Chile to the Marquises

Slowly we make our way, and the more this goes on, the more I wonder what I'm getting myself into!

The South Pacific is, it appears, a behemoth, stretching from South America to Australia, an incomprehensible vastness that makes me understand what they mean by " crossing the pond" in reference to the North Atlantic. This particular stretch of water could well be classed as "crossing outer space!"

I'm over a thousand miles from the coast of Chile, having made an arc from the south, now I'm at latitude 24 where it's really starting to warm up, and let's just say that the winds are...flakey. I can ill afford to be delayed so it's further north to the lower latitudes in search of stronger more consistent winds.

Life on board remains simple, cooking and cleaning, honing the navigation, handling sails and studying weather files. There is a ton of movement at all times which can be a challenge. The stars are bright, the Southern Cross is still in the sky and I guess the moon is due for another cycle anytime soon.

My recently acquired sunburn has turned to blisters and my body needs a good salt water scrub, that's on tomorrow's agenda, if it's warm again. I'm fighting a battle with the carrots and cabbage that are slowly fading out in the heat, and I can personally vouch that porridge made with sea water is not a thing to be desired...unless you're Scottish perhaps?

It's nearly been two weeks and I'm expecting another month, all being well I arrive Tahiti the second week in April. The world is a big place and I'm off the mankind radar which feels strange, weird, scary, exhilarating, challenging, other worldly.

I'll keep chasing the wind arrows and avoiding the blue bits, the journey continues...

The South Pacific has drawn first blood and not in the way you would expect. Today was the first day of a series of becalms mixed with minor systems/squalls that have occupied this area for most of the day and played havoc with the regular wind. I've lost count of the amount of times I've changed tack, handled sails, reefed and un reefed. Against a backdrop of limited supplies and water amidst such isolation it's psychologically taxing and has left me feeling emotional and knackered. When becalmed, movement in the boat is intolerable, sometimes you want to scream and you realise just how stressful it is. The sails do this thing that's a bit like snapping a tea towel but on a much grander scale, with a thwack from the main and the jib doing the same making a bang every time on the traveller bloc, if you're below decks it's intolerable, crawling along at two knots and all you can think of is chafe and wear. The alternative is to down all sails, lie abeam to the waves and swell, considerably more aggravating as you are now effectively in a coracle on the oceans surface prone to every toss and surge...

On a more positive note, yesterday's sailing was amazing, cutting through the blue under bright sunshine with a fresh breeze, kind of the way you'd picture it down here, that almost elusive set of conditions that keeps you coming back for more...

And to end for today, I wrote this at 0500 this morning...

Day 16

Sitting on the deck, feet resting on the wooden toe rail, balancing myself, holding on lightly to the top wire of the guard rail that runs the length of the boat. It won't be light for another hour, there's complete cloud cover, the silver jewels in the night sky obscured, the slither of a young moon set hours ago, following the path of the sun.

There's a reasonable breeze blowing from the east south east, just enough to fill both sails and set us to the west, the gib giving a little thrup every now and again as the main blanks her from the wind. We turn to port and the sail again becomes full, we make a good 5 to 6 knots.

Cutting a swath through the dark water, leaving a bow wave of white with silvery pearls of luminescence and a trail of milky pale wake that swirls before its reabsorbed into the ocean.

Day 21

I've just finished some oranges, they lived in one of the clothing drawers in the forepeak, I remember picking them out in the Supermarket in Ushuaia, just before Christmas! The onions are the same. The cabbages I bought in Puerto Montt just a few weeks ago have long perished, and the carrots seem to be hanging in there, despite the rise in temperature.

After an initial panic, i worked out that at 3 litres per day of water consumption, i have enough on board to last for 60 days, and even if it did run low, there are squalls aplenty in which I can get a top up.

21 days at sea and I'm about halfway to French Polynesia. We've been racking up some good days of 135 miles with a quarter knot current that gives an extra 6 miles a day.

I've not seen or spoken to a soul since I left Chile, although I did see an aircraft in the night sky, a fast moving bright light with a blinking red, and I guess the International Space Station zooms past in its orbit, it's probably not too far away when it's at my zenith.

These last days the wind had been good and consistent and we move at 5 to 6 knots, west west west.

The prevailing weather had decided my route, I'm currently about 600 miles north east of Easter Island and plan on going even further north west to latitude 10S to avoid a lingering patch of low and no winds to the east of Polynesia that seem to be in permanent residence.

I plan to make first landfall at the Marquises, a small group of islands about 800 miles north east of Tahiti.

Life on board remains simple, I've started to do some minor works inside Aisling, keeps me engaged, i find i watch the sea a lot, the motion and movement is mesmerising, squally systems come and go, clouds come and go, moods come and go.

The heart of my experience has been that I have become quieter, calmer, more peaceful. I find myself relishing the simplicities of living with sun, moon, stars, clouds, waves and swell.

Day 22

Trying to capture the heart of this experience beyond routine and habitual daily living is a challenge.

You may ask what it is like to make a voyage that lasts for 40 days or more, how is it to be away from land, from people, from the freedom to roam beyond the toe rail of a 31 foot sailboat. To be living in an environment which is constantly moving, and as we travel nearer to the equator, to go into an extreme of heat that can at times be intolerable. How can I capture the heart of this experience that is seemingly so far removed from normal life?

Perhaps an answer that I have been reflecting on is that to truly experience all of those things, I have to take myself out of my normal daily perspective.

In this modern age, to make a journey that lasts for forty days is a ludicrous prospect, a passage like mine could be done in hours not months. To remain geographically trapped in a space smaller than a prison cell is rare if you've not broken the law and been incarcerated. To go for this amount of time without talking to anyone or seeing another soul is unprecedented in these times.

So how can it be done? I don't have any pat answers, all I know is that it can, humans are adaptable we know. Perhaps the thing I have tried to do is to let go of convention and be open to what this new life offers. I have found abandonment and spaciousness, i have found my world expanded to include the stars, the moon, the sun and sky, the constant changing mood of the ocean. I ask her to share her secrets with me, if she will. I open myself to being held in this vastness, to feel nourished and supported and cared for. She, the universe, the constant and only backdrops to our lives, has become my every waking moment at all times of the day and night.

What I feel I may have lost from being away from the land, I have been given so much more, an unforgettable gift.

Yesterday I saw my first sea animal in three weeks, a creamy colored whale about half as long as the boat with a striking aqua blue sheen on the top of its head as it trulled gracefully beneath the waves, curious, coming to say hello. I see occasional sea birds but nothing more, it feels ghostly quiet in comparison with the south Atlantic.

The weather now is boiling, I wear little clothing and shelter from the sun below decks or in the shadow of the Genoa where I sit gazing out from the pulpit. Sometimes squalls come, the wind becomes fickle, we have a rain storm as it passes, so yesterday I collect 6 litres of water, sweet tasting straight from the cloud above. I now sleep all night, 7 hours straight, awakening early to greet the dawn. The wind remains fairly constant and I continue north west to avoid an area of calm that seems to permanently reside to the east of French Polynesia. It's meant travelling 700 miles north of Easter Island and I plan to make landfall in a couple of weeks in the Marquises, a small group of islands to the north east of Tahiti.

Vanilla, pinky, blotchy grey, we lost four points on the barometer, the sky changed colour from blue and the wind rallied, gently at first but then enough to build the swell.

After a day of clear skies and idyllic sailing, with a gentle following breeze and a calmer sea, the skies compressed and the ocean took in a breath and started to rumble, and now we run to the setting sun, obscured behind a brush stroke of grey. And there just there, a crimson galleon sinks into the mire, just moments it catches my eye then it's gone.

With nearly 3000 miles under the keel since southern Chile, we press forward to our goal, 1700 miles distant, some yellow splodges on a chart, a snaking line of crosses arching up and around, everyday making the space without crosses look smaller, incomprehensibly surrounded by thousands of miles of water, with 4000 metres under the hull.

My hands are sore and inundated with areas of dried and peeling skin. My body is slowly changing colour, my hair going naturally curly, I only wear shoes when I go on deck in a blow and I keep an eye and an ear for anything untoward on board.

I'm still eating onions and oranges that I bought before Christmas in Ushuaia, sadly the cabbage and the carrots have struggled and the carrots go under the knife daily to keep the decomposition at bay. The cabbages went over board last week.

I've set up the sails so there are three flying simultaneously, and we seem to fly. Poled out genoa, #2 gib hanked onto the spare forestay, and main sail out, all filling with wind from the port stern quarter. I never remember my boat going this fast before, the last noon to noon log was 140 miles, that's including the current, maybe it's because I have less peanut butter and flapjacks on board.

We gained an extra hour today, currently 7 hours behind UK time.

The flying fish continue to land on the deck, I chuck em back in every morning, last night one hit the mainsail, leaving a ghostly blue silhouette. It can't be a pleasant business dying on the deck of a passing sailboat, often there is an explosion of scales and blood with the lifeless fish lying on the cat walk.

Well, it's getting dark and it's 7pm, two squalls creeping up from the east, the moon full tonight I reckon, slowly advancing to our goal.

Change of course...

day 32

Perhaps with my last two oranges I can experience a shared characteristic of these last days of the voyage. Whereas the fruit will be eaten with long drawn out relishment and grateful gusto, it seems that these last 500 miles will be just... long drawn out.

With record progress to date, clocking up daily milages of 150 and more, the weather has taken a turn, the wind has weakened and we are struggling to make 4knots with accompanied rolling of the hull and slatting of the sails. The sea has become a series of lazy swells, the urgency has dwindled and the sun has become the hottest it's been. With a hazy horizon and a few clouds, life has suddenly slowed.

The last two weeks have been a challenge in the ocean that is my mind, whipping up storms of negativity and some sense of loneliness. It has called for some strict mental management as well as an opportunity to reflect and hopefully try to learn something about myself. They say that you meet the true you when you make a voyage like this, well, I continue to see facets, some great and some disturbing, but nothing life threatening!

32 days, no vessels, very few sea birds and one whale. 32 days, 7 books read, 150 chapattis baked, 6 cockpit bucket bathes. 32 days and I strangely feel like I'm getting used to it, although I start to crave food that isn't on my current daily menu.

My original plan was to go to Tahiti and when I look at current weather conditions 500 miles to the south, I'm glad I headed north instead. There is a growing expanse of blue on the chart, representative of no wind for a span of over a thousand miles, sometimes it's best to be flexible and go with the intuition, best laid plans perhaps best laid with the mortar of flexibility and all that.

So we may arrive to Fatu Hiva or Hiva Oa in 5 days, the wind is predicted to disappear completely after 4, so I may be swimming the remainder of the journey, or towing my boat in behind the kayak.

I'm gonna enjoy eating those oranges 😊