Thursday, 4/27/2023 - Day 3 and 4 at Sea

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 Apologies for the gap in the calendar, but really, you have nothing better to do than read yesterday’s unpublished news?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.