Week Four

Week Four
It’s more of a philosophical than practical entry from me this week (you get a lot of time to think and reflect on a journey such as this). We experienced what’s known as being ‘becalmed’ earlier in the week. I’d known about it, knew what it meant, and even looked forward to it because it would allow me to move around more freely after the turbulence that had restricted mobility. What I hadn’t bargained on was how demoralising it was. It was quiet, almost flat calm, there was no wind and no movement forward – well so little as to be negligible in my view. I spend a fair bit of time while on watch, looking at the screens in front of me with the various ETA and TTG (time to go) predictions and had got used to seeing 24th or 25th July as the expected arrival date. To see it displayed as the middle of August, or beginning of September as we moved slowly, or in some instances stopped altogether, was dispiriting to say the least. The course line went from a neat ‘as the seabird flies’ straight line to a higgledy piggledy wiggle. We have to use the engine sparingly to save fuel, and the sails, protesting at the lack of wind began clanging and flapping and banging above – these the only noises breaking the eerie silence outside. After a while it felt akin to being stuck in a traffic jam whilst the outside of the vehicle was being pounded with sticks. When I asked Paul if this state could go on for a prolonged period, he said it was all just part and parcel of a sea passage – or words to that effect (at least he didn’t tell me worse things happen ;-)). I took it as a ‘yes’ anyway, so I went to bed thinking we might be at sea for weeks longer, and I have to admit that the prospect didn’t cheer me. That’s not to say I’ve been discontented – far from it. I think impatience is a more apt word for the trait that had made me so despondent. The fact that my wine supply was running low had nothing to do with it; it’s simply that I’m eager to get there, and the windless calm had impeded our progress.
The following morning (Tuesday 17th), after talking more about it with Paul, I realised the situation wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. I’d forgotten that we’d covered so many miles in the early stages of the trip, that in the overall scheme of things we were still on track to arrive during the third week of July. The wind was predicted to return, and we’d probably only lose half a day or a day at most. For the rest of that day we made little progress but I felt reassured and more positive. It got me thinking about the difference in our attitudes and how our optimist/pessimist outlooks have a bearing on how we deal with certain situations. I’ve watched Paul fix pretty much every breakage, overcome each difficulty and think through problems with logic and patience until he finds a solution. I, on the other hand, tend to give up at the first hurdle or assume something is unachievable and don’t bother trying. My reaction to the technical problems we’ve been having is a case in point. The iPad hadn’t been performing as it should since it fell from Paul’s lap onto concrete while we were in Japan. A repair at the Apple Store hasn’t lived up to expectations and it soon became apparent that merely touching it would cause screens to appear or disappear randomly, while emails would vanish with an unprompted swipe of a screen. I found this infuriating and saw it as another ‘thing’ stacked up to make life difficult – along with the facts that most of our phone chargers stopped working and the clock broke. Small irritations I know but frustrating nonetheless. Paul got round these problem by taking screenshots and setting up a system whereby we can transfer text via notepad on the laptop when we send emails, took the clock apart and fixed it and as for the chargers: I should have known there would be bag of (new) spare ones on board. I’m still disgruntled about the emails though.
So we were indeed, as in Coleridge’s poem ‘as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean’ with no birds, sea life or other vessels nearby. I thought about the beginning of Jonathan Raban’s book ‘Passage to Juneau’ where he ponders ‘the peculiar attraction that draws people to put themselves afloat in the deep, dark, indifferent, cold and frightening sea’. I had asked Paul this question recently, although not in such lofty language. He hardly needed to consider his answer. This ocean passage is something he has always wanted and intended to do. Despite the lack of whales, he told me a few days ago that he is making the most of every part of it as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ve watched him working out the weather and wind predictions, study charts, plan routes and much more, relishing the challenges they present. Clearly for him, it’s the ‘getting there’ part that appeals: the knowledge that his skills and expertise will transport us over 4,000 miles across a vast, potentially dangerous expanse of water. For me, lacking those skills but not the desire to do the trip, it’s more about destinations. It’s hard to beat the thrill of anticipation and sense of privilege when you arrive at a place by boat, especially after long passages. Watching the coastline of a new town, city or country get closer and knowing you’ll be exploring new environs in a few hours by merely stepping off the deck just doesn’t compare with all the hassles involved with arriving by plane. Remembering this was enough to chase away any remaining blues about our stationary state, and sure enough we were speeding along again by mid morning on Wednesday.
Raban’s book promises to be of practical use to us as well as an enlightening read about the sea in general and the area we’re heading for in particular. I’ve made notes of the places he visited on his journey in the late 90s so that we can compare changes and look for landmarks he describes. The subtitle of his book is ‘A Sea and Its Meanings’. For me, writing about the sea and often struggling to find words to describe its state, it has been interesting to read the adjectives he chooses (lumpy, bouncy, wavelets, wave-trough to name but a few), and fascinating to learn that the motion of a ship in a seaway has six components, which are known as the six degrees of freedom. These are; pitch, roll, sway, heave, surge and yaw. I could identify with his claim that his boat took every one on the menu at the same time during one heavy weather period -that is the state I term bucking bronco and it should surely be the seventh degree on the list. I think for the duration of the passage (about a week left as I type) I shall adopt the philosophy of an elderly French wheat farmer whom Raban meets on his travels. On the subject of weather predictions and forecasts, he tells Raban, ‘I expect nothing. So I am never disappointed’.
Aside from all the introspection, life onboard carries on pleasantly enough with the daily pastimes of watches, Scrabble (7 games in a row for me now), cooking, reading, writing, listening to music and sleeping. Meals last week included Spanish Tortilla made with potatoes, onions and eggs with the last of the fresh salad, a Spinach and Courgette Risotto (packet mix) with roasted mediterranean vegetables, and Spaghetti with meat-free bolognese sauce. I also managed to put together a ’roast’ dinner (breast of chicken for Paul, nutroast for me) complete with stuffing and gravy and fresh vegetables. We had this on a night when the motion allowed for meals on plates as opposed to high-sided bowls. Yesterday (the 19th) we added two hours to the clock to bring us in line with the Alaskan time zone. It wasn’t a straightforward action, due to confusion arising from daylight saving time and for a while, time was literally all over the place as I altered my iPhone clock from one zone to another. It was a most disconcerting feeling, especially while trying to check the times in the UK and Italy at the same time. It made me realise how much of a factor the ‘time’ is for me, even out here where it doesn’t matter as much. Years of keeping to time-regulated routines for work and home life are hard habits to break it seems.
I’ve ventured outside a couple of times to help Paul with the sails. Once, he had to go halfway up the mast while I stood poised below to pull the mainsail as he unjammed it. It made me dizzy looking up at him, and even more so when the boat heeled from side-to-side and he only had one hand gripping the mast! The second time was to steer head to wind so that he could put a reef in the main sail. Even with a coat, scarf, leggings etc it was perishing cold out there. I was glad to get back inside to thaw my hands. It will be nice to be in the cockpit, or stand on the deck again…once the weather warms up. Maybe next week sometime, and maybe we’ll even see some whales. But I’m expecting nothing! 🙂
Kathy