Life and the Sudden Death of Salt Peter

By Peter Jenvay

There comes a time when prudent and meaningful planning and preparation can become excessive and evolve into an impediment much like an anchor, keeping one in place! Almost always, adventure requires a submission to uncertainty and abandon of the pursuit of omniscience, taking at least, to a significant degree that leaps into the unknown.

Such was the case of Salt Peter and her skipper for the duration of a year in the Pacific. Originally pursuing a circumnavigation, the journey took the author and his vessel on a seven thousand mile voyage to Hawaii, Tonga, Fiji and finally to New Caledonia, where Salt Peter met her end. It was a journey of discovery, both physically and spiritually, with a range of experience to last a lifetime.

I invite you to join me on this year-long adventure and experience with me an honest, uncomplicated and enriching interaction with the seemingly endless ocean and volatile sky and discover with me the rewards of taking a chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781684091539

Book preview

Chapter I

Leaving Marina Del Rey

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Paul McGinnis and Walt Lloyd, My MDR Support Team

On June 7, 2013, I was sent off by my good friends Paul McGinnis and Walt Lloyd. The departure at 0745 hours and the parting was not without manly emotion, for we all knew the risks and, in any case, the length of time before a reunion. For this threesome there would be no happy hour for a while! Walt followed me through the harbor, and we played photo tag to document the departure. As I saw Walt’s red dinghy fade into the distance I knew this was it, the start of a very long journey.

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Walt at the Ready: Making Sure I Don’t Change My Mind!

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The Wave Good-Bye!

As I crossed the channel to Avalon, I was in a kind of disbelief that I was finally on my way but managed to pull out the instruction booklet for the Scanmar Monitor Windvane,, which I installed myself but had not used since my Hawaii trip in 2010. It was a wonderful and indispensable piece of equipment, which was truly like having an extra man on board who worked round the clock and ate very little! No single hander making a big trip can afford to be without one—unless, of course, you have a very reliable electronic autopilot and know how to fix it if it fails! I quickly refamiliarized myself with the instrument and managed to fine-tune its use over the next few weeks. It was a marvelous piece of equipment, and I was quickly reminded of its outstanding contribution in the past. Such a trip would hardly have been possible without Monty, as I called it. The forty-two-mile trip across the channel was uneventful and took about six hours.

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Beautiful Avalon Harbor

Avalon was exactly what I needed it to be. It was a familiar and lovely setting in which to clear my mind, review my notes, continue to organize (an endless process), check the rigging, etc. and enjoy some last real meals. It was also a time to discover initial problems with my new Iridium sat phone. Luckily my cell was still operating, and I could make the necessary calls to rectify the problem and voice some last-minute farewells before losing service near San Clemente Island. Avalon is often criticized for its crowds of tourists, but I took it all in, knowing that it would be a while before again encountering large numbers of people.

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Salt Peter with Overcast

Chapter II

Farewell, Avalon

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The South End of Santa Catalina Island

At 1015 hours on Monday, June 10, I departed Avalon Harbor and headed south toward San Clemente Island. Winds were light, so I motor-sailed in order to get some distance between me and the islands before dark. Though I tend not to have much issue with seasickness, about an hour out of Avalon I found myself increasingly nauseous, and not until I fed the fish did I feel totally myself again for the remainder of the leg to Hawaii. It has been my experience that my body rebels against the transition from land to sea, and once the initial protest is made, all is well and the stomach submits to the oncoming abuse! At one point, the engine began to sputter, so I shut it down to investigate but found nothing obviously wrong.

It was slow going to the south end of Catalina, and it seemed like an eternity to reach San Clemente Island. I should say at this point, that speed has never been my thing and the nature of sailing, for me, has more to do with taking in the surroundings than trying to outrun something. The thought takes me back to my climbing days when it was quite clear to me that it was the climb, the struggle, not the seizing of the summit that made the challenge worthwhile—for me. Don’t get me wrong, getting to the top is truly a high and is certainly the goal from the outset. But how fast you get there is secondary, unless, of course, you’re talking weather, which can affect climbers and cruisers to a powerful extent. At this point, however, getting away from any obstructions at night was a good thing. Nearing San Clemente Island, I discovered that my Garmin 740 Chart Plotter was not bringing up the chart. I tried for a long time without success, managing to bring up only the fish screen. That was something at least. I began imagining the sail to Hawaii without the plotter. I frequently heard jokes before my first Hawaii trip about how you can’t miss the islands, how, with all the jet tracks, assisting currents and predominant winds, you could sleep all the way there! To be honest, it almost seemed that way—back then. Incredibly, I discovered that I had left my LA-Hawaii chart behind. What a way to start a trip! I was now beginning to get a bit nervous, and I know what you must be thinking (I thought it too!). But let’s stay positive. I evaluated my situation and decided to call my friend Paul, at Catalina Yacht Anchorage, for advice. He suggested that I keep playing with the plotter; he was certain it hadn’t failed. I did as he suggested and after a while, voila! There it was, and I can’t explain it. So I was good to go.

The sky continued to be overcast, the wind very tame, and the sea calm. Again I tried the engine, and it fired up, performing flawlessly. Unfortunately, San Clemente Island seemed endless. By late afternoon the wind picked up and the sea got bumpy. I was moving at about five knots, and my stomach reminded me it was time to eat something, especially since it would get dark soon. I braved the galley where I was quickly reminded what it was like to cook at an angle. It was like being in a cyclotron and items stowed below went all over the place. I was reliving what I wanted to forget from my 2010 trip. This was one thing I could never get used to! Merely boiling a pot of water or canned soup could become a major challenge as was such a simple thing as making a cup of instant coffee. Of course, you would get better at it with time, but it seems that when you’re the most sure of your control and technique that your meal can become a decoration! After a quick, unsteady dinner of soup and crackers, I attempted to restow some of the dislodged items. No matter how clever I thought I was, this would become a recurring routine.

It was chilly and I wore two sets of sweats. The wind and waves strengthened, and I anticipated an uneasy night. Off my starboard side, in the direction of San Clemente Island, I could see three sets of lights which I suspected were either ships or platforms. They were many miles away, but I decided to monitor the VHF for some exchange—which I heard—but the reception was jumbled and the dialogue unclear. It took all night to pass whatever they were but at 1100 hours the following day, I was finally out of sight of land and heading into the open arms of the blue Pacific.

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The Last California Sunset with San Capistrano Island on the Left

In a particular way I have come to think of a sailboat as a huge string instrument—the hull, the mast, and the strings, if you will, capable of producing a wide range of sounds, particularly as heard from below deck. Over time, some of these sounds become standards, the sound of all is well. There are also the tunes that should raise concern. Every condition of the vessel and its surroundings has its own tune and the sailor—particularly the single-hander—should become familiar with their specific messages. Anything that is not a standard should be suspect. Have you ever tried to make a list of words that describe sounds? When you go to your auto mechanic, for instance, do you tell him you’re hearing a ping, a knock, a rattle, a bang, or a buzz? There are many more words to describe sounds, and each has its own specific implications. It’s like that on a boat. You may laugh at this, but on my 2010 Hawaii trip, I would often hear voices below deck—as when I was trying to get some sleep. Yes, you might imagine that I was beginning to get a bit weird from all that solitude, but I was not seeing coconut faces floating by; that wasn’t it. It was merely the complex vibrations of the shrouds and lines amplified by the mast and hull. It sounded like chatter between people on the other side of a closed door. Remember that old song with the lyrics, Green Door, what’s that secret you’re keepin’ …? You could hear it, but you couldn’t understand it! Where you might begin to question my state of mind is when I honestly tell you that I was intently listening to hear what they were saying! Solitude. Right. Interestingly, I heard that chatter frequently on that first trip, but never on this adventure.

On day six the wind continued to be weak but cold, and I continued to use the wide Monitor blade to guide me along. I was a little concerned about the blade getting caught on the 3.5 Nissan outboard motor, mounted on the transom rail, starboard side. Under ordinary conditions there was plenty of clearance, but under rougher conditions the possibility of conflict could become real. I would have to wait until, and if, that problem would materialize, in which case I would have to move the motor to a different location. I began to become aware that I was lacking some necessary discipline. A daily routine was beginning to be established, but some chores were slow in becoming fixed. On my 2010 trip I was very good about daily routine, but on this voyage I was somewhat sluggish. I have no doubt that much of that had to do with the unpleasant rocking of the vessel and spending lots of time at the wheel, cold and fatigued. What sleep I could get I would, if I could, reserve for nighttime hours, mainly because it was dark and there was little I could do besides occasionally monitoring the heading and my immediate surroundings. To my total experience there have been no small craft on the open sea (only near islands) and very few large container, tanker, or cargo ships. Surprisingly, the ocean seemed empty! To the degree possible, I would, with my lamp, make a check of the deck, rigging, and sails. Otherwise, it was time to get some much-needed sleep. It was impossible to keep any normal hours, since my activities were mostly determined by nature’s ever-changing moods. On a good day, I would awake at the break of day, check the heading, give the boat a quick once-over, make a cup of coffee, check the position and numbers on the plotter, make the necessary entries in the log and on the chart, and then recheck the boat in more detail for anything out of place, wear, chafing, etc. After that, a nice breakfast was always welcome. That was on a good day, but often it would be somewhat less organized, and on this trip things were a bit more iffy.

The night of the sixth day was really rough, as I entered into my tape recorder journal. The weather had started to turn for the worse, and the boat was taking a good beating. During the night, in a half-sleep, I was awakened by a loud banging. In the blackness of the night and the swaying of the boat, I determined that the forty-four-pound Rocna anchor had broken lose from the lines I used to tie it off to one side to keep it secure in the bow roller. In the darkness, with the waves breaking onto the bow, my attempt to restrain the anchor met with only marginal success. I would have to finish the job in daylight. While working on the bow, I noticed that the reefed headsail had unfurled an additional four feet. As I returned to the cockpit, cold and soaked, I noticed that the furling line cleat had pulled out of the deck but managed to get caught on a roller, thus preventing it from letting the jib unfurl all the way. In addition, the whisker pole, which was tied to the stanchions on the port side, had managed to break lose and was dangling over the side. What a night! And I was only beginning day seven!

With the ocean confused and the winds somewhat uncooperative, I found myself, once again, at the helm. The general heading to Hawaii was about 250˚ M but the wind vane tended stubbornly toward 210˚ M. I found that the Monitor rudder was dragging a huge amount of seaweed, which went undetected because of the rough seas and was not, at its depth, easy to see. With some difficulty I managed to dislodge the greens, and Monty was somewhat more able to hold the heading, but it was not a flawless performance. The sea was simply too wild, and I had no choice but to stand at the helm for long periods. Of course, through all this, the circumstances below decks were chaotic. Nothing, it seemed, remained where I had previously placed it. That cleanup would have to wait for another time. But this seventh day of the trip brought sunshine for the first time and was a welcome component of this otherwise challenging scene. This was definitely not like the Hawaii trip of 2010 when the seas were mostly calm and the weather much more reasonable. On that voyage I was given a false sense of security, and my expectations were not being met so far on this trip. I was learning. As the day progressed, the boat and the sea seemed to stabilize, and I took advantage, deciding to kick back and snack while reading. As I was absorbed in my book, relaxed and feeling good, out of nowhere a huge wave crashed into the cockpit, drenching me and bounced into the cabin! Now I was really awake and dreaded the night ahead. By 2100 hours it had been a full day of rock n’ roll! The sea was belligerent once more. Due to the motion of the boat I had not yet attempted to use my new SSB radio, which I intended mainly for e-mails, using SailMail. It meant hooking up the modem to my laptop and chopping away at the keyboard. The thought of the laptop flying across the cabin and ending my ability to communicate with the world caused me serious concern. I simply did not want to be without e-mail capability. I did, of course, have my Iridium phone, but I discovered quickly that sat phone minutes accumulate rapidly and are pricy. I wanted to reserve that technology for special calls home, to family and friends who needed to know what was up with me—and of course, for emergencies. At the end of day seven I tried to call Kate, Paul, and Walt without success; no one picked up. That was always very frustrating!

Day eight was very interesting, to say the least. The seas were a bit calmer, and I had been taking a little snooze down below. When I woke I went to the helm to check the heading and took in the surroundings. It felt good, and I was reenergized from my nap. As my eyes took in the boat’s condition, I realized that there was no headsail! How could that be? I was in denial and strained my eyes to find it, walking to the bow and finding nothing in the way of a sail! What could have happened to it? It was like a magic trick—here one minute, gone the next! The sail had apparently left the furling assembly, and there was no sign of shackles anywhere. I realized, of course, that if anything would still lead to the sail, it would be the sheets, and I started pulling. It was immediately clear from the resistance that the jib was below the hull, and so I released the port sheet and pulled up the starboard. The action of the waves and the fact that this was a 135 Genoa, new and stiff, made the retrieval quite an ordeal. I worked with all my strength to pull the jib into the cockpit, bit by bit. It felt as though the ocean wanted to keep it. When it was all in, I was both relieved and tired. But it felt very good, again having ownership of my sail.

Stretched-Out Jib

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Genoa Retrieved!The Tied Jib sausage

Now came the questions of how do I get this back up the stay and what caused it to come down in the first place? I was eager to haul up the sail but that was a process, especially since the wind and sea were not letting up. With some effort I managed to organize the sail, now smeared with the new, blue bottom paint, in the small cockpit and rolled it out, tying it as I went, into a long sausage, if you will, and stretched it out along the lifelines where it would wait until more favorable conditions arrived. I reported my latest mishap to Paul who suggested that I use my 100-square-foot storm jib in the meantime. I did that and it worked well enough. After all that, I was hungry and tired, and so, after a meal of canned soup and a talk with Kate and John, I tried to sleep but the craziness of the headsail incident and thoughts of how I would remedy that situation charged through my mind until my lights went out.

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Storm Jib Up

Another bit of excitement came at 0200 hours. Remember my instrument theory of sound? Well, I immediately knew that what had awakened me was the popping of one of the strings! It was a loud banging of metal against fiberglass, and upon inspection with my lamp, I found that one of the port side shrouds had disconnected; the turnbuckle had unwound and was flying around the deck. I did a quick reconnection with the intention of making the necessary adjustments in daylight. As I worked, I noticed that another shroud was loose, and I temporarily tightened it, realizing that it shouldn’t have been able to do that with the cotter pin in place. Further inspection revealed that there were no cotter pins in any of the turnbuckles! I had missed that! Considering that I had the shrouds replaced and the rig tuned before departure, I began carrying strong, negative feelings about the quality of work that was done. After that, I noticed that the boat was heading east and required a serious readjustment. I would have to check Monty a bit more frequently form now on.

On the morning of day nine, I wanted to put up the Genoa, but as the day progressed, the wind and waves made the prospect of raising the jib increasingly remote. Again, I would put it off. During the night a large hole was smashed into the isinglass windshield on the port side, large enough to pass a basketball through it! The only thing I could figure was that the port sheet, which must have been flogging, whipped the window hard enough to break it. It would have to be taped for now and repaired, along with an increasing list of other things, in Honolulu. I decided to take down the storm jib and pack it away. That night I heard more anchor noise and realized that I needed to do a better job tying it.

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Isinglass Broken

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Packing Away the Storm Jib

Sunday, June 16, was Father’s Day! Before departure my son, Sean, gave me an envelope which requested that I not open it until the 16 of June. I did as directed and read through the tears in my eyes. I could write volumes about our time since he was born, but perhaps it will, for this book, be enough to simply include his message, to give you a glimpse of who he is. Much of this trip—reasons for it and confrontation of spiritual issues throughout it—has to do with him. My life, most definitely, has to do with him! I spoke with Sean that night. Though it was windy and the waves mischievous, there was, for the first time, a view of the night sky with a half-moon and some stars working their way down to me through the clouds. At N 29˚ 18.8'; W 123˚ 40.0' I was a happy father!

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I finally chanced hooking up my laptop, completed setting up my SailMail address book and proceeded to write my first e-mail to those wondering what was going on with me. After all, it was roughly one week since my departure, and I was feeling a bit guilty. Writing wasn’t easy with the swaying, but nothing went flying and I managed to write a brief synopsis of my week at sea, which must have sounded like a chain of mini disasters. I attempted to send it out but had no luck acquiring an active frequency. The sun was somewhat out and very welcome, though I had difficulty warming up with the bimini constantly in the way. The air was chilly, and I had been noticing that water was getting into the cabin through various routes. Leakage through hatches and through-deck fittings was common, particularly from splashing waves. Occasionally I would forget to close a hatch in time when the weather changed. That was often a difficult and messy lesson. Having many large towels was my best defense against salt water.

Day twelve was the most beautiful day so far with very few clouds and about eighteen knots of wind. It was Kathleen’s sister, Muffy’s, birthday and I decided to call her. I also succeeded in acquiring a friendly frequency and sent out my first mailer.

June 18, 2013

Dear Family and Friends!

To begin with, this is not the pleasant Hawaii adventure of 2010. Mother Nature has seen fit to challenge me on this voyage. I left MDR on Friday, June 7th, for Avalon, from where I departed on Monday, June 10th. It was a slow get-away past San Clemente Island, but beyond, the seas were rough, the winds (though seldom beyond 20 knots) were belligerent, the skies overcast and the air cold! With occasional breaks from this general scenario, little has changed over the last week, except, it seems, daily mishaps and failures. So far, all challenges have been met, with perhaps the most difficult remaining. My Genoa head sail managed to disappear—unobserved and unheard. I found it floating beneath the hull with only the sheets to prevent its escape! With some difficulty I managed to haul it aboard. Now the difficult task of raising it back up remains. Needless to say, that event managed to slow things down. On main sail alone, with strong winds and confused seas, forward progress is slow—usually less than 5 knots. I await calmer seas and reasonable winds to tackle the head sail. Until then, it’s slow going. And the list goes on; too much to cover here. For now, I continue to persevere and meet each challenge with a positive outlook. I want to thank you all for your support and kind words. Until next time, from over the waves, I send you my love and best wishes. My delay in writing was due to the boat’s violent swaying. In this environment, if it isn’t nailed down, it goes flying! My laptop needs more padding.

Salt Peter

Also, I put up the headsail. It took two tries and a total of about five hours to get the sail up. The difficulty was at the top but it was too high to see, even with binoculars, and I was not going to climb the mast with the existing conditions! The sail didn’t want to slide all the way up, and I was hesitant to apply too much force. About four feet refused to slide up, leaving a large flap of sail hanging out at the drum end. The mystery issue was: where did the shackles go? Did they all break? Did the pins unscrew—on all of them? Very strange. There was no sign of them, and without spares (I’m learning!), I was forced to use .25 inch AmSteel line to fasten the sails. Unfortunately, the Harken fittings would allow only one pass of the line through the holes, and, though quite strong, I knew the line would fail with the forces it would encounter. I did what I could, but without climbing the mast, I was merely guessing. With persistence and occasional force, I managed to raise the sail almost all the way, with now only about eight inches of sail flapping at the bottom. That will have to do. My hands were killing me! I called Paul and reported my headsail accomplishment.

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Hands on Deck

He seemed not to be too comfortable with the situation and suggested that I pull out my old back-up Genoa and exchange it with the new. I don’t think he had any idea how exhausted I was from the effort, and the mere thought of changing sails overwhelmed me. Exchange the sails. Right! Ain’t gonna happen, at least not now.

That evening, with the winds still strong and the boat doing about eight knots, I ate some of my friend Marj’s cookies and mounds which she gave me to take along. Thank you, Marj! I was down to my last banana, and I decided that in celebration of Muffy’s birthday I would make my last banana sandwich. It’s party time!

On day thirteen I had a satisfying breakfast on my back porch, as I like to call it. Eggs, corned beef hash, bread, and coffee. This was a common and easy-to-make meal. And though I was eating relatively well, I could feel that I was losing weight. As I looked around, I started becoming aware that things were getting a bit messy, and that wasn’t at all my way. I was aware that my personal hygiene was somewhat lacking and as I began thinking about Honolulu, I became concerned that I would arrive somewhat presentable. I had a ton of soap and smelly stuff to make me socially acceptable. I realized how silly it was to be thinking like that, over a thousand miles from the nearest offendable nose, but I had a memory of the Hawaii Yacht Club as it was in 2010 and everyone looked clean and respectable, and I wanted to fit in. I also had some concern about whether or not I would get accommodations at the club when I arrived. I was, and am, a member and made a phone call from LA before departing to notify the club of my ETA. I could detect some discomfort with my intended arrival time and was told that that would be the approximate time of arrival of the Transpac from San Pedro and that about sixty-five boats were expected and would be accommodated by the HYC! What will happen to me when I arrived at the club? Guess I’ll find out. I know I’ll be in serious need of a shower and a laundromat. I tried about a dozen times to send an e-mail to Paul, without success. I talked with Pat Weber, my photographer friend from way back. Always good to speak with him; he puts an interesting twist on my reality! I woke up at 0500 hours to find myself heading east once again! The monitor is struggling with the heading and for the first time we have following seas. I’ll have to put in the hatchboards to keep any stray waves out of the salon. I haven’t been reading much, but just started Dan Brown’s Inferno. Dinner was a can of minestrone soup with a 1/2 can of Spam mixed in. Not bad.

Must Be 1600 Hours!

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On day sixteen I was still 1,414 NM from Honolulu. I was making lists of repairs and things I would like to do when arriving. The planning was exciting. I was eating cheese, beef jerky, nuts—lots of protein to keep from losing too much weight. On my last Hawaii trip I returned to LA ten pounds lighter. That’s not too bad, but I could feel it, as I did now. I should mention that I have type-two diabetes and found that life on the sea worked quite well for my condition. The ongoing physical exertion, weight loss, and irregular meals and sleep seemed to keep my numbers (which I checked almost daily) at a very acceptable level—even without my Metformin, which I decided to do without on this trip, simply to experiment.

So far, so good! I was curious about what this trip would do to my body. With my normal weight of 170 pounds, at five nine, I was certainly not massive, but I knew that there was a correlation between strength and mass, and I needed all the power I could get at sixty-nine! I had brought an electronic scale along but found it unreliable due to the motion of the boat. It was too sensitive. Related to my diabetes was a growing concern about the neuropathy in my feet. It was mild and in no way limiting, but I knew it was there and I also realized that it was asserting itself. I enjoy eating and when sailing conditions are reasonable, I like to kick back with a book and a snack. Establishing an eating ritual gave me something to look forward to. At 1600 hours, each day, if Monty could handle the helm, there would be a sandwich of sorts with tea—or some kind of snack. It was always special! I loved sitting out back on my porch, taking in my vast estate, with a swimming pool that was beyond compare! I would often become mesmerized by the action of the waves and their complex physics. There were patterns, and I tried to identify them. I had much more time for such mental journeys on the 2010 trip when the ocean was much more accommodating. At that time I used, to a limited extent, a weather routing service named Commanders’ Weather, in Nashua, NH. One of their reps, Ms. Brynn Campbell, a meteorologist, with whom I dealt most frequently, was always helpful and very pleasant in her manner. There were times when merely speaking with her was of more value to me than the technical aspect, and I would just as likely call her to hear her voice than to be advised about the weather! At any rate, most of my calls dealt with the lack of wind, and I would repeatedly be advised to head south to catch the trades. Well, I would have, if I could have! I surely wasn’t going to use up good fuel. It was frustrating—days of no wind whatsoever. However, it wasn’t all bad, looking out over so many square miles of glass-like sleeping liquid, I was spellbound. It was just hard to get anywhere and I had to keep reminding myself that I was in no hurry! One of the good things about tranquil seas was that I would get invigorated, and all sorts of projects that had been put off due to the roughness of the sea were now possible. One of them was to clean up and arrange the situation below deck.

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The Doldrums

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Belowdecks in Disarray!

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Sleeping Area

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V-berth for Storage

I’ve had to switch my water tanks. The V-berth tank, which holds thirty-five gallons, is now empty. Two more tanks are aft with a total of forty-one gallons. Perhaps you’d like to know about the plumbing aspects of my voyage. I always like saying, I don’t use my head! On such a long voyage the building odors of a holding tank are unnecessary, even though flushing it would be easy in the ocean. But why bother. As a single-hander you can get away with a lot, such as going overboard and going nude in warm climates. What the heck, it’s all about personal freedom and getting back to nature. Besides, clothes get dirty and sweaty very quickly, so what’s the use. I always go barefoot, which, I know, is looking for trouble with all the hardware on deck, so one needs to be careful. And speaking of being careful … There’s nothing (or a lot) that can be said about wearing a harness with a tether at all times when on deck. If you don’t see that, then there’s not much to be said. The constant reality of death beyond the lifelines is something to be aware of. Things happen—slips, falls, unexpected waves, etc. As a single-hander you need to know that. The danger that exists is in thinking that we can outsmart reality, that that won’t happen to me, I’ll be careful! If you go overboard, you’re dead! You can’t catch your boat (unless you’re in the doldrums, and even then, currents may work against you) if it’s moving and even with a line somehow attached to you, you most likely won’t be able to pull yourself to or on board your boat. The forces are immense! Unless you have a boarding ladder in place, or as in my case a Monitor or similar frame to climb up on, you’re doomed. It takes a great amount of strength to haul yourself onto the deck, and we’re not even talking cold water, which would greatly reduce your chances. It helps to have a game plan for such a scenario; several workable ones come to mind. Best of all, however, is to use a harness and tether at all times when leaving the cockpit. Clipping in is also a good idea when the waves toy with your boat and you’re at the helm. I’ve even done it while snoozing on the back porch. With all that said, I must confess that I did, a few times on this trip, make thoughtless exceptions and always regretted my foolishness! I guess I should therefore apologize for implying that I always wore—always is a dishonest word, as is never. But forever… well, I like that word! All good things imply forever, such as God, love, and infinity. Where would we be without forever?—perhaps, forever lost!

For most of this trip the winds have been coming out of the north. Day seventeen seemed to start a new chapter. The weather had changed and I could feel that tropical influence, warm, slightly muggy, with the wind approaching from the west and building. It was time to get out of the sweats and into shorts. Windy, yes, and moving its way out of the south by the following day. Now I’m on a starboard tack, and all the goods below are shifting once again.

An interesting jump here, I want to say that on day eighteen, on June 24, I am officially retired seven years! It was that retirement that brought boating into my life and made this adventure possible. Thank you!

On day nineteen, I spotted a cargo ship in the distance and also found a dry, seven-inch squid laminated to the deck—nothing I was inspired to eat! The winds died away again, and I was doing only about two knots. Heavy overcast. By now, lots of e-mails were coming in from my fans and I managed to get out a few of my own though, for some reason, my e-mail to Sean just wouldn’t go through! I finished the book, Inferno, which I found interesting despite some tedious portions. Interesting premise, with world overpopulation destined to end civilization as we know it. Worth reading.

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Trying to Connect to the World

I’m moving along at about two knots. On day twenty I ate my last apple and the last of the jerky; the good stuff is gone or dwindling. I did some laundry by stuffing especially dirty items into a net bag and throwing it overboard. Dragging the bag for several miles gets most of the dirt out, and all that’s left is to give it a little soap washing and rinsing with tank water. Pulling a relatively small bag of laundry back out of the water can give you a good idea of the force that moving water can exert. A fish at the end of a line can also teach that lesson. Speaking of fish, I’ve had no real desire to catch a fish so far on this trip. The reality, for me, is that my cockpit is relatively small, and bringing a fish on board makes my resting area a bit of a mess. I’m not much of a fisherman, but my claim to fame was a mahimahi caught on my way to Hawaii in 2010. It was about two and a half feet long, very beautiful (for a short while, for the colors faded almost immediately out of the water), and very delicious. It provided three good-sized meals and remains a very enduring memory, as does the mess that came with the experience. Blood, scales, and all sorts of sticky goo! I’m far from squeamish, and I really enjoy the smell of fresh fish, but cleaning up with the boat rocking away, without a proper way to rinse out the cockpit, was simply a task I didn’t need. At those times when I did follow my desire to throw out a line, I didn’t catch anything!

On day twenty-one I started out the day with condensed milk in my coffee since I had used up all of my eight bottles of milk. I liked it. The wind continued to be almost nonexistent, and I had come only about eighteen NM in the past twenty-four hours. One of the worst sounds I can imagine is the sound of flopping sails, not knowing which way to go. It was also a sound that made me think of the beating they were taking, the wear and tear, including the rigging, the moving parts jolted time and time again. It’s been about five days without any wind to speak of, just mild, short-lived breezes. While inspecting the lifelines, I noticed that the entire length of the port rub rail had fallen out and was dragging in the water. It took about an hour to hammer the rubber rail back in, but in the process about one foot of rail had stretched out and was now in excess. I cut it off and the resulting look was acceptable. This was not the first time I had dealt with this port rub rail. The first time was on my last trip. I’m certain that the initial damage was caused at the Hawaii Yacht Club, where it is generally acceptable to side-tie one boat to another, if there is limited space. Shortly before leaving Hawaii, a homemade trawler tied to my port side with questionable fenders for longer than I liked, and I reported it. Shortly thereafter the trawler was gone, but the damage must already have been done. I was far out to sea when I spotted the hanging rail. I feel certain that the sheet from the vanishing headsail had something to do with dislodging the rail, and it took days before I spotted it. So after making my repairs, I sent out my second mailer to the world without any problems. From below deck I could hear the wonderful sound of water passing by the hull and no more flogging of the sails. That meant only one thing: we had wind! It wasn’t much, but it was something, and I was grateful. I was now going four knots. I tried wing ’n’ wing, but it didn’t help much.

June 28, 2013

Dear Family and Friends,

I’ve been putting off writing this in hopes of doing so in time to report having reached the half-way point. It’s a bit overdue, and I continue to anticipate reaching that marker in 119 NM! It took only 16 days on my 2010 trip. I’ve been caught in the doldrums for the past 5 days, making very little headway and have sent all my horses overboard! I’ve gone from wild and challenging seas with nasty winds and cold air to warm, humid and sleepy atmospheric conditions. Basically, I’m drifting, having gone only 182 NM in 5 days! As I was once told, It’s not the salt, Peter, it’s the wind!. Bottom line, I’m well and on vacation! With any luck, the wind will come soon and I’ll be off to paradise. Saw a cargo ship go by two days ago, four birds so far, one 7-inch squid on the deck (see, there is wildlife out here!), and today, I saw the first signs of human trash. I’ve read Dan Brown’s Inferno, which I recommend to those who like intellectual social challenges wrapped in art history and literature—more like a guided tour of Dante Alighieri’s Florence! Tedious at times, but interesting, particularly as it deals with the issue of overpopulation. I’m far from running out of books or supplies, but the good food stuff is dwindling! Anyone make deliveries? Till next time, all my best!

Salt Peter

A physical update: I feel great, despite the weight loss, but the neuropathy is getting worse and is advancing up my calves. A bit worrisome. Out of nowhere, severe itching started in my feet and ankles, so crazy I couldn’t keep from scratching and that brought on lots of pain in the open wounds. Not knowing what was bringing it on was the worst part. I, of course, suspected the diabetes or neuropathy though my numbers were as good as they’ve ever been. I continue not taking the Metformin. Interesting to see what will come of it. My vision seems fine though I experience some strain when reading, especially at night, when I use a headlamp. I’ve also noticed that my memory is dragging and I’m forgetting a lot of things. I’ve been writing more lists and leaving myself notes just in case. I tell myself that it’s the overload and the scattered sleep cycles. I’m hoping that’s it. Today I crossed the 135˚ longitude line, which puts me in a new time zone and means that I’m one hour behind (or is that ahead of) LA time. Lots of e-mailing in and out, and I’m looking forward to some pink salmon tonight. No, nothing I’ve caught—right out of the can. That with some veggies, and I’ve got a gourmet meal!

At around 0200 hours on day twenty-three, I crossed the halfway point! The wind was out of the north with the course steady, and I was doing five to six knots. Later in the day I spotted what looked like a large cargo ship off the port quarter, except that it was all white. Not sure what it was, too far away. I had been getting a sense that my e-mails were not getting to some of the people on my list of family and friends—there were about eighty and would grow.

June 29, 2013

Dear Family and Friends,

It’s been said that Half way is neither here nor there. If that’s true, I’m happy to be nowhere! At about 2 AM this morning (LA time), under a half moon hanging low in the eastern sky, Salt Peter crossed the long-awaited half way marker, doing 5-6 knots. At this writing, Honolulu is about 1070 NM ahead. At the current rate, by 11 PM tonight, there will be less than 1,000 NM to go! The wind and seas are holding steady and the Monitor wind vane is proudly in charge, holding a heading of 243* magnetic, at 5 knots. The overcast is clearing and it looks to be a very nice day! My best to you all.

Salt Peter My position: N 27* 47.85'; W 136* 40.26'

Many of those on the list were unknown to each other, and so I was at a loss. There was nothing that I could do from here. The Link-10 battery monitor was indicating quite low, mostly due to the persistent overcast, I’m sure. The solar panels were not efficient without enough sun, and I needed to run the engine to juice up the batteries. I also found that my water tank #2 was now out of water—or blocked. When I went to start the engine I noticed that something greenish-gray was dragging behind the boat. Immediately I thought it must be more seaweed, but upon further investigation I could tell it was something else, perhaps a piece of plastic sheeting. Using my gaff, I attempted to grab the object, at first without success. It was difficult because of the water’s thrashing and the pole’s insufficient length. I persisted and eventually brought up a fishing net. I tied