Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ It’s 7:23am, UTC, Thursday. Apologies for the gap in the calendar, but really, you have nothing better to do than read yesterday’s unpublished news? I’ve been in contact with a close buddy from home, and was notified at my waking hour that the Kraken beat the Avalanche and are up in the series 3-2. I promised him I would be on the lookout for the sea monster turned-pro-hockey mascot, and offer them something of value to throw the series. Should that fail, I’ll fashion a harpoon out of TSA-approved belongings and take matters into my own hands. Meanwhile, back on Falken, we are almost three days out to sea. The beloved Beatlejuice departed yesterday afternoon to very little fan fair. As much fun as it was to have a bird-flu carrying stowaway, we had not accounted for the fecal irresponsibility of a pigeon. After his leave, our watch was charged with a full deck scrubbing. Thankfully, I was at the helm, and watched with mild amusement as my mates scrubbed the green residue from the cockpit. And this, Nora, is why we won’t buy you a Chinchilla. Yesterday’s excitement was found in flying a Spinnaker. For those unfamiliar with sailing terminology, this is the very colorful parachute-like sail that is so iconic in sailing photography. Its purpose is to lend power when running so you can sail nearly dead downwind. The problems with the rig are everywhere - more lines to assemble, halyards to raise, tacks to tack, clews to clew, etc etc. In my amateur opinion, it’s not worth the trouble. If we wanted to get there faster, we would walk, obviously. As a relevant aside, my sailing career began with running the spinnaker on the foredeck during boat races in Chicago. And though it served as the catalyst into this life eventually, I despised every moment. I was 23 and had discovered that living in a big city, with no homework, plenty of spending money, and zero responsibility leant itself to some late, late Saturday nights. Sunday morning sailing on a boat with complete strangers, an inpatient captain who showed no qualms about screaming at his crew, and a roll I couldn’t quite understand was not for me. I recall getting a strong talking to, via email, about my lack of commitment to the team. I never responded, nor returned to racing. “Take these Spinnaker sheets to the foredeck and tie a bowline around the stanchions,” Chris explained to me. “Yes captain,” I replied confidently with utter confusion. 15 minutes later. “What have you attached the lines to?” Chris’ tone like mine when asking my children if they know where the laundry hamper is, while trying to find a sign of carpet below their pile of discarded clothes. “To, err, the pulpit.” I replied, innocently, batting my eyelashes. And so it went. As the day progressed, and I witnessed the utility of the damn thing, I was forced to reconsider my position. Thank you smirking German. Thank you.
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Before leaving Las Palmas, the crew was all handed small slips of paper to record our expected date of arrival in Antigua. There was discussion of a winner’s pot, but until reaching international waters, the legalities and tax status of gambling onboard had not yet been ironed out. It’s unclear what currency we would exchange - Swedish kroner? Deutschmark? Euro? I’m angling for free Dark N Stormies, but my standing as financier may be challenged if I take too strong a position. The point here is how long we anticipate the passage taking. My vote, between us girls, was May 9th, at 9:30am. That puts us on a 15 day passage. We’re all on high alert for the sinister helmsman pumping the breaks, or making lazy arcs through the sea to arrive at their wagered time. “Are you heading for the kingdom of Banine (Africa),” Chris asked Alejandro. “No, I was just trying to, err, catch the wind at a better angle." We all know you’re retired Alejandro, but there are more honest ways to earn a Euro. We’ll have a couple weeks to cover much, so in an effort to educate the reader on the daily goings on at sea, I’ll try to tackle elements of living aboard in a systematic, yet digestible manner. In short, I won’t bore you with too much mundane shit by feeding it to you in small rations daily. Today I thought to address the important topic of personal hygiene. We were instructed at the outset that brushing of the teeth was reserved for one of the two heads. Anyone caught spitting in the galley sink would be stripped of all rights, lashed to the mast, and offered as sacrifice to the Kraken. Showers will only be taken on the stern of the boat, at an unspecified date in the future. We’ll be handed a necklace of soap at that time, and made to watch one another perform this illicit task in a public setting. There is hand soap in the two heads and the galley, where one is expected to wash, certainly before digging through the cheese container by hand. Jeff earned a strong dressing down for attempting to clip his toenails in the cockpit, to all of our amusement. Nothing goes down the toilet that did not first get ingested, so the small wastebaskets in the head collect soiled toilet paper, thrown overboard by the captain daily. Not surprising that the dolphins disappear at regular intervals. My face routine, and teeth-retainer schedule are in utter disarray. I brush in the middle of the day, after breakfast. Or following lunch, at midnight. How can any sort of routine established on land translate onto a boat on the ocean? At sea, what is morning? Or who is evening, when time is marked by an ever-shifting watch schedule as un-routine as the waves below us? I now brush when I want, splash my face with water, and for the love of Poseidon, clip my nails over the guardrails.
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Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ It’s dark, but I can see the smirk and slight eye roll from Chris, as he looks at me from the helm. We’re at the stern of the boat, he on the wheel, me at the main sheet, as we wait patiently for Alejandro to finish tying a bowline around a preventer line. The inside joke, of course, is that we practiced that knot before leaving shore. In Alejandro’s defense, a bowline done in English, must appear different to a LatinX. If the gap in the journal, or the complicated sailing jargon doesn’t signify, we are at sea. I’m sitting in the cockpit at 9:30, drinking my first black coffee of the day, the less refined and rowdy 2nd cousin of the Cappuccino. We slipped our lines yesterday a little past 4pm in the afternoon, local. For those of us with Garmin watches, there was a quick download of a new application, so we can tell time in UTC (the Woke time zone - Universal Time Coordinate - historically known as Greenwich Mean Time) along with whatever local time we will find ourselves. The planned departure was 12:30, which, under the command of a German skipper, you would expect to, well, set your watch by it. But there was a missing wing nut or something of perilous consequence if not fixed, and that delayed us a couple hours. Passport control was another slight delay. Finally, as we prepared to slip the line, our commander inquired into the VHF: “Harbor control, harbor control, this is Nordic Falcon requesting departure from the marina and out of the harbor”. Nothing. Wait a minute. Repeat. Nothing. German eye roll. Wait a minute. Repeat. Nothing. Wait a minute. Shoulder shrug. “Prepare the mooring lines…”. And we were off. I appreciate Chris’ sense of abandonment - I am beginning to understand why he no longer lives in the Deutschland. He’s certainly an outlier. Once in the main harbor, and before passing the breakwater, we began to raise the main, with Staton and I at the mast, yanking and pulling and sweating, and hand-chaffing, and more pulling… “Halt. The halyard is twisted. Lower the main.” Chris shared with indifference. My turn to roll eyes. “Does someone have their knife on them?” Chris inquired. “I do. What can I do?” (whatever it is), I replied with excitement. As we motored around, dodging 400 foot-long tankers entering the harbor, the boat rolling under foot, I climbed 5 feet up the mast, bear hugged the aluminum structure like a Koala might grip a stripper pole, and dangled there, knife in my mouth like a pirate, untwisting and twisting, cutting and zip tying. Not 30 minutes into our transAtlantic crossing, and my life is hanging in the balance, the crew silent with breathless anxiety, hungry sharks circling below…Ok, so the imagination can sometimes run afoul. It was a little scary, slightly dangerous, but unlikely to be the largest or most terrifying challenge of the passage. Main hoisted, wing nut restored, tanker avoided, and Yankee (jib sail) raised, and we were under way. The sparkling blue water, reflecting the sinking sun stretched out before us, welcoming us into her bosom. A couple hours later, I found a spot on the stern to enjoy Mia’s first dinner on passage, leaning against the rail, looking back as the sun sank over the silhouette of Las Palmas. The stress, anxiety, excitement, or general endorphins caused by the last couple days and the several months prior, in preparation, melted away. As dolphins emerged from the water, leaping about our stern and darting under our hull, I smiled at our good fortune. And appreciated the good sign from Neptune. As I was sitting at my journal in the cockpit this morning, I was curious to learn more from our captain. “What is the name of your son, Chris?” I asked. “Alexander.” “What do you call him?” “Alexander.” Pause. Smirk. Staton explodes with laughter. Forget Neptune, the dry humor alone is a good sign for a pleasant, if awkward passage. Oh, and the dolphins just returned. —- The stars have come out They spot their face on the sea Guiding our passage. I’m not sure if these haiku’s are sounding better or worse as we go, but they’re fun to write. It’s almost 9pm, UTC. I’m in the cockpit, awaiting my turn at the wheel. Still Tuesday - are these days getting longer? I was first on the watch, at 8PM, as the sun was dipping below the horizon, and the quarter moon was hung out for the night. Like a lantern on a hook, she seems to swing with each gentle bob of our little vessel. Though just a speck on this vast ocean, we’re bustling with life. When I came up from my 5 hour siesta, I was greeted not only by the other watch mates, but a medium-sized pigeon quietly sitting in the cockpit. So far from land, city parks, and stale cigarettes, one must wonder how this winged rat was planning to survive so far from home. She seems out of place, given our surroundings, but then, which of this crew was born to the sea? We all found our way here through life’s twists, misfortunes, or galactic alignment. Mia, for example, had finished a years’ long gap from Sweden as an au pair in Boston. A friend, who procured an extra visa for her now abandoned boyfriend, offered Mia the chance to continue her adolescence in New Zealand. It was there, on a bus ride to skydive, where she met Andy. He had a day off with his mates, and joined them on the ride to the drop zone. No lost boyfriend, no free visa. No visa, no Mia. No day off, no Andy. Until that point of cosmic magic, Mia had never sailed. Andy introduced her to the sea. When the sun finally set, both Chris and Mia shared their knowledge of the stars. Where I mistook a reddish planet for Mars, they highlighted that I was looking at Beetlejuice, a red star easily identified by Orion’s Belt. Mia and Andy’s first boat, years after their star-crossed meeting in the New Zealand wilderness was named Arcturus. That star can be found by following the arc of the tail of the Big Dipper to the next brightest star. When challenged by the need for a second boat name, they revisited the stars. “Follow the arc to Arcturus, and then speed on to Spica”. Boat number two, appropriately, is Spica. Not one for Zodiacs, I would naturally question all of this. And yet, there it is, painted in the night sky. All of us, like the handful of satellites spotted this evening, racing through the cosmos until we bump into each other. Now if we could only think of a name for this pigeon. “Beetlejuice”, of course. Never call out to her three times. Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ A following sea, As we sail over the edge, Sun behind our wake.
Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ It’s 5:30 on Sunday, the night before departure. The sun is casting long shadows as a light breeze moves over the water, shifting our boat slightly on her mooring. The crew is primarily milling around the cabin, straightening up bunks, finishing navigation calculations, or sitting around the settee. Two nights removed from boarding and we are all feeling much more comfortable with Falken, and ready to head to sea. We just finished our second day of briefings. We spent the better half learning about weather patterns, and mapping our passage considering the forecast and prevailing winds. You’ll be pleased to learn, mother, that there is a 0% chance of hurricanes and given the low pressure system to our north, squeezing us into a barometric high, we should be enjoying a downwind sail for the next couple weeks. Of course, a local meteorologist is wrong half the time, so how the hell will we know what Neptune is planning for us over the next 3,000 miles? And mom, you may be less excited to learn that I volunteered as the Man Over Board rescue team water boy. Should some unfortunate soul fall from the boat, I’m thrown in with the milling sharks to pull the poor sailor free. We practiced harnessing me to the halyard, but are leaving the dipping in the water to tomorrow, once out at sea. I don’t expect my new friends to chum the water prior to the exercise, but you can’t be too certain around these shifty foreigners. I’ll wear my water wings, just in case. Other than a botched rescue drill, an erratic weather change, or an untimely Orca attack, what could possibly go wrong out there? I’ll be tethered to the boat at all times, and promise to wear my sunscreen. I’m realizing, with our imminent departure, that I’ve been lazy on the character development in this story. The delay has allowed me to spend some time with this motley crew, so the following observations should be taken for gospel, regardless of your association to any. In no particular order, other than the number that was assigned us, like cattle, when we boarded:
1. Captain Chris - hailing from Germany, and probably in his mid 30’s, Chris absolutely sets the tone for our boat. He’s very easy going, a little quiet, terribly knowledgable, but quick to smirk at a crew member asking a dumb question. We learned today that he was skipper (captain) of one of the 12 Around-the-World Cutters that race every couple years out of the UK. These sponsored, 70-foot vessels, with 20-men/women crew are the professionals of this sport. My hypothesis goes that if he can manage a circumnavigation, under extreme conditions, with twice the number of humans, he’s got better than a 50/50 chance at rediscovering the world is not flat and depositing us somewhere safely in the Caribbean. Other than the German accent, I have little to fear. He’s got an infant and a UK fiancé, so unless he insists on goose-stepping while on watch, I think he’s harmless. 2. Staton - we met him the other night. We’ve had opportunities to work as a team today for MOB activities and yesterday in the fire drilling. I expect our watches will be memorable, or at least lively, given his gift of gab. 3. Nelson - Nelson joins us from Dallas. He’s in his upper 40’s, married with a son at Oregon and a daughter looking at schools out East. He’s an ER doc by trade, but has his hands in private equity around Texas. We’ve talked shop, discussed politics, covered the two sides to socialized medicine, doting on your daughters, and much in between. Funny guy, with a positive disposition. In addition to having someone that can remove my appendix at sea, his sarcasm is a healthy addition to the crew. 4. Me - I’m awesome. Just ask me. Ask the crew, and I might be volunteered as the first to eat should we become stranded in our life raft. 5. Jeff - I slept like a baby last night, so I can’t blame him for much any longer. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen him all day. I think he just returned with his laundry. Definitely someone that may wander off and we’ll never see again - he’s on the other shift, so I may not see him again until Antigua. Slight addendum after our crew dinner this evening - we all watched with mild amusement and collective embarrassment as he counted out 31 Euros in left-over-laundry coins to pay his dinner bill. 6. Alejandro - As always, he is the punching bag for most humor. We’ll blame the language barrier, but he definitely asks too many questions and draws the most eye rolls. Again, harmless and too lovable to sustain much harassment. 7. Vince - We introduced him the other night as well. He and I worked together on charting a course across the ocean today. He’s easy to get on with, sharp, but low key for an engineer from the East Coast. He was quick to point out how we crushed everyone else today while mapping - we’re two in the same with respect to misaligned confidence. 8. Vicky - Other than a heated discussion with Alejandro over some nuance of the Canadien school system last night, I haven’t heard much from her. She’s pleasant, but keeps pretty quiet around the rest of us neanderthals. 9. Bruce - Bruce is a New Zealander, who lives in the UK and is one of the longest tenured professors at the London School of Business. He’s a single guy, never married, in his mid-50’s and has done five or six sail trips with 59 North. As a Wharton graduate, I just hope he can keep up with the rest of us, intellectually. Despite his profession and academic pedigree, he’s very down to earth, friendly, inquisitive, and shares our sense of adventure. I enjoy Bruce’s demeanor, and have already learned much about the English pension system and Brexit. If this guy can go deep on Downton Abby, Lewis Hamilton, and obscure tracks by the Spice Girls, then the fortnight on Falken will fly by. 10. Ella - Ella is the second mate on the boat, which means she is only behind Mia and Chris for knowledge and sailing experience. Although she too crossing the Atlantic for the first time, she is 18 years young - destined for a life of excitement. She has been fairly quiet, but may be taking her time to find her place or her confidence. She is very nice and eager to help. Most exciting, Ella worked for Oyster Sailboats for the last year, helping commission new builds! Given that my dream includes owning an Oyster, I can’t wait to pick her brain over all things Oyster. 11. Mia - I’ve known Mia via email for a couple years. Married to Andy Schell, owner of 59 North, she is personally responsible for the successful passages of this company. I wouldn’t be back if it wasn’t for her (and Andy). She is so nice, so helpful, an amazing cook thus far, and along with Chris, sets the tone for the on-board environment. If it’s not clear, I couldn’t be happier with the crew, their varied backgrounds, idiosyncrasies, unique personalities, and of course shared sense of adventure. The numbers we’ve been assigned play multiple roles. They refer to our bunk positions on board as well as our shift assignments. Even numbers - Staton, Me, Alejandro and Vicky all are on top bunks around the boat and will be Crew “T” for Top (bunk, or intelligence, or sailing prowess - all open for interpretation but not argument). The odd numbers (or oddballs, also not open for argument) fall to the lower bunks, including Nelson, Jeff, Vince and Bruce. Clearly these individuals should be associated with second-rate sailors, second class citizens, or “groundlings” to stick with Bruce’s cultural past. They make up the other “lesser” shift, according to Chris and anyone with authority. On the topic of how the boat is run, we will work on a schedule where shift 1 is sailing the boat from 8am to 2pm, and shift 2 from 2-8. From 8pm to 8am, we’ll rotate every four hours, so the next morning, the shifts switch. I was confused the first time too, but try to follow along. Mia and Ella will split the shifts, so we’ll get each of them for half of our shifts. Day 1 of briefing, I challenged the thinking behind this, and in a soft, historically sinister accent, Chris calmly explained how I will be lulled into appreciating the system by day three. And now I know why German trains run on time. Once we set sail tomorrow around noon, blog postings, pictures, and all communication, short of a blinking Garmin moving ever so slowly across the Atlantic, will cease. I do have texting capability via a satellite device, but have limited my contacts to remain off the grid and unbothered by the complexities of real life. I’ll continue to journal - God help your social life if you’ve made it this far with me and desire more - and will promptly post upon re entry. Based on charting, wind prediction, sail design, ocean temperature, the alignment of the moon, the Avalanche’s regular season record and the over-under on prince Charles’ coronation date, we should arrive in Antigua sometime two weeks from tomorrow. But then, one can never tell when a German-piloted vessel is to make landfall - they run on their own schedule. Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ I was wrong about Jeff. Where I pegged him as an ex-pat with seedy beginnings, I’m now convinced he simply falls into the camp of the elderly. At lights out, I could have sworn he was in a fight with a chip bag, or a rat got loose in his bunk. The restlessness, multiple trips to the bathroom, and ultimate collapse into high decibel snoring made for an uncomfortable slumber in my bunk above. I’ve located my ear plugs for this evening, so should have a better go of it. But let me bring you up to speed on the day. It’s 9pm on Saturday, and I’m relaxing on the topsides of the boat - cuddled up in sweat pants, long-sleeved shirt and a puffy vest. The breeze whispering across the harbor has made the evening a little chilly. As I look over the bow, I see the hillside twinkling with city lights, a crescent moon glowing next to Venus. If a sailor finds meaning in the night sky then… A planet for love, a sky alive by the night, the journey is bright. As we ate dinner on the boat, my bunkmate and Centenarian, Jeff, commented on how nice it is to just sit in the harbor. Despite his childlike sleeping habits, I respect his thoughts - I am at peace right where we are. Why slip the mooring lines, when you can enjoy this view? Today was our first full day acclimating to the boat. From 8:30 to 6:30, aside from a break for lunch, we went through every perilous situation we may encounter, and our appropriate response. Fire, flood, man over board, abandoning ship…frogs, locusts, darkness, slaying of the first born. We left no stone unturned, or plague unvisited. Breaking up into teams, Statton, Nelson and I were in charge of locating every fire extinguisher (8 total), every fire blanket (2), and every potential source for fire (propane, diesel leak, lithium battery bank self-destructing). Meanwhile, the other two teams were in charge of identifying every seacock (holes in the hull where water comes in or leaves the boat), every source of safety equipment from flares to pyrotechnics and all abandon-ship equipment from radios, EPIRBS (notifies the coast guard of our location), and medical kits, to a “grab bag” with our Passports, money, Colombian cocaine and coloring books - anything to pass the time in a life raft or trade for food on a desert island. In short, the 8 of us spent over an hour looking in every crevice of the underbelly of this yacht to familiarize ourselves with any source of danger, and the equipment mandatory to survive it. Who knew there was a need for a hand-held angle grinder to saw off the mast in the event its lost during a storm. Even the local Orcas have learned how to sink ships by attacking the rudders of sailboats. Seriously, Pharaoh, the Atlantic presents dangers of biblical proportions. We were cheerfully dismissed for lunch after our morning session, and craving an American meal, I led us to a local harbor restaurant offering up Coca Cola and cheeseburgers. Everyone complained about their undercooked burgers, but I was more concerned about the Kraken we were sure to encounter in the next few days than a little bacteria from an uncooked meal. I thought the meal was delicious. The afternoon was spent above decks, in the blazing sun, learning every line (they are NOT called ropes), rigging, sail, halyard, winch, and life raft deployment strategy for Falken. We rounded out the day with donning our life vests and tethers, which will keep us safely on board at sea, or will abruptly deploy should we go in the drink. Captain Chris gave a quick lesson on assuming the fetal position in the water, and preserving your dignity and body heat, while bobbing like Orca bait hoping to be rescued in the dark before the boat slips over the horizon. In short, “do not go in the water” was the prevailing advice. So now that we’ve been scared senseless, I’m crawling into my bunk below, hoping Jeff’s sleeping routine prevents my slumber and resulting ocean-crossing-nightmares. Only kidding, I feel safer and more familiar now with the boat than I did yesterday. Plus, I have my teddy bear so, like, I’m invincible. Goodnight scary ocean. Goodnight moon. Goodnight Venus next to the moon. |
We're the Zimmerman Family!
Home Base | Denver, CO A family of six that
LOVES to sail ! Follow our crew (Royce, Tara, Avery, Charley, Nora & Ruby) as we blog our sailing adventures Current Trip:
Set Sail 4.22.23 | Las Palmas - Across the Atlantic - Island of Antigua Previous Trips: Set Sail 9.22.21 | Sweden - Germany - United Kingdom Set Sail 7.18.19 | Newport, RI - Martha's Vineyard, MA - Nantucket, MA - & back! Thanks for reading !Previous Trip Posts:
April 2023
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