New Zealand Attained

Papillon has arrived in New Zealand!  Although we had been warned that the sail from Tonga to New Zealand can get pretty peppy (a boat was lost the week before we left), we had the quietest passage on record.  There was so little wind that we had the spinnaker up for a few days, and many people had to motor for up to 100 hours.  (This is usually the point at which Erik accuses me of being a wind killer.  I can’t help who I am; maybe someday I’ll get work travelling the country dousing tornados ).

So, what did we do on passage?

For school, we chopped up plants to separate out their pigments.

And nobody lost a finger!

We crossed into the Eastern hemisphere.

All Erik noticed was our speed.

We admired lovely sunsets as the days got longer and longer.

Lovely sunset, glassy seas.

We repatriated misguided flying fish.

Oh, fish.  Why do you want to die in our scuppers?

We pulled out our cold weather gear when things got too chilly.

At least Indy wasn't cold.

 At the quarantine dock, we had a visit from India, the drug dog.  Stylish fell in love with this very sweet Labrador, and followed her up and down the dock on her rounds.

Please, Mom?  Please, please, pleeeease?

India was also being followed by a cameraman for an episode of “Dog Squad”.  Stylish quickly made friends with the cameraman.  When interviewed about what it is like to live on a boat, she told him about a) her stitches, b) Indy’s stitches, c) getting bitten by a sealion, and d) breaking the mizzen.  I drop my head into my hands.  We really have had some fun times too, you know.

"And then I hurt myself when I..."

 We are now getting settled in Opua.  So far, life has been one big party as we all reconnect with friends we haven’t seen for months.  Tomorrow, the work begins.  We have to start on sail repair and ordering a new mizzen.  Cyclone season has begun!

Five Failed Attempts To Feel Sorry For Myself

Friends, I'm having a little difficulty with this post. Maybe you can help me out. We are about 800 nm from New Zealand, and I'm trying to make the point that I'm kind of sad to be leaving the tropics. But every way I try to tackle the issue… well, you'll see.

Attempt #1: No more mermaids

A few days ago, I was snorkeling with Erik and the girls. There is a fishing boat wrecked on the reef in Ha'afeva, and it has become the usual habitat for coral and fish. Stylish delighted in seeing how deep she could dive, peering through rusty hatches and surprising the shyer fish. Indy discovered she could blow bubbles around her mask and snorkel, and was gainfully occupied in increasing the length and strength of her exhalations. I drifted off the wreck to look over the staghorn coral garden next door, when suddenly I realized: this is it. My last snorkel. The world of tropical coral gardens was closing to me for half a year.

Cut! Well, I mean. I can hear you all weeping into your hankies. Boo hoo for Amy, no more daily snorkel amongst the sharks and healthy reefs.

Years ago, a friend introduced me to the concept of "Champagne Problems." (Forgive me if this is nothing new; this may be a common phrase for all I know.) A Champagne Problem is a non-problem, a my-biggest-issue-is-what-sort-of-champagne-to-drink problem. A problem only a person enjoying the great privilege of having all of life's true needs taken care of could possibly call a problem. And that is where I have landed. I hang my head in shame.

So, I strike through attempt no. 1 as grossly insensitive. Let's try again.

Attempt #2: It's cold down there

I've never been a cold-weather person. I have a mild circulation problem that makes winter pretty uncomfortable; if I want to enjoy the great outdoors, I need to wrap up like the Michelin man and keep the fun under 30 minutes duration or lose the use of my extremities.

One of the appeals in moving aboard Papillon was avoiding the January chill for a few years. But I have fond memories of the girls building snowmen, tobogganing, ice skating, and making snow forts in the backyard, and, in my own mind, I've built a rosy picture of how pretty winter was. Then a little rain cloud passes by and the temperature dips to 20 C and I start to feel very chilly, and I remember that, in Southern Ontario winter, the thermometer would have another forty or fifty degrees to fall. I remember scraping ice off my car, stuffing the girls into snowsuits, the colds and flus, the snow plow closing off my driveway, and none of it seems so romantic any longer.

We are on our way to New Zealand. On most passages, we lounge around in bathing suits and bake in the hot, hot sun. But on this passage, I'm reminded that we are headed into a temperate clime. Daytime is still t-shirt-and-shorts territory, but at night I've actually unpacked my long winter underwear to use as pajamas.

We've heard from friends ahead of us that it is only 11 C in Auckland right now. Isn't spring supposed to be turning into summer down there? Even worse, the girls have outgrown their cool-weather clothes, so Mom is going to have to go shopping when we arrive, a dreaded task at any time.

Stop, stop, stop. We were doing okay for a while there. But let's remember our readership. It is mid-November, and most of our friends up north are hurtling straight towards the long, cold winter I've painted in such ugly strokes. 11 C is not going to sound like much to complain about. And I've pointed out that summer is coming, meaning the weather is getting better, not worse. This is not a way to build sympathy. The icing on the cake is the shopping thing. You don't have clothes? You haven't needed long pants for two years? Hold on, my hankie is saturated with tears.

Okay, shake it off.

Attempt #3: We are stuck in New Zealand for five whole months.

Nope. I'm not even going to try to write that one.

Attempt #4: We have so many repairs to do.

Nothing is going to be worse than the painting/fridge debacle in Cartagena. Your correspondent is battle-hardened.

Attempt #5: We're leaving our friends behind?

No we aren't; they are all sailing to NZ, too.


All right, time to regroup and reassess. What have we learned? Yes, leaving the tropics behind temporarily is kind of sad, but going to New Zealand is awesome. Did I mention it is a place I've always wanted to visit? And I get to explore it with my husband and kids for five whole months. My in-laws are coming for a month, my parents hopefully will, too. Before we know it, we will be bidding a fond farewell to Hobbit-land and be headed back into the tropics. Maybe Fiji, maybe French Polynesia again, maybe…

Maybe I don't feel so sorry for myself anymore.

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Long, Beautiful Hair

When I was little, Saturday morning was not complete without cartoons on channel 29 out of Buffalo. One of the staple commercials breaking up He-Man and Scooby Doo was The Hair Club For Men. Happy clients shook their newly-thickened locks as they cavorted in hot tubs with young models in blue eyeshadow and grinned knowingly at us, the viewers, around their Burt Reynolds mustaches. I never understood why men would want those elaborate, shiny perms, and I put it down to Strange Things Grown-Ups Do.

Maybe the problem was that I didn´t identify with the untamed styles of the late 70s. In my family, hair was neatly cut, no matter whether you tended to the thinner end of the hair continuum, or you fell on the hairy end of the curve. When my brothers were about seven and ten, a movie was filmed at their summer camp. My brothers were instantly cast to wrestle in the background of a certain shot. Why? Because the movie was set in the 50s, and their crewcuts were perfect.

The girls had long hair when they first boarded Papillon; they now they have considerably less. Between the salt and the sand and their casual acquaintance with the hairbrush, they were starting to look somewhat feral. Chop, chop. I bought a proper pair of scissors from a beauty supply shop and, when we couldn't find a decent (read: cheap) haircut, Mom would do the honors. And I'd like to claim that I can produce a fairly decent bob. I've promised them they may grow their hair when they can take care of their hair; we'll see when the magic day arrives. As for me, I have long, straight hair. Erik won't go near it with the scissors, so about twice a year I find a salon, have it trimmed, and that is that.

And then there is Erik. His hair is a thatch. Curly in childhood, it is now a wavy landscape of wiry bristles that obey no man. If you have ever seen an aerial view of Mayan pyramids still buried in the jungle, you will have an idea of what I mean.

This mystified me at first. I am no stranger to full hair; my father's family - every man, woman and child - grows hair in what I can only describe as a luxurious abundance. My nonagenarian grandfather still sports a snowy coif to put one in mind of Cary Grant. But every man Jack of us has straight, manageable hair. Not so my husband. Make no mistake - his hair is the envy of men half his age. It is thick, grows quickly, and there is an almost-impossible volume of it sprouting from his noggin. (If you are familiar with the Artemis Fowl books, Erik has Mulch Diggums hair - impossibly thick and quite possibly alive.) But, he has only sixty seconds after leaving the water to brush or otherwise manage his hair. After that, the die is cast. Nothing will shift the geologic strength of those patterns.

During the decades we've been together, Erik's hair has slowly gotten shorter. In high school he sported a mop that followed the letter, if not the spirit, of our school rule that a boy's hair never fall below his collar. Gravity had no effect on the twisting strands erupting from Erik's head; the hair just went up, up, up. He cut it shorter during university to ease the summer job hunt, but the peaks and valleys returned quickly if he didn't keep ahead of the game.

On the boat, Erik's hair has gotten shorter still. To his delight, Erik discovered that he has Latin American hair. This meant the haircuts he received through Central America were the best and most ridge-free he had ever enjoyed. By the time we reached the Galapagos, Erik was sporting what the girls and I dubbed the Caesar look, and, as a totally unbiased onlooker, I must say he's looking pretty good these days.

The problem is, the 'fro comes back: the new hairdo won't last much beyond 3-4 weeks. So, when we got to Tahiti, we decided the time had come to buy our own set of clippers. No more paying an outrageous $3 for a haircut! I could figure out how to work the clippers before we left on passage, and any disaster would grow back by the time we hit land again. Simple. Brilliant.

We perused the clippers at the department store. We bought what looked like a robust pair. We took them home and opened the box. After some debate, we decided to start with the conservatively long teeth, just in case things didn't go smoothly; ie. let's not scalp Erik right out of the gate.

"Ready?" I asked.
"Ready," said Erik.
Bzzz brrrrp rruh rruh rruh.
We were stuck.

I turned off the clippers and gently teased them out of Erik's hair. I looked at them. Three sad wisps sat in the hair catcher. I pressed the button again. Bzzzzz! The clippers buzzed merrily in the air. I put the clippers back against Erik's head. Bzzz brrrrp rruh rruh rruh. We were stuck again.

We switched to the shorter teeth. Then the shortest teeth. Rruh, rruh, rruh. No go. All thoughts of saving Erik's delicate scalp were gone - we cranked the dial to eleven. Erik's hair just tangled in the clippers and refused to be cut. I think I heard it snicker.

We debated the problem with our male friends in the harbor. They laughed and ran nervous hands through their own fine hair. Everyone agreed: Erik has too much hair for man-clippers.

"Right," said Erik. "I'm going to the pet store."

And he tried. He went to every pet store in Papeete trying to buy dog clippers, but there were none to be found. I don't suppose many sheepdogs roam the tropics (and if they do, they don't last long in that heat). Worse luck for Erik.

He is getting shaggy again. The pyramids are slowly erupting through the Caesar cut. But in a few weeks, we will be in New Zealand. And if there is one thing Kiwis know, it is how to separate a fleece from its owner.

Industrial clippers, here we come.

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The Weather Window

Here we are, anchored in Tonga. We are surrounded by coral reefs and tropical vegetation. Sharks and rays swim lazily by. We can snorkel into caves filled with fish below and bats above. And there are boats aplenty. And what are all of these people doing in this natural paradise? Let's listen in to the chatter around the harbor.

"Did you get a grib file today?"
"Hmm, what do you think about that low that's forming? Is it going to hit us squarely, or push off to the west?"
"I don't like the look of those isobars."
"Did you see the wave height at 25 S 176 W?"

Right. Everyone is talking about the weather. While they scrape the algae off their hulls, when they run into friends on the reef, over a cold one at five o'clock.

Farmers have a well-deserved reputation for talking about the weather. No report from home is complete unless we get an update on my father-in-law's soya beans. But I would suggest that cruisers are worse, if only because they have more components to compare.

Farmers: fixed land area, usually measured in acres. Farm: not moving. Primarily concerned with crops getting too much/little sun/rain. Experts at riding the razor's edge of how wet a field can be before you can no longer drive heavy equipment on it.

Cruisers: moving area, often measured in thousands of square miles. Boat always moving, even at anchor. Need to ensure boat will not hit anything else, ever. Need to watch wind speed, wind direction, barometric pressure, highs, lows, troughs, convergence zones, convection, wave height, wave direction... Concerned with (in priority sequence): 1. Arriving; 2. Arriving safely; 3. Arriving safely with the minimum of damage to the boat.

There is always weather-talk going on in the cruising world. Paying attention to sailing conditions can mean the difference between having a lovely outing and losing your boat. So, fair enough. But right now, it is an obsession, and everyone is out to earn their amateur meterorologist badge. A massive information collection effort is underway. We listen to the experts from New Zealand on the SSB. We get the text files and gribs and weatherfaxes from authorities around the Pacific. And heaven help you if you go to town, because the moment you return, the whole anchorage wants to know the latest from Passageweather.

Why? Cyclone season has begun in the Southern Hemisphere - technically if not literally - and most of us in Tonga are headed to New Zealand for the duration. The north island is about 1200 NM from Vava'u, so we have about a 10-day passage ahead of us. And everyone is waiting for the perfect time - the weather window - to leave. Even the bureaucrats watch the weather; a friend of ours once tried to check out of an island group and was solemnly told by the customs official that, "Sir, the weather window is closed."

It is a game of Should I Stay or Should I Go? A big low is coming through within the next couple of days, so there was a mass exodus on the weekend as people tried to get ahead of it. We decided we would rather wait it out here, but that doesn't mean we can sit back and sip pina coladas. Instead, we were left with the question of where to anchor. Is our anchorage appropriate for the coming winds? Do we have good holding? What is our likely wind direction going to be? How much fetch is going to build? When your home moves, there is a lot to consider if you want it to stay where you put it.

We watch the weather. We subscribe to grib files, and get weatherfaxes when we can. We listen to expert reports on the SSB, and, when we go, we will join a net that gives us position-specific weather information. In short, we try to make good decisions based on the information available. And I've been as guilty as anyone for asking for the latest news. But I try not to make myself crazy over it, because there is no weather service on Earth that can tell me with perfect certainty what kind of weather I'll enjoy during the entire 10 day trip to New Zealand. We'll choose the best window we can, and deal with changes as they arise.

And, when we visit home again, we will nod in sympathetic understanding when Farmer Grandpa is frustrated because the summer has been too hot and his crops are withering in the fields. We know very well what a pain the weather can be.

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Hallowe'en Riddles

Q:  What do you use for a jack o’ lantern in the tropics, where pumpkins are not to be found?

What am I?

A:  A watermelon, of course!

Pah, pumpkins.  My seeds are way scarier.

Q:  What did the girls wear for Hallowe’en, after all?

A:  Dad’s clothes?

No, not this time.

A:  Roman standard-bearer?

Nope.  That was Fatu Hiva.

A:  Princess pirate chef?

Come on, everyone is doing that.

A:  Well, what then?

Spider!

Ninja!

Happy Hallowe'en!

Ghosts and Goblins

The end of October is rolling around. And although we aren't enjoying turning leaves and cool nights out here in the Kingdom of Tonga, still a young woman's mind slowly turns to thoughts of Hallowe'en.

Hallowe'en has always been my favourite holiday. Christmas and my birthday are good, of course, but they sit there crammed together at the end of the year in an avalanche of revelry, and by January 3rd I never want to look at another canapé or a glass of port again. Easter also has potential, because excess chocolate is all to the good, but there is a certain reserve about Easter that comes from wearing fancy clothes that takes it out of medal contention.

Not so Hallowe'en. Hallowe'en revolves around superstition, mischief and candy – a trifecta of excellent possibilities. From the school parade during the day to treat-or-treating at night, is a holiday of good-natured devilry, when all of the normal rules of the year are suspended. Helicopter parenting and stranger-danger take a backseat to: "Take this bag to every house you see and demand candy from the monster who opens the door. Away with you, young person!" I like it.

My mom was a champion costume-maker. And everything she made was snowsuit-compatible. Astronaut, panda bear, clown – you name it, you could fit a pair of snowpants under there if need be. Her masterpiece, a Pink Panther costume that is still a going concern, was essentially winter-wear all on its own. Come hell or ten-inch snowfall, nothing was going to stop us from trick-or-treating.

Circa fourth grade, your correspondent was a punk rocker, and that was my best costume ever. I had long hair at the time, which my mother drew into a ponytail above one ear and teased into a massive lightning-shock ball. I spray-painted my hair pink and green, donned a pair of ultra-thin 80s sunglasses and my best sleeveless t-shirt, and I was off to the races. No doubt I had to wear a winter coat over the whole ensemble that evening, but, in my memories, I was bad-ass the whole day through.

Whatever the costume, Hallowe'en night followed the same pattern: 1. a very early dinner. 2. Drive to paternal grandparents. Stand for photos. Pocket candy. 3. Drive to maternal grandparents. Stand for photos. Receive a Laura Secord marshmallow-chocolate-witch-on-a-stick. 3. Go home. Trick-or-treat until exhausted. 4. Eat candy within 3 days, or into the garbage it goes. (This being dictated by the dentist in the family, and having to do with sugar saturation of the teeth and so forth. We didn't care about the finer points – it was a license to eat a sackful of candy at top speed, stomachaches be damned.)

When Stylish was small, I hauled out my little Janome and made her a ladybug costume. It fit like a cape, and, naturally, was made out of fleece to keep her warm. It actually became a late-fall-early-spring coat, she liked it so much. When Indy arrived, we plugged her into it, too. When Stylish reached school age, she wore a play-friendly costume to school during the day, and a cold-friendly costume for the evening. (This was a recommendation from my mother, the elementary school principal. There is nothing worse than a kid ripping a costume at recess – the tears will be copious and frenzied. My friendly tip to you parents out there: have a back-up.) Over the years, the girls have been bees, cats, doctors, chefs, skeletons, fairy princesses and ghost Pegasus-unicorns. This in addition to their daily costume-wearing, which is pretty constant.

I also took the girls around to grandparents and great-grandparents, and the chocolate witch marshmallows continued. Back home, it was time for the Big Event. Our old neighbourhood really got into the spirit of Hallowe'en. People built corn mazes in their front yards, set up elaborate faux-graveyards, flying ghosts, sound effects, and general over-decoration of an excellent degree. Hundreds of kids swarmed the streets, half-crazed on chocolate, mumbling out thank-yous as they raced to the next house.

All this is on hold for us. We managed to go trick-or-treating in Maryland shortly after we moved aboard Papillon, but once we left US-waters, we left the tradition behind. I suppose we could have knocked on random doors on Cartagena last October 31st and hoped for the best, but I'm not sure it would have been my greatest idea. Instead, a local pizza place hosted a kids' party, and we went to that with some friends. This year, we are in Tonga. We are out at anchor now, but friends have just sailed in and the town is only five miles away, so we will likely head back to Neiafu for another kids' party. It isn't the heady rush of knocking on strange doors, but the girls don't seem to mind, so I will try to keep my Hallowe'en orthodoxy to myself.

But now comes the costume question, and I can't believe how blasé they are about the whole thing. Maybe this, maybe that. I suppose this is because they spend their lives dressed up. Indy has been adorned with either a plush red-velvet crown or a tiara every waking moment for the past three months. Stylish, when she got up this morning, went straight into a hula skirt and bikini top. At press time, Stylish is considering being a bandit on the big day. When asked about the specifics, apparently being a bandit means wearing a bright yellow skirt and shirt, and a black ski mask. On further inquiry, it emerged that the yellow was to blend into the desert sands, since she doesn't own anything beige. Fair enough. Indy initially wanted to be a cat-ballerina-fairy-princess (that crown is not coming off), but has now scrolled back to a mere fairy princess (see what I mean?). This will remain fluid up to and
including the moment of departure for the party.

Someday, I'll sew them costumes again. At least, I'll offer. And I'll explain about the snowsuits when the time comes. I don't think the sand-bandits will really understand in this heat.

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A Fish Story

Twelve days and a quick hop over the International Date Line behind us, we made it to Tonga.  Thank.  Goodness.  Of course, the boat was so strangely still in the anchorage last night that neither girl could sleep, and we were packed like lemmings in the V-berth.  It was, shall we say, somewhat warmish and squishy.

Nevertheless, we must have slept at some point, because around dawn there was an earthquake (Richter 5.5) about 40 km away, and none of us felt a thing.  Another boat reported that, about fifteen seconds before the quake, all of the fish started to jump out of the water.  At least they were paying attention.

I've always liked fish, both to look and and to eat.  And, really, one of the best parts of passage is fishing.  Not for me, personally - Erik is the fisherman in the family.  But I am an enthusiastic consumer of fishy goodness, and the excitement of a catch provides some much-needed entertainment.  The girls especially like to watch Erik clean the fish.

I was spoiled on fish at an early age.  My grandfather was a diehard fisherman, and supplied the family at large with trout on a steady basis.  On the domestic front, Grandpa held sole responsibility for all things fish-related.  In this, he was the Little Red Hen: he caught, cleaned and smoked his fish himself.  (I figure my grandmother had more than enough to do already without adding in fish and I think he liked the job.)  This led to small case of culture clash when Erik caught his first tuna.  He caught it, killed it, and turned in my direction.  I raised my hands and backed away.  It had never occurred to me that I might have to do anything but eat the fish. 

Because I am pathetic at deboning a fish.  This brings me back to my Grandpa.  In all the years I ate his trout, I never found a bone.  Never.  Not ever.  The man was an artist.  But what this meant was that I grew up fully lacking any training in the teasing-fish-from-a-skeleton department.  The closest I came was doing dissections in university, but that was another matter.  Many years ago, Erik and I visited his grandmother in northern Germany.  She took us out for lunch, and, being northern Germany, we went to a fish restaurant.  I ordered a Maischolle – pan-fried sole – which, unknown to me, is one of the boniest fish in creation.  I suspect someone actually inserted a couple of extra skeletons in there during preparation.  It was a boneyard.  A bone puzzle.  And I decimated that fish.  The parts I was able to encourage away from the bones were delicious.  But, let’s face it – my plate was a warzone.  It was mortifying.

But here we are, eating fresh fish all the time, and I can't cling to my old excuses forever.  So, I've learned.  The girls and I, all amateurs in the art, can now figure out where bones will be, and which way they will point, and we slowly drag the flesh along the fish and eat it without getting a mouthful of prickles.

Day 10 of our crossing, Erik got a hit on his line in the late afternoon.  The familiar Zzzzzzz! rang out, and all of us in the cockpit started shouting, "Fish! Fish!"  The team swung into action.  Erik pulled on his lifejacket.  I grabbed his belt and chest harness (which, no joke, you need, even for the little guys.)  As he clipped in and started to reel in our supper, I prepared the spray bottle of vodka (spray it in the gills and stun the fish - insert your own joke here), the gaff, and the killin' knife.  And we all waited, with varying degrees of impatience, for Erik to reel in the fish.

Normally, we are travelling a ridiculous 9 knots when we catch something, and have to slow down, or Erik will never get it aboard.  This time, we were travelling a leisurely 4.5 knots, so we thought he'd have no trouble.

"This feels heavy," said Erik.

This caused some excitement.  The girls had visions of 200 lb swordfish flashing alongside the boat.  I heartily wished for none of the same.  Slowly, slowly Erik brought it in.  And there it was, a beautiful bonito.  The lure in the photo below is about 8 inches long, so we guessed the fish was about 20-25 pounds.  Hooray!  We are started chattering happily about making sashimi in coconut milk for dinner.  Erik brought it alongside, and started to lift it out of the water.

I am so delicious!  And not at all unhappy to be your dinner!

Then, plip!  A moment after this photo was taken, the boat shifted, the fish wiggled, and it fell off the hook.

Gone.

There were a few moments of silence as we all mourned the loss of dinner.  Recriminations were few, although Erik is kicking himself for not just using the gaff.  Ah, well.  Next time.

Alas, we had no further luck on the way to Tonga.  But we'll certainly have the hook out on the way to New Zealand.  And the gaff will be ready.

Man Down

Greetings, friends, from 18 23.62 S, 162 36.77 W. We are just starting Day 7 of our Tahiti-to-Tonga run. The winds are dying and poor Papillon is suffering the whack-and-smack of sails that every sailor dreads. But, this morning, I look out upon the ridiculous swell and our unraveling sunbrella with a song in my heart. For I, good people, am once again amongst the living.

We all know that I have trouble with seasickness. (Goodness knows, I haven't kept it a secret.) But normally it is four days of unpleasantness, then I'm back on my feet again. This is why our family likes long passages - as soon as we pass the magic four-day mark, I can actually enjoy myself, help sail, teach school, cook dinner, and be the generally pleasant human being we all know and love.

This passage, I was sick as a dog for six full days.

This is a problem. All of my seasickness coping mechanisms are based on a four-day illness. I cook ahead for four days. I get some little treats and activities ready for the girls for four days. Erik knows he only has to single hand for four days. The entire crew knows that Mom is going to be glued to a bench in the cockpit, head down, eyes closed for four days. Everyone knows the score.

Although they don't really understand it; my prolonged sickness is a bit of a puzzler for the rest of the crew. Indy has never had a seasick moment in her life. Erik confines his illness to inhaling diesel fumes in 16-foot seas. Stylish is the closest to understanding, but she outgrew her (very mild) seasickness about a year ago. To them, seasickness is brief nausea that goes away again. It isn't hot knives carving your eyeballs out from the inside. (Migraine sufferers of the world, my heart goes out to you.)

When Day 5 rolled around and I was still a mess, puzzlement soon turned to irritation. Crisis #1: the fridge was empty. The spaghetti, the stir-fry, the carrot sticks - gone. And while the girls take after my side of the family and could happily subsist on Sao crackers and jam from now until the end of time, Erik cannot. I could blame this on his mother being far too nice to him growing up, or the endless good meals served to him during his working life to allow him to work twenty hours a day. I could, but the truth is, the man just wants a decent meal, and how can I argue with that? I just wish the Good Fairy would show up to cook while I feel rotten.

Reluctantly, ungraciously, I peeled myself off the bench and went down to the galley. As I descended the five steps of the companionway, I transformed from Smeagol to Gollum. During my bad days, I am almost reasonable to talk to while I am in the cockpit lying down. Sitting up makes me cranky. Standing up will certainly generate (unreasonable) complaints against anyone in the vicinity. But sending me downstairs? Look out. I'll kill you as soon as look at you.

During these times, I try very hard to remind myself that I am not processing information normally. That when Erik makes suggestions, such as telling me that he always feels better after he throws up, he is really trying to help, and there are neither grounds nor need for me to tear him a new one. I try to remember, but sometimes it is hard when your brain is telling you that everyone else is an unreasonable jerk, and why can't they just leave me alone to die, gollum?

Day 6 dawned, and things were, if anything, worse. My head felt like someone was energetically scooping out my brains with a rusty spoon. The girls planned a halfway-there party, which meant I had to make a cake. Weep. I managed to make the wrong cake (even though I've made the requested chocolate cake dozens of times). The roast chicken was nearly a similar disaster. Erik, my hero, made potatoes, which, aside from being delicious, were the only things I managed to eat all day.

The girls were a dream. I dug out a package of balloons for them, and they quickly invented a game that kept them shrieking with laughter all afternoon.

When I finally crawled off to bed, I repeated a quiet chant in my head. I feel better. I feel fine. I am going to have a great day. Around and around it went, all through my midnight watch. And whether it helped or not, I woke up this morning feeling relatively human again. Oh, I still won't set foot down below unless I absolutely have to. But I've been out of bed for more than an hour now, have made breakfast, played puppies and help construct two Sailormoon bracelets, and I haven't snapped at anybody yet.

Mom is back in the game.

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Papillon Joins SAILfeed

That cut on my hand?  That's cruising, baby!

Hello, everyone.  I’d like to welcome some new readers to Sailing Papillon.  The good people at SAIL magazine invited me to join their blogging community, SAILfeed, and so I am delighted to say that Sailing Papillon will now also appear at www.sailfeed.com.  The blog and archives will remain on my home site (www.sailingawayonpapillon.blogspot.com), so you can find the blog in either spot.  There are sailing blogs and shiny boats of all sorts at SAILfeed, so be sure to take a peek.  If my blog isn’t there yet, it will be soon.  (I’d check myself, but we’re currently somewhere between Tahiti and Tonga, so I guarantee your internet connection is better than mine.)

To those of you new to Sailing Papillon, welcome!  My name is Amy, aka Papillon Crew, aka Mom.  For the past two years, I’ve lived with my husband and two girls aboard a 57 foot Bill Tripp Sr custom yawl from the ‘60s.  During that time, we have sailed from the Chesapeake to French Polynesia, and we plan to reach New Zealand before cyclone season gets going this year.  I’ve written articles for SAIL and other sailing magazines, and I write this blog about our family experiences aboard.  Cruising is about more than just sailing, you know.  I may not be able to explain how to fix a marine toilet, but I can sure tell you how much fun those thirteen hours are for the whole family!  I post on a weekly basis (sometimes more often, but rarely less), whether by internet, or, failing that, using the good old SSB.  Please feel free to comment, or to drop me a note.  I look forward to sharing our adventures with you!