Day 18
Happy Mother’s Day to all the strong, generous, fabulous mamas out there.
To Nina Kate, who leads us all with grace, love, and brilliance. She always tries to shine a light on other’s needs and successes, but everyone who has met Nina knows her light shines the brightest.
To Ella-Bean who holds down the fort at Rancho, mother to two glorious boys, two adoring dogs, and two fluffy kittens….well, to any needy creature that might cross her path. The original Pied Piper, she brightens any room and gets us all dancing on the tables.
To all the sisters who show me the way, every day.
Lying here on the saloon bench out of the tropical sun, feet braced against the galley cabinet, and under the swinging hammocks still full of lemons, limes and jicama, I can hear Jeff and David debate the pros and cons of the two different foresails. Jeff likes the jib for its nimble ability to tack. David likes the speed and strength of the genoa. They both want the same thing however: to allow Leona the best chance of reaching Nuku Hiva in time for that bottle of champagne we’ve been saving. It will be this evening, that’s for sure.
Currently we are reaching on a port tack, with a generous starboard heel. We have an average speed of 8-9 knots and lots of wind. So close, baby, so close.
Sailing tidbit:
A “reach” is when all sails are catching the wind on the same side of the boat.
A “gullwing” is when there is a sail on either side of the boat, as we did quite a bit early on.
A “traveller” is a sliding metal doo-hickey on a track that allows adjustment to the shape of the mainsail. You will need to know this soon.
“Falling off,” like most sailing terms refers to multiple ideas, both staying on board Leona and moving the sails away from the wind. So “Don’t fall off!” could be a cry from Jeff as I lean over the rail to throw away the coffee grounds, or it could be a cry from David as Georgie adjusts the main sheet.
“Coming up” likewise can be the staggering movement as David emerges up the stairs from his morning sleep (he always has the last watch of the night), or it can be adjusting sails to head more into the wind.
We had to fall off quite a bit just now, as David needed a level playing field for Leona’s latest mischievous challenge. I won’t go into detail, other than it is not mission-critical and has nothing to do with the mechanics of moving her forward. However it does involve a certain key pump, and there will be a lot of towels to wash.
One of the ideas that has floated around my head for these past 18 days (16 since we left San Diego), is that of “noise.” On Leona it is endlessly noisy: the ever-present (one hopes) wind and waves as Leona flies, but also lines slapping against railing or hull, the traveller’s cousin (officially “the car on the self-tracking jib track") sliding and banging as gusts hit unexpectedly, the winch adjusting the trim of the sails, woodwork creaking as waves surge beneath us, bottles and cans rattling in the galley (although old socks and dishtowels do help reduce that particular melody).
Squeaks and chirps and groans and clanks: positively poltergeistian.
Yet the distance from my land-self reduces the internal noise. It allows me to think about all those things I put off because I have the time and not the distraction. I think about all of you, dear readers (e-connection may lessen the sense of the remote, but it doesn’t diminish it completely). I marvel at the size and scope and utter unknown of this stunning blue expanse. I lose myself in the play of shadow and sun on the sails. I laugh at the ridiculous antics of the boobies.
The simplicity of life on a slack-line brings other senses into sharp relief. Smells are stronger, tastes are sharper, sounds are clearer (see above). I won’t go into smells because Leona is a fabulous vessel with all the mod-cons one could possibly dream about, but yes, even in 2024, life can be smelly.
evening booby shenanigans
And tastes: the tangy-sweet cold bite of a Leona Cocktail. The decadent sweetness of that post-dinner dark-chocolate sea-salt caramel. The layers of flavor Georgie conjures in her mid-day salad wraps.
We eat simply but never blandly.
“A bowl of plant.”
Georgie Walker
And as I write, I look up.
“Land, ho!”
Ua-huka appears off our port bow, under a bank of cloud.
A fishing boat appears on our AIS screen, five miles ahead.
We no longer sail these seas alone.
But the champagne must wait till we are safely anchored in Baie de Taiohae.
It’s there. I promise you.
Ua-huka, off the port bow.