Episode II: RED SKY IN THE MORNING,

We sailed NNE through the trade winds to pick up the southerly flow, which would carry us under the Golden Gate Bridge a few weeks hence. The sun rose each morning bright and clear; the days were warm and the sun set with a rosy glow each evening. The stars at night were numerous and large. Orion began his nightly journey by rising from his back in the East each night, hunting and drinking across the starry firmament and falling on his face in the west at dawn. The winds were slightly abaft the beam and sufficient to move us along on a beam reach at about 6 to 7 knots.
   The daily routines were set and, except for the marine head which had again stopped working, there were few adjustments to be made. We took a four-hour watch at the helm, with the next four hours as lookout and fetcher of coffee for the helmsman. Our off time was spent mending clothes with Dacron sail thread (Saltwater dissolved the cotton thread), reading and sleeping. Our quarterberths, which were stacked like coffins, two to a side, were either rolled into, or climbed into, depending on which tack we were on. There were times when we wanted to be alone, so anyone sitting on the bow hatch was not disturbed.
   Once our digestive systems had adjusted to the pitch, yaw and roll of shipboard life, we would ask the helmsman to, "come off the helm", so we could hang off the bow pulpit to do the things we would have preferred to do in the marine head. At such times, we were admonished to have, "one hand for the boat, and one hand for yourself". We were thankful for the fair winds and gentle seas.
   The helmsman would record the compass bearing: speed and distance traveled as indicated on the taff rail log at the end of each watch. Leon would take a solar position at noon, and a a north star fix at midnight, with the time cube intoning, "at the tone Grenich ( never Greenwich) mean time will be 1200 hours and no seconds, tick, tick, tick, tone", or "2400 hours and no seconds, tick, tick, tick, tone.
   On the 9th day, I came on deck to much commotion. There were flying fish skimming the waves, and Ahi Tuna and Mahi Mahi leaping out of the water to catch them. Leon and Stanley had quickly fixed fishing line with surgical tubing shock absorbers to the aft cleats, and the first Mahi Mahi sacrificed itself for our nourishment. Within minutes we had hauled in two Mahi and a small tuna. We quickly cleaned each fish and filleted the tuna and one of the Mahi. These were cut into strips and laid out on a towel with some rock salt to dry on the cabin top. The final Mahi was divided, half to the icebox, with its remaining ice, and the rest to an enjoyable lunch.
   The following day dawned and became hot and windless. The mainsail would flip from side to side with the roll of the boat. Watch was an exercise in futility, but we still needed to mind the helm, lest the wind should pick up, and watch for ships that could traverse the horizon in less than half an hour. Should we get too close, the screws (propellers to you lubbers) could suck us into their wake, so we were told.
   As the day wore on into night, Leon ran the engine for four hours to charge the batteries so we could keep our masthead light lit. While the engine was running, Andrea wrapped the remaining Mahi in some aluminum foil with potatoes, carrots, and onions. She cooked the sealed package on the exhaust manifold of the diesal engine.
   The ocean was absolutely flat, the stars and constellations would be reflected on the surface. The phenomenon of loaming could also be observed; the reflection of light over the horizon. You must look closely between the swells to catch the light and determine if it was ship or star.
   The other remarkable observance was phosphorescent plankton. Any disturbance in the water would cause the plankton to glow blue-green for several seconds. Once, while standing watch, I observed a glowing object as big as the boat ghosting slowly beneath our keel. I was struck, not for the last time, with fascination and terror.
   The sun ascended with a rosy eminence on the 12th day. We were reaching the halfway point of our journey. The wave pattern of the ocean changed slightly, becoming confused with a crosshatch pattern. As the day went on, the sails once again filled and their was a slight chill in the air. We steered toward a squall line so that we could get a much-needed shower, then raised the sail and headed on.
   You could watch the rain approaching, and then the whole world was a torrent of fat, vertical raindrops. Nancy brought up some rain gear for me, but I was drenched before I could get it on. Leon and Stanley took the mainsail down to the second reef and changed the 160 Genoa sail to the smaller, working jib. Before my watch had ended, the wind was howling through the rigging and throwing great sheets of water at our home, which dripped off of the sail in blue-green streaks. The wind continued to increase and the howling in the rigging became deafening. I had to position myself downwind of the tiller to handle the increased stress on the rudder. We rigged some bungee cord and rope to help absorb some of the shock at the helm. My arms and shoulders were now tired beyond endurance and it was clear that Nancy and Andrea could not take their watches. My watch had just gotten four hours longer.