During our visit to the UK last fall we spent time with several of Isabel's old sailing companions. Back in the day they did some great stuff together, sailing across the fog-ridden English channel to France, or past Land's End all the way to Ireland. Crappy weather. Cold, wet, smelly, but having a blast. In particular her old boyfriend and sailing pal Rob was keen to know what it's like to be deep at sea for days on end. It's kind of hard to explain but here's a try.
For the most part these days it's just Isabel and me. We divide our watch schedules according to our biorhythms. Isabel's favorite hobby is sleeping (mine is eating or sampling craft beer), so she crashes after dinner and I stand watch until around 0100, then get her up and she stands watch until I awaken, generally by daylight. During the day one of us naps or fools around with projects while the other keeps an eye out. We're never asleep at the same time unless at anchor.
In truth, there's a whole lot of nothing out here. On a cloudy moonless night you can't even see distant terrain unless there are lights ashore. We can go days without even seeing another boat. We're alone.
Last night the moon was waning around 50% but it didn't even rise until well after midnight. There were a few leftover puffy clouds, but the stars and especially the Milky Way were spectacular and I did see one shooting star. Nice. Otherwise nothing to see, and absolutely no hope of detecting and avoiding something like a partially sunken shipping container. Remember that horrible Robert Redford movie?
Anyway, my dark night routine is kind of as follows. . .
Turn on the radar every 15 minutes or so and look for squalls and undetected marine traffic. Look for AIS targets on the chart page. Have a look at the sail trim if things don't feel right or there's excessive sail chatter. Verify we're still going in the right direction. That's kind of important, as gradual wind shifts over time can really throw us off course if the autopilot is steering to apparent wind as is often the case. Experiment with the nav/wind mode on the autopilot to see how that seems to compromise between the two objectives. Make a cup of coffee or tea, eat a snack, select another podcast, then kick back and enjoy the stars. Rinse and repeat, but only 1 cup of coffee each evening.
If there's bright moon out visibility is somewhat improved and we might make out distant uninhabited land, although the Tuamotu atolls can still be really hard to see as there is no real vertical terrain. I prefer pitch black nights as star gazing is a hobby, and we've got a really slick app that helps us identify the constellations. Still, it's important to look around and if we're navigating anywhere close to land I generally keep the radar on to cross check the navigational chart accuracy. If it's a night with a risk of squalls the radar might run all night - no big deal as it doesn't use much power and that's what we bought/installed it for anyway.
Altogether there's a whole lot of water out here and not much else. Near large ports in Mexico things could get busy. Around Banderas Bay we had to dodge whales. Isabel's tales of sailing in the English channel sounds downright nuts.
For pilots this can be described as a VFR but we keep the IFR equipment operating and cross check often.
Ahead and off our course line a little bit is the group of atolls "Isles du Disappointment". You can bet we'll have the gain turned up pretty high in that region, as it would be more than disappointing to sail onto a low-lying atoll.
On passage we've also got the life raft and ditch bag prepped at hand in the saloon. Might save us a few seconds if things get exciting or confusing. All the torch batteries are charged, passports, handhelds, torches etc. in the ditch bag. We spend a lot of time and money trying to be prepared for something we hope never happens.
Isabel is up and it's a beautiful day. Time for a nap.
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