Lately we have been noticing these little white flakes all over the cockpit and on the surfaces below. What the hell is this stuff, we want to know. It looks like latex paint that has flaked off but we cannot find the source and it is all over everything. Life on a boat is filled with little mysteries like this. The stuff was driving us crazy and also all I could think was how much work we were in for refinishing whatever was going bad. But why suddenly and why now? That made no logical sense.

Since the winds have calmed enough for me to move around the cockpit safely I spent time this morning cleaning the floor and surfaces, determined to once more have a boat that wasn’t covered in fine white powder, worried that Homeland Security might suspect us of being drug mules. Despite my best attempts I could not figure where this stuff was coming from. But at least we had a clean cockpit.

Then Mike poked his head up and said he had discovered the culprit. It was his foul weather gear. The rubberized, probably latex, lining had gone bad. He discovered this when he was putting on the coveralls and realized a virtual cloud of tiny bits of rubberized stuff was making him look like he was either standing in snow or had a terrible case of dandruff. They just don’t make things like they used to. I mean these coveralls are no more than 15 years old and for the last three years they have been stored in the ideal conditions found on a boat in a blistering hot climate that breaks down plastics faster than fish can fly. How dare they go bad right now as we prepare to sail north? I have a burning desire to call West Marine and give them a piece of my mind while I am buying Mike another pair just like them.

If you are wondering why Mike was wearing his foul, foul weather gear it’s because it’s cold. Someone forgot to tell the weather gods that we had expected a warm and sunny passage. I only hope they will arrange warm weather for Hawaii. We are about halfway there! Come. On. Sunshine.

Now that we know Michael needs new pants I should probably locate and check mine. If they have also gone bad I am hoping to find some new ones with chickens on them. I will call them my ‘fowlies’ .

(Sorry, Jill. Had to do it. ) 😹

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We have reached the next level of game play here on Galapagos. This is the level where all the sunny skies and lovely sailing are behind you and what’s left is all of the endurance without the fun (except we did have dolphins this morning). When we beat this level we will get sunny skies again. But for now suddenly I remember why people live in houses on land, houses that don’t ordinarily roll wildly underneath you all day and all blessed night; houses that don’t suddenly throw you against the wall as you are innocently walking down the hall; houses that don’t seem like they are out to get you.

When we are in challenging conditions like we have been the last two days, energy levels get micromanaged. Everything becomes an energy drain. Cooking? Too much energy and possibly too dangerous. Give me the protein bar and move slowly away. Going to the bathroom? Make sure it’s worth the effort. Make it count. Brushing teeth, combing hair, putting on fresh clothes- these things do not happen. It’s not that they are not important. It’s that I begin to be too tired to care. Because the other thing that doesn’t happen is good sleep.

In terms of mental health, good sleep has been my soap box for decades. Without it mood declines rapidly. Irritability increases, carb cravings begin, anxiety level goes up, the thoughts turn to darker things. The logical brain takes a time out. Sound sleep is a basic tenant of good mental hygiene.

Watch schedules are really the weak link with only two of us aboard. I do not function without decent sleep for very long. Mike does better, but for how long? People need deep restoring rest in order to make good decisions. During the first week of the passage we had benign weather conditions with lovely easy sailing. We had several days where we did nothing to the sails. The wind was steady from the right direction and the boat practically sailed itself.

Because it didn’t take much energy to keep the boat moving comfortably, sleep was not only less critical, it was easier to come by. Frequent cockpit naps helped fill in the gaps left by not getting at least 7 straight hours of shut eye at night. It wasn’t perfect but it would do. But as this weather system passes over us bringing squalls with variable winds and bigger seas it’s a whole different world out here. The rig and course require constant attention and tweaking.

Mike is experimenting with sleeping in the cockpit, a plan that gives me doubts that he is really sleeping deeply but considering he doesn’t sleep much below either, then what difference does it make? When he is below his little spidey senses about what’s going on with the boat don’t allow him to really let go and rest. I guess if he starts seeing things that I can’t see, especially if he also talks to them, then we will have a different conversation.

My suggestion of heaving to, where you back wind the sails and allow the boat to drift slowly, thereby allowing the crew to rest, has not been met with enthusiasm. It would involve removing our inner forestay so that the sail would not rub against it. While it’s not terribly hard to remove that, it’s made to be removed not permanently mounted, it’s not something you want to be doing on the fore deck in heavy weather. We like having it attached to the fore deck as it gives us an extra feeling of safety in terms of the rig, an extra piece of rigging supporting the mast.

So last night we compromised by putting away the headsail and slowing the boat way down. It wasn’t a perfect solution as we were still making way and occasionally we would be smacked around by a big wave. But it was better than nothing and I slept soundly.

Today is a new day and hopefully there will be pasta for dinner.

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We are on day 8 of this long passage, about 2 weeks to go. We were talking last night and reflecting together about how it doesn’t seem like it’s already been a week since we left the islands. Here on a small boat where we don’t even know what time zone we are in, much less do we care about that, time is revealed to be the false construct that it really is. The only moment that time is important is that it keeps us apprised of shift changes. Otherwise it’s either daylight or not.

Our days are measured by the changes in weather, wind direction, boat comfort and course heading. One moment it’s time to make the sails bigger or smaller. Another moment it’s time to tweak the wind vane. As the boat floats across the sea, we float through this passage with it, time measured only by moments of activity and focus, carried along by forces so much greater than us they defy efforts to understand. It’s like living in a great metaphor for life overall.

After a week of this one begins to have an appreciation for why some people would rather be at sea than anywhere else. I’m not saying I am that person. Ask me when we have arrived in Washington state and I have been out here for thousands of miles, not hundreds. But the inklings of understanding are there. The world really does titrate down to
what is literally right in front of us in a way that is hard to imagine when living on land surrounded by all the things we feel responsible for controlling, or at least managing. Out here, over 1000 miles from the nearest civilization, hundreds of miles from the nearest human being, there is quite literally nothing we can do about anything anywhere but right here on this boat. Nothing.

This is both freeing and terrifying. I prefer to compartmentalize the terrifying aspects of this and focus on the freedom. If you are going to sail, as we say, ‘far away from the dock’, compartmentalization is a psychological skill you should develop. It’s one of those sailing skills people take for granted but shouldn’t. It’s exactly why people can be on a small boat in the middle of a great and powerful sea and sleep like a rock when given the opportunity. (Well, that and fatigue. )

Of course we need this construct of time, and the many other constructs we create, in order for civilization to work. But it’s interesting to experience how much it rules our thinking. I am reminded of a woman we met who was asking questions about our way of life. She asked what we did at night if we were away from land. Did we drop an anchor in the middle of the ocean? This was an intelligent person, you could see on her face that she knew that didn’t make sense even as she spoke. But she was asking from her own assumptions about how people go to bed at night. Her day stops with her little ritual of expensive evening ablutions, followed by her head lying delicately on her silky pillow, then sleeping until the alarm clock rings.

No. I said. We just keep sailing into the night and into the next day. We sail on and on in our safe little ship, our little womb on the sea. She looked at me in that way people do if they can’t quite figure out which box to put you in. You know the look: first it’s scanning you up and down as though to take the measure of your physical self. Then one part confusion, one small part fear, a bit of amazement, some shaking of the head and looking away. ‘Better you than me, sister.’, she says. This part of her that I represent right then, the part that would be outside the box of the culture she lives in, has just been put away, compartmentalized. It resides safely somewhere in the darkness of her own shadow.

And it’s the part of me that she represents that lives in a compartment all her own in my own psyche right now. The part that wears the uniform of the expectations of others: the hair, the branded clothing, the jewelry, the nails. Oh yes, and the makeup. When we get back to a land life I will take this aspect of me out to play for awhile. We will get our hair done and go to Nordstrom and buy pretty clothes. We will go to bed at a certain hour and make appointments and have more complex routines. But for now, we sail on.

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