Leg 2, continued… — by Erin


We’ve been sailing since we left Ensenada and we’re making great progress south. We’re about 100 miles from Turtle Bay, which we’ll skip so we can take advantage of the wind while we have it. It’s blowing 18 knots from the NW — we have both headsails out (the genoa and the forward ballooner), and we’re making about 8 knots through the water. Not bad. At this rate we’ll be in La Paz by Friday, we think. Although the wind is supposed to die down a bit as we get further south, so we could have to supplement our speed by firing up the engine. I’ll enjoy this while it lasts, though.

It’s quite beautiful out here, 50 miles from shore. Since we left Ensenada we’ve seen just one other boat. It’s wonderful having the ocean to ourselves, and makes night watches much more enjoyable. Rather than staring at the radar screen trying to figure out who’s heading where, how fast and how close, I can just stare up at the stars and listen to the waves rush under the hull as we surf down them.

I saw my first flying fish today. What a kick — there’s always something new out here. His wingspan was longer than his body and he flew at least a few hundred feet before diving down into the water again. I’ve heard stories of flying fish landing on boats, in boats, and on people in boats. I’m happy to just enjoy these fish from a distance.

Before we left Seattle, I so looked forward to these long passages… Peaceful nights under sail, long days of staring out at the water, alone time with just me and my thoughts. I figured I’d be writing poetry and playing out my stint as itinerant philosopher, mulling over deep issues and ruminating on our greater purpose.

Although, for the last few days, the only thing running through my head has been that one-hit-wonder by Tiffany that came out in the late 80s. We sailed 50 miles offshore, and when I’m alone with my thoughts all they say is:

I think we’re alone now
There doesn’t seem to be anyone arou-ound.
I think we’re alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sou-ound.

Ahh, the 80s. They just don’t sing ’em like they used to.


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