Harmon and Randall's Voyage…

Cape Verde to (somewhere in) South America

Day 7

Wed, July 31

Noon Position: 03 50.90N 27 01.3W

Course: SSW 6

Wind: SSE 8

Noon miles: 147

Total Miles: 917

Sailing is a game of surfaces. Surface winds upon ocean surfaces and the resulting seas and currents at surface; surface winds powering sail surfaces; surface currents and seas dragging on hull surfaces. Always the boat moves between these surfaces, never at what anyone would call speed, but fast enough to give its hangers-on a sense of constant motion, of rising and falling even when way is minimal, of ghosting along, of slipping over a greasy sea, of surging forward, of charging onward with a bone in her teeth. And all this motion locked into a horizontal plane of surfaces slipping by surfaces.

It is her niche, this littoral zone between the firmament and the foaming main, her charm and her curse. A submarine moves within three dimensions in its element and an airplane the same, but a sailboat lives only in 2D, where her twin elements meet. She has a foot in both worlds but is not entirely of either.  If an airplane finds turbulence not to its liking at 35,000 feet, it can ascend or descend at will, where as a sailboat–let me tell you!– a sailboat takes what she is given.

And so, we have been taking what we are given on this leg from Mindelo to … where ever we end up, and what we have been taking is a lot of light and contrary air. We have motorsailed for days with sails as tight to the wind as they would bear just to press a modicum of south into our course. We have happily sailed close hauled, following a wind to the S and E thinking “yes, now we have turned the corner; onward to Rio, to Uruguay, to the Falklands,” only to have that wind lazy its way back due S the next day, pushing Mo to somewhere N of Recife. Even today as we begin to see St Peter and St Paul Rocks on the chart plotter! Previous courses have taken us close enough to kiss them. Now we are 150 miles N and still trending to the W. Where will it all end?

We are a leaf on a great pond; we can only follow the wind.

—

Days remain a stifling 90 below decks, but the nights have cooled. For weeks, starting N of Mindelo, we have slept without cover and, speaking for myself, without bothering to undress beyond the removal of shoes. Harmon is careful of his hygiene, often changing before bed. I am careful not to worry about such things, figuring that if a suit of clothes has managed to maintain its hold upon my frame by day, there’s little reason to betray that tenacity by night.

On the last two the nights, the engine has been blessedly quiet and the sky utterly free of cloud. Sitting on deck, listening to the soft swooshing of Mo making way through small, obsidian seas, we can now see hook-like Scorpio directly overhead, while to the N, the Big Dipper has dipped its cup well below the horizon and Polaris is so low and dim as to be lost in the haze unless you already know it’s there.

By day birds are few in this quadrant, but at night Brown Noddies collect around Mo searching for a roost. This bird spends its life on the water but cares how it spends its nights, and apparently it would prefer they remain dry. Last night three jockeyed for position atop the large, flat Starlink panel on the radar arch. This was a bit like attempting to roost on small ice rink in motion. The flat surface offered no hold worth mentioning and here comes a wave to push the first bird back into the sky making way for the second’s attempt.

After much energy wasted on such a piece of real estate, one bird smartly moved off to a hand rail above the dorade vent, another to a hold on the aft rail and the last to a wee bit of wire hanging from the Starlink panel. There they happily preened and cooed till first light. Wildness is about us every moment out here, never further than a hand’s dip into the uncivilized water as it passes, but being so near animal wildness, near enough to touch its tail, to watch as its tiny feet grip tight to a new friend, to hear its murring and kurring…!

Also overnight, Mo scooped up her usual collection of flying fish (three to five is the norm) who pass from this life looking startled and betrayed but otherwise beautiful.

This boat, our literal salvation, is both a friend and an enemy to those we pass.