My Chicago cousin has requested a little less "how to sail the boat" and a little more about what it looks like and feels like out here. I actually do think about those things, so I'll try to give you a word picture of some of the situations we live in daily.
A couple days ago when I came up on the Rag of the Air I was giving Jim some stick about how much nicer it was where we were than where he is. Comments to the effect that with all the light pollution from the neon signs in Thawaro he couldn't see the spectacular star show we had. That is, of course complete bull. There are no electric lights in Thawaro. But it was no bull about the star show.
It's a new moon this week, so we've had either just a sliver of bright moon, with the shadow of the disc showing, or no moon at all. On the nights with little cloud cover, it's astonishing how much light just the stars provide. There must be ten times as many stars visible out here as there are near a town. There are so many stars visible; it becomes more difficult to pick out constellations. The shapes just get lost in the profusion of sparks. The Milky Way sweeps across the middle of the sky like a phosphorescent streak of cloud and that changes the color of the sky, leaving a hard, sharp line at the horizon, with a slightly luminous charcoal gray sky over an inky black ocean.
Close in toward the boat, the ocean starts to show some texture, with the roughness and motion of the waves just barely visible. And then, along the hull sides, and trailing out in a glowing, sparkling plume 50 feet behind the boat we see the phosphorescence of millions of light producing plankton, flashing bright for a few seconds when they're disturbed, then relapsing into darkness. On a night when there's a bit of a break on the waves, the crests light up just as they roll over, showing a line of glowing froth along the top of each swell. We've been surprised that these plankton are the only living thng we've seen since the end of the gale last week. While the wind was thrashing the sea into a fury, there were a couple of small albatross, some boobies, and storm petrels swooping and diving between the waves. As the wind died out, the birds disappeared. We've seen no porpoise, no whale, and now not even a bird for a week. The consensus among the sailors who've traveled these waters for years, some for decades, is that the wildlife is a lot more rare than it was in past years. Even 6 years ago I don't think we ever went more than a day without a bird sighting.
We had one night when there was 100% low cloud cover, so thick there was only an occasional glow in the sky where Venus was blasting a few photons through. It's frankly spooky to be streaking through the sea at 6 or 7 knots, unable to even discern a horizon, the whole visible world defined by the dim circle of light from the tricolor navigation light at the top of the mast. Part of me spent that whole night waiting for the crash. I guess if there'd been a ship nav light to be seen, it would have stood out like a neon sign, but there was nothing, and there are things out here that don't have lights on them. Personally, I rather like having some moon. Everything is shades of silver gray, as long as you don't spoil you night vision. They found during WW2 that red light doesn't cause your eyes to readjust from night mode, so we keep a couple of small red lights on in the cabin, so we can find our way around. I've discovered the utility of the head strap mounted lights now, but mine has a piece of red cellophane under the lens, so I can see to work, then shut it off and see the horizon immediately.
Right now, we're sailing between some of the smaller islands of Fiji, northeast of Suva, bound for SavuSavu. We can see the shapes of the mountains on the horizon. We need to get about 60 miles further north, then can angle in around Koro Island and head for the bay entrance. Should make the turn about 2:00 in the morning. Without GPS, this would be one hair raising navigation job. Present position, 18 deg 16 min S, 179 deg 24 min E. Time for rest. I'll be up most of the night, enjoying the tropical air.
Ted
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