Latitude: 07°47.32S
Longitude: 153°31.27W
The Pacific is, it turns out, rather large. Mind-bogglingly so. Current estimates suggest it’s 79,108 miles across. North to south, about 530,012 miles, which, in a curious turn of coincidence, is the same temperature in the forepeak cabin this morning. Just our little jaunt from Tahiti to Hawaii is the driving distance going from Bangor, Maine to Clearwater, Florida by way of Boise, Idaho. Now, some of you may question these estimates, which is fair, but in our defense, Falken has come down with a case of the 1990s and we can’t Google stuff. Alex has embraced this with enthusiasm and taken to spontaneously emerging from the aft hatch shirtless, with his Andalusian locks billowing in the wind, to make unverifiable proclamations about the spiritual practices of yellow-footed boobies.
So, the Pacific is pretty big, thus you can’t blame her for occasionally misplacing the wind. After dodging squalls yesterday and celebrating Mary’s birthday with cake (thanks, Adam), watching her reel in a tuna, and (also thanks, Adam) getting it filleted and into the freezer, today has been windless and hot. We’ve motored north along course, still in the little latitudes of the south, aching for any breeze to justify shutting down the motor. But, absent the breeze, we did the only sensible thing a bunch of sweaty, unwashed people can do in the middle of a very large body of water: we jumped off the boat.
Istvan and Tara were hanging from the stern line, Stacy was languidly treading water, and Orie was enthusiastically lathering himself while Jim did cannonballs into the ocean. Alex aggressively defended his exceptionally expensive conditioner from the rest of the crew. Amidst this joy was a moment of gratitude; we didn’t get to sail today, but nothing can replace the immense smallness of floating, untethered, in the blue vastness of the Pacific, rising and falling with the swell and watching beams of sunlight venture into the depths of the thousands of feet of water beneath us. Such smallness that makes every other thought still until the only thing your mind can hold is the notion: "I Am Here."
P.S. For those desperate for an update, the heat rash is almost gone thanks to Dr. Bronner’s and his magical miracle soap.
- Jacob Davis | FALKEN Crew
Write your comments below and I’ll forward them to the boat with the daily update :) - Mia (shore support)
FALKENCrew
View more passage logs
”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.