Greetings from the great float. Our current position is wherever we
were yesterday. Time has now stopped.
Okay, it's not really that bad. We have had some fun sailing, good
food, interesting music and delightful (and possibly demented)
conversation. And last night, the Captain did a marathon watch so some
of us could get some much needed rest. The man is unstoppable when he
sets his mind to something. A couple days ago Captain Bligh ordered
(that's all he does these days) that we were to do whatever we could to
sail to conserve diesel for fun activities down the road as we get
closer to civilization, like dodging container ships during the night.
So although the winds are light, we were able to set "the spinnakers"
and make some good miles down the road. However, both days the wind
seems to fall below five knots in mid-to-late afternoon and we have to
get back on what the New Zealander calls "the donkey" for the night.
Hey, at least he doesn't call it "the sheep"; just don't even go there.
To illustrate the mechanics of our spinnaker opps, let me take you
through some of the details from yesterday. As soon as dawn breaks, I
don my harness and start rigging the spinnaker gear. After I finish the
set up, I go downstairs and search through the forward head for an
appropriate spinnaker. What, isn't that where everyone keeps them? I
manage to pull out a bag that says something like "1983" on it, and give
it the once over. It appears to be an AP of some sort, with a disco
purple stripe through the center. At this point, Seymour Dodds is
stirring, and comes over to see what I am doing. We look at the bag and
then at each other wondering whether we need those stripped shirts and
"man-staches" made popular on the early IOR circuit to fly this thing.
My growth is pretty good, but Dodds is clean shaven, which could be an
issue. We proceed to launch the disco chute anyway and it provides us
with the beautiful silhouette of an hour-glass against the dawn sky.
Proud of our efforts, we adjourn to the cockpit to sip warm beverages
and slap each other across our stripped-shirt backs.
Just as everything is going "groovy," Bligh pops his head out of the
companion way, sees the distorted spinnaker and bitches about wraps and
twists and uses all kinds of other unsavory terms. He barks that we
should fix it immediately or face the captain's mast. Dodds and I wait
until Bligh disappears downstairs to continue his week-long nap, and
figure we do nothing and just pass the whole mess on to Seaman Gilbert's
watch. But then Dodds remembers that this particular breed of disco
chute generally likes to be flown with a friend, called a blooper. I've
never heard of one because I am too young, but Dodds swears such a thing
exists. Dodds races back to the forward head and returns with some
technicolor beast of a chute that he swears is the required blooper. He
opens the bag and out beams all kinds of disgusting hues, like purple
and yellow, and some sort of light blue I've never seen on a spinnaker
before. I take a quick look around to make sure no one can see us when
this thing is up, and find no one on the horizon. Just for good measure
I also check the AIS.
When we are ready to launch disco's buddy on the free wing halyard,
Bligh shows up again. This time his head is all red, and he has shaved
himself to look like Walter White from Breaking Bad (or possibly Colonel
l Kurtz). He clearly means business. He is upset that we did not clear
the blooper with him. As punishment, he orders us to take down the
disco chute and fly the technicolor beast in full view of passing
boats. And if we can't do the maneuver in under a minute, he will
assess an appropriate punishment. Being too afraid to beg for his
mercy, we set up for the maneuver, which Dobbs calls a "Travolta." With
Dobbs in the hatch, and me on the foredeck, Bligh handles all the
cockpit duties by himself, his hands flying from helm to halyard, guy to
sheet, revealing his inner Tasmanian Devil. (note to my crew: it took
around 50 seconds; Bligh timed it). With that, Dodds and I narrowly
escape the captain's wrath, but are forced to fly this beast until the
wind dies around 3 PM.
The spinnaker fiasco behind us, we turn toward dinner. Seaman Gilbert
grills up the steaks he has been marinating for days, and the result is
amazing. In addition, he has prepared roasted potatoes and a medley of
warmed, canned vegetables. With the exception of the vegetables, it is
clear that the captain is warming to Seaman Gilbert's efforts and a
promotion in rank may not be too far off. As the dining winds down, we
listen to a selection of Danish and Swedish songs as the remain light
fades (along with our taste for good music).
Which brings us to this morning. But before that, a note about Tiki
Blue time. As Seaman Gilbert mentioned in a previous post, telling time
is kind of complicated on boat, and the Day 9 blog entry for whatever
reason extends into the morning of Day 10. What Seaman Gilbert doesn't
know is that figuring out the time for the watch schedule really isn't
that complicated. It's a six hour rotation, where each of us stands
watch for 1 1/2 hours, then is off for 4 1/2 hours. At night, when you
finish your watch, you wake up your replacement, occasionally write in
the ship's log, then pass out in a free bunk. But Dodds and I figured
out some time ago that we can just wake up Seaman Gilbert whenever we
want and he will stand watch for us. At first we had to come up with
some confusing explanation about Hawaii and California time, and how to
convert from the 24 hour format. But now he just assumes we are correct
and drags himself out of bed for the watch. As for the blog entries, we
started our passage at noon on August 4, so we consider days from noon
to noon.
Early this morning, we ran over a rope fish (possibly a "Poly-Pro" or a
"Hawser") which we think became entangled on the prop. These are not
good eating, so we tried to back off it, but a noticeable vibration
remained. So last night we sailed through whatever wind was available
until we could dive on the bottom in the light. After a strong cup of
coffee, I went to investigate the prop and shaft. There I found that the
shaft zinc was rotating freely around the prop shaft and was able to
move back and forth between the bearing and the prop. After many dives,
the problem was fixed, but there is nothing like holding your breath and
using an Allen wrench under a boat to provide a candid assessment your
cardio-vascular fitness. Mine needs some work.
Seymour Dodds continues to cut any references to rabbits out of the
various reading material to throw over board. He is convinced the lack
of wind is attributable to a French superstition that rabbits are bad
luck on sailing vessels. He has also found some references to bananas,
which he hands a similar fate. He's now looking for the Hawaiian word
for "rabbit" to search for any such instances of that word. There may
actually be some truth to the superstition, as after he started this
effort we saw decent speeds for at least part of yesterday, and today we
are currently sailing at 5.8 knots. But we could use all the help we
can get. So anyone who knows any wind dances or chants, send them our way.
Stubblebeard.
N 37º 05.777'; W 145º 18.641'. Distance to GGB: 1089 nm. Time 10:30
Hawaii Time.
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