A Year and a Day

How I Caught 140 Salmon in 2 Days

–by ARLO

“You’re a young feller now, and I’m expecting 50 hauls a night out of you, and I don’t want to have to beat you, ya hear me?” said Gary, our Alutiiq friend who had taken me purse seining that evening. Gary, his wife Jill, his nephew Fred, and friend Peter were all from the beautiful native community of Ouzinkie, on Kodiak island.

Gary was a comedian, always calling people by nicknames. He called me Little Buddy, his adult nephew Fred, “Fatty Baby,” and he just called his wife Jill, “Wife.” He would always be getting into playful arguments with her, and she kept him down to earth. Fred was funny as well, because he would catch thousands of fish every year, but did not eat a single one! He, Jill, Peter and Gary were all out purse seining Red (Sockeye) and Pink (Humpback) salmon to give to the elders of the community who could no longer get their own fish. People from the community put in requests for fish and they would catch it, clean it, can or freeze it till everyone had the fish they needed for the winter. They did this for free as a service to their community.

Purse seining is an interesting type of fishing, and it has many applications on many scales, ranging from big tuna purse seiners to mad-sized salmon purse seiners to Boston whalers with a couple hundred foot long net, which is what we were using. We started off with the two boats tied together, drifting, looking for salmon jumping. When we saw a jumper we would motor over, and Gary would say, “Wife, you circle round the fish by Sandy Beach,” and the two boats would split, the other boat pulling the net out from the bin on the bow of my boat. Fred and Peter would be hitting the water with giant metal plungers to scare the fish back into the net. When the two boats were together again, Gary and I pulled in the lead line that ran along the bottom of the net, and he would give me instructions such as “easy now, easy” and “pull like hell!” Once we had that aboard, we pulled in the corks (floats) along the top of the net. Then we started stacking the net back in the bin. I stacked leads, and Gary stacked corks, and we pulled the net in as we went, with the bottom of the skiff slowly filling up with salmon. After we stored and counted the fish (usually 25-40 per set), we started looking for more jumpers. It was a lot of fun.

Maybe Gary was kidding when he told me that he expected 50 hauls a night, but I would have done it happily if he had asked because I enjoyed it, I learned so much about an important part of life in a small Kodiak community, and I made a lot of great connections. I don’t know how likely that it is that I will make it back to Ouzinkie, but maybe someday I will end up working on a seiner out of Kodiak and come back and visit Fred, Jill and Gary.

Alaska Photo Bomb

With limited internet access since we left Hawaii, we’ve been collecting a few photos to share. They are below in roughly chronological order.

Summer ends early in Alaska and school is not far away, but we’ll post a couple times again before we head home. Enjoy the pics (the formatting might be easier to see on a computer than on a phone) and be in touch!

Offerings to Neptune as we leave Kauai. Jason on conch shell.

First fish–a wahoo! Don’t let that get away, cowboy.

The little red boat is DEBONAIR. The blue triangles are very big ships. Big, like a quarter-mile long. While some parts of this ocean feel empty, there’s lots of traffic in this part of the North Pacific as we cross shipping routes to the West Coast.

Poised to catch a Japanese glass fishing float.
Glass ball ecosystem!
Perfect.

Sailing north and it’s getting colder.
And colder.

Ready for dinner.
We never missed a dinner on deck, regardless of the weather.

…and then 18 days after we lost sight of Kauai, the sun came out, the fog lifted and we saw Kodiak, Alaska (visible here at left) . . . .

. . . on Caitlin’s birthday.
Happy Birthday, Sailor.

We anchored in the dark on our 19th day out of Kauai and woke up to this.
And this.

The fifth-largest city in Alaska, the town of Kodiak has something under 10,000 residents. And everyone is connected to the water. As I write, we are the only cruising sailboat in the harbor–our excellent neighbors are purse seiners (pictured here with its aluminum skiff), the seiners’ tenders, long-liners, and trawlers. We’re loving learning about Alaskan fishing, Alaskan lives and Alaskan generosity.

While in Kodiak, Arlo and Alma teamed up with friends on S/V Dogbark to spend a night on an island in Chiniak Bay. Here, the list of supplies they’d need.
They rowed two miles to Puffin Island, set up a lean-to shelter, caught and filleted five fish, cooked them over a beach campfire, fended off nesting seagulls, oyster catchers, terns, and bald eagles all night . . .
. . . and rowed home the next morning.

After a few days of re-provisioning and a few hot showers in Kodiak, we set off to explore Kodiak Island. Here we are coming in to a nearby cove.

Way up one gorge-like bay we shed our boots and we swam!

This cannery was shuttered fifteen years ago, but when our friends on Dogbark and we tied up to the dock, the caretaker, Lance, invited us in to look around. So many lives were lived out in this handful of buildings on the side of this island, so far from everyone else. Evidence of their days remains in bits of graffiti, their tools, the machinery they handled, the signs in three languages that set the rules that governed their movements, the scratches on the floor from their boots. More images below.

Dogbark and Debonair from the cannery deck.
Arlo and the boilers.
Alma scooping up the last of the salmon berries we picked for pie.

The next cannery was 50 miles further south–more remote, 109 years old, but still very much a going operation. The cannery is a real community built from itinerant workers, largely from Eastern Europe, Japan and the Philippines, as well as Alaskans who have been working in the cannery for a generation or more, and the fisherfolk who bring their catch daily. We visited at the cannery and with fishermen on DEBONAIR and there was more visiting even as we transited the bay. We were moved by the warmth and humanity that clearly sustains this community.

Beautiful Larsen Bay Cannery.
Where there are fish there are birds.

Here a couple of aluminium set net skiffs tie up to DEBONAIR for a gam while we are underway in Uyak Bay. This family gave us fish, sweets, and books for the kids as well as invitations to their fishing camp. We’ve also been given smoked fish, halibut, venison and elk meet. In great quantity. Sometimes we feel like we need to anchor far away from generous Alaskans while we catch up on the eating. As our biggest eater, Arlo is in heaven.

We’ve been given many salmon. These are sockeye. Good eatin’.
Arlo has cleaned many salmon. These are a silver and a pink. Also good eatin.’
When Arlo finds fish eggs when he’s cleaning a salmon, he process the roe. Yup, good eatin’.

Arlo and Alma and friends mapped an island in Uyak Bay. So far from the last island they mapped in the Tuamotu.
Sometimes mapping an island requires getting wet. Even in Alaska.

On a beautiful breezy day we sailed from Kodiak Island across Shelikof Strait to Geographic Harbor, a deep cove in the Katmai National Park and Preserve.

Alma rows around Geographic Harbor looking for Grizzly Bears.

This guy is a very big male. We also saw mamas and cubs and bears we think are teens. We got to watch these mythic animals go about their business–climbing hills, swimming, clamming and lying on the beach holding clams in their paws to eat them, berry-picking, wrestling, nuzzling, pooping.

Sow and cub.
They climb so fast!
Two cubs.

We’ve left the tundra of southern Kodiak Island. Spruce dominates the farther north we get and moss is a close second.

We celebrated Arlo’s 16th birthday on Spruce Island. . .
He really seems to like his new beach cruiser.

We are sad to leave every island we’ve been to, and sailing from Kodiak Island is no different. By the end of the week, we’ll set sail bound for Afognak Island and then we’ll go on to the Kenai Peninsula on the mainland, where we’ll look for a place to secure DEBONAIR for the winter.

We have a few more thoughts we’ll be sharing soon. Thank you again for reading–we love thinking of all of you.

Hawaii to Alaska, the last installment

Alma checks for “targets,” or ships, in the fog.

6/25

Day 15
From the log:
Grey, cold. Grey, cloud blanket, cold. Overcast and cold.
Maddy climbs the ratlines and notes, No whales. Some birds.

6/26
Day 16
Caitlin
We’re eating all our meals on deck again. Three days of cold north headwinds had been keeping everyone but the watch stander below decks for breakfast and lunch. But even now that it’s a bit warmer with southerly winds from astern, we still need about 10 minutes to dress for dinner. And I’m not talking about powdering noses and slipping into something lovely.

Going on deck in the evening and, especially for night watch, is time consuming. By the time I’m on deck I’m wearing wool long underwear, and extra base layer top, a fleece sweatshirt—hood up to protect my ears, fleece pants, an insulated jacket, a fleece neck gaiter, a wool hat, and insulated gloves. Then the exposure suit. As Jason has pointed out, the exposure suits—basically full-body float suits—render us about as nimble as toddlers bundled in snowsuits. And what would a watch standing kit be without two pairs of wool socks, Xtra Tuff rubber boots and a harness?

We’re sailing–toes cold despite being all bundled up—on a broad reach toward Kodiak and all is well.

6/27
Day 17
Caitlin
Woo hoo! Wing and wing downwind at 7-8 knots! And for a moment we saw blue sky! Longing for hot showers.

Alma
Tomorrow is mom’s birthday! If we go at least seven knots, then we could get in to Kodiak Town tomorrow, but that probably won’t happen, so we will probably go into a cove further south or heave to and wait to go in till morning. Either way, we are making linzer torte for mom’s birthday!

Arlo looking at land for the first time in 18 days!

6/28
Day 18
Caitlin
Jason woke me for my watch at 0245 and told me to listen. Whale songs and whale squeaks. There was nothing else it could be. The sounds were with us for an hour or two, but we never saw whales—were they nearby or dozens of miles away?

It’s my birthday today. We celebrated at lunch on deck with a linzertorte, lovely cards and handmade items—necklaces, lanyards, poems—and the promise of a drink ashore soon. We were sailing 6 knots in a thick fog and over the course of the afternoon the fog just got thicker. We posted a bow watch. Finally, as dinnertime approached and blue sky appeared and slowly bled down to the misty horizon, we all saw it at once – the outline of Kodiak Island.

A little over 30 years ago, after a 17-day passage across the Atlantic, I sighted the island of Flores in the Azores on my 14th birthday. We’re in Alaskan waters now, being escorted toward safe harbor by albatross, a variety of storm petrels, shearwaters, auklets and puffins. There’s something perfect happening today.

Dinner saw us all on deck again as we glided at 6 knots wing and wing toward Kodiak. And then the humpabacks joined us, playing, waving their long pectoral fins to welcome us, breaching, breaching again and bigger, over and over.
The sun set at 2200. Maddy sailed us into Chiniak Bay. Midnight came and went with sunset colors still in the sky. Jason and I took Debonair into an open cove, waking up some sleeping otters (I kid you not) at 0120, which brings us to . . .

6/29
Day 19
All
We dropped anchor in still water at 0130. For each of us, this our first time in Alaska. It’s so perfectly quiet.

Thanks for following us on our passage. We’ll post pictures from Kodiak Town soon.

Hawaii to Alaska, Part 3

6/18
Day 8

ALMA
This afternoon a tanker came into view. My mom saw it pop up on the AIS screen, and then we saw it on the horizon. The tanker was called “Shergar,” or something like that. We got them on the radio, and they altered their course to leave just over a mile between them and us. Later, I called them on the radio and found out that they are coming from China, bound for the U.S., via the Panama Canal, and they’re carrying gas.

I used to be really nervous using the VHF radio—I didn’t even want to talk with our friends over the radio because I was worried about using proper marine radio etiquette. Now I’m still nervous, but I can get over it.

Editor’s note: Not only did Alma handle the radio beautifully, the officer on the Shergar also complimented her on her courage, telling her, “You are very brave to be out in this ocean on such a little boat.” I can only imagine how small 43’ Debonair looked from the bridge of a 1000’ tanker.

6/19
Day 9

JASON
Once in a while everything comes together and the boat just goes. It almost doesn’t seem to matter what we do, she just goes and goes. Today was one of those days. We were beam reaching and broad reaching and the breeze was up a bit, but not especially so. It built gradually through the day, and as it did, we gradually reduced sail. We switched the bigger jib for the smaller. Later we took a reef in the main. Eventually we took in the staysail. Finally we took another reef in the main. By sunset we were sailing with the smaller jib, the double reefed main and the mizzen, and Debonair just kept flying along. The sea wasn’t up, so we weren’t surfing or pounding, we were just driving along on a rail. We did eight knots regularly, nine often, and we even saw ten a few times. That’s wicked fast for Debonair. It makes us feel a little giddy.

This is a long passage. We have to string together so many days of keeping the boat moving to get there. Sometimes it’s hard. The wind is light and flukey, or stronger but on the nose. This one day, any one day, doesn’t get us there. This day moves us closer though. More importantly maybe, it’s the spirit of a good day like this that we can hold onto and remember when we’re slogging into a headwind, or flogging around in the calms.

Editor’s note: in the 24 hour period from 6AM, 6/19 to 6AM, 6/20 we averaged seven and a half knots, and sailed 180 nautical miles. As far as we know it’s our fastest day ever.

6/20
Day 10

MADDY
Sailing during the day is everything that I am used to, and it is exciting, especially with days like yesterday when we are cruisin’ at top speed. But sailing at night! That is new and different from what I am used to, and new and different each time I come up for watch. In random and unorganized fashion, here are some of my musings from various recent night watches (warning, I get all poetical…):
-The stars populated the sky with surprising density as the bioluminescence glowed in the wake. As above, so below. The horizon warmed with the promise of moonlight, but as the near-full moon rose and shimmered off the water’s surface, so faded the glimmering specks of heaven and water, only visible under the blanketed darkness of the moonless sky.

-The full moon was bright and glorious, the clouds drifted in and out, the waves and wind whispered gently, and the night was content.

-The night wrapped its grip around the already gray swampy air that we clawed our way through. Unseen birds sang eerie tunes and foghorns from nearby ships pulsated through the thick air.

-Sail Maneuvers! Jumping and hopping around the deck and cockpit keeps the blood warm and the time passing. Now a puff, now a lift, now 5 knots in the right direction! Next a big lull and the chatter of birds, laughing at my misfortune. Now the waves lapping gently, now the soft hush of the vessel slipping forward, now a heavy silence while I wait, thousands of miles from anything, for the next something to come along.

CAITLIN
Less trash, more tankers and a lot more fog.

6/21
Day 11

ALMA
It’s the summer solstice today! But it’s not the day on which we’ll see the most sunlight. Because we are going north, we will keep getting longer days even after the solstice. I think that’s really cool! Our days have already gotten noticeably longer—when we left Hawaii the sun was rising at 6 a.m.
and now it’s rising at 4:40 a.m.

It’s also getting noticeably colder! Right now I’m down below in wool socks, fleece slippers, fleece pants, a wool shirt and a fleece sweatshirt.

ARLO
As the days have gotten longer, the weather has gotten colder. I did not fish for the past two days because of the cold—the prospect of cleaning a fish in the cold is immensely unappealing. I suppose it’s just something to get used to though.

According to the weather files, there is a front coming through in several days, which may contain some bad weather. But it’s alright—today we had some good sailing and if we keep up our current rate of progress we should be in Kodiak about a week from now. Knock on wood.

6/22
Day 12

JASON
Yesterday we saw seven ships. We only saw one in person actually, because it was so foggy. Six ships showed up on our AIS receiver. Some of them we wouldn’t have known were there if not for the AIS. They’d have passed by out in the murk and we’d have been unaware. Others though had their foghorns going, and we heard them from miles away. These loud deep tones carry over the water and penetrate through the sounds of wind and waves and even the engine. Yes, it’s spooky. The shroud of fog reduces our world to a small little circle of water around us and the low moaning horns come from some unknown ship somewhere out there.

This evening just in time for dinner, we sailed out of the fog and out from under a huge ocean of clouds. We sat in the cockpit with bowls of hot risotto. It was cold out, but we were all happy. The blue of the sky was shocking after so long without it. The sun didn’t appear much, but it’s light shone through and brought color to the clouds and sky. The pinks and oranges were sweet after the days of monochromatic gray.

6/23
Day 13

CAITLIN
Water temperature is 53 degrees, air temperature during the day is the same. It’s colder at night and almost always damp.
Anything you see at in this immense sea feels so unlikely, feels like such crazy chance. This morning two almost impossibly unlikely events occurred. First, Jason looked out at the waves to decide if we could raise sail and there, floating a hundred yards away was a perfect green blown-glass Japanese fishing float. When we maneuvered closer, Alma leaned way over the side and snagged the line knotted around the glass and pulled it aboard. It’s a big one, probably older than anyone on this boat. Jason and Arlo spent an hour cleaning it, scraping away many pounds of gooseneck barnacles and translucent tunicates.
The second random event actually happened first: sometime during the night while we were motoring across a glassy sea with all three head sails furled on deck, we were inked. Really, it’s the only explanation we can come up with for the dried splats and pools of grey-brown ink splashed across all three headsails, and especially on our spankin’ new working jib. So while Jason and Arlo scrubbed the glass fishing float, Maddy unhanked the jib and then she and I tackled it with bleach water and scrub brushes.
I know, scrubbing squid ink from sails? We’re imagining an albatross scooping up a squid, the ink falling across our bowsprit and sails as the albatross flies away. Or a squid leaping across the bowsprit and inking on its way. We have found squid on our deck along with flying fish, so it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. Either way, it must have been a very big squid, given the amount of ink. If you have another explanation, let us know. And come see our green glass trophy sometime in Alameda next winter.

6/24
Day 14

JASON
A high pressure system has finally developed here. The trouble is it’s developed right over us, leaving us in the middle of a broad windless stretch in the middle. We managed to sail through the night last night–slowly, and not always in the right direction. Now we’re motorsailing a little faster, and in the right direction. We only have so much fuel though, and it’s still quite a ways to Kodiak, and this big broad calm spot is, well . . . broad. We’ve looked at the forecast and calculated our fuel remaining and our fuel needed, and while it’s tight, it’s OK. We’ve got to just settle in and keep going, motoring when we have to, sailing when we can, and waiting a day or two for the high to pass over us and the favorable winds on the other side to start helping us on our way again. It’s days like this we can think back on the faster days (and the warmer days!) and remember that exhilarating feeling of the boat really sailing hard, and remember that it takes all these days, faster and slower, warmer and colder, to get us where we’re going.

Current position update: 6/24 1600 hours 48* 40’N, 152* 05’W

Hawaii to Alaska, Part 2

DAY 3 6/13/19

-- Maddy, Guest blogger
The first time I went out so sea, it took 3 days. The first day I was so enamored of the shrinking coastline in the wake of our ship that I didn’t even feel it come on. I just suddenly went running for the rail, then sank sheepishly down amidships beside my fellow seasick shipmates. Day two, I was good for nothing, and dragged myself about my meager business, and by day three I could not only contemplate but actually consume food. That was 20 years and thousands of miles ago, yet I have not rid myself of the condition, and in the same way that one anticipates the initial plunge into icy-cold water during a polar swim, I had been simultaneously excited for my voyage and dreading the first 3 days.

Day one went about as expected. We set off in a glorious breeze with the northernmost island of Hawaii fading to a speck on the horizon behind us. No sooner were all the sails set when I began to feel the familiar churn in my belly. I had opted not to take any meds and promptly employed the universal cure: sleep. I woke. I ate part of a meal. I stood watch. I sat watch. I slapped myself awake. I poured myself into my bunk. Day two I awoke feeling better, but not quite with my legs beneath me. Below decks was still a struggle and as the vessel lurched my mind lurched with regret. Why am I doing this? 3 meals today. Long nap. No dishes. Watch. One more day gone, how many left?

Today I woke with more of a spring in my step and for the first time since Hawaii, humor in my heart. Day three, the first day of the rest of my voyage. I’m not quite 100%, but I’m past the worst and ready to be both a pleasant companion and a more functional member of the crew. Somewhere between the depths of yesterday and the beaming dawn of my new horizon, I questioned most everything in my world, not least of all my decision to be out here. But when I reflect on that decision, I notice that it was the easiest one I have made in a long time. The rolling of the vessel is eased by the steadiness of the crew, and I feel at home as a welcome, if temporary, part of the Debonair family. Today we are motoring, tomorrow we may find wind. Who knows what each new dawn will bring. Laissez les bons temps rouler.

DAY 4 6/15/19

--Alma
We came very close to Malie Ka Kai, a sailboat whose crew we met in Kauai!! We were so close we could shout across to them. That is the first time we have ever seen another sailboat at sea, and it was very exciting! We offered them fish, but they already had Mahi Mahi aboard. Arlo just caught a huge Ono (Wahoo), maybe 3.5’ long. Sadly, my mom had already made dinner, but we’ll be eating a lot of fish over the next few days.

DAY 5 6/16/19
Current position: 32 43 N, 156 48 W

--Caitlin
We are seeing more evidence of humans on this passage than we have on others. In our first couple of days at sea we passed two or three fishing boats and many plastic fishing buoys, presumably connected to nets. And while we haven’t seen fish boats in the last three days, we did cross paths with that sailboat and yesterday we saw a lone airplane move across the sky. But what has been most remarkable—and disheartening—is the trash we’ve been sailing through. We started seeing trash our second day out and each day we sailed by more. Yesterday it was everywhere—you couldn’t look out across the water without seeing several hunks of plastic—there was lots of netting and other detritus from fishing vessels, a few large fish aggregating devices that had gotten loose, bits of polypropylene rope, a blue plastic barrel with a whole ecosystem growing around it. Sometimes there was something recognizable from our land life, like the handle of an umbrella ora toothbrush, but most of the flotsam was unrecognizable bits of pale plastic, lots of fingernail sized pieces, lots of palm sized pieces, many bigger chunks too. We don’t know how this garbage patch relates to the much talked of Pacific Garbage Patch, reported to be the size of Texas, but we can report that there’s a whole mess of plastic in this part of our ocean. Luckily by first light this morning, it seemed like we might be out of the worst of that particular mess. Dawn is coming earlier as we travel north, and by 4:30 a.m. I could see masses of By the Wind Sailors, which look like little plastic bubbles of sails—half an inch to three inches tall—but which are really a colony of tiny organisms that live, feed and sail together. And then at our Father’s Day breakfast celebration—Arlo made poisson cru and biscuits and cut pomelos--a pod of dolphins started leaping about.

DAY 6 6/17/19

--Caitlin & Jason
In the week since we left Hawaii, the changing season combined with our steady progress nearly straight North has added about an hour to the time between sunrise and sunset. Sunset comes later now and after dinner in the cockpit we sit in the low light a while reading Margaret Murie’s Two in the Far North before doing dishes. By the time we get to Alaska there will be no complete darkness at night, sunset and sunrise will be just a few hours apart. That change in light comes with a recent drop in temperature, especially at night. Scooting along at 6 knots in a 10 knot breeze this afternoon, the cold damp air, our fleece jackets and the late low light reminded us that we are indeed heading for Alaska. Caitlin says to Jason, Isn’t it kind of surreal? Isn’t it sort of preposterous that we hoisted sails on this little wooden boat and decided we could sail to Alaska? What makes us think we could do that? Sail across this big North Pacific with its Albatross and turtles and dolphins and big winds and big calms all the way to this place called Alaska where we’ve never been and which sounds so wild? And Jason agrees.

Day 7 6/18/19
Still trying to get this blog posted!
Current position: 36 51N, 155 03W

Hawaii to Alaska, part 1

DAY 1 6/11/19

—Caitlin
Simply a gorgeous day to go to sea, though that doesn’t keep any of us from feeling a little unsettled. We weighed anchor at 1000. Arlo flaked down the chain, and libations were poured into the sea to appease Neptune/Poseidon and to ask for safe passage for Debonair and her crew. The shell horn from Mexico was blown. We all raised sail—mizzen, main and jib–showing Maddy, our newest crew member, the ropes.

Though the sailing was perfect, there was a bit of a swell running and several members of the crew were feeling seasick. By the time they emerged on deck from their afternoon naps the island of Kauai was gone. If all goes as planned, we won’t see land for another three weeks or so.

DAY 2 6/12/19

–Arlo
Today was our first full day at sea. I am feeling a little less seasick than yesterday, which is good, because we still have a lot of passage time ahead of us. I am already low on reading material so I will have to spend a lot of time fishing. In addition to fishing, I have been reading up on archery in a couple of books I have on the subject.

Right now we are motoring, as there is not enough wind to sail on. The wind died out several hours ago partway through my afternoon watch. The weather has stayed mild and we are leaving all of the port lights open, and the slightly open forepeak hatch sends a nice breeze through my cabin. The wind and seas, according to the weather forecast, should stay calm and light through the weekend, then according to one forecast model, the North Pacific high should begin to develop. The other forecast says it won’t, but you never can tell with these things.

My mom is in the galley making the next great installment to the growing list of of delicious dinners that we have underway. Tonight I believe is a Chinese noodle soup dinner, and I’m starving. It would be good with a little fish but unfortunately that is not available because I haven’t caught any yet. I’ll have to fix that.

–Jason
Last night Caitlin spotted a black footed albatross. This afternoon it was back. As Caitlin said, you know the albatross when you see it. Its wingspan of up to seven feet sets it apart from all the other birds out here. It’s giant. At the same time it’s amazingly graceful, gliding just above the water, banking and leaning and trailing one wingtip just right at the water without touching, that wingtip bobbing with each ripple and wave. The combination of great size and grace makes the bird seem so majestic (to use another of Caitlin’s words for it). Just as we were watching it this afternoon in the lowering light, one, then another, then a third giant tuna leapt from the water. They were so big they looked like porpoises, and at first my brain couldn’t figure out I was seeing. Big as porpoises, but the shape was all wrong. They came clear out of the water, their sharp fins distinct against the light behind them, then smashed back down in the water and were gone. Sometimes this vast ocean can seem so blank and empty. The sudden flash of those tuna made it feel like it was full of life, hidden from us, just waiting to leap out.

DAY 3 6/13/19

Onward to Alaska

We’re writing from the beautiful Hanalei Bay, on the north shore of Kauai, Hawaii. We arrived here after an easy overnight sail from Oahu and were joined this morning by our friends on Dogbark, who are are anchored nearby under the rainbow that has formed in the mist. Our friend Maddy will be arriving on the beach soon to join the crew for our passage in a few days to Alaska. From where Debonair is anchored, we can count five waterfalls.

Let’s sail to Kodiak island! Pilot charts show the likelihood of experiencing a given wind and sea state each month across every ocean.

It’s been a a long time getting here. There’s been the planning. We’ve studied pilot charts and read cruising guides, made timelines, crossed them out, decided to pull the kids from school a few days early. We’ve written project spreadsheets and provisioning spreadsheets and ordered spare parts. A lot of spare parts. We hauled the boat out of the water not once, but twice this spring. The first haulout saw Jason and Caitlin completing a week of annual maintenance, mostly lots and lots of painting. The second time Jason was on his own, repairing a problem with the external ballast we discovered following the first haulout. He spent most of the week on his back under the boat drilling up into it or in the bilge with 4’ drill bits drilling out of it. All is well.

In addition, we’ve bent on a new working jib and added new jib sheet tracks, bent on a new mizzen sail, installed a heater in the cabin, replaced the shore power charger, made the decks seams more watertight, installed a new prism in the fore peak hatch, bought lots of warm clothes and swapped our South Pacific books for tales from Alaska. We’ve loaded hundreds of pounds of food into the boat and recorded the storage location of each can and jar.Work projects and provisions come together.

I’d say we’re ready, but we’re never ready. Huge thanks to Becky and Serge, friends in Honolulu, for their aloha and for accepting piles of boxes we shipped to their house and especially to Jason’s brother, Chris, who joined Jason in Oahu for a week of work projects.

The new heater Jason & Chris installed. Thanks, S/V Dogbark for such a cute heater!

The weather this year is unsettled. What the wind and seas are doing will determine just about everything in our small world over the next few weeks, so we’re thinking about it a lot. But if you aren’t so interested in this unsettled weather, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Here’s the short version: in order to get out of Hawaii before the hurricane season here, but after most of the big North Pacific gales, most boats bound to Alaska tend to leave Hawaii mid-May through mid-June. The rhum line to Kodiak is almost due north. Most summers, boats would sail slightly west of north out of Hawaii on the northeast trade winds, then bend slightly east again when entering the Westerly winds that dominate the North Pacific summer. But this summer the high pressure that usually establishes itself in the eastern part of the North Pacific has so far failed to do so, probably, we’re told, because of El Nino conditions. This means that all the regular weather patterns dictated by that high aren’t present. Most notably for us, the Westerlies haven’t established themselves, gales are still crossing toward Kodiak, and there’s a lot of light and variable winds between here and there. The high may yet establish itself. Until then, we spring for the more expensive weather forecasting subscription.

Chris, Arlo & Alma walk the reef edge on Oahu.

We’re sad to be leaving the tropics for a lot of obvious reasons, but of course we’re excited about what lies ahead. We’re looking to taking our departure from Hanelei Bay by early next week and expect the passage to Kodiak Island to take about three weeks, if all goes as planned. Thanks so much for reading and keeping up with our northward progress. We’ll keep you posted!

Landlubbers again

This is likely the last post for a month or few. Read Arlo and Caitlin’s thoughts on returning to California and check out all the pix (and a video!) that we finally have the internet to upload.

From ARLO:

Well, we’re back. Coming back to Alameda itself wasn’t such a shock. We had spent three weeks in Hawaii adjusting to Western culture, and then another week on the East Coast before returning home. And now that we are back, we have easy access to many things we didn’t have on the boat, such as wifi, refrigeration, burritos, bagels and more. And I am very relieved to have all of those items back.

Yes, my folks took a “back to School” photo.

But I have been noticing some things I am missing too: less stressful days, a less intense schedule, and there’s more stuff happening to make my life busier and more complicated. I have also been missing all the fishing that we did on the boat. Living on the boat gave us lots of fruit and lots of fun. I gained the confidence to stand a watch alone, to talk with strangers in languages I’m not very good at, to swim with sharks, to try new foods, and to appreciate other ways of living. I have many friends that I like in Alameda, and I would miss them if I weren’t living here, but I find that on the boat, in an environment with fewer friends, I am happy as well.

I feel like the choice of where to spend my high school years could use some more thought. There are still some questions that I would like to think more about before I commit fully to one place or another. What about friends? What about school? Could I learn what I need to learn in high school on the boat? I just know for sure that life on the boat is appealing in a lot of different ways, and that I am going to be excited to go back there in the spring.

———————————————————–

And from Caitlin:

In mid-January the four of us walked toward our gate at the Honolulu International Airport, quiet mostly. We’d just left Debonair after a year aboard, and we were sad. Alma piped up, “Debonair feels more like home than our house does.”

We have had mixed feelings about going “home.” Watching an evening sky a few months ago, I told Jason that if the only thing we took from this voyage was seeing as much sea and sky as we saw this year, the voyage would have been worth it. But there’s so much more. Observing sea and sky was just the beginning of the year we spent watching and seeing the natural world around us.

There are the people we met–the other cruising families, the voyagers we met who were older or younger than we are–and how often at home do we have such mixed-age friendships? The sailors we met–from so many countries–were all people who took the initiative to make the life they wanted. They were good and interesting people, as were the many Mexicans and Polynesians whose graciousness and enthusiasm made our year so rich. Our friends on Ua Pou, and Nuku Hiva and Huahine are people we will carry in our hearts even if we don’t see them again. And you never know.

Of course, there is our ever growing love for Debonair–for it was beautiful Debonair who kept us safe across oceans and gave us a home in amazing places. She doesn’t maneuver well in tight spaces, but she sails like a freight train. She taught us so much about sailing. So little broke, so much of our planning was right, there are so few things about her we would want to change.

A beautiful South Pacific day as we approach the equator heading north.
Sailing on the lagoon in Fakarava.
Caitlin cleans the bottom for a speedy passage to Nuku Hiva.
Jason went up the mast to check the rig.
Everything on DEBO is strong. We had these 1/2″ Lexan storm windows made up just before we left California. (Thanks for weighing in on that one JT and Joel!)
We installed these job sheet winches on new winch pads made by our friend Josh before we left. We used them every time we sailed.
Everything on DEBONAIR is strong. This bronze chain plate we installed, one of 14. Connecting the shrouds to the hull, the chain plates are critical links in the rig that holds up the masts.
Bungs. Thanks to friends for getting us these little teak plugs for Jason to install in the deck. It’s all about keeping the boat watertight.
DEBONAIR is strong. This is the 77lb Spade anchor we used every time we anchored. With 300′ of chain, it held in big wind. Note the stainless and bronze on the caprail to protect it from the chain.
JT on watch as we take our departure from Nuku Hiva.

But really the point of this year wasn’t to become better sailors, to meet other people or see cool places or even to watch the sky. It was to become more who we are by voyaging under sail . . . .through meeting interesting people, by seeing remote places and watching the sea. It was about finding space for each of us to grow and for us to grow together. We were scared sometimes and frustrated sometimes, but we were never overbooked, and we were never a family leading four separate lives. Everything we had to do–checking the anchor before bed, researching the next island group, making bread, varnishing the caprail–had a direct impact on someone we loved and so life was truly less complex than on land.

Despite living in 40′, we had room to stretch, and we stretched. The personal growth was most evident, I think, in Arlo and Alma–for each of them, the challenges this year became a real coming of age. But Jason and I have also learned so much. We’ve seen the sea and the sky, but also each other and I’ve come to appreciate the members of my family anew. Arlo’s focus, generosity and sense of humor, Alma’s lovingness, ability to learn and meticulousness, Jason’s curiosity, competence and capacity to love.

Three weeks home now, we are being cautious. We appreciate the warm welcome from neighbors and friends and family as we make the adjustment to more separate lives, to cell phones, to living in this consumer world. It’s not that we don’t like the lives we can live back home, but we’re reminded of the effort it can take to live here with integrity.

We sailed out the Golden Gate with ti leaves given to us by our friend Carter–a few were hanging on when we arrived in Hawaii where we were given this beautiful ti leaf lei.
This is me at Farmland Foods in Honolulu. Is this for real?

We just ordered the Coast Pilot for Alaska. Come May, Debonair will set sail again, bound from Hawaii for someplace north of 60*N, possibly Kodiak Island, and we’ll spend the summer there. We look forward to “a year and a day” becoming “a year and a day and a summer and maybe some more summers after that.” Thank you again for the ways you’ve sailed with us in our adventures. We’ll keep you posted once we’re back aboard.

For now, we leave you with a few final pics of the lovely DEBONAIR, from the last couple months of the voyage and from re-entry —

Refueling directly from the weekly supply ship in Fakarava. Here, you can see DEBONAIR tied up to the ship, the Cobia II. Caitlin’s in the foreground, returning from paying for the fuel.

Tourists in Fakarava–200 year old coral block church.

We picked up crew in Nuku Hiva. Okay, actually we brought him to Nuku Hiva too.

This is how we re-fuel in Nuku Hiva. Yellow jerry jugs full of diesel.

Practicing Morse code with JT on the passage to Hawaii.

The ITCZ, otherwise known as the doldrums. Perpetual bed head at sea.

Washing dishes while heeling. Alma is leaning on the galley belt made by our friend Oliver.

As the seas got bigger, the forepeak became less habitable. A & A lowered the dinette table and moved into the main cabin. Note the lee cloth between them and the lantern above them, secured to the right of Arlo’s knee.

Rolling toward Hawaii

In the lee of the Big Island–a Hawaiian song bird takes a break on DEBONAIR.

Be glad the camera isn’t any closer. Jason’s hand after 20 days at sea.

Aloha!

Late Sunday night we slipped into Waikiki beach and dropped the anchor in 30 feet of water under the first quarter moon. The ten-hour crossing of the Alenuihaha channel on Saturday night saw the worst weather we’d experienced this year and we’d barely slept since then. When we woke up this Monday morning at anchor we were overwhelmed by the view of the beautiful mountains of Oahu as well as by the reality of the busy-ness that would await us ashore.

We raised anchor and motored into the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor where a cruising family we’d connected with caught our lines and welcomed us back to the United States with bananas and beer. Perfect.

We’re still catching up on sleep and cleaning up the boat. Today customs and immigration cleared us in and after tomorrow morning’s agriculture inspection we’ll be able to go grocery shopping. Thought of an American grocery store is exciting and overwhelming.

We don’t seem to have any working cell phones yet, so if you are trying to get in touch with us, please send us an email.

We’ll post pictures from the 20-day passage in the coming days. Thank you all for sticking with us on this journey!

So close! Third update on the passage to Hawaii

DEBONAIR is (still) on passage from Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas bound for Oahu. This is the third update from members of our crew.

12/8 Saturday (Day 12)
Sailed due north at 6.5 kts. Retarded clocks 30 minutes to Hawaii time—UTC 10.

12/9-Sunday (Day 13)
Overcast. Continued due north to get ahead of big northeasterly sea and wind forecast. Bashing into a north sea so that we’ll be able to turn west when the forecasted big northeast seas arrive tomorrow.

12/10-Monday (Day 14)

from ARLO–
The big seas that were forecast have arrived—now mostly out of the northeast. We’ve made our westerly turn and are now steering 270*m, and we are only 670 nautical miles east of the Big Island. It is fun being in the big seas when you are on deck, watching them come rearing up behind you, and then feeling the rush of speed as you surf down them, only to have them pass under you and go roaring off. It is so cool to look out at the sea, at first only seeing 200 yards or less and then seeing for miles and miles as Debonair lifts up over a swell. Right now at 2005 (8:05 p.m.) we are under the smallest sail we have ever been under at sea, staysail and single-reefed mizzen, and we are still roaring along at 6.5 knots.

I finished my knife lanyard, and boy is it handsome. It attaches to my belt loop and then the 6-strand sennit part of it runs down to my pocket where it clips on to my knife. Tomorrow it’s back to schoolwork.

From ALMA–
Today has been a down day. There are 15’ swells and I have been seasick all day. But I had a letter [ed. note—family and friends sent us of with a sheaf of letters marked to be opened on particular days] that said, “Alma, perhaps open this after a storm or just a challenging day.” So I opened it, and it put a big smile on my face. I had been saving the letter waiting to see if a worse day was coming. It had been tantalizing me. I was so curious about what was inside. But I decided that today was the day and it really improved my day. In it was a note and a pin of a boat. The boat looks like it’s going down wind, and it’s very intricate.

12/11-Tuesday (Day 15)

From CAITLIN–
The seas are big enough to be impressive without being frightening, and Debonair, with her full keel and heavy displacement, is handling them beautifully. Our windvane steering mechanism, on the other hand, isn’t as good at handling the big following seas, so we’re steering by hand and I spend the hours of my daylight watches watching the ocean. Like fire, the seas are dynamic, always moving, but they have the solidity of a landscape. When we are on top of a sea, we look upwind across a bowl-shaped valley of water up to the next sea rising on the far side of the valley.

There are a couple of wave trains, each coming to us from its own enormous gale far north of Hawaii. At first the north swell predominated; now we are sailing on a broad reach before a northeast swell. There’s still a bit of a north sea coming through though and sometimes the two wave trains are superimposed on each other for a bigger, steeper sea.

Today is the third day of this weather; we probably have four to go until we get into the lee of the Big Island of Hawaii. That’s a lot of days of watching these seas. And listening to them.

The waves are fractal: the big seas are covered with smaller waves, each of which has miniature waves racing across its face. In addition to the splashing and rushing of water running by our hull, there’s the waterfall roar as the tops of the tallest seas tumble and break. And there’s the swoosh of small waves playing out on the longer seas. But my favorite ocean sound now comes from the white foam that streaks across all the bigger seas—it is the constant hiss of bubbles popping—zillions and zillions of bubbles, to be technical.

Down below it’s quieter, until we get a good roll, and then all kinds of items—despite our best efforts at stowing—clatter and clank. Toothbrushes in their holders, books on the shelves, a headlamp hanging on a hook—each thing makes a tiny noise and together the tiny noises are so loud. We are all dreaming of the still, quiet nights in Hawaii.

FROM ARLO–
Talk about crazy. Today I spent surfing down huge (10-15’) swells, reading up in Bowditch [ed. Note: Nathaniel Bowditch’s Practical Navigator is the classic and complete reference for all things navigational] and calculating the distance form Hawaii. (The equation 1.15√h, with h being the height of eye or height of the object off the water will give you the distance away you can see an object in nautical miles.) The top of the Big Island should be visible at 128 nautical miles away. As of 1000 this morning, we had only 585 nm to go before we get under the lee of the Big Island.

Early this morning we struck the staysail and mizzen, and raised the jib, and surfed down waves at over 10 knots. But then we decided it was too much so we switched the jib for the staysail. Remember yesterday’s sail configuration? Today we went for 6-8 hours under staysail alone, making 6+ knots. This afternoon we raised the fore t’gallant topsail with one reef. Just kidding. We actually raised the reefed mizzen to keep our speed up.

Dinner tonight was the highlight of the day, though. It was “confit de canard,” or, as I call it, duck in a can. It was incredibly good, especially when eaten over mashed potatoes and sauteed cabbage, as we had it.

Finally, this evening I saw a shooting star as I was reclining in the cockpit brushing my teeth. Ahh . . . life on a boat.

12/12—Wednesday (Day 16)

from ARLO-
I stuck my head up on deck this morning to talk to my mom, who was on watch. She asked me, “Do you have any ideas for breakfast or should I give you mine?” She suggested I make scones. We doubled the recipe, which called for 8 C of flour, and I made two trays worth of fat scones. We ate them hot with butter and pamplemousses on the side. It was incredible, which I can say even though I had a hand in making them.

We began the day under staysail and mizzen and at lunch, Alma announced that we had made our best day’s run yet of 155 nautical miles. In the afternoon we wanted a little more sail, so we raised the trysail on a broad reach, which worked surprisingly well. The trysail is made of neon orange and white stripes, and looks great when it’s flying proudly.

All in all, today was pretty good, if a bit slow. I’ve been working on a design for a tool to measure latitude. I’ve also been doing math, and I find that math lessons tend to make a day slow.

12/13—Thursday (Day 17)

from ALMA–
Tomorrow morning we might be able to see the Big Island of Hawaii. Then it will be about two or three days until we get to Oahu, but we’ll be in sight of land the whole time. Seeing land will make it seem less like we are in the middle of nowhere. Being in the middle of nowhere does have benefits, like the night being so dark that you can see a whole sky of stars—that feels magical.

But now we are thinking of going back home. It seems crazy. School, cars, internet, everyone speaking English, not so many stars. Wow.

from JASON–
Lunch today was chili soup and quesadillas. We eat so well, despite the absurd conditions. In the galley making lunch today, Caitlin had to contend with a deep roll. She could mostly predict that, even work with it, moving to starboard on a starboard roll and port on a port roll. The roll wasn’t entirely regular though, with multiple wave trains combining to make Debonair gyrate as she rolled and sometimes abruptly lurch as she came down off a bigger wave and shouldered into a smaller one. In the midst of this she had a hot pot of soup on the stove, had to ladle that soup into five bowls, and manage those bowls once they were full. Nothing was lost this time though, and she called for help to fireline the bowls, napkins, spoons and the tray of quesadillas up on deck. As the boat heaved, we passed the bowls, tilting our arms and hands first this way, then that, to keep the soup in. We held one others’ bowls to allow us to maneuver into strategic eating spots in the cockpit. We settled into our nooks, and pressed our feet against the binnacle, the mast, the opposite seat to wedge ourselves into place. Then we swayed our torsos to the swaying of the boat, and held our bowls close to our chins to try to prevent the soup from blowing downwind onto our neighbor. We weren’t entirely successful, but we were all wearing foul weather gear, so we cleaned up well enough. I risked balancing a quesadilla on my knee, and was quickly spooning my chili, when we all heard the familiar sound of a larger than usual wave swelling up to meet us and slapping up against the side of the boat. We hunkered our shoulders down involuntarily, conditioned from the last few days of bigger wind and sea. The water flew straight up and the wind caught it and blew it right over us. It caught me full in the back, running straight down the neck of my coat as it always does, spraying my chili with a salt water seasoning, and washing my quesadilla down into the cockpit well where it bobbed around like a little boat. It ended up under Alma’s feet and I called “Alma, grab it!” but of course she didn’t know what I was talking about. I got the quesadilla back before it was too soggy. It was fine.

Despite all the complications of eating, we enjoy our meals out on deck in the weather. The view of the constantly moving ocean and the ever-changing sky are endlessly interesting. Shearwaters and petrels circle, swooping and diving along the valleys and crests of the waves hunting for fish with incredible dexterity that makes me feel how out of place we are here terrestrial creatures staggering around our lurching boat with our chili bowls. When we finished our lunch, Arlo read us another chapter of Farley Mowat’s “The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float.” The humor in the book is almost as uplifting at Arlo’s obvious joy in that humor.

As much as we like making passages, we’re all looking forward to just sighting Hawaii after about two weeks at sea now. Today, in his noon report, Arlo calculated the time tomorrow when we might see the big island. Depending on our speed and the visibility we could see it as early as mid morning and as late as, well. . . I suppose if it’s cloudy again we might not see it tomorrow. We’re excited about it in any case. It’s such a massive island compared to anything else we’ve seen. At nearly 14,000 feet, the two cones of Hawaii are higher than most of the Sierra Nevada, and are about three times as tall as anything else in the Pacific that we’ve seen. In ideal conditions you could see it from about 125 nautical miles away. In addition to being a grand sight, that massive island creates its own weather in a number of ways. We’ll enjoy getting a break from the wind in the lee of the island.

Life out here very much follows routines. Arlo is on watch now. I’ll relieve him at three and will be on deck through dinner, when everyone will join me around sunset. It’s a spectacular time of day, and the dining challenges and entertainment are enhanced by the difficult visibility in the low light.

12/14 (Day 18)

From Caitlin–
The sea is somewhat diminished today, as is the wind, so we hoisted the mainsail or the first time in many days. We spent the late afternoon and through the night on a broad reach with double reefed main and staysail, making 7 – 8 knots, often making ten+ knots down the front of seas.

The seawater is still warm enough that we are all still barefoot in our foul weather gear, but we slept under a comforter last night for the first time since March. Now I’m looking forward to being in sweater weather someday again!

12/15 (Day 19)

This morning we rounded the southern point of the Big Island. As the wind wrapped around the point, it intensified and we were screaming along before a moderate sea. Arlo and Alma joined Jason on deck at 0500 and each took an hour at the helm. It was moving to see these capable sailors wrestling the wheel to steer us down the face of the seas.

And then the wind died. We’re motor-sailing in the wind shadow of the Big Island, heading north toward Oahu. The seas are smaller and the sun is out, so we are hanging damp laundry and generally cleaning up the boat after the week of boisterous weather. There’s still quite a ways to go, but it’s all in relatively protected waters. We’ll let you know when we arrive.