Trans-Pacific: Sailing Hawaii to California

3329.780° N, 14652.741° W

Day 5: Northern Pacific Ocean

The wind is light. Down to a consistent three knots after four long days beating into the wind. I find the flat boat more than welcomed. As does my stomach. No more than three hours after we pushed off the dock in Honolulu, we cleared the north end of the island, sailing straight into 25 knots of breeze and swells large and inconsistent. I soon found myself draped over the rail, green and bailing on the contents of my stomach. This became my new normal for the next two days. Unable to eat, I spent my time driving, curled up in a ball on the deck - hoping the wind on my face would act as some kind of repreve, and throwing up over the rail. Two weeks of this? Shit. 

We’ve begun to settle into a rhythm. Four hour shifts during the day, and three at night. We play our favorite albums over the speakers - all the way through - as intended. We attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy in our diets, but we are yet to find success. Sleeping goes well, on occasion. Until you get thrown from your bunk into the hydraulic system. The conversation flows rich like wine. How blessed am I to experience this with my dad. I know an experience like this isn’t normal and I relish it. 

Last night the engine died around 3 am. On my watch. Our only lifeline through this high pressure system and home to California. We are now so far from land that there are no longer birds flying - just the occasional piece of discarded fishing net, aimlessly drifting for the next, well, forever. Tyler took the engine apart and we spent the next few hours troubleshooting. Fire? Fuel? Air? All I knew is that we were about as far from land as a human can be in this world, moving at 0.0 knots, with no wind for the next four days and no engine. He replaced the fuel filter, we added oil and bled the fuel lines. No dice. The fuel gauge reads 20 gallons, but let’s add diesel, just in case. We pump from one of six barrels strapped to the deck and hope for the best. I fire up the engine, bathed in the red light of my headlamp. It runs. Yes. Onward. 

I’m sitting on the deck a few hours after our engine puzzle. The sun is bright and we have hand lines trolling off the stern.  

3605.03N°, 13405.602W°

Day 8: Northern Pacific Ocean

We’ve been sitting in a high pressure system for a few days now. The breeze is light, averaging 7 knots. The jib is up again, in an attempt to save fuel. We are meant to meet some weather in the next day or two west of the Channel Islands. Way west, but west nonetheless. Predicted puffs of 30 knots - sporty. The further north we sail now, the further downwind we can sail later this week (read - comfort). The days are short out here, while night watches last an eternity. When the sun is up we fish, read books, and daydream - a much more individualist experience than at night. I’m reading A Moveable Feast by Earnest Hemingway, a beautiful account of his time living in Paris in the 1920’s. I find it raw and inspiring, romanticizing the seemingly mundane aspects of life.  When the sun disappears I find myself focused, my attention acute. In the darkness I drive by feel - the tug of the rudder on the wheel, the rise and fall of the bow. Music plays and I hear more complexities in the track. Conversations with my dad are deeper and full of intention. New ideas and unprovoked life analysis flow, unhindered by the distractions of the day. I find significant beauty in the simplicity of life out here. Basic human needs, caring for one another, fixing problems as they arise, and moving from point A to point B - an attainable goal. 

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Day 12: Northern Pacific Ocean

The party is over. We have spent the last 48 hours at war. One of the biggest storms I have ever seen has ripped us apart. Sustained 35 knots of wind and waves in the 15 - 20 foot range from every direction, raging through a confused sea state. We traded off, thirty minutes on the wheel and thirty minutes off in an attempt to quell the physical and mental toll driving in those conditions takes on the body. The ocean rapidly became angrier and meaner. Water frothing over our heads and waves breaking into the seemingly closed hatches. The boat filled with water, sloshing at our shins when down below. We discovered an oil leak in the engine (the dipstick doesn't fit correctly), so the water is murky and brown in color. It smells like oil and sweat and the floors are slick where they aren’t under water. As soon as I ducked below deck I began throwing up. The violent throws of the boat and smell of oil did me no favors. The sickness lasted three days after its origin. Tyler and Steve stay on deck, their hundreds of thousands of collective offshore miles outweighing the risk of keeping me on deck for an additional set of (very sick) hands. I sat in my bunk until 6 am. Retching and slamming into the wall from the inconsistent yet frequent semi truck sized waves breaking over the boat. Back up I go, and immediately into the rotation. The storm is just as angry. There is a power and feeling of helplessness 1000 miles offshore unlike anything I have experienced before. Back on our 30 minute driving cycles, we alternate between gripping the wheel and gripping the backstay, sick off the stern. The hours wore on, into the evening light, marking two days without sleep or food. Finally, the wind begins to subside, 30 knots turns into 25, eventually dropping into the 18-20 knot zone. It felt like the world was standing still. Heading downwind the flatten the boat, we spent an hour bailing water. Gallons of murky seawater pump out, leaving a slick coating over the wood floorboards. Crashes are imminent in the still angry sea state and waves. Yet the worst of it is over. Contrary to my belief, there is a break in the storm, a finish line does exist. We couldn’t be smaller in the power of creation. There was no controlling our heading, the weather, nor our bodies. I felt completely at the mercy of my surroundings. Yet we put our heads down and battled, believing in an eventual repreve - a vision of calm waters driving us forward. For now, I am tired. 

33.7542° N, 118.2165° W

Day 15: Long Beach Harbor, CA

The final days proved long. The desired goal seemingly sat at an unattainable distance. The mileage left on tap crept by on the screen of the computer in the nav station. My daily rhythm was perturbed by the potential of a finish line. Hours passed by slower, and I found it increasingly difficult to settle in. We spent the final few days motoring through dense fog, with no formidable landmarks or landscapes. Our autopilot broke on day one, so driving consisted of staring at our heading 100% of the time, reacting to slight changes from swells and human error. Today at 9 am the breakwater of the Long Beach harbor broke through the fog, marking the end of our journey. A long, beautiful, intensely testing two weeks spent on this planet’s last frontier. 

Together, my dad and I have climbed the highest peaks, ran thousands of miles around the world, surfed remote breaks up and down the coast, played cowboys for summers on end, and now, sailed across the world’s biggest ocean. It’s difficult for me to put words to the impact he has had on my life. His spirit of adventure and intentionality has been instrumental. Never stop moving. Check in on your friends. Foster the relationships in your life. Continuously push your boundaries both from a physical and mental standpoint. And do it all with God in the driver's seat. 

This journey tested me in new ways, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that opportunity. I’m sure I will slowly uncover new learnings from my experience, but for now, I need a nap in a bed that doesn’t want to throw me out of it.