I'm Tired of Finding Plastic on the Beach

 

Imagine a desert island. Ocean breezes blowing, palm trees swaying, perhaps some decorative coconuts strewn about the place. Just you, your beach chair, the waves lapping your toes, and the gentle clink of plastic bottles washing up on shore.

Not quite what you pictured? After four years aboard, I am sorry to say that this is reality. Every windward beach has plastic. Unless someone works every day to clean it, flip flops and plastic bottles are the order of the day. Everywhere. And I am sick of it.

Keep It Accessible

What is wrong with this picture? Take a good look. We see a hose run above, a seacock below... wait a minute. What about that hose in the middle?  The part someone built into a wall and then painted over? Gee, I hope that never fails, because someone is going to have a hard time getting at it.

Exactly.

That hose did fail,and that person is me.  And if there is one thing I resent, it is making an easy job hard.  I have enough to do without battling this sort of nonsense.  So today, dear readers, we are going to take a refresher course on Things I Promise Never To Do On My Own Boat Or Amy Will Track Me Down And Beat Me Senseless With My Vicegrips And I'll Deserve It, Too.

Thief

Someone robbed my boat last night.

I woke up at about 1:30am because I heard noises.  Someone was approaching the V-berth.  I thought one of the girls must be coming to see me - nighttime visits are not unheard of around here.  I registered that whoever it was had a flashlight, which was odd, but not impossible.
"Honey?  Are you okay out there?" I called.
Scuffle, scuffle.
As the intruder turned and started pounding up the companionway, I came fully awake and realized what was happening.  And I started screaming my head off.
"Help!  Help!  There is someone on my boat!  Please help me!"  I jumped out of my hatch and kept screaming as the man raced away down the dock.  The otherwise silent, still dock.

Nobody came.

Christmas Madness: Hunting Down Impossible Presents

It's that time of year again when even the most patient parents consider slipping out of the house and hiding under a tarp in the backyard until December 25th has come and gone.  And even though it is hot and humid here and about as un-Christmas-y as you can get, our family is gripped by Christmas fever.  My delightful children have been replaced by screaming hyperactive terrors belched forth straight from the Parental Punishment levels of Hell.  How my mother ever made it through those final days before Christmas with four kids whirling around her ankles is a mystery to me.  At least my dad could escape to the office when we were too much to take.

But, despite the fact that the girls are currently driving me crazy, I'd still like to get them something nice for Christmas.  As you can imagine, gift-giving on a boat takes some extra planning.  You can't exactly nip off the the store the night of the 23rd and expect to mop up your last-minute gifts.  For one thing, there usually is no store.  But, for once, we are somewhere completely first world in terms of available commercial goods.  Being a French territory, New Caledonia is well-served out of France.  But since I hadn't planned on being here and I wanted things like English-language books, I did the bulk of my shopping months ago.

The girls made their Christmas lists about six weeks ago.  As the ultra-prepared boat children they are, they wanted to give Santa and me time to get everything sorted out between us.  Stylish handed me her list; I cast a critical eye over her choices.  She won't get it all, but good ideas.  No surprises there.

Special Delivery

Back in the day, I used to order the odd thing online.  I would come home after a hard day of doing whatever it is I used to do, only to find a small white notice from Canada Post flapping on the doorknob.  I would heave a dramatic sigh, walk 500 yards to the post office, wait in line for 39 seconds, retrieve my stuff, and leave, shaking my head at what a martyr I was for picking up my own post.

Not really.  Getting a package is fun, and it was rare I was so busy as to mind the "hassle".  But once we arrived on Papillon and sailed out of US waters, I learned what a mystery the postal system can be.  Retrieving lost toilets in Panama, for example.  We've dealt with secondary shippers and carriers who don't understand that "Yacht in Transit" means "no customs fees".  Some places are easy, some not so much, but every country we visit is a little bit different.

But, let's face it: no one does "the plans have all been changed now" like the French.  We have gotten three packages from overseas since we arrived in Noumea, and they all followed a different path.  Let's review.

Leaving It All Behind

As a parent, there is precious little upside to being right.  Saying, "I told you so," is cold comfort as young Jimmy is writhing on the ground at your feet, suffering from a broken arm after climbing too high in the tree out back.  Most of the time, you wish your dire predictions were wrong.  That darting out in the street without looking first would always turn out okay.  That eating food found on the dirty ground wouldn't give you worms.  And that taking your most special toys out for the day didn't carry a certain amount of risk of losing them.

One of the difficulties of cruising is that, if you leave something behind, you'd better figure it out before you sail away.  Because Erik and I, hard-hearted as we are, are not turning back unless we are related to the item in question.

War On Corrosion

 

My can opener didn't always have vice grips attached.  Once upon a time, it had a plastic handle.  And then one day last December, the handle simply fell off.  The plastic hadn't broken - the metal underneath had rusted away.  And so, in fine cruiser fashion, I improvised.

Not to be cranky, but metal on a boat is a pain in the neck.  If it is metal, it will corrode.  Unless I build everything out of Platinum, the salt water is going to get to it eventually.

Our hull is made of Aluminum.  That's great if you plan to ram into a tree trunk and not sink, but it has a downside: our hull wants to be a battery.  In the galvanic series for stagnant saltwater, Aluminum sits at position number 34 of 39.  That means that, in salt water at least, Aluminum is a giver.  Aluminum acts as a sacrificial anode for the 33 metals sitting above it on the list.  And guess what?  I don't want my hull to be so generous.  Keep your electrons, I say!  Don't accept that current!  Only Uranium, Cadmium, Beryllium, Zinc and Magnesium sit down below Aluminum.  And as I somehow don't fancy bolting a bunch of Uranium to my hull, I guess we'll just have to keep replacing our Zincs as they disappear into the salty blue.

The Sleepover

"So, how do you like being on land?  It's pretty great, right?  And you completely love it, don't you?"

I close my bleary eyes and reach for my tea.  There is no tea.

I'll be right back.

Okay, now I have tea.  It is hot, caffeinated, and will hopefully get me through answering my chipper interrogator without hurting anyone.  Because the Papillon Crew does not sleep anymore.  None of us.

How do you land people ever sleep?  The bed doesn't move.  I know that's a funny statement from someone who gets motion sickness, but the gentle motion of the waves at anchor feels great.  And we all miss it.  When we reached Tonga after a twelve-day passage, the harbour was so calm that none of us slept.  All four of us ended up in the V-berth, wiggling for space and complaining about stray elbows.

This is worse.

Indy has always been a good sleeper.  Scratch that: she was a terrible sleeper when she was a baby.  But she normally falls asleep easily and stays that way until dawn.  Stylish has always been a night owl, and you can't get her out of bed in the morning without serious and concentrated effort.  But now, neither of them fall asleep.  This is a problem because they share a room.  Last night, there were whispers and giggles and fights and apologies and more whispers coming from their room at eight thirty.  Nine o'clock.  Nine thirty.  Ten o'clock.  At ten thirty I separated them, and put Indy to sleep in my room.  (Erik is working, which equals travelling, so there was space free.)  And that did the trick: by eleven they were both asleep.

But then, I had this.

Inevitably, both girls were cranky this morning.  Good luck to their teachers is all I can say.  I'm always cranky, so the difference is minimal.

I don't pack the kids full of sugar.  They get lots of exercise.  Goodness knows they deserve to be tired by bedtime, but they aren't.  I'm at a loss.  Help me, Obi Wan.

Score:  Papillon 1, Land 0.

The Sniff Test

After a delightful month of sailing, traveling, eating, and fixing the boat, my in-laws have bid us goodbye.  And while I know they will miss us, there is one thing I know they won’t miss.   

And that is stinky feet.

After the forestay failed, we settled Papillon in Whangarei , rented a car and hit the open road.  First stop: Rotorua and the hot springs at Waiotapu.

Steamy and sulphurous.

We walked around all day.  It rained a little, so the kids (inevitably) jumped in some puddles.  We got back to the car, and the girls peeled off their wet shoes.

A cloud of toxic stench filled the car.  “Put your shoes back on!  Put your shoes back on!”  We rolled down the windows, gasping and coughing.  When we reached the hotel that evening, we left the shoes outside the door in the open air, in the vain hope that the situation would improve.

I’d only packed the girls one pair of socks each, so something had to be done.  Erik eyed the plastic bag that held the offending articles.  “I’m going downstairs,” he announced, and he was gone.

So it was up to me.  A mom’s life is a glamourous one, after all.  I boiled some water in the kettle, decanted the socks into the bathroom sink, added shampoo, and stirred the mixture until the water turned black.  Drain and repeat.  Here is a photo of sink #3.

There's nothing I like more than stirring a sink full of stinkwater.

Yep.  It was still that brown.  And when I was done - four washes and two rinses later - I had to clean the plastic bag, because it had taken on the offensive odor.

The next day dawned, rainy and cool.  And what was the first thing that Indy did when we went outside?  Jump in a puddle, of course.

“Indy!” I cried.  “Why did you do that?  You are going to have wet stinky feet again.”

She blinked at me.  “But I wanted to splash in the puddle.”

Well, what can you say to that?

Over the next few days, we saw the sights, from waterfalls to volcanoes to hot spring beaches.

Gollum's Pool (Gollum not included)

 

The most New Zealand-y landscape ever.

Dig, dammit!  Dig for your lives!

Ahhh, sitting in burning-hot water makes all that digging worthwhile.

And the shoes never got better.  Hopefully the marina washing machine can sort them out, because they aren't welcome aboard in their current state.

Plans Subject to Change Without Notice

Was it really only a week ago that we were in Mimiwhangata?  Indy lost a shoe, Erik lost a beloved hat (side note: Tilley hats sink like a stone.  Like a brick laced with lead weights, seriously.)  The girls became expert boogie boarders at the beach, and even Erik and I had some success. 

But the day came to move along, and move along we did.  We waited for a gale to pass, and set out the next day for Great Barrier Island.  Inevitably, no wind, no waves.  Just the Perkins 135 chugging along, and Erik’s sour mood at having to motor.

A few hours in, the wind came up.  Up went the main.  We tried to put out the jib... but it wouldn’t go.  Erik checked the bottom.  Nothing.  We hauled him up the mast to check the top.  Nothing.  And then the whole thing started to sag.

Our forestay had parted.

For those of you unfamiliar with sailboats, this is a really, really bad thing.  It means the big giant cable holding our mainmast forward was gone.

Goodbye, dreams of Great Barrier Island.  Hello, sharp right turn, destination Whangarei.

Luckily, we have a running forestay that we moved forward, and, as I said, we had no wind, no waves, and it was daylight.  An almost unimaginably lucky set of conditions.  We made it to the marina without a fuss, and there sits Papillon.  The rigger is busy ordering parts, and we are busy trying not to think about the cost.

And so, old plans scotched, we decided to take a quick inland trip.  Erik parents have to fly home on Saturday, so here we are in Rotorua, visiting hot springs and bubbling mud pools.  The girls, while less than enthusiastic about the long car ride, were ecstatic about the motel.  We have a little two-bedroom unit with a small hot tub in back, no doubt fed by a hot spring somewhere.  Indy has designated the tub “her pool”, and spends every motel-related moment  in the water.  Even sitting in a hot spring-fed pool in the woods today couldn’t compare; as soon as we were back in the water taxi, she was talking about her pool.  Chacun son gout.

Tomorrow will be colourful hot springs, and visiting the park.  Unless it isn’t.  As we’ve found, flexibility is the key to a happy life, on the water or off.

Papillon Photographs the Loch Ness Monster

Over the past 27 months living aboard Papillon, I’ve taken a lot of photos.  Many thousands.  The counter on my Fujifilm flipped back around to 0000 last summer.  And while I only own a little point-and-shoot, I’d like to think I’ve learned a little, and have taken a few decent photos in my day.

Sigh.

We are on our way down the east coast of the North Island, showing Erik’s parents the sights.  We’ve just been day sailing, but it has been a fun change for us to sail for a few hours at a time like normal people, instead of hauling up anchor and not putting it down again for at least ten days.

As we came around the tip of Cape Brett, we passed the Hole in the Rock, and the many, many tour boats that surround it.  And it was neat.

Yep, there's a hole in there, all right.

But when we passed the rock, we saw something jumping out of the water.  It was too big and too splashy to be a dolphin.  And it was surrounded by boats.

Ohmygoshitsawhale!

Now, lookit.  I’ve lived on this scrap of floating aluminum for years now, and we’ve put a lot of whaleless miles under the keel.  So you will forgive us if we on Papillon kind of lost our cool for a while there.  The other boats slowly left, and we sailed silently by.  The boat was rocking, but I’m the photography master now, right?  Well, not so much.  Because, while the actual experience of seeing a humpback whale calf smack its fins against the water and jump into the sky was really cool, my photos were ridiculous.  Most of my shots are of the jib or the rail.  The few whale pictures I managed are not only off-centre, but are so blurry as to be unrecognizable.  I could have been taking shots of an innertube in a backyard pool.  How bad was it?  Here are my two absolute best shots.

Humpback whale calf at play.  No, really.

You see that splash?  The breach that preceeded it was so cool, I'm telling you.

Yeah.

So, on we went to Whangamumu.  We dropped the anchor, the girls pulled on their wetsuits, and someone looked over the side.

Ohmygoshitsapenguin!

Holy cats, it's a penguin!

How dare you doubt the veracity of my crappy pictures?  It's a penguin, I say!

Yes, I know those shots are as bad as the whale ones.  But for serious and no lie, we had a penguin swimming around our boat.  Friends, the water is COLD here, and that’s a fact.  The girls invited me in with them, but I politely declined.  Where does cold water get fun?  It doesn’t. I prefer my blood to continue circulating to my extremities, thank you.

We’re in Mimiwhangata now.  No whales or penguins today, but who knows what will come next when we continue to Great Barrier Island?  And this time, I’ll try to keep it all in focus.

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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