Windhorse Sailing

Day: 5
Position: 42.32 south, 62.32 West
Airtemp: 48 F
Daylight: 8.75 hrs
Heading : W
Weather: Clear, S winds 16-18 knots
Seas: 6′ S chop

We tacked this morning about an hour before sunrise to the West, heading for land after a full day and night of making good time to the south. Luke headed back to bed and I remained topside opting for the sunrise even though cold air bit harshly at toes and face, a gentle reminder of much, much colder days to come. We’ve had three days of beautiful weather, blue “Simpson” skies by day and crisp clear nights filled with a waxing moon. Molly Hawks continue to visit and we’ve had two Albatross flybys, which we’ll take for good omens.

I’ve been living in the tropics the last several years and have grown accustomed to the almost sudden rise of the sun, like an egg cracked into a skillet with a plop, so this morning’s deeper latitude sunrise was something altogether different. I thought it would never climb out of the sea, somehow stuck on a pendulum teasing me with filtered gray. But it did indeed rise, timidly spreading brilliant colors of reds and oranges over a blanket of altocumulus clouds, which covered our eastern horizon. The show lasted over an hour and I found little else pecking away at my mind other than taking it in.

At some point today, some point among the typical daily chores one goes about; eating, preparing food, sleeping, logging progress, reading, that sunrise came back to me and I caught myself smiling. There’s been hundreds of times in the last month that I’ve wondered what in the hell I was going to do this for. Sail in the middle of winter on a small boat around Cape Horn, one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. Why? Because for today and the four days before and whatever days lay ahead, be they brutal or perfect I will have little else on my mind but our job and our journey; not much more to process than the rise and fall of the sun and the seas. Even though the winds will howl and the rigging will scream and at times it will be anything but quiet, this kind of peace cannot be found anywhere except right here.

Gavin McClurg. 65 miles from safe haven, racing to beat a forecasted southerly gale.