43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 1)

Day #1

I’ve felt quite sad since leaving yesterday. I miss Laerke’s company and presence.

I’m wondering if I go sailing like this to run away from people. It especially feels that way now. I’ve been craving solitude so much that I committed myself to this long, crazy trip. But Hans said to enjoy it because it’s as good as it gets. I miss him too.

I feel like I love people more now than I used to, and maybe that’s why this trip feels a little more lonely. In my sadness today I have also noticed just how big my ego was this year, and how it distanced me from so many people.

I think about Elliott a lot… I will have so much to learn from him. And it helps to know that he’s out here too…

Besides no wind at dawn, it has been nice, quick sailing so far. 13 knots on the beam.

Mara Noka feels solid but I’m still dreading the southeasterlies… I feel sick to my stomach.

But it’s only day one…

Tonight’s sunset is extremely beautiful. There is dust in the air, so the redness of the sun intensifies as it sets, from golden to grapefruit, and finally settling into a deep ruby before it drops below the horizon. To the east a glowing moon is already rising higher and taking over the sun’s job, lighting up the sky and reflecting on the water.

Day #2

I slept so well last night. I set my alarm for once every hour because I didn’t see any ships yesterday and I needed the rest. We made good progress last night but the wind backed and slowed a bit this morning.

I oil pulled, stretched, ate an apple and drank tea this morning in hopes of starting my new routine. I will need it, as I’ve still got some 40 days to go. But I’m writing two days in a row, so that must be a good sign.

A falcon being chased by a seagull tried to land on my gaff. 150 miles from nearest land, they must come from this approaching ship.

Day #3

Yesterday a freighter, Ying Hao Shipping, passed so close to my port that the deckies and I waved at each other. I could make out their hair color, and that one of them was wearing a triangular straw hat. This morning I passed what looked like a weather buoy. Quite an extraordinary little structure. I’m just relieved to not have struck it.

Today I have finished reading Nausea. I sure do hope I never go through an existential crisis to the magnitude depicted in this book, but so much of Sartre’s writing was so relatable that I fear that by the end of this voyage, this journal sounding like that novel might be inevitable.

Yesterday I shelled the beans we collected in Tarrafal, and today I cooked them. They are so much more delicious than expected.

It’s so nice sailing into the wind on a calm sea.

Day #4

I started bleeding when I woke up this morning. I ate some oatmeal and took one 200mg Ibuprofen, two turmeric pills, and three beef organ supplements.

I spent the next two hours in pain, cramping, trying to find the most soothing position and reminding myself to breathe. What a glorious feeling when that sweet, sweet medicine kicks in.

My mind has been wandering all day, wanting to write but avoiding it for some reason. If I fall into the trap of that procrastination, this journal may as well end here. But writing something, anything, once a day is an easy rough task to handle, especially not having much else to do, so I must commit to it. This is a very minor,  relaxed attempt at practicing self-discipline, and I should at least be able to handle that.

While I am now, not so privately, contemplating my ability to commit, Mara Noka sails on gently. Slowly.

If I had nowhere to go, it’s this kind of sea I wouldn’t mind being in “forever.”

I organized the doghouse and port-side cabin today in preparation for the rain which should arrive in a couple of hundred miles. For now it is warm day and night, not so dewey at dawn as it was further north, and the sun is something mighty.

Day #5

Today I’m hardly moving. But I’m also not sitting still. Making under two knots right now, but at least it’s something.

Wow, is it hot out. November near the equator is no joke. I put some pumpkin in the solar oven and made some bread dough to put in later. For now, though, I will lay in bed, read Tom Robbins, and wait for the sun to pass to the west of the sail.

The doldrums are really beautiful, if this is it. I’m not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me, but I feel as if for the past couple of days I have noticed two swells. One coming from the north and another from the southeast. I wonder if it’s coming from the trades. Or maybe I’m only imagining it.

I brought the engine on deck this afternoon. I have felt apprehensive towards this job, and I wonder if it had to do with the commitment to this voyage. To beat against the wind, I need to secure the engine; and if I’m going to Brasil, I will beat against the wind. Or maybe the hesitation came simply from the fact that a 2-stroke 25 horsepower Johnson is a damn heavy engine. I tried lifting the engine off the bracket a few times and it seemed too heavy. I said “I can’t do this” out loud and even contemplated leaving it on and heading downwind instead. Then I started visualizing having to put it back on… As I was mid-thought, I barely noticed my arms pulling and before I realized, I had the engine against my chest. I had enough time to chuckle, but funny enough, the next sound that came out of my mouth was the word “commit.” With a last bit of effort I got the leg/prop up on deck as well.

It’s a strange thing to catch yourself by surprise… There are greater forces at play here. I’m just along for the ride.

Day #6

I made really nice progress last night, but there has been barely a whisper of wind all day… The poor, rotten mainsail is not faring so well with this windless flogging.

I have yet to be rained on.

Oh, and early this morning I had a very nice visit from a pod of dolphins, the first on this trip so far. There was a breeze out of the south, so I wondered if they might be welcoming me into the southeast trades. Subsequently the wind died, and I know I’m still a ways off… a couple of hundred more miles, if my wind forecast proves accurate. But I will hold on to that sentiment anyhow.

Day #7

It was two years ago when I was last on a solo voyage, and I must say, I can feel the effects of time. It was two weeks at sea, at the end of hurricane season, from the Caribbean to the north of Florida. I don’t remember much, except that I felt different than I do now. The sense of being on a mission was more prominent, even if I am  on the same mission now — then I needed to get to the U.S. so that I could fly to Brazil to renew my residency, and now I sail there for the same reason — but the sense of solitude was not as grand as I feel in this moment.

I had a SPOT tracking device on that voyage, but it was not reliable and there was no two-way communication, it would only transmit my location. Now I have a newer generation SPOT which allows me to send and receive messages. Along with my location which I send every two days, yesterday I tried requesting a weather forecast. I usually receive a reply fairly quickly, but none came. I resent the message a few hours later, and sent a second to someone else, to be sure, but still no response. So for some reason it appears I can’t receive messages. I still think they are receiving mine though, so that is some consolation.

I used to think that two-way communication could spoil a voyage like this — and now I know it does. Especially when it doesn’t work.

I think of Elliot to bring me out of self-pity, and this afternoon I started reading Slocum’s Sailing Alone Around the World for the first time. I’ve had the book for years. Two copies actually. One I found in a wreck, and one was gifted to be by my mother, but I hadn’t so much as peeked until now. I always felt there needed to be some special occasion, or pull towards reading the book, and now I feel there is no better one. So I will leave you for tonight with a passage that very much describes how I’ve been feeling lately:

“During these days a feeling of awe crept over me. My memory worked with startling power. The ominous, the insignificant, the great, the small, the wonderful, the commonplace — all appeared before my mental vision in magical succession. Pages of my history were recalled which had been so long forgotten that they seemed to belong to a different existence.”

43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 2)

Day #8

Had a squall this morning at dawn. I have no wind meter (I’m not even sure what it’s actually called), so I don’t know how strong the wind was, but it didn’t feel like more than 18 or 20 knots. I jumped out of bed, loosened the mainsheet a tad, and made sure all hatches were closed. Then came the rain. That mixture brought the temperature down for the first time in a few days — so much so that I had to put a T-shirt on! 

I am happy the boat got a fresh water rinse. It has been quite salty and dusty, and Mara Noka hasn’t seen a hose since Florida. My water collecting didn’t go so well because everything was so dirty, but I don’t doubt I’ll get another dinghy full of rain drops before I’m out of the doldrums.

The sun is peeking through a grey sky, and the heat is back. I abandoned the T-shirt a few hours ago. I’m back lounging on deck, drinking coffee from Cabo Verde, watching some low-lying clouds with dark underbellies rolling in from the east. I have to bring the main down to tape up a tear starting at the top before the next squall rolls in…

Never sail without ZipTape.

I only made 52 miles in the last 24 hours, however that is considerably better than the 18 I made the day before. As for the southeast trades, my dread is each day turning more into excitement.

After accepting yesterday that I would have no weather assist on this trip, I wasn’t sure how to feel when my SPOT rang today with incoming messages as I was sending my location. I was happy, naturally, but I was also happy coming to terms with truly being totally alone with my boat again. They know not to write to me unless I ask, so maybe I just don’t ask. Also, funny to note, no messages came in when I had a clear, blue sky, but they did in today’s complete overcast.

Day #9

This must be a sailor's purgatory… One can’t help but wonder if this windless state will last forever. I might as well evaluate all aspects of life until I have a headache because there is not much else to do.

I did stitch up another patch in the mainsail though, so that’s something. If I don’t get a breeze soon I will have to swap out sails because these are really suffering.

I shouldn’t have complained about my 18 miles yesterday, because in the last 30 hours I have actually managed to drift eight miles north, in the exact direction from whence I came.

I feel okay now, and it has only been two days, but I understand how the doldrums could drive anyone mad.

Day #10

It is 11am and I am one mile west of where I was two days ago. I’m looking towards the east imagining my boat of two days ago floating just a short ways off, probably close enough to make out the “2655” stitched to the top of the mainsail. What a strange feeling. My slowest ever time prior to this was a half a mile in 12 hours. And I thought that was bad!

Yesterday I was visited by the same pod of dolphins from a few days ago. There must have been near 100 of them. A group of about 20 came to play with the boat, and surely to eat the fishies that have been making my “tiny island in a calm sea” home. One in particular I’d like to think I remembered from the last visit, for having the same scar on its back. It stayed with me at the bow the longest, and I swear that as it jetted back and forth, it would make eye contact with me so as to say “I remember you too.”

But I might just be going crazy. This heat is something out of hell, but I must say, the doldrums are certainly a kind of heaven.

Day #11

My propensity for sex dreams out at sea is astounding. And there is really nothing better. I had one the night before last and another last night, and each morning I woke up smiling. I love being alone, way more than most people, I’ve come to find; but there is always something soothing about sensual touch, and it’s quite cool to be able to experience a version of that in the dream realm.

I’ve slept really well most nights, even with waking every hour to look around or prepare for a squall, but my circadian rhythm is still going strong. As soon as there is a hint of daylight any ability I have to sleep vanishes. I did manage to take a nap at noon yesterday, for the first time on this voyage so far.

Day #12

Well, last night was not without incident. Before going to bed, I saw a squally bunch of clouds approaching. I reefed the foresail and gave a bit of slack to the mainsheet, but not much. A few bursts of rain and gusts of wind came and went as I was making dinner. After an hour the wind died, but it was still pitch black around me, with not a star in sight, so I knew the clouds were still there. I figured it would clear soon so I went to bed.

I was just about to fall asleep, probably around 8pm, when the wind came like a rocket. I’ve never experienced anything like it, at least not on a flat sea when I wasn’t moving at all. Before I could get out of bed, I heard a piece of wood hit something, and looked out of the doghouse to find that the galley hatch had flown off into the night (I should have listened to Laerke…). The full brunt of the rain hadn’t arrived yet but it was approaching fast. So I hopped down below to grab a stapler so that I could secure a tarp to the opening of the companionway.

As soon as I was in the galley I heard a frightening sound, like an explosion, followed by the dreaded flogging of a sail. I looked out and saw my mainsail flying from the mast, like an incredible flag. With half the boom lying on the doghouse, the other half was whipping off the end of the sail, tearing it to shreds. The wind had only been blowing for a couple of minutes at this point. “How could I have been so stupid as to not loosen the mainsheet first?” was my first thought as I witnessed what was happening. “Thank you thank you thank you,” was my second (for the fact that the mast was still standing), and for some reason, “I shouldn’t have been so eager to get out of the doldrums, enjoy every fucking moment” was the third.

There was no stillness in this reflection, though, and I worked quickly to get the mainsail down while I did still have a mast. It went smoothly enough considering the circumstances. The rain had started full blast so I flung the tarp over the companionway, secured the broken half of the boom on deck, and lashed up the mainsail. By the time I had dried myself off and was back in the doghouse, the rain stopped, as it does, less than 10 minutes after the first gust of wind.

Besides the adrenaline, I felt mostly calm about the situation, knowing there would be no use spending the night anxious about something which has already happened. The ease in which I fell asleep surprised me as I have spent nights awake over much more trivial things.

So today I will work between squalls to get a jury rig up because the next 200 miles of progress are very important, and current will start pushing me west.

Day #13

My mood is not the best today. It’s not terrible, but I’m feeling quite agitated and annoyed by this sloppy swell and insufficient wind. I’m also frustrated with trying to find a solution to my broken boom problem. I set up a small jib in place of the main to at least be of some help to my hardworking foresail, and it did well during a squall last night, but it feels like sailing with a reef you can never shake.

I do have a spare boom tied up under the boat, for a moment just as this, and I’ve racked my brain trying to think of a safe way to get it on board, but with this sea state I just don’t see how I can.

In Porto Santo I was gifted a kevlar jib to make a new main, but it was way too small so I didn’t bother modifying it, in hopes of maybe being able to sell it. But now I’m wondering if it might not just be the perfect size for my sheared-off boom…

Day #14

At some point yesterday I tried my bet at bargaining with the heavens — if I could get some sunshine I would put all of my effort into finding the best solution for the boom. I’m not sure why these conditions exactly — maybe because sunshine can make any day better, or because I was feeling overwhelmed and looking for an excuse as to why I wasn’t doing my best. The giant rain squalls weren’t helping much.

Last night the wind died and the stars began to fight off the clouds, and this morning I woke up with a sunrise on a canvas of blue sky. Conditions had calmed enough during the night that I was being presented with the best opportunity I’d have to get that spare boom out from under the boat and on deck. I hadn’t even wiped the sleep from my eyes and I was already preparing lines and putting the dinghy in the water. A half hour later, maybe, I had the boom on deck and what a beautiful sight. Now I will drink some coffee as I wait for the boom to dry a bit and my drill batteries to charge. I thanked myself for getting that part of the job done, but in reality I should be thanking the heavens for accepting my offer, and working as hard as I can to pay that back in full.

While I was under the boat I got to witness the barnacle kingdom happening on my hull… but that’s another problem for another time.

“But now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way 

For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way

Ah, sometimes I grow so tired

But I know I've got one thing I got to do

Ramble on, and now's the time, the time is now

To sing my song, I'm going 'round the world, I gotta find my girl

On my way, I've been this way ten years to the day

Ramble on, gotta find the queen of all my dreams

Got no time to for spreading roots

The time has come to be gone

…

Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear”

43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 3)

Day #15

It’s day 15 and I’m not even 1,000 miles away from Tarrafal. It’s a little embarrassing, I must say. But I’m officially east of Brasil and being at sea is my most favorite thing, so I can be nothing but grateful.

I got the new/old mainsail up yesterday at 2pm. I had this funny feeling as I was lashing it on to the gaff that I was hanging out with an old friend. We had a nice time. Both this boom and main are much stronger than what I was flying before so I feel pretty confident we will make it intact from here on out… as long as we can hold a course of 220° or less, otherwise this is all for nothing. So far so good.

After I put the sail up, I lounged in its shade, eating leftover pasta and drinking the single cold beer left in the fridge from Cabo Verde, when I witnessed one of the most incredible things I have seen at sea. I had been moving so slowly I suppose, that in Mara Noka’s shadow, and following in our wake, was a large school of dolphinfish and rainbow runners. They were everywhere. The fairly calm sea sparkled yellow, green, blue, and silver. It was mesmerizing. They stayed with me a long while, even through my pointless tack to the east. At sunset I got to see them all hunting flying fish with impressive leaps.

At 1am I got out of bed to tack back towards the southwest, and I noticed that the fish were still with me. But instead of lighting up the water with their carnival colors, they sparkled like the cosmos, being illuminated by fluorescent plankton. I could see their outlines almost perfectly. Incredible. I looked for them this morning but I have yet to see them…

Day #16

What a dreary day… It has been raining since last night. And after every squall, the wind dies. Funny how heaven itself can become hell in just 100 miles…

One of the patches on the main we stitched on during the last Atlantic crossing started tearing, so during the last lull I brought the main down for the time being. I need it to dry a bit before I can tape it up, and hopefully that will be sufficient. But for now it’s raining and I’m just bobbing around…

This morning I thought a terrible thought: “I’m not going to make it.” But I did not mean it as a general statement. It’s just that there are a few possibilities: that I will be stuck in the doldrums forever; that I won’t have any sails left; that I will get pushed too far west to be able to beat into the trades; or that I simply won’t make it in time to see my brother, or spend Christmas with my father, or New Years with friends, or to renew my Brazilian residency — the primary reason for the timeliness of this voyage. Needless to say, I had an anxiety-ridden morning, and lost sorely to the rain when I tried to compete with my tears.

The sun eventually came out to save me from myself. I had a dance party, ate breakfast, and washed dishes while the mainsail dried, and then taped up the tear before pulling it back up. I noticed a pretty bad tear starting on the foresail also. I’d need to pull it down to patch because the tear is at the top, and technically it would be possible to do it right now as there is barely a breeze, but unfortunately the lack of wind is only due to the giant looming back cloud coming my way.

Day #17

Another rainy day out at sea. My phone’s GPS won’t load because of the cloud cover, but the compass has been pointing 210°-215° all night, and we did have a bit of movement, so I hope that we made some progress. Maybe we’ll even get a whole 50nm in 24 hours…

This sail mending thing is fast becoming a daily chore. Last night’s furling action during a squall must have really done it, because when I unfurled the sail this morning, the barely-there-tear now ran two and a half feet along the Sunbrella seam. All I could really do then was hope for a respite from the incessant rain…

The afternoon brought some sunshine and enough of a lull that I was able to bring down the foresail for some ZipTape doctoring. It was an easy enough job in those conditions, but still one I hope I won’t have to do again on this trip.

I had the most wonderful lunch of sautéed sweet potato in leftover sausage grease, cucumber and tomato salad with feta cheese, brown rice and quinoa, all topped with garlic onion yogurt dressing. Oh, and a hard-boiled egg.

I’m getting hit by a pretty nasty squall right now, so I will leave more writing for tomorrow.

Day #18

I think it’s safe to say that the trades have stiffened my sails. After last night’s squall, a nice breeze kicked up from the southeast and I’ve been flying along at five and a half knots.

It was difficult to sleep last night not knowing if I was in the clear of any strong gusts, but it’s now lunch time and the wind has been steady.

I have never been happier to beat into the wind.

I am due east of the Amazon river now, and almost in line with the São Pedro and São Paulo rocks. I only have about 80 more miles until the equator, and if I keep up this pace I will arrive in Sao Paulo in three weeks, in time for everything.

I feel very lucky, and more so, very proud of Mara Noka.

Day #19

What a day. What a lovely, full day. The sun was out bright and early, and it would have been a sin to waste any time being anywhere but outside after all these previous days of clouds and rain.

So I hung my sheets and pillows out in the sun for some UV dry cleaning, and washed dishes. I also built a new hatch for the galley to replace the one that flew away, although I must say, the tarp that I’ve been using to cover the companionway has worked far better against the rain than that old hatch ever did. I baked butternut squash in the solar oven and ate it with garlic buttered pasta. It was outstanding, if I may say so myself. That solar oven has been a life changer.

I’m less than two miles away from the equator right now and it’s a party out here. I have a school of giant rainbow jack hunting alongside the boat right now (I suppose I am going slow enough for it to be the same school), and the sky is speckled with what appear to be petrels, shearwaters, and Noddy terns. Hundreds of them. I’m in the best of company for this occasion.

I will cross the equator at 26°7W.

Day #20

I shared wine and a nice chat with Neptune yesterday, and just thanked the sea for allowing me to be here and for always being so graceful to me.

As I slept last night (still setting the alarm to go off every hour), the wind picked up. When I woke up this morning it was gusting 20 knots. Before I could reef the foresail (which should have been done last night), I heard flapping. The halyard chafed through, leaving no uphaul for the foresail and the tensionless top of it flogging in the wind. I quickly furled it halfway. I don’t see any real way for me to be able to fix that as I’d need to run a new halyard through the top of the mast. So for now I’ll sail slowly and carefully on this reefed foresail, grateful if I’m making four knots.

Right now I’m approximately 600 miles from Recife, 1,000 miles from Salvador, and a little over 1,500 miles to my rounding point off Cabo Frio.

Today this trip feels like it’ll be never ending.

Day #21

Three whole weeks… Time at sea is the strangest phenomenon. The past three weeks have felt like one strange day, yet at the same time like eternity.

Today I’ve been feeling what I’ve heard called “boredom.” With no desire to read, write, or listen to podcasts, and not being able to spend time outside without getting splashed by a wave, I laid in bed and fantasized.

I imagined my arrival, and the various possible scenarios, and I thought about the past and how quickly it came and went. I reflect on how lucky I am to be able to put a pause on “the real world” and go out to sea where all that exists are the present moment and my faraway dreams, with no in between.

43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 4)

Day #22

I wonder if anyone will ever read this, and if so, I wonder if anyone is still reading this. A journal from someone alone at sea for 40 days can get quite weird…

At 2pm today my position was 230 miles east of Fernando de Noronha. I’m very excited about that because it means I have enough westwardly drift room without being worried about not making Cabo São Roque. In a couple of hundred miles I should get a slight southwest setting current, and less south in my east wind.

The wind has calmed and backed a bit, so Mara Noka has had a nice break from the past two days of beating. I washed dishes, a sign of a good day, and scrubbed down the galley. I also pumped all of the starboard side bilges, except for the bow, and hopefully tomorrow I can finish off port and the rest.

It may be slow, but I like this pace. Mara Noka has done a lot of sailing this year and it feels ready for a break. We talk about all of the pampering it will get on some Brazilian beach boatyard…

Day #23

The most peculiar thing happened last night… Before sunset a Noddy tern landed on the deck, after many attempts, and not being able to walk for being a seafaring bird, it settled in that spot.

Shortly after dark I heard what resembled a crow’s “caw” and looked out of the doghouse to see two birds fighting for a spot on the tiller. I figured this to be the first bird and another one, but a while later I heard multiple birds calling. I looked out and saw the black figures of 10 birds bobbing on whatever they could find to land on, which included the steering sheet, the cockpit bench, and the horizontal lashings connecting Mara Noka’s shrouds. Though it was dark and difficult to see, it was still quite the sight… If Mara Noka jerked violently with a wave, all the wobbly creatures would take flight and promptly try to land again, cawing loudly at one another if one would try to land too near another’s spot. This lasted all night. I slept fairly well.

In the morning I peeked out of the doghouse to find all of the birds gone except for the one which had landed first and who was still in the same spot on deck as I had seen it before sunset. It stayed aboard until nearly noon. I would have easily believed myself to have imagined all of those other birds in some sort of delirium or dream, after finding that the first bird hadn’t moved at all, but they left behind enough shit to confirm their existence.

Today, as it has for the past few days, Mara Noka sailed beautifully with the best conditions the trades can offer. I’m feeling more settled in the infinity of this journey. It is quite exciting, though, to wake up in the morning and check to see how many miles we covered during the night, and what my current position looks like contrasted against the giant of South America.

I am still sleeping with a timer set for every hour.

Day #​​24

Today was a good day, even though we made very little progress — moving at 3 knots, sometimes less, all day. The barnacles and this slack foresail really affect my speed when the wind is light…

But it was sunny and beautiful. I listened to music, set sails out to dry, and pumped all of the bilges. It was nice to crawl around the boat and admire its integrity. Mara Noka really is incredible. Sure, it takes on some water and is not totally weather-proof, but for a thin, plywood boat, it’s as strong as an ox. At least I feel it to be. I’ve seen this boat gushing with water through deck seams, and have heard it creaking and moaning while trying to maneuver over waves on two cracked beams. It’s faring much better now. I’ve heard a few new noises starting, but that’s expected after two Atlantic crossings since the refit, with no rest in between.

Reading Wharram’s People of the Sea has made me a bit nervous, as James notes Rongo and Tehini to be unseaworthy in a fraction of the time my 50-year-old boat still sails. Was Mara Noka built extra strong or am I just foolish and lucky?

I suppose four full Atlantic crossings, plus some, in the past four and a half years can give some insight into answering that question…

Day #25

I almost forgot to write, and it’s already getting dark so I’ll keep this short.

I saw the glow of a fishing vessel all night, and this morning I saw the ship itself a few miles to starboard. A couple of hours later, as I watched its progress, I saw what looked like the bare metal bones of two skyscrapers. I couldn’t make out what it was, as it was barely visible in the hazy horizon. We were some 250 miles off the coast. I took a photo through the binoculars.

Today I put up my Argentinian sail, I call it that because of its colors. It’s one of my favorites, and it’s making the biggest difference in my speed right now, adding almost two knots. I think it used to be the foresail of a Hobie Cat a couple of decades ago. I fly it loose footed and upside down.

I also saw a frigate bird today for the first time in years, and I slept and read for much of the day.

Day #26

The most horrible thing just happened.

I was laying in bed dreaming about finally baking the chocolate cake from the mix Laerke insisted I buy while in Cabo Verde. So I decided to wash all of my dishes and the solar oven, which I had used earlier today to bake some pumpkin, so that they would be ready in the morning. My plan was to bake bread first thing in the morning and the cake afterwards. While washing the solar oven, distracted listening to a podcast, I did something which caused the end of the glass tube to explode. I cried “no” out loud in desperation and shed some tears of disappointment. Just when I finally wanted my cake!

I am tempted to still try my luck at baking a loaf in it tomorrow, regardless of the blown-out end. With any luck, I might have my cake and eat it too…

Day #27

After today’s lunch of cheesy boxed risotto mixed with yesterday’s sun-baked pumpkin with a side of tomato, onion, feta salad, I took a quick inventory of my fresh food. I have one and a half cucumbers, one tomato, one red onion, two apples, some lemons, a plenitude of yellow onions and sprouted potatoes, nearly 30 eggs, and a melon that I’ve been waiting on to ripen since Porto Santo.

I never seem to buy enough fresh food, especially of the good stuff like fruits. And as many sailors have probably noted before me, “I should have bought more salt pork.” But I still have a bit left, as well as three more sausages.

As for dry stores, I have plenty, as well as abundance of cheese and wines intended as gifts. I also have about 45 gallons of drinking water left and an extra six gallons for showering.

I feel rich.

Day #28

It had been blowing pretty steady all night, and this morning it started nearing 20 knots, at which point I reefed the main. It has been a semi-squally day, blowing out of the east, and I’m told these conditions will last a few more days. The sea is super messy and the swell is quite large, some sets looking to be 10 feet. Because of this, it’s hard for me to hold anything higher than 245° at the moment without slamming the boat, and Mara Noka is my first priority, direction be damned.

I have a couple of options for stopping along the coast, with information coming from a 25-year-old cruising guide of Brasil, gifted to me in the Açores. But hopefully the wind changes to my favor before I have to do that.

It is rough out here. I have to believe this won’t last forever, just as my perfect sailing conditions of the last few days did not last forever. I just pray that the change does not bring a southerly wind. I trust that grandma is praying too.

43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 5)

Day #29

A few days ago I meant to write about how the barnacles had mutinied, and that I was now at their mercy, because they were causing Mara Noka to inch along in a nice breeze with calm seas. It seems that now, however, they feel inclined to steer us, barreling along, towards shore. I hope this is just a terrible fantasy, and I am happy for my sea room.

The swell is still large and quite messy, preventing me from making any other decision than to keep the wind on my hind quarter. I’ve been moving at over five knots since yesterday, and at this rate I’ll be seeing land in 48 hours. But that would be the coasts of Bahia or Espirito Santo, and that would put me way off course for my planned trajectory of rounding Cabo Frio east of the Campos oilfield, out of danger from shipping.

The wind is supposed to swing more north in two days, and I hope for us that we have that long. I’m not mentally prepared to deal with a landfall that soon.

It must be noted how great of a boat Mara Noka is, riding through this washing machine stoically. I am grateful.

Day #30

“...we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea - whether it is to sail or to watch it - we are going back from whence we came.” - JFK

To my delight, the wind dropped down to about 12 knots last night and I got to sleep on a calming sea. When I woke up, though it was still a bit messy, the swell had also lessened considerably. With these conditions I was able to point Mara Noka in a more southerly direction.

I’ve been moving along at a slow three knots since then, gently gliding over the leftover turbulence from the past few days’ blow. In two days there should be some north wind.

Moving like this keeps me from having to make landfall up here. I’m not quite ready to leave my life at sea. In some way, I feel like I’m just now fully adjusting to it. As I write this I realize that today marks the length of my previous longest crossings — the North Atlantic in 2019 and again this year 2022, each taking 30 days.

I spoke on VHF with a cargo ship yesterday, bound for Rio de Janeiro. After receiving some weather information and wishing each other well, I realized this was the first human I’ve spoken with, verbally, in one month. Now the ships, more frequent on this stretch between Salvador and Rio, kind of feel like my friends. How terrible is that?

I wonder if I’ll arrive in ten days’ time… I’ve never been too good at timing…

Day #31

Today I feel very lucky to be aboard and at sea in my little ship. The weather is beautiful, and not so hot as it was closer to the equator. We’ve been making slower progress, but in a much better direction, nearly due south.

While investigating the extent of my barnacle takeover, I found some looking to be near or over two inches long. What a strange creature. It reminds me of an alien phallus — not that I’ve ever seen one.

Every day that passes I get more used to being out here, with no other company than Mara Noka and the sea birds. But I know my ship would like to rest its wings soon. Ropes are beginning to fray, as I’m sure are other things I’m less aware of.

That reminds me, I forgot to write about the atrocity that almost was. Two days ago I found a serious issue with my autopilot. A modern day sailor’s nightmare. Luckily for me, all it took was two minutes and a sheet bend and we were back on track. Thank god for sheet-to-tiller steering.

I’ve thought a lot about the weary, yet incredibly strong boats, like Elliott’s Second Wind, which make their way around the world without the pleasure of a rest, and I’m sure they feel as much excitement as their skipper once arriving, finally, back to home port.

I wonder if I can find a way to meet Elliott at his Montevideo drop…

Day #32

It’s one of those never-ending days, and I’m feeling quite emotional. But I must remind myself that I am very tired. Though I don’t feel it, I haven’t slept for more than two hours at one time in over a month, and most of the time much less than that. It might also have a little to do with reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his romantic writing.

Nevertheless, I feel like I am grieving. Grieving over missed opportunities and lost love; reflecting on my intense insensitivity and exasperation during this year; grieving the proximity of the end of this voyage and the year 2022…

I want to be a better person. I hope to be.

“Wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.” -Love in the Time of Cholera

Tonight the moon is full.

Day #33

Today is grey, but feels very nice. The air is the perfect temperature, and the wind is not too strong. I’ve been flying the Argentenian sail again since last night, and have made good progress for it.

As the wind starts to back towards the north, my progress becomes more southeasterly. I plan to jybe tonight, or first thing in the morning. From there I will have some 650 miles left until I reach Ilhabela.

I seem to be taking on water in the starboard hull, and I’m not sure from where yet. One of the bilges I had pumped dry 10 days ago, I found to be sloshing full, and it hasn’t rained enough to have been the culprit. It’s nothing alarming, just another daily chore…

Day #34

The sky rains and I bleed. In between some rain clouds I manage to make myself breakfast and tea, as well as take an Ibuprofen before the pain becomes too severe. It’s interesting, I feel more feminine than I have in a long time. My body has seemed to relax during this month of solitude.

I’m glad I find myself in this tender state no later than today, because I am told that in two days I should expect 26 knots from the north, and I will need my strength then. I don’t know if it’s because of the current fragility of my mental state, or because of my proximity to land, shipping, oil rigs, and my imminent arrival, but I am feeling afraid of the upcoming blow. Not a usual sentiment for me. Besides, I have seen those conditions many times. So my uneasiness disturbs me.

The low but powerful thunder off in the distance does not bring much lightness to my discomfort. But earlier, while it rained, I drank sweet hot chocolate and worked to finish this romance novel. The poeticness of the moment made me happy and thankful.

I must mention that yesterday I had the pleasure of two blue–faced Boobies in my company, and at night, three of the same birds from up near Recife perched on Mara Noka’s tillers and stayed until sunrise, trying to sleep with their beaks in their wings, and balancing on unstable sea legs.

I wonder, once I’m on land, how long it will take me before needing to head back out to sea…

Day #35

Today was good and calm and I got a lot done. Three more noddy terns spent the night on my tillers last night, and it was nice to see them again. I like their company.

I’m feeling rather weak today, and totally uninspired in the galley (save for the outrageously good pan bread I’ve been making the past few days). I just ate my last apple. It came out of the refrigerator box and was crispy and juicy as ever. What a treat.

The sun has just set and the sky is clear for the moment, giving the inclination that I will rest well tonight, as I have been able to do this entire trip. Bless Yemanja.

43 Days Alone at Sea: A Journal (Week 6)

Day #36

I feel hesitant to write about my current state of mind because it is quite dark, and I think that there is a magical power in writing, so I would rather not evoke that power where there is negativity. So instead I will look at the positives: I’m told I will have gusts in the upper 30s tomorrow night and the following day, and to my knowledge (as I have never owned an anemometer) I’ve never seen wind blow so hard, so tomorrow I get to know for sure; this blow will only last 24 hours or so, and I’ve been through much worse; my proximity to arrival (350 miles as the crow flies) only means I will get to see my family sooner.

Today has been quite lovely. I forgot it was Sunday, otherwise I would’ve made pancakes. I washed my hair yesterday and the dishes today, so I should be able to make it ‘til Tuesday without much hassle. I also have the best “weapon” to my advantage: myth holds that a naked, preferably menstruating, woman on a ship can quell a storm. Tomorrow I will be both. Regardless, as the wind blows I will be drowning my worries in verbena tea, Joseph Campbell, and too many spliffs.

Day #37

This is quite the anticlimactic wait for a blow. There was barely any wind when I woke up, so I hoisted the Argentinian sail again (which I should’ve been flying all night, but didn’t in case the wind would pick up). It was a grey morning, but soon enough the skies cleared and the sun has been shining all day. So I used the day to double up on some preparations, and repeat others, including washing my hair and doing dishes. I also pumped the bilges again, and the aft port ones were nearly full to the brim despite having been pumped two days ago. After the wind comes hard from the north, if it ever will, it will veer towards the south by tomorrow night. If all goes well, which it should, that should be able to carry me west, and within a couple of days I should arrive. But for now, I wait…

I am just over 30 nautical miles east of the Campos Oilfield, and it is apparent. I sailed through a large patch of pollution, more like sludge. I thought I might be losing my mind as I saw patches of the water around me turning green and brown as it reflected the sunlight. It was a truly horrifying sight after spending so long in this pristine blue. I felt very sad in that moment — a kind of sadness that’s different… one where the eventual destruction of everything that is naturally beautiful becomes tangible, and feels clearly imminent and inevitable.

Day #38

Nature is certainly laughing at all of my fears and expectations as Mara Noka sails along at 4.5 knots in a 270° heading, straight for Ilhabela. And I chuckle too, but not because I am happy and relieved to be sailing over a much calmer sea than I had expected, but because of that silly notion itself — that I could expect anything from nature at all.

So now I return to the beautiful awareness that nothing that happens out here is personal, and that is what I’ve always loved so much about being at sea; however, to be able to fully embrace the magnitude of the beauty and experience, one must fully surrender to it. I must surrender to it, and just do my best in every moment.

After lunch I had the most peculiar visit. A black bird flew very low over the deck from the stern to the bow, where it sat for only a couple of minutes. It was beautiful and looked like a parrot, and as it flew off towards land, it resembled one too. It was all pretty quick, and it was sad to see it fly away all on its lonesome, as I've usually only seen that sort of flapping in pairs.

I wish it had known I'm only being pushed away from land at the moment because the wind is veering south. It could have caught a ride and I wouldn't have minded the company. He's 80 nautical miles away from land, but heading in the right direction. I hope he makes it.

Day #40

Day 40 has arrived, but I have not… and I am okay with that.

I had a bad migraine yesterday and couldn't face writing, but I will try to catch up now.

On Tuesday afternoon the front hit before sunset. I hove-to on a reefed main, which performed wonderfully, and the wind pushed me west at two knots all night. When the front kicked up, there was still a significant swell from the north. That, along with the southwest current being pushed against by a fresh 20 knot wind from the south, made the messiest looking sea I have ever seen (except for when I was rounding Sagres, with a north wind on my back and something rough blowing out of the Strait of Gibraltar). But Mara Noka rode it out like a champ, managing to move between crests and troughs much better than I would have been able to had I been steering.

I slept in 20 minute intervals that night (probably the culprit of my migraine) and the horizon was illuminated by the lights of oil platforms 15 miles to starboard. In the morning the wind lessened significantly, and I was able to use it to put on more speed to the west. However, by evening it was barely there. I flew my trusty Argentenian sail all night, but even it failed to move me along any quicker than 1.5 knots.

The barnacle reef on Mara Noka's underside remains in control of this voyage. And for the amount of life I have seen on this trip, and now this pollution which has been present since I first mentioned it, I dare not jump in to scrape the hull. I belong on deck, and I plan to stay here until I arrive, whenever that might be.

On both mornings since the front the air has been cool and the skies clear. In the fall-like breeze wafts scents of nostalgia. Memories of that one time it snowed in south Georgia; memories of a previous, younger life in California; memories of early December mornings in a Florida boatyard. Wonderful memories. And now I know that when I wish to feel them I must simply find a cold front to sail into.

I am glad today is not arrival day. I wouldn't have been ready. In reality, I probably never will be. But there are only 150 miles left now, so I don't have much say.

My Halloween spinnaker has been flying all day, and the wind has finally started to pick up so we're moving nicely now. I hope it stays like this all night.

I have definitely not been alone today. The presence of civilization increased as the sun rose this morning, and there have been ships on the horizon and helicopters flying overhead all day. I also saw a tern today. A sure sign of land, and I had a pair of brown boobies hunting alongside the boat. The boobies were working in symbiosis with a group of mahi, and they put on quite the show all day as they seemed to devour flying fish, from above and below. This sight kept me entertained and much in awe, but I also felt so sad for them, as the waters they swim through and dive into are coated with a layer of scum, and plastic flows with it, further out to sea…

Day #42

I would make the world's most terrible racer.

I was so busy all day yesterday that I forgot to write and then it started to rain and became too late, so to catch you up:

I got a nice NE breeze on the night of day #40-41 and, daringly, kept my spinnaker flying the whole time. I’ve never flown the spinnaker with such stiff winds, but the sea was calm enough with swell of about a meter, and Mara Noka sailed the best it ever has. Hardly hobby-horsing at all — it honestly felt like I was on solid ground flying over the sea. I couldn’t bare to bring it down. Plus, by that point, with the sun having set and the spinnaker so full of air, it seemed more dangerous to attempt to take it down than not.

So I ran through the dark at a constant 8 knots in a sea littered with the lights of other vessels. Many of them without running lights. This, I came to find out, was because they were fishing boats moored for the night — in 300 feet of water.

As I made dinner, I kept watch on this one light a few miles ahead, directly in my path. Mara Noka was lit up like a Christmas tree and I used the spotlight to flash the main and spinnaker every few minutes to signal to the boat ahead that I have little maneuverability. I figured, with them having an engine, they would eventually, surely, get out of the way. But they never did.

I resorted to steering, pushing as much to windward as I could without collapsing the spinnaker. The closer the fishing boat’s anchor light got, the faster it seemed Mara Noka was going. We flew alongside the moored fishing boat, leaving it to leeward only a few yards off my port side.

By this point I was shining it with my spotlight, and it was one of the eeriest sights I’ve seen. This ancient-looking wooden boat, with the name Dois Corações painted on the side in red, rode the open-sea waves kicked up by this breeze roughly, attached to its tackle by a thick assortment of green, well-used nylon ropes. As I passed, quickly and silently by, the spotlight shone on the figure of a man standing at the stern. He seemed to be wearing a white shirt and blue fishing waders, with black hair; but as soon as my light hit him, I turned it off. The Dois Corações turned black in the night — obscured, rather than illuminated, by its bright white anchor light. It all felt like a figment of my imagination. By midnight the wind lessened, and the fishing boat disappeared into the horizon behind us as we continued moving at 5 knots. I slept well after that.

By sunrise there was very little wind left, but enough that I had hopes of arriving last night or even this morning. So I put myself to work cleaning, airing out, pumping bilges, and most importantly: putting the engine back on the mount. This ended up being hard work, but much easier than I had expected. My strength surprised me, after 6 weeks of laying in bed and eating a fairly restricted diet. I was so relieved to have this job done, but the elation didn’t last long, because the engine seems to have lost pressure in the cylinders when I pull to start. I changed the spark plugs to no avail. The fact that I will have no engine for my approach does not surprise me in the least, although it is rather disappointing. How come I can’t manage to take care of anything?

Throughout the day I made very little progress mileage-wise, and by sunset there was no wind, only rain. I put us on a southward heading for the night, away from land, and went to sleep.

This morning I was up at first light — which at this time of year in this part of the world is just after 4am — and tacked us back the other way. When I climbed out of the doghouse, my surprise caught me by surprise. I knew I was close to land, but I hadn’t at all considered being able to see it for some reason. So for it to be right there, some 25 miles away, officially bursting my constant bubble of blue, was almost a shock. I think I gasped. It’s as if I had figured I would arrive and land would magically appear at the same time. Can you tell I’ve been out here a long time?

A booby joined me before the rain started last night, and spent the night perched atop the doghouse. I have a lot of shit to clean up today, and Mr. Booby has moved his bathroom to the bow. He dives from the bow into the water occasionally, coming to the surface with a squid or fish in his beak. He sits on the water as he works to swallow his squirming breakfast, and Mara sails on. Eventually Mr. Booby gracefully flies back to assume again his position on the bow, as if this is now his home too.

Day #43

Still at sea and I’m not at all mad about it….

I’ve been bobbing around this piece of sea for quite some time, but it at least provides me with the time to get used to the idea of civilization. Now with land all around me, and the lights which shine from it at night, I am very aware that it’s not just Mara Noka, our fishy and bird friends, and me anymore. There are humans nearby. It’s almost as if the air smells of perspiration and churrasco.

I believe I will arrive today, so this is likely my last journal entry, though I have been wrong before. It is now 8am and I have 25 miles left until arrival. Naturally, I am going very slow, so I dare not even attempt to guess an ETA… I am extremely tired today because of the lack of sleep during the last two nights and my inability to sleep during the daytime (can you believe I have only taken 2 naps this whole trip?!). So if there is one thing I am excited for, it’s to sleep all night.

My brother flies into Guarulhos late tonight, so the timing could not be more golden, and I might even get to see him and my father tomorrow. I am wearing my arrival dress, a blue drape my grandmother bought me when she visited me in Algarve in 2019. My arrival anxiety is still high, and it’s hard to eat anything without feeling nauseous. I appear to be lounging on a leisurely sail, but the passive adrenaline is ramped up high.

In some ways sailing feels like teleportation… you go out until you can’t see land anymore, and eventually you arrive somewhere else, far away. And how long that takes is not entirely certain, because out there in the vast expanse there is no time save night and day, and even those become difficult to count. So in this timeless dimension, 40 days might pass and they all feel as one. And who’s to say it wasn’t but a fraction of a second? Like a dream?

Well, arrivals say so. Because the eventuality, mixed with the awareness of speed contrasted against the still but growing landscape, brings you back to time like nothing else can, except birth and death.

I suppose I should leave you now, but not before I say: if you know you should do something, do it. No matter how scary, complicated, or different it may be. If you know in your being you should — do. Life is a weird thing, and it offers up a multitude of adventures for us, should we be open to them. We must simply commit. And as Paulo Coelho assures us, “all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”