Yesterday afternoon, August 20, I anchored in Baie de Taiohae on the island of Nuku-Hiva in the Marquesas island group in French Polynesia after a 5500 nm, 45 day passage from Puerto Montt, Chile.  It’s by far the longest passage I’ve done, or will need to do, to complete my solo voyage to 7 continents and my solo circumnavigation.

This morning, using my spinnaker halyard to lift my dinghy off the foredeck where it is strapped down during passage, and muscling my 6 hp Yamaha outboard motor onto its transom,  I connected the gas tank, primed it and and crossed my fingers it would start. Luckily it did with no drama – not always a sure thing after it’s been bumped around all those days at sea. 

Taking the dinghy into town, my first task was to complete clearing-in paperwork with the Gendarmarie. That done, I’m now good to stay in French Polynesia up to 90 days. Some cruisers get long-stay visas and stay here for months, even years. Kevin Ellis at Yacht Services Nuku-Hiva made this clearing-in process very streamlined. After exploring a few local shops and getting cash at the ATM, I also had my first restaurant meal and beer in a long time!

I plan to stay here about a week to add to my provisions, top off diesel supplies, and fill the propane tank I’ve been using (the second one is still full). When I’m in a place with resources it makes sense to fill up everything –  I’ll need it eventually. I ran my watermaker for a couple of hours while motoring in here so I’m set for fresh water.  I can also get laundry done and dump accumulated garbage from my passage. With chores done, I hopefully will have some days to relax, look around, maybe rent a car for a day to tour the island. And check out more of the restaurants here!

Unfortunately, I lost 6 weeks from my original schedule for various reasons, 6 weeks I would certainly like to have back now so that I could take a more leisurely island-hopping route on to Australia, which will be my 5th continent. As it is, I need to keep moving. From here I plan to sail southwest to Rangiroa in the Tuomotus island group and anchor inside the atoll for a couple of days. Then it’s on to Huahine, my last stop in French Polynesia. Having been to Tahiti (Papeete) and Moorea several times over the years, I have no desire to go back.  They are crowded with cruising boats and tourists engaged in all sorts of loud, annoying water activities. The locals have also imposed increasingly tight restrictions on where cruising boats can anchor at these islands as well as Raiatea and Bora Bora, a long-simmering conflict that has seen cruising boats and dinghies sometimes damaged from vengeful locals.

From Huahine I’ll sail directly to Suvasuva, Fiji.  I really wanted to stop in Tonga (Vava’u), a country I’ve never visited, and it’s on the way to Fiji, but I really don’t have time.  I plan to have the boat in a secure location in Australia for the tropical storm season which traditionally begins in November. “Traditionally” is becoming a broken word when it comes weather. Climate change is eroding weather patterns that sailors have relied on for centuries.  

As I explore this beautiful volcanic island of Nuku-Hiva I’ll be posting more photos.

Early this morning I sailed west of 122.5 degrees west longitude which is not important except it’s the approximate longitude of my house on Bainbridge Island. At this point I’ll recognize any scrap of progress, no matter how insignificant.

There have been many movies with a scene of an 18th century sailing ship becalmed in an ocean somewhere, drifting around a dead flat sea, its canvas sails hanging limply from the yardarms in forlorn anticipation of new wind.  The crew sits around on deck in whatever hint of shade they can find, or construct with spare sails, as an intense merciless sun beats down on them. Though there’s no breeze to be found on deck it’s better than being in the stifling, rank atmosphere below deck. Some kill time whittling or scratching scrimshaw while others sit with their backs against a bulkhead, sweat dripping down their faces, eyes closed, as they try to fill their thoughts with images of home. Some occasionally dip a ladle into a wooden bucket of seawater and pour it over their heads, the brief cooling lasting only a minute.

One seaman happens to notice a bird fly by, barely flapping its wings to gain loft. He looks to the top of the mainmast where a pennant is gently stirring. No, it can’t be, it’s just another tease from Zephyrus. But as he watches the pennant begins to lift and slowly wave. Others notice him and also look skyward, each with a flicker of hope their windless oblivion is ending.  Then the topmost skysail sail fills with a resounding “whap”. Now everyone is looking up as the sails begin to fill with wind from the top down. The crew is on their feet, a cheer rises as the ship slowly begins to move through the water. The officer on deck steps up to the helmsman who simply nods that he has steerage. The officer gives an order to turn the ship to take best advantage of the rising wind. The crew gladly scrambles up the masts to adjust sails.  Their long drifting nightmare in the doldrums has come to end.

That was me for a couple of days as the wind speed fell below 5 knots and its direction wander over a 50 degree range. The SE trade winds at this latitude, even much further south, should have been fairly steady in direction and speed.  But this is an El Nino summer, renowned for lighter, variable trade winds. I have first-hand evidence of that. I’ve had to work my way progressively further north than I ever expected to get around a large patch of dead air hundreds of miles across encroaching from the south. Of course, unlike the 18th century ships I have “iron wind“, an engine I can use to keep making progress. But the engine is loud, and its heat adds to the already 32+C degree temperatures outside. It’s even hotter in the cabin.

As I write this some wind has returned, at least enough to work with to get this boat moving again under sail.

I’m about 1000 nm from Nuku-Hiva, expecting to arrive there on August 20 or 21, depending , as always, on the winds. 

Virginia, where I topped up the fuel tank and spent the night, I set off eastward the following morning, August 2, 2022, headed for the Azores.

I’d sailed for many years but in relatively protected waters removed from the ocean, like around Puget Sound and in te channels, island passages and harbors north of there. This was my first excursion offshore, my first time being underway alone at night, but fortified by naïveté and blind faith, I sailed on into the night, asleep in my bunk with the autopilot in command. It’s only water out there, a vast ocean, nothing to run into. The first night was peaceful, the second I was awaken by a brief, intense rain squall that had me scrambling up on deck with my headlamp on to reduce sails. By the time that was done the squall had moved on and I put the sails up again.

Since those first days I’ve learned a lot about sailing, especially ocean sailing. I’ve had so many adventures that the past year seems compressed, like how could all those things have happened?

Aside from the 3 month break I took at home this Spring, I’ve spend the other 9 months alone on Phywave.  I’ve landed on 4 continents (Europe, Africa, South America, and Antarctica) and in 6 countries (Portugal, Morocco, Spain, Brazil, Argentina and Chile). As I write this the boat’s trip log says I sailed a total of almost 17,000 nm. On the current passage I’ve sailed about 3,200 nm thus far from Puerto Montt with 2,200 nm remaining to arrive at Nuku-Hiva in the Marquesas Archipelago.

I’m sailing west across the Pacific into a setting sun,  a common sailor fantasy now real, though I still see the clouds above me as a pilot would, not a sailor. With thousands of hours flying solo in my small plane all over the world, I don’t think that will ever change. I wouldn’t want it to change.

The days now on this passage are similar, flowing together with no distinguishing features, the trade wind direction and speed finally fairly steady, a sky that suddenly clouds over then just as quickly brightens to brillant blue, seemingly at random, followed by recent nights lit up with a moon waxing full. It’s the upper half of a world that has the hypnotic, twisting rythmn of the waves beneath. And me in between.