Sailing with Impunity

by Mary E Trimble

  On a preprinted worksheet, Bruce noted the current date and our approximated latitude and longitude, known as the DR, or dead reckoning, position.

  Up on deck, he’d brace himself against the mizzen mast so that he could use two hands for the sextant. He measured the angle between the visible horizon and the lower edge of the sun, or between the visible horizon and a star. The sextant has precise markings to show the measured angle. Of course, all this time the boat is in motion, rising up and dropping down with the wave action. The moment he was able to get the sun or star shot, he’d click the stopwatch.

  Determining our latitude with a noon sight

  Going below decks to the navigation table, he noted the minutes and seconds from the stop watch onto the worksheet. Adding that time to the exact time he’d started the stopwatch told him the precise Greenwich Mean Time of his sextant measurement. He’d also note on the worksheet the precise angle from the sextant, in degrees, minutes and seconds.

  At that point he had everything he needed to come up with a line of position to plot on the chart. By consulting our nautical almanac and the navigation tables, he could calculate the distance and direction from our DR position, based on the sight information, and would then mark that on the chart as a line of position. In addition to our position, Bruce often noted the air and water temperatures..

  The old Transit sat-nav that came with the boat gave one last fix about four days out of San Diego. After working on it for awhile, Bruce decided it was a lost cause and turned it off to save the batteries. We now relied entirely on Bruce’s celestial navigation.

  The Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), known by sailors as the doldrums, was pretty much what we expected, slatting sails and oily looking seas. With virtually no wind, most of the distance we made was when we turned on the engine so that we could make some progress. One thing about running the engine was that we also ran the watermaker. We were doing well with keeping our fresh water level up. We also charged the batteries, important for a boat alone at sea.

  No matter where we looked—ahead of us, behind, to the right or to the left—we saw nothing but water, ending with horizon. Seemingly, we were alone in the world. For days on end, nothing, not another boat, came into view. Occasionally we saw a jet trail in the sky. That far away from land, we didn’t even see birds.

  Since we’d been in warmer waters, we began seeing flying fish and quite often they’d land on deck. They ranged from a couple of inches to about six inches. They were usually dead when we’d find them and we’d throw them back into the sea. To escape a predator, a flying fish can travel several feet through the air by using its large pectoral fins.

  Once, during a calm period, we began to notice a bad smell, which seemed to be coming from the cockpit. I washed the deck and bulkhead, but the smell persistently grew worse. Finally, Bruce found the culprit. A dead flying fish had wedged itself behind a propane tank. He “fished” it out and I washed the area with soap and water.

  Each day we participated in a cruisers’ Maritime Mobile Net via ham radio, held at the same time every day. Once committed, we were expected to answer a daily “roll call,” state our name, position and weather conditions. Boats checked in from all over the Pacific, near New Zealand, Fiji, Cook Islands, Japan, Gulf of Alaska, even boats sitting in ports.

  By formally signing up, the agreement was that if we failed to report in at the regular time, after so many days (we specified the number of days) our family contact would be notified. Of course, a reason could be that our radio was dead, but it could also mean we were in trouble.

  One day during roll call, a fellow called in and said his wife had fallen down a hatch and was seriously injured, possibly with a broken back. It was only the two of them on board and he had his hands full handling the boat and taking care of her. The Maritime Mobile Net arranged to have someone within range lend assistance.

  Many ham radio operators on land listened to the net, too, and were helpful in making emergency contacts. Also, land-based ham operators often offered to make phone patches for boats at sea. That’s when we normally called home, after the net’s business. What a wonderful service! One Texas ham operator in particular put through calls for us. In order to participate, you had to be a licensed ham operator, so we were glad Bruce was. We were also glad we’d invested in our new radio. It added greatly to our sense of security.

  The phone patches through the ham operators were one-way conversations, ending with “over” so the other person would know when to talk. The ham operator would dial a family member’s home phone and then, through our ham radio to the other operator’s, we could carry on a conversation. We didn’t talk very long, but enough to touch base and assure the family we were fine.

  Bruce continued to listen to high seas weather reports at least twice daily, another advantage of having the new radio. One of the reports was from a respected fellow named Arnold from Rarotonga in the Cook Islands. Arnold’s report was a compilation from several South Pacific regions. The other forecast Bruce listened to was from Hawaii. Between the two of them, we had a pretty good idea of what to expect.

  A funny thing about the forecast from Hawaii. Bruce always tuned in a few minutes early and shortly before the weather report, a woman’s voice, speaking perhaps Russian, seemed to shout non-stop. We couldn’t imagine what she was saying, but it was always a high-pitched, rapid shout. Then, when the weather came on, the Coast Guardsman who usually gave the forecast always pronounced “five” as “fife.” “Winds at thirty-fife knots.”

  Our course and lines of position on plotting sheet

  I prefer to have my surroundings shipshape, but tidy isn’t always convenient. Bruce frequently had to change headsails to accommodate the wind, or lack of it, and it was too inconvenient to put the one just taken down in its sailbag and stow it in the sail locker below. For one thing, it was often wet and needed to dry out before stowage. Bruce devised a system of attaching sails to the toe rail with bungee cords so they would be handy, but out of the way when not in use Then there were lines for the various sails on deck, hopefully coiled, but not always.

  Our life raft, permanently stored in a hard plastic case, was designed to inflate with a pull of a cord. It’s one of those expensive investments you never hope to use. It was kept handy on top of the cabin, and the eight-foot dinghy was lashed over that, together with its oars. Our two solar panels were lashed down on top of the dinghy. The overturned dinghy also covered the midship hatch and in calm weather allowed us to open the hatch to let in fresh air without getting sea-sprayed. In the cockpit, spare five-gallon water jugs were tied behind the tiller. On the aft deck, four ten-pound capacity propane tanks were attached to the port and starboard railings.

  Almost every day, laundry hung out to dry, adding to the clutter. Offshore sailing vessels are rarely tidy.

  One day we discussed our plans to circumnavigate. Bruce said that although much of this trip had been pretty good, circumnavigating the world would have plenty of times where it would be rough, likely as bad as what we experienced early on our trip off the coast of Oregon. For long passages, timing is dictated by the winds and weather. We only had two years for this adventure, unlike some people who were retired or could work in various countries as they went along. Teachers often did this. For family reasons and financial security, we needed to stick to our two-year plan.

  Bruce said that since we only had two years, we would have to keep moving and stay on a strict schedule. Much of the two years would be sailing, with only brief stays once we reached land. He asked what I would think of considering this a South Pacific trip. This would give us time at each place to really enjoy each country and its culture. What a grand idea! Sea life wasn’t the goal as far as I was concerned; it was making landfalls. Bruce felt the same. With that in mind, and considering wind patterns, we decided that this trip would be 14 months, rather than two years. It was a great plan and we never regretted changing our goal.

  We hadn’t seen anothe
r living soul since shortly after we left San Diego. Two weeks became three, then four. It was as though we were the world’s only inhabitants. That kind of aloneness bothers some people, but it didn’t bother us. We were content with each other’s company and didn’t miss interacting with other people.

  We did enjoy talking to family members via ham radio, but that was usually only once or twice a week. Otherwise, it was only the two of us, day in and day out.

  Unfavorable winds during the early days of this leg of the journey made the passage longer than we expected and by the end of it, we were anxious to reach landfall. Our supplies were fine, everything on the boat worked as it should and we were both healthy and fit. But it would be wonderful to touch land again and see new and different sights.

  Amazingly, our oranges and apples had lasted in good shape for this entire passage, even during the hot weather. The fruit was stored in wooden crates under the dinette in the cabin, away from the direct sun, but often it was hot in the cabin. We lost one orange due to mold, and the apples weren’t as crisp as they’d been at first. Otherwise, our light chlorine bath had done the trick to rid the fruit of surface bacteria that would cause spoilage. We finished the last of the fresh fruit shortly before reaching the Marguesas.

  We were excited when we saw a frigate bird circle overhead. It meant we were close to land! We watched as the big, mostly black bird skimmed the water, dipped into the sea and plucked out a fish, barely getting his wings wet.

  On Monday July 24th, like a little kid, I asked Bruce when we would “get there,” reach the Marquesas.

  “Oh, probably early Wednesday morning.”

  If that happened, I would be impressed with the exactness of his calculations. Without navigation know-how, you can miss an island by days, going right past it. To cross an ocean with no landmarks, using only the stars and sun for navigation, takes skill.

  In any event, I had my sights set on Wednesday. By then we would have been at sea for thirty-five days. I was ready to get there, to set foot on land, take a long walk, and drink something cold. Strangely, I also felt reluctance to again open our lives to others. We’d been in a world of our own and we were comfortable with that.

  First landfall, approaching Nuku Hiva

  First Landfall – the Marquesas

  Log Entry—July 25, 1989: Land Ho! Nuka Hiva off our starboard bow!

  From scraps of the heavy nylon material I’d used to make our storage bags, Bruce had made a French courtesy flag, three stripes of blue, white, and red. The American flag always flew at the stern on the aft leech of our mizzen sail. He now rigged the French courtesy flag from the starboard spreader off the main. Below the courtesy flag he hung a square yellow quarantine flag that he also made, a signal to the harbor authorities inviting them to come aboard to inspect the vessel prior to being cleared or admitted into the country. In most cases, we knew that Bruce would go to them when reaching port, but flying the “Q” quarantine flag was protocol for an arriving vessel until they had cleared customs.

  As we approached the Marquesas, from miles away we were aware of the islands’ aroma, a tropical arboretum rich with scents of earth tinted with tropical flowers and fruits. We passed north of Ua Nuka before approaching Nuka Hiva, the largest of the twelve Marquesas Islands. As we neared land, dolphins greeted us with wild cavorting around the boat, slicing the water at extraordinary speeds. Our depth sounder was turned on and the dolphins kept setting off the shallow water alarm. We finally turned off the depth sounder since we had plenty of good light to see any obstacles. I stood in the bow, ready to signal Bruce if I saw any coral heads or changes in water color. I had to laugh at the dolphins playful antics as they welcomed us to French Polynesia.

  Bruce found a place to anchor among other boats in Taiahoe Bay. The rattling of the anchor chain was a welcome sound as the anchor was lowered 28 feet into the bay. We made it! We hung our boarding ladder and lowered the dinghy so that Bruce could row about 200 yards to shore. As required when first arriving, only the ship’s captain goes ashore to the harbor master and customs officials to present the boat’s documentation papers and the crew’s passports. He carried our important ship’s papers in a heavy zippered plastic bag.

  Getting to shore was a challenge. The Marquesas aren’t surrounded by coral reefs, so ocean swells come right into the bay. Timing a dinghy landing to avoid a breaking wave is pretty tricky, but Bruce managed without getting too wet.

  Document we used to help clear customs

  I couldn’t wait to touch ground, but busied myself tidying up the boat, restoring the midship bunk back to a settee, taking a quick bucket bath and getting fully dressed for the first time in weeks. The anchorage was a bit rough with choppy wave action.

  Surprised with how many countries were represented in the harbor, I saw flags on yachts from the United States, Sweden, New Zealand, France, Zambia in South Africa, Germany, plus a French Navy ship.

  Bruce was gone the better part of an hour, but returned pleased that our boat and crew’s documentation in French had made registration easier. He came back with instructions for the next required entry steps we were to take, but this time we could do them together.

  We boarded the dinghy and negotiated a splashy landing, pulling the dinghy up on the sandy beach so it wouldn’t get washed back to sea. There was no boaters’ dock. I took a few wobbly steps until I got used to walking on steady ground.

  Our first order of business was to post personal bonds. People arriving in private yachts were required to post a bond for each person aboard, amounting to $1,700 for the two of us for the duration of our stay in French Polynesia. From our research, we already knew this was a requirement, but many yachtsmen were caught off guard. Some objected, loudly. Some sailors seem to feel that since the wind is free, everything else should be, too. I understood the reasoning behind the bond. In French Polynesia, it isn’t uncommon to wreck a boat on coral reefs. The government here has been stuck with that cleanup, even having to give sailors money to fly home. There’s no reason the local government should bear that obligation, so the bond money is enough to at least send someone home, plus help defray cleanup costs. Other than a small service fee, the full amount would be returned when we left our final French Polynesian port.

  We had money set aside and went to the island’s only bank to purchase our bonds. The friendly bank official sat behind a desk. There were no tellers or tellers’ cages, or even a counter, only the one fellow at his desk. The money was kept in a regular desk drawer, not even separated by dividers. Everything was done by hand, though he had a calculator. He accepted our American currency and issued a bond receipt.

  Our next required stop was to surrender our weapons at the police department, more property called gendarme, since French was the official language. We had brought our weapons on our journey in case we should be accosted by pirates at sea, a very real concern. Before relinquishing them to the local authorities, Bruce had put trigger locks on both our handguns, his Ruger .357 Magnum and my Smith & Wesson .38 Special. We had been warned to lock the triggers so they couldn’t be used by others.

  The law is that visitors leave the country with the exact weapons and ammunition they had when entering. We found the gendarme, a Marquesan, helpful and friendly. He admired our guns and said French weapons lacked accuracy. He spoke a little English and explained that with a French gun you aim here (he pointed) but it shoots there (he pointed in a different direction). We were given a carbon copy of the form we had signed surrendering our guns and about 100 rounds of ammunition.

  Our business complete, we set out to explore our first foreign port of call. It seemed hotter on land than at sea, but the gentle breeze helped keep us comfortable. Taiahoe Bay is surrounded on three sides by mountains 2,000 to 3,000 feet high with peaks up to 4,000 feet. The area is lush with myriad green foliage. The people, reserved and dignified, didn’t make a fuss over us, which was a relief. The limited grocery selection was disappointing, but we really didn’t need
much. We’d barely made a dent in our supplies. We were mostly hungry for fresh bread, fruit and vegetables. We found some finger bananas and pamplemousse, a fibrous fruit that looks like a grapefruit but tastes more like sweet lime.

  Ancient Marquesan tikis

  The grocery stores were small and carried French or English brands. We were glad we had our own supplies. The local fare was expensive. For a small can of tuna, $7; for a single 12-ounce bottle of beer, $8; a faded box of cereal two years past the pull-date, $5. One thing I would do differently when provisioning would be to buy several pint jars of mayonnaise rather than the quart size. Without refrigeration, mayonnaise will spoil once the jar is opened. We splurged on a small jar for $3.50.

  Joy of joys, by following our noses we found a bakery and delicious French bread for thirty-five cents a loaf! Another small variety store carried supplies including cold drinks. A Coke never tasted so good. It was the first cold thing we’d had for seven weeks.