SAILNG (AND DRIFTING) THE PACIFIC

It was our ninth day at sea. We were adrift, floating without wind in the unrelenting sun somewhere on the deep blue Pacific. A merciful current pushed us along, painfully slowly, the 40-foot sailboat carrying us inched toward the Philippines. At least we were moving in the right direction, for a change.

We were supposed to have made port in Cebu at least two days ago, according to our captain, a friendly, well-meaning German in his late twenties. Yet, four more agonizing days would pass before we actually were allowed to touch our bare feet on dry land. And it would not be Cebu.

On day nine, though, something wonderful happened.

Kip was on  “dawn patrol,” as he liked to call his early morning watch shift from 5-8 a.m.—amazing sunrises, plus it’s the best time to fish (or so he thought). After an hour at the helm, he saw a dark spot on the horizon. A boat, perhaps?

The spot gradually grew larger. Through binoculars, the outline of a small island came into focus.

Wow. Liz had to see this.

Still groggy from her midnight watch, Liz bolted upright when she heard the news. Squealing like school girls, we fist bumped, high fived and simultaneously screamed, “Land Ho!”

We were Columbus discovering America. We were Magellan circumnavigating the globe. We were finally getting off this godforsaken boat.

Or so we thought.

To be honest, the trip couldn’t have been that bad. We were sailing on a boat in the Pacific Ocean, after all. And we were only gone for 12 days. It was that the trip seemed something more akin to the first lines of Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”

The trip started out quite beautifully, as we left the dock and set the main sail in a light breeze. The scenery was stunning. We were content, fulfilling a lifelong dream of international sailing. 

The boat weaved leisurely between Palau’s famous Rock Islands, mushroom-shaped, jungle-clad hills of limestone, some as small as a VW Bug and others larger than the Superdome. We reached a narrow, turquoise-colored passage in the outer reef and slipped smoothly through, cruising into the deep blue of the Pacific. Dolphins played nearby. 

Feeling celebratory, we broke out a bottle we’d brought along and mixed drinks for the four of us, including the Germans Martin and Corrina, who as we mentioned previously, were a twenty-something couple sailing around the world on a mission to educate people about trash in the seas. We cheers’d, we poured out a tribute for Neptune, and we drank until the bottle was gone.

Things pretty much went downhill from there.

Naturally, after a few rum drinks, Liz usually has to pee. This is when we learned that our “cabin with a bathroom” does not actually have a working toilet. Or sink (in the U.S., we’d call that a closet).

No problem, though. For the next week and a half, night and day, we would just use the one in our hosts' cabin. Which is fine, except boats are tiny and the toilet is next to their bed. As in 14 inches from it. It took some getting used to, particularly at night. Have you ever tried to “relax” in a bathroom, knowing that the heads of two sleeping strangers are a foot from your rear end? Us either. 

Then there was the heat and lack of fresh water. We sweat constantly and in buckets. Sheets, clothes, towels, everything was damp. The saltwater showers on deck did not help the situation, though we weren’t allowed to use fresh water since the water pump broke on day three and our supply was extremely limited. Deodorant was useless. The choice was between sweating in the sun at 90 degrees on deck with a view of the ocean, or sweating in the shade at 100 degrees and no breeze in the musty cabin.

Since Liz hadn't exactly "adapted" to the skin tone of the natives yet, she wisely opted for the cabin most days. Kip was up on deck fishing. He never caught a fish. Most days he reeled in seaweed or plastic, which was exciting, but didn’t go well with wasabi. 

Turns out, to catch tuna in the deep, the boat actually needs to be moving, which we frequently were not. It’s the same if you want to catch some land. Like the Philippines.  

Which brings us to the topic of wind. There wasn’t any. For days. 

“Why didn’t you use the motor?” you ask. Because it was broken. Well, not totally broken, but only half of it worked, and it’s electric. The electric part is awesome and eco-friendly, when it’s charged. It wasn’t. 

Knowing our captain was in a hurry to meet his sister who was waiting for him in the Philippines (he wouldn’t make it in time), we assumed he was doing all he could to get there fast. Plus, we’re unemployed and homeless, why should we be in a rush? 

So we settled in to wait for wind. Did we mention the rum was gone on the first night?

With no electricity to power things like computers or iPods or lights, we made ourselves busy. 

We played guitar... we slept... we stared at clouds.... 

We read, a lot. At night we used headlamps we brought. Both of us made it through eight books each, including two well over 1000 pages. 

Jump to night 10 (of our seven day trip, based on the captain’s initial calculations). We were still drifting off the coast of the Philippines, at least two days from port. A wahle surfaced and another pod of dolphins swam by in the distance.

Yet again, there was no wind. The current was pushing us toward the shore. Liz heard a strange noise. “What’s that?” she asked our captain.

“The motor,” he replied. “We’re drifting toward the shore. I’ll have to get out the generator to charge the batteries.”

Liz was wide-eyed and silent, but internally thinking, “OMG. Are you freaking kidding? We’ve been drifting off the coast for almost three days with dead batteries and no motor, you’re supposedly in a hurry to meet your sister, and now, days later, you pull out a gas generator to charge the motor? What were you waiting on, a team of mermaids to come pull us along?”

Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “Sounds like a great idea.”

Day 12, we finally made port in Maasain, the provincial capital of Leyte, which was not Cebu, our original destination. That would have been another 3 days (or 8 hours, if you’re our overly-optimistic captain).

Seeing as we were back in the Philippines, we immediately hi-fived as the locals do and ran to the first place we could find that would sell us some deep-fried hardboiled eggs, fresh water, and rum.

Over iced cuba libres, we promised to never, ever sail again...at least for a week or two. And only on boats with functioning engines.