One of the more interesting and mysterious members of our extended family is our Uncle, Big Wave Dave (he’s not technically an “uncle” by the dictionary definition, and his real name is David Sharland, but those facts were lost on us long ago). Big Wave has so much open water sailing experience in various places around the world that for many years it was nearly impossible to keep track of him. The sailing stories he’d bring to us as kids were a big part of what got us interested in this whole idea of long distance sailing ourselves…. it’s possible we’d have found our way here without his inspiration, but probably not. We gave him his nickname after he told us the story of the tsunami-like rogue wave that approached from behind as he entered one remote South Pacific port. He sighted the wave just in time, turned 180 degrees straight into it, and was able to climb the face and crack through the top to safety just moments before it broke. It was the wave that nearly changed everything for him, but luckily in the end, it changed nothing at all (except his name).

So when Big Wave discovered this part of the South Pacific, he proceeded to fall in love with the small Vanuatan island of Tanna, where we are now, and the incredibly happy and friendly village people who live here. So in traditional Big Wave style, he simply decided to stay. And over the next year or two he worked with the villagers on the island’s east coast by helping them build a small yacht club, teaching them Eco-friendly tourism practices, building walking trails to the nearby volcano, etc. And in the process of doing so, Big Wave became an important part of this island’s recent history and has been recognized as such by the village chief in Port Resolution – this will always be a second home for him. This is what brought us to Tanna.

We’ve been to a lot of volcanoes lately and the thought of visiting another volcano crater is now a bit boring. Most (perhaps all?) of the islands we’ve visited in the South Pacific are ancient volcanoes that expired millions or billions of years ago, and the volcano factoids related to them are no longer interesting to us. The Mount Yasur volcano on Tanna is different… very different…. because this volcano is an active one. And although we thought that meant there might be some bubbling lava at the bottom of the crater, the huge smoke cloud billowing from the island like a chimney was the first clue we were wrong about that. This volcano is literally erupting all the time, with almost constant lava explosions, smoke plumes, and thunderous sonic shock waves that can be heard all the way on the other side of the island. Despite the chaos, the activity level is closely monitored and the crater can “safely” be visited most of the time (in quotes because the relatives of one unlucky Japanese tourist here some years ago might debate this point – the locals tell us he was killed by a disobedient lava bomb).

So with our curiosity reaching new levels, we hitched a ride across the island in a quest for the crater. We bounced along dirt roads, through villages, and across rivers, dodging children, chickens, and cows for more than an hour, and as we got closer, the clouds grew darker. And I’m not talking about wimpy clouds of water droplets or condensation or whatever, I’m of course talking about thick black volcanic clouds of ash. We finally climbed the steaming walls of Mount Yasur and looked down into the exploding crater in a moment of jaw dropping awe that has no equal in any of our lives. We found ourselves standing there, completely silently, with an odd sense of insignificance and vulnerability, maybe it was 5 or 20 minutes, I have no idea, staring from the rim of this enormous exploding lava vent launching molten plumes of magma, straight from the core of the Earth into the sky above us. And with shock waves and adrenaline pumping through our bodies, none of us could find in our vocabulary even a single word appropriate for the moment…. and that includes Tarzan, who speaks four languages.

So with the volcano box in our minds having the biggest possible imaginary check mark in it, and the weather forecast looking ideal for our long 1200 mile passage to Australia, it’s time for us to move on – cyclone season, after all, starts on Thursday. As we depart this remote part of the South Pacific, we recognize it marks the end to an amazing chapter in our voyage that, realistically, probably can’t ever be beat. But thanks to our overwhelming feeling of respect and appreciation for the experiences we’ve had here, we’re fine with that.

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).