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.”