Leaving Chile, into the Pacific...

Lying in my bunk, the swirl of water on the hull, creaking and snapping of the internal infrastructure, the snatching of the jib when it loses the wind to the main, back on the ocean, heading north west to the trades, and to warmer climes.

This morning started early, awake at 0440, coffee on, hauling up 45 metres of chain, anchor stowed and under sail, heading west to Channel Chacao, seperating Chiloe from the mainland, where I was promised 5 - 9 knot currents on the ebbing tide.

We approach with just the wisp of light coming around in the east and head into the channel, looking for the lights and picking up speed. It's not long before the log reads 3 knots but we are making 10 over the ground. It's nice and wide but the varying depth makes for a true broiling vortex of currents and eddies that suck and pull as we career along.

The light comes, the water is hissing and overfall white caps mingle with glassy circles, we pass through in an hour and out into the ocean which is a confused wall of water as the deep meets the shallow. Sometimes I grapple with the tiller to keep her steady, other times we cut through the wavelets, the sun shining now, making our way into the Pacific where immediately we are rising and falling in the undulating swell.

When the wind comes, it's strong, blowing 20 knots, and the swell building now, coming from the south west, barracking us on the port quarter, we can't ride the wind directly behind as we are bound to gybe, or suffer the windscreen wiper effect of the boat rocking wildly from one side to another. So we set out on a reach and don't make as much north as I'd like, the price we pay for comfort.

The wind and the sea is boss, unrelenting coming from the south west, I am a timid guest, just a visitor for a day, and I hope she will be kind. We rise and descend in the swell, skewering and yawing as she pushes us from behind. The usual cacophony of noises below decks, and I wonder if I'll get any sleep tonight.

It's cold, I'm layered up but still the wind penetrates, my face burned already from a few hours in the sun, I contemplate the next 6 weeks, which is not a good thing.

I feel flat, disheartened, I know not why. Perhaps these days that I spend alone, with myself, I am never my best own company, something about being alone leaves the door open to unwanted visitors. I tolerate and manage, this too shall pass. The pensive mood, the questions, the why's and the wherefores, better doing yoga, or eating chocolate!

The night has come, a darkness quickly descends shedding its vestige of last golden hue, billowing clouds and a running sea that now seems to move twice as fast. I look for stars, the moon will rise about midnight, it will be my nighttime companion, taking is to the next dawn.

Alejandro Selkirk ahoy!

There's always something exhilarating about making a landfall, looking out to the horizon and realising that it's land ahead, a distant outline, and not a low-lying cloud formation. Perhaps it appeals to our innate sense of safety, somehow to be in reach of terra firma bringing a deep seated sense of security, when movement and what is essentially a hostile environment is all we have known for these last days. It's day 5 out from Puerto Montt and we've been making good progress heading north north west, skirting around the South Pacific High. The first few days were tumultuous, launching myself into an unforeseen behemoth of racing surging swell topped with waves big enough make me a little tense at times. It was my baptism into the South Pacific and I was surprised by its animation in relatively low winds. My position meant I was within easy reach of the train of low pressure systems that push through the roaring forties, I was just on their doorstep, thankfully heading away, up to the northern latitudes. The pace has gradually eased and we are with a following wind of 15 knots and a far gentler sea, though still a lot of movement. My routine is starting to settle, I am sleeping more at night and really enjoying the celestial navigation when I get the chance to sight the sun between the clouds. The temperature of both sea and air is rising and I can look forward to some sunshine when all we have had so far is mostly cloud. Selkirk Island lies about 400 miles west of the Chilean mainland, about level with the capital Santiago. 100 miles to the east lies Robinson Crusoe Island, intriguingly named and I'm guessing in some way related to the book. So far today's excitement has been having dunked my bucket over the side to collect some water, the whole thing filled and suddenly I'm battling to haul it back in against a 5 knot current from the movement of the boat. I am determined not to let go as it's the best bucket I have on board so as the line is threatening to cause injury being wrapped around my wrist, I pull as hard as I can and manage the rescue, I'll not let go that easy! After Selkirk it's about 1500 miles to Easter Island, which may take about two weeks if the wind is good. All is tip top with Aisling and my only worry is that I may run out of books to read!

There must be as many different experiences of single handed sailing as there are the skippers that make the passages. I've been at sea a week now and I wanted to make a record, to share, some of my experiences, thoughts and feelings. To stand amongst people and proclaim a forthcoming passage from Chile to Tahiti, sailing 4000 miles of the South Pacific single handed is an image that exhilarates, inspires, sobers and scares, perhaps with equal measures of "crazy" and "romantic" thrown in, conjuring up pictures of an endless wake into a warm sunset or mountainous seas and a hand to hand combat with the elements. Or perhaps it brings forth the notion of a peaceful solitude, a retreat away from the modern world where one becomes at one with themselves, and with the ocean...I'm happy to say that it's none of these for all of the time, but all of these on many occasions. My first few days out into the Pacific, having been rushed through the Chacao Channel, were challenging. There's something about the sheer scale of an awakened sea here that I never experienced in the Atlantic, and this one had me on the back foot from the start, heavily reefed and continually apprehensive about broaching round into the tumbling waves atop the heaving swell rushing at me from the stern. Where seabirds wheeled and dived expertly amidst the spume, I thought seriously about running a drogue or taking over the helm manually. I guess it never got quite bad enough, but it felt close, the result being an underlying feeling of stress and tension. Being on deck was a matter of dodging explosions of water as waves hit the stern quarter and the hatch and companionway had to be kept closed at all times. It's when you leave it open that the freak ingress of water will shower the chart table, yes, it always happens when you forget... And what at night, when everything seems amplified, where mountains of water rise up on the periphery of your vision with the milky white heads just showing through the darkness, everything seems to have speeded up, and you think about taking in another reef, then you wonder if you actually want to because conditions are so crazy.... And the addage about "If you think about taking in a reef, it's time to do it..." So up you go onto the reeling deck in the pitch black, harnessed, clipped on, going through the clockwork motions and wondering at the sheer forces that are at work all around... And to sleep, two hours at a time, keeping a look out and checking the course, not that you'd have much chance seeing a light in such a heaving sea, so I have the radio with AIS alert too, the alarm set and good to go. And so, after a few days, the wind began to settle and sea become calmer, and hence began the point of sail I love the least, when there's a following wind that's weak and you try to cajole the boat along, and she rolls and rocks from side to side, occasionally really severe so that every loose object aboard slumps and runs from one side to the other with a resounding crash on each pitch. And there's a creaking from one of the bulkheads where the door is wedged in, it becomes insufferably loud and annoying, then there's that one elusive knock, it becomes the centre of your attention, you have to track it down and eliminate it! And outside the mainsail flaps and the boom crashes, the sheets of the jib recoil like snakes as the genoa snaps, and below decks all is amplified 20 fold and it just is the sound of tension, elements fighting, composite materials in collision, wear on the hardware, wear on the psyche! You have this for two or three days, crawling along at four knots, then enough is enough, tack to the North, suddenly that sullen ten knot breeze feels fresh, we go on a reach and the sails are filled, exhilaration, we make 6 knots, oh what a reprieve, sailing again! On this trip I have been a little austere, the result being that I am eating the same meal everyday, the only variety is whether I have it with rice, pasta or cous cous, and after ten days, it's becoming a little mundane. Morning porridge is best, in the predawn, my most favourite part of the day, download the latest weather on the iridium and check emails, drink coffee and wait for the light. It's been uber cloudy this last week but it has got warmer, I've been in bare feet and shorts now for a few days. Cloudy skies are not cool for celestial navigation. With no sun to take a sight, it's not gonna happen. So I'll be lying in the cabin reading, and then suddenly I'll see sunshine coming in through the window, dancing on the walls. Sun sun sun!!! I grab the sextant and pencil and pad and leg it up on deck to grab a sight or three, some days it's hit and miss. The big swells here and the constant cloud as well as a lot of boat movement make accuracy difficult and I'm continually frustrated that I can only get with about 10 miles of my position. Okay, 10 miles is pretty close considering the billions of square miles that it could be out by, but I aim for near perfection. There are just so many variables, it doesn't surprise me it's tricky, doing the maths is the easy bit! I keep track of my dead reckoning and make an entry every two hours, it gives me a rough idea of where I am so I can get the figures for the next fix. At the moment we are trailing up and around the South Pacific high and it seems to be going on an age though we are managing averagely over 100 miles per day, at 4 to 5 knots I guess that's the same as a brisk walking pace but it soon adds up to thousands. Yes, periods of sitting on the deck in wonder, usually in the late afternoon or before dusk, watching the silver rolling by, the small birds skitting in and out of the waves, there's one little type, they dip a little foot and the water then coast off again, I think I'll call then the One Foot Down Birds. I saw an albatross the other day, you know it must be an albatross because of the sheer size and grace, a bit like putting a Vulcan bomber in amongst a bunch of Harriers, slow, huge, present, amazing. Some small fish, swept upon the deck, some squid looking type thing which would be the stuff of nightmares if it was a hundred times the size...My ever constantly moving world with all of its associated noises, and the voices, children, people chattering outside but of course there's no one. How is it, every time you pop your head above decks, it's the same... Don't get me wrong, the sea is a constant ever changing landscape, but the eye always wanders for a ship, or an island, but for 8 days now not another vessel in sight. There's a thousand things I could do, but I don't seem to do a lot, but the time passes, by electrical impulses or girating wheels and springs, carving up the universe into degrees and minutes, angles and trajectories, then realising the birds don't do this, the fish don't do this, can I let it all go? It's a six week retreat with yours truly, and you wonder whether it will start to feel like Groundhog Day, eat, sleep, read, navigate, inspect, clean up, cook, snooze, look out aimlessly into the yonder and marvel at its fluidity and majesty, on and on and on... Moods come and go, demons pay fleeting visits, but the answer is to take a lesson from the ocean, let it be, flow, immerse, forget, maybe I'll get the hang of that by the time I arrive to Tahiti!