How do you keep going when you are out at sea and you lose all your wind?

This is one of the most common questions we get from non-sailors, or even sailors who haven’t crossed oceans. The answer is: sometimes, you don’t.

For us, we have a Yanmar 50 HP motor with about 700 miles of diesel fuel on board between the main engine tank and the jerry jugs we decided to carry across the Indian Ocean. When a lull in the wind hits, we have to decide: should we use the fuel and the engine to push through this lull to (hopefully) find wind on the other side? Or, are we spending fuel now only to find the lull lasts longer than the weather predicts and we will run ourselves dry? There are people who sail in ships that do not have any motor at all. When they hit a lull in the wind, all they can do is relax and wait.

My crew isn't that patient.

This is why we carry a motor and a significant portion of fuel. It gives us just a little more choice.

As I look back on our adventure to date, I realize the wind isn't the only factor that can press a “lull” on a sailor. I can count three times we have been socked in by a “lull”. The first one was wind related: on our first long passage from Cabo San Lucas to the Galapagos, we motored through our fuel supply while crossing the doldrums only to hit light wind and adverse current on the other side. We didn't have enough fuel to keep motoring, so we had to wait and sail. The second “lull” hit us in Langkawi, Malaysia when Andrew had no other choice but to rip off my keel and replace my rotten keel bolts. The third “lull” hit us in the Maldives when Covid closed every land border around us and we were unable to leave the small anchorage of Uligan for several months. All three of these “lulls" produced the same visceral experience - a process of frustration, decision, and acceptance. Arriving in the Seychelles, I was curious which step in this process we had reached - because it sure seemed like another lull was headed our way. I realized if I think we should wait this lull out, I should probably make myself clear to Andrew.

Andrew’s first item of business upon our arrival was to tear apart my bow and find where that pesky leak is coming from. He unscrews about 250 screws and removes my ceiling panels and all the wood paneling from my sidewalls. Like usual, he takes a “scorched earth” approach and dismantles every item of equipment on my bow deck including the anchor windlass (the machine that pulls up my anchor), bow pulpit and lifeline stanchions (the framing that keeps my sailors aboard in big waves), the equipment that holds the roller furler and sail down to the deck, brackets, tie downs, hatch connection points...everything.

“It's a good thing you already know how to take all this apart, isn't it?" I ask Andrew as he is squeezing his upper torso through the small door that leads beneath the bed and into a storage locker where the anchor windlass wiring is housed.

“It is?” He asks, sweating all over me and grunting as he tries to ratchet the bolt holding the thick wire cables that bring electricity from the battery bank to the anchor windlass.

“Well, yes! If you hadn't already taken all this apart, cored the fiberglass, and re-bedded it in 2012, you’d have to figure it all out new now!”

"Sonrisa, Oofh, grunt.....Awwoooohhhhhrggg....are you trying to convince me.... pant pant.....it's a good thing you are making me do the same repair work twice?"

He looks so comfy, doesn’t he?

“Just saying.” I hear a snap inside the anchor locker and a groan. “What was that?"

“The cable to the anchor windlass has corroded through and it just fell apart!”

While this makes me somewhat disconcerted, it just proves my point. “See? It's a good thing you are taking all this apart now."

Andrew huffs, peels himself out of the anchor locker and adds another sticky note to his wall of projects: “replace windlass electrical cables” and “re-design water diversion in anchor locker.”

“Redesign? What is that one? Why?”

"Sonrisa, why is your water drain in the anchor locker located at the highest point in the bottom of the locker?”

“I don't know,” I pout. I dislike receiving criticism.

“Well, the resulting puddle has been corroding away the windlass cable, so I think I need to rejigger the whole thing.”

“Sounds good to me!" Rejiggering things to be better always brightens my day. I’m bound to get some new boat bling out of it. And, this thought raises a new idea. “Hey, while you have all this cabinetry torn apart, what would you say to re-varinishing my wood?” Andrew's brows knit together, this is hardly the time to be demanding cosmetic upgrades - but then again, there is hardly ever a good time for a boat to request a cosmetic upgrade. The “might as well do it while everything is already torn apart” is the best argument I ever have! “Come on, what do you say?”

He huffs, but I know that huff. He’ll do it.

As Andrew tends to do, he looks around for more things to tear apart. The hand rail seems a bit wiggly, the shelving needs repair….soon, the entire stern bunk is filled from top to bottom with parts and pieces of me from other sections.

Enjoy that shelf while you can, Little Cat. It’s all coming down!

Leslie loves a mess.

You might be thinking, now, “Sonrisa, I thought you really want to circumnavigate. Why would you be advocating to stay the year in the Seychelles? A circumnavigator have to be courageous, you know.” I do know, and this question is a tricky thing for me to answer. I don’t know why I am hesitating to push forward other than to say I have a gut feeling staying in the Seychelles is what we should do if they will allow us. Yes, I want to circumnavigate. It’s my biggest dream. But, my first responsibility in life is to make sure I can deliver my crew safely to their destinations, and right now, I am not as certain about that as I want to be. Borders closing mid-passage, deferred maintenance in locations where repairs aren’t possible, a contagious disease bouncing around, political instability in some of the places around us…so many things could go wrong beyond even the normal things that can go wrong. It seems too much for me to wrap my hull around. I would much rather wait for a bit and keep my senses open to optional routes. I want to see the wind shifts and follow them rather than try to motor through against a prevailing current. In the end, we will get to our ultimate destination safer, maybe even faster, if we follow the wind shifts - and I mean that both in the physical sense, but also, metaphorically. Besides, we’ve sailed a very very long way to miss seeing Boabab trees and lemurs!

Leslie interrupts my reverie and Andrew’s destruction project by tapping her wrist where a watch would normally be.

“We have to stop here for today, Andrew." Leslie says, “we are late for the dock party.”

The dock party will be Andrew's first real test of this theory that we are staying here until Covid lets up. I know, because I’ve been chatting with some of the other girls in the anchorage, and they are already talking about leaving for South Africa. Some of the other boats have been here a lot longer than we have, and there are rumors swirling Northward through the Mozambique channel that South Africa is opening to tourism. Maybe October 1. If South Africa opens, will Andrew still want to stay here?

“Dock party! Fun!" I say, “You should quiz Sapphire-Jen all about her techniques for varnish." Andrew rolls his eyes, but I know he's going to do it. Now, you can see my nefarious plan taking shape. We can’t leave if everything inside and outside of me is torn apart from top to bottom! Varnish. More varnish!

All dressed up and carrying homemade crackers and dip, Leslie drops down into Grin's hull and balances everything in the crook of her left arm as she unties Grin’s knot with her right hand. "Have fun, guys!"

I watch them across the anchorage as they reunite with the majority of the sailors who shared our quarantine anchorage in the Maldives and a few more boats who had the luck of being here in the Seychelles when Covid arrived, all the sailors clinked their happy hour glasses together, and noshed on a feast of appetizers provided one boat each. They catch up on recent passages, commiserate over needed repairs, and talk over the usual question “What are your plans next?"

“South Africa.”

“South Africa.”

“I think we will head to South Africa, next. I want to go on Safari!”

“The Seychelles is beautiful, but we need to push on to South Africa.”

"South Africa.”

“Isn't South Africa still closed?"

“They are working on a way to get sailors in.”

“They say they will be opening for tourism soon."

“It will come right.”

I can feel Andrew vibrating, like our corroded windlass cable: the electrical current energizing him to move, sticking against and creating heat around the rust built up from Covid border worries.

“Are you just going to skip Madagascar?"

“Probably, if they don't open we will make one straight hop from here to South Africa. We might have to anchor off Madagascar to stage a weather window, but we won't be able to go visit.”

“No lemurs! No boabab trees!” I shout my input from across the anchorage.

A consensus starts to form on the dock, most everyone is planning to head to South Africa as soon as the weather windows start to allow it in early October through November. This will likely leave Steel Sapphire, Erie Spirit, and me behind again as the Three Amigos. Just like the Maldives. But, can Andrew stand the wait?

The next morning, I'm happy and, yet, a little surprised to find Andrew setting up egg cartons to hold up a varnishing station. Maybe, he can stand the wait!