The Last Oceanic Roustabout

This is my final oceanic blog. Six days left in French Polynesia until I fly to the States. It takes 8 hours to retrace a 28 day sailing voyage. I'll stop in San Francisco to visit old friends. My final destination is Atlanta, where this trip began. Back where I sold or gave away all my belongings, gave up what many hailed the greatest apartment in the city, and threw the most presumptuous fundraiser ever conceived (for myself).  That was June 1, 2009.

I took to the States by train, bicycle, and woody wagon. Visited TN, MO, KS, CO, NV, UT, CA, AZ, NM, TX, LA, MS, AL. I came home for a few weeks, during which time I met many of you. Then in March, I took to the seas. I had never sailed.

Since then I've sailed almost 4,000 nautical miles. Been sick-sea, home-sick, awestruck, and sublime. I crossed the equator and then an ocean. I count 18,000 miles traveled since last June. Only 2,200 of those miles were covered by airplane. In total, I spent $4,370. By all accounts I lived well.

It'll take some time to know what this trip meant, if anything at all. I haven't developed any particular slogans or philosophies, except to confirm what Bobby Kennedy said: “This world demands the qualities of youth; not a time of life but a state of mind, a temper of the will, a quality of the imagination, a predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the life of ease.”

But I didn't learn this from RFK. I learned this from you, young and old. David Stewart went to the jungles of Thailand to cage fight at the age of 50. Catharine Lloyd made her move from Atlanta to San Francisco. Rob Teilhet had the courage to run for higher office. Josh starting talking to guys until he found the right one. Melissa made the decision to go to law school. Phil left for Italy to study gastronomy. Grant said “FUCK FEAR”.

These friends acted when the alternative was the rigor-mortis of routine. They chose what it was they wanted. They gave their soul what it needed. They decided for themselves.

The greatest calamity befalls that which purports to create fun for us. A few examples to prove the point: theme restaurants, Del Webb communities, family-oriented board games, audience participation, and the mother of all horror, what everyone else is doing. I'll, instead, make my own happiness. When one thing no longer makes me happy, I'll do something else --even if that's digging my own grave for fun. This isn't caprice, it's reason.

I will decide what is next. I have offers to continue sailing. I could go to law school. I could sit at The Local and listen to Perry Como and the banter of my friends every night. Or, maybe I will form a Jack Jones cover band, singing Wives and Lovers at retirement homes. Whatever I decide, I'll tackle it with similar Quixotism --there are always windmills to be fought.

This past year one thing has followed me everywhere. It's a tickle. At least it feels exactly like a tickle. It's actually joy. And often I feel like I'm going to jump up and down and scream-- creating a volcanic explosion of mirth. It's a sinister ovation to an often ho-hum world.

This is how I said good-bye to Alobar, her skipper, and you.

Dear Capt. Joel,

I'm writing this letter to thank you. To thank you for your generosity. To thank you for your careful and successful seamanship. To thank you for what you've shown, in many ways, as care for me.

You are the consummate skipper. I am quite proud of our ship. For what it is worth, I've watched you very carefully for three months. By your example and guidance I've learned a great deal.

Unequivocally, you've had an impact on my life. My future successes, which may lay ahead, are thus owed in part to you, and the summer I spent aboard S/V Alobar.

Your First-Mate,

Robert Walter Lange

Warm and Cool Comments

Annie Brett, "Captain" of S/V Infinity sent me this note:

"ok. upon receipt of this lovely automated message, i just had to check out your blog.

and now i am laughing. at you, not with you. it is every bit as pretentious as i would imagine.

i especially like your picture."

Annie -- I've decided to at least employ an editor to fix grammatical errors and the like. However I can't account for my inability to create honest prose. If you saw my test scores and grades in school you'd be surprised I can write and breath at the same time. 

You, or anyone, can sail with Captain Annie, follow this link http://www.infinityseatribe.com/sv-infinity.htm.

The Week Before Tahiti

In port Papeete, Tahiti. I've made friends. I'm considering running for mayor of the marina, maybe the entire island.

In 4 days I'm in love with as many women; commandeered the liquor on as many yachts; traded as many pearls for Marlboros. Admittedly, on only one occasion did I wake up in a dingy. All is right in the world (a “return to normalcy” to borrow the phrase). I would say this to every crewman and captain in the harbor, if I could just retire this incessant grin.

This grin, this glee, can only be illuminated by an email I wrote to Sister Katie a week before:

"Dear Katie,

I've been begging for emails. My thoughts, uninterrupted by those of anyone else for over a month, have reached the bitter-end. Only a simple soliloquy strolls its circumlocutory path around my mind. I want all at once to be drinking Jon's booze on the lawn; sitting in Santelli's good seats; at Friday Lunch Bunch; crashing fundraisers and cocktail parties in scuffed Ferragamos-- pocketing all the beef-wellington because I can't afford dinner.

I miss waking up wondering where I put my car, how I'll get home, and where I put my damn Rolaids. Instead I've watched the sunrise everyday this week-- without a pocket full of ATM receipts. There is no story there. I've lost weight, don't smoke, don't drink, breath deeply after refreshing, dream filled sleep. I might as well go to church, floss, watch “must see TV”, develop accountability and monogamy.

I'm young, all my plumbing still works, I can read in the dark, I still imagine myself as one day successful and famous. Alobar has stymied the volition of my youth. After the crossing this vessel became a retirement home. I read “The ABC's of Bridge” after a 4 p.m. cabbage and vinegar dinner. I crossed an ocean for no other reason than the story. Now, I must get back to tell it. I am profoundly home-sick.

We have arrived at the atoll of Manihi. An impossible creation where coral heads breach the ocean, crumble, congeal. Inhabited only by palms-trees and people. A calm lagoon lies within the collar, outside waves arrive angrily. The ocean must be surprised after traveling across so many miles of nothing. Of this nothing I am acutely aware. Paradise has been pronounced a secluded beach where the worries of work and the rush of life are banished for a time. It is right here. However I rarely work, and rarely worry about important things. So I have only found a secluded beach.
- Your Bro"

The Skipper, Joel A. Ungar

We have set sail. Course 220 magnetic. A week-long passage. Capt. Joel is satisfied with the state of Alobar; although not ship-shape. At sea Joel is happy. Fettered to one another by the confines of Alobar an understanding has developed between us. Joel's happiness is tantamount to my own.

My anxiety or joy, my task and sociability is based on the captain's mood. When the captain suffers compunction (which is often) I resign myself reticent but available. At times I must be aloof to provide necessary privacy. Traces of my existence must be only those which show contribution and thoughtfulness.

At sea when in repose Capt. Joel is reflective. A laconic man, a navy man. He, at the onset of any task, then becomes intense and cutting-- yelling with the impatience of a disappointed father. His spry physique defies all preconception of age. Climbing about the boat like a child on a jungle gym. Commanding directions to crew. I cannot attempt to summarize his complete existence. I only know him as the consummate skipper.

Mentally he exhibits little preoccupation as to the inevitabilities that must loom above any septuagenarian. He is wholly occupied by exacting care and paranoid precaution; there is room for little else. He bears the weight of all successes and failures and all the future failures he has played in his mind in a thousand different ways. Working for this man, living under his precept I have found unrelenting faith in our security and seamanship. He is not my friend, nor a mentor, to consider him such would be met with indifference. He is the captain of the ship and has a job to do, as well do I. Capt. Joel and I can be pals once out of the eye of a jealous ocean.

sv-grace

My friends from Ile De Grace, Jon and Jennifer, are superior to me in everyway except when it comes to writing cynically. Their rather wholesome sailing blog overlaps my own adventures. Below is a picture I took of their catamaran.

iPearl

After a week on Manihi Atoll we are making passage to Tahiti Island. 266 miles between way points. The grib file shows light winds. Before we shoved off I traded a 16GB IPod with the black pearl fatso. He got the best deal and he doesn't know it yet-- I left him all my Antony and the Johnsons and Eurythmics albums. He said pointing to my giant bag of pearls, "Girlfriend like very much!" What a presumptuous jerk.

A Remora was living under Alobar. I guess the fish thinks we are a shark. He comes out to grab anything I throw off the side. He likes egg shells but doesn't like onion, FYI. Trumpet Fish also hang out, friendly little guys, but they look like they could just as easily have been named Enema Fish. Therefore, I don't go swimming. I'm not sure if they will follow us across to the Society Islands. I wouldn't recommend it to them. We are headed to Papeete the largest city around; an unlikely home for crystal clear water.

It's exciting to think of going to a big city. Capt. Joel plans to stay there for a bit to wait on parts. The island purportedly has internet and American fast-food. We have even been warned about crime. But I'm not worried, I know there is only one way I can die: A coconut falling on my head. That way at my funeral people can say, "He died the way he lived, absurdly."

Manihi Atoll, Tuamotu Islands, French Polynesia

It is so quiet I tracked down a stowaway mosquito by sound. The anchorage harbors just two yachts now. The other, a catamaran, our friends from the 4x4 trip around Nuku Hiva. The couple is still painfully kind and humble. I harbor a keen affection for them.

Both worked for the government – jobs whereby they declined major private sector salaries; jobs whereby they spoke truth to power and were heard. But that's unimportant, I have a crush on them as people. I wish to say, “Hey, I really like y'all. I mean it. You are genuinely fascinating people. And great Americans. You make me feel two feet tall and I still feel lucky to spend the day with you.” They are my elders, parents of successful children my age, needing no further accolades; there is no way to say this and have it mean anything.

Together the four of us explore the atoll. On shore, many villagers appear heightened in spirits, like a holiday has come-- ephemeral but afoot. Fernando's son explained grouper have come to lay eggs. We watch boats pull up hand lines with the fish. Full 55 gallon tubs come ashore throughout the day. This happens one month a year.

The grouper move slow with pregnancy. It is presumed we can harpoon them. I must learn 10 new things. Among these how to snorkel, dive, use a Hawaiian sling and what grouper look like. I've never so much had on flippers. I bought a mask at the magazine-- old school oval type. I've got my six foot trident. I look very convincing. Recall John Kerry in Carharts a week before the election hunting in the Ohio woods.

I spend the first hour in fear of how close the fish get. But, mostly I itemize all that could fall into my snorkel blowhole. I don't even get a shot off. We change locations-- ocean-side near the pass. It is an aquarium, everything you might see in the Red Lobster waiting area. Joel slings a parrot fish. Easy to identify and slow, I stalk them too. I'm better at swatting mosquitoes. Later told, I was submerged in some of the finest diving waters the world over.

We sat at Fernando's lagoon-side table to eat baguettes stuffed with beef, bbq sauce and french fries. After, the same table is used to clean grouper; we help for fun. A golden lab, neck above water, plays in the shallow coral chasing fish. I am informed this is the dog's life. That afternoon we dove at Fernando's pearl farm, he lets you keep to one you grab. My oyster had an ulcer 60 mm and perfectly round.

Ile de Ua Pou

A day's sail away our anchor dropped in a little bay of Ua Pou Island. The little island town is 25 feet aft our stern, across shallow water. We share the water with a French yacht and a dredging crew from Australia who work atop a barge and crane. I watch the crew fishing and smoking. There isn't much room in the bay but it makes the scene seem quaint and authentic. We won't stay long. One day on land; a step back in time.

I sat outside the post-office with antagonized patience over the speed of the internet. Locals moved in and out. One stopped to speak to me in French. Maybe he wanted a Gauloises, my response was a silent, dunce-like smile. An aged man, donning an Australian cowboy hat, saunters over. The local deferentially is cast away.

In an Australian accent, "They're all my family, he's a cousin in-law. My name's Keith, you're an American." Showing me his hand and sitting down next to me. "Don't mind them, I don't, you don't see me complaining about them none." He talks as though we know each other, and as though I am frightened (and should be) of the "natives."

The only indication that I am listening to Keith is that I do not get up and leave. He just starts talking: "I married two of them... I'm 80... built my own house.. hip replacement... French blokes and Kiwis... worked hard... watch out for this one... cannibals but won't admit it... Marquesians eat that rubbish, breadfruit is good for teeth like theirs," and on and on and on.

Eventually I respond, "Find the skipper, maybe you can answer some questions for him." The two of them get along a little better. Keith nearly takes us by the hand to lunch. He talks and acts like some haughty British consul to Africa at the time of steam ships.

At his home/store, down the road, we are introduced to his wife. Marguerite an elderly Marquesian woman with flowers in her spindly hair and spindly hair around her mouth. She is friendly and seems to expect us. They saw our flag from shore. She pours me a Hinano at her dinning room table. The Aussie drones on. 20 minutes later we drive one block to the "snack" spot.

We eat steak and drink Hinanos, the Aussie drones on, the wife talks at me. I begin to feel lost and stuffed, and a headache from all the beer and food. Keith is then driving us to remote parts of the island. His frame of mind is manifest destiny meets rural Republican-- if any such distinction exists. His mind drivels through his mouth. I gaze out the window at scenery I saw just days before in a different place. Keith is bored here and wants to speak English, we are his victims, showing us Paradise is his bargaining chip.

I am not here to tell that story. I never will. I'm here to sail. I'm here to commune with the sea. A jaunt on land for steak and beer is desirable-- but that which one can have at home begets only a longing to have home with it. "He went to sea, and entering the regions so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He knew the magic monotony of existence between sky and water... there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea."

Ile de Grace joins Alobar around Nuku Hiva

We stayed an extra day on Nuku Hiva. Joel made friends with a middle aged couple upon the catamaran Ile de Grace; Princeton grads, a swank boat, lifetimes of successes impossible to conceal despite their modesty and kindness . They were renting a 4x4 to tour the island and invited us along.

Crammed in to our Suzuki Jimmy we traversed the island's dirty switchback roads. The AC cranked, the wife talking a bit, the husband clearly pleased to be at the helm, Joel silent, me content to listen and look. In 8 hours of slow driving we encountered 5 distinct micro-climates, 6 ancient ruins, 4 small villages, 1 decent lunch spot and 1 million roosters.

The scenery was out of a movie. By the first vista I knew I could neither photograph nor write of the beauty adequately. By the 20th vista the thrill was gone, and looking at my pictures I adequately captured my boredom and desire for a cold drink. I settled for a cigarette. Puffing away in the heat I hiked up through the jungle. At the top were ruins. Marquesas tiki makers love the badonkadonk. I took lots of pictures of tiki butts which surrounded a platform used in cannibalistic sacrifice.

The ruins were interesting for 5 minutes. But,finding no evidence of cannibalistic ritual, a vending machine, or girls I walked back to the Suzuki. That was my jungle excursion. In the remainder of the day I walked through a high desert, a forest, an evergreen forest, and a tropical palm tree forest. No girls or cold drink in any of these micro-climates either. Just, lots of horses, chickens, lizards, no-nos, goats, and cows accompanied by the equivalent amount of shit (which I began to take pictures of as well).

We set sail to Ua Pou the following morning. It was only a day trip south. The island is smaller, hotter and without tourists. Above our mast rises 2 massive cone-like peaks shrouded in clouds. The landscape has the quintessential stranded on an uninhabited island look. One is met with a certain ominous feeling-- particularly as one gazes up the elevation towards a quite unreachable summit.

Blue Blazer around the World

We are anchored in Daniel's bay, Nuku Hiva. Joel and Richard went snorkeling. They say they saw coral and colorful fish. All I see is Daniel's hut and green, shrubby cliffs. It rains every 30 minutes for 5 minutes. I'm positive though, yesterday I passed the other boat here. They were blasting Jimmy Buffet and clad in Tommy Bahama. I could be on that boat. Meanwhile I donned my blue blazer for Mahi Mahi dinner.

My feelings have changed after I caught a barracuda (and tried to bring it on the dingy unknowingly). That was after we hiked to the 3rd highest waterfall in the world. It feels like being at the end of the world, and in a way it is.

Most of each day is devoted to maintaining the boat. My project is a fuel system tear down of the dinghy's outboard. Bad mixture in the carburetor and I can't get it right. So nerve-wracking to work over water. Drop a screw and it's gone, drop a carburetor it's gone even quicker. The anchor winch is acting up, cleaning must be done, lines replaced, barnacles scraped, diesel engine oil changed, it never ends. Capt. Joel is clearly preoccupied by things un-fixed. Still we are leaving the bay to explore others on the island.

Alobar has been re-fueled. It took 5 hours. The “fuel dock” is intended for the thrice monthly supply freighter, of poor design and is supposedly set to be razed. Unfortunately it is the only place to get fuel on the island. In the dinghy we came to the corner of the dock 5 feet from the stern of the freighter ship. The dock is an industrial space for unloading cargo. 15 feet of solid concrete rises up to the platform. Under it is open; the swell of the ocean fills this void in short intervals. The compression of the water in this void against the dock causes an a powerful, heavy spray of sea water 20 feet out. It does so with a hiss only the ocean could muster and small ironic rainbows catch the mist.

Our small craft floats at this pressure point. Drenched and continually sprayed I tie the painter line on a 20 foot ancient, rusted ladder. The greatest concern is being sucked under the dock and sunk or worse yet crushed. I climb to the platform with some line and hoist up 5 Jerrycans. After being Filled 100 yards away, with a strong knot the heavy containers are lowered back down. An hour later we went back to fill 5 more, in the rain. It was the most surreal experience of the trip.

Fred Orr, In Memory

For those of us who knew him we have lost a hero. Brain cancer took Fred Orr in just 4 months. It is sad, none of us is prepared for tomorrow without our Fred. And, sad for Fred, because he loved living so much. Fred would love nothing more than to attend his own funeral. To be with the legions of friends, the legions of women who loved him, and the perfect excuse to take a few of them out for a drink afterward.

The severity of his illness was incomprehensible. Now only his absence is left to reconcile. Too lose someone in our life reveals the influence they had-- through Fred much of my life has been molded, and still much of my future will be modeled.

Fred is 45 years older than I. Yet, the grin we shared when together was equally that of a 14 year old. We shared a certain giddiness together-- silently knowing we would continue to have fun after everyone else had gone back to work. It started just 5 years ago at a Friday lunch. At that table sat 6 people spanning every decade back to Roosevelt. This most extraordinary group has met every Friday since. At 1 o' clock --Jaguars and compact-cars pull-up-- we gather around the table for what is often the best part of the week. Fred and I would have one drink, then two, then it became 3 o'clock, then it became too late to go back to work, then drinks were a ritual 4 days a week. Our closeness was instant and never stopped growing.

It never came up, but I guess we knew it odd to be such close friends. Of which he nor I are in short supply. We liked the same things, we saw so much beauty in the world, we were doing as we pleased. Fred and I are the sort who do as we please. He was not wrought to prove any nostalgic advice-- Fred was more secure with himself than that. Each day was something to enjoy and tomorrow would be even better. That is how Fred lived. Because of this state of mind, Fred and I were bonded by a common youth.

Fred would delight at the success of others. If it were a big jury verdict, an attractive date, a trip you were taking, Fred's response had the same genuine enthusiasm. Who can't conjure that slow Dixie accent exclaiming, “Oh my God, that's wonderful!” In my observation his friends wanted the same for him. He deserved that, for Fred believed in good and had you believe in it too. He a trial lawyer by trade; an Atticus Finch by character.

What he leaves us is both concrete and cerebral. He leaves a legacy in Atlanta, the legal community, in politics, and in the lives of the many he touched. Long before Fred became ill we would part and say “I love you”. Fred meant it. Fred meant to say he loved this life and sought to tell all of us he loved that we were in his.

The Road Not Taken

We expect to make land fall this week. Tomorrow even could be our penultimate day. Richard and Joel are building up the excitement about what it is like to see land for the first time after a month. I am leery. Supposedly one can see these islands from 100 miles away. If this is true we will have an entire 24 hours sailing to look at land before arrival. This reminds me of the bike ride, Marcus and I would reach the welcome sign for a campsite and still have a full hour and and half ride to get to the main gate.

Each evening Joel does his check in with the Puddle Jump Net on VHF. Several boats doing exactly what we are doing check in. They share information like current position, knots, bar., and traffic for other vessels. They also love to make painful remarks like, "We're in the doldrums, but hey it beats the doldrums of working!" Even worse are the all too often banalities uttered from the lexicon of Margaritaville shirts. However, this week the Net has been awesome. We gather round the radio to listen to the saga of Sea Flyer.

Sea Flyer is a Choey Lee Off-Shore 38' sail boat probably from the 1970's. After 7 days at sea she lost 2 of her 5 shrouds (shrouds are really important, Google it, they hold up the mast). Sea Flyer calls this emergency traffic in to the Net. All are concerned, boats offer help. Day 8, Sea Fkyer shares that he is happy with the jury-rig and decided to continue out to sea. Day 9, another shroud is lost. Day 10, Sea Flyer is out of fuel, was motor-sailing the whole time (this means no mast, no motor). Day 10, a Cuban vessel coordinated by the US Coast Guard does a fuel drop. By Joel's calculation Sea FLyer is now out of helicopter range. Day 11, Sea Flyer overheats her engine. Day 12, has it working but taking on water through the prop. Day 13, that's tonight, tune in.

Here is the best part. Everyone on the Net is gossiping about Sea Flyer and it is shared that the other person on the vessel is a stranger. I e-mailed Sea Flyer about boarding the ship last year. This stranger, her name is Delores, was picked instead of me. Santelli is right, horseshoe up my ass."

Crossing the Equator

We crossed the equator at 2:30 pm (Zulu) today. The sea doesn't know it but we do. No longer a "Polly Wog", circa 1899 sailors would now refer to me as a "Shell Back".

Lack of wind has put us behind course but we are within a week of our destination (about 700 miles to the south). However, I don't really think about it. I have found as much patience as the sailing is slow. Time is distorted. I don't have a watch, my electronics are in a time-zone hours and hours ahead, there are no clocks aboard the boat. I wake when I am rested, I eat when I am hungry, I sleep when I am tired, I take on tasks at the time they need be accomplished. My schedule is based on either necessity or convenience. For the sake of the blog any mention of time is largely speculation to give context. I'll be happy when we get to Nuku Hiva but I am in no rush. To rush against the ocean and wind would result only in loss and fatigue.

I was delighted to receive a few messages forwarded by my father. Anytime I am away from Atlanta I marvel at how wonderful my life is at home-- undeniably due to my friends. I miss three things primarily: friends, dogs, and fountain drinks. When I get home I want to jump in a pool of friends and puppies and float around sipping from a Styrofoam 64 oz. Big Gulp. Can you picture it? Good because this will more than likely happen. The messages were nice but short. It is difficult for me to ascertain the effectiveness of my writing. Am I thorough in the portrayal of the voyage. I don't know. So I'm asking that you ask me something. I'd be obliged to answer questions, serious or not. Despite three weeks of physical inability to be more than 37 feet away from another human it is still lonely out here. Send something short to Robert.Lange@gmail, and don't forget to check the Yotreps site, we update everyday.

00 degrees 00 minutes south/north
134 degrees 06 minutes west"

Daily Activities

There really is very little to do. In all likelihood whatever you did today or will do tomorrow cannot be done on a 37' boat at sea. After the ocean and the birds loose their novelty there isn't much stimulation. All day my mind wanders and races to fill the void. In a 24 hour period I spend equal parts, 9 hours each, day- dreaming and dreaming.* Albeit I try to be as productive as possible with all this thinking time.

My deepest reflection time I call my "Oscar Wilde Time", which happens each night after dinner from 8pm - 1am. Thereby I devote 1/5 of my day to intense rumination of 5 general topics:
1. My imaginary wedding
2. Patterns/fabrics and their interplay with furniture
3. Fictitious witty conversations I would like to have
4. Oratory rhetoric
5. Letters and invitations I would like to compose (and the appropriate stationary/linen stock/hue etc.)

The remaining 3 hours of thinking time (typically in late morning) involve wild violent fantasies. Yesterday I look up from my Joyce novel for just a moment and am transported to East Atlanta. There I am driving a early '60s Cadillac with several attractive friends when hooded marauders attempt to car-jack my "whip". In the ensuing moments I fetter a would be bandit to the steering wheel with fuzzy dice. I drag my to the nearest police station mustering sensational invective after invective. In the back seat friends watch with horror my violent indifference, crying and in disbelief. This goes on in my head for quite a while. In defense I suppose day-dreams such as these necessarily counter-balance my fantasies where-in these same friends fawn over my taffeta upholstered Henredon settees.

* The remaining 6 hours of non-sleep involve reading for 5 with the balance endeavored to trim sails, eat, use the head and stare blankly at the sea.

Re-Fenestration

Somnambulism - 20 days at sea. All is quite constant, samey. We have not seen ship nor land in 17 days. There is S/V Alobar and the ocean.

Outside the ocean is cerulean blue in sunlight or metallic blue under clouds. There are two other species: Boobies fly above and Flying Fish fly below. (The fish appear like hummingbirds. Swarms of them cross our bow and die on deck. One flew through the hatch in my berth and flopped around to death in my bed as I slept. Re-fenestration perhaps?) The ocean is always there, always moving, to consider her is to consider how unwelcome one is.

On the boat a cacophony of clangs, thuds and creaks sound day and night. Yet, unlike a rail-side apartment, the sound cannot be ignored. One registers each noise. A clang awakens us from sleep to conjure an image of the Cunningham striking the mast, which means the main is spilling air, which means we have lost wind or course which precipitates a series of actions. For example. Sailing is a noisy affair which, for a better sailor than I, begets a certain conversation between her skipper and craft.

Damp and clammy. Everything is damp and clammy. The wooden doors and drawers have swollen shut. One's clothes and bedding are never dry -- sweat leaves salt, the air leaves salt, the sea leaves salt, salt holds moisture, we are sweating on the ocean in the rain. In this climate we sail an average of 4 knots -- that is to say the speed of walking. We are walking across the Pacific. --Rob

Update From the Captain

Hello guys. It is about 11PM here at 4N latitude and 131W longitude as the boat progresses south to the equator. It is a beautiful night and I have come down below to write a bit and to look at the Stellerium program that I downloaded from the internet so that I can find the names of some of the stars that are brightly displayed across the heavens all around us. It is very calm where the boat is just now as we are in the doldrum area just north of the equator where light, unpredictable winds are the rule. We have motored or motor-sailed on and off for the last 40 hours. Hope to break out of the doldrums into clear trade winds at about 2N latitude and from there should have steady south-easterly trades into the first landfall about the 28th of the month. Had planned to visit Nuka Hiva first, but am thinking it would be nice not to miss Hiva Oh. Have really gotten into the day to day routine of voyaging and am enjoying the time out here on the wild blue. Boat is doing very well, although there have been a few glitches. Screws that hold the roller furler for the headsail came loose and one disappeared. Luckily there was a spare left from installation and I carried a lot of red lock-tight. A few other things have come loose including the shackle that holds the halyard to the headsail. The halyard disappeared into the mast and will need to be re-run thru the mast. Fortunately I installed a second spinnaker halyard as a spare and am using it to hoist the headsail. Have gone to the top of the mast a few times, but doing it with the mast going from side of side would be a challenge. One night in strong winds the whisker pole tore off a piece of the track secured to the mast. Luckily, there is a large portion of track remaining that allows the continued use of the pole. I just do not use the full headsail on the pole in strong winds anymore. Despite the few failures, the boat performs well and we have been very comfortable. Fishing has been slow, but we did eat our first fish for dinner this evening. Best wishes to everybody. Joel

Where's the MacDonalds?

Today marks 2 weeks on the boat and our half-way point. We are going to celebrate by using the last of the meat on the boat and try to make hamburgers.

Sleeping With the Fishes

We have been rolling in 7 foot seas for the past couple of days which is exhausting and makes sleep difficult. It has also been overcast which makes everything damp and salty. Capt. Joel has been updating the YotReps site so you can track our progress. Soon we will be southing towards the inter tropical convergence zone/doldrums/equator. We check the weather reports each day in hopes to pass this area using as little fuel as possible. Another boat on the "puddle jump" got stuck with only 5 gallons of diesel and floated around the ITCZ for a week. We are about 1500 miles from any form of land, the gravity of this recently struck me and I am careful when doing anything at all; to injure myself would be complete disaster. Interestingly, swarms of flying fish accompany the boat at all hours of the day to the extent that we find a dozen or so dead on the deck each morning-- one even came through the hatch above my berth and must have flopped around next to me as I slept. They are like little aquatic hummingbirds.

Finding My Sea Legs

April 10, Day 8
Hello, all is well on the boat. Books, cooking, sleeping and sailing are keeping me well occupied. 28ish more days does seem a bit daunting I will admit. The contents of the previous posting are no longer indicative of my current condition, I have my sea legs and am quite happy.
--Rob

UPDATE from the Captain

April 9
S/V Alobar is progressing nicely on the voyage to Polynesia. We are now in the trade wind area and moving well at around 6 knots. Have traveled about 730 miles since leaving Puerto Vallarta and are settled into the routine. There are two daily radio nets for boats making the crossing so I get to hear how everyone is doing. Not sure exactly how many boats are involved in this year’s "Puddle Jump" but believe it will be well over 50. A number of boats have arrived and are reporting good anchoring conditions in Hiva Oh and Nuka Hiva. Several boats are well behind us having left only the last day or two. We expect to reach our way point near the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone at about 6N, 132W in about 10 days at present speed. At that point we will be more than 3/4 of the way to our first Island.
--Captain Joel

Dramamine Dreams

April 7, Day 5
"Relay Via Sail Mail: I am awake but largely unable to delineate reality from my Dramamine dreams. The sort of state one finds sitting erect and alone in a foreign airport-- not realizing you had succumb to sleep but suddenly awakened and embarrassed by, of all things, the lucidity of your dream. I am consistently on the verge of sea-sickness for which I take 2 pills daily. These pills make me drowsy. I have not had a cigarette in 7 days after 12 years. Nor have I had a drink after a marathon Bukowski re-enactment. I have not showered, have slathered sunscreen over my sunburn, balm on my burned lips, sun glasses over my salted eyes. My sleep is truncated by night-watch from 2am - 5am. My exhaustion off-set only by my daytime naps required no less by the constant struggle to maintain one's physical equilibrium (even in sleep) against an ever persistent, unwieldy, pendulum I call the ground on which I float. Yet at no point before my sitting down to write this reflection was I aware of any of this. I am aware only of the ocean."
Love - Rob

The Big Blue

April 5
The sea has been very calm with 12 second intervals between rolling waves. It is chilly at night and high 70's during the day. We are about 50 miles south of Socorro island. Lots of lounging in this mild weather; I've finished Green's The Power and the Glory and sleep half the day. I don't have any revelations to share except to say that everything you've heard about the ocean holds true: the blue is surreal, the vastness is sublime, we are very small.

And the Journey Begins

April 3rd
This will be our first full day at sea. We departed yesterday around 2pm. The ocean has been calm (1 to 2 foot seas) and we are making an average of 4 knots under sail and under motor at night (100 miles a day). Dramamine is working but makes me drowsy thankfully my night watch went smoothly. Will take a little time to get used to constant movement although this has not affected my sleep. Learning 10 new things everyday and hope to be a self-sufficient sailor soon.

S/V Alobar

You can track the progress of my sailboat voyage to French Polynesia everyday at this link. The name of my boat is Alobar. http://www.pangolin.co.nz/yotreps/reporter_li

st.php

First Mate Bob 'Denver' Lange

The last time I wrote I was in Albuqueque, NM on the porch of a hostel and generally miserable.

I'm a quitter. I quit the bike ride. I quit traveling. I quit the blog. Today I quit "working" in Atlanta. Tomorrow I start to Puerta Vallarta, Mexico to board the 40' Sailboat Alobar and sail to French Polynesia. As Grant Henry would say, "Fuck Fear". This is my inspiration.

This trip parallels the fabled ride 'cross 'merica in many ways. Just as with Marcus the Londoner, I have never met the boat's Captain Joel Ungar. Yet, once the journey starts we will spend every moment close together for months. Here again, I have little idea what to expect. Although, presumably I will need the same patience in the face of solitude. I do also expect the same inextricable dependence on the boat as with the bike. I did know how to ride a bike, in this instance I don't know sloop from starboard.

Capt. Joel wrote this recently, "I plan to arrive in Papeete by June for the big regatta and gathering sponsored by the Tahitian government. We will try to see Bora Bora on the way. After the regatta I thought we would visit a couple of other islands before parking the boat in July. We had talked earlier about your need to be back for school starting in August so I have it in my mind that you plan to remain until at least mid July."

I am packing only what fits in my messenger bag: two pairs of shorts and shirts, toiletries, computer, camera and 2 books Malcom Lowry's Under the Volcano and a collection of major supreme court cases. I sold my car to afford a plane ticket home. And yes I sent for my absentee ballot.