SV T.L.C.

Well then. I guess I ought to apologize for the slight delay in catching up. It's been a tough few weeks for me, but I'm coming around now, and there's a lot to say, so I'll dive right in.

I want to begin by announcing that all told, my recent journey into Ecuador by sail was a resounding success. It was a doozy of a ride, I have to tell you, and easily ranks as one of the most grueling experiences of my life to date, as the following entry will hopefully illustrate, but I made it ashore in one piece, having gained a wealth of experience and knowledge, and a new friend in Captain Tom - who could reasonably ask for more than that? Let me lead you in.

After spending a night at anchor, Captain Tom and I rose with the sun, and after a hearty seaman's breakfast of black coffee and cornflakes, cut loose and motored over to the little service dock to load up on diesel, ice for the fridge, and potable water. We worked quickly, aided by the few scraggly servicemen who ran the place, none of whom seemed the least bit phased by the fact that someone had apparently put some bad Panamanian porno-film on the office television, the soundtrack of which was blasting through the air all around us. A strange way to start the day, I thought, although I suppose there's probably not much to do on the docks that early in the morning. Anyway, that little bit of business done, we gathered up the lines and were off, departing Balboa Yacht Club in Panama City at roughly 8:30 AM, Sunday, May 23, 2010.

I was excited to be underway, and ready for anything. I knew this was going to be a very different trip from the two I'd experienced back in Mexico, for a few reasons. First of all is was to be longer, five, probably six days to make the roughly 660 mile journey down to Ecuador. True, my first sail back in December had been six days, but we were stopping each night at anchor, cooking up lovely meals, swimming, and sleeping well. Moreover, it was on the realtively placid Sea Of Cortez, not out in open ocean. My second journey, across to Puerto Vallarta, did include a stint of straight sailing across the Pacific, but it was only two-days, plus we had three people on board, which made the night watches all the more manageable. (Standing watch is by far the toughest aspect of straight sailing - since you can't stop in open ocean, someone's got to be up keeping an eye on things at all times, even through the wee hours.)

This journey was projected to be six days straight sailing with a crew of two. That's 144 hours total - 72 daylight, and 72 nighttime - and if each crew member is up roughly half the night keeping watch, in theory, you're looking at about 36 hours of sleep over the course of the whole trip - minus daytime naps, of course. That's 3/4 waking, 1/4 sleeping. Sounds tough, but doable, right? Besides, if weather keeps up - we had some good wind that first morning - and we could keep those few extra knots above our projected cruising speed it looked entirely possible that we could arrive a day early. I have always been a fan of optimism, and was full of it that first morning, I can tell you. Tom was all smiles too, and our talk was of distant shores, and seabound adventure. For a little while, anyway.

I have to report, however, that optimism doesn't always yield, and it can hurt when things turn for the worse, as they did that evening, and continued to do on into the coming days. I will not mince words. It got bad. Really bad. I have never been one to wish for death, but I came as close as I ever have on that journey, I must confess. I don't doubt for one moment that hell, if it exists, is not all too unlike a sailboat in bad weather. I will try to explain.

Imagine, if you will, some of the more recognizable aspects of what we might call well-being: peace, restfulness, physical comfort, satiation of immediate desires, calmness of mind, freedom of movement, etc. Now imagine the absence or opposite of all these aspects mashed together at once, and held fast for days at a time, and you have something close to what sailing, at its worst, can be: constant jostling and agitation, restlessness, physical stress and discomfort, nausea, mental opacity and confusion, restriction of movement, etc.

I have thought long and hard about how to best communicate to you just how things went those first few days. How to convey some shadow of the agony, the weariness, the gut-wrenching nausea, the nightmares, and all the rest.

At first I was going to try to pull a Hemingway, and just launch head-on into a no-nonsense, full-detail account of my journey in all its naked brutality. Lord knows I started in my mind more than once. (I say in my mind, note, because the propsect of writing anything down throughout this voyage quickly became an impossibility for me, requiring as it did, my sitting upright at table in the cabin for more than a moment's time. I therefore have no written record of the journey save what I have been able to get down since coming ashore.) Once on land, and having regained myself a little, I realized however, that such an entry wouldn't be much for reading. Thus, I have decided to take a different tack, which will hopefully be a bit more positive, while still allowing me to offer some of the hairier details of my journey. And so I present to you the following list of Tips For Those About To Sail.

(I ought to point out that by Sail, I mean take part on a sailing voyage anything at all like the one I just completed. Sailing, I can attest, is generally a lovely time, and this trip, I take it, represents a particularly rough experience. I guess the harder the trip, the more plentiful the tips.) The following represent a few things I wish I had known before embarking on my recent journey - a few rules of thumb and hard-won lessons - not much use to me now, but perhaps someone among you will be able to profit therefrom.

Tip No. 1 - Go Ahead, Throw Up.

If your journey is more than a day or so, it's probably only a matter of time before you pop, so you might as well give in early and get it over with. I personally fought it for a little over a day before eventually yielding my PB&J into the briny sea. It didn't take long to realize that this was the better way to go. Don't get me wrong, giving in doesn't stop the nausea - although you will feel better for a short while immediately afterward - no, you've got to heave-ho for another day or so at least before your gut starts to toughen up. Like most things, it gets easier with practice, so the sooner you start the better.

"You're body is objecting." Captain Tom shrewdly pointed out to me the first time I lost it, a knowing look on his rumpled face. I nodded dutifully wiping a bit of stray objection from my moustache, and then promptly objecting a second time, my back arched, knuckles wrung white around the rigging. "I've been sea-sick three times in my life." he said, trying to helpful. "One time was in a typhoon off the coast of China. Storm so bad the captain had to stay up and steer every single wave - didn't leave the helm for five days straight - had to sleep in a chair for minutes at a time, whenever he got the chance." I didn't listen to hear what the other two times were.

Tip No. 2 - Keep Eating.

I know it sounds crazy, but you're better off, trust me. I was skeptical too at first when given the advice. Anyone whose ever thrown up - probably everybody? - will likely admit that eating is not high on the list of things you want to do right afterward. Better candidates are cry or sleep or blow your nose, but not eat. So I held off eating for a while, better just to drink, I thought. You can survive for days just drinking, can't you? But after losing a few gut-fulls of mango nectar, I realized that it made little difference. Sea-sickness doesn't discriminate. It's deeper than that. If you eat food, you'll barf. If you drink liquids, you'll barf. If you eat nothing, you'll barf up your own stomach juices until there is nothing left, and then you'll barf nothing, which also sucks a lot, incidentally.

The fact of the matter is, if you've got to barf - and you do - barfing up food is by far the best option - it's way better than passing mouthfuls of your own stomach juices. Besides, you need those to digest the food you need to stay strong, so don't waste them for chrissakes. Just eat and drink like normal, and if you have to hurl, just do it and conitnue to proceed as per usual. When you think about it, puking over the side of an ocean vessel in mid-sail is actually kind of an exhilirating experience, cursing between gags and shaking your fist at Poseidon as you struggle not to fall overboard. Maybe that's just me. If nothing else it will give you and your shipmates something to talk about, which brings me to my next tip.

Tip No. 3 - Know Your Captain.

The bit of traveling I've done has given me the opportunity to meet some pretty interesting people, and Tom Corogin, the Ohio-born Navy-man-cum-lawyer-cum-single-handing-sailboat-captain certainly numbers among them. Tom has sailed around the globe numerous times in his little 30-foot vessel, having skirted the coasts of Europe, Africa and the Americas, and is, at the moment, in the midst of a four-year intermittent journey from Ohio, down the eastern coast of the US, through the Panama Canal, and then onward down to Cape Horn, at the very southern tip of Chile (with stops at the Galapagos and Easter Island, for good measure.) Apart from his busy life as a traveller, Tom also runs a marina in Ohio, and is the author of a novel surrounding his Greek heritage, a signed copy of which I happily accepted. Impresive enough without noting the fact that Tom is also 83 years old - nearly a cool 60 years my senior! - and still as hard as they come. Drinks a cup of sea-water a day, the salty dog.

Indeed, the only reason I made it on to his boat at all was that he'd recently taken a fall while boarding a neighboring boat, and sprained his knee. Safe to have another set of hands around, he figured. Despite his hardy constitution, however, Tom possesses an incredible good-humor, which I imagine to be the result of his long and adventurous life - a disposition tempered by the years, somewhat as a stone is worn smooth by the waves - and which made a fine salve to my bruised morale more than once. Although for the most part his sun-beaten face is pinched into a squinty knot, every so often, he'll turn around and at the drop of a wry one-liner give a smile that could charm a jellyfish. Even in the deepest reaches of my agony, just hearing him say "You're getting better." would, through some magic grandfatherly powers, help to perk me up.

A two-man crew doesn't leave much room for choice in terms of conversation partners, but I was lucky with Tom. Not a chatty man by any stretch, I nevertheless did my best to probe a few stories out of him, and was rewarded more than once. Seafolk are often full of strange wisdom unknown to us land-lovers; just ask and you will be handsomely rewarded. Plus, it doesn't hurt to have them at your side offering counsel especially through the rougher moments. Unfortunately, the roughest of times must be weathered alone.

Tip No. 4 - Beware The Late Night Watch.

It can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Indeed, if your journey is of any length, chances are it will wind-up being both sooner or later - it certainly was for me. Most days Tom and I would be up from around 8 AM onward, puttering around the boat, soaking up the sun, and generally killing time. We often traded short naps when it got too hot to be on deck, but the real shift work came later on.

Around 6PM or so, Tom would usually settle in to the cabin and rest up some for his first watch at 8PM. We traded two-hour shifts throughout the duration of the journey, so come 8PM, after watching the sun go down, I'd rouse Tom, and settle into my bunk for a two hour rest until 10PM, when I took over until midnight. 12AM-2AM was Tom, and then me again from 2AM-4AM. Tom took the sunrise shift from 4AM-6AM, at which point I usually rose for the day, while he slept a bit more, waking for good around 8AM.

Of my four shifts, the ones from 10-12, and 2-4, were by far the worst. Having just started to sink into half-decent sleep, I'd be jarred awake by Tom's curt annoucement: "Joe, your watch." Most times I'd be all grogged out, and it would take me a minute to roll out of my bunk, clutching wildly for a handhold lest I be tossed about the cabin. Then, having found something to steady myself, I'd fumble for the foot-pump operating the freshwater in the sink, and splash a little in my face before I could begin to recall what was going on. Then I'd don my trusty harness (we were always strapped in to something when outside the cabin while underway) and scamble up the stout ladder and out into the cockpit to slump into the creaky rotating captain's chair fastened by one lone and loudly-complaining bolt to the ship's humble chassis.

And there I would sit, often straight through the full two-hours of my watch, my drowsy eyes cast out to the horizon, struggling to stay awake lest I miss some crucial sight, and allow the ship to wander into the path of a crossing oil tanker, or pass overtop of some poor fisherman's lines and wreck the prop. Staying awake was one thing, but if the weather was bad, there would also be the nausea, and I spent more than one watch doubled over the rigging. It doesn't sound all that hard - just sit there and keep watch, but at times it felt like all the forces in the world were keeping me from doing just that. It was often impossible simply to sit still, for all the boat's pitching and reeling, and while it was a stretch to find any position even approximating physical comfort, I quickly learned to doze off while gripping tightly to some stray line or what have you.

Even if you managed to find a half-decent posture, fend off the sea-sickness, and stay awake, however, there was still the loneliness. Two hours is a long time to sit by yourself surrounded by the vast and uninterrupted black of the ocean, with only the steady pulse and crash of the waves to keep you company. Often on my watches, I would be overcome by strangely intense emotions, ranging from intense sadness to the bitterest anger. Not infrequent were the times I'd find myself cursing the waves, shouting obscenities at a particularly rough swell, or simply sitting on deck, baring my teeth and snarling at the wind like a wild dog.

I found myself repeatedly trying to find an object for this sadness and anger. I nurtured a slow-building hatred for the devilish men who had invented sailboats, or the fools who had fine-tuned the diesel-engine, someone, anyone, to blame for what I was now going through. That felt good for a while, but I'd get tired of hating soon enough - it's stressful work in itself - and slip back into plain old misery again before too long. The worst of it, I now realize, stemmed from the unavoidable fact that no matter how bad it got, no matter how rough the seas, how torturous the nausea, there was simply nothing to be done about it. Nowhere to go. No one to call for help. No way out. You were on the boat now, and you just had to ride it through. Simple as that.

Strangely, other times, when called to my watch, I would find myself somehow immediately awake and clear-headed, harnessed and up on deck in seconds flat. The weather would be calmer, and the boats motion almost soothing in its to-and-fro. Peaceful even, the moon's golden light trickling across the water. Sometimes I would drink a cold soda, and savor the sweet release of fresh unnauseated belches, breathing deeply.

These nights I would never get bored - my mind would be full-up with a constant stream of delicious thoughts all dancing and twirling about wonderfully. I would compose poems in my head, or piece together snippits of letters to loved ones, even think-up little jokes, puns or witticisms. If that failed me, I would sing. Not loudly, but steadily, all kinds of songs - how many Beatles songs did I know, anyway? Soon my two hours would be up, and I would almost regret having to leave the crisp air of the early morning, and return to fitful sleep in the moist warmth of the boat's belly.

These were some of my most pleasant moments aboard T.L.C. and I did my best to cherish them while they lasted, before the heat of day crept slowly back overhead, and we were again overcome by the violent pitching of the water. My only advice here is to do the same if and when such magic nights come to you.

Tip No. 5 - Expect Delays.

For they will surely come. Ours came around day three or four in the form of a strong South-East wind. The southerly part was fine, but the easterly was pushing us too quickily inland, and it looked like we didn't have a strong enough sailing angle to round our next point. We would have to tack out West a bit, to widen our angle, and then cut back in South if we wanted to make it by the wind. This change of course stole almost a whole day from us, as we struggled to make our way deeper into the ocean. It seemed each time we would change to accomodate the wind, it too would change and leave us in a lurch. By the end of the day, we had realized that tacking out to widen our angle was not going to cut it. We would just have to point into the wind and ride it out. Surely the weather wouldn't oppose us for too much longer.

Now, T.L.C. has an average cruising speed of about 5 knots, but into the wind like this we were sitting closer to 2, which is basically crawling. With the boat hobby-horsing over the waves as badly as it was, however, it scarcely felt like we were moving at all most of the time. This central part of the trip was a real bummer, and we were forced to fight the weather this way for some two days. Even after we eventually rounded the aforementioned point and were able to sail again, the wind was rarely ever all that cooperative. Around this time, I began to laugh at the optimism I had allowed myself to feel those first few days, and to realize the practical value of expecting delays.

What? Joe, don't tell me you've given up on optimism? Hardly. I've merely adapted my view a bit. As near as I can tell part of the appeal of optimism is as a kind of psychological sedative, right? Expecting the best from the world just plain makes you feel better. Hopeful is a good way to be. But as big a fan as I am of that approach, I also appreciate the pessimistic view that says: expect the worst and you can only be pleasantly surprised. For that reason, I have seen fit to combine the two in the following way. Be wise enough to expect setbacks, but do yourself a favor and expect the least of them. In other words, expect shit to happen, but hopefully it won't be the worst shit possible.

I call this approach poptimism, and you are free to give it a whirl if you like. The Pessimist says: This is going to suck. The Optimist says: This is going to be fine, maybe good even. The Poptimist says: This is probably going to suck, but hopefully it won't suck too bad. Regardless of which view you espouse, however, please know that eventually...

Tip No. 6 - It Will Get Better.

I never would have believed it early on in the journey, but it's true. By the time day five or six rolled around, my gut had hardened up nicely, and even the perpetual headaches from the diesel fumes had begun to subside. The constant jostling of the boat had become normal to me and I could feel my body forecasting its every move and reacting accordingly to facilitate the maintenance of equilibrium. Around this time I started actively enjoying the view from the boat, even anticipating the sunsets in the evenings, and rising early to savor the cool morning air. I began to see more and more dolphins around the boat, often swimming alongside us for many mintues at a time, playing around the bow, and darting across our path by the dozen. Rays too were more common, shooting high out of the water, and flipping about awkwardly like big rubber pancakes before flopping back down into the blue.

I believe it was day seven however that things really turned around for us. We'd been dragging a line for the past few days, which Tom had rigged up in a fancy way with two clothespins so as to alert us when a fish hit, and that afternoon, as I sat lazily in the cockpit, I heard the wonderful squeee of the line and jumped up. "Fish on!"I shouted, and grabbed for the rod which was spinning out wildly. Our unexpected delay had found us getting a bit low on food, so the prospect of dining on fresh fish was more than exciting to both of us. Our catch had gotten a good ways out before we could stop him, but soon enough, we'd pulled him in close enough to get a good look. That sucker must have been four feet long. "Looks like a Wahoo." said Tom. When I realized what he was trying to tell me, I dashed down into the cabin to retrieve the trusty Dictionary of Fishes, and after some humming and hawing, we decided that it was, in fact, a Pacific Wahoo, and a big one too!

We dragged him for a time just to tire him out, and then, when we could stand it no longer, did our best to pull him on board - no small task, I can tell you, even for both of us. Tom held the line while I tried to scoop up his shimmering silver length in the too-small net which, when I tried to lift him out of the water, promptly broke into pieces leaving me to clutch at its tattered remains, and leaving our prize fish dangling perilously over the edge of the boat. He must have weighed fity pounds at least. At this point Tom decided it would be appropriate to snap a few photos, and so left me in that dire state to retrieve his camera from below. When he'd had enough of torturing me, it took the two of us a few good heaves to get him in, our hands shiny with thick scaly slime. But there he was. A big dead fish is a beautiful thing at just the right moment, and before I knew it, Tom had that sucker cut into fillets, bagged and on ice. We feased for days on his delicious white meat, and still had plenty to give away to the marina workers when we finally arrived in Ecuador.

Perhaps the highest point of my journey, however, was becoming an official member of something called the Mystic Order Of Shellbacks. For centuries, seafolk have been commemorating a novice sailor's first crossing of the equator by means of a special right-of-passage ceremony, whereby said novice enters into the elite group known as the Sons of Poseidon, or the (Trusty) Shellbacks.

This "ceremony" can take a variety of forms, ranging from the relatively harmless (dressing the newbie up in drag and throwing them into the sea at latitude zero) to the severe (making them eat/drink/slog about in all manner of unspeakable concoctions, shaving their head/body, etc.). For my own part, Tom insisted I have a good slug of sea-water, and dribbled a bit more on my melon before pronouncing me an official shellback and handing me a hand-written document proving my membership - complete with all rights, responsibilities and appurtenances - which, his having been a lawyer, I take to be legit. It's funny perhaps, but I hadn't felt so proud since graduating university - a lovely climax to an incredible and arduous journey, I thought.

Anyway, shortly thereafter, on the morning of Monday, May 31st, we finally arrived in Salinas, Ecuador, after nine full days at sea. That was a sweet, sweet morning I'll tell you, and I will not soon forget the swelling I felt in my breast as we coasted into land.

By the time we'd sorted through the finnicky business of immigration, arranged the stamping of passports, secured a spot in the marina, and all the rest, it was late afternoon and we were more than ready for a real meal in a real restaurant. Despite some weak protestation on my part, we dined at Tom's expense in a fancy bistro in uptown Salinas, and wobbled along the streets back to the boat, our still-fresh sea-legs leading us to and fro along the shifting sidewalk. Back at the marina we indulged in the other unspeakable luxuries of a hot shower and shave. Nine days at sea leaves a man in quite a sour state, and having taken only one single salt-water shower throughout the journey, suffice it to say that I was overdue for a real scrub. Then, afterward, a good full sleep at long last.

Never one to sit tight, Tom had big plans to clean the boat, and leave town the next day, so after a quick breakfast I packed up and we two exchanged contact information and said our goodbyes. I grabbed the first bus I saw headed North, and drove all day across the better part of the country up to the high mountain city of Quito (2850m above sea-level) where I've been ever since, acclimatizing to the elevation, and luxuriating in the sheer availablity of desirable things that comes with big city life. Warm beds, delicious food, delightful art, culture, history, and all the rest, all right at my fingertips.

Recent adventures have included a trip on Quito's new multimillion dollar sky tram up to a high plateau overlooking the city called Cruz Loma (4100m). The views were stunning, and although this was the highest elevation I'd ever been at in my life, that didn't stop a couple Germans I'd met and myself from then making the scrambling three hour ascent up to the summit of nearby Rucu Pichincha (4700m) - the highest point in the Quito region. There are a few other monster volcanoes elsewhere in the country that rise to well over 6000m, but I figure if I have any hope at scaling those, I'd better start here and see how my body reacts. Thankfully, except for a little dizziness, a touch of pressure in the ears, and some damn cold hands, I felt alright! Looking forward to some bigger climbs further along in the Andean range.

Yesterday, as a kind of reward, I made the two-hour bus ride out to a set of beautiful natural hotsprings called Termas De Papallacta, nestled right into the verdant mountainside. Undoubtedly, the most incredible set of such springs I'd ever been to, and I sat for hours soaking in the steamy mineral-rich waters gazing up at the rough peaks surrounding the compound. There is so much to do and see in this relatively tiny country, and I am happy to report that the remainder of my trip is slowly coming into clearer focus. Today I am feeling good, and getting ready to keep moving - likely tomorrow.

I will close here for now, but I want to say that I miss you all very much, and am thinking more and more about our coming reunion!

Cheers from chilly Quito.