02:27 UTC | 00°43.4’N 089°37.0’W
Sailing.
Port tack close-hauled about one degree north of the equator, our crew of pollywogs has grown close. Looking out for each other and our trusty Falken, the miles are clicking away seemingly unrelated to our time at see - 103 hours and 619 miles per SailTies. Perfect strangers less than a week ago are now connected in a way that is hard to describe but so very easy to experience.
You’d think this crew bonding is borne on the back of shared mild discomfort - life’s steadfast instructor. But we have all of the mod cons - showers 2 - 3 times a day*, ice in our drinks **, great food (without fail!).
Maybe it’s steering by the stars, the southern cross your target between the mast and stay during your 0300 - 0600 watch. There is something about that line in the Eagle’s song, regardless of you’re a fan or not.
It certainly could be the 59º Degrees North team, who are so skilled at not just sailing, but people. They are meeting every one of us crew exactly where we are and what we want out of this experience.
In the end, this has simply been a life-changing experience for all of our crew. At some point early in the morning, we will sail cross the equator, and this lowly group of pollywogs, having pledged our allegiance to Neptune ( who, perhaps due to funding restrictions, is operating only during regular business hours), will become shell backs. And a few hours later, we make landfall in the Galápagos Islands. And I imagine a few tears will be shed.
*results will vary, but shaking out reefs at 2 am increase averages.
**it can happen.
Johnny
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.