Stars

April 18, 2025, 2029 Ship’s Time | 842 Miles East of Hiva Oa | Sailing Wing-on-Wing

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Full sail. Wind is down and the stars are out. We haven’t had many truly great starry nights on this passage until tonight. On leaving the Galapagos, when the nights were clear, the moon was so bright it drowned out all the starlight. Then, as the moon rose later and later, it had been mostly overcast at night. No stars. Not tonight. They’re out in full splendor. The Milky Way dazzling to port, the Southern Cross almost lost amongst the myriad stars around it. The Big Dipper, low on the horizon to starboard, its pointer stars aiming at Polaris, now well below the horizon here in the Southern Hemisphere. Arcturus and Spica, two of the brightest, visible behind us and over the helmsman’s head. There is no way to properly describe how stunning a fully starlit sky is at sea, where the only light pollution is the masthead tricolor light weaving around aloft as the boat pitches and rolls. This night we’ll remember.

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FALKEN moseys on. The wind is down so we shook the mainsail reefs just after dinner, and at 7-8 knots this is the slowest we’ve sailed in well over a week. Today’s noon-noon run of 228 miles was the 8th day in a row over 220 miles sailed. Never did that before! As usual though, the sea hasn’t yet calmed down to the level of the wind. There is always a delay, and without the same pressure in the sails, FALKEN rolls heavily. When you lay in your bunk trying to sleep, you need to wedge your head between the pillow and the wall so you can sleep—otherwise your head just rolls from side to side with the boat.

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We seem not to be able to learn our lesson about leaving ports and hatches open yet. It’s so hot in the daytime under the tropical sun, you really just want to get air moving through the boat, but then every so often a wave hits from just the wrong angle, jumps aboard, and inevitably finds its way through the open ports. We’ve flooded the aft head now at least three times (but only once when occupied… sorry Kim!); the galley’s been flooded on a few occasions, most recently requiring me to disassemble the stove burners to sponge out the puddles. Earlier this afternoon a wave slopped through the forepeak hatch and jumped right into Ted’s bed. “It’s okay, it was already wet from sweat… at least now it’s clean-water wet!”

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My dad is along for this passage, believe it or not the first time we’ve ever crossed an ocean together. We’ve done countless miles offshore on his boat, our boats, and other people’s boats, but until now they’ve all been coastal jumps or longer hops between the Bay and the Caribbean. In 2013, he crossed the Atlantic with Mia while I stayed home to look after the house and the dogs. So now it’s finally our turn to do a big passage together, and it’s been really cool having him onboard. Makes me feel closer to home. Tonight after dinner, he put on his sailing playlist on the boat’s speaker, which of course included the obligatory ‘Southern Cross’ song, the Jimmy Buffett version of the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young classic. “On this heading off the wind lie the Marquesas…”

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While we still have a long way to sail (and with lighter winds forecast to boot), the cracks are starting to show in the crew’s resolve to stay in the moment. I’m partly to blame—I raised the topic tonight after dinner of what kinds of food everyone is most looking forward to eating. (The correct answer, always, is a cheeseburger and a cold beer.)

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We haven’t fully broken the spell yet. The stars tonight are surely a reminder to stay present. 2,307 miles sailed, still more to go.

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// Andy