Month: June 2019

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

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

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