16.05 BOAT TIME | 09 09. 5’ S 138 46.1’ W
Sailing
The formula for distance to the horizon (in nautical miles) is the square root of the height of eye (in feet) times 1.15. Which means the easternmost island in the Marquesas, Ua Huka, which is 2,806 feet high, should have been visible at 60.9 nautical miles, at around 430 pm, ship’s time, this afternoon. We didn’t however factor in cloud cover. Instead Fatu Huka emerged on the opposite side around dinner time, that’s what you get for trying to do the math.
The French Polynesian courtesy flag is flying, along with the yellow ”Q” flag to show we haven’t yet cleared customs. We expect to make anchorage in Taiohae on Nuka Hiva sometime tomorrow. Fun fact that Alex learned today, customs is only open on Thursdays and Mondays. Tomorrow is Friday. After much finagling he managed to arrange for us to go ashore freely on arrival, as long as the boat didn’t pull anchor, and Alex kept all our passports and produced the full crew at customs on Monday.
Another spectacular sunset marked the closing of our open ocean passage. There are moments where I wish the crossing would go on forever (usually under the stars) and moments where I can’t wait to get ashore (usually around noon). The crossing has been a truly indescribable experience.
Land ho! (Which Ken called, and apparently means the first round is on him once we get ashore).
Phoebe & Adam
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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.