This
morning the boat was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, shortly after
sun up we were hooning along in 20kts in a torrential downpour, by late
afternoon we were sailing backwards, and who knows what tonight will
bring. The morning also brought a “sked” (position report)
that proved: anything can happen in the doldrums. Last night, before
sundown we finally caught up to Alvimedica having fought our way
back—they were 8 nautical miles away. Within a span of eight miles we
had completely different wind and they took off, and by the morning
sked, they were twenty miles ahead.
“Skeds” are dangerous. “They
can definitely be demoralizing,” Abby said. And, when you’re feeling
slow, like the doldrums are entirely against you, the last thing you
want to hear is you’re 120 nautical miles behind the leader. Nor do you
want to hear that you have 100 nautical miles to sail until you’re out
of the doldrums.
But, there’s something strangely powerful about
the doldrums—something I haven’t really seen before (in my small number
of offshore miles). The best way I can describe it is: sheer power.
Out here, you honestly feel the power of the ocean. With still calm
water and clouds that just keep going up, you feel tiny—a little dot in
the ocean, incredibly vulnerable to whatever the ocean decides to send
your way.
Out here, you feel the power of the Earth—a feeling
often lost on land—a feeling as if you are “allowed” to be here, but
only under strict super vision. Perhaps that’s why the King Neptune
ceremony, despite the dead fish gruel, makes all the sense in the world.
We are only allowed to be here, allowed only by King Neptune and his court—by no means is it a permanent residence.
The
doldrums is an incredibly surreal place. Like I said this morning:
everything is dramatic. It’s almost like a bad film: one you want to
look away from and see again, but one you can’t help but watch and
become engrossed in.
Rainsqualls pass through
beams of sunlight and the raindrops (falling in sheets) look like burst
of electricity on the sea’s surface. A bird of prey (not a seabird!)
takes a rest on our spreader. Rainbows form and find their way onto the
boat (sorry no gold!). In the morning, through the smallest of holes in
the clouds, a blood red sun reveals itself for thirty seconds. A push
and pull between peace and constant activity. Blue clouds, white
clouds, pink clouds, black clouds, grey clouds, puffy clouds, squirrel
shaped clouds, thunderclouds, hazy clouds—they’re all here and they’re
all here for us to just watch. Here for us to simply experience.
Frustrations
mount as high as the clouds as thunderstorms pass near and suck our
wind away. All day we stare at clouds on the horizon, hoping a small
amount of pressure will come to us and stick with us—carry us through
and out of this strange, dramatic place.
Our time here is fleeting
and we’re all excited to get out, but its such a visually alive place
that it will be impossible to forget. So yes today wasn’t easy, by any
means, but it was one of those days where you can’t help but think: I am
incredibly fortunate to experience this place… this strange, strange
place. (www.teamsca.com)
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