30° 26'N, 031° 38'W
February 20, Day 12 | 30° 26'N, 031° 38'W
It took me a while to figure out what day it is and how long we've been at sea. That usually means one of two things: 1. The journey has now exceeded ten days, and after that, days and time start blending together. 2. Sleep deprivation is starting to take its toll. In my case, it's probably a mix of both.
The day began (as usual!) with a stunning sunrise—a pink glow painted the tops of the otherwise white clouds. It was still dark, but as daylight gradually returned, the glow of our navigation lights faded into the surroundings. During the night, our plotter screens shine red, set to "night mode" to protect our eyes and preserve our night vision. But as the morning light grows stronger, it's time to switch back to white light. The navigation lights are turned off, and just as quickly as darkness falls after sunset, daylight now takes over, marking the start of a new day.
The question remains—which day is it? Was it Wednesday or Thursday? Out here, it hardly matters. What counts is whether it’s light or dark—one of many reasons why life at sea feels simpler.
We’re sailing with full mainsail and genoa, with 17-20 knots of wind coming from just behind the beam. Adrienne surfs down every other wave, reaching speeds between 10 to 12 knots. Someone even managed to push her up to 15.3 knots. The sun is blazing, and our noses, ears, and forearms are covered in sunscreen. My own reflection stares back at me from Vegard’s dark sunglasses—he’s grinning as he stands at the helm. “This is awesome,” he let me know.
Suddenly, a new weather front rolls in—2 to 3 hours earlier than meteorologist Erik had predicted. The sunshine quickly fades into a gray haze, the humidity spikes, and tiny water droplets cling to our bare arms and faces, reminiscent of a hairdresser misting your hair with a spray bottle. The wind shifts abruptly, picks up to 25 knots, and forces us onto a new course. The waves, which had been propelling us forward in smooth surfs, now hit us at a different angle, turning our gentle ride into a heavy side-to-side roll. Just like that, life on board becomes a lot less comfortable.
We assess the situation, wait for the wind to settle, and then decide to gybe, adjusting our course to better align with our destination.
I’ll end here—my watch ended a while ago, and I need to make the most of the sleep I can get. Out on the Atlantic, sleep is a privilege, not a right.
Wishing you who read this a great day, hope you also have the opportunity to experience today's sunrise.
- Tim, Mate on ADRIENNE
crew@59-north.com
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.