sisters. We are organizing a kind of family get together on Tobago for end of March beginning of April. it's great to hear them all into it and know that this is something special we have to look forward to. Not to mention Coby's wife Margit who should be arriving to be with us in about 2 weeks. Carnival begins on the 6th of February and we will be there for that, too!
So looking forward, looking backward, looking all around us even in the moment... it's been a wild ride, and it's no where near over yet! But at least THIS part of the passage is!
Achim says: I'm so grateful for how everything has worked so far. Best crew, best boat!
kisses from a waterlogged chickadee
175 miles to go
12 11 'N
57 38' W
Landfall, not poetry
It's in sight.
We have to motor. No wind at all.
Almost there
What else to say? Birds now dot the horizon.
Kids are happy.
Caught a Gigantic dorado (called dolphin fish around here) and now the freezer is stuffed with fishmeat.
We hope our friends will make it out to Charlotteville to greet us.
All is well, healthy happy.
40 miles and counting, The Pangaea Crew!
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Report from the Forepeak: Our Money's Worth
Our Money's Worth
What would a sailing trip be without a few rough spots? Smooth sailing? What
fun would that be?
Last night's early watch (22:00 - 04:00) began like a honeymoon postcard -
quarter moon in a sky cloudless but for a few decorative cumulus, tops lit
pinky-orange tones by the last of the sun, off on the northern horizon,
stars by the fistful, calm sea and gentle following air. Didn't have to make
any adjustments to self-steering or sail all watch. In the last half hour,
though, I started having trouble seeing anything south of the boat. It felt
after a while that we were sailing along the edge of the world, so thorough
was the lack of anything at all off to port. Then everything astern started
following suit. By the time Achim came on at 04:00, it was pretty obvious
that we were being overhauled by a rather large, thick, dark, threatening -
if not actually evil - cloud. It was the great-grandfather of all the little
puffy Buffalo clouds (the Puffalo?) I had been chanting to on previous
nights to bring us a little wind and perhaps a shower or two. It appeared as
though the message might have been passed all the way up the line to the
home office, and the CEO him- or herself had come out to handle the order
personally.
The cloud swallowed us whole. It then proceeded to rain on our stately
parade. We weren't sure whether we should reef sails or not yet, the wind
remaining very light and seemingly unchanged in direction. This was probably
a cloud tactic to get us to relax our guard, which we did - somewhat. Rain
fell, gently at first. We battened down hatches and hung out on deck a while
to see what would happen next. We got wet and nothing much seemed to be
going on, so we went below. A word about the weather: Warm. Both wind and
rain. And soft and friendly. More cloud tactics.
I like to engage with the water, if it seems reasonably possible and not too
terribly uncomfortable to do so in whatever natural setting I find myself.
Often I chicken out, because of some failure of the comfort control or risk
management departments. But nearly as often I don't, and take the leap, into
lake, river, bay, ocean or creek. Here I was partly wet already, and
thinking "If you don't get out there and take advantage of this, you're
gonna wish you had." So I went outside to take a rain shower, stripped down
to my skivvies (kept those on so as not to shock the, what, fish?). Raised
arms to the sky and let the gentle rain rinse me. It wasn't quite
satisfying, though - not quite enough flow or volume to really feel washed.
Not to worry. Went back below decks, wind condition not having changed much,
to dry off. Achim went topside.
I was headed for bed when the hatch opened and Achim poked his head below,
and about seven gallons of driving rain came with him. "Coby," he asked,
"could you please come up and help reef?" Achim's a Horatio Hornblower type
skipper - always polite when giving orders, so that they sound more like
requesting cooperation, regardless of the situation. I went back on deck and
found all the fresh water in the world waiting for me. And the wind had
finally showed its colors, so that the fresh water component of the current
'natural setting' was moving mainly horizontally, from various directions.
In a fiftieth of the time it took earlier to become delicately dampened I
was soaked to the skin. Well, of course, this was admittedly an easier task
since I came on deck in only the aforementioned underwear and a flotation
jacket - but it wouldn't have mattered. Once over the initial shock at how
quickly the weather had gone from friendly to frenzied, I started to get, as
I am wont to do in these situations, giggly, followed by gleeful. It's a
weird reaction, but I enjoy it very much. I remind myself of Slim Pickens
riding the hydrogen bomb to glory at the very end of Dr. Strangelove.
YEEEEEE HAAAH!
We got mainsail double-reefed with no trouble. I stood at the mast afterward
coiling the main halyard and tidying up the reefing lines with the rain
pelting down, just grinning like a fool, when suddenly, with a lurch to
port, the mainsail poured about twenty gallons of fresh rainwater that had
been accumulating in its newly reefed folds onto my head. I cackled
gleefully. One of the Kodak moments. Another one would occur shortly. Achim
yelled from the cockpit "What's going on?" "Just playing with the water!"
says I. I found that the stuff tasted good. In fact, it would qualify,
without qualification, as the finest beverage I'd had to drink in - well, a
long time. I figured this filling and dumping phenomenon would probably
recur shortly, so I positioned myself strategically to benefit from the next
serving, with my mouth just under the place the last had issued from and
waited. Didn't have to wait long either, but the next round sluiced from a
couple folds lower, full onto my chest. My disappointed lips closed and I
looked down to see where the new source was, and as I did, the old one came
back on line, depositing its load on the top of my head. The scene was
straight out of early Loony Tunes. I heard an odd sound from the cockpit.
Our polite captain, it was, howling with mirth, wishing for a video camera.
I joined him, and we howled together into the gale, creating gales of
laughter that will be discovered, I'm sure, by future sailors who visit this
spot. The laughs will beget little chuckles that will land on their decks
and flop about, like flying fish.
We believe, in fact, that this storm is a resident of the area, not some
itinerant that blew through in the night. We are convinced of this because
the thing didn't appear on any of the half-dozen sources of weather news
that have served us amazingly well during all our travels so far. And
secondly, because it didn't seem to move at all, beyond the act of
enveloping us in its folds. After the initial blow, the wind started leading
us around by the nose. We were taken on a tour of all the dark
neighborhoods, which left us heading two knots per hour back the way we had
come. Suburbs. Bobbing around like the last apple in the tub at a large
Halloween Party, not enough wind to steer by, we took a break to dry off a
bit and wait for developments. I wound up passing out on my bunk (just
wanted to lie back for a second and shut my eyes), and woke to the sound of
our trusty friend the Iron Genny starting up. Achim had furled the jib, and
switched the main over to catch what turned out to be a fickle and useless
wind, and finally fired up the diesel determined to stay on course and get
out of this unsavory neighborhood. I fell back asleep - sounded like
everything was under control - and woke up three hours later with Erika
conveying the Captain's respects, and would I please join him on deck to set
the sails again? I did, we did, and are continuing on our course as I write
this. We looked back and saw, by the almost dark of the first light of 9:45
in the morning, the cloud we had been under, just sitting there, smirking,
waiting for the next hapless boat to come along. I suggested that the reason
we weren't aware of its presence was that we were looking at weather reports
instead of navigation charts. We have since checked and found no sign of the
thing, so I am taking this as an opportunity to warn everyone sailing the
Caribbean in the vicinity of 12°31'1N latitude by 56°46'8W longitude to
Beware! Copies of this will of course go to the appropriate government
agencies.
What would a sailing trip be without a few rough spots? Smooth sailing? What
fun would that be?
Last night's early watch (22:00 - 04:00) began like a honeymoon postcard -
quarter moon in a sky cloudless but for a few decorative cumulus, tops lit
pinky-orange tones by the last of the sun, off on the northern horizon,
stars by the fistful, calm sea and gentle following air. Didn't have to make
any adjustments to self-steering or sail all watch. In the last half hour,
though, I started having trouble seeing anything south of the boat. It felt
after a while that we were sailing along the edge of the world, so thorough
was the lack of anything at all off to port. Then everything astern started
following suit. By the time Achim came on at 04:00, it was pretty obvious
that we were being overhauled by a rather large, thick, dark, threatening -
if not actually evil - cloud. It was the great-grandfather of all the little
puffy Buffalo clouds (the Puffalo?) I had been chanting to on previous
nights to bring us a little wind and perhaps a shower or two. It appeared as
though the message might have been passed all the way up the line to the
home office, and the CEO him- or herself had come out to handle the order
personally.
The cloud swallowed us whole. It then proceeded to rain on our stately
parade. We weren't sure whether we should reef sails or not yet, the wind
remaining very light and seemingly unchanged in direction. This was probably
a cloud tactic to get us to relax our guard, which we did - somewhat. Rain
fell, gently at first. We battened down hatches and hung out on deck a while
to see what would happen next. We got wet and nothing much seemed to be
going on, so we went below. A word about the weather: Warm. Both wind and
rain. And soft and friendly. More cloud tactics.
I like to engage with the water, if it seems reasonably possible and not too
terribly uncomfortable to do so in whatever natural setting I find myself.
Often I chicken out, because of some failure of the comfort control or risk
management departments. But nearly as often I don't, and take the leap, into
lake, river, bay, ocean or creek. Here I was partly wet already, and
thinking "If you don't get out there and take advantage of this, you're
gonna wish you had." So I went outside to take a rain shower, stripped down
to my skivvies (kept those on so as not to shock the, what, fish?). Raised
arms to the sky and let the gentle rain rinse me. It wasn't quite
satisfying, though - not quite enough flow or volume to really feel washed.
Not to worry. Went back below decks, wind condition not having changed much,
to dry off. Achim went topside.
I was headed for bed when the hatch opened and Achim poked his head below,
and about seven gallons of driving rain came with him. "Coby," he asked,
"could you please come up and help reef?" Achim's a Horatio Hornblower type
skipper - always polite when giving orders, so that they sound more like
requesting cooperation, regardless of the situation. I went back on deck and
found all the fresh water in the world waiting for me. And the wind had
finally showed its colors, so that the fresh water component of the current
'natural setting' was moving mainly horizontally, from various directions.
In a fiftieth of the time it took earlier to become delicately dampened I
was soaked to the skin. Well, of course, this was admittedly an easier task
since I came on deck in only the aforementioned underwear and a flotation
jacket - but it wouldn't have mattered. Once over the initial shock at how
quickly the weather had gone from friendly to frenzied, I started to get, as
I am wont to do in these situations, giggly, followed by gleeful. It's a
weird reaction, but I enjoy it very much. I remind myself of Slim Pickens
riding the hydrogen bomb to glory at the very end of Dr. Strangelove.
YEEEEEE HAAAH!
We got mainsail double-reefed with no trouble. I stood at the mast afterward
coiling the main halyard and tidying up the reefing lines with the rain
pelting down, just grinning like a fool, when suddenly, with a lurch to
port, the mainsail poured about twenty gallons of fresh rainwater that had
been accumulating in its newly reefed folds onto my head. I cackled
gleefully. One of the Kodak moments. Another one would occur shortly. Achim
yelled from the cockpit "What's going on?" "Just playing with the water!"
says I. I found that the stuff tasted good. In fact, it would qualify,
without qualification, as the finest beverage I'd had to drink in - well, a
long time. I figured this filling and dumping phenomenon would probably
recur shortly, so I positioned myself strategically to benefit from the next
serving, with my mouth just under the place the last had issued from and
waited. Didn't have to wait long either, but the next round sluiced from a
couple folds lower, full onto my chest. My disappointed lips closed and I
looked down to see where the new source was, and as I did, the old one came
back on line, depositing its load on the top of my head. The scene was
straight out of early Loony Tunes. I heard an odd sound from the cockpit.
Our polite captain, it was, howling with mirth, wishing for a video camera.
I joined him, and we howled together into the gale, creating gales of
laughter that will be discovered, I'm sure, by future sailors who visit this
spot. The laughs will beget little chuckles that will land on their decks
and flop about, like flying fish.
We believe, in fact, that this storm is a resident of the area, not some
itinerant that blew through in the night. We are convinced of this because
the thing didn't appear on any of the half-dozen sources of weather news
that have served us amazingly well during all our travels so far. And
secondly, because it didn't seem to move at all, beyond the act of
enveloping us in its folds. After the initial blow, the wind started leading
us around by the nose. We were taken on a tour of all the dark
neighborhoods, which left us heading two knots per hour back the way we had
come. Suburbs. Bobbing around like the last apple in the tub at a large
Halloween Party, not enough wind to steer by, we took a break to dry off a
bit and wait for developments. I wound up passing out on my bunk (just
wanted to lie back for a second and shut my eyes), and woke to the sound of
our trusty friend the Iron Genny starting up. Achim had furled the jib, and
switched the main over to catch what turned out to be a fickle and useless
wind, and finally fired up the diesel determined to stay on course and get
out of this unsavory neighborhood. I fell back asleep - sounded like
everything was under control - and woke up three hours later with Erika
conveying the Captain's respects, and would I please join him on deck to set
the sails again? I did, we did, and are continuing on our course as I write
this. We looked back and saw, by the almost dark of the first light of 9:45
in the morning, the cloud we had been under, just sitting there, smirking,
waiting for the next hapless boat to come along. I suggested that the reason
we weren't aware of its presence was that we were looking at weather reports
instead of navigation charts. We have since checked and found no sign of the
thing, so I am taking this as an opportunity to warn everyone sailing the
Caribbean in the vicinity of 12°31'1N latitude by 56°46'8W longitude to
Beware! Copies of this will of course go to the appropriate government
agencies.
last update before landfall?
I figure we are so close to land now I can show pictures of land again. SO this update is riddled with images of the canary Islands, the last land we've seen since a few weeks...
The end of this passage approaches us in a flurry of numbers and sky. Fate has played a few bittersweet tricks on us in the last 48 hours weather wise. It goes from tropical hot with little puffs of wind to squally heavy rainfall with winds from all sides. On the one hand, Achim and Coby want to get there sooner than later, but reefing and unreefing isn't their idea of excellent recreation after 2 weeks of almost no sleep. So, for example, we just let out more genoa, and we can probably ride this new speed for a few hours, until the next squall comes in and they have to wrench themselves back out to trim...
The kids, meanwhile, are little go to sleep wake up playing pooping machines. I'm amazed at how they both find things to amuse themselves even in these rocky rolly, mommy ain't gonna help conditions. Toni came in a few minutes ago, for example, proudly showing off a sailboat she made out of pink, blue and yellow drinking straws and tape.
"Arts and Crafts," she announces. Legos fly around the cabins along with uncapped felt pens, naked Barbie and Ken dolls, handmade flowers with pipe cleaners. I've given up tidying around them, opting instead for watching the clock's time to go mixed in with a bad thriller and making B L and D for hungry men, less hungry sweet-toothed kids and a noshy mamma.
So, what has it been like? As you will see from the sound of our various updates, my experience aboard may take a different hue than that described by Coby... but we're in the same boat! A lot of time rolling back and forth. An amazement at the amount of vast expanses of water. A feeling of closeness for us with the kids. An excitement to be seeing land again, and not just any land... an enchanted one. We love Tobago and are thrilled to be reuniting with the people (the Daniels and keens-Dumas families in particular) and place (you name it, if it's on Tobago we miss it!)
We have our work cut out for us once we land... but no major deadlines! We hope to keep it that way, too. The first thing I hope to do once we throw the anchor overboard is to jump into the crystal clear waters of Charlotteville.
Today we will eat the last of our prized dorado. Never did catch another bite after that one, but one big one is better than none. I feel so good about everything we've accomplished. Even the bickering between Achim and myself, and with him being so tired believe me there's plenty, has surprisingly became less important and substantial rather than being magnified by our pending landfall. In the old days of cruising, our bumping of heads used to cloud the beauty and enjoyment of the whole experience. I guess my life feels fuller now, and I realize that this too, shall pass, and we won't remember the little moanings and groanings, just the big, swooping, sailing picture. At least that's what I hope.
In the last days, it's been fun to get emails from my parents and sisters. We are organizing a kind of family get together on Tobago for end of March beginning of April. it's great to hear them all into it and know that this is something special we have to look forward to. Not to mention Coby's wife Margit who should be arriving to be with us in about 2 weeks. Carnival begins on the 6th of February and we will be there for that, too!
So looking forward, looking backward, looking all around us even in the moment... it's been a wild ride, and it's no where near over yet! But at least THIS part of the passage is!
Achim says: I'm so grateful for how everything has worked so far. Best crew, best boat!
kisses from a waterlogged chickadee
175 miles to go
12 11 'N
57 38' W
The end of this passage approaches us in a flurry of numbers and sky. Fate has played a few bittersweet tricks on us in the last 48 hours weather wise. It goes from tropical hot with little puffs of wind to squally heavy rainfall with winds from all sides. On the one hand, Achim and Coby want to get there sooner than later, but reefing and unreefing isn't their idea of excellent recreation after 2 weeks of almost no sleep. So, for example, we just let out more genoa, and we can probably ride this new speed for a few hours, until the next squall comes in and they have to wrench themselves back out to trim...
The kids, meanwhile, are little go to sleep wake up playing pooping machines. I'm amazed at how they both find things to amuse themselves even in these rocky rolly, mommy ain't gonna help conditions. Toni came in a few minutes ago, for example, proudly showing off a sailboat she made out of pink, blue and yellow drinking straws and tape.
"Arts and Crafts," she announces. Legos fly around the cabins along with uncapped felt pens, naked Barbie and Ken dolls, handmade flowers with pipe cleaners. I've given up tidying around them, opting instead for watching the clock's time to go mixed in with a bad thriller and making B L and D for hungry men, less hungry sweet-toothed kids and a noshy mamma.
So, what has it been like? As you will see from the sound of our various updates, my experience aboard may take a different hue than that described by Coby... but we're in the same boat! A lot of time rolling back and forth. An amazement at the amount of vast expanses of water. A feeling of closeness for us with the kids. An excitement to be seeing land again, and not just any land... an enchanted one. We love Tobago and are thrilled to be reuniting with the people (the Daniels and keens-Dumas families in particular) and place (you name it, if it's on Tobago we miss it!)
We have our work cut out for us once we land... but no major deadlines! We hope to keep it that way, too. The first thing I hope to do once we throw the anchor overboard is to jump into the crystal clear waters of Charlotteville.
Today we will eat the last of our prized dorado. Never did catch another bite after that one, but one big one is better than none. I feel so good about everything we've accomplished. Even the bickering between Achim and myself, and with him being so tired believe me there's plenty, has surprisingly became less important and substantial rather than being magnified by our pending landfall. In the old days of cruising, our bumping of heads used to cloud the beauty and enjoyment of the whole experience. I guess my life feels fuller now, and I realize that this too, shall pass, and we won't remember the little moanings and groanings, just the big, swooping, sailing picture. At least that's what I hope.
In the last days, it's been fun to get emails from my parents and sisters. We are organizing a kind of family get together on Tobago for end of March beginning of April. it's great to hear them all into it and know that this is something special we have to look forward to. Not to mention Coby's wife Margit who should be arriving to be with us in about 2 weeks. Carnival begins on the 6th of February and we will be there for that, too!
So looking forward, looking backward, looking all around us even in the moment... it's been a wild ride, and it's no where near over yet! But at least THIS part of the passage is!
Achim says: I'm so grateful for how everything has worked so far. Best crew, best boat!
kisses from a waterlogged chickadee
175 miles to go
12 11 'N
57 38' W
Saturday, January 15, 2005
tired captain, wet bed
we are surfing, flying, blasting through the lumpiest seas you can imagine. Well, that's not true, I am sure there are lumpier seas than this. But somehow a wave managed to fling itself onto the bed last night and the back cabin feels soaked. The kids just keep on going. I'm literally counting the hours now... three more days of this to go.
I'm uninspired to write much right now, might have something to do with barely being able to hold onto the keyboard and the boat flies around everywhere, and the kids interrupting me every few seconds. Toni has taken this dressing Ari up as a girl thing to an extreme. They now both insist he is in fact her sister. He only wants to wear dresses and princess crowns.
More to come when I feel more up for it,
13 10 ' N
52 56 ' W
473 miles to Tobago
Report from the forepeak - The Washing One-step & Sky Buffalo
We passed the 1000-mile-to-go mark today, also the 45th meridian. The 50th
meridian of longitude marks the beginning of the Caribbean Sea. The weather
has been squally. We had, so I'm told, a heavy rain this morning between
08:00 and 10:00 while I was sleeping following my 2:00-8:00 watch. I was
sorry to have missed the chance to be on deck during a daylight rainstorm.
This weather - very warm to uncomfortably hot at around 99% humidity
whenever the sun is out - started to remind me of Pennsylvania and Delaware
in the summer, with a storm brewing. You just wanted it to start raining so
you could go out and play in it - making little dams and bridges over brand
new little rivers, squishing mud between your toes, feeling the fat drops
cooling your sticky, sweaty skin, watching little "people" pop up out of
puddles wherever a drop landed, smelling the deliciously charged freshwater
air, tasting it running into your mouth over your upper lip.
It occurred to me that I could hang up my laundry and let the rain wash and
rinse it for me, and then it'll be pre-hung so the sun can dry it. So I hung
up my stuff on the after deck, and lo - no rain all day. Even though there
was a steady supply of rain clouds, and I could tell that some of the
distant ones were dumping rain, all we got were a very few scattered
sprinkles, not even enough to make me put my book down, which I was reading
on deck in a deliberately provocative sort of way. Well, it ain't over yet.
I'm leaving that laundry right where it is, by golly.
That was yesterday, though. The rain finally came in the night, with
repeated heavy squalls making us shut all hatches and sleep in a warm, damp,
dark place, like mushroom spores. And the laundry, although it might have
benefited by a soak and some scrubbing in a soapy solution, smells fresh
and clean, and is folded and stowed. I wonder if there's a way to market
this? One-Step Washing. Hmm.
A couple days later (less than 500 miles to go!) - we've been traveling
west in the company of a migrating herd of rain clouds, like fluffy buffalo.
They seem mostly benign and uninterested. When they pass directly overhead
they each bring their own wind and we scramble to reef in the jib. The main
is already running triple-reefed, in case of a sudden strong blow, which
hasn't quite happened yet. We seem to be at the southern edge of the herd,
but we hear from other boats both farther north and farther east than us
that they've had 35 knot winds. Looks like this might be our escort into
Tobago. Our speed has been very good - we're averaging nearly 170 nautical
miles/day, made good to our destination. Check our course online at
http://www.intermar-ev.de/. The ship's call sign is AC6IH.
Have I mentioned that Pangaea performs like a thoroughbred? She's a real
lady downwind, even under self-steering. When we do our job well with sail
trim, and the sea is not too confused, we sometimes feel like we're riding a
big powerful animal that knows its territory intimately. Sometimes she feels
like a racehorse, sometimes like a train, sometimes like an elephant,
sometimes like a Porsche, flat out in a curve.
More to Come!
Coby
Friday, January 14, 2005
Report from the forepeak: Ari at the wheel. (or Art Therapy)
Ari at the Wheel (or "Art Therapy")
We've been pushed increasingly southward, which meant our ability to avoid
the more tropical becalmed zones is being compromised. So we shifted sail
today to steer a more westerly course.
This we did in the afternoon after a very quiet morning watch in very light
wind and full cloud cover. I spent the morning on deck reading. Erika needed
to get onto one of the radio nets, so she dumped Ari and Toni into the
cockpit with me. "Well, there goes the neighborhood", I probably muttered
internally. But the kids (For anyone who doesn't know, Toni's 5 and Ari's her
3 year old little brother) were in a somewhat calm mood, and didn't mind it
when I went on reading. I think I only got called "poo-poo bottom" once or
twice before they busied themselves with the steering wheel.
The boat has a steering system that operates the tiller by a regular wheel
via a hydraulic pump and ram. When the wind vane self-steering is active, as
it is in our story, the hydraulic system is disengaged, allowing the nice,
big, shiny, stainless steel wheel to spin free - a dream toy for bilge
bunnies! So - all well for fifteen minutes or so - Ari steering on one side,
Toni on the other, Ari trying to tie the whistle on his flotation vest to
the spokes, Toni moving the wheel so he can't - but he hasn't figured out
why yet and Toni giggling at his silliness, and me reading my book, not
really paying any attention.
Suddenly Ari HOWLS. I look up, and there he's hanging by his left leg with
his foot stuck through the wheel jammed up against the wheel post. Toni,
looking a bit panicked, is trying to turn the wheel, perhaps trying to free
her little brother, but going in the wrong direction.
I go into parental time-warp (having raised a daughter of my own, I am
always to be a parent, apparently), that special place available to people
who are often called upon without notice to extricate small humans from
precarious places their fearlessness, curiosity and relative incompetence
have gotten them into. That place, whereby the granting of some temporary
cosmic special permit we are allowed to view an event spanning seconds, or
fractions thereof, as much longer moments, and at the same time to act with
a speed and efficiency that only seems possible with the normal rules of
physics at least bent severely, if not entirely suspended. Whatever. I had
Ari out of his latest fix before I could really register what had occurred.
He wasn't making a sound - yet. I held him, waiting for the siren to go off.
When he finally let loose, it was with a sobbing, yet clear and imperative
voice, saying "I gotta go DRAW!" Toni and I looked "huh?!" at each other. I
said "Ari, you gotta go draw?" He said "Yeah, I gotta go inside and DRAW!" I
said "OK, let's get you unhooked, then" (the kids are always clipped into
lifelines on deck, of course). I figured, wow - he really doesn't want to
deal with what just happened, I guess. So he and Toni went below and I went
back to my book. Ten minutes later little heads appeared in the hatch next
to me, and there was Ari, with a big grin, holding out the picture he had
just drawn. Very clear, in green marker was a big steering wheel, and Ari
stuck in it, with Toni and Coby watching. "Now I happy again!" said he.
under 600 did you say?
Yup. We are cruising now, folks. The boat's innerds are as damp as a marathon runner's dolphin shorts. (For those of you who know what I'm talking about I'm reading a Tom Robbins novel so please excuse the simile runoff)
So I'll take you through the day, if I remember. First I must admit I allowed the men to take the entire night shift while I shifted around in the back cabin bed with only one squirmy boy. Toni abandoned us last night to the front because of a scuffle she had with Dad ("I will NEVER cuddle or sleep with either of you EVER again!" translates to "ahhh, more space for us tonight"). I schlepped myself to the galley and created granola out of muesli mixed in with some oil, honey and cinnamon over a flame. This stuff gets inhaled so I can't make too much of it.
I then gave it a break before I knew I must find the energy to create something special for our 3/4ths arrival. So I made ice cream, which turned out delicious but basically tasting like melting and refrozen icecream, which is better than no ice
cream at all.
I then proceeded to make hummus from chickpeas and tahini, which ended up garnishing our falafel and pita bread gorge this evening along with the last fresh tomatoes and chinese cabbage, which lasts much longer than lettuce. So food has been plentiful. With four more days to go, I figure we might keep it simple the last days, but I'm determined to keep the fresh stuff going to the end. We still have a melon, potatoes, a few lemons, onions garlic ginger and a few heads of cabbage. You do what you can with what ya got.
Winds are strong and steady from the east and the seas are rough. If you sit outside you can watch the breakers creep up on our stern like a gigantic hand ready to whack us down the street. The lack of sealife since the dorado has been palatable, although Antonia spotted an albatross today, my first seabird of the passage.
The kids still play like there's no tomorrow. I've been trying to stagger out surprise gifts to break up monotony, and then I cursed myself for having chosen fair weather toys. Today for example I broke out the dominoes. Neither of the kids had played with them before, but with the boat rocking and rolling like this it's hard to play with such things. I wish I had brought a library of read along cassettes. They love their Dr. Suess ABC cassette and book. What we've been doing is actually recording me reading them a story, and I have a whistle I blow every time I turn the page. So we are upping their repertoire of these read along cassettes that way.
Every day we have a wonderful talk with our friend Jerome, who will be awaiting us when we arrive in Tobago! It's so great to hear his voice and know he is where we'z gonna be soon! Over ten years ago, Jerome became a close friend when we burnt out the old Pangaea last time we were in Scarborough (the story can be found under www.pangaea.to/earlier, then click on Atlantic). We nicknamed him "the Inspector" because he would come down to the dock to see how our progress was coming along.
Right now we hope to land in Charlotteville, the Northeasternmost anchorage on Tobago. It'll be sooner than we all think!
XOXO Erika and the aboard Tribe
13 41' N
50 51' W
599 miles to go!
So I'll take you through the day, if I remember. First I must admit I allowed the men to take the entire night shift while I shifted around in the back cabin bed with only one squirmy boy. Toni abandoned us last night to the front because of a scuffle she had with Dad ("I will NEVER cuddle or sleep with either of you EVER again!" translates to "ahhh, more space for us tonight"). I schlepped myself to the galley and created granola out of muesli mixed in with some oil, honey and cinnamon over a flame. This stuff gets inhaled so I can't make too much of it.
I then gave it a break before I knew I must find the energy to create something special for our 3/4ths arrival. So I made ice cream, which turned out delicious but basically tasting like melting and refrozen icecream, which is better than no ice
cream at all.
I then proceeded to make hummus from chickpeas and tahini, which ended up garnishing our falafel and pita bread gorge this evening along with the last fresh tomatoes and chinese cabbage, which lasts much longer than lettuce. So food has been plentiful. With four more days to go, I figure we might keep it simple the last days, but I'm determined to keep the fresh stuff going to the end. We still have a melon, potatoes, a few lemons, onions garlic ginger and a few heads of cabbage. You do what you can with what ya got.
Winds are strong and steady from the east and the seas are rough. If you sit outside you can watch the breakers creep up on our stern like a gigantic hand ready to whack us down the street. The lack of sealife since the dorado has been palatable, although Antonia spotted an albatross today, my first seabird of the passage.
The kids still play like there's no tomorrow. I've been trying to stagger out surprise gifts to break up monotony, and then I cursed myself for having chosen fair weather toys. Today for example I broke out the dominoes. Neither of the kids had played with them before, but with the boat rocking and rolling like this it's hard to play with such things. I wish I had brought a library of read along cassettes. They love their Dr. Suess ABC cassette and book. What we've been doing is actually recording me reading them a story, and I have a whistle I blow every time I turn the page. So we are upping their repertoire of these read along cassettes that way.
Every day we have a wonderful talk with our friend Jerome, who will be awaiting us when we arrive in Tobago! It's so great to hear his voice and know he is where we'z gonna be soon! Over ten years ago, Jerome became a close friend when we burnt out the old Pangaea last time we were in Scarborough (the story can be found under www.pangaea.to/earlier, then click on Atlantic). We nicknamed him "the Inspector" because he would come down to the dock to see how our progress was coming along.
Right now we hope to land in Charlotteville, the Northeasternmost anchorage on Tobago. It'll be sooner than we all think!
XOXO Erika and the aboard Tribe
13 41' N
50 51' W
599 miles to go!
Thursday, January 13, 2005
rocking and rolling picture show
yes we're still out here with under 1100 miles to go.
so from my standpoint I have nothing extra special to report from out here today. cooked a gourmet chicken dinner. Set up a basketball hoop in the back cabin for the kids. Baked a chocolate cake with them. Let them watch some video. Retrimmed the sails. SO instead let's go back to the days of dry land... i will assume that these pictures are visible for you.
This is pretty much what we look like from the bow right now. You are looking at our inflatable which we resurrected from the garbage in Port St. Louis. Whoever abandoned it had tried to glue it together with the wrong kind of glue; we used the right stuff and now it's like new. Most other people's trash are our treasure.
Achim says he's surprised how little time we end up actually spend playing with the kids out here. We are either busy sleeping, fixing stuff, or just conserving our energy for the tasks at hand. The kids are so busy trying to burn calories on this 50 feet of boat. I can only read so many stories or do so many arts and crafts projects with them. is this what one would call "less quality time?" I figure being around each other 24/7 is always going to have its bad sides.
Here's Toni in her first pair of heels. She wore them until the first day of sailing, when she realized there isn't much of anything practical in such shoes. On the side you see our tree; I have a better pic of it somewhere, but stupidly not already uploaded...
Coby, able to lift princesses with a single hand... really he has been so much fun to have around with the kids. Every morning he wakes up to their greeting, "poopoo bottom! poopoo bottom!" They really love him and already look forward to meeting his Margit, whom they've heard so much about.
In a little bistro in Valverde (El Hierro) the kids ordered empanadas and juice. they share just about everything.
The kids walked to school everyday in La Graciosa. I never tired of watching them run down the dock.
So tomorrow we will come under 1000 miles to go. Piece of chocolate cake...
smooches,
Erika and her entourage
15 42' N
42 31' W
1092 miles to go
We have been hearing fun things about watching us move around at www.intermar-ev.de, look for AC6IH!
more about what's going on out here at www.pangaea.to click on "latest"
so from my standpoint I have nothing extra special to report from out here today. cooked a gourmet chicken dinner. Set up a basketball hoop in the back cabin for the kids. Baked a chocolate cake with them. Let them watch some video. Retrimmed the sails. SO instead let's go back to the days of dry land... i will assume that these pictures are visible for you.
This is pretty much what we look like from the bow right now. You are looking at our inflatable which we resurrected from the garbage in Port St. Louis. Whoever abandoned it had tried to glue it together with the wrong kind of glue; we used the right stuff and now it's like new. Most other people's trash are our treasure.
Achim says he's surprised how little time we end up actually spend playing with the kids out here. We are either busy sleeping, fixing stuff, or just conserving our energy for the tasks at hand. The kids are so busy trying to burn calories on this 50 feet of boat. I can only read so many stories or do so many arts and crafts projects with them. is this what one would call "less quality time?" I figure being around each other 24/7 is always going to have its bad sides.
Here's Toni in her first pair of heels. She wore them until the first day of sailing, when she realized there isn't much of anything practical in such shoes. On the side you see our tree; I have a better pic of it somewhere, but stupidly not already uploaded...
Coby, able to lift princesses with a single hand... really he has been so much fun to have around with the kids. Every morning he wakes up to their greeting, "poopoo bottom! poopoo bottom!" They really love him and already look forward to meeting his Margit, whom they've heard so much about.
In a little bistro in Valverde (El Hierro) the kids ordered empanadas and juice. they share just about everything.
The kids walked to school everyday in La Graciosa. I never tired of watching them run down the dock.
So tomorrow we will come under 1000 miles to go. Piece of chocolate cake...
smooches,
Erika and her entourage
15 42' N
42 31' W
1092 miles to go
We have been hearing fun things about watching us move around at www.intermar-ev.de, look for AC6IH!
more about what's going on out here at www.pangaea.to click on "latest"
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Triple digits is better than quads
Now we are at the distance from our goal where most of the other sailboats who were crossing were as I began to listen to the trans-atlantic radio net's. "Here's Sea-Dancer, we have 948 miles to go to Antigua..." and there we were, blocked in El Restinga by roaring winds, knowing that we had 2,600 miles ahead of us!
But now I can be grateful that we left when we did, at least so far. Not a day of dead calm or serious storm has or likely will cross our path... of course never say never, but the count down really has begun, like they do before the launch a spaceship.
But nothing happens that fast out here, of course until emergency situations occur when suddenly everything is lightning fast. Today was a particularly slow day. it was a typical day of food, radio, straightening as much as my energy level will allow, bread baking, replenishing of stores like milk, juice and flour from bilge areas to accessible areas, reading books to the kids, Watching megawaves go by. We passed through a few serious rain showers and Pangaea hasn't been this clean since we left South of France. Goodbye all that Sahara gunk, hello a tropical heat baseline which accompanies all feelings in the air now.
It's brilliant not to be seasick anymore. I want to preach to all of those whimps like me out there who says, who me? Never on a boat! And let them know, I swear swear swear your body does in fact adjust. it's not that the movement doesn't frustrate me at times (like this afternoon when my entire chocolate cake fell in my lap and down onto the floor, between the cracks of the floorboards.) Nausea is virtually a thing of the past for me now. I still am tired and prefer laying down much of the time, but the sickness in the tummy feeling is thankfully gone. And I am quite a motion sensitive person, the kind who needs to either drive or sit in the front seat in a car.
We are back on the butterfly, with the mainsail jutted out on one side and the genoa poled out on the other. For whatever reason she's moving nicely, rocking back and forth most of the time and rarely falling into the crevices of the giant Atlantic rollers. And now the kids have finally keeled over, something I should try to do. Achim and Coby have been sharing the late night watches, letting me take over in the early morning. So with that, g'night.
14 30' N
45 15' W
928 miles to go
track us on www.intermar-ev.de
more to read and see at www.pangaea.to
Report from the forepeak - A Sailing Day (and midnight mischief)
First, from Coby:
Achim said we were going to have a sailing day when he got up yesterday, and
he was right. A sailing day - you know, moving, striking and setting sails,
trimming sails, trying out different configurations, tying knots and other
sailorly activities - just for a change. We get used to the OTHER kind of
sailing too easily. The kind where you spend fifteen minutes thinking about
what or whether you want to eat or drink, another half hour contemplating
the clouds or deciding what music we want to listen to, or whether should
take a shower, or play the guitar and sing old folk songs, or change the
tackle on the fishing rig, read or write or play with the kids...
I had just gone on night watch this night, and was using my time
constructively, writing to Herb, my sponsor and an avid tracker of Pangaea's
doings (and don'tings). I had just finished a paragraph detailing how nicely
Pangaea feels on her new tack - we turned due west today under a new sail
configuration (wing & wing and dead downwind for the first time). We were
all very pleased how well she steered on this course, and how well the
self-steering worked. Immediately on finishing the last the last sentence of
the first paragraph to Herb, something made a loud "whump!" and the boat
heeled hard to starboard. I've had to leave the poor guy on tenterhooks 'til
now for news of what happened. I decided to post the tale to the website to
save on upload time. Here's the story:
Going on deck, I got a heavy jolt of adrenaline, when I saw the boom backed,
trying to push us around to the south. Just minutes before, I had written to
Herb that the course was 266, so I was perplexed as to why we were suddenly
trying to go round in circles. Fortunately, we had a preventer set, so the
boom didn't get to swing all the way round, doing we don't want to think too
hard about what, still, it's mighty unnerving to see the sails all filled
the wrong way and the boat coming around beam to the sea. A rogue wave
encountered in this vulnerable state could conceivably be enough to swamp,
or possibly even capsize the boat, giving everyone sleeping the wettest
dreams of their lives, if not a downright rude awakening.
Achim popped his head up from the after hatch (nicely designed and built by
himself to make it possible to stand night watch from bed), and assessed
what was clearly obvious by then - the fact that we had to disengage
self-steering and get her back on course. I held my breath while he loosened
the Aries' chain from the tiller (Pangy has hydraulic wheel-steering
operating the tiller during manual steering) and flipped the hydraulic back
online, and we brought her back around under sail.
After a few deep breaths we looked around for the culprit, which I surmised
was probably the self-steering up to its old tricks again - we hadn't clamped it
on course since setting the new sail configuration and I thought it might
have backed off enough to let us jibe. A little closer investigation
revealed the pendulum rudder of the self-steering system trailing, in a
lazy, semi-retired sort of way, behind the boat at the end of its safety
line. This is not quite a disaster on the same order of immediacy and with
the same potential for catastrophe as an impending jibe, but for us, the
notion of standing steering watches on deck, with no weather protection, for
the remainder of the 1700 miles/11 or 12 days or more left to sail, well it
was a sinking feeling, shall we say.
I steered while Achim fetched the broken piece back aboard for a look. Turns
out the pendulum rudder ( the part of the self-steering gear that applies
force to the tiller) had snapped off at its shear link. This is a piece
built to break in the event of a collision between the rudder and a foreign
object - tree trunk, packing crate, whale, etc. - so that the whole
steering gear is protected from being ripped off the back of the boat. And,
true seaman that he his, Achim had a spare! They've used this steering
system for years and never had this happen before, but Achim had, and acted
on, the feeling to find this piece, (which is a rarity, since this system is
out of production) while they were in the South of France last summer before
leaving to begin this trip.
So now we had our work cut out for us. The job was to remove the two halves
of the broken shear link from the upper and lower shaft sections. The link
is simply an eight inch long piece of thick aluminum pipe with bolt holes
drilled in it, and a groove around the middle deep enough to weaken the
piece at this point relative to the rest of the pipe. The link slips over
the upper and lower shaft sections and is attached with 10mm bolts.
It was obviously going to require some time, and some dicey operations to
get everything back together, we decided to shift the sail configuration. We
pulled another reef into the main, rolled in the big Genoa to about half
size, and dropped the #2 Genoa. We didn't want to have to worry about sails
if the wind came up, which it felt like it was doing.
Back in the cockpit, the lower section of the broken shear link was still
bolted to the lower rudder shaft, and came off easily enough. The upper link
was still in place on the upper rudder shaft section - on the steering gear,
about half a foot over the water (some of the time), hanging off the stern
of the boat about two feet. Retrieving this piece meant somebody (me in this
case) clipping on a safety harness and going for a bit of a stretch off the
swim platform to unbolt the thing, while Achim steered. The nut came off
easily enough, the bolt wouldn't budge. Had to get a cheater pipe on the
allen wrench to get it to turn, which it did, reluctantly. Got the bolt out
eventually, then found that the upper shear link piece was seized onto the
shaft. Not hammer, nor chisel, nor monster pliers, nor any word in the
sailor's lexicon would arouse the slightest wiggle. OK, then, the angle
grinder with a cutting disk, says Achim. In my ex-repair shop at home I
would already have been there, but using a 220V power tool inches away (most
of the time) from the water while dangling off the back of a boat in the
dark at 6.5 knots in a following sea - and carving up Achim's self-steering
with a heavy duty grinder in constant unpredictable motion - well it made me
nervous and I said so.
So Achim went at it, while I steered. He managed to cut a couple slots in
the shear link, but was unable, due to the position of the material, to
knock it loose.
It became clear we would need to disassemble the self-steering to the extent
necessary to remove the rudder pendulum assembly to work on it in the
cockpit. This, although none of us said it aloud, is a bit scary. Standing
on a moving platform in a following sea, removing very smooth, slippery,
non-replaceable parts (the shear link is the ONLY spare we have for the
Aries) over thousands of feet of water... ...you get the picture. With
neither of us mentioning the probability of old Murphy rising out
of his musty old crypt (he must be dead by now, right?) and laying the evil
eye on our operation, Achim did it, I steered. He got the pendulum on deck,
cut the slots deeper, knocked the broken piece off. We found the holes in
the spare part too small for our intended bolts and had to be redrilled.
With everything ready to go back together, we approached the last task -
putting the rudder back in place.
This we both though might be impossible without heaving to, due to the
pressure of water flowing past, pushing the rudder out of position, since
the thing had to line up fairly exactly with the hole it had to fit into.
We decided to slow the boat down as much as possible, and try without
heaving to, since the boat, hove to, would be bouncing around so much the
procedure might be just as hard to carry off. We struck the Genoa, and Achim
dragged the repaired pendulum rudder assembly astern. I was amazed when
about two minutes later I watched him climb back over the stern rail without
the rudder. The thing had given in without a fight, at the end. And the real
fun was in watching the self-steering carry right on with its job,
flawlessly, as though nothing had happened. This meant sleep was not far
off, after putting away tools, resetting the Genoa, rechecking everything
and cleaning the metal shavings, sawdust and grinding grit out of the
cockpit.
The foregoing operation took us from around 11:00 PM until 6:00 in the
morning. Erika, who had probably not had much more sleep than Achim or I,
valiantly took an early watch so we could get a little rest.
I woke at 10:00 to the smell of fried flying fish - which I wasn't quite
prepared for, but which made an interesting or d'oevre. I had thrown a
couple overboard during the night while steering. It's an interesting
phenomenon, hearing a thwop in the night as a thing falls out of the air
next to you, and is suddenly a fish flopping around there. For people who
don't live life on the sea, it's a novelty. I imagine it happening while
chatting with the guys of the 7AM Fairfax Fellowship at the cafe one
morning. Flop! A fish on the table. Certainly a topic for conversation!
More to come -
Coby
Now, From Erika:
We are racing along. The wind picked up and boy, if I thought we were in a washing machine before, I didn't know what I was talking about, especially now that we are on butterfly sails. Now we whack around on both sides. Whackiddy whack. Nowhere to hide, no "lee shore" so to speak. But this is how we will get where we want to get fastest.
I realize Coby is writing his own piece to culminate the last few go to sleep wake ups. As for me, I will focus on the FISH story.
Started out this morning when I discovered that flapping in the cockpit was in fact a relatively nicely sized flying fish which I decided to go ahead and fry. I shared all 3 bites or so with Coby and proceeded to defrost the chicken, which I thought could partake in the a halfway celebration.
We noticed earlier this morning that the lure had broken off, so Achim reeled it in. Try another one, I suggested, so he rigged up a pretty yellow one with a big hook and threw it over. Within 5 minutes we had a beautiful yellow dorado hanging and flying from it! We woke up Coby and got the kids outside... a fish! We finally caught one!
And such a beauty. From afar I wasn't sure if she would be enough for a full meal, but once we reeled it in closer I could see how weighty, meaty... we poured alcohol in its gills to stun it before we commenced the hacking away. Coby got out his knife sharpener and went straight to butchering. I plopped the head into some broth and threw some of the steaks into the freezer. I then chopped up several cups of the chewy flesh, squeezed 3 lemons onto it until white, then added onion, green pepper, coconut milk and fleur de sel. Insanely delicious! So we are pleased with our food situation once again.
I suggested throwing the lure back in, which Coby did. Within 5 minutes, the brother of the first was hanging on for dear life! As Coby was reeling her in, we were so excited and thought about the kind of fishy feasts we could be having for the next god knows how long. BUT, just before getting her on board, she bit through the lure and was home free! The one who got away...
Now what to do with the defrosted chicken??
Such worries.
more at www.pangaea.to/latest
follow us on an actual chart at www.intermar-ev.de
1260 miles to go
15 31' N
39 30' W
Achim said we were going to have a sailing day when he got up yesterday, and
he was right. A sailing day - you know, moving, striking and setting sails,
trimming sails, trying out different configurations, tying knots and other
sailorly activities - just for a change. We get used to the OTHER kind of
sailing too easily. The kind where you spend fifteen minutes thinking about
what or whether you want to eat or drink, another half hour contemplating
the clouds or deciding what music we want to listen to, or whether should
take a shower, or play the guitar and sing old folk songs, or change the
tackle on the fishing rig, read or write or play with the kids...
I had just gone on night watch this night, and was using my time
constructively, writing to Herb, my sponsor and an avid tracker of Pangaea's
doings (and don'tings). I had just finished a paragraph detailing how nicely
Pangaea feels on her new tack - we turned due west today under a new sail
configuration (wing & wing and dead downwind for the first time). We were
all very pleased how well she steered on this course, and how well the
self-steering worked. Immediately on finishing the last the last sentence of
the first paragraph to Herb, something made a loud "whump!" and the boat
heeled hard to starboard. I've had to leave the poor guy on tenterhooks 'til
now for news of what happened. I decided to post the tale to the website to
save on upload time. Here's the story:
Going on deck, I got a heavy jolt of adrenaline, when I saw the boom backed,
trying to push us around to the south. Just minutes before, I had written to
Herb that the course was 266, so I was perplexed as to why we were suddenly
trying to go round in circles. Fortunately, we had a preventer set, so the
boom didn't get to swing all the way round, doing we don't want to think too
hard about what, still, it's mighty unnerving to see the sails all filled
the wrong way and the boat coming around beam to the sea. A rogue wave
encountered in this vulnerable state could conceivably be enough to swamp,
or possibly even capsize the boat, giving everyone sleeping the wettest
dreams of their lives, if not a downright rude awakening.
Achim popped his head up from the after hatch (nicely designed and built by
himself to make it possible to stand night watch from bed), and assessed
what was clearly obvious by then - the fact that we had to disengage
self-steering and get her back on course. I held my breath while he loosened
the Aries' chain from the tiller (Pangy has hydraulic wheel-steering
operating the tiller during manual steering) and flipped the hydraulic back
online, and we brought her back around under sail.
After a few deep breaths we looked around for the culprit, which I surmised
was probably the self-steering up to its old tricks again - we hadn't clamped it
on course since setting the new sail configuration and I thought it might
have backed off enough to let us jibe. A little closer investigation
revealed the pendulum rudder of the self-steering system trailing, in a
lazy, semi-retired sort of way, behind the boat at the end of its safety
line. This is not quite a disaster on the same order of immediacy and with
the same potential for catastrophe as an impending jibe, but for us, the
notion of standing steering watches on deck, with no weather protection, for
the remainder of the 1700 miles/11 or 12 days or more left to sail, well it
was a sinking feeling, shall we say.
I steered while Achim fetched the broken piece back aboard for a look. Turns
out the pendulum rudder ( the part of the self-steering gear that applies
force to the tiller) had snapped off at its shear link. This is a piece
built to break in the event of a collision between the rudder and a foreign
object - tree trunk, packing crate, whale, etc. - so that the whole
steering gear is protected from being ripped off the back of the boat. And,
true seaman that he his, Achim had a spare! They've used this steering
system for years and never had this happen before, but Achim had, and acted
on, the feeling to find this piece, (which is a rarity, since this system is
out of production) while they were in the South of France last summer before
leaving to begin this trip.
So now we had our work cut out for us. The job was to remove the two halves
of the broken shear link from the upper and lower shaft sections. The link
is simply an eight inch long piece of thick aluminum pipe with bolt holes
drilled in it, and a groove around the middle deep enough to weaken the
piece at this point relative to the rest of the pipe. The link slips over
the upper and lower shaft sections and is attached with 10mm bolts.
It was obviously going to require some time, and some dicey operations to
get everything back together, we decided to shift the sail configuration. We
pulled another reef into the main, rolled in the big Genoa to about half
size, and dropped the #2 Genoa. We didn't want to have to worry about sails
if the wind came up, which it felt like it was doing.
Back in the cockpit, the lower section of the broken shear link was still
bolted to the lower rudder shaft, and came off easily enough. The upper link
was still in place on the upper rudder shaft section - on the steering gear,
about half a foot over the water (some of the time), hanging off the stern
of the boat about two feet. Retrieving this piece meant somebody (me in this
case) clipping on a safety harness and going for a bit of a stretch off the
swim platform to unbolt the thing, while Achim steered. The nut came off
easily enough, the bolt wouldn't budge. Had to get a cheater pipe on the
allen wrench to get it to turn, which it did, reluctantly. Got the bolt out
eventually, then found that the upper shear link piece was seized onto the
shaft. Not hammer, nor chisel, nor monster pliers, nor any word in the
sailor's lexicon would arouse the slightest wiggle. OK, then, the angle
grinder with a cutting disk, says Achim. In my ex-repair shop at home I
would already have been there, but using a 220V power tool inches away (most
of the time) from the water while dangling off the back of a boat in the
dark at 6.5 knots in a following sea - and carving up Achim's self-steering
with a heavy duty grinder in constant unpredictable motion - well it made me
nervous and I said so.
So Achim went at it, while I steered. He managed to cut a couple slots in
the shear link, but was unable, due to the position of the material, to
knock it loose.
It became clear we would need to disassemble the self-steering to the extent
necessary to remove the rudder pendulum assembly to work on it in the
cockpit. This, although none of us said it aloud, is a bit scary. Standing
on a moving platform in a following sea, removing very smooth, slippery,
non-replaceable parts (the shear link is the ONLY spare we have for the
Aries) over thousands of feet of water... ...you get the picture. With
neither of us mentioning the probability of old Murphy rising out
of his musty old crypt (he must be dead by now, right?) and laying the evil
eye on our operation, Achim did it, I steered. He got the pendulum on deck,
cut the slots deeper, knocked the broken piece off. We found the holes in
the spare part too small for our intended bolts and had to be redrilled.
With everything ready to go back together, we approached the last task -
putting the rudder back in place.
This we both though might be impossible without heaving to, due to the
pressure of water flowing past, pushing the rudder out of position, since
the thing had to line up fairly exactly with the hole it had to fit into.
We decided to slow the boat down as much as possible, and try without
heaving to, since the boat, hove to, would be bouncing around so much the
procedure might be just as hard to carry off. We struck the Genoa, and Achim
dragged the repaired pendulum rudder assembly astern. I was amazed when
about two minutes later I watched him climb back over the stern rail without
the rudder. The thing had given in without a fight, at the end. And the real
fun was in watching the self-steering carry right on with its job,
flawlessly, as though nothing had happened. This meant sleep was not far
off, after putting away tools, resetting the Genoa, rechecking everything
and cleaning the metal shavings, sawdust and grinding grit out of the
cockpit.
The foregoing operation took us from around 11:00 PM until 6:00 in the
morning. Erika, who had probably not had much more sleep than Achim or I,
valiantly took an early watch so we could get a little rest.
I woke at 10:00 to the smell of fried flying fish - which I wasn't quite
prepared for, but which made an interesting or d'oevre. I had thrown a
couple overboard during the night while steering. It's an interesting
phenomenon, hearing a thwop in the night as a thing falls out of the air
next to you, and is suddenly a fish flopping around there. For people who
don't live life on the sea, it's a novelty. I imagine it happening while
chatting with the guys of the 7AM Fairfax Fellowship at the cafe one
morning. Flop! A fish on the table. Certainly a topic for conversation!
More to come -
Coby
Now, From Erika:
We are racing along. The wind picked up and boy, if I thought we were in a washing machine before, I didn't know what I was talking about, especially now that we are on butterfly sails. Now we whack around on both sides. Whackiddy whack. Nowhere to hide, no "lee shore" so to speak. But this is how we will get where we want to get fastest.
I realize Coby is writing his own piece to culminate the last few go to sleep wake ups. As for me, I will focus on the FISH story.
Started out this morning when I discovered that flapping in the cockpit was in fact a relatively nicely sized flying fish which I decided to go ahead and fry. I shared all 3 bites or so with Coby and proceeded to defrost the chicken, which I thought could partake in the a halfway celebration.
We noticed earlier this morning that the lure had broken off, so Achim reeled it in. Try another one, I suggested, so he rigged up a pretty yellow one with a big hook and threw it over. Within 5 minutes we had a beautiful yellow dorado hanging and flying from it! We woke up Coby and got the kids outside... a fish! We finally caught one!
And such a beauty. From afar I wasn't sure if she would be enough for a full meal, but once we reeled it in closer I could see how weighty, meaty... we poured alcohol in its gills to stun it before we commenced the hacking away. Coby got out his knife sharpener and went straight to butchering. I plopped the head into some broth and threw some of the steaks into the freezer. I then chopped up several cups of the chewy flesh, squeezed 3 lemons onto it until white, then added onion, green pepper, coconut milk and fleur de sel. Insanely delicious! So we are pleased with our food situation once again.
I suggested throwing the lure back in, which Coby did. Within 5 minutes, the brother of the first was hanging on for dear life! As Coby was reeling her in, we were so excited and thought about the kind of fishy feasts we could be having for the next god knows how long. BUT, just before getting her on board, she bit through the lure and was home free! The one who got away...
Now what to do with the defrosted chicken??
Such worries.
more at www.pangaea.to/latest
follow us on an actual chart at www.intermar-ev.de
1260 miles to go
15 31' N
39 30' W
Report from the forepeak (Strangers in the Night)
Strangers in the Night
1/10/05
I was just thinking, in the middle of the 10 to 2 watch last night, that Erika has
been the one to spot all the new, first time stuff during the crossing -
ships, flying fish - and thinking how childish of me, when what to my
wondering eye should appear but a light, off the port bow, bearing around
240. It was bobbing in and out of view over the horizon, occluded and
re-revealed by taller waves passing line of sight. It looked to have two
white lights, a higher and lower fore and aft arrangement typical of
freighters. During the course of my watch it appeared to move farther abeam
and appeared to be headed east or southeast. Visibility was sketchy, though,
and the ship so far off, that it was really difficult - no, impossible - to
tell which way she (the ship - that's old school sailor talk) was moving. I
tried binoculars and couldn't see any colored lights, but I didn't really
expect to. I noted the position and pointed it out to Achim, went off watch,
climbed into my bunk and drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by Erika
saying something about a ship being very close, Achim wanting me on deck,
that they probably weren't pirates this far on the ocean, etc.
Given that this mode of travel is commonly said to consist of long periods
of tedium interspersed with moments of sheer panic, I was beginning to feel
that we may have been shortchanged on the tedium, or we accidentally
acquired somebody else's share of the panic. Anyway, I got on my
boarder-repelling costume and reported for duty. It was pitch black on deck
and raining, but we certainly could see the ship Erika was talking about -
the same one I had spotted earlier, maybe a quarter mile away and looking
pretty much like on a collision course. At this point, one has to wonder
whether there's anyone on watch on that, whether they actually ARE pirates,
and so forth. I mean, out of the entire available area of the mid-Atlantic,
why would we wind up sharing such a small section of it, if both parties are
awake and paying attention?
To make things even more interesting, it turned out to be a sailboat,
apparently bound for New York if she maintained that heading, and with the
wrong lights showing, at that. She had on an anchor light (white at
mast-top) and some kind of deck light (white, on deck), which configuration
gives a pretty good impersonation of a freighter, and NO red or green
running lights that we could see. We had the dickens of a time figuring out
which way the bugger was gonna go, although it was clear we were crossing
paths. The tricky bit is deciding who's going to go in front of whom.
Normally, the boat in the starboard tack has the right of way, and so the
other boat will pull up and drop behind - but this fellow was changing
course in a rather annoying, not to mention frightening, way. Ultimately we
stepped on the brakes and let the other boat pass, which she did about 200
yards ahead of us.
Although the situation was a little dicey, there's something special about
meeting another sailboat out here. I mean, days go by with the occasional
flying fish the only sign of life at all - you get a taste of the
shipwrecked mariner's sense of solitude, and a certain longing, even if it's
very subliminal, for other life. I was thrilled watching this fellow
traveler pass us in the rainy middle of the night, bound for who knows
where, and somewhat wistful watching her sail on.
More to come...
Coby
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