Green in the Blue

Within twenty minutes of being on land for the first time in 29 days, I bounced and jostled around in a rickety old Toyota pickup, compact and sturdy for the steep terrain, mud roads and flash rains. Hitch hiking is known as an “auto-stop” and encouraged as a way to get around. Brian and I learned quickly that everyone waves, smiles and greets each other in these friendly isles, even from their vehicles. Quickly moving newer model trucks and suvs don’t usually stop for scummy looking fresh faces to the islands, and if the older variety cannot take on more passengers, it’s because their whole family is already packed in, or they explain with sign language the reason, usually that they are making the next turn. Auto-stops are so common that even if we don’t stick out the request thumb a lovely and curious passerby will offer a lift.

In Atuona, the second largest town of the Marqueses Islands, and avoiding wearing shoes for the first time in a month, my goals were simple and specific: hug a tree, find some fruit, and let my people know that I had touched down. The closest tree to the dingy dock happened to be flowering, a perfect specimen for an embrace. Check. After savouring all senses of that lucky tree (tastes the same as Canadian trees), we wandered on the concrete through town, past thatched-roof huts for tourist information, simply constructed buildings for services such as general stores and post offices and military-like bases for the gendarmarie, the long French arm of the law. The stores with stocked with a plethora of canned goods, plastic-wrapped snack packs, freezers for fish and meat and coolers for drinks, cheese and produce. The fruit was all imported (plums, peaches, kiwis), as were the overseas-grown and sad looking vegetables. To suffice our taste for the tropical paradise that we had waited so long to get to, we bought tall cans of Hinano beer (the first cold drink in a month, pressed against my warm cheek built up a Pavlov effect of anticipation!), a baguette and brie cheese.

Asking in my basic French skills, rusty from three years of gathering dust, I learned that a woman brings local produce every morning to sell under a tree, that we can buy internet time from the post office and that the next day is a holiday so neither of these will be open options. We attempted to contact our families on payphones that seemed to only accept prepaid cards and with the wifi from outside the post office to no avail, and for a brief moment we missed Mexico for one reason: it is interdit (illegal) to drink alcohol in public. Brian got a stern warning from the passing Gendarmarie officers when they saw him swig his tall, frosty Hinano. Deciding that we must indulge in the pleasures of land, we prioritized consuming the luxuries we had just bought, knowing that our homeland contacts would sense our happiness from the hard rock of earth and that one more day of silence after 29 at sea wouldn’t compromise their conscience. We followed the road that the young surfers had mosied from and landed on a rocky beach of the bay next to the anchorage, in front of a football field, lined with flowering trees. Our treats were so satisfying and we thought that preserving the brie for dinner later would be a good idea but its addictiveness caught hold and went so well with the golden lager and golden loaf.

As the skied pinked we turned for the road back to the anchorage and kept our auto-stop thumbs in our pockets as we walked. The two kilometres would be a good chance to get in touch with solid ground again. However, when Jean-Francois stopped and offered us a lift, we didn’t decline. Making small talk regarding his travel, military time, life on Hiva Oa and telling him of my longing for fruit, he pulled two pamplemousse from his trunk for us! Content with the successes of the day, we took the dingy back to Kayak, wobbled around the boat that would remain in the same place for the first time in 29 days, and slept soundly, knowing that there was no need to keep one eye open each on our course.

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After a restless sleep due to rough seas rocking us in all directions, anticipation of the next day to come, bad dreams, a belly full of beans, continuously waking to keep an eye on our course, Brian and I both arose before sunrise to scan for land.

The first island that we spotted could have been a mirage, a dark and oddly shaped cloud on the horizon, but despite our proximity and strong winds, this cloud persisted. It was in fact an island, first land that we’d seen in 28 days. Its shape was reminiscent of Maura, the massive and wise turtle from The Never Ending Story.

Brian went below to plot our course and discovered that we were too far west, headed straight for the midsection of the north side of Hiva Oa. That is all well except that we were aiming for the middle of the south of the island. He had changed the course slightly in the night to try and limit the roll of the boat to induce sleep. As he poked his head through the hatch, we spotted our target: a large dark mass of rock.

Large dark clouds were culminating on our windward side, but in the predawn light, their extent and intensity were hard to tell. To be ready, I switched the genoa for the working jib in a flash and tied the genoa to the windward side of the boat, a lesson learned from an incident a few days ago. Just as the sheets were tied in and I began to raise the sail, the winds and rains of a squall were upon us. We beat through it, close to the wind, and when the downpour paused the strong breeze remained, but a promise of daylight began its ascent from the eastern horizon.

The close hauled beat against weather was necessary to head east around the cliff faced eastern most edge of Hiva Oa, Mata Fenua. Kayak keeled over at about 20° and large waves smashed her bow, trying to consume the secured genoa, soaking us and washing over the deck. Coming out from the cabin’s hatch on the windward and higher side of the boat, I lost all grace when a wave struck the port side and I toppled into the cockpit, stopping myself from going any further by striking my sternum on a winch. Breathless for just a moment, and probably only due to the fear that I could be injured worse, I got away with a mere lancing and a breastbone tender to the touch.

We tacked back and forth twice to ensure that we’d be clear of the weather worn cliffs of insanity that had to be skirted around. It felt as if we were abandoning our target by turning away from it.

The island appeared first as a dark shadow shroud in grey scale of clouds and rain, not exactly the lush jungle clad hillsides surrounded by turquoise waters and welcomed by sunrise and dolphins. There were no features or definition, only a looming mass. Coming closer revealed the topmost ridge outline, some deep dark valleys cutting inland and lots of steep cliffs. The landscape seemed to be fabricated of fortresses holding mysterious secrets and past civilizations. When the sun broke through the dense cloud cover and chased away rain shadows for a moment, dark crevasses were illuminated, valleys cast shadows on their west sides and the steep walls lit up to reveal layers of sediment as they broke waves that beat their bases.

Passing the blunt east side and turning west to follow the coast to our destination maintained heavy winds and rain, and being soaked through to the skin gave a chill, fingers and hair waterlogged and permeated with salty splashes and a fresh precipitation. Changing wet clothes for something to keep warm in and emerging from the cockpit was a treat, despite the soggy weather, because there was LAND on either side of the boat: Tahuata to the left and Hiva Oa to the right. Some variety and promise from the daily expanse of big blue was a treat, even though we couldn’t see details of he coasts due to a thick greyness. This is not a mirage! When the skies lightened we spotted houses perched upon the strongholds and floating on hillsides and clustered at the mouths of valleys along the coast, habitations that we have not glimpsed in a month, holding people that will be different than the two that have lived on Kayak for 29 days!

A last squall battered our skills and energies, and reducing the main sail to the second reef was completed just as the blow passed. The skies lifted and we could see the port of Taa Huku, where we would plunk down the anchor after motoring in safely. The anchorage was tightly packed and I gazed with wonder at people, other boats, buildings, things that had been denied to us in the big blue. I ordered Brian to go make friends and find out the details of getting to shore. He took the dingy over to a neighbouring boat to inquire of the whereabouts of the gendarmarie to check in with immigration, if I was allowed to go ashore (he was lead to believe that only the captain may check in while crew waits on the boat, and he asked me to prepare myself for not going to land until the next day. My preparation included being incredibly disappointed and put out at the suggestion and prospect of spending another night on the boat, with the ground in such close reach, after floating for days and days and days. My temperament mirrored the weather that we were under.). While he conversed I began to dry skin and clothes, snack and gather things that I’d need ashore in the likely case that I’d get to stomp ground and hug a tree. What does a person wear to an occasion like this?…first time on land but threatening clouds that were holding off their rain for the moment…He returned with good news: I’m welcome here!, the hours of the gendarmarie and grocery stores, the ease of hitch hiking (autostop) and we began to launch the dingy.

Paddling over to the dingy dock I marveled at the collection of boats gathered here, the variety of their styles and home ports, the new faces and that we were as far from Kayak as we’d been in 29 days.

Excited to see how my sea legs would fare onshore, the extent of jelly that they had become or if I would be able to walk in a straight line, without holding onto a support, the dingy touched land. When we crawled onto the concrete landing and tied off the little hard shell, we were calf-deep in the ocean still, and took the few stairs to the dirt road that serves the yachties who anchor in this little harbour. The ground was firm, muddy from the rain and my feet got immediately dirty. Dirt! A novelty! A fly! I hadn’t seen an insect in a month! (that wore off quickly) My legs apprehensively recognized this compact surface and their knees shook for a moment, but a lifetime on land and seasons of biking and snowboarding made quads strong and able to carry me forward. A slight lack of control and feeling of intoxication began to creep into my senses, and I’m not sure if it was from the jittery jambes , smells of plants and dirt, sounds of animals, cars, people, sights of habitation, or the excitement that were on LAAAAAAND!!!

Safe, sound, not so sane but smiling and stoked for exploring the Marquesas!!

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Brian woke before I did, with the sun. I revel in sleep, perhaps because its light and interrupted, of low quality and I have to make up with quantity. Coffee and cornbread over a game of Crazy 8 Countdown (I won, again), and we’re thinking about the past month…time has ticked away strangely…a morning seems like eternity ago when looked back at from the eve of the same day, whereas it seems like we left Mexico only a few days ago. We both agree, this is a looooong time at sea on a boat.

We began our work day sorting out anchor chain, rode, shackles and the like that we’ll need TOMORROW!! GPS countdown is averaging 24hours away…

“Every flower’s got a right to be bloomin, stay human.” Michael Franti

Furuno reads:

22:14

6.4 kts

198°

RNG: 84.5 nm

TTG: 13:13

ETA 10:00

We are a-cruisin along, an afternoon restful with our pineapple brew, speaking of the foreign land we shall encounter tomorrow…foreign due to its locale, language, culture and oasis-like situation compared with our blue world… We are about to touch down in green town, lush, verdant, shadowy, mysterious forests, valleys, villages, ruins, people… Not only will these rocks be a stark contrast to our known world for the past month, they will be a 180° difference to the life on land that we have been raised and grown accustomed to…exciting!!!

Brian changed the hook on this neon green squid lure and just before dinner got a hit. Looked like a big one, skirting the surface behind Kayak, its fatal mistake a tempting bite of the green decoy, seduction…a large dorado / mahi mahi was on the line.

I went to sleep with visions of fresh fruit dancing above my head, a course to skirt around Hiva Oa’s eastern point and dreams of tomorrow…

@ 7pm

8° 04’ S

138° 27’ W

Traveled 135 nautical  miles

~5 – 6 knots / hour

Breakfast: Cornbread

Lunch: Apple, granola

Dinner: Rice, savoury beans, dorado

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What ever happened to Tony Danza??

Brian and I added the second, lower lifeline today, and continued to sand and varnish inside the cabin windows to protect the wood from sun damage, a project we began a few days ago, interrupted by continuous squalls.

We’ve definitely hit the trades south of the equator, with steady winds, Wendy keeping us on course, less heavy seas and a smoother ride. Keeping a 6-6 ½ knot average, we’ve put ourselves on the Iles Marquises chart and have gotten close enough for the GPS to give us an ETA…

@ 6pm

5° 58 ½’ S

137° 35’ W

traveled 142 nautical miles

~4 ½ – 7 knots / hour

Breakfast: Granola, apple

Lunch: Clif Bar, plantain chips

Dinner: Pacific Pad Thai, cornbread

An uncomfortable, bumpy, soggy, salty and concerned evening passed…we had been checking on the course and the state of the bow as often as the wind howled differently, the boat shifted and bounced with less intensity (because that would mean we’re going the wrong way), whenever we heard a noise that could turn foreign or whenever we opened our eyes…frequently!

Finally sunrise came and we could see the weather approaching, instead of questioning each dark mass that covered the glittering promise of the universe. We shared nervous smiles that proceed a stressful experience, and Brian surveyed the damage. Knowing that there was no starboard lifeline sinks in only after you’ve thought you can use it, and it fails. He reported the damage over coffee and after breakfast we got to work. Stylee harnesses donned all morning, we removed the broken lifelines to measure out pieces that could be used. Brian found some spare parts and cables to use, and we knotted, tied up a new top line to suffice for the next three days until our first destination.

Much needed rest in the afternoon followed by a bucket shower helped rejuvenate us.

Discouraging damage will be a priority project once anchored but we’re grateful that will be soon and that both of us are still on board!

Chocolate and wine makes it all better…

@ 6pm

3° 49 ½’ S

135° 34’ N

Traveled 116 nautical miles

~3-7 knpts / hour

Breakfast: toasted tortilla with PB and apple

Lunch: Cheese, crackers and hummus

Dinner: Refried beans, quesedilla, Spanish rice, Mexican wine

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Amelia Earhart’s final flight disappeared in 1937 somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, between Papua New Guinea and Howland Isle (a small lump of land between Australia and Hawaii). The rational mind would believe the most obvious fate: a plane crash due to human error, somewhere over the sea. Nowhere to stop for fuel on the longest leg of her and navigator Fred Noonan’s attempt to circumnavigate the Earth at the equator, there was little to no room for any course deviations. The speculative begin to create alternate realities to this duo’s disappearance, including landing and living on an atoll near Howland, named Nikumaroro, stocked with rations ditched there in 1929 by a steamer’s crew, or returning to America to grow old out of the spotlight with her mister.

If rationality persists in this tale of mystery and curios, Amelia and Fred spent their last breaths in the Pacific Ocean. Her journeys are described as “ephemeral”, short lived, compared to using her bravado and skills for longevity. However, with the abundance of schools of flying fish that we have seen soaring out of the depths to skirt the air as long as they can hold their breath, this speculative imagination envisions Amelia’s essence having entered these creatures.  Their flights are as brief as hers, and she can carry on as a free soul, flanks of scales as glimmering grey as her own eyes once shone.

A few years later, Thor Heyerdahl crossed the Pacific from Peru with five comrades. Their raft would be littered daily with flying fish for the cook to fry up to feed the ravenous crew breakfast (flying fish sounds like frying fish…coincidence?). Kayak is slightly more raised on the water than a balsa wood raft, but we have the occasional piece of possion from Amelia’s spirit land on deck, usually a small and lost scaly creature. Last night, however, we have sailed through a school of these winged flutterers, as Brian collected five or six substantial specimens for his protein-ladenned feast. I shared the smallest fillet and in doing so, became a little bit Amelia. As you know, you are what you eat, and if Amelia is a flying fish, I now share her courageous, passionate and flighty quintessence.

“My brain is just a jellyfish in the ocean of my head” ~String Cheese Incident

A continuous stream of short-lived squalls all day have kept us on our toes, some of them with strong, intense wind, some with downpours. We’ve had to constantly correct our course with shifty winds and currents, making it hard to maintain status quo and flow.

We traded the genoa for the working jib so that we would have the option of reefing it, ready to minimize at a moments notice…winds were howling and the swell was not only tall, the trough between waves was tight and short, meaning one wave would bash us and by the time Kayak had straightened out again another wave would crash over the deck. Tying down the genoa, a twisted mess, to the leeward side of the bow was quite the task, especially with waves trying to consume the bow and impede my work. I tied the wrong know, but it was tight and secure. After dinner and a close chess match, we heard a new tapping clicking noise coming from the V-berth. Checking outside, I saw that the genoa had come loose, most likely from the force of the water that was continuously washing and cascading over the starboard side. Brian sacrificed his dry self to retie it after we turned from the wind to decrease the pull on the ocean on the fabric, fished sections from the surf of the turbulent Pacific.

Amongst this action, we had put two reefs in the mainsail and one in the jib (one section acted to catch waves as they splooshed onto the sail). Bouncing along at 6 ½ – 7 ½ knots, with spray coming over the deck every 6-7waves made this work difficult in the dark. We changed from soggy clothes when we thought the work was complete, checking the course from the cabin and contemplating steady seas and stepping foot on land. Another strange sound came from the bow not too long after the genoa had been retied, the clicking of metal on metal again, but preceded by a wrenching and twisting noise. Brian checked on the bow this time, and discovered vandalism to the boat: the waves were so powerful and had caught hold of the folds in the genoa that had been tied in as tightly as possible the second time around. But instead of splashing off and returning to their oceanic realm, the force ripped the genoa into the water, broke both the top and bottom lifelines (an important feature on the boat, as the name implies), tore the stanchion support for them out and off of its welded steel hold and consumed the post, and lastly bent the starboard side of the bow pulpit to a cocked angle. Shooootz…

Devastating damage, but as we have four days to go, we focused on turning the boat away from the wind once more to gather and move the twisted and soaked sail to the portside, protected from the wash, and again maintained our desired course with the wind and the waves. Harnesses helped and our night was sleepless in anxiety.

@6pm

2° 7 ½’ S

135° 39 ½’ W

Traveled 102 nautical miles

~ 3 ½ – 7 knots / hour

Breakfast: Amelia Earhart

Lunch: Snacks of some sort

Dinner: Pasta salad consumed quickly to continue sailing

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Rise and shine to a sliver of a moon, brights Venus below and a warm glow along the horizon. 3 nautical miles to the Equator. Travlling at 6 knots / hour, we have 30 minutes…I awoke Brian with 30’ to go (map minutes not time minutes). He filmed our last moments in the Northern hemisphere, I gave and offering of a dreadlock from Cher and I and a lock of Brian’s hair, all woven together, to the sea. The three of us worked hard so that Brian and I could be here. Hopefully Cher is en route soon behind us.

The Southern hemisphere is like a whole new world: sun and sea, water and sky…forever… Some clouds, a small squall…okay, it’s the exact same but we are edging closer and closer to land. I need a shady tree.

As I scan back through my log, one word stands out from each page:

promise water experience secured human blues relax plastic cruising veer seasickness pitchblack winches stabilized realm descended reluctant sputtered oasis courage flopped breeze contemplate banana bread cool ocean star sank comprehensions sapphire squeaks ginger apple sauce breathed vantage keel discover anchor ember wooden recycler forces plotting side moot duct tape trek ceased gauge sounding everything leapt breath barge she’d directly fruitful justify pulverize puzzle pineapple turbulent…

Perhaps a quick overview, or am I going loco?

Starting to feel like a guinea pig but I don’t see test tubes or beakers, a few cameras belong to us but what if they are spying on us through our town technology?! Who are they and what are they doing with all their free time, watching us?

But seriously, jokes aside, this is one weird self-imposed experimental experience…on a boat, low on sleep and showers, without contact from the outside world, surrounded by water with no choice of throwing in the towel. Put two lovely young souls, strangers before this experiment, within 12 metres of each other, to go to a foreign land with no fresh produce left for an unspecified amount of time….GO!

I am probably tripping out…yes, when I hit an island, terra firma, I shall say “Woooah that was a triiip!”…a salty trip… Less than 600 miles to go.

The snozeberries taste like snozeberries…I edited the analysises then put cinnamon in it…

How does it feel to be without a home

A complete unknown like a rolling stone

How does it feel to be on your own

No direction home, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone

~Bob Dylan

I see the end of the rainbow, but what more is a rainbow than colours out of reach? ~The Avett Brothers, Swept Away

~The Avett Brothers, Laundry Room

@7pm

0°36 ½’ S!

134° 57’ W

Traveled 118 nautical miles

~2 – 6 knots / hour

Breakfast: ??

Lunch: ??

Dinner: going to crazy to record such sane details…

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We’ve been haulin ass and keeling over, aiming straight for Hiva Oa. We traded out the genoas today…folding and pleating this massive sail in a narrow space with the edge of the boat almost at the water’s surface with Kayak’s tilt is no easy task. Thank goodness time and again for my father’s lessons in our backyard on how to neatly and meticulously fold a tarp after a camping trip. Pull the desired crease tight, keep your hand or foot at the fold, teamwork teamwork…

I cleaned out the back of the cockpit today, as it’s filled with dirty oil jerry cans, empty and full water garaphones, old dirty damp rags, dirt, rust and fish death stink. The worst part of this self imposed task was when I lost my hat to the wind and the ocean. We decided without haste to about face and look for it but it was swallowed by the sea L It had been recently patched, too, with Jamaica flag colours, stitched by yours truly.

On a brighter note…Tomorrow morning we’ll be south of the Equator!

@6pm

1° 17’ N

134° 15’ W

Traveled 135 nautical miles

~4-6 knots / hour

breakfast: PB apple and nutella toasted tortillas

Lunch: Plantain chips

Dinner: Savoury scones and tomato cheese minestrone

The irons only lasted this morning, thank goodness, and by the end of the day we’re hauling at 6 knots / hour. We’ve come two thirds of our total distance and sitting idle for two days was growing wearisome as we grew impatient. Perhaps one day we’ll hit land?? I dared to ask, “Are we there yet??”

I feel expectant each time I exit the cabin and observe our surroundings. Thinking I’ll see other people, a boat or barge, landscape of some sort, mainland, island, something different…each time I gaze around I take in a watery seascape, 360° of it, the earth’s curve or perhaps its edge?

I’m losing my ability to walk. Always holding onto something in this unpredictable and perpetual earthquake zone, like an infant working her way around a room of furniture too large for her, coming up to the knees of parents, aunts, friends, as they watch me struggle with wobbly limbs and encourage me to take a few steps on my own. When I do I ride the rubber legged wave wobble, one foot dangerously and precariously placed in front of the other, waiting for the moment that I’ll lose balance and need to grab hold of a supportive hand or doorway before being tossed down or sideways. Even when no one is watching, it’s embarrassing.

What is going to happen when I hit solid ground??

@ 6pm

3° 18’ N

133° 15’ W

Traveled 34nm (slowest day on record)

~1-6 knots / hour

Breakfast: Granola and apple

Lunch: leftover beans and rice

Dinner: Tortilla crust Pizza with roasted garlic, onion, potato, rosemary

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“…this ocean was as vast as outer space and being on this boat was like shooting from one star to another, the archipelagoes like galaxies, and the islands like isolated stars in an empty immensity of watery darkness, and this sailing was like going from star to star, in vitreous night.” ~Paul Theroux, Happy Isles…

Equatorial rain began in the depth of night as a mere sprinkle, a fresh way for B to rinse salt from the swim earlier that evening. Wind remained incredibly light so sails were not engaged as we drifted overnight through space and sleep. When the downpour began, fat wet rain bombs feverishly descending at accelerated pace to join once again with their wet reflection, I couldn’t hold myself in the dry bed. Skin is waterproof and this Vancouver native has no aversions to rain. Downpours are cleansing, inconvenient only when hair has been set with heat and sprays, or when not properly attired (as I’ve been soppingly guilty of in my Vans in Vancouver) or after a succession of days of cold grey moist misery. Tropical rain is a treat for the olfactory senses, the pre-shower air filled with promise of hydration from above, opening scenting portholes otherwise closed behind walls of cellulose, stagnant air, watery gatekeepers. These soggy occasions are quick to arrive and short in duration, very efficient at dousing everything under its cloud. Emerging from the cabin and pelted with the first large drops was a shock, but as more of my skin, hair, clothes became wet than dry, a certain comfort level set in. The chill of fresh rain at night was a welcome sensation, as was skin cleansed of salt, sweat, lotions and potions. After tidying moist lines, tying sail and genoa in place, we retired and dried, to attempt the second half of a full night’s sleep.

The morning brought an intense, blaring sun, scorching skin as soon as it touched the unprotected flesh, fresh from a mid night’s squally shower. Glaring from the smooth ocean’s surface doubled the bright light and made laundry with collected rainwater a blinding yet purifying task. Heading into a grey cumulous cloud would ease the eyes and its rain would rinse soapy clothes, sure to dry soon after the sun once again took charge.

We attempt to sail when a breeze gusts our way, coming from the south, giving comforting feelings. It frees damp and stifling cabin air and is cool and velvety on my skin after it has been blown from under the cloud beneath which we now motored. The cool billowing breeze wrapped around me like a duvet, soft and supple, a change of temperature and sensation from the periods of el sorcho.

I spotted my first whale today, about one km from the boat…a couple exhaling gusts of air, some arching action and a full fluke view. This mammal was shy or nonchalant and not curious about us.

We’ve been spotting more plastic in the past 2 days than we have in the past 3 weeks.  Fanta and two litre bottles, bits of buckets and a large blue cooler. Plastic and insulation kept this last specimen afloat and mussels growing 2-3 inches up its sides is hardly an indicator as to the time this cooler has been at sea, because these bivalves probably only attach themselves below the water line. One small fish was forcibly living inside the cooler and a dozen pilot fish (perhaps?) were sheltering underneath in the shade. A pretty purple fish with white dots and a fin on top and bottom of its midsection (similar to reef fish in Hawaii) had made friends with the cooler as well. As Brian brought this discarded cooler on board, the fish lost their security and swam off confused. Despite my protests to Brian as a voice for the mussels, they are sure to die as they dry on Kayak’s deck, void of water and nutrition. It’s a hard decision to pull plastic from the ocean; true, it removes a foreign and potentially damaging object from the sea, but it will be just as obtrusive in a Marquesan landfill, unless it does damage if it returns to the ocean from the place we discard it. Once onboard, however, there is not a way that we can justify or feel content with putting it back into the ocean. It is now joining our journey.

@ 8pm

3° 15’ N

100° 1 ½ ‘ W

Traveled 57nm

~0-3 knots / hour

Breakfast: something not exciting enough to write down or remember

Lunch: Probably some form of snacks but again, nothing to write home about

Dinner: Rice and bean burritos

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