:lat=-14.957350:lon=-145.346767:
Time: 1740UTC, COG 230T, SOG 3.0kts, Distance Remaining: 89nm
When we left Ua Pou on Sunday, we knew the wind would become lighter towards the end of the trip. That's why we needed to make some decent progress the first couple of days, and why we were disappointed we didn't. But, it can always get worse... the wind could die. Totally. Not something we expected.
After a pretty crappy night, we took the mainsail down and put the spinnaker up at first light (5:30am). The wind was light, but - by then - we were happy to do 3 knots. Most of the squalls went around us, until the one at noon. It was a big and nasty one, messing with the wind direction, creating
contrary winds, and dumping a lot of rain. Down came the spinnaker and on the engines. The massive cloud refused to move and we became trapped in it, until we decided to slow the boat down, so it could get ahead and leave us alone. That done, the bright sun came back.
The sky turned blue - not another cloud to be seen - and the ocean had an ever deeper hue of blue. It was hot. And... there was no wind. The squalls had taken it all with them. The prediction was still for 10 knots of wind, but instead there was zero. Nothing. Not a hint of breeze. The spinnaker hung limp on the foredeck and had to be taken down. Irie was floating on the calm water and it was quiet. No rushing of the waves, no spinning of the wind generator, no creaking of the lines, no whooshing of the sails. We were done!
Since the forecast called for ever lighter winds, this was not a good sign. We still had 130 miles to go and had come to terms with not getting there in four days. What we couldn't come to terms with was not getting there at all! We drifted for a few hours. Then, we turned the engines on. It was loud, super-hot and smelly. A sense of despair came over us. Motoring for 25 hours would empty the fuel tank, wear the engines down tremendously - and us even more - and would get us to the Apataki lagoon about 17 hours too soon. Off went the engines, and peace returned.
The slightest wisp of air was felt. A smile returned to our faces. The spinnaker showed her colors and - at 3 knots - we moved forward again. How happy one can be with such a small commodity as 5 knots of wind! And that is what it has been blowing ("fluttering" might be a more appropriate word
here) since last night: 2 - 5 knots. Irie is sailing towards Apataki at barely 2 knots an hour. We still have about 100 miles to go and need to do an average of 3 knots to make it there by tomorrow morning!
Showing posts with label spinnaker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spinnaker. Show all posts
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Marquesas - Tuamotus: Day 3 - From Fun to Frustration
:lat=-14.079483:lon=-144.466200:
Time: 1735UTC, COG 214T, SOG 4.0kts, Distance Remaining: 162nm
The first two days of a longer voyage are always the hardest. You have to get used to constantly being in motion, having to hold on to something at all times and staying up half of the night. All you really want to do is sleep; there is not much interest in anything else and the night shifts take forever. On day three some kind of routine has been established and you feel more inclined to do something productive, like taking a shower, making more fruit salad, or fish, for example.
From the moment the sun came up, we flew our spinnaker (colorful light air sail), while being able to keep the main sail in place. We managed to maintain five knots of speed in ten knots of wind and stayed on course. Not bad! It was a lovely day with sunshine and blue skies, void of squalls. The
sea was as comfortable as it gets, while still being "sailable" and we both enjoyed the ride. We did have to run the engine for a bit to charge the batteries, a necessary evil, but easier than rigging our little generator up.
In the afternoon, Irie drove through a big school of tuna. We did hook one: a fat and tasty yellow fin! But, from the moment we hauled him aboard, he got off the hook. No sushi for us - what a shame and disappointment. Luckily, we still had other food, which we cooked ahead of time. And, lots
of fruit, of course. :-)
Because of the light winds, we wanted to fly the spinnaker as long as possible during the day. Just as I finished up the dishes and we were ready to take the sail down, a squall surprised us with some wind and lots of rain; the exact situation you try to avoid when the spinnaker is in place (and the reason we take it down at night)... With fluky winds, it might end up in the water, where you can run over it, or in heavy winds, it might rip. In this case, we saved it from dipping in the salty ocean and managed to take it down. Everything - us included - was soaking wet, and enjoying turned into annoying.
The wind never restored itself and with the jib instead of the spinnaker we lost speed regardless. During Mark's shift, we moved 10° off course at 4 knots. At midnight, it was my turn at the helm and I was welcomed by a radar screen cluttered with squalls. One rainstorm after the other arrived, sucking out the little wind we had. For hours I sat in the rain and wished for the wind to come back. Floating on an ocean doing less than 2 knots is frustrating to say the least. Not only are you not making any progress, but - no matter how calm the sea - the incessantly flapping sails and erratically banging rigging would drive the most patient person crazy! Plus, no sleep for the person off watch either.
Finally, some breeze arrived, albeit 50° more northerly than predicted, which had us sailing 35° off course. Not something we could make up easily. I watched the phenomenon for another hour and then decided to get rid of the jib all together and adjust course. We had lost enough time and ground. And that's where we are at right now: sailing along at 3 knots and still 15° off course. When the sun wakes up at 6am, we will hang our spinnaker out to dry, if it is not too squally. The mainsail will have to come down and then there's hoping for another fun sail and making Apataki in time...
Time: 1735UTC, COG 214T, SOG 4.0kts, Distance Remaining: 162nm
The first two days of a longer voyage are always the hardest. You have to get used to constantly being in motion, having to hold on to something at all times and staying up half of the night. All you really want to do is sleep; there is not much interest in anything else and the night shifts take forever. On day three some kind of routine has been established and you feel more inclined to do something productive, like taking a shower, making more fruit salad, or fish, for example.
From the moment the sun came up, we flew our spinnaker (colorful light air sail), while being able to keep the main sail in place. We managed to maintain five knots of speed in ten knots of wind and stayed on course. Not bad! It was a lovely day with sunshine and blue skies, void of squalls. The
sea was as comfortable as it gets, while still being "sailable" and we both enjoyed the ride. We did have to run the engine for a bit to charge the batteries, a necessary evil, but easier than rigging our little generator up.
In the afternoon, Irie drove through a big school of tuna. We did hook one: a fat and tasty yellow fin! But, from the moment we hauled him aboard, he got off the hook. No sushi for us - what a shame and disappointment. Luckily, we still had other food, which we cooked ahead of time. And, lots
of fruit, of course. :-)
Because of the light winds, we wanted to fly the spinnaker as long as possible during the day. Just as I finished up the dishes and we were ready to take the sail down, a squall surprised us with some wind and lots of rain; the exact situation you try to avoid when the spinnaker is in place (and the reason we take it down at night)... With fluky winds, it might end up in the water, where you can run over it, or in heavy winds, it might rip. In this case, we saved it from dipping in the salty ocean and managed to take it down. Everything - us included - was soaking wet, and enjoying turned into annoying.
The wind never restored itself and with the jib instead of the spinnaker we lost speed regardless. During Mark's shift, we moved 10° off course at 4 knots. At midnight, it was my turn at the helm and I was welcomed by a radar screen cluttered with squalls. One rainstorm after the other arrived, sucking out the little wind we had. For hours I sat in the rain and wished for the wind to come back. Floating on an ocean doing less than 2 knots is frustrating to say the least. Not only are you not making any progress, but - no matter how calm the sea - the incessantly flapping sails and erratically banging rigging would drive the most patient person crazy! Plus, no sleep for the person off watch either.
Finally, some breeze arrived, albeit 50° more northerly than predicted, which had us sailing 35° off course. Not something we could make up easily. I watched the phenomenon for another hour and then decided to get rid of the jib all together and adjust course. We had lost enough time and ground. And that's where we are at right now: sailing along at 3 knots and still 15° off course. When the sun wakes up at 6am, we will hang our spinnaker out to dry, if it is not too squally. The mainsail will have to come down and then there's hoping for another fun sail and making Apataki in time...
Friday, March 8, 2013
Trip to the Galapagos - Last Leg
If Thursday (day 6) was a gorgeous day of sailing, the night that followed was even more spectacular! The spinnaker charged ahead and the rest followed. We were doing between 6 and 7 knots, without the influence of current, in 13 knots of wind. The sky was clear and sparkling with stars. While I watched the illuminated crests of the waves, the Southern Cross watched me. There were no squalls, no ships and no interruptions. After five nights of “always something” to break the spell of continuity and our time in bed, whether it be a squall, turning the engines on or adjusting the sails, this night Mark and I experienced our dedicated three hours on watch and three hours off, and appreciated every minute of it. That 24 hour period on the ocean came as close to perfection for me as a sail trip can be.
While during the day the atmosphere on Irie is pretty relaxed, with us wearing our undies (the warm clothes and comforter have “long” been put away again), going wherever we please and doing whatever we feel for (sea state permitting), taking turns at the helm, adjusting sails and keeping an eye on the instruments, the nights are a different ball game. When darkness falls and visibility disappears, when one of us left downstairs for some needed sleep, when all has been prepared for 12 hours of monotony and solitude, all our senses are on high alert and our concentration sharpens, until we get too tired. Things happen and they most likely happen at night, when our attention fades. Therefore, we have the following “rules of the night” on Irie: always wear a life jacket, always be strapped to the boat with a tether – to the helm seat while in the cockpit or to the rigged up jack lines while on deck, always have the other person around when needing to go on deck and always wake up the other person when there is a squall or boat approaching, when the sails need serious adjusting or when you are in doubt about something. We both don’t really like rules, but these ones we adamantly stick to.
Day 7 started with a visible sunrise and soon the blue sky followed. It was 7:00 and I had a smile on my face. We had made great progress overnight and at this rate, we could make our destination before dark! Today! The “only” requirement was to keep up an average speed of 6.6 knots. Quite the challenge, sailing along the equator. The stress was back and the mellowness of the previous week gone. The race was on… Not for very long. Around 9:00 the wind speed dropped down to 8 knots and we moved at about 5. Where is that westerly current? It is easy to slow a boat down, but how do you speed it up? Decision time again. We had two choices: use an engine to give the boat the push it needed to pull into the harbor before 18:00 (stupid us forgot that we gained an hour underway and had until “our” 18:30 until the sun set), or slow the boat down, way down, to about 2 knots for an uncomfortable and rolly 23 hours, so we could arrive when there was enough light out again the next morning. Entering the unknown bay (to us) of San Cristobal in the dark was not an option.
We opted for an engine/spinnaker combo. The sun shower was empty, the prepared meals devoured. The boat was getting dirty and our small garbage bag full. The idea of a whole night’s sleep beckoned. We really enjoyed this first long voyage – and are looking forward to the 3000-mile trip to French Polynesia! - and Irie behaved like a good little boat. Only three issues appeared on a 7-day ocean passage, which is great, knowing that we sometimes have three things a day break or fail! A small rip in the spinnaker (on which we put sail tape immediately after noticing), a leaking salt water pump in the starboard engine and a chafe spot on our dinghy from a rubbing solar panel during the windy nights need to be taken care of.
I wrote an excellent book with entertaining and capturing chapters, many funny blog entries, engaging columns and stories people would love. In my head. This is what I do non-stop while being on the water and staring at the sea. Being creative in vain. “Head writing” is my biggest form of entertainment and occupation. Unfortunately, these perfect phrases and revealing thoughts will never be put on paper or find their way to the – no doubt - captivated reader. My head was spinning, my brain was full, Mark and I were tired. It was time to arrive… in the Galapagos Islands! With our own house.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
To the Galapagos - Part 2
I'll just pick up where I left off last time. Tuesday night had us (me) very occupied during the shifts. There were quite a few squalls around (hurray for the extra "boost" of breeze) and the wind shifted and fluctuated a lot. The bad weather cells eventually dissipated, but we kept checking the radar every 20 minutes or so. Electricity is precious while you are sailing long distance with not much solar or wind energy "coming in". The spinnaker was up and that kept me on the edge of my seat. These light wind sails collapse very easily and a vigilant watch has to be kept. So, for three hours, my eyes were on the instruments and the white and red sail flying ahead, like an inflated balloon. I adjusted course frequently to keep the sail full and hold our speed at 4 knots. No time for dozing off that night.
When it was his turn, Mark set the auto pilot and let the spinnaker do its thing. He didn't mind losing a half a knot of speed to get comfort in return. It is much easier that way. When I tried to be more relaxed about it later that night, the wind disappeared almost completely and I got used to a limp spinnaker hanging above the trampoline when the wind meter showed 0.0. At those times we were doing 2.8 knots over the ground and the boat bounced around erratically. Once the wind picked up to 1 or 2 knots - hey, some wind is better than none, especially with the spinnaker - we were "moving along" again at 3 knots. The performance of this sail is unbelievable and under these circumstances it is to our advantage to be light and small! I am amazed that Irie can do 2 knots over water in 2 knots of true wind! Then there is the 1 knot of favorable current on top of that.
Day 5 started with no wind and us bobbing along with the current for a few hours; the spinnaker doing its best trying to billow. We were stalled, but still going the right direction. At least we weren't going backwards! At 10:00 we placed the spinnaker on the other side of the boat - a 20 minute ordeal - and the wind picked up to 2-4 knots, resulting in a new and highly improved cruising speed of 4-5 knots, which in turn offered us a pleasant and relatively comfortable time on board. Ah, the little things in life...
Then, at 15:30, whoosh, the sail backed, bottom edge in the deep blue water. The wind totally died and became "light and variable", meaning the arrow of the wind meter went in circles. No sail could do anything about our new situation and we were doomed to turn the engines on. For hours and hours and hours. Who said sailing in the lowest latitudes was ideal? Or was even possible? But, Mark made giant pretzels and they tasted awesome!
The sea was flat and we didn't need to rig a sail for the night. The weather predictions didn't matter much either, since we were on a direct westerly course to the Galapagos now, in an area of little wind and little change. We motored into the sunset (18:44, was it?) and saw some new type of dolphins - small and black - frolic in the current. The day's highlight happened at 23:18 or so, when we crossed the equator. The plan was to have a virgin rum&coke with a Greek appetizer/snack of filled grape leaves, or Belgian truffles, depending on the hour of "changing hemispheres". It being night and the beginning of my shift - talk about inconvenience - Mark (together with Neptune) imbibed the rum part and I had a glass (yes, real glass ware for the occasion) of coke with a shot of lime juice! Our drinks were accompanied by pieces of chocolate delight from Belgium. Thank you, Griet and Wim. You made our transition from north to south extra sweet! It was quite the party on Irie.
A few hours after the "equator party" (attendees: Mark, Liesbet, Mr. Gecko and a winged hitchhiker), the weirdest thing happened. An hour prior, a slight puff of wind had us turn the engines off and raise the spinnaker in the moonlight. Mark was at the helm, keeping an eye on the radar screen, where squalls dotted the area, a respectable distance away. You don't want to be surprised by one of those, especially flying a very flexble, laid-back, light sail. All of a sudden, a purple smudge on the screen closed in on us, very fast. I was woken up and we immediately dropped the spinnaker. "Hurry!" Mark urged, "I would rather not get wet!" In the quiet of the night we could hear the rain approach. But, there was no wetness involved. Because it wasn't rain. The rustling water sound was created by a series of little waves rushing towards and underneath us like a white water river. A funny current phenomenon. Picked up by the radar, amazingly enough.
Since the sails were down and real squalls were approaching, we took to motoring again, for the rest of the night. One of the systems went over Irie, who was in desperate need of a good fresh water rinse. After months of dry season in Panama, the shower was welcome. Engines roaring, diesel fumes wafting through still air, helm seat vibrating; hour after hour our little boat kept plowing westward at six knots, making decent progress again, "cheating". I'm sure our "competitors" were motoring as well, in this notoriously wind deprived part of the ocean.
The sun woke up and so did Mark. Day 6 arrived, but forgot to bring wind. I was sick of motoring (and we have a small fuel tank), so the alternative was ... drifting. I switched the engines off. Thoughts of movie characters acting out seaventures, sailors caught in the doldrums, and ship wrecked people floating in an endlessly flat ocean crossed my mind. It was dead quiet. Peaceful. Mirror-like seas. Half of my vision filled with water; the other half with air. Both fields separated by a perfectly straight line; the infinite horizon. I saw ripples in the distance, behind us. Within half an hour - joy of joys - a fresh breeze caught up with us. Ready. Set. Action! Spinnaker up, mainsail up (new trick), and off we went for the most perfect sail of the trip, doing 6.5 knots in 12 knot winds! Life is good. ;-)
When it was his turn, Mark set the auto pilot and let the spinnaker do its thing. He didn't mind losing a half a knot of speed to get comfort in return. It is much easier that way. When I tried to be more relaxed about it later that night, the wind disappeared almost completely and I got used to a limp spinnaker hanging above the trampoline when the wind meter showed 0.0. At those times we were doing 2.8 knots over the ground and the boat bounced around erratically. Once the wind picked up to 1 or 2 knots - hey, some wind is better than none, especially with the spinnaker - we were "moving along" again at 3 knots. The performance of this sail is unbelievable and under these circumstances it is to our advantage to be light and small! I am amazed that Irie can do 2 knots over water in 2 knots of true wind! Then there is the 1 knot of favorable current on top of that.
Day 5 started with no wind and us bobbing along with the current for a few hours; the spinnaker doing its best trying to billow. We were stalled, but still going the right direction. At least we weren't going backwards! At 10:00 we placed the spinnaker on the other side of the boat - a 20 minute ordeal - and the wind picked up to 2-4 knots, resulting in a new and highly improved cruising speed of 4-5 knots, which in turn offered us a pleasant and relatively comfortable time on board. Ah, the little things in life...
Then, at 15:30, whoosh, the sail backed, bottom edge in the deep blue water. The wind totally died and became "light and variable", meaning the arrow of the wind meter went in circles. No sail could do anything about our new situation and we were doomed to turn the engines on. For hours and hours and hours. Who said sailing in the lowest latitudes was ideal? Or was even possible? But, Mark made giant pretzels and they tasted awesome!
The sea was flat and we didn't need to rig a sail for the night. The weather predictions didn't matter much either, since we were on a direct westerly course to the Galapagos now, in an area of little wind and little change. We motored into the sunset (18:44, was it?) and saw some new type of dolphins - small and black - frolic in the current. The day's highlight happened at 23:18 or so, when we crossed the equator. The plan was to have a virgin rum&coke with a Greek appetizer/snack of filled grape leaves, or Belgian truffles, depending on the hour of "changing hemispheres". It being night and the beginning of my shift - talk about inconvenience - Mark (together with Neptune) imbibed the rum part and I had a glass (yes, real glass ware for the occasion) of coke with a shot of lime juice! Our drinks were accompanied by pieces of chocolate delight from Belgium. Thank you, Griet and Wim. You made our transition from north to south extra sweet! It was quite the party on Irie.
A few hours after the "equator party" (attendees: Mark, Liesbet, Mr. Gecko and a winged hitchhiker), the weirdest thing happened. An hour prior, a slight puff of wind had us turn the engines off and raise the spinnaker in the moonlight. Mark was at the helm, keeping an eye on the radar screen, where squalls dotted the area, a respectable distance away. You don't want to be surprised by one of those, especially flying a very flexble, laid-back, light sail. All of a sudden, a purple smudge on the screen closed in on us, very fast. I was woken up and we immediately dropped the spinnaker. "Hurry!" Mark urged, "I would rather not get wet!" In the quiet of the night we could hear the rain approach. But, there was no wetness involved. Because it wasn't rain. The rustling water sound was created by a series of little waves rushing towards and underneath us like a white water river. A funny current phenomenon. Picked up by the radar, amazingly enough.
Since the sails were down and real squalls were approaching, we took to motoring again, for the rest of the night. One of the systems went over Irie, who was in desperate need of a good fresh water rinse. After months of dry season in Panama, the shower was welcome. Engines roaring, diesel fumes wafting through still air, helm seat vibrating; hour after hour our little boat kept plowing westward at six knots, making decent progress again, "cheating". I'm sure our "competitors" were motoring as well, in this notoriously wind deprived part of the ocean.
The sun woke up and so did Mark. Day 6 arrived, but forgot to bring wind. I was sick of motoring (and we have a small fuel tank), so the alternative was ... drifting. I switched the engines off. Thoughts of movie characters acting out seaventures, sailors caught in the doldrums, and ship wrecked people floating in an endlessly flat ocean crossed my mind. It was dead quiet. Peaceful. Mirror-like seas. Half of my vision filled with water; the other half with air. Both fields separated by a perfectly straight line; the infinite horizon. I saw ripples in the distance, behind us. Within half an hour - joy of joys - a fresh breeze caught up with us. Ready. Set. Action! Spinnaker up, mainsail up (new trick), and off we went for the most perfect sail of the trip, doing 6.5 knots in 12 knot winds! Life is good. ;-)
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Halfway to the Galapagos
After all these years, I have finally discovered a way to write short blog posts: buy a satellite phone, head out into the ocean and send a position report with a limited amount of characters for the cheap rate of 50 cents! Of course, after a few days, writing withdrawal happens and the desire to turn my computer on – which, by the way, broke today typing this blog; it must be too long again - and touching those cute keys of my keyboard becomes imminent.
Mark and I left Las Perlas and Panama for the Galapagos Islands last Saturday. We were ready, but had to wait a bit for the breeze to fill in. This 900-ish mile journey is seen as a difficult one. Not so much from a safety or stormy perspective, but from another weather occurrence. The winds are generally (too) light, change direction at some point, become variable and disappear completely in the ITCZ ("doldrums") area. So, you better have some wind to start with. In our case, the second and third days were predicted to become VERY windy – not Mark's idea of an ideal first long distance sail. It was a reason we wanted to begin the journey a day "ahead", to try and avoid the worst of the system.
Day 1 had us fly the spinnaker, doing a speed of about five - six knots. A few other sailboats left with us and soon disappeared behind the horizon. We had VHF radio contact with two of them during the day. Irie, with her 35 feet overall length, is small compared to other cruising boats around. She is not labeled or "certified" as an ocean going vessel. We trust her, however, and she is a great and safe little catamaran that has not disappointed us yet. We just have to be a little more careful and take into consideration her smaller size and lighter design. What this means on the Pacific Ocean is that we should reef conservatively and not surf down waves at 13 knots! She does stand her ground, though, and is sailing majestically.
The first evening, we concluded just having the mainsail up would give us the best downwind progress. Unpredicted, the wind piped up to 35+ knots at night and when we were surfing at over 12 knots (with a new Irie record of 13.6 knots), we decided it was time to put two reefs in the main. For the rest of the night, with only a double reefed main up, we were sailing at well over 7 knots. Day 2 had a decent amount of wind as well, and we changed our course so we could use our main and jib. By the following evening, we had learned our lesson and started the night shifts with a double reefed main, no jib, to make more southward progress (downwind). When a similar scenario of the previous night occurred, with winds topping 35 knots and waves bigger than Irie, we had yet to make another adjustment in the middle of the night, centering the main sail to reduce speed. All it would take is surfing down one massive wave and having our bows dig into the water first, to have our house flipped over. Did I mention we have a small and light boat? Which is a tad heavier than usual with all the extra provisions?
The first days and nights, we were constantly slowing Irie down, making the gap between us and our larger, heavier peers bigger. On day 3, another downwind haul, we started with a full main up. The wind blew a steady 30-35 knots and we were moving along nicely, at 9 knots. (I have to admit, we have been having 1-3 knots of current with us.) Frequently, we would surf down the waves and saw our speed over ground top 12 knots. "Fun and invigorating" says Liesbet. "Scary! I'm not liking this!" says Mark. And reefs appear in the sail again. For this, we unfurl the jib a little bit, head into the wind and gigantic – wet – waves, drop the main a bit, put the two reefs in and haul her up again, considerably reduced in size. It made the ride more safe and comfortable, and we were still doing 7-8 knots. It was great, even though we couldn't really do much more than sail on the bumpy ocean.
Last night, the wind dropped big time. But, you never know; the previous nights it blew pretty hard from the moment the sun went down… So, we started off with a double reefed main, in 15 knots of wind, and made slow progress. Maybe it would be a quiet and comfortable night, once the waves settled down? Or maybe the wind would pick up just enough? Kind of a waste to go so slow… In between our shifts, we went to the trice daily procedure again and took the reefs out. For the next four hours, the sails and boom slapped and banged around, while the wind speed reduced to less than 10 knots. Not wanting to deal with all the work involved putting the spinnaker up at night, we resigned to … motoring for four hours. Darn!
First thing this morning, we "installed" our saving grace, the spinnaker, which is a light wind sail. With it blowing barely seven knots (apparent wind less than 2 knots), it is the only sail we have that will get us moving, albeit relatively slowly. Thanks again, Axel! The seas have settled down and today's ride has been very smooth indeed! We finally got to do some "different" things than usually. Distance-wise we are over half way to the Galapagos at this point, but time will tell how much progress we can keep making in the light winds. We will fly our colorful sail tonight as well. At least we'll try.
Being out on the ocean for four days now, Mark and I have developed a certain routine. The day "starts" at 8:00, when we write an entry in the logbook, check the old weather report, (re)consider our course and (re)adjust the sail(s). Then we have breakfast of homemade granola mixed with cheap cornflakes and milk or soymilk. At 9:00, the daily Pan Pacific net starts on the SSB radio. We listen to the check-ins from "vessels underway", plot our friends' positions and track their progress towards the Galapagos. If we are lucky, we receive a decent and current weather forecast of "our area". We can't check in ourselves, since we don't have an SSB transmitter, only a small receiver. We also don't have a water maker, a freezer and a life raft. Together with our small size this makes us very special! :-)
During the day we keep ourselves busy with sailing the boat, staring at the horizon – without getting seasick! – figuring out routing and weather (Mark spent days on end doing this before we left and still spends many hours a day figuring everything out. He's doing a great job interpreting and incorporating the grib files, but the forecasts are never right, unfortunately. The wind directions seem to be pretty accurate, but the speeds are way over or underestimated.), and resting. We have yummy sandwiches for lunch around noon, after I do a "manual" log and plot our course on a paper chart of the Pacific Ocean, which is… big! The ocean is.
At 17:00 the evening procedures start. Not with cocktail time, but with reeling in the fishing line and figuring out a (new) course and sail trim. We do this before the sun sets, to avoid the cold, windy, pitch black and slippery decks at night. Haha! Then, we have one of our six pre-prepared and tasty dinners and do the dishes. Mark installed a salt water pump and spigot in the sink recently. One of the best additions to an always improving Irie! We have interesting conversations, like "What time did the sun set?" "18:34" "What time is it this evening? She's going down right now!" "18:39" We write another log on the computer and at 19:00 Mark grabs the new weather forecast and grib files and takes all the new information into account. More than likely – by then it is dark – we adjust the sail(s) again, and another time at some point during the night. Around 20:00, we start our three hour night shifts: Mark until 23:00, then me until 2:00, Mark again until 5:00 and me again until 8:00. Whoever is off shift, tries to sleep in our bed downstairs.
What do we do during our night shifts? Mark is all alone with his tablet. He listens to music and watches something on the screen. I am all alone with my thoughts. I listen to the sounds of the boat – whooshing of the waves, wind generator, creaks and bangs – and watch the twinkling phosphorescents in our wake and the bright stars in the sky. We keep an eye on the instruments and the sails and every fifteen minutes we check the horizon. It is inevitable that we "knikkebol" (doze off) more than once in a while.
We haven't seen any wildlife worth mentioning yet, except a helicopter checking us out. We also haven't caught any fish yet. Mark did put a second fishing line out today, but I expect them to catch each other, before they catch something edible! The previous days have been chilly during the day and cold at night. We dug out long pants, sweaters, socks, hats and the comforter to sleep under. The heavy winds and cool air has not been very conducive to taking showers. Luckily, there is no one around, for hundreds of miles… Today, the sun came out, the wind disappeared and the sky was a beautiful blue. The highlight of the day was a fresh water sun shower in the cockpit and … a change of underwear. And so, there is some special event every day on the water. One day soon, it will be crossing the equator – which will have to be celebrated in Irie fashion – another day, we will catch a fish!
Now that the conditions have settled down (let's hope we will keep having some wind), I could see us do this forever. The new auto pilot has been performing splendidly and so have Mark and I. We have not beaten each other up yet and the atmosphere is one of team work, a daily chat, having meals together and enjoying quiet time. It is so nice not to be stressed and busy anymore. Today was a bit tougher, after three "rough" nights in a row and trying to keep the boat moving, but once we kept going, spirits lifted. We are pretty tired, but other than that… all OK! :-)
Mark and I left Las Perlas and Panama for the Galapagos Islands last Saturday. We were ready, but had to wait a bit for the breeze to fill in. This 900-ish mile journey is seen as a difficult one. Not so much from a safety or stormy perspective, but from another weather occurrence. The winds are generally (too) light, change direction at some point, become variable and disappear completely in the ITCZ ("doldrums") area. So, you better have some wind to start with. In our case, the second and third days were predicted to become VERY windy – not Mark's idea of an ideal first long distance sail. It was a reason we wanted to begin the journey a day "ahead", to try and avoid the worst of the system.
Day 1 had us fly the spinnaker, doing a speed of about five - six knots. A few other sailboats left with us and soon disappeared behind the horizon. We had VHF radio contact with two of them during the day. Irie, with her 35 feet overall length, is small compared to other cruising boats around. She is not labeled or "certified" as an ocean going vessel. We trust her, however, and she is a great and safe little catamaran that has not disappointed us yet. We just have to be a little more careful and take into consideration her smaller size and lighter design. What this means on the Pacific Ocean is that we should reef conservatively and not surf down waves at 13 knots! She does stand her ground, though, and is sailing majestically.
The first evening, we concluded just having the mainsail up would give us the best downwind progress. Unpredicted, the wind piped up to 35+ knots at night and when we were surfing at over 12 knots (with a new Irie record of 13.6 knots), we decided it was time to put two reefs in the main. For the rest of the night, with only a double reefed main up, we were sailing at well over 7 knots. Day 2 had a decent amount of wind as well, and we changed our course so we could use our main and jib. By the following evening, we had learned our lesson and started the night shifts with a double reefed main, no jib, to make more southward progress (downwind). When a similar scenario of the previous night occurred, with winds topping 35 knots and waves bigger than Irie, we had yet to make another adjustment in the middle of the night, centering the main sail to reduce speed. All it would take is surfing down one massive wave and having our bows dig into the water first, to have our house flipped over. Did I mention we have a small and light boat? Which is a tad heavier than usual with all the extra provisions?
The first days and nights, we were constantly slowing Irie down, making the gap between us and our larger, heavier peers bigger. On day 3, another downwind haul, we started with a full main up. The wind blew a steady 30-35 knots and we were moving along nicely, at 9 knots. (I have to admit, we have been having 1-3 knots of current with us.) Frequently, we would surf down the waves and saw our speed over ground top 12 knots. "Fun and invigorating" says Liesbet. "Scary! I'm not liking this!" says Mark. And reefs appear in the sail again. For this, we unfurl the jib a little bit, head into the wind and gigantic – wet – waves, drop the main a bit, put the two reefs in and haul her up again, considerably reduced in size. It made the ride more safe and comfortable, and we were still doing 7-8 knots. It was great, even though we couldn't really do much more than sail on the bumpy ocean.
Last night, the wind dropped big time. But, you never know; the previous nights it blew pretty hard from the moment the sun went down… So, we started off with a double reefed main, in 15 knots of wind, and made slow progress. Maybe it would be a quiet and comfortable night, once the waves settled down? Or maybe the wind would pick up just enough? Kind of a waste to go so slow… In between our shifts, we went to the trice daily procedure again and took the reefs out. For the next four hours, the sails and boom slapped and banged around, while the wind speed reduced to less than 10 knots. Not wanting to deal with all the work involved putting the spinnaker up at night, we resigned to … motoring for four hours. Darn!
First thing this morning, we "installed" our saving grace, the spinnaker, which is a light wind sail. With it blowing barely seven knots (apparent wind less than 2 knots), it is the only sail we have that will get us moving, albeit relatively slowly. Thanks again, Axel! The seas have settled down and today's ride has been very smooth indeed! We finally got to do some "different" things than usually. Distance-wise we are over half way to the Galapagos at this point, but time will tell how much progress we can keep making in the light winds. We will fly our colorful sail tonight as well. At least we'll try.
Being out on the ocean for four days now, Mark and I have developed a certain routine. The day "starts" at 8:00, when we write an entry in the logbook, check the old weather report, (re)consider our course and (re)adjust the sail(s). Then we have breakfast of homemade granola mixed with cheap cornflakes and milk or soymilk. At 9:00, the daily Pan Pacific net starts on the SSB radio. We listen to the check-ins from "vessels underway", plot our friends' positions and track their progress towards the Galapagos. If we are lucky, we receive a decent and current weather forecast of "our area". We can't check in ourselves, since we don't have an SSB transmitter, only a small receiver. We also don't have a water maker, a freezer and a life raft. Together with our small size this makes us very special! :-)
During the day we keep ourselves busy with sailing the boat, staring at the horizon – without getting seasick! – figuring out routing and weather (Mark spent days on end doing this before we left and still spends many hours a day figuring everything out. He's doing a great job interpreting and incorporating the grib files, but the forecasts are never right, unfortunately. The wind directions seem to be pretty accurate, but the speeds are way over or underestimated.), and resting. We have yummy sandwiches for lunch around noon, after I do a "manual" log and plot our course on a paper chart of the Pacific Ocean, which is… big! The ocean is.
At 17:00 the evening procedures start. Not with cocktail time, but with reeling in the fishing line and figuring out a (new) course and sail trim. We do this before the sun sets, to avoid the cold, windy, pitch black and slippery decks at night. Haha! Then, we have one of our six pre-prepared and tasty dinners and do the dishes. Mark installed a salt water pump and spigot in the sink recently. One of the best additions to an always improving Irie! We have interesting conversations, like "What time did the sun set?" "18:34" "What time is it this evening? She's going down right now!" "18:39" We write another log on the computer and at 19:00 Mark grabs the new weather forecast and grib files and takes all the new information into account. More than likely – by then it is dark – we adjust the sail(s) again, and another time at some point during the night. Around 20:00, we start our three hour night shifts: Mark until 23:00, then me until 2:00, Mark again until 5:00 and me again until 8:00. Whoever is off shift, tries to sleep in our bed downstairs.
What do we do during our night shifts? Mark is all alone with his tablet. He listens to music and watches something on the screen. I am all alone with my thoughts. I listen to the sounds of the boat – whooshing of the waves, wind generator, creaks and bangs – and watch the twinkling phosphorescents in our wake and the bright stars in the sky. We keep an eye on the instruments and the sails and every fifteen minutes we check the horizon. It is inevitable that we "knikkebol" (doze off) more than once in a while.
We haven't seen any wildlife worth mentioning yet, except a helicopter checking us out. We also haven't caught any fish yet. Mark did put a second fishing line out today, but I expect them to catch each other, before they catch something edible! The previous days have been chilly during the day and cold at night. We dug out long pants, sweaters, socks, hats and the comforter to sleep under. The heavy winds and cool air has not been very conducive to taking showers. Luckily, there is no one around, for hundreds of miles… Today, the sun came out, the wind disappeared and the sky was a beautiful blue. The highlight of the day was a fresh water sun shower in the cockpit and … a change of underwear. And so, there is some special event every day on the water. One day soon, it will be crossing the equator – which will have to be celebrated in Irie fashion – another day, we will catch a fish!
Now that the conditions have settled down (let's hope we will keep having some wind), I could see us do this forever. The new auto pilot has been performing splendidly and so have Mark and I. We have not beaten each other up yet and the atmosphere is one of team work, a daily chat, having meals together and enjoying quiet time. It is so nice not to be stressed and busy anymore. Today was a bit tougher, after three "rough" nights in a row and trying to keep the boat moving, but once we kept going, spirits lifted. We are pretty tired, but other than that… all OK! :-)
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
A Magnificent Sail
Mark and I moved from Contadora, the “main” and most
touristy island of Las Perlas, to the east side of the biggest island in the
chain: Isla del Rey. The distance was only about 15 miles and all we hoped for
was some wind and no current against us, something we seemed to always “time
right”, meaning it has been taking us forever each time to switch anchorages,
even though the distances are short.
On this beautiful sunny day with deep blue skies and not a
white puff of a cloud, we had a magnificent sail. Not in the way of speed or it
being invigorating – there just is not enough wind for that in this area, gone
are the trade winds - but magnificent in
the way of our surroundings. There was barely 6 knots of wind from the north,
so behind us, and we had pulled the spinnaker up. The seas were flat; the ride
was smooth, comfortable and very pleasant. We didn’t mind only doing 2.5 knots,
one or more of which was current; the brand new autopilot didn’t mind doing all
the work.
It took us about 7 hours to reach our next destination Espiritu
Santo, but the last couple of hours were filled with entertainment on top of
relaxation. While Devil Rays were jumping and doing summer saults all around
us (they leap out of the water and do acrobatics in the air!), we spotted some whales in the distance. Through binoculars, we saw them
take turns breathing (“Look at the water spout!”), breaching (“Wow, he’s coming
out of the water”), sliding along the surface (“His body is huge!”) and
disappearing (“Watch the forked tail!”). It was an awesome spectacle and we are
starting to believe the stories about an abundance of sea life in the Pacific
Ocean.
We also noticed big, turbulent spots in the water, where
hundreds of fish had gathered. The areas looked like breaking waves. Unfortunately,
we were going too slow to catch anything. I should probably mention the birds
as well: pelicans, frigate birds, birds of prey, they are ever-present at all
times of the day and in large numbers. The other day, I spent an hour on the
beach and counted at least ten different species of birds, while lying on my
back in the powdery sand. To finally be surrounded by all these amazing
creatures is a joy and – for me – one of the main reasons why I (still) live on
a boat!
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Irie Out to Save Birds (Or How We Failed to Sail to Bocas del Toro)
The Past
A Belgian magazine writer recently interviewed me about my (our) unusual
life and one of the questions was “What is the weirdest/worst thing that ever
happened to you on your trips?” This is a tough one to answer and required a
lot of thinking. Mark and I have been on the boat for over five years and with
some good planning, constant maintenance and a bit of luck, nothing really
terrible has happened yet. We’ve been able to avoid massive storms, lightning
strikes, important gear failure and other disasters – like hitting whales or
floating containers. We’ve been through scary nights and temporary squalls and
survived choppy seas, hence with a bit of puking on my part. Yesterday, I kept
thinking about this question, because what we were experiencing was the answer
to it!
One of the reasons Mark and I left the San Blas islands in
October was to sail to Bocas del Toro – with a stop at the magnificent Escudo
de Veraguas - and visit this archipelago near the border with Costa Rica. We
hoped to spend the month of November there, exploring hiking trails, reefs,
amazing beaches, and affordable restaurants. But, the rainy season (with
November generally accepted as the worst month) brings lots of rain, thunder,
lightning and squalls, and… light west winds – the direction we needed to go.
The distance is about 170 miles and there would be no way Irie would motor this
far. So, we waited for wind… and waited for wind.
On Saturday, November 3rd, we set out with a
weather forecast of east winds 10-15 knots. Once outside of Portobelo harbor,
the wind came from the west, at less than 10 knots! We tried to sail, but after
two hours of not making any progress in the right direction, we returned –
making nice speed with the wind at our back – to our familiar spot in the
anchorage. Monday, November 5th, predicted east-northeast winds
10-15 knots and we had a better feeling about trying the trip again. The boats
in the anchorage faced northeast and so did all the cargo ships in front of industrial
Colon, based on our chart plotter’s AIS signals. We were good to go!
The wind was perfect, coming from the right angle at a
decent speed, to try our spinnaker out for a longish trip. We rigged the big,
light sail up and had two reefs in our main sail as to not block the head sail
and to have a sail up for steerage when taking the spinnaker down. The engine
was only on for a few minutes, before we headed west under sail. The following 7 hours
were wonderful: we were speeding along, talking about going all the way to
Bocas and doing Veraguas on the way back. The waves were manageable, the sun
even peeked out for a moment, and I was not seasick. We wondered whether we
could do this for 30 days straight next spring – the circumstances were comparable to the
course and following seas in the Pacific Ocean. Life was good!
We could not make any more headway (there was also a 1.5 knot current against us) and the chaotic sea made
me seriously sick. By now, Mark was frustrated, I was puking, the boat was
stuck in turmoil and it was dark! To top it off, we ran into a pile of
invisible tree trunks – twice - and the lightning around us became more
threatening. Listening to massive blocks of wood scraping and bumping against
your boat with every movement on the water is not something you want to hear!
And, there is nothing you can do, but hope no damage was done. While I,
queasily, took over the helm, Mark went inside Irie to check the bilges for
water coming in. This was truly one of the worst moments of our sailing life.
Everything appeared fine, but we urgently need to get into the water to check
the hulls more carefully. It is just too muddy to see underwater everywhere
with all the run-off from the rain.
At least one bird managed to sleep on the lifelines without
falling off during the whole sail trip back, and found its way to a new jungle
home. It left us a nice present on the side of the boat. One more Panamanian
common swallow saved!
While in the San Blas islands we obtained a little wooden
statue called a “nuchu”, made and owned by the Indians to fend off bad spirits.
Since we have this little guy on board, we have only had bad sailing experiences. Not
that we are superstitious, but this man might have to find another home. Or,
maybe he didn’t like the little ceremony – involving champagne and kisses on
the head – we had for him on SV Reach before we left the islands…
Feeding el nuchu, who we named "sahila", after the Kuna chiefs, champagne
Approaching the busy area of Colon with the Caribbean entrance of the Panama Canal
A Belgian magazine writer recently interviewed me about my (our) unusual
life and one of the questions was “What is the weirdest/worst thing that ever
happened to you on your trips?” This is a tough one to answer and required a
lot of thinking. Mark and I have been on the boat for over five years and with
some good planning, constant maintenance and a bit of luck, nothing really
terrible has happened yet. We’ve been able to avoid massive storms, lightning
strikes, important gear failure and other disasters – like hitting whales or
floating containers. We’ve been through scary nights and temporary squalls and
survived choppy seas, hence with a bit of puking on my part. Yesterday, I kept
thinking about this question, because what we were experiencing was the answer
to it!
The Present
One of the reasons Mark and I left the San Blas islands in
October was to sail to Bocas del Toro – with a stop at the magnificent Escudo
de Veraguas - and visit this archipelago near the border with Costa Rica. We
hoped to spend the month of November there, exploring hiking trails, reefs,
amazing beaches, and affordable restaurants. But, the rainy season (with
November generally accepted as the worst month) brings lots of rain, thunder,
lightning and squalls, and… light west winds – the direction we needed to go.
The distance is about 170 miles and there would be no way Irie would motor this
far. So, we waited for wind… and waited for wind.
On Saturday, November 3rd, we set out with a
weather forecast of east winds 10-15 knots. Once outside of Portobelo harbor,
the wind came from the west, at less than 10 knots! We tried to sail, but after
two hours of not making any progress in the right direction, we returned –
making nice speed with the wind at our back – to our familiar spot in the
anchorage. Monday, November 5th, predicted east-northeast winds
10-15 knots and we had a better feeling about trying the trip again. The boats
in the anchorage faced northeast and so did all the cargo ships in front of industrial
Colon, based on our chart plotter’s AIS signals. We were good to go!
The wind was perfect, coming from the right angle at a
decent speed, to try our spinnaker out for a longish trip. We rigged the big,
light sail up and had two reefs in our main sail as to not block the head sail
and to have a sail up for steerage when taking the spinnaker down. The engine
was only on for a few minutes, before we headed west under sail. The following 7 hours
were wonderful: we were speeding along, talking about going all the way to
Bocas and doing Veraguas on the way back. The waves were manageable, the sun
even peeked out for a moment, and I was not seasick. We wondered whether we
could do this for 30 days straight next spring – the circumstances were comparable to the
course and following seas in the Pacific Ocean. Life was good!
After 45 miles things changed. The wind turned more north,
which was OK with spinnaker down and jib up, no reefs in the main sail. But,
the seas became very steep and choppy. We had the predicted NE swell and a
weird counter chop from the west. When the two sets of waves collided under
Irie, she almost came to a halt. This kept going on for hours as we felt like
being in a washing machine. The answer to the sea state was explained, when the
wind turned due west! The massive black cloud above us must have been the cause.
We tried to sail away from it, through it, around it and even started the
engines to try to get to the other side. It was impossible. After another hour,
we thought we did it, only to find out that there was another one of these huge
squalls, and eight more on the radar… They were unavoidable. In the meantime,
three birds kept bugging us; one landed on my shoulder and startled me when I
tried to put a warmer T-shirt on, another made its way inside the boat and the
third one kept attacking the sails and lines! They eventually tried to hitch a
ride to shore.
We could not make any more headway (there was also a 1.5 knot current against us) and the chaotic sea made
me seriously sick. By now, Mark was frustrated, I was puking, the boat was
stuck in turmoil and it was dark! To top it off, we ran into a pile of
invisible tree trunks – twice - and the lightning around us became more
threatening. Listening to massive blocks of wood scraping and bumping against
your boat with every movement on the water is not something you want to hear!
And, there is nothing you can do, but hope no damage was done. While I,
queasily, took over the helm, Mark went inside Irie to check the bilges for
water coming in. This was truly one of the worst moments of our sailing life.
Everything appeared fine, but we urgently need to get into the water to check
the hulls more carefully. It is just too muddy to see underwater everywhere
with all the run-off from the rain.
We started to believe that this Bocas trip was not meant to
be for us and – once again, this time halfway to Veraguas – we turned around,
sailing east. From the moment we escaped the clouds, the wind turned north once
more and a couple of hours later, the seas calmed down. We had skipped dinner
and I had retired into the horizontal position, while Mark took care of the
boat the rest of the night. It was a lot of work, trimming the sails endlessly
in fluky winds becoming heavier during squalls and lighter in between. While we
managed to bypass the huge amount of cargo ships in front of the Panama Canal
entrance going west, this proved to be very difficult and nerve-wrecking at
night. Mark spent a few hours changing course and avoiding massive freighters near
Colon. At 4am, after circling around waiting for another rainstorm to diminish,
we arrived back into our old anchoring spot in Portobelo, exhausted and soaking
wet. Only once before in five years have we had to anchor at night, and only
once before have we turned back, before setting out the following day.
The Future
At least one bird managed to sleep on the lifelines without
falling off during the whole sail trip back, and found its way to a new jungle
home. It left us a nice present on the side of the boat. One more Panamanian
common swallow saved!
Mark and I have concluded that sailing the Panamanian coast
in the rainy season (June-November) – especially at night - is hard, if not
impossible, and uncomfortable. We will never attempt it again. Most boats motor
wherever they go this time of the year. Bocas del Toro is not in our future and
– unfortunately – doubts are creeping up about the Pacific Ocean. If we just
wait a few days and let our minds and spirits (and my stomach) settle down, we
will realize this was a – hopefully - one time and uncommon event not to be
repeated…
While in the San Blas islands we obtained a little wooden
statue called a “nuchu”, made and owned by the Indians to fend off bad spirits.
Since we have this little guy on board, we have only had bad sailing experiences. Not
that we are superstitious, but this man might have to find another home. Or,
maybe he didn’t like the little ceremony – involving champagne and kisses on
the head – we had for him on SV Reach before we left the islands…
Feeding el nuchu, who we named "sahila", after the Kuna chiefs, champagne
Approaching the busy area of Colon with the Caribbean entrance of the Panama Canal
All the triangles are traffic (with AIS system) in and around the Canal! There are at least 85 cargo ships.
Logs of this size have bumped Irie in anchorages before. Imagine sailing into and over tree trunks even bigger...
Logs of this size have bumped Irie in anchorages before. Imagine sailing into and over tree trunks even bigger...
Weather in Portobelo
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