Harmon and Randall's Voyage…

Fernando de Noronha to Rio de Janeiro

Day 6

Aug 11

Noon Position: 14 59.9S  35 12.9W

Course: WSW 6

Wind: ENE 8

Noon miles: 151

Total Miles: 792

Fernando de Noronha to Rio de Janeiro

Added to the imaginary list of “Things that shall ever remain unknown”, the following: what is the longest ever flying fish flight? I will never know the answer. That fact does not submerge curiosity, however, and for hours I have counted as the fishes scatter before that predatious, black bottomed monster we know fondly as Mo. The fry and the awkward often T-bone the next wave with a cannon ball splash or manage a panicked cartwheel or two before collapsing back into their native element. But the older, larger, smarter, stronger fish can really sail.

Typically, they leap from a trough and power up the slope of a rolling sea. Then they go airborne, soaring across the next trough, banking slightly, reaching the top of the next wave where they dig the lower half of their tale into the water and accelerate anew. Out across the next trough and to the next wave head; drop in the outboard motor and off again. Four repetitions of about 15 seconds is the longest flight I’ve recorded, but surely there are longer. In fact, given an explorer’s temperament, a skilled fish could go for as long as he could hold his breath, the limiting factor being that a flying fish is, after all, a fish out of water.

They are few now, the flying fish. None in the scuppers for days, no silvery herds flushing into the sky in simultaneous, harmonized fright. Mostly the ones I see these days are the solitary bulls, the big, old birds—the loners—who’ve pushed to the outer edges of their territory in search of what I do not know. Maybe it’s something as simple as something more…

Speaking of birds, we’ve seen none since soon after Fernando. Not a one. And Sargasso weed dried up long before that lovely island. Lacking the above, we are bereft of neighbors, save for one family of dolphins that raced in Mo’s wake last evening.

Dolphins and ships. Ships we have with us every hour, headed in every direction and of every kind. Unlike Mo or her flying companions, a ship seems to proceed with a weight of deliberation worthy of the heavier planets. We pass them in silence, these heavenly bodies, officers of the watch not being a chatty bunch, and we mimic their reserve out of respect. Theirs is a profession, a serious matter; we are just here for fun. Their slow bulk on the horizon belies their speed; as they pass we watch in envy their 11 – 17 knots, their high bridge decks that get them away from the sound and smell of the engine, and their air-conditioned cabins. Oh, what we would give for an air-conditioned cabin!

For we are motoring now and in dead calm and the heat is upon us. It’s 91 degrees in the cabin. After two days (in current coin, riches beyond measure) of sweet, steady, tradewind sailing, we are passing through a windless section between weather systems at 6.5 knots and on a course of 200t. We will motor through this blue blob of stationary airs until noon tomorrow according to the forecast.

Fingers crossed on that one…