gal·ley
/ˈɡalē/
noun

1. [HISTORICAL] a low, flat ship with one or more sails and up to three banks of oars, chiefly used for warfare, trade, and piracy.
2. the kitchen in a ship or aircraft.

How ironic that the name of a boat’s kitchen is derived from that of a vessel that required rowing…

Preparation takes 3x longer

The galley on a boat at sea – no matter how well designed – only has one primary purpose: to maim or kill the person(s) attempting to prepare food in it. Any recipe that one finds on the internet that claims to only require 15 minutes of prep time (probably farcical to begin with) should in fact be tripled or quadrupled if it is being executed on a boat.

Simple actions that one normally takes for granted in a standard landlocked kitchen require shocking levels of concentration and physical prowess. Breaking an egg? A passing swell will drop the port hull 10 feet just as the shell breaks, leaving a mess on the stove that takes 5 minutes to clean up. Dicing an onion? If you didn’t have your feet more that shoulder-width apart and one knee and hip braced against the oven door, well, you probably had to stop what you were doing to go in search of a bandaid or tourniquet.

You can’t wing it

Given the concentration it requires to execute even the most basic steps of cooking, turning one’s attention to look at a screen or a book for the next step in a recipe is just another opportunity for things to go horribly wrong. It’s best to mentally rehearse everything that goes into preparing a dish and then do so without pause. This obviously means that simpler recipes are preferred.

Digital scales don’t work on a boat

Even sitting on a table or countertop, the digital scale onboard showed an error that it needed to be on a “stable surface” in order to initialize itself. It wasn’t a huge deal, except that many bread recipes list dry ingredients by weight rather than volume. Without a working scale, we had to convert measurements to cups, tablespoons, etc.

Baking equals home

Fresh food items at sea are difficult to come by as the distances grow and the destinations get more remote. But fresh baked goods are something that can be made with simple, durable ingredients in almost any conditions, and they are a huge boost to morale. Dan did a lot of baking (in addition to his duties as Chief Steward), and it really made the journey more enjoyable. Bread, bagels, sticky buns and garlic knots all provided a lift at various times along the way.

Induction plates are your friend

Coda has a gas stove, a gas oven, a small microwave, a toaster and an induction plate. As the weather got hotter and hotter during our journey, the usefulness of the induction plate became more and more apparent. It heats things quickly, throws off very little extraneous heat, and doesn’t generate any odors that might compound someone’s seasickness. Not only that, if the pot of water it was boiling happened to go flying across the main salon, it detected that there was no longer a pot on it and turned itself off. Safety first!

Always float your eggs

Eggs were sold out by the time we did our provisioning in St. Helena, which made the ones we were carrying from South Africa that much more precious. I made the mistake of breaking six eggs all into one bowl, the fifth of which was (quite odoriferously) bad. Let’s just say that the eggs were precious enough that I went to the trouble of carefully scooping out the rotten egg material from the rest.

Put your eggs in a bowl of water before breaking them. Any that float are suspect and should be broken open independently of the rest.

Bring activated charcoal

Some of the crew were, uh, concerned that I had merely scooped the rotten egg out of the batch rather than tossing it entirely (Wes used the batch of eggs to make his chorizo breakfast burritos). So in the event that you are subject to a cook who is maniacally opposed to throwing away food, packing capsules of activated charcoal is a cheap and portable guard against eating “iffy” food items and helps mitigate potential digestive issues.

Hydration is not enough

There seems to a strong correlation between feeling queasy and lethargic at sea and being dehydrated. As a crew, we did our best to drink water often, but as we neared the equator, even that didn’t seem to be enough. We figured out that adding electrolyte tablets to our water bottles was much more effective at warding off the equatorial stupor.

I’ve committed the cardinal sin for bloggers: failing to post regularly and frequently. My humble apologies to those that have been following along.

The crew of Coda has now each gone their separate ways, as have the family and friends that came to Grenada to celebrate the conclusion of the voyage. I have accepted an offer from Wes to stay with the boat for a few weeks while repairs, maintenance and deep cleaning are done in preparation for selling the boat. That of course is a bittersweet prospect, as I think it is fair to say that we all have an emotional attachment to Coda.

I think back to some of the nights when Coda was getting hit by waves and rumbling over the tops of swells while I lay in my bunk sleeping (or trying to anyway). It almost felt as though she was racing through the dark seeking out the challenges that the wind and sea were throwing at her, like a war horse or a UFC fighter. To let her sit idle and neglected in some marina or boatyard would be a fate worse than death for such a noble vessel, so even though it’s sad to have to say goodbye, I’ll do my best to ensure that Coda looks and feels her best for whatever quests and battles lie ahead.

I should have some time to catch up on posting about the final leg of our voyage, as well as a little deeper look into the lovely island of Grenada, so stay tuned…

12.04325˚ N, 61.74750˚ W

The “sporty” beam wind we were seeing along the northeat coast of South America slowly moved to our stern and then fizzled out, and we ended up motoring during our final night at sea. The moon was out, and we could see the lights of Tobago. In the morning – after a pancake breakfast provided by Dan – we set about cleaning Coda‘s deck and cockpit, including taking the covers off all the cushions and washing them with soap and water to get the salt out.

As we approached St. George’s Harbor in Grenada, there was a nice fresh breeze, so we unfurled the genoa and tacked our way into the harbor (Coda is fast, but she is not rigged for racing, so tacking is actually a pretty slow, painful process). We dropped anchor in 15 meters of water on the outer edge of a mooring field, roughly a quarter-mile off shore.

Wes’s family had asked that they have a chance to get to the dock to greet Coda as she arrived, so we completed our tidying activities, went for a bit of a swim, then got out all the fenders and docklines that had been stowed deep in the bow lockers when we were in Cape Town an eon ago.

We got word that welcoming committee was nearly to the marina. Wes hailed Port Louis on the radio to let them know we were on our way, then we weighed anchor and motored into an inner harbor known as The Lagoon.

There were staggeringly massive yachts tied up near the entrance to The Lagoon, including the world’s largest privately owned sailing catamaran Hemisphere. Coda felt downright petite in comparison.

Wes’s wife, his parents and his friends Jeff and Nancy were waiting for us as we found our spot at the end of E dock. Hugs and tears and congratulations were had all around. We welcomed everyone aboard, and we sat and talked in the cockpit for a few minutes before disembarking and heading to a nearby restaraunt for dinner.

Grenada has much more of a party vibe than any of our previous stops, but everyone was more inclined to turn in early for the evening. So far, everyone says they’ve had the best night of sleep since they left home, so apparently docklines have quite a soothing effect on a sailor’s subconscious.

We will soon be making our closest pass to the Brazilian mainland, and piracy is at the top of everyone’s mind.

Just kidding!

Brazil doesn’t really have a piracy problem, and in any case the pirates would have to have a boat the size of a Coast Guard cutter for them to have any chance of catching us.

At some point around St. Helena, the crew had a brief conversation about how we’d like another shot at the conditions we saw the first 36 hours out of Cape Town. Well, our wish has been granted. Last night at about 3 a.m. the wind filled into about 20 knots, blowing just aft of the starboard beam. Wes, Dan and Brianna dropped the Code Zero headsail, put a reef in the main and unfurled the genoa. We are seeing boat speeds up to 14 knots, in 3-4 meter seas. No little inflatable runabout is going to touch us in these conditions.

So much has happened over the last few days, and I haven’t even completed posting about Fernando de Noronha. However, it is a difficult set of conditions to be looking at a computer screen. Everything is kind of at survival level now. In 24 hours we hope to see the wind move more behind us, which should make life onboard a little easier.

A seabird landed on my head last night and sat there for about 10 minutes before my watch ended at midnight. We’ve taken it as a good sign.

Just after midnight, Neptune appeared on Coda.

The four slimy pollywogs onboard were each compelled to ask Neptune what it was that they must do to be allowed to cross the equator:

• Auden had to take a bite of a biscuit from the emergency rations kit (which turned out to be pretty awful)
• Dan had to remove a portion of body hair, as is customary for Brazilian men (who seem to remove all body hair)
• Justin – who’s earned the nickname “bilge” for eating food of dubious quality – had to swallow a spoonful of duck fat
• Brianna has become a scurvy dog, and had to eat half a lime

After each miserable wog had performed their designated task, Neptune opened a bottle of Brazilian champagne:

We then turned our attention to the nav station to watch the magical transition from ‘S’ to ‘N’ at 12:49 a.m.:

Everyone onboard is now officially a Trusty Shellback.

Coda passed through several rain cells in the wee hours of the morning. Each one brought pretty dramatic shifts in wind speed and direction, some of them in a matter of thirty seconds. It required a lot more active engagement with the helm for the people on watch.

A rain cell passed over the boat just before the 6 a.m. watch change. I was coming off watch and could hear that the Code D headsail was unhappy, even though all indications at the nav station said it should have been flying just fine. Brianna helped me by shining a spotlight on the sail, and it looked like it maybe had a twist about two-thirds of the way up the sail. It was blowing pretty good, so we woke Wes up to help us formulate a plan for dealing with it.

Wes had a look and thought the halyard had slipped somehow and allowed the sail to drop. The halyard did seem a little loose, but the head of the sail was much farther from the top of the mast than there was remaining halyard to take in. That’s when I realized the sail had become detached from the shackle on the end of the halyard that was still at the top of the mast, and had slid down the heavy bolt rope in the luff. That meant the sail had to come down but without the ability to furl it first, as is standard procedure.

Wes fired up both engines and gave them full throttle to make the boat go as fast as possible and take as much power out of the headsail as possible. We got Dan up, and the four of us put on our harnesses and went to the foredeck. With everything lit up by the foredeck lights, Brianna released the halyard while Dan, Wes and I brought the sail down and made sure it didn’t go overboard.

We got it back into its sail bag and lashed to the longitudinal beam without incident. The sail can be repaired, but it’s not something we’ll be able to do at sea, so our faithful Code D is out of commission for the rest of the journey.

We just had our first real rainstorm. We all went out on deck to take advantage of the free “freshie.” Even so, the humidity is thick enough to spread on toast, which doesn’t do much for comfort, so posts will be shorter.

The customs/immigration office in Porto San Antonio was smaller than most American walk-in closets, but it was air conditioned! Various officials came and went, including two federal police officers who ended up saying they needed to take our passports back to their office for some unknown purpose, which made us all a little nervous.

Wes was able to make arrangements to rent “um buggy” while he was there. It took some finagling to find one that could accommodate five people. We stood for a bit in the sun, then found a place to sit in the shade, and after a fairly short wait (by the standards of “island time”) a young man arrived with our buggy (pronounced “boogie”).

He gave us the rundown on how to drive the buggy, the inside of which looks suspiciously similar to the spartan interior of the old Volkswagon Beetle. There were a few amusing things of note:

• The steering wheel was tiny, like what one might find on a go kart. Not a bad thing in and of itself, but with no power steering in the vehicle, it was a real workout getting the front wheels to move while trying to park.
• Seating for five simply meant that it had a bench seat in the back rather than the more common bucket seats. There was no real place to stow our baggage, so we ended up putting that on the floor and then sitting along the top of the backseat, holding on for dear life.
• He was adamant that people sitting in the front seats have their seatbelts on – visibly so – but showed no concern that three people would be in back not only without seatbelts, but not really even proper seats.
• He was also very adamant about no alcohol.
• Wes was wearing flipflops, and he said it was safer to drive with bare feet than flipflops, which indeed turned out to be the case.

After some fiddling to get it into reverse, we roared off to the petrol station for 10 liters of fuel, then headed into town. We did some recon on a few of the local grocery stories to see what they might have in the way of fresh fruits and veggies. By then it was lunch time, and Auden found us a nice looking restaurant down by the beach, so off we went.

The roads on the island – apart from in town and the main highway – aren’t so much roads as places where the brush and topsoil have been cleared away down to a bed of rocks, and are then sprinkled with small boulders ranging in size from grapefruits to soccer balls.

Here is a video that Auden captured of us coming back up the hill from our lunch spot:

3˚43.838’ S 35˚23.040’W

“Relaxation time” was the wrong phrase to use in the previous post. Going ashore is fun but exhausting.

We weighed anchor and left Fernanado de Noronha Island yesterday at 4:30 p.m. local time and plotted a course due west in hopes of picking up some wind. Because we are relatively close to shore, the seas are a confused muddle of various swells, waves and currents, which makes it difficult to look at a screen. It will take a bit to sort through the photos and videos and collect my thoughts about our visit to the island.

Here is a video of our approach to Porto San Antonio on the morning of February 5th:

3˚50.790’ S 31˚32.089’W

Early on in the trip, Dan dubbed the 12-3 a.m. watch “the harpooner” because it has kind of a “gotcha” psychological aspect to it. You never get to see sunset or sunrise, and if the moon isn’t up (like tonight), then it’s just you, the stars, the barely perceptible horizon and some sails and rigging flapping and banging in the dark if the wind isn’t cooperating (like tonight).

The plan is to arrive in Fernando de Noronha right at first light, drop anchor, then be ashore right when the Immigration & Customs office opens at 8 a.m. Fernando doesn’t have a ferry service, so we’ll be using Coda‘s tender to get to and from shore, which gives us more control over the scheduling.

We spent today doing as much prep work as possible in order to maximize our relaxation time during the ~60 hours we’ll be in Fernando. We emptied all but two of the remaining jerry cans of diesel into the main fuel tanks, and we don’t plan on filling up again in Fernando. We moved all the headsails off the longitudinal beam and into the forward lockers, then a deep clean of the main salon and some meal planning for the upcoming leg to Grenada. We finished up a little past noon, had some lunch, then spent the rest of the day doing our own thing.

The weather is hot and humid. It’s usually close to 90˚ F by 9:30 in the morning, but it doesn’t seem to get too much hotter than that the rest of the day (if our thermometer is to be believed). On the days when we were motoring, we would seal up the main salon and run the air conditioner. Now that there’s some breeze and the engines aren’t running most of the time, we don’t turn on the AC, but it’s still fairly comfortable now that we’re a little more acclimated.

I made a curry dish for dinner, with cauliflower, peas, heart of palm and lamb and beef sausages over rice, with a sesame ginger carrot salad. After dinner, we played Sheepshead, the “unofficial” state card game of Wisconsin. It requires five players, so it’s perfect for our crew. After two rounds, I tried to get some sleep to make it a little easier to get through “the harpooner.”

4˚01.975’ S 29˚19.554’ W

We are less than 190 nautical miles almost due east of Fernando de Noronha islands, which I’ve taken to shortening to “Nando.”