There’s an old English expression that goes “Wherever you may be, let your wind blow free!” Obviously there are limits to a literal interpretation of the rule (first dates, funerals, job interviews, and so on), but as a general rule for maximizing your own comfort and happiness in most situations, this one works pretty well. And it’s scientifically accurate too, because although we don’t normally think of the human body’s pressure equalizing functions as “wind”, that’s exactly what wind really is. To take the example of a burp, there’s more pressure inside our stomach than there is outside in the atmosphere, so we open a valve in our throat and the wind actually does “go free”, meaning it naturally moves from the high pressure area inside our stomach towards the lower pressure area outside without any further effort from us (beyond opening the valve). Nothing more is ever needed to create “wind” other than two different pressures of adjacent air masses, plus the possibility of flow between the two. The exact same principle is in effect when you equalize your ears underwater by opening the valve between your inner and outer ears. Same is true when you… well never mind, you get the point.

So what does this have to do with sailing? Well, everything actually. That’s because without these pressure equalizing principles, we’d still be stuck in the marina back in Marmaris wondering what the hell went wrong with our grand plan of sailing around the world. And as we now spend larger fractions of our lives benefiting from the wind pushing gently on our sails, and occasionally punishing us by ripping them apart, we have plenty of time to think about it, and more recently, study it. Understanding the wind, where it comes from, and how to anticipate it, is perhaps the biggest differentiator between inexperienced sailors like us, and the “masters” (in quotes because there is no such thing as a master in this discipline).

And after a day like yesterday, when an unforecasted circular storm came barreling towards us with just 12 hours notice, forcing us more than 50 miles off-course, we’re reminded about the importance of this aspect of sailing. To understand wind, you have to start with the concepts of pressure. When a pocket of high pressure (i.e. cold air) or low pressure (i.e. warm air) forms, the air will naturally flow outwards (high pressure) or inwards (low pressure) as the pressure equalizes between the pocket and its surrounding air mass – air always flows from high pressure towards low pressure. If you know the pressure differential between the low or high pressure pocket and the surrounding area, you also know the approximate pressure gradient between the two air masses. And if you know that, then you can easily forecast the rate of airflow (i.e. the wind speed). And this is why professional forecasters (or more modernly, computer models) and “master” sailors focus primarily on pockets of pressure (high or low), and particularly pressure gradients where the wind will inevitably be found. Complicating factors exist, such as when a high pressure and a low pressure pocket come close to each other, which exaggerates the pressure gradient (called a “squash zone”) and can lead to extreme conditions where the pressure gradient is steep (hurricane force winds, etc.). As you get further from the equator, you also encounter the “coreolis effect”, which is the effect of the earth’s rotation on air molecules, which creates predictable wind patterns, like the easterly trade winds in the tropics (our best friend), or the more violent “westerlies” nearer the poles (not recommended for novices).

The coreolis effect does something else: it makes big storms spin around their center. This is what made us so nervous when we checked our forecast two days after leaving Fiji, and found a brand new (unforecasted at the time we departed) 35 knot circular storm coming straight at us. 35 knots is probably nothing to worry about for those experienced with harsh weather (it takes 75 to reach hurricane force). But being new to this whole business of circular storms, we were a little freaked out to find one on our forecast (mainly because we’ve had 20 knot forecasts blow nearly 40 knots on us, so we’re accustomed to doubling the forecast as an estimate of possible gusts). So our immediate reaction was to head straight south, away from the storm’s center, set deep reefs in the main, roll up the jib, set the staysail, and prepare the cabin for World War III – almost certainly an overreaction (but not definitely). Most importantly, being the type of thing that could easily panic a Mom several thousand miles away (particularly one without expertise in circular storms or heavy weather sailing tactics) we embargoed the subject in our email traffic. At 2am, the cold front arrived on schedule – heavy rain along with rising wind. 15knots, 17, 19, then instantly up to 27, 32… And just as we wondered if it was going to shoot straight through 40, it stabilized. Luckily it did nothing more than our latest forecast had predicted (35 knots for about 20 minutes). At least that was the situation where we were in our more advantageous position south of the center – what was happening nearer the center we have no idea. In our hunkered down mode we now know we could handle much more than it threw at us… exactly how much we hope we’ll never find out. Once it passed, we turned back north towards Vanuatu, delayed but with a small bit of new valuable experience, and an additional reason to spend more time reading about the weather.

So Tarzan is now up on the bow whistling to dolphins (he know their calls somehow), and I’ve just heard Bro yelling “land ho!” from the cockpit, which means we’re finally approaching Vanuatu after our slow and disrupted passage. Ironically this is now happening as we motor in completely windless conditions. So we’re doing a wind dance, praying to the wind gods, and yelling to the world “let your wind go free!”, but we know that without a pressure gradient out there, our efforts are surely futile.

(For those interested in learning more about weather forecasting, we suggest Steve and Linda Dashew’s “Mariner’s Weather Handbook” – we also suggest everything else they ever wrote).

It would be unfair to the Indian Ocean and the Atlantic to say the Pacific is the world’s greatest ocean. They are all giants and each is worthy of the seafarer’s most profound respect. But privately, after dedicating about a month of our lives to crossing this behemoth, we think of this one as something different from the others. With Panama 4000 miles behind us, and the Marquesas Islands now visible off our starboard bow, it’s tempting to bake our last chocolate cake and celebrate the completion of our Pacific Ocean crossing. But to do so would just demonstrate our ignorance about what this ocean really is all about. The computer tells us that Singapore, still on the shores of the Pacific, remains more than 7000 miles ahead of us, trivializing our accomplishments in this ocean so far. This slightly irritating factoid probably won’t stop us from baking the cake today, but the truth is that we probably don’t deserve it yet.

This realization is nothing to be upset about because there are some very redeeming things to consider about our current situation (and I’m not just talking about chocolaty treats). I’m of course talking about everything else that lies ahead in our remaining time in the Pacific. In many ways we’ve been looking forward to this portion of our voyage more than any other so far, and Hiva Oa now directly in front of us marks the official arrival of this anticipated moment. The tropical islands of the South Pacific are perhaps the most beautiful in the world; their remoteness has left their shores virtually untouched, and their indigenous cultures largely in tact (despite European colonization of all the South Pacific Islands in the late 1800’s). The underwater life in the South Pacific has no equal anywhere thanks to the abundance of volcanic archipelagos (and the coral growth that accompanies them) which dot the next 3000 miles of ocean. Then comes Australia and South East Asia, with landscapes and photo opportunities that are probably second only to Iceland, plus a whole new world of cultural variety far removed from anything we’ve come across yet on our voyage. We would say we can’t wait to get there, but the truth is, given our envious position at the most upwind end of the South Pacific Islands, we can.

With the exception of a handful of other mid-ocean yachties, a few astronauts in the ISS, and possibly Edward Snowden (we don’t know because we haven’t checked the news lately), few people can say they haven’t been inside a country yet this month. As of a few moments ago there are now three less people who can make this odd claim. That’s because we have just sailed out of international waters and crossed into the territorial waters of…. drumroll…. wait for it…… France, or more specifically, its “collectivity” French Polynesia (home to the Marquesas Islands, the Tuamotus, Tahiti, and the Societies among others). Most of the imperial powers gave independence to their overseas colonies long ago, but for whatever reason the French have decided it’s a better idea to keep control over their most beautiful islands around the world, something we noticed earlier this year in the Caribbean. And although we can’t blame them too much for this (we’d probably do the same), it does feel a bit strange to be in this hemisphere on this side of the globe, and still be under the jurisdiction of decision makers in Paris, literally a world away. It’s particularly strange because the culture here and the vast majority of inhabitants are primarily native Polynesian, not French, and it’s been that way since the beginning of recorded human history. We understand that many Polynesians have been less than 100% happy about their newfound French-ness, particularly the nuclear weapons testing part of it, which took place down here until the mid 1990’s (officials in Paris apparently finding the Marquesas better suited for it than a place closer to, say, Paris). But as so often is the case in a world dominated by militarized western powers, the interests and desires of the native people tend to be counted for little….it’s just the way things are. And so it is.

The last few days of this crossing have been a challenge, with squally weather, variable winds, and a lumpy seastate that feels disproportionate to the mostly light winds we’ve experienced. Each time we’ve set the sails, something’s changed within an hour (normally the wind dying to a few knots or making a big directional change) and we’ve had to reconfigure. So we’ve spent a good amount of time working on the deck and also a chunk of time on the motor, none of which has put a damper on the excitement level. Despite missing the perfect finish we were hoping to describe in these paragraphs, we consider the 18 day crossing to be a huge success, fortunately without any overly expensive learning lessons. We hope this is a sign of progress, not just good luck, time will tell. Now it’s time to prepare the boat for entry formalities and, more importantly, prepare ourselves for a cold beer ashore.

UPDATE: Now that we have found a wifi connection, We have uploaded photos to the two prior Pacific Crossing posts.

As we approach the two-thirds marker on our Pacific Ocean crossing we are reminded about how unpredictable things are on these oceans. Whereas we had near perfect trade wind sailing conditions for our first thousand miles, the second thousand has been filled with squalls, bigger seas, and very variable winds. The moments we dread the most, by far, are the occasional sudden calms, which wreak havoc on our sails, halyards, and rigging. Winds can die in a matter of seconds, whereas the seas take hours to calm down. The combination of little or no wind plus the residual big sea state causes the boat to rock back and forth with empty sails, which leads to violent slamming of the boom and slapping back and forth of the sails. We’ve snapped two halyards, put a 20 foot tear in our screecher (big lightwind sail), and ripped a critical grommet out of our mainsail, almost all of it, surprisingly, thanks to the absence of wind and the flapping sails that go along with it. We’ve fortunately been able to repair all of these problems without material delay… a skill we’ve worked hard to develop over the past 18 months, and which we’ll continue trying to perfect until the day we give up on the sailboat thing (meaning probably never).

Unfazed by our routine mechanical problems and less predictable weather conditions, we’ve continued plowing forward at a 175 mile per day average. Our speeds are noticeably faster than they were on our Atlantic crossing and we’re taking a more direct route to our destination thanks partially to better conditions and partially to improved sail management. We are running more sails in more advanced configurations, running deeper on the wind (wind further behind), and being more aggressive with our sail area in heavier winds, all of which is helping us achieve speeds that are 20-40 miles faster per day than we could previously. The people we owe a thank-you to for our progress lately are Steve and Linda Dashew (well respected authors and designer of our boat)…. their books are letting us take Panama Canal sized shortcuts in our learning curve and shouldn’t be missed by anyone new to the hobby of sailing across the world’s big oceans (see e.g. Practical Seamanship…. although we think a better title would have been “The Holy Grail”).

With a few nights of clear skies we’ve been taking advantage of our extreme remoteness and doing things impossible in a city, like staring deep into the Milky Way, finding the constellations and planets, and watching the phosphorescent bulbs that light up as we carve through the sea, leaving an incredible visible trail of light behind (similar in appearance to the Milky Way above). In the process of our stargazing we’ve gained a new appreciation for the pre-GPS sailors who managed to navigate to all corners of the Earth using only the sun, the stars, and celestial measurement tools…. we have a book on the subject and will hopefully be diving into it before the distraction known as “land” once again appears in our lives.

We’ve been lucky on the fishing front, with excessive amounts of fresh Mahi Mahi, an all-you-can-eat supply of suicidal calamari squids that land on our deck each night, and now our first Wahoo, which is officially our new favorite fish! Forecast is calling for some sunny and slightly calmer weather, meaning we’ll be digging even further into the sail locker for our biggest sails as we try to keep our speeds up during our final week of this crossing.

This is now day six of our Pacific Crossing, and what a difference it has been compared with our Atlantic experience. There we set out into stormy and unpredictable conditions that required countless sail changes, trim adjustments, and even a few sail repairs…. the type of experience that can make one question this whole business of crossing enormous oceans at walking speeds (and tie your intestine in a knot too). The first week of our Pacific experience has been very different. We are comfortably into the trade winds now, and this time they’re behaving the way trade winds are marketed in all the sailing books, meaning a steady 18-20 knots blowing from the rear quarter. These conditions are pretty much ideal for fast and comfortable cruising. We’ve been flying our bigger sails most of the time and are tweaking every rope and pulley to get the most out of the boat. In the process we’re getting to know Tamarisk in a way that’s difficult to explain to non-yachties, but to other sailing voyagers, it requires no explanation at all.

It’s normally not a good sign when you start having conversations with inanimate material objects, and even worse when you develop a relationship with them. But with a sailboat, in the middle of a chaotic waterworld thousands of miles from anything, it’s normal. In these situations she ceases to be just a “material object”… she’s everything you have and really the only thing that matters in your life. This is why when she talks, you’re wise to listen closely. Every creek, pop, whoosh, knock, ting, and bang means something, and when you ignore her, the punishment is usually swift and severe – a halyard breaks, dropping the sail into the water; the autopilot pin snaps, sending you chaotically for the helm; a pipe breaks, shit suddenly covers the engine room floor. With time, you learn her quirky language (she won’t learn yours), you learn how to treat her well and she reciprocates, mutual respect and loyalty develop.

With Tamarisk, we feel we’re finally getting there. She’s been reliable lately and confidence inspiring, and yesterday she did something we’ve been waiting for – she clocked her first 200 mile day since we’ve been on board (205 actually). It’s a small milestone, but it tells us we’re doing things right. Our level of enjoyment and comfort with the boat also brings a new dimension to our voyage – we now are honestly enjoying the sailing part of this whole experience – it’s no longer a chore. Increasing our performance, learning about the boat, reading sailing books, understanding weather, currents, and world sailing routes, all of it actually has become fascinating, and this is probably the reason we find so many salty dogs out here after so many decades on the seas.

So as we comfortably and efficiently bob along in the middle of nowhere, we find ourselves relaxed. We have time to read, fish, and sunbathe on the deck just like we’re supposed to on a long distance sailing journey. Javi studies his French while Piers and I study our Spanish, Javi even does a daily sunset yoga routine. We’re all looking forward to the Marquesas Islands now 2000 miles ahead, but for the time being, as strange as it sounds, we’re happy right here at 4′ 45 S, 107′ 01 W.

Only one photo for now because bandwidth out here is expensive…. more to come once we get to civilization.

We leave Panama with a sense of relief, but more than three months later than we had originally planned. We’ve elected to minimize our remaining time on this side of the Pacific because the islands on the other side offer far more for us. The cyclone season down there will force us to depart the South Pacific by mid-December, so we value each day there. The Perlas Islands, just 40 miles south of Panama City, deserved much more than the two days we gave them, particularly with the incredible whale watching during this time of the year. But with clear weather ahead and all ship systems ready, we decided it was time to sail.

And so we begin our second ocean crossing of our around the world journey. At 3700 nautical miles, the Pacific is an even bigger challenge than the Atlantic. Like the Atlantic, our focus is again on the weather, particularly the wind. We benefit greatly from the experiences of mariners who’ve thoroughly explored these waters over the past several centuries and contributed to the encyclopedia of knowledge we rely on modernly…. without them our current task would be unthinkable.

The area we’re now sailing through, immediately southwest of Panama, is known as the doldrums – an band of low barometric pressure known for its light (or nonexistest) winds that, on this side of the American continent, extends south to about the 0 degree line of the equator. Our goal now is make southerly progress towards the equator where we’ll pick up the “trade winds” that blow dutifully from the southeast throughout the year (named that way for their value to the old trading ships). Until we reach the equator, we’ll likely be spending plenty of time on the motor and dealing with potentially squally weather, so we’ll be keeping a close eye on the horizon. We’re also avoiding the temptation to stay too close to the South American coast… the strong onshore currents have been known to trap many sailors (sometimes for weeks at a time) in what’s known as “the Fishbowl”, where many unscheduled trips to Colombia and Ecuador have begun. There’s just one scheduled stop on our Pacific crossing, which will be the Galapagos Islands now about 600 miles ahead of us and resting directly on the equator about where we’d want to go anyway.

The only other land mass between Panama and French Polynesia is the tiny isolated Colombian island of Malpelo (~1/2 mile long and 900 feet high) which is a UNESCO wildlife sanctuary and is known for its massive population of sharks and other underwater wildlife. As we passed just 5 miles from Malpelo a few hours ago, we requested entry with the Colombian Navy stationed there, but our request was declined and we were told to keep 25 miles away… a request we complied with after getting our photo. Our cold reception was probably the result of a well-known 2009 incident there, when a Costa Rican fishing fleet slaughtered over 2000 sharks in a single profitable night (shark fin soup reportedly sells for nearly $100 per bowl in some Asian restaurants).

It should be another five days of sailing before we reach the Galapagos. Our sat com is on the edge of its coverage area, so updates from here may become more sketchy.