Lost Children

Lord please watch over all these lost children, Going to chase a hurricane. Please shine a light down on those who wander, Filled with hunger and pain.

Please raise wind for all those out sailing, On an ocean alone. Lord shed a light on all these lost children, Far away from their home.

Lord keep an eye on all these lost children, Swept away in the wind. Please shed some light down on all those traveling, Lead them all home again.

-from Lost Children by Tom Petty

Since departing the Galapagos Islands, we have made four multi-day passages. During each of these trips we have experienced at least one day of sustained winds exceeding 30 knots. The Pacific Ocean is a misnomer. Perhaps the Barren Sea (there are few fish or other boats) or Tropic of Capricious (if you don’t like the weather, wait a few hours and it will change) would be more appropriate. The difference between the previous three gales and the tempest encountered during our most recent passage between Mo’orea and Tonga was that instead of having the wind behind us, we had it right in our teeth. Thus, rather than running from the wind and allowing the force of the fury to propel us forward, we were pushed away from our destination and our progress was continually stalled as we crashed into yet another oncoming wave. The only casualty of the gale was the main sheet block, which broke at 3:00 AM. Luckily, we were able to quickly secure the boom before incurring any serious damage. Two days later we sat becalmed. For the first time, I decided to lower all of the sails at night to stop the loud flogging of the sails as the waves rolled us from side to side. This proved to be a mistake since, when a gentle breeze blew up at 1:00 AM, I had difficulty seeing well enough to raise the sails. It seems that problems always occur at night. In the confusion, the main halyard was caught on a mast step and I was forced to go up the mast in the middle of the night to free the line. Eventually, we successfully raised the sails and accelerated from a dead stop to a slow crawl. As we plodded forward, we could hear the sound of whales nearby. Terrified by the possibility that we could be attacked by killer whales, which are known to be common in this area and have claimed at least one sailboat, Anna fled downstairs to type out her last testament and will. (Actually, she might have just been inspired to write a friendly e-mail in the middle of the night, but I can’t read Polish, so I don’t know.) When she emerged from the cabin, she resembled a noble savage and demanded that I address her as Queequeg. Having once made the mistake of questioning a man armed with a harpoon, I was not about to repeat the blunder. For the rest of the night, I cowered timidly in the corner of the cockpit as she scoured the surrounding waters for the leviathan. By morning, the white whale had once again escaped and we resumed our pursuit in earnest. On Friday morning, we were still becalmed. There are few experiences more frustrating than being becalmed. In bad weather, there is always action to be taken. With no wind, there is nothing to do other than to sit and wait. Although irrational, it feels as if the wind will never blow again and a sense of despondency sets in. Morale sags and the crew becomes mutinous. The overwhelming reek of failure emanating from our vessel hovered listlessly in the torpid air, penetrating every aspect of our existence. We found it difficult to complete some of the routine tasks that seem so easy when things are going well. Between us, we managed to botch up some of the easiest possible meals. Anna made some of the worst pancakes imaginable, which I think I am still chewing, and I managed to burn rice to achieve the stunning result of cooked rice was actually harder than raw rice. After dining well for three weeks in Tahiti, this was a particularly bitter development. Over the past four months, one of the things that I am most proud of is my conservation of diesel. While sailing over 6,000 miles, I have used less than 20 gallons of diesel. To put this in perspective, this is the equivalent of driving across the U.S. nearly three times on a single tank of gas. To be fair, my conservation efforts had as much to do with my overheating engine and my desire to avoid the expense of purchasing diesel as it did with a newly found sense of patience or any admirable environmental policy. My stellar conservation performance came to an end when I was forced to motor for most of the day on Friday. The upside of our reckless consumption of non-renewable energy was that the batteries were fully recharged, allowing us to watch a moving picture show via computer on Friday evening as we sat stationary for the night. In a desperate effort to procure wind, we followed naval tradition and made an offering to Neptune by throwing a pair of sandals into the ocean. To cover our bases, we also said fifteen “Hail Mary’s” (black pearls had to serve as a substitute for a rosary), rubbed the belly on the statue of Buddha (the fat one, not the thin one), baked unleavened bread (we don’t have self-rising flour anyway), prayed to our ancestors (including the war criminals), appealed to Krishna, Shiva, and Ganesh (why not?), and praised the Prophet Mohammed (Inshallah!). We are still trying to understand why our prayers went unanswered. The Pagans would suggest that the Gods are amused by our suffering and we are following the examples of Ulysses and Aeneas as the Gods conduct their petty squabbling at our expense. The Christians would caution that we are being punished for past sins and must repent to be forgiven. The Buddha would encourage us to enjoy each moment and to embrace our lack of wind. The Jews would claim that a vengeful God was angry that we had worshipped false Gods. The Shinto priests would say something in Japanese that I couldn’t understand. Hindus would tell a vague and confusing story that would have no apparent relevance to our situation. Muslims would remind me that I am an infidel. Finally, Camus would offer that I am suffering from the indifference of a benign God. On Friday night, some deity finally took notice of our suffering and sent a divine breeze to aid our journey. After nearly two weeks without so much as a bite on our lure, on Sunday afternoon we hooked a large dorado. Eager for a delicious feast, we pulled in the line and attempted to bring the beast aboard. However, just as I was preparing to deliver the death blow with the gaff, the wily creature wiggled free of the hook and swam off into the depths of the ocean. I was left holding a sharp hook in one hand and a sharp gaff in the other hand with the knowledge that I had been outwitted by a fish. Had I been an honorable samurai, I would have committed seppuku on the spot. Not being a samurai, I instead cursed my nonexistent fishing skills and vowed revenge against the entire fish species. The next day, I got my revenge. At about the same time on Monday afternoon, the handline went taut and another fish struggled for its hook-free life. The difference this time around was that instead of trying to haul in a fighting fish, we dragged the poor captive for about three hours. The other major difference was that instead of sailing at an apologetic three knots, we were rocketing through the water at close to seven knots. If it is any consolation to the now deceased fish, his last few hours were a wild ride. Fighting, diving, and soaring off of waves, the tuna went down swinging. Finally, after a valiant battle, we hauled the exhausted fish aboard. Although not as long as the tuna that we caught in the San Blas Islands, this tuna was much thicker. It measured 28 inches long and 21 inches around at its thickest section. The copious amounts of meat yielded by the fish provided food for several days. Eating fish for breakfast, lunch, and dinner required a great deal of innovation in the kitchen and we used just about every available ingredient on the boat. Lemon, garlic, soy sauce, white wine, ginger, honey, mustard, spinach, and olive oil were all called into action. Fortunately, Anna and I rose to the challenge and our epicurean skills rebounded after our slump earlier in the passage. Each meal seemed to surpass the previous and, despite the rough seas, we ate like gourmands. July 25th never happened. Around 4:00 AM on July 25th, we crossed the International Date Line (I’m assuming it is located at 174 degrees West, but I’m not really sure). Suddenly, we skipped forward an entire day to the early hours of July 26th. Obviously, losing a day is not helping much in our attempt to reach Tonga in time to meet my family. The International Date Line does create some interesting scenarios such as a traveler who flies from Tonga to Samoa, a flight of only two hours almost due north that departs at 2:00 PM on Monday arrives the previous day, Sunday, at 4:00 PM. Apparently, this change can wreak havoc with those people on medication. In French Polynesia, we were six hours behind Eastern Standard Time. We are now eighteen hours ahead. As with all time-travelers, when we jumped to the future we had to swear an oath not to disclose the results of any sporting events or political elections to those in the past. As someone who has already lived through the day that you are reading this entry, I can offer the following advice: nothing interesting happens today; you might as well just stay in bed. To make amends for our oversight of not providing an offering to Neptune when we crossed the equator, we poured a tot of tequila into the ocean as we crossed the International Date Line (at least where we thought the Date Line was). Since tequila is possibly the worst drink imaginable, we made it a double shot to get rid of the foul liquor. Hopefully, our offering will please the Gods and we will be rewarded with better conditions than we have experienced over the past few months. My family is scheduled to arrive soon. Although having six people on the boat will be a bit crowded, the increased congestion is more than offset by the nautical skills that they bring to the boat. My brother, Brian, was originally the other member of the crew of Audentes and sailed with me for nearly a year. After sailing up the east coast of the U.S. and all the way down to Trinidad, he decided that he preferred warm showers, fresh food, a comfortable bed, and a social life that wouldn’t make a retiree ashamed. Since he departed a year and a half ago, Audentes has traveled roughly 8,000 miles and visited ten countries. His triumphant return to the boat will certainly be welcomed. The arrival of my father is also eagerly anticipated since the boat is in a state of disrepair and I am badly in need of some expert assistance. While I might now have more blue water miles than my Dad, sailing is hardly the most difficult part of cruising; repairs are. In this area, my father excels and were it not for his periodic visits, I doubt that the boat would still be afloat. My mother is also a seasoned sailor who has served on a number of boats that my parents have owned over the years. In addition, she has taught sailing at Womenship sailing school, whose motto is “Nobody yells …” Personally, I don’t consider it sailing unless someone is yelling, but, in any case, she has spent a lot of time on boats. Finally, my brother’s girlfriend, Angelina, will be joining us. During our summer preparing the boat in Cape Cod several years ago, Angie was a regular aboard Audentes. She has seen enough children vomit on Audentes to know that sailing isn’t just about cocktails and funny hats. She has learned that it is also about self-congratulatory conversations and a smug sense of superiority.

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