Hot Heat & Cold Mango
It’s HOT. And very humid. This equatorial sailing—nothing can prepare you for the heat! When you sleep, whatever side of your body is against the cushions and the sheet leaves a sweaty imprint. It’s like a crime scene outline, but in sweat. It’s gross.
Outside, it’s nicer in the breeze, but then you’ve got to avoid the sun. We have an umbrella rigged up in the cockpit to provide a little extra shade, despite the clear superstitious implications (umbrellas onboard, like bananas, are very bad luck at sea). With the wind lighter now and FALKEN sailing gybing angles to keep the sails full, there’s even less apparent wind moving across the boat. The only shade before noon is a small sliver next to the mast on the port side, which has become a popular spot for the on-watch while taking turns helming.
FALKEN can’t have a bimini shade over the helm when we’re under sail—the running backstays would interfere with it. Frankly, while I enjoy the shade of a good bimini, I hate them in practice. You can’t see the sails and they’re always in the way. So instead, we take turns on the helm while the other watch-standers, in the highest heat of the day, hide in the shade by the mast or under the dodger, or escape down below for a respite from the sun. It works. Today, Erik introduced an added wrinkle on the helm—every so often he simply grabbed the freshwater hose and sprayed himself down. He declared it the best spot on the boat.
After dinner tonight, Emily and I presented a little pre-landfall treat to try and beat the heat. Several days ago, Emily introduced an after-dinner “cold water cocktail”—which is as simple as it sounds, a glass of water from a jug that’s been in the fridge! After these hot days in the sun, nothing tastes so good.
Almost, anyway. Tonight we upped the ante and, after our cold water cocktail, distributed mango grog—two shots of rum in a tall stainless glass, topped with ice-cold mango puree that’s been hiding in the bottom of the fridge since leaving San Cristobal. The jury is out on whether it was the greatest thing we’ve had on the passage thus far, or if it was just a nasty tease because we couldn’t have seconds. Morale improved. Mission accomplished.
We’re 60 miles out now, but still not sailing in a straight line. The breeze is up a touch, so at least we’re sailing faster now in the wrong direction. There’s not enough wind to set the pole and sail dead-downwind, so we’re sailing gybing angles to keep the sails full and the boat moving. We should be able to gybe in a few more hours, which will put us on a favored course for Hiva Oa, and with luck we’ll make landfall in daylight tomorrow.
Only a few more sweaty sleep off-watches to go.
// Andy
andy@59-north.com
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”For some things, we will never be ready.” - Moana 2
After 852 miles of open ocean sailing, the crew of Falken dropped anchor in Moorea's Cook's Bay—not with a quiet glide in, but surfing down waves in a squall, breaking speed records and cheering each other on through the rain. What started as a plan to "just dip a toe" into offshore sailing turned into something harder to explain: the worse the conditions got, the more alive everyone felt. Turns out the question was never whether the crew was ready—it was whether they even needed to be.
Kauehi conundrum
Kauehi atoll was always on the itinerary—until the forecast made it a gamble not worth taking. Squalls, bommies, a tidal pass, and no clean escape route: sometimes the hardest call in sailing is the one that keeps you out of a place, not in it. The Tuamotus will have to wait.
Hove-to!
Falken is too fast—a problem most sailors would kill for, yet here we are, tacking back and forth across the Pacific just to kill time. A rogue low pressure system south of Tahiti has stolen the trades and scrambled our timing for the tidal window into Kauehi's pass, leaving us hove-to 45 miles short of our target in the Tuamotus. Salt licorice, dream sandwich debates, and a philosophical question about mermaid reproduction are helping pass the night.