22:00 UTC | 06°06.41’N 096°57.78’W
Sailing
At night, between the clouds, the Milky Way stretches down to the waves. The Southern Cross tumbles slowly in place near the horizon; across the sky, the Big Dipper disappears to the north. Bioluminescence sparks in the waves that break against Falken’s hull and glimmers in the cresting tops of the swells that surround us. Alex’s quiet coaching drifts through the cockpit—small helm movements, but more often: “Feel the wind, feel the waves, listen to Falken.”
We’re heading southwest until the clouds break, trying to get through the band of squalls and gusts that separates us from the trade winds, steering with the wind 110 degrees off the port bow. The swell is coming from two directions, sometimes canceling itself out in a moment of stillness, and sometimes coming together to form a pyramid a few meters high which slides Falken sideways with a whoosh and a splash.
Alex said I’m always smiling at the helm. I’m not surprised; she’s a beautiful boat to steer, tugging gently at the wheel as the waves pick her up. I get the feeling she knows exactly where she’s supposed to be going and is bemused by our novice attempts to guide her. Another 2,800 miles or so to go, and I’m sure we’ll all get better at listening to her.
Phoebe
View more passage logs
Ladies who reef
The trade winds have been kind, rolling the boat toward Hawaii in a steady, hypnotic rhythm—until last night, when a squall hit without warning and the wind jumped to 28 knots, slamming everything sideways. With rain driving down and the boat lurching underfoot, the crew had minutes to wrestle two reefs into the mainsail and get things back under control. What followed was a masterclass in wet, unglamorous, deeply satisfying teamwork—with less than 250 miles left to go.
Yankee Doodle Died at Sea, Riding on a FALKEN
A thin, foot-long tear in the yankee sail—50,000 miles of ocean behind it—and suddenly the final stretch to Hawaii just got a lot more interesting. The crew of FALKEN had been running a tight ship through the trades, reefing in squalls like clockwork, when the last dance finally caught up with them. How a skipper handles the moment everything goes sideways says everything about the voyage itself.
A Gen Z Perspective
At 31, the crew thought they were reasonably fluent in the English language—then they met Kip. Today, the crew's self-appointed Gen Z correspondent takes over the log from somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, delivering dispatches on Milky Way night sails, focaccia-induced visions, and the singular mission of getting eleven people's "badonkadonks" to Hawaii. Consider this your glossary.