Look, we’re famous! :) Thanks for the shoutout, Latitude 38! (but hey, guys, it’s been three years now, could you spell my name correctly, pretty please? :)
https://www.latitude38.com/lectronic/elana-conner-singlehands-new-zealand/
leaving the Society Islands
We lingered in French Polynesia to see some islands that we’d heard were can’t-miss, and because we did, we got to meet someone who was a huge source of inspiration to me even before I bought Windfola! I am so honored that I got to spend time with Liz Clark (www.swellvoyage.com), and she was not only so encouraging and inspiring, but she gave me so much support via everything a sailor lady needs—a hot shower, delicious plant-based meals, jugs of water, loads of fresh fruit, clean laundry in a real washing machine, and lots and lots of time on super fast wifi. WOW. I can’t even begin to put my gratitude into words… and I am excited to pay it all forward someday to another sailor woman.
Cyclone season starts in just a few days, and it’s imperative that we move west quickly now. The trade winds are finally filling in again, so we plan to depart French Polynesia tomorrow, and then sail fast toward Palmerston in the Cook Islands, Niue (if weather permits), and then on to Minerva Reef to wait for a weather window to Opua, New Zealand. We aren’t permitted to make landfall in NZ before the 23rd of November due to complex biosecurity requirements for importing Zia, but I want to get as close as possible so we can patiently wait out a safe moment to make that last jump.
I’m still feeling nervous about the legs ahead. We have 2100 nautical miles to cover in 28 days. It’s totally doable, but we need the weather to be cooperative. So please put out good vibes to Mother Earth to give us perfect weather conditions.
After we leave French Polynesia, I won’t be able to update my website or social media, but I will use my satellite connection to send regular photos and stories to our subscribers. If you want to hear from us while we’re out there on the ocean and in remote places, please consider becoming a supporter for our circumnavigation. We can only complete this dream if you journey along with us!
xo & fair winds,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕27 October, 2019; Society Islands, French Polynesia
Log: learning a new rhythm in french polynesia 🎶
[This was originally published to our subscribers.]
“You can’t cross the sea by merely standing and staring at the water.” --Rabindranath Tagore
I’ve been trying to learn to play the ukulele. I didn’t think it would be too difficult to grasp the basics since I studied piano for eight years. But learning the ukulele totally different, and I’m really struggling with it. The two aspects that I find the most challenging are switching my fingers from one chord to another and strumming consistently. The former is a practice in adaptation, being able to move from one moment to another and reassemble oneself quickly. The latter is about finding a rhythm and a natural flow.
I don’t know if my difficulty learning the ukulele is a byproduct of my difficulty adapting and finding a rhythm in cruising, but the parallels are uncanny.
During my passage, I wrote to many of you about a typical day at sea. Each day had its differences—like when my engine was overheating, or when we were caught in that hours-long squall and beating into the wind—yet there was a general rhythm that allowed me time for repairs, studies, watching the clouds, and writing.
Since landfall three months ago, everything has changed. Sailing through the tropical islands of French Polynesia has been amazing, and I feel more excited than ever about our circumnavigation. But what it takes to keep the boat moving from island to island is not the same as what it took out there on the ocean. It’s a different set of skills, and I’ve spent the summer working to adapt these and find a rhythm in this inter-island cruising life.
I'm always happy when there's water at an anchorage and I can bring the buckets and laundry to shore to do my washing.
Sailing from one island to another is typically done in an overnight passage. This allows us to both leave and arrive in daylight so that I can spot any coral or hazards in the passes and anchorages. But unlike ocean sailing, moving between islands requires constant vigilance due to hazards and local fishing boats. I never sleep more than twenty minutes at a time on these night passages, so I arrive tired and spend the next 24 hours recovering.
When we reach an island, it’s a little like moving to a new neighborhood. After I catch up on rest, I meet my new “neighbors”—locals and fellow cruisers-—and get oriented. Where can I find water? Fresh vegetables? WiFi? Sometimes none of these are available, and sometimes they are a one hour hike over a mountain. Collecting water from shore means kayaking back and forth with my five gallon jug, (sometimes across a large anchorage), until my tanks are completely full. Even though I carry plenty of provisions and water, I top up at every opportunity because I have to expect the unexpected… nothing available at the next island, or a punctured tank, or a dismasted drift at sea for two weeks to reach the next island.
In addition to doing routine maintenance and cleaning, I always spend a few days making repairs to anything that broke or degraded on the last passage. But everything takes longer on a boat. For example, my masthead navigation light--which makes our boat visible on night passages--was missing its red color, and only glowing green and white. When I reached the calm of Kauehi’s lagoon anchorage, I climbed the mast alone to investigate. I thought it was possible that the red lens had fallen off, but it turned out that one of the two “bumps” that holds the LED bulb in its socket had sheared off. Since it wasn’t making good contact anymore, some of the nodes weren’t lighting up. At the top of the mast, I disassembled the light as carefully as possible, but still managed to drop the metal disc that holds down the casing. Tumble, plunk, plop… and it sank 35 feet to the white sand bottom. I climbed down, put on my bathing suit, mask, and fins, and free dove in search patterns until I found it. Then I climbed the mast again to reassemble the light. I took a long nap that afternoon. :)
I’m happy to leave most modern conveniences behind, but access to the Internet is still extremely valuable to me. I try to find it if I know it’s available on an island, but if so, it often costs at least $5 USD for just a few hours or less. I will travel long distances on foot if I know it’s free elsewhere. My first priority on WiFi is always to download weather forecasts, because the Iridium GO! seems to struggle to connect to satellites when I’m near mountainous islands. Then I download navigational charts for offline use in an app called Navionics (which is a terrific resource and backup for my occasionally unreliable chartplotter). If I still have time, I use the internet connection to call my family and let them know I’m ok. Most of the time, the bandwidth isn’t good enough for rapid downloads, so it can take a long time just to fetch the weather and charts and then I’ve run out of time for anything else.
I’m subsisting on the support of my subscribers, so I do everything I can to cut cost. I spend a lot of time walking or hitchhiking to get good deals on produce and groceries. I’ve learned how to find the subsidized food items (their prices are written in red), and these have become staples in my diet: saltines, pasta, tinned vegetables, powdered milk, sardines, and eggs (when they’re available). Fresh meat is a treat, and I usually only enjoy it if another boat invites me over for dinner. When I see a local house with abundant fruit trees, I’ll ask if I can collect some of what’s already fallen to the ground. The people are often happy to share, and point me to others who have extra. A few words in the native language go a long way, so rather than “merci,” I’ve learned to say “maururu roa” with a big, thankful smile. This has led to some wonderful local friendships, sharing whatever we have with each other over an evening barbecue.
I made friends with locals in the village of Kauehi who had this great beach where I could land my kayak safely... which led to baking fresh bread in my solar oven for them, free diving the lagoon's pass together, sharing my Marquesan pamplemousse stock, and many wonderful evening barbecues.
I still study the weather a little every day, since I am trying to learn the South Pacific patterns. The big systems that roll from Australia across the Pacific toward Chile have major effects on the tropics. Most of my research now isn’t on the weather, though. Instead, it’s reading charts and guides on upcoming islands and anchorages, so I can memorize my options for different weather conditions and emergencies. Weather and itinerary are major topics of conversation when cruisers gather for sundowners on a friend’s boat, and I learn a lot from comparing notes with others. It seems like socializing out here is as much for knowledge sharing and support as it is for just kicking back with new friends.
With all of these tasks, the days seem to disappear quickly. People often comment admiringly on how I “do everything myself” as a singlehander, but the truth is, when you share the load with someone else, you probably do a better job at everything and you have time to relax.
I truly enjoy all of the work it takes to keep our boat moving. I’ve learned so much from our experiences this summer, and I’ve repaired and improved things I never dreamed of… I even adjusted the valve clearance on our inboard diesel engine! But I’ve spent so much time managing passages, breakages, studying, and provisioning needs that by the time I reached Tahiti in late-August, I’d all but stopped writing and reading for pleasure. I’d lost my rhythm. It seemed like I’d become more reactive to cruising, rather than building the creative lifestyle that I wanted.
I have found some time for creativity... Inspired by found ocean objects, shells, and local beads, I've made gifts for many of my California to French Polynesia crossing subscribers!
When my close girlfriend arrived to Tahiti for a visit, she kindly spent many hours listening to me describe my dilemma. How do I find time to write and share the way I want to, but still keep costs low, and sail on to New Zealand at the pace that the pending cyclone season requires?
We discussed this as I spent days trekking around Papeete on foot to solve an electrical problem with my windless (which is essential to me for solo anchoring). First, to the hardware store, then the marine supply, back to the boat, and the next day to an electrical specialist to solder a new plug to the handheld remote. Then back to the boat, where I had to solder on a new deck plug. It was a case-in-point for my problems, because I ultimately invested three days in a repair that a hired electrician could have fixed in a half day.
My friend pointed this out. “You need more time if you’re going to write again.” We decided together that I needed to slow down, be willing to hire help to make repairs when possible, pay a few dollars for a five-minute taxi instead of walking for an hour, and spend the occasional $5 for nearby WiFi. Creating more time in my days will allow me to redevelop a consistent rhythm of writing and sharing this journey with you the way I’d hoped to.
I sailed to Mo’orea after her departure, and I’ve stayed for over three weeks. I’ve been developing new rhythms that have given me time to write, share, and correspond again. I’m hoping that with practice, I’ll also improve at adapting quickly to the constant changes that come with cruising. I have a clear vision of a more balanced path forward for our circumnavigation… and on it, I’ll have more time for learning to play the ukulele. Maybe now I’ll finally figure out how to change chords easily, and strum smoothly.
creating a new rhythm,
elana, zia, & SV Windfola ⛵🎶
leaving Mo'orea
All good things must come to an end… and that’s exactly what’s happening to my visa tomorrow. I’m clearing out now for my departure for the Cook Islands, and if all goes according to plan, my first stop will be Palmerston Island (which has a very interesting history). Time and weather permitting, we’ll head to Niue, and then on to anchor in a reef in the middle of the ocean while we wait for a weather window to New Zealand. Cyclone season technically begins on the first of November, and I imagine we will make landfall in NZ in early- to mid-November. I’m pretty nervous about the next six weeks of sailing, since we have a lot of distance to cover and weather is notoriously tricky between the tropics and New Zealand.
After we leave French Polynesia, I won’t be able to update my website or social media, but I will use my satellite connection to send regular photos and stories to our subscribers. If you want to hear from us while we’re out there on the ocean and in remote places, please consider becoming a supporter for our circumnavigation. We can only complete this dream if you journey along with us!
xo & fair winds,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕 30 September, 2019; Mo’orea, Society Islands, French Polynesia
Mo'orea, in photos
I’m so glad that we spent most of this month on Mo’orea. We’ve had many fun adventures, caught up with all of our neglected correspondence and digital chores, and finally repaired the framing around my starboard water tank. I miss the friends that sailed on ahead of us, but I’ve met new boats and local friends, and I know I’ll catch up with old friends in New Zealand during the cyclone season. :)
Mo’orea is a beautiful island, and I definitely recommend visiting. It’s easily accessible from the main French Polynesian airport in Tahiti via ferry, and has all that Polynesian charm at less than half the price of a stay on Bora Bora.
pausing to rebalance on Mo'orea
epiLogue: making landfall in French Polynesia
[This was originally published to our subscribers 33 days after making landfall.]
content warning: this log contains sensitive adult topics that may not be appropriate for young readers. please use discretion if you are sharing with children.
I've been trying to figure out how to tell you why I've been so quiet after we all shared such an incredible experience crossing the Pacific together. We have so much to celebrate, but for awhile I wasn't able to. I wanted to write and thank you for your support during the journey, but now I must also thank you for your patience while I put this final Log together.
Generally, I think my life is one of incredible luck. But even I get unlucky sometimes, and that’s what happened on my third day after landfall. It messed with my head and my heart a little, but I’m on the other side of it now. I’m glad to finally be able to share this story with you, and I'm looking forward to sharing those ahead in our journey across the beautiful South Pacific.
It’s a long story.
dropping anchor
As we approached Hiva Oa midday on Thursday, June 6th, the view of dramatic volcanic cliffs and mountains rising out of the great blue was spectacular. Reaching the uninhabited southeastern edge of the island, I turned us nearly due west to sail the final 15 nautical miles in an increasingly short, steep swell pattern. I started to take a final cockpit bath, thinking that I might be greeted by customs upon arrival and smelling decent could have a positive impact.
Ten minutes into my bath and thoroughly soaped-up, the swell intensity suddenly increased, tossing our stern around through a 100-degree arc. Now that we were pointed downwind, the foresail was dumping and filling with each rolling swing, we were on our slowest point of sail, and it was clear that unless I could keep the jib full, we were not going to make it in before dark (which happens around five o’clock PM local time). I knew I’d have to pole out the jib with only ten nautical miles to go.
This is a time-consuming task, the afternoon sun was beating down, and with the wind behind us, the air was stiflingly still. Post-bath yet drenched in sweat, nervous with the approach of land, dehydrated and under-fed (by my own neglect that morning), I wrestled with the pole and screamed at the ocean. “Oh, you’re going to do this NOW, are you?! You need to test me one more time?! You can’t just let us have a nice easy sail in?! Arghh!!!”
I had a list of tasks to execute in preparation for landfall, and I wasn’t pleased to add the pole to it. The anchorage required both a forward and stern anchor, which was a technique I’d never performed alone. I didn’t even have the chain attached to the aft anchor yet, the windlass remote still needed to be plugged in, the forward anchor unlashed, and the locker full of its chain was still taped closed to minimize water entry during the crossing. I rushed around in the final hour and a half, heart pounding, feeling overwhelmingly nervous at the nearness of land and the sound of giant swell pounding against unforgiving black cliffs.
When we entered the anchorage, we were greeted by David, a fellow Californian and member of the Pacific-crossing “net” that I’d participated in during the voyage. I felt overwhelming gratitude as he pulled up alongside in his dinghy and offered to set my stern anchor for me. I lowered the anchor into his boat and he sped away to drop it well behind us, while I set the forward anchor, reversing and letting out chain. David invited us to visit him and Kathy whenever I felt up to it in the coming days, and then left me to rest.
The moment both of Windfola’s anchors were down and snubbed I looked around at the dramatic volcanic peaks surrounding us and the bay full of our international bluewater sailing fellows. Emotions that I didn’t even know were in me rose to the surface, and as I grinned and laughed, I also sobbed. I couldn’t believe we’d made it. The ocean always reminds you of your place, and her allowing you a safe arrival feels like a gift of grace.
The next three days were a blur of activity. I met the agent, Sandra, who would facilitate the process of clearing in with customs. Zia and I got to know David & Kathy, who are absolutely wonderful and I know will be our friends for life. Another couple of similar age and hilarious Southern dispositions completed my new duo of “anchorage parents,” and we visited the markets in the nearby town together to exclaim excitedly over french cheese, ice cream, fresh meat, and crispy baguettes. These seemed like unbelievable delights after our passage, as did our dinner of cold beers and pizza at the only restaurant around.
On Saturday, I visited the gendarmerie to complete my formal entry paperwork. Escorted by Sandra and arriving with a few other skippers, I was greeted with smiles by the two gendarmes on duty. One was a large local Marquesan, and the other, Philippe, was from France and part of a mobile Gendarmerie unit that is assigned out to foreign territories for three months of every year. The U.S. doesn’t have an equivalent organization to the gendarmes, but they are like a cross between state, county, and federal police with an Army National Guard flavor. In rural places, they handle a variety of federal governmental tasks, including customs, in addition to typical law-enforcement responsibilities.
Clearing-in was easy, and I learned that Zia would actually be allowed ashore in French Polynesia as soon as I took her to a government veterinarian in Tahiti. This was two months or more of sailing away, but still terrific news. Philippe congratulated me on my solo crossing and welcomed me to “France.”
Semaphore bluff, Hiva Oa.
what happened next
On Sunday afternoon I headed up to Sandra’s “office” for the third day in a row. It’s a ten-minute hike up a dead-end dirt road on the eastern bluff at the bay’s entrance. Her office is a cargo ship container with a thatch-roof awning extending over a few wooden picnic tables. The sign there says “Semaphore,” which means the place for hoisting marine visual signal flags, and that’s what most of the cruisers call it.
Every morning Sandra opens the Semaphore from 8:30-10:30, and cruisers wander up to buy a “coffee” (instant nescafe and powdered milk) and get the day’s WiFi password. A typical morning WiFi congregation is around twenty people, so the internet is usually slow. Many cruisers return later in the day for a faster connection, and it’s not uncommon to see people on the bluff at the Semaphore during all hours of the day and evening. The view of the sea and the mountains is stunning, and there are lights that illuminate the tables all night.
It was about an hour before sunset when I arrived that Sunday to find a few others quietly bent over their own devices. I chatted a little with my neighbor, a fellow singlehanded sailor, while I initiated a backup of my photographs from the crossing. I knew the backup would take a few hours, and I was looking forward to using the time to watch the sunset and write about my experiences so far on Hiva Oa.
Other cruisers came and went throughout the evening, and I wasn’t alone until around nine o’clock. Laptop open, sitting under the outdoor spot light, I was composing an update for you much like this one.
I was excited to tell you about my arrival, the crazy winds and seas, the sudden immersion into land life and how I forgot my shoes the first time I went ashore and wandered the town barefoot. I was excited to tell you how I was going to climb an old single-handers’ mast the next day because he’d broken his rib on the crossing and his foresail shredded, and I was happy to be able to pay forward all of the help I’ve received by going up to cut it down for him. I was excited to tell you about my first ice cream after the passage, and how I chose the classic vanilla sandwich kind with that unique outer “cookie” that sticks to your fingers in a gummy, crumbly way.
A young local man arrived while I was typing. He was probably in his early 20s. Smoking cigarettes, drinking something dark from a large soda bottle, and listening to a youtube music video out loud on his phone, he milled around the end of the table where I sat. He was large in the typical Polynesian way, tall, stocky, and much bigger than me. What they call “thick” in Hawaii.
I continued to type and watch the status bar progress on my phone’s backup. He tried to speak to me in French, but after a polite "good evening," I explained that I don’t speak the language and returned to my writing.
He alternated between standing and sitting at the end of the table on the corner of the side across from me, about three feet away. There would be long stretches of five or ten minutes without any words, and then he’d try to say something in French or English. I stayed focused on my computer, though I did politely responded to his sporadic questions.
“Where do you live?”
“On a boat.” Long pause. My backup continues.
“You english?”
“I’m American.” Eyes back on my computer, I realize he’ll probably continue to try to practice his english on me, and I try to express my preoccupation through my body language. Ten minutes pass.
“You have boyfriend?”
“I’m married,” I say firmly, holding my hand up and pointing to my ring. “My husband is on the boat.” I hate myself for saying this. I’m a captain, I just crossed an ocean. Why do I feel like I have to make up a man in order to set boundaries? Why does experience tell me that this is a more effective shutdown than saying I’m just not interested?
I focus on my computer. The backup is nearly finished, but I am enjoying writing under the stars. I want to stay while I’m feeling inspired, and I feel like if I leave, I’m letting a man behaving annoyingly prevent me from freely doing what I feel like doing (which I’ve generally resolved isn’t how I want to live my life). But I know I should probably just go. I put most of my things into my bag and write a few more notes during the final minutes before the backup ends. I hear a noise like velcro. A minute passes.
“Miss, miss, is OK? is OK, miss?” I look up at him.
He’s moved a little closer to me up the other side of the table, his pants are open, and he is aggressively masturbating as he stares at me.
Everything happens quickly. I yell. I jump up. I throw my computer into my bag and grab my phone, all as I back away from the table quickly. I’m trying to avoid seeing his parts without turning my back on him. I tell him that’s disgusting, he’s a pervert, that’s sick, I’m going to tell Sandra. “What the hell is wrong with you!?” I scream. But I back away rather than fighting. I’m a coward. Or I’m a small person in self-preservation mode presented with someone larger than them who has been drinking something unknown. I’m in the dark, I’m in a foreign country. I think about how no one will be able to hear me scream up here if he pursues me. He could be over the table in a split second. I forgot my pocketknife. I don’t have a flashlight. He’s so much bigger than me.
I wish I had laughed at him, mocking him or saying something cleverly insulting. I wish I had stood my ground and told him to beat it. I wish I’d thrown a rock at him and chased him off and kept writing like I was completely unshaken. I don’t want the bad guys to win.
But I just run. I turn on the flashlight on my phone and I run down the uneven, rocky, steep dirt road in my loose sandals. I run down the hill while I look over my shoulder and strain to hear any sound that would indicate he’s pursuing me.
Halfway down the hill, I see a parked car that wasn’t there when I went up the hill. There’s nothing else up the road, there’s no reason for a car to be there. I want to keep running but I stop to snap a picture. The flash isn’t on, I have to turn it on and try again. My heart pounds at the delay. I get a clear picture and begin to run down the hill again. I run and run. I stumble and I run.
I reach the bright lights of the pier. My kayak is tied there. There are a few locals around, as there almost always seem to be at night. I don’t remember what I was thinking, but eventually, I’m in my kayak and paddling back to my boat. I honestly don’t remember much of anything after that. I know that I thought about how I’m already a survivor, and this wasn’t nearly as bad as I know it can be. I know I had flashback nightmares again that night.
a new day
I had an appointment in the morning to go up an old singlehander’s mast and get his torn genoa down. After a quick bath, I put on lots of sunscreen, a sun shirt, and my favorite Spectra Watermaker visor, which allows me to clip my hair in a giant pile on top of my head. I never thought I’d be someone who wore visors, and I don't even have a watermaker, but I got this one for free at the Richmond boat show and it’s easily my favorite hat.
I joined another cruiser on the singlehander’s boat around nine AM. It was hot already, and I wished we’d started earlier. We spent the next few hours working to unwrap the tangled shreds of his giant genoa. I felt nothing and everything while I climbed the mast, clung to the forestay, and lowered myself down it at a backwards angle with my legs wrapped around it and my arms unwrapping the sail while cutting with the knife.
At some point, I started to feel irritated. At nothing in particular, because I didn’t mind the work at all. During a break on deck, I told the guys, "I’m a little tired." I glossed over the details of the night before. They’re appalled. One of them tells me that maybe because of who I am, I shouldn’t go out after dark (remember that sunset is at 5:15 PM on the island), and maybe shouldn’t go places alone.
I was so upset at this response, but I didn’t feel like I could tell them that. Their hearts are good, they are trying to “fix” things and to protect me. But telling women to live with less freedom is neither a solution nor protection. Telling me not to go places alone is like telling a bird to stop flying. My identity is freedom.
Hiking above Anaho Bay, Nuku Hiva.
the response
Within the next 24 hours, everyone in the anchorage seemed to know what had happened. The people from French boats would stop me ashore and say how sorry they were about my experience, encouraging me to go to the gendarmerie. Everyone told me to tell Sandra, but I didn’t have to, because by Tuesday when I visit the Semaphore again, she already knew. “I think you need to tell the gendarmes. I think it’s important. Do you want to go? I’ll drive you there.”
I was really surprised by everyone’s reaction. I’ve never had a positive experience with law enforcement when reporting issues like this, and I thought that because there was no touching or assault, the police probably wouldn’t care. I know that in the U.S., the cops would mostly be annoyed and disinterested. And on an island where everyone knows everyone, I assumed they would protect the guy, who was probably a relative anyway.
On Wednesday I went to the Gendarmerie with Sandra, and she waited with me at the front counter until they called me back. The captain of the district (which includes three islands and has only five gendarmes) was a tall, imposing Polynesian woman with fantastic traditional tattoos all over her arms. With a warm smile and kind demeanor, she personally took my statement over the next few hours. A local tour guide translated for us, and told me stories about playing football during his time attending university in Hawaii. Philippe, the temporary gendarme from France, joined us from time to time, and during a lull while the captain was printing my statement, he asked if I wanted to go exploring that Friday on his day off. Apparently, there was a beautiful bay with a white sand beach on the north side, and it was only accessible via an hour and a half long hike. I hadn’t seen any of the island yet, so I said yes.
The captain asked me if I wanted the man who did this to apologize to me. She said that regardless, they were going to pick him up and talk to him, that they consider this a serious issue. I told them that I had no interest in ever seeing him again, but thanks for the offer. She assured me that if I had any issue at all, no matter how small, I could always come to visit the gendarmerie again, on this island or any other. In a strange way, having authorities take what happened so seriously felt healing… and not just for this time, but for every time in the past that they hadn’t.
That Friday, Philippe and I drove across the island to the trailhead. He took me on a mini-tour along the way, stopping on the high plateau in the middle of the island to watch the wild horses graze, and at the airport, where a handful of guys hung around a breezy hangar waiting for the one inter-island flight per day to arrive. We reached the small village at the end of the road, driving past residents burning scraps from copra production while the children practiced soccer on a beautifully-manicured field by the school.
We found the unmarked trailhead and started our hike. A dog joined us, occasionally roaming off to chase wild goats. The trail was dusty and rocky, winding along the dry brown cliffs of the coast. When I first caught sight of the bay, I exclaimed aloud with happiness. In contrast to the murky, sharky, unswimmable waters of the entry port, this bay was picture-postcard gorgeous. White sand, clear water with abundant coral, and beautiful azure and turquoise waters greeted us. It was my first swim since landfall, and I was in heaven.
First view of Hanatekuua Bay, Hiva Oa.
sailing on
What happened on the hill at the Semaphore has led to many good things. I’ve connected with some wonderful people, gone on more hikes, sailed an unplanned course to unexpected places, repaired some of the leaks on Windfola, and even took on a young solo French woman to sail with us for a few weeks. As I meet more sailors here, especially women, I feel a renewed sense of conviction about the importance of what I am doing by voyaging solo. I met a little girl last night who sailed with her family from California, and when her mother told her I sailed alone, she asked me “But who was your captain?” I was sad and glad to have the chance to tell her that I am a captain, and in that moment, forever change her preconceptions about who can be one.
I am thankful for all of the positive outcomes of what happened, but I also struggled for weeks with how to share that everything isn’t paradise here. I couldn’t simply write happy stories like everything was ok, because it wasn’t. I had mixed feelings. I was emotionally sandwiched between the wonderful things happening during the day and nightmares some nights. I typically write every day, but I stopped for almost three weeks. Perhaps I found it difficult to return to writing since it’s what I was doing in that moment at the semaphore. I don’t know.
Shortly after what happened, I met a family sailing from Europe to New Zealand with their two teenage daughters. The younger daughter told me about an experience she had in the showers of a marina in Greece that has affected her ever since. She talked about the anxiety she feels, how she’s had to learn to navigate the world as a woman, checking mirrors when she enters bathrooms and changing the way she walks around corners. Even though she’s grown so much in their year and a half of sailing, she’s also become more nervous and wary. She doesn’t want what happened to her to change her, but she does feel more fear.
I told her that I feel the same way. I wear a necklace that says “fearlessness” not because I believe that being without fear is so admirable, but because I believe a fearless life is knowing fear but not letting it set our limits. After these experiences, we might feel afraid. But we have to continue to live free from its control. We have to sail on fearlessly.
heading for the horizon,
elana, zia, & SV windfola ⛵️
P.S. The necklace I wear is a long-time fundraiser of the Joyful Heart Foundation, an organization that helps women and children who are survivors of sexual assault, domestic violence, and childhood abuse. If you are interested in getting a “fearlessness” necklace for someone in your life, you can purchase one here.
P.P.S. Knowing I'd find solace in data, a girlfriend of mine recently sent me this thought-provoking article on solo international women travelers and safety that I recommend you read. It highlights some of the problems and complexities we face, as well as approaches to solutions and how to be an ally to us (which you all already are :)
landfall on Hiva Oa!
Day 25: Arriving to our First Destination!!!
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
WE MADE IT!!!!! ✨🌈🌴
Once the anchor was down, I couldn’t stop crying. Between the swell and the shifting wind angles, today was incredibly challenging sailing. The relief of making it safely was—is—overwhelming.
I feel many things, but most of all, I feel humility and deep gratitude. I’m honored and humbled by your support and enthusiasm, and I have loved sharing this journey with you!
It does feel like we—all of us—made it today. 💕
with excitement for what’s ahead of all of us,
elana, zia, and SV windfola
Day 22: The Rum Fairy Remembers her Lessons
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
Defying all expectations, today’s conditions were completely mellow. After a windy and rolling night, the winds and seas calmed around mid-morning and have been moving us along in gentle, perfect conditions ever since. The sky was a clear, gorgeous blue. This left me wondering, what’s the weather doing ahead of us and when is it arriving?
I tend to sail conservatively since I’m alone and relatively inexperienced. I try to make the most responsible and informed decisions that I can with the hope that this will keep us safe(r). I sometimes wonder if my restrained and cautious choices seem silly to more experienced sailors. But, as I’m already taking enough risk doing this solo, why encounter that which might be prevented?
Then the unexpected arrives, and I remember what the ocean teaches me every time I’m out here. No matter what’s forecast, you have to sail the conditions you are in.
She teaches me this when unexpected winds crop up and linger. I think, “This isn’t in the forecast; it will probably pass before I can put a reef in.” But it doesn’t. She teaches me this when the winds lighten and I’m hesitant to shake out a reef, knowing conditions are forecast to worsen soon. But they don’t. She is reminding me that we are in this moment, right now. We must adjust sail for both the expected and the unexpected. If we worry too much about what’s coming, we will miss out on enjoying the clear blue sky overhead and the gentle rolling swell below.
Once I remembered this, I relaxed and shook out a reef. Zia and I savored the day, wandering the foredeck together, watching the birds, and hunting for flying fish in crevices of the cockpit lazarettes. Since e-mail was still down, I had time to read a book for pleasure. I chopped and pickled onions in lemon juice and white wine vinegar and prepared a giant salad for dinner. It was delicious. Today was unexpected and perfect.
with love and serenity,
elana, zia, and SV Windfola 💕
P.S. You can reply to this email to reach me again! 😀 I would love to know what you want to hear more about during our final days at sea.
Day 21: Anxious But Happy Shellbacks
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
We crossed the equator! I saw the southern cross for the first time! These are incredible, amazing, joyful milestones—and yet I’m a bundle of nerves.
I had forgotten that this is the point in a passage when things fatigue to exhaustion. We have been beating into the wind ever since we exited the ITCZ, and all of us can feel it. Windfola’s wooden interior is swollen with the humidity and creaking horribly as her hull bashes into the swell. Zia is so tired of our life at 20°, heeled to starboard, that she pooped in our bed in her sleep last night. 💩 The starboard side has a leak into the shower pan floor of the head so I have to manually run the sump pump there every two hours all night. The GPS chart plotter has gone on strike and shuts itself down throughout the night, disabling all my alarms for ships and objects. The strap that holds my life raft on the boat wore through and I just barely caught it in time. The e-mail app I use to check my Gmail won’t send or receive e-mails anymore, so I also can't share pictures with you now. Every sound the boat makes feeds my anxiety that she’s going to fall apart at the seams any second.
But, incredibly, I feel stronger than ever! My soul is renewed and my heart is full. As I crossed the equator I thanked Mother Ocean for giving us so much joy, teaching us, and delivering us safely. I hauled up buckets of her beautiful, warm water and drenched myself in it, happily licking the salt off of my lips. I thanked Windfola for being her vessel, and I thanked Zia for being our companion.
And then I put on my Rum Fairy outfit, crawled to the bow, and poured one out for my homegirl. 🥃🌊
There was a dance party in the cockpit that culminated in me singing Southern Cross at the top of my lungs. A tub of frosting with rainbow sprinkles was eaten with a spoon (I forgot to buy something to put it on) and Zia got a can of tuna juice. We are all still smiling.
But ahead of us lies one more challenge. You might have noticed that I haven’t been sailing a direct course to Hiva Oa, and the route I’ve chosen has added at least a day to our passage. That’s because I wanted to put us at a better angle for what’s coming.
A very strong cycle of tradewinds is building, and with it is a pattern of 3+ meter swell with a short period of seven seconds. Our longitude exiting the ITCZ, coupled with the angle of these tradewinds, meant that if we sailed directly to our destination the wind and swell would be right on the beam or slightly forward of it. This position would be uncomfortable and worrisome in the short, steep waves that are coming, so we sailed south for the last few days. As the seas and winds build tomorrow, I will fall off to the southwest on our heading to Hiva Oa, putting the wind and swell slightly behind us for the final leg of our journey.
It will still be a stressful and bumpy ride, but we only have about four and a half days to go. Now is the time to hang in there and nerves are just part of the package. Part of the glorious, beautiful, awesome package.
delighted and determined,
elana, zia, and SV Windfola 💪
P. S. More of our playlist from the sea!
Thelonius Monk, Bluehawk (swing/blues/jazz piano)
Calexico; Hush (bordertown indie folk rock)
Gemini Rising, Fiora, & Tensnake; Best Case Life (80s-inspired modern indie)
Junip; Don’t Let it Pass (indie euro folk rock)
CSNY; Wooden Ships (classic folk rock)
Emiliana Torrini, Sunny Road (indie girl with guitar folk)
Jose Gonzales; Every Age and Open Book (indie guy with guitar folk)
Sugarloaf; Green-Eyed Lady (classic rock)
People Under The Stairs, Montego Slay (underground/classic-style melodic hip hop)
Blues Image; Ride Captain Ride (classic rock)
Collective Efforts; Tunnel Vision (underground/classic-style melodic hip hop)
CSNY; Guinevere (folk)
Kate Bush; This Woman’s Work & Running up the Hill (women’s)
Ibeyi; Rise Up Wise Up Eyes Up (Afro-Caribbean/French inspired modern soul)
Yes; Owner of a Lonely Heart (80s)
Nina Simone; Wild is the Wind (jazz)
Bibio; Saint Thomas, You Won’t Remember, & A Mineral Love (chill indie folk electro-groove singer/songwriter)
Joni Mitchell, A Case of You (folk)
Rationale; Prodigal Son (indie African-inspired singer-songwriter)
Procol Harem; A Salty Dog (classic rock)
Curtis Mayfield; Move On Up (soul/funk/brass)
Stevie Wonder, Uptight (Everything’s Alright)
Vetiver; Current Carry (indie modern chill surf-folk-rock)
Iron & Wine; Joy & Fever Dream (modern indie folk)
Andrew Bird; Truth Lies Low & Far From Any Road Be My Hand (indie folk/strings jazz)
Beth Orton, State of Grace (singer/songwriter modern folk)
Aqualung; Magnetic North (indie rock)
Noname; Diddy Bop (indie female r&b/melodic rap)
Brandi Carlile; The Eye (bluegrass/country folk)
Phosphorescent; Song For Zula (mellow indie rock)
Vetiver; The Swimming Song (cover of another folk artist)
Jim James; The World’s Smiling Now (mellow soul)
Sam Padrul; Why Do I Do? - Matanoll Remix (modern soul funk pop)
Kat Edmonson; What Else Can I Do? (solo female latin jazz)
Escort; My Life (modern soul funk pop)
Day 18: A Lengthy Portrait of A Day at Sea
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
Many of you have asked me to describe a typical day at sea. In my experience, there is no such thing. Just the wonder and grandeur of being on this beautiful, wide ocean makes each moment feel unique and awesome. Days and nights blend together with waking, sleeping, and sailing, and I literally don’t know what time it is since we are between time zones. There are small events each day, and I sometimes annotate these on the chart as I record our course. “Big Brown Bird,” “Gorgeous Rainbow,” “Potato Salad” (that was yesterday), “Big Squall,” and so forth.
Awareness begins for me sometime around 0500, which is typically the first time in the night that I wake up without feeling like my brain is still asleep. This moment is otherwise no different than any other throughout the night; I check the GPS to see if there are any ships around on AIS, listen to the sails and the boat, roll out of my bunk to check the bilge pump, and walk up the companionway to scan the horizon for lights or hazards and make minor tweaks to the trim of the sails or our course. Then I return to bed, telling myself I should sleep more.
Depending on how restful the night was, I wake up sometime between 0630-0730. In the last week, this has been getting later, and I think it may be my body’s natural response to the sun rising and settling later at this longitude. I listen to Windfola’s sounds, check the chartplotter and scan the horizon for ships again, then turn off the masthead navigation lights, AIS, chartplotter, and instruments. I walk around the deck of the boat, looking for any stray parts on deck and plucking off the dead flying fish. I haul up a bucket of water to rinse Zia’s potty area. I observe the sky, sea, and wind conditions, as well as the battery charge state,and I note it all in the log. I also set goals for the day, and I write about how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking (hopefully foreign officials never actually want to read my log!).
Electricity is precious, so I grind my coffee beans by hand. I use one hand to hold the container and the other to turn the crank, so I must wedge my body into a secure corner of the galley, using my legs, hips, and elbows to assist. I often stop mid-rotation, when I feel a big swell coming. Once the coffee is ground, I put everything away before moving on to the next task, or else the grinder and fresh grounds will fly around the boat with the next wave. I brace myself while I slowly fill a pot of water, anticipating the boat’s motion and tilting the pot accordingly to prevent spillage. I set it on the swinging stovetop at precisely the right moment. Then I grab the lighter, brace myself again, lift the pot with one hand, light the burner, and set it down to boil. I prepare the french press, nestling it into a corner of the clean side of the sink, wedging the clean, drying dishes around it to hold it in place. I brace myself again, so that I can use two hands to unscrew the lid off the jar of coffee grounds, and scoop, slowly, between waves, into the press. Putting the coffee away, I prepare a small thermos with powdered milk to receive some of the boiling water...
The end-to-end timeline from conceiving the desire for coffee to sitting with a cup in hand is typically about 25 minutes. As I’ve mentioned before, everything takes longer at sea. Even just walking from one end of the boat to the other can take four times longer than it would in port. Bear this in mind as you read all of the rest of the happenings of the day, because they are all colored by the need to constantly balance oneself as the boat moves.
I find a spot to nestle with my cup of coffee—usually in the companionway where I can watch the horizon—and begin the weather download process. Other than the Garmin InReach tracking device with the map and messages, all other data comes through my satellite “phone”, the IridiumGO! It’s not really a phone, it’s more like a modem/wifi hotspot. I keep it mounted in the cockpit attached to its antenna, and it is on all of the time because it is sending position reports automatically to the PredictWind tracker map. The GO! functionality is otherwise entirely dependent on pairing with other smart devices. There are only perhaps twelve approved apps that work with the GO! so you don’t have much choice when it comes to weather, e-mail, and browsers (I use that term very loosely). I am using a different service provider for this passage than I did for my last, and they had unique deals on weather subscriptions and data, so I’m also using some different apps this time.
You have to set aside any notion of the experience you have on land with the Internet; it is simply not comparable. Think early-90s dial up, text only, no Google, and no other smartphone apps. The process is as follows: open the IridiumGO! app on my iPhone, login. Open the PredictWind Offshore weather app. Select a grid and data for download; typically I pick wind, pressure, CAPE index (thunderstorm prediction), and wave (every other day, usually), in all four available models. Check the estimated download size. Hit download, watch it dial, authenticate, and connect. It takes at least 20 minutes, usually more like 30, sometimes stopping in the middle of the download inexplicably, at which point I go back through the connection flow and then restart the download. During this, I eat breakfast. 🍎 🥜 😀
After the download is complete, I begin to study the weather. I also use the Garmin InReach app on my iPad mini to look at the same tracking data you see on our map tracker, analyzing my course and speed over the past 24 hours. This is also when I do my charting. I use this to determine when I’ll be where in the upcoming weather forecast. The last two days, I’ve been doing less analysis because the weather should be fairly predictable from here to our destination, and instead spend time looking at broader trends in the entire South Pacific. When I finish this, I use the iPad to connect to the IridiumGO!, then use another app to initialize access to the internet, then the Opera mini browser app to load a few web pages.
I use another app, OneMail, to fetch email. Again, it’s a long connection and download process: first, it fetches the header data of the emails in my inbox, including their size. Then I select which I’d like to download. If there are a lot, I have to do this in batches. I then reconnect to download these e-mails. It fails regularly and I have to reconnect and try again.
Through all of this, I’m taking breaks to sail, watch the horizon, and log any changes in observed weather or sail configuration. Most mornings, I’m also listening to an audiobook on a mobile bluetooth speaker. Early in the passage it was Trevor Noah’s book Born a Crime, and Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. For the last week, it’s been a book about the history of human settlement of the Pacific, The Puzzle of Polynesia. I’m also listening to a program of French lessons. 👩🎨
By the time I’m done with all of this, it’s usually around 1100, and my brain and eyes need a break. Zia and I hang in the cockpit and I sail, steer, and watch the birds and flying fish. It’s amazing how many birds there are out here! I am seeing so many more than I did on the way to Hawaii.
I’ve informally fallen into a rhythm of using the mornings for learning and studying, so this is also when I read books about weather, anchorages, routing, and other helpful topics. There are so many things about passage making that I still need to learn, and there is never enough time for all of it!
Eventually, I make lunch (my big meal for the day), and then try to take a nap between 1400-1630. If I get a good one, I’m more alert when I wake up intermittently in the night. The evenings I spend in the cockpit, watching the horizon, editing photos, and writing. I type everything on the computer in a document because all of the IridiumGO programs have horrible lags and mess up what you’re typing. I transfer the file from computer to iPhone or iPad, and go through the whole upload/download process again, copy/pasting every email from the document into the email program.
Every evening, I write a brief daily status report and email it to a “net” of boats crossing the Pacific this year. We share observed weather conditions from the day and night, and technical details on our course and speed. Everyone is really nice and sometimes there are funny stories, anecdotes, or requests for tips on fixing something that’s broken. It’s like having an instant group of friends. Some will be in the harbor when I arrive, and I’m really looking forward to meeting them after five months of emailing!
When the sun sets, I try to wrap up writing as soon as possible and go to bed. I know I’ll be up and down all night checking things and making adjustments. I turn all of the electronics back on for the night, checking to make sure they are all working. They aren’t necessary during the day, but I find it easier to have the instruments about wind, course, and speed turned on when I’m groggy at night. With the cockpit tidy, my headlamp and gloves hanging ready, and the hatchboards next to the companionway, I go to bed. 😴
The rhythm I’ve described gets completely disrupted if there are storm conditions, variable weather throughout the day or night (requiring more active sailing), breakages, or maintenance tasks. Obviously, those take precedence and usually mean there will be no writing on the computer that day. And if the sea state is rough, moving around becomes much more challenging, which limits activities to only the necessary.
I can’t think of any day out here that wasn’t a happy one, with some unique beauty or insight. To my land friends, it may sound like a foreign way to live, but I love it. I am absolutely in love with what I am doing. Windfola, Zia, and Elana merge and our rhythm of life weaves into the rhythm of the ocean and nature around us. It is the most connected, strong, and limitless I’ve ever felt.
with our eyes on the horizon,
elana, zia, and SV windfola 💕
Day 14: Routing and Forecasting
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
A few of you have asked how I’ve chosen our route to French Polynesia, and the truth is, it’s mostly been chosen for us by the same winds that chose the routes of ships four hundred years ago. If you look at our PredictWind tracker, you can see the general wind trends of the Pacific. Winds blow down the west coast from the northwest, until you hit the northern hemisphere tradewinds, which blow from the northeast toward the west. Just north of the equator, there’s a band of light and variable winds with frequent thunderstorms, which is often called the “doldrums” in classic sailing literature, but is properly known as the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). That’s what we’re approaching right now!
Across the equator to the south, everything is a mirror image of the trends in the north Pacific. The south Pacific tradewinds blow from the south-east toward the west. Sailors often call sailing this route across the south Pacific the “Milk Run” or “Coconut Milk Run,” and give directions for it with the ever-quotable phrase “sail south until the butter melts, then turn west.”
While the prevailing winds have determined our general course, I make day-to-day decisions about our route. I spend no less than three hours every morning downloading and studying the forecasts, determining our course and speed averages, and plotting an estimated course ahead. I’m sure more experienced sailors can do this much faster than me, but I also enjoy taking my time and comparing all of the different forecast models so that I can feel confident I’ve checked everything thoroughly (also, download speeds are extremely slow).
Some sailors will pay for a weather router to send them routing advice during the passage. I’m lucky to have an incredibly knowledgeable friend who did this for me on my journey to Hawaii, so I had the chance to learn first hand from someone who could teach me in real time (and we had to track a developing hurricane during that passage). His kind tutelage laid a foundation which I’ve built upon by reading books and studying forecasts on my own ever since. I’ve discovered it’s one of those skills you have to practice consistently over time to build, because you need to see many, many examples of forecasts and observe what actually happens so you can learn nuances and discrepancies. Paying a routing service is great, but for me, I know I want to have the data for myself and know how to interpret it.
We left San Diego only a few days before the official start of hurricane season, so we have been sailing nonstop to get out of the hurricane zone as quickly as possible. (Hence no stops in Mexico.) I want to cross the ever-shifting ITCZ thunderstorm zone at its narrowest point because lightning is extremely dangerous for a sailboat. I didn’t want to go too far west too soon, since the tradewinds could easily carry me west later if the ITCZ was narrower over there. In addition to hurricane and ITCZ considerations, I wanted to sail as close as possible to a direct course because this is a long passage and I have a limited water supply. I chose the Marquesas islands as our first landfall because they are the furthest east and north, and it will all be downwind sailing from there across the south Pacific.
Every morning, I begin the downloads while I make coffee. (Downloads regularly fail, or the connection drops, so this process is a lesson in patience.) I start by downloading a 72-hour wind, pressure, cloud, and swell forecast (GRIB file) for a 10x10 degree square around me in the highest resolution possible, in four different weather models. I use this to make minor adjustments to my course: deciding if I should go a little more west or south for better conditions, and anticipating when winds may pick up or decline so I can prepare myself to manage sails at the right times (napping when they are steady, so I’ll be awake when they are supposed to build or drop).
After I finish with the GRIBs for our area, I visit forecast web pages, which each take five to ten minutes to load. I check the National Weather Service’s annotated Pacific image forecast, the National Hurricane Center’s High Seas text forecast, NHC’s Eastern North Pacific Tropical Weather Outlook, and then read the corresponding discussion. Sometimes I also download a 7-10 day, low-resolution wind & swell GRIB forecast for the eastern Pacific to observe general trends, paying special attention to the behavior of the ITCZ and any developing lows or highs. I use all of this data to determine what’s likely coming, what is questionable or conflicting in models, and whether I need to adjust anything about my overall approach to this passage. (Between passages, I still do a daily subset of this, so that I can keep improving at forecast interpretation.)
I knew nothing about meteorology before I left for Hawaii less than two years ago, so if I can do this, anyone can. Often I tell nervous but aspiring cruisers that if you are willing to study a little and interested in learning, you’ll pick it up easily along the way and other sailors will always be happy to help. It’s the same approach I try to take to life: no matter what, just stay curious and go after what interests you; people will help you, and then you will help others.
wishing you fair weather, ☔ ☀️
elana, zia, & SV Windfola
Day 11: It’s Getting Tropical!
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
There was a distinct moment a few nights ago when I could feel us enter the tradewinds.
It was about 1800, and the sunlight had just slipped into its soft, golden evening wear. The north-northwesterly winds were still chilly, sitting outside in the evening required a blanket, and I was still in full bath protest mode (see yesterday’s log). The wind was forecast to increase steadily that night and shift to north-northeasterly. I knew that if the wind picked up in the night and changed direction, I’d need a significantly different sail configuration. I decided that moving both the foresail and the large pole that holds it out from port to starboard would be easier in the last of the daylight, so I set to the task.
Everything takes longer to do on a sailboat at sea, and by the time I was done with this project, nearly two hours had elapsed and the moon was our only light. The deck was coarse and crunchy with salt, and I ran on it fore and aft, fore and aft, fore and aft, putting out new lines, discovering I’d put them inside where they should be outside, or outside where they should be inside, taking the load off the sail so I could run the lines again correctly, checking the position of the pole, bringing the outboard and inboard ends of the pole up and down until they were holding the foresail out with just the right tension and yet not laying against the rigging that holds up the mast.
Sometime during all of this—and it wasn’t just the physical exertion—it became at least seven degrees warmer. The texture of the air changed, becoming heavy, moist, and sultry. The wind direction changed by more than 15 degrees, clocking around to the northeast. Everything suddenly felt sticky. Breathing in, the air was somehow thicker in my lungs. We had arrived at the north Pacific tradewinds. This was confirmed during the night, when I found the first flying fish of our trip in Windfola’s scuppers.
Since then, there are flying fish on deck every morning and I haven’t once needed a blanket in the cockpit. Tradewinds are a sailor's delight, blowing predictably and keeping us moving downwind at a steady pace on a relatively constant course. The air still has that warm weight to it, inducing daydreams of fresh coconut milk, pamplemousse, and mahi mahi.
I can almost smell the plumeria now…
with a warm and salty heart,
elana, zia, and sv windfola 🌺
P.S. Is a group of flying fish called a school or a flock?
Day 10: Nowhere Near Godliness
[This was originally published to our subscribers during our passage from San Diego to the Marquesas.]
Dear crew,
I smell.
It’s not for a general disinterest in hygiene that I haven’t bathed yet, despite it being my tenth day at sea. I have a few solid excuses for hitting the double digits without a bath, and these excuses will explain a bit about my life out here.
First, my sun shower burst and spilled two full baths worth of freshwater in the cockpit a few days ago. It was an old sun shower, discoloring, and prone to imparting a chemical scent to the water within. The delaminating edges finally did it in by parting at one corner. I could have purchased a new one before departure, but I am frugal in silly ways sometimes and deemed it nonessential, and anyway, I had a sentimental attachment to it because it was a hand-me-down gift two years ago from a member of my sailing “family.”
Fresh water is precious out here for any sailboat, but for us, it is particularly so. Windfola’s tankage only holds a sum of 36 gallons of water. I carry an additional 20 gallons in sturdy bottles, and always run the water pressure system before departure so that the hot water tank (two gallons) is full and the hoses are also full with another gallon. Doing the math, at a consumption rate of one gallon per day, that is only enough for 59 days at sea, assuming no or very little rainfall catchment.
You can bathe in saltwater, but must use saltwater-friendly soap or it doesn’t really lather. I don’t have any saltwater soap (an oversight in my provisioning). My environmentally-friendly vegan shampoo for dry hair doesn’t perform well in saltwater. Also, while some may disagree, I find a freshwater rinse essential afterward, so for me bathing always consumes some freshwater.
I have another excuse for not bathing yet: the sea state. For the last few days we have been in increasingly strong winds and a stirred up swell pattern. Sailing downwind, the boat tends to be “flatter”—which really means it is not flat at all, but rolling more from side-to-side! (When sailing upwind, the boat “heels” consistently in one direction, so you have a relatively steady slant to your life.) Sailing downwind in these three-meter seas with a relatively short period between waves has meant significant rolling back and forth. I nearly always have to be hanging on to prevent being flung from one side of the boat to the other. When bathing at sea, I use a large bowl with rubber pegs on the bottom that doesn’t slide, but in these conditions, it probably would, and even if it didn’t, water would be sloshing out of the bowl uncontrollably. Scooping water out with a cup while holding on to the boat already takes two hands, so I don’t have a spare for stabilizing the bowl.
Finally, the truth is that I am a fair weather sailor… in that I generally sail only to places with fair weather. 😀 🌴 My mini-protest to the cold weather gods is that I refuse to bathe at sea until both the air and the water are warm enough to bathe in the cockpit without catching a chill. I’m an ocean-going, solo sailor and I want to hang in the buff on my boat wherever I darn well please! And I want to bathe outside with a view and easy access to infinite buckets of saltwater rather than in the nausea-inducing gym locker that is my bathroom.
So, I smell because it was too cold to bathe outside the first four days, then my sun shower burst so I thought I’d hold out a little more to conserve water, and then the swell got big, and I didn’t want to be soapy slick and wasting water in a rolling, slippery boat cockpit.
But today the swell is behaving according to forecast and calming down, and the sun is out and warm here. So I’m off to bathe now, for which I think my bunkmate with the sensitive nose will be thankful.
wishing you fair weather and plenty of fresh water,
elana, Zia & SV Windfola 💕🌈