As I type this the laptop screen rocks slowly back and forth with metronomic regularity, swaying in time with the desk, the floor and the entire room.

I gaze out of the window in front of me to take in the view: mighty waves slipping by; crests breaking; clouds drifting across an azure sky. And endless, endless water, stretching to the horizon and far beyond.

It’s not the most typical of sights. But then isn’t the most typical of surroundings. We are on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Having travelled most of the 21,000 miles we have covered so far by land (with the odd ferry thrown in ) we now take to the water, hitching a ride for 15 days aboard a container ship bound for LA, from the far east of the Pacific to the far west.

The Pacific Ocean – the very words conjure up images of ambition and adventure, it’s a byword for the exotic, the far-flung, the unknown. The neon-lit waters of Hong Kong harbour to the to the surf-bound coast of California – sounds far more interesting then Chek Lap Kok to LAX.

No identikit airports and long, dismal queues, no leg-crunching seats and foul, plastic food. No predictable movies or no 9/11 paranoia, no screaming babies or snoring adults.

Just the two of us and a few crew on a big boat. On an enormous blue ocean. With no land for days.

My primal fears still to stir inside. Drowning, shipwreck, seasickness, scary monsters in the depths below and ferocious storms in the skies above.

Too late.

We’ve hauled the anchors now, cast off the ropes. We’re heading out into the unknown, the unquantified, the unpredictable. There’s no way out at sea. No one can hear you scream…

Deep breath.

Take a look at our surroundings. It’s palatial!

As the only passengers we’ve been given the owner’s cabin – a bedroom, large living room and en-suite.There’s a TV, DVD and Hi-fi, plus a fridge, a desk and large sofa. 15 days in which we can live out of cupboards and drawers rather than the cramped confines of a smelly old rucksack.

No dodgy Chinese wiring here, no leaking toilet or dripping taps, no filthy sheets or cacophonous street sounds. Just a gentle hum from the engine, and the steady rock of the ocean. There’s a laundry and mess room, where we dine with the officers. Three hot meals a day, served to us at our own table. There’s a a small gym, with exercise bike, weights machine, table tennis and darts board. There’s a sauna for Lara and even a mini swimming pool.

We’re are treated as honoured guests: the officers go out of their way to guide us around; the crew invite us to sing karaoke (I wisely turned down), play basketball (I was resolutely thrashed) and ping pong (ditto).

In between eating and fraternising we doze on the deck, stretched out on sun loungers or dip into the boat’s impressive DVD collection.

All the time we little moving world sways gently around, sometimes placid, sometimes vigorous.

This can present certain challenges: how to eat soup in a swell for one, and how to sleep when the boat’s rolling and pitching.

Other challenges lie ahead no doubt, but in the meantime I admire another sunset and gaze at the horizon.

I feel like Tintin, my hero, the daring young reporter.

He regularly set off on his adventures by boat, where exciting events would take place: Snowy would get attacked by a shark; Thompsons would wear old-fashioned bathing costumes and Captain Haddock would invariably get drunk on whisky.

And always there was some shady type on board, a stowaway, or a crooked crew member, usually a shifty Balkan-looking type with crossed eyebrows and a dodgy ‘tasche.

Best keep an eye out. After all, anything can happen at sea.

WEDNESDAY

Whenever we lose track of days we usually find it is Wednesday. On this Wednesday we were given an extra day; Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship – the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We have recently discovered porridge on the menu, which makes a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle that eventually got the better of my digestive system. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but the ship ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The regular evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (****½) and Bobby (***).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° longitude, and the day started again. So when we woke we opened the second third of December window on our World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

It has taken tins of peanuts, circling torches, diagrams and protracted discussions with the Navigator for me to understand why my life will always now be a day longer than stated on the calendar. It’s something to do with standardising time so that night is always dark and day is always light the world over and so that everyone is living the same day as in Greenwich, London. But perhaps more importantly, every step eastwards is now a step closer to home.

The second third of December began like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun.

After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and signal flags. Then I was led to the edge of boat where surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides Tom got down on one knee and popped the question. I took my chances and said yes.

That evening we celebrated with the Filipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

If you want to carry on readying Tom and Lara’s blogs, you can find them here. Loco2 would also like to say a huge CONGRATULATIONS to Lara and Tom on their engagement!

Thumbnail: Dylan Parker

Hue to Hanoi: letting the train take the strain

In Hue we elected to tackle the next leg of our route by train. We were looking forward to getting back onto the rails again, rather than onto yet another bone-rattling, leg-twisting, ironically-named ‘sleeper bus’.

The photojournalist Tim Page, who’s rattled along a few Vietnamese railways in his time, puts this better than me:

Train travel allows the mind to wander, the eyes not really focusing on the passing countryside, the heady clackety rhythm becoming white noise, a mere sound tapestry to meditate upon…On a train you actually have a sense of getting somewhere, denied the traveller sealed in an aluminium tube zooming across the sky.

Inside the small dusty waiting room, we occupied an entire row of flimsy plastic seats, our enormous bags dwarfing the slender locals hemmed in around them. I poked my head around the door to glance at the platform: it was uncomfortably quiet, hardly a soul moved, let alone a train.

As the minutes ticked by and the time dragged well past our designated departure time. Still no train.

The locals seemed unconcerned, dozing in the seats, nonchalantly sipping green tea and gazing at the traffic outside.

Finally, 50 minutes later it was action stations: a guard stirred, a tinny loudspeaker croaked out some kind of announcement and we were allowed onto the platform. People plus baggage began shuffling onto the platform. Hardly a great swarm of people like you’d have to contend with in China, more a trickle of the unhurried.

A group of men crouched down on the platform, lay a battered old briefcase on its side and immediately started playing cards. They fingered their dirty old dong notes whilst others crowded around, watching the gamblers.

A young couple strolled up and settled down on the bench next to us, resuming the cooing they had been so rudely interrupted from back in the waiting room.

And still no train.

I began to wonder what it could be that was causing such a severe delay. Mexican bandits? The wrong type of snow? Richard Branson?

Finally, an hour later than scheduled, the noise level seemed to pick up, passengers stirred and, to much whistling both from its driver and the sundry guards on the platform, a train appeared, its headlights piercing through the descending gloom.

The dusty green carriages hauled up in front of us, the grimy windows obscuring the interior. We quickly boarded, hauling our bulky loads through the narrow corridors as the rabble pressed up eagerly behind us.

Peering into our cabin we found it already occupied: a large family, big enough to fill a small village stared back at us, their grubby kids sprawled all over the beds. Cue frantic hand signals and pointing at beds and tickets before finally the guard came along and turfed these stubborn train gypsies out.

Although ‘soft sleeper’, our cabin didn’t quite live up to our expectations: it held six beds rather than four, crammed in so that each bed had about two and half foot of space between it and the one above. Grimacing as I adopted a contortionist pose I squeezed my slim frame into a bunk at the top, hauling my pack up behind me.

There was a jolt, and we started moving: ten hours through the night to the capital.

A short night, abruptly ended at 5.30am. Raised voices, doors slamming, a knock at our door: we’d arrived. Hanoi.

THE DO’s AND DON’Ts OF ASIA

Sun, sweat and scooters; trains, temples and tours; bananas, buses and lager. The tourist infrastructure in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and Laos turns traveling into a wonderful holiday. However, alongside the tourist trade come touts and tricksters to be wary of. So to supplement your Lonely Planet/Rough Guide (delete as appropriate) here are World in Slow Motion’s top tips for S.E. Asia:

Do:

• Take a sheet sleeping bag. There is a curious lack of bedding in these parts.
• Carry plenty of U.S. dollars cash. They are a useful back-up and the currency of choice in Cambodia.
• Drink bia hoi on plastic chairs in the street in Vietnam. 20p for a glass of draught lager.
• Drink fruity drink and coconuts with a straw. You can spot a fruity drink stall by the glasses of chopped fruit to which condensed milk, coconut milk and balls of sticky rice are added and served with crushed ice.
• Eat amok. This creamy Cambodian curry is the among the best food in SE Asia.
• Take the sleeper bus. A bus with beds is a sight to behold and an experience not to be missed, but don’t expect to have a good kip.
• Have a massage at Seeing Hands in Siem Reap or Phnom Penh. These blind masseurs know what to do.
• Help out at Big Brother Mouse. Either chat with the children in English or buy one of their books to help promote literacy in Laos.
• Get up early to see monks collect alms at sunrise, a special sight in Luang Prabang, Laos.
• Go to the flag lowering ceremony in Hanoi, Vietnam. A triumphal affair every night at 9pm at the Ho Chi Minh memorial.Learn to say “no thank you” in the local language to keep the hawkers and touts at bay.
• Stay at Golden Temple Villa in Siem Reap. Excellent value and unlimited free bananas make it a winner.
• Stay at Hong Thien Hotel II, 46 Chi Van An Street, in Hue, Vietnam. Tien at reception is very helpful, but don’t book a Halong Bay tour through them (see below).

Don’t:

• Stay at Greenfields in Hoi An, Vietnam. Poor value and dreadful service.
• Rely on your guidebook for accommodation and eating recommendations. Use the Web, get tips from others and explore by yourself to find some real gems.
• Go on a Halong Bay, Vietnam, tour with Tuan Linh travel agency. These tours are sold through Kim Adventures and various hostels in Hanoi. The boat is broken and the guides lousy. If your boat is called the Duy Tan Junk 02, don’t get on it. Electricity is intermittent and the motor may give out.
• Use the travel services at Victory Queen Hotel (formerly Old Darling Hotel), Hanoi, Vietnam. They take a whopping commission without telling you.
• Buy shoes at Cham H’Mong, 495 C’ua Dai Street, Hoi An, Vietnam. They fall apart within hours.
• Buy your Cambodian visa at the ‘Cambodian Consulate’ in Aranya Prathet, Cambodia, it’s a scam. Buy it at the desk once you’re through Thai immigration.
• Take any price as given – accommodation, food, things – all are up for negotiation. Pay what you think is fair.
• Sleep at the back of a sleeper bus. The bounce prevents sleep.
• Lose your temper with a local. If you cause someone to lose their temper they will lose face and make your life very uncomfortable as they try to regain it.
• Expect a peaceful sunrise at Angkor Wat, Siem Reap. You will be joined by hundreds of tourists all jostling for the same perfect sun-rises-over-ancient-temple photo.
• Wear shorts and sandals in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand. The leeches will eat you for breakfast.

We are sailing…

So, farewell Asia.

After four months on the road and rails across this mighty continent, from the low mountains of the Urals to the warm waters of the South China Sea, we will finally bidding a farewell to this huge, diverse chunk of the planet.

Tomorrow we set off into new waters…literally. For the next two weeks our new home will be the CMA CGM Hugo, a container ship sailing across the Pacific Ocean, from Hong Kong to Long Beach, USA.

Beyond the ocean lie the delights of another continent: North America?

But first we have the small matter of a large pond to cross.

Laying my trusty Michelin out last night I realised that the Pacific covers a good third of the planet. It’s going to be a long and (hopefully) fascinating voyage.

See you on the other side…

This week signified the beginning of another leg of my round the world adventure as I finally dragged myself away from my home in Tonga and put myself back on track to reach Australia. I have not only found a new boat with which to continue my journey, but have pulled off the nautical equivalent of being picked up by a limousine, and am currently heading west on a yacht which represents all that is indulgent about being rich.

However, I think that I may be one of the only people in the history of sailing to step aboard a huge luxury catamaran for an all expenses paid cruise to Fiji and immediately burst into tears. What an opener, I know you’re all on the edge of your seats now; how did she end up on a luxury yacht? Why was she crying? Who is this Bob and what has he done to the poor budgies?

International hitchhiking is something that I had never really considered before I set out on this adventure. It sounds like the sort of thing that would be impossible, especially as someone who prior to sailing from Mexico had no experience at all. But actually I had numerous offers of passage to Fiji and beyond during my extended stay in Tonga. Some were more promising than others and some were basically just sleazy old dudes hoping to entice young women out into the vast oceans. You have to stick to your gut instinct with these things so when Bob approached me in my local pub I almost thought it was too good to be true; free passage to Fiji you say? On a luxury catamaran no less? I don’t have to pay for food? You insist on doing all the cooking? It just didn’t sound real, but two days in and life aboard Averone couldn’t get much sweeter.

My new home is a 47-foot catamaran with my own cabin and private bathroom, a flat screen television and DVD player; 3 showers, 6 fishing rods, umpteen bottles of wine, and crisp gin and tonic on tap. Apart from the copious amounts of rum on board this vessel is much more “fabulous darling” than “yo ho ho”, but the saving grace of life aboard Averone – which should earn me at least a little piratical kudos – is the presence of our captain, big bald Bob the budgie smuggler. Sounds good doesn’t it?

Big bald Bob is a brilliant bloke, a very rich moustachioed Englishman who sold his business a few years ago and swore never to work again, opting for opulence and extravagance at every opportunity. He is of the opposite school to me when it comes to comedy beards and claims that these “gnome-like sailors” have got it all wrong. This morning as I tucked into my weetabix he strolled into the galley in nothing but a pair of Speedos, worn in the embarrassing Dad style and announced “I hope you don’t mind my budgie smugglers at this hour”.

This is a man who claims that the smell of cigarette smoke before lunchtime makes him vomit yet he will quite happily catch, kill, and gut a fish before breakfast. He makes my former captain seem uptight and ridiculous, and has totally changed my outlook on sailing as he serves champagne and sushi for lunch, or stops everything to watch the sun go down with a nice cold drink.

Yesterday Bob caught a fish on one of the many rods that are permanently streamed from the stern of the boat.  Vegetarians looks away now: this one was a Mahi Mahi, a massive square headed beast of a thing which flashed a vibrant display of blue and green as it tried to fight off the hook before being hauled onto deck where it proceeded to thrash wildly, spraying the entire deck, and all of us with its blood… charming. But when that same fish becomes your lunch only a few hours later it’s pretty hard to complain.

As I sit here writing this email I am sporting a rather fetching gimble belt which for those of you no familiar with fishing accessories (such as I was only days ago), is a belt into which you put a rod when you are trying to pull a fish in. That’s right folks, Bob is teaching me how to catch fish. So hopefully I will soon be recounting you with tales of my triumphs over nature and the many fish dinners I have created.

We’re half a days sailing away from the shores of Savu Savu in Fiji where we will stay for a few days before heading off to cruise the islands. I will probably stay on Averone for a couple more weeks taking in the sights and sounds of the many Fijian islands before I finally bite the bullet, swallow my pride and (possibly, maybe, if it’s the last resort, because I am ridiculously broke) fly to Australia where the grown up world of jobs and responsibilities await me.

I can almost hear you all draw breath, that’s right, Kate ‘I’m never going to fly again’ Andrews may be on the brink of admitting defeat and taking to the skies for the final leg. Here come the tears! Oh well, no shame, I’ve managed 11 months, 17 countries, 14,000 miles and no flying to date, so I am going to shelve my ideals momentarily in order to get my bank balance out of the red. Please send all gloating emails to www.at-least-i-tried.com.

Previously in Kate’s life…

Having sailed across the Pacific with a motley crew of strangers and an increasingly grumpy captain I decided that it was time to explore the South Pacific on my own. So two months ago I made the courageous decision to abandon ship in the Kingdom of Tonga.

In comparison to the likes of famous castaways and mutineers such as Robinson Crusoe and Fletcher Christian, I was faced not with a gang of angry islanders set on eating my flesh, but found myself in a little corner of paradise. It’s full of lovely people, and rather than having survive on a diet of coconuts, here you can buy all kinds of delicious treats including brown bread, vegemite, and tea bags! For those of you who know me well the abundance of tea and toast should give you the first clue as to why I loved Tonga so much.

My Tongan life was characterised by a healthy dose of good wholesome fun. There have been many days on the beach, numerous dance offs, plentiful mountain exploration and couple of forays into underwater caves. I’ve flown a kite, and swum with whales.  Participated in a few Hermit crab races, yacht races, and underwater snorkel races. I’ve hosted the pub quiz, redecorated my local, lost a limbo competition and won a beer drinking competition. I fell in, and then quite quickly out of love with a strapping young Tongan fellow. I’ve been scuba diving, and bat watching, have done extensive research about whether fish have eye lids, and made friends with all manner of palangis (white folks), not to mention some Tongan ladyboys.

So, in a nutshell I was having a ball, a good old-fashioned hoot full of childish glee which is how I managed to lose two months of my life in Neiafu. But the icing on the cake was the friends I made, some real legends that I am going to miss loads. This made leaving Vavu’a a little problematic and led me to turn down several good opportunities to take to the sea again. My attempts to seek passage towards Australia bore fruit on more than one occasion, but there was always another reason to put my departure off, a birthday party, quiz night, a Tuesday…the list goes on. So when I eventually did summon the courage to leave it was with great regret and that is why I spent the first hour aboard my new yacht crying my eyes out like a total loser and waving as my friends became mere specks on the horizon (cue the violins).

That’s right folks, I’m leaving the sailing vessel Esprit in my metaphorical wake and striking out alone. One of the potential hazards of this particular kind of hitchhiking is that personalities can clash. And with no more than a few metres to separate you from your fellow crew it can become a little stifling. Let’s just say I didn’t necessarily like the cut of my former captain’s jib, and was eager to see what opportunities might open up if I took a chance on Tonga. So as I write this email I am a boat-less sailor, a nomad of the open seas, and am bravely sticking out my thumb in the hope that another yacht will take pity on me.

Despite my initial fears that I might be stranded in this paradise forever (woe is me), my bravery has been rewarded. Within a few hours of officially leaving my yacht, I have been offered not one, but two crewing positions on other boats. They say beggars can’t be choosers, but I think that ‘they’ were not in Neiafu so I am currently being a yacht snob. I am enjoying myself far too much here to set sail again too quickly so am currently staying put, throwing myself head first into a great little community that has made me feel more than welcome. And if all else fails I can always stay here and have lots of Tongan babies because the locals sure are pretty (don’t worry Mum, that’s a joke…sort of).

So watch this space. I could be back on a boat before the week is out, heading to Fiji, Vanuatu or, well, anywhere. Or I could hang around for a month, who knows. Afterall this is a place where the school uniform is comprised of a skirt for the boys, there’s a pub quiz on Wednesdays, and a weekly drag show in which local Fakaleitis dance to Kylie Minogue. What more could you possibly hope for?

Sadly, in this installment I have no stories of pearl smuggling or giant eels to keep you entertained but have been brought crashing back down to the day to day monotony of yachting; of reading books, cooking meals, and enjoying the many delights of salt, water, their close relative salty water, and the colour blue which is available in a range of shades and tones to suit your home.

However, before departing Tahiti I did manage to squeeze in a beer and impromptu sing-a-long with a friendly group of skirt-wearing, pot smoking, tattoo covered locals who made up with beards what they lacked in teeth. A lifelong supporter of the comedy beard I was pleased to make their acquaintance and so spent my last few hours on land in their company, playing along to their songs with the newest development in percussion technology: the pebble and bottle combination. Disappointed that they couldn’t offer me a lift home, and reluctant to see me try to hitchhike they kindly organised for me to be escorted back to my yacht on a jet ski. Talk about arriving in style. I only wish that the following two weeks at sea were as interesting.

The highlight (if you can call it that) of this week has been the arrival of cockroaches on the boat. While not an infestation of biblical proportions (the headcount currently standing at two), we didn’t want to give them the opportunity to multiply. So armed with a bottle of now illegal boric acid, and with the tune of ‘eye of the tiger’ reverberating in my ears I got to work, dousing all available surfaces with the noxious powder. I hoped to pre-empt their assault on our food stores by burning off their limbs. Ha ha, in your face disgusting only-thing-to-survive-a-nuclear-holocaust-evil-insect-of-doom. Survive this! It seems the pre-emptive strike did the trick and we haven’t seen any since. However, the threat to our precious food was not over yet.

Just as we were recovering from the cockroach fiasco we suffered the simultaneous breakdown of our fridge and freezer. This forced us into a race against time to eat as much food as possible before it spoiled. While I can’t really complain about being encouraged to stuff my face, this eat-a-thon, coupled with the distinct lack of exercise that characterises life aboard a 44ft sea-faring caravan, is rapidly accelerating my decline into lardiness,

After three days later all the food was gone, and we were left with 3 apples, a variety of tinned goods and a selection of just add water treats of the dehydrated kind. Thanks to the joys of pasta, rice and fake mashed potato (or faux-tato, as I like to call it) we did not starve. Nor did I develop scurvy which I happen to think is a pity, as it would be have been very authentic sailor-ish of me, but there’s still time.

The third disaster to strike our boat was the weather, which fluctuated wildly between total calm and no wind on one end of the spectrum, and too much wind and lots of rain on the other. Somebody once likened yachting to “standing in a shower while tearing up money”, and I have to admit that the last fourteen days fit this bill very well. The only saving grace in this situation, which comforted me as I was thrown from side to side during one of many small storms, or as I sat, staring through rain at an eerily becalmed sea, is the thought that as a trans-Pacific hitchhiker it isn’t my money.

Our arrival in The Kingdom of Tonga came just in time. The last apple had been munched, the fauxtato was running out, and my fellow boat mates were starting to look oh so tasty.

One night, during a particularly boring 2-4am lookout shift, while cruising at the daredevil, batten down the hatches, man over board speed of 3 knots, I watched with horror as a cloud, yes that’s right, a cloud, overtook us. I was only able to console myself with the fact that this turbo charged boy racer super cloud looked a bit like Africa on the radar. There’s nothing like some endless boredom to kick start your imagination.

Luckily we managed to catch some good wind during the day and we did eventually make it to Ahe, one of the largest landmasses in the Tuamoto group of islands. It seems ‘large’ is a term that is applied quite loosely when it comes to Pacific atolls as from the beach at one end of the island I could see all the way to the other side.

Having exhausted the island’s major attractions and reluctant to get back on the yacht I wandered aimlessly down the street, chasing crabs, and looking at the amazing selection of food in the shop, including “celebrity sausages” (insert your own sausage worthy celebrity here). As I turned a corner an extremely drunk man waving a tea towel tried to get my attention. As I got closer I saw that this was no ordinary drunk man but a drunken man with a bag of pearls. So I went over to say hello.

With one hand on a can of Heineken and the other resting lazily on a huge pile of pearls, the man looked me up and down, peering at me through one eye. He squinted through his drunken haze, and then declared “very beauty…” he paused, whether for effect or to remember the word in English I’m not sure, and then he triumphantly proclaimed “FULL, very beautiful!”

Quite what he hoped the outcome of this would be was not made clear, perhaps he envisioned me offering my body in exchange for pearls, I’m not entirely sure. Either way once he realised that I was not going to be forthcoming in offering myself as a prostitute, he fell back on safer ground. “Whisky!!!” he exclaimed, laughing to himself and pushing the pearls towards me “one bottle, one pearl”.

The moral questions raised by trading alcohol for pearls are ominous. Besides the fact it’s probably illegal, the man in question looked like he could do with a night off the booze. But it seemed that this man was just out to make a quick buck, and who am I to turn down a bargain?

After an hour of turning down marriage proposals and the promise of “beucoup enfants” I walked away with a pocket full of pearls. Luckily (for me) I had bought a bottle of Mexican tequila as a present for someone in Australia and was able to swap it for 6 shiny pearls. So even though I will be arriving empty handed down under I will look fabulous (darling) in my pearls. Now that I’ve got my hands on some treasure, and the fact that I climbed the rigging this week means that I am back on track in my pursuit of piracy. Yaaaarrrgggh!

Since my last blog I have been on land not once but three times! I spent a few days on Nuka Hiva in Les Marquises, 24 hours on the tiny coral atoll of Ahe in the Tuamotu Archipelago and the best part of a week in sunny Tahiti. I knew all those hours at sea would be worth it in the long run.

In between land the sailing has been approximately the same, water in all directions and saltiness all round. Salty hair, skin, and clothes, I am always salty, like some kind of delicious bar snack. In fact it occurred to me this week, during another of my deep thought night shifts that I share quite a lot with the humble peanut of late, salty, dry roasted by the sun, and a brilliant accompaniment to beer.

This dream was shattered though when curiosity got the better of me and like the filthy and disgusting individual I am I licked my arm, only to discover that I am far less delicious than I had hoped.

The arrival of land on the horizon couldn’t have come at a better time as I was seriously beginning to doubt my own sanity (as demonstrated by the peanut analogy and by the worrying fact that I caught myself pulling faces at my own reflection while on the graveyard shift). However, Nuka Hiva is a tiny island with an even tinier town, so my few days there were a slow reintroduction into the world of civilisation.

Though small and quiet, with only one restaurant and 2.5 shops, it was amazing to have more than four people to talk to, and more than 44ft to move in one direction. On the downside I did have to shower and at least consider brushing my hair.

That’s one thing that I definitely don’t miss about civilization. I’ve grown quite fond of the semi hobo look, so much so that I continued modelling my vagabond chic on land. However, I also fully embraced French Polynesian culture by eating brie and baguettes, and drinking red wine. So I must have looked quite a site; barefoot, and dirty on the beach, like a shipwrecked sailor that’s just raided a deli.

I celebrated my birthday in style by traipsing through the jungle with the heavily tattooed descendants of cannibals (seriously, Google it) in order to see what I was assured is the third highest waterfall in the world. Standing at 310 metres I suppose it was pretty big, but I was more interested in swimming in the nearby pools and re-enacting an advert for new improved herbal infused all natural essence of aloe organic fusion key amino tropical jungle protective conditioning shampoo.

While I busied myself with this important task I failed to notice that the pool in which I swam was also home to a family of massive eels, with savage pointy teeth and evil Wayne Rooney faces. My vision of paradise came crashing down around me as I ran screaming from the pool. You will be pleased to hear that I escaped wound free, and with remarkably shiny hair. An amazing birthday, and not one I’ll forget in a hurry.

I’ve done some things that most people only dream of. From sailing across the Equator with a glass of champagne, to showering in a rain storm and barbecuing steaks off the back of the yacht while drifting through the Doldrums. I’ve seen more flying fish and dolphins than you can shake a stick at (this was hindered only by the fact that I didn’t have a stick to hand), but most importantly, I survived. All this excitement, however, was on the good days…

A 24 day ocean crossing leaves plenty of time for boredom to set in. After all, the fact that you can’t see land is only interesting for the first few minutes. After that, well you just can’t see land, or indeed anything, except sea and sky, sky and sea, one or the other, or both, depending on the direction you look. Riveting I know. So in order to keep boredom at bay and to preserve my sanity I became a model housewife.

I’ve cooked, cleaned and baked bread, I’ve mended holes in my clothes and done my washing in a bucket. Short of darning socks and bearing children I’ve been a perfect 1940s stay at home mother. So if you’ve thought of me with even a shred of envy at any point during the last 3 weeks you can console yourself with the knowledge that while I was sailing across an ocean in true environmental warrior style, there is also a good chance that I was cleaning a toilet.

As the least experienced member of crew I often left the sailing business to the more salty sailors and I earned my keep with the bread making, scone and banana bread baking, and cooking up culinary treats for my co-crew. And when I wasn’t busy playing house I was left to consider the important things in life, the questions that mankind has struggled with since time began, like whether fish have eyelids, and at what point I simply won’t be able to get any more tanned.

Photos: Kate & x-ray_delta

Not only have we been able to receive emails from the boat for the last three weeks, but the level of detail we can see with Googlemaps and the satellite tracking the boat is amazing.

• TOP: I’ve started fully zoomed out so you can see that they are in the middle of the Pacific:
• MIDDLE: Now here’s one showing the island that they’re anchored next to.
• BOTTOM: And finally here’s the really amazing one!

Note that the boat didn’t actually sail right across the island as the blue line suggests! The reason it goes across is because the satellite takes a reading every day or so and then draws a straight line between two points.

Thanks of course to Google for making all this possible. If you want to have a play around yourself, you can do so here.

However, I am sad to report that my encouragement has fallen on deaf ears and none of my fellow crew have taken up the challenge. I have grown my eyebrows into a new style but you wouldn’t know it to look at me, and anyway it’s just not the same. A wasted opportunity I say, wasted.

Don’t be fooled though, the voyage has not been without excitement. Where we’ve failed on the facial hair front, we’re more than making up for it in the exciting realm of falling over.

Let me paint you a picture. Imagine you are doing something very ordinary, like for instance cleaning your teeth, or using the toilet, showering, cooking, you know the usual. Now imagine that the entire world is tipped on a 45 degree angle, and is rocking back and fort like a see-saw of doom. Fall on your face, bump your head, get toothpaste in your hair, rip down the shower curtain…now that’s entertainment.

The only solution is to hang on for dear life on anything that you can get your hands on. The result of this is an amazing dance which I’ve named the Pacific Shuffle: put your arms in the air, thrust your hips, and now stagger all over the place like some kind of possessed upside down weeble wobble. All with a bemused look of incomprehension on your face. Beyonce eat your heart out.

Now take sleeping, something that we all take for granted, the simple primordial act of laying your head on the pillow and shutting your eyes, drifting into a calming dream of tropical breezes and gentle lapping waves. Except that this sea is not calm, it a bastard evil demon of doom that is hellbent on keeping you awake at all costs. You might just get comfortable in one position and starting drifting off when all of a sudden you find yourself rolling down the boat, slamming into whatever obstacle lies in your paths.

Some nights I actually went to the extreme measure of using elastic bungy cords to secure myself to my bed. Great for the stomach muscles, not so good for sleeping. And that’s not even mentioning the noise, water sloshing, boat creaking, ropes whipping, head banging. Pissed off is an understatement. I have never in my life been so irritated by inanimate objects; I have called the sea a wanker, the cupboard door that will not stopping banging a loser, and the fridge, ah the fridge that just won’t stay closed, milk carton falling out every time you open it, well I’ve called it several things, none of which are suitable for your innocent little ears.

And as for the sailing part of this expedition you will be happy to read that I have learnt the basics of how to make the wind blow us in the right direction. I have not unfortunately climbed any rigging, but I have scrubbed the deck and I do intend to shout “land ahoy” when we finally see some later today. But on a daily basis there isn’t really much to do. If the wind blows at the same speed from the same direction for 48 hours then all you ever have to do is press a button every once in a while on the autopilot.

All in all the trip so far has not be especially exciting, but all this is about to change as we are a mere 100 nautical miles from Les Marquises, our first stop of many. Once I’ve finished writing this, I will go and sit on deck staring at the horizon until my beloved land comes into sight. Apparently land has a particular smell, I’m not convinced about that one but I’ll let you know. So this time tomorrow I will be doing a different kind of staggering, thanks to the legendary land sickness that often follows long periods at sea. And I will be staggering first, towards a bar because I really really want a cold beer, second, to somewhere that sells ice cream, and third, well frankly, I might just lie on the floor and appreciate the stillness.

If you’re reading this then it means I made it to land and have found my way to an internet café, I’ve had rather a lot of time on my hands so it’s all sort of poured out of me. In summary it was about boats, and beards and bastard things that go bang. So now I am landed for four of five days before we set sail again, this time to Tahiti. But the longest leg of the journey is finished, and if we keep this speed up we should be in Oz before the end of June, bring it on!

P.S. land smells like wet trees and reminds you of everywhere you’ve ever been. It’s weird that I’ve never noticed before. And another important piece of news is that the locals here are covered in mad tats, warrior style, don’t let anyone ever tell you that tattoos aren’t cool.

We won’t actually make it to land tonight as that will require blowing up the dinghy and motoring in (this is because there is are only anchorage points here no Marina) but tomorrow I should be putting my feet on dry land for the first time in over 20 days. I will be on the phone faster than you can say Skype. So I will be on land for my birthday, bonus!

Anyway, I’d better go as I’m half way through cooking dinner.

Kate xxx

I wrote that a few hours ago and it hasn’t been sent yet so I thought I’d add a little update. Consider me whelmed. As we approached land I suddenly understood what everyone has been talking about, it does have a smell, like a forest, wet and fresh. And totally bizarre as it seemed to conjure a thousand memories at once. We are now at anchor and I am experiencing the very weird sensation of not moving, not rocking back and forth like a bloody pendulum, although if I shut my eyes I can still feel the rocking motion, like how the beat lingers in your ears after a rave.

The bay is nice and sheltered and we have just enjoyed a celebratory drink in the calm sea. We’ll head for land first thing but I have the distinct impression that I wont be able to sleep tonight as I am now very excited. I’m going to take advantage of the calm and sleep tonight so that as soon as I open my eyes I can see the island in all it’s glory. For now I’ll have to be content with staring at shadows. From what I can tell Nuka Hiva has a pretty dramatic landscape, and a very tiny town. So excited!

I am a sleepy sailor today, having done the 8-10 last night my brain kept me awake until gone midnight then I was back on 2-4am. And then, as if your prayers were answered, we got wind at 5am, fast, boat rocking, bed shaking, sleep depriving wind. So we’re moving along at a good speed but I am tired as a badger.

That’s all for now. If all goes well we’ll be on the Marquesas in a few days. Please please please please (James Brown style).

Despite the inevitable anti-climax of crossing an invisible line (comparable to new years eve in many ways, I almost felt like linking arms and singing Old Lang Syne), I am delighted to report that yes the water now drains down the sink in the opposite direction and everything is upside down and dolphins wearing top hats ride unicycles on the waves.

To mark the occasion of our crossing, Lena, my female companion on Esprit who will be sorely missed when she alights in Tahiti, donned some rope for hair and grasped a trident cleverly made from duct tape. And in the full maritime glory of Neptune, whose whim has determined our trip, she baptised us one by one, so I can now proudly add a Maritime Doctorate to my list of lifetime achievements.

The Duldrums have performed exactly as advertised and we have been doing rather a lot of floating these last few days. This morning though it seems that Neptune was smiling upon us from his crustacean kingdom, his seaweed semi detatched, whatever you want to call it, and we were graced with 12 knots of wind from the south east, just enough to put up the spinnacker (another failed spelling attempt). This is a large and very colourful sail made from what looks like parachute silk, designed to catch the light winds as they idle past us, pulling us towards our destination. A realistic estimate puts us at anchor in around 5 days.

It will be great to put my feet back on dry land although now, with my sea legs firmly in place I’ve been warned to be wary of land sickness, what a cruel twist of fate, you get used to one thing and then the rules of play are changed. Oh well, with the end in sight I can start to think about what awaits me on the islands. My trusty lonely planet doesn’t rave about Nuka Hiva but it sounds as good a place as ever to restock and relax for a few days before we start our island hopping towards Oz. The longest leg after this shouldn’t last more than a week, so with this under my belt I have a feeling that the time will fly. Before I know it I’ll be job hunting in Australia.

Talking of once in a lifetime opportunities I took a shower on deck under a tropical storm yesterday. There’s not many people who can say that they’ve lathered up in a rain storm in the middle of the Pacific. And also, one of the benefits of the duldrums is that with the motor off we were calm enough last night to fire up the bbq. That’s right, I cooked steaks off the back of the boat in the middle of the biggest Ocean on earth!

Theatrical timing came into play and within seconds of the words escaping his mouth Phil relieved himself onto the roof of the cockpit, spattering the newly washed deck with his offering. To say that Michael was unimpressed is an understatement and he subsequently spent the best part of an hour chasing this bemused animal around the deck, hose in hand, frantically spraying me, my clean laundry, the sails, the rest of the crew and himself in an attempt to set Phil in flight. Each success was short lived as the bird, less stupid than we originally thought, did a full circle and promptly returned to sun himself on another corner of the boat. As I’m sure you can imagine this provided a welcome distraction from the tedium of sailing, and increased the number of things to look at from 3 (boat, sea and sky) to four (+ Phil the boobie bird).
Today I baked more bread. This trip is turning me into a regular housewife. All very well to pass the time for now but if the crew think this will continue once there’s land in sight they’ve got another thing coming.

In other news:

Michael practised shouting “land ahoy” today. I would give him 7 out of 10, but he has a week to perfect his style so there’s plenty of room for improvement.

A flying fish flew straight into the window of the cockpit last night, then rebounded off the plastic thus projecting itself back into the water. Quite a party trick I’d say. Also, small squid things keep appearing on the deck, edible you think?

Well, funnily enough I didn’t feel much of anything. Granted a lack of water would be a major inconvenience and I suddenly cursed myself for a) passing up my opportunity to take a shower the day before, and b) not bringing baby wipes with me. But I think that I was better prepared to cope with the discomfort of not washing than my fellow crew, seems that litter picking in the filth of Glastonbury sin shower for 5 days, and volunteering in a water challenged Nicaraguan village i.e. bathing in a river for a month is good life experience. The Western world is too hygiene conscious anyway, Kills 99% of germs my arse, there’s nothing like washing your hands and having a good cup of tea to keep nasties at bay. Besides, washing your hair too often strips away natural oils don’t you know, I’m cultivating my very own amino acids, whatever they are.

I think a situation like that helps to put things into perspective; yes we would be severely rationed but so long as we were frugal there was no reason to think that we would go thirsty. And a salt water wash, while not as refreshing fresh water is better than nothing.

I will reiterate though that it really did make me take a good look at the energy and water I use everyday and where I could use less. For instance, the taps were powered by a pump that used power that could be better used elsewhere, the solution? A foot operated pump that spits out a thin stream of water when pressed, more than enough to wash your hands yet significantly less than a tap would pour out in 10 seconds of use. Needless to say I am still using the foot pump since the power has come back.

The only thing that did bring me a little discomfort was the prospect of 2 weeks without the faithful mp3 player. A two hour watch in the middle of the night with only the sea for company can drag. There’s only so much life evaluation you can do in a fortnight, sometimes you just want to sing along to Marvin Gaye and think about nothing more taxing than the perplexing question of whether fish sleep, and if so do shut their eyes, and stop swimming and if this is case do they sink or float? Answers on a postcasd to 11 degrees 30 minutes North, 126 degrees 00 minutes west, PO Box the Pacific Ocean.

In a totally cliche and pretentious manner I did think about our plight in terms of a microcosm of global warming. The Yacht (our fragile society) sailing out into the big unruly Ocean (the Natural World) just hoping that the fossil fuels we are relying on for our existence don’t let us down, with only enough sustainable energy sources to provide for a fraction of the needs/wants we take for granted. And to top it off we’re just hoping that the sea on which we’re sailing (the environment) doesn’t go mental and throw us off course…

I’m sure you can see that I have too much time on my hands. But seriously, it seems so obvious to me that we’re all massive idiots not paying enough attention to how much shit we would be in if our “engine” really breaks down. Without a paddle is an understatement, we might as well not even have a boat.

More life altering observations later.

So, in the briefest way possible:

In answer to your question, no engine does not warrant the use of flares, and seeing as though we haven’t seen any ships at all in over a week they would be wasted. In case of emergency we would contact our various puddle-jump friends with whom we check in with on the radio daily. At least two of them are only a day or so sail away so if worst came to worst we have a back up.

Yesterday marked half way.

Wasted opportunity in that none of the imagination-devoid men on this yacht are utilising the opportunity of being this far from civilisation to cultivate comedy beards. If I were a man I would almost certainly be experimenting with a variety of piratical styles including, a Jolly Roger goatie, a Blue Beard full facial crumb catcher, or a Jack Sparrow dreadlocked affair complete with beads. Wasted says I, aaaarrgggh!

Very rough night last night, you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone eh? A bed that doesn’t move all night long, what a luxury. It’s like being in a hammock that is strung up between two washing machines, mounted on a bucking bronko, on a train, on a seesaw, balancing on the edge of a cliff…

Yesterday was a bit of a dark day on the Esprit as the engine put up a fight when we went to start it (we run it every morning for an hour or so to charge the batteries while we run the desalination system), and then promptly overheated. A blown head gasket? Replaceable but certainly not a job to be undertaken at sea. So with a sense of grim acceptance we started to calculate how much water we were holding in the tanks, what instruments consume the most energy, and how much the solar panels and wind turbine can really generate.

With eight days between us and Mexico, and fourteen to Les Marqueses, it looked as though we were facing the rest of our voyage on heavily rationed water. This would mean two weeks of living in close confines with five unwashed and grumpy sailors, unable to take showers or wash our clothes, all while steering the boat by hand. While I would love to paint an image of us roughing it in the days preceding this disaster it would be misleading. We had until that fateful moment been living to a very nice standard, showers every other day, a change of clothes when necessary, and sweet bliss, an autopilot system.

I had not realised how great an invention an autopilot really is, that is until we realised that it’s little blinking lights, and the reassuring “wurrr” as it adjusts the rudder were consuming enough energy to make us several litres of water every day. And so the autopilot went off and I had my first taste of commanding the yacht, not a particularly grueling task once you get a feel for the rudder but controlling it round the clock on two hour shifts, 2 of those hours during the night? Needless to say I did not relish the opportunity.

And how savage to be surrounded by water, literally one of only three things you can see (water, sky, boat) but have to ration it so much. The worst thing is that the sea water can’t even be used to wash yourself, something to do with ions means that conventional soap or shampoo just wont cut it in salty water. And to top it all off being at sea means that you are constantly covered with a film of salt. On a hot day I feel like I am being cured into some sort of delicious meaty snack or a dry roasted peanut, except I am not delicious or edible, just dirty.

As you can probably imagine, when Michael, our captain, mechanic, and guru emerged after I don’t know how many hours from the engine room with a sorry look on his face we feared the worst. But this morning, against all the odds, and despite having almost no sleep he found the problem (something to do with a water cooling system), and not only that but fixed it! We are so happy to have a mechanic for a captain. You could almost forgive him for being an Australian who constantly teases me about being a “bloody pome”. We can shower, we can wash our clothes, I’ve never been more enthusiastic to do some washing up in all my life!!!

That’s all. I’m so glad I waited to write this message as I almost wrote one last night with the dire message “engine broken, must save energy, no more emails, reply only in emergency”. I bet you would have loved that.

I do look out on the sea on a daily basis and reflect on how unbelievably huge the ocean is, and what an incredible opportunity I have been given in this voyage. But a reality check is necessary. Slow travel doesn’t meet the demands of modern life that we are so accustomed to; I haven’t used my mobile phone in 8 months, although I am writing you an email, there is no facebook, no google, we don’t have a microwave, most of our power is generated by solar panels and a wind generator on the back of the boat.

We have to make all of our water with a desalination system that is extremely energy intensive, and showering is a challenge to use as little water as possible (think a couple of litres). We have only as much food as we could store on the yacht, if it runs out we have no more, I have been making our own fresh bread from scratch, and growing yoghurt with the help of powdered milk and the heat of the sun. Our gas is rationed so the kettle can only ever be filled as need demands, and although we occasionally run the engine to top up the batteries, the majority of the time we rely solely on wind to take us to our destination. If ever there was a crash course in sustainable living this is it. Even I, who thought I was pretty clued up about where I use the most energy is my life has had a few surprises.

As you can probably tell I have been in reflective mode. That’s another thing, besides sea water, that we have in plentiful supply, time. I have thought about most things in my life; memories, aspirations, friends, career options, approximately 3 times, and I will probably most likely think about them all a few more times before the journey’s over. On that note, I think that everyone could use some of this forced solitude, looking out at the sea in the dark, to get a clearer idea of what to do with life.