MysticSail.com

I’m having Natural Mystic withdrawals and I’ve only been off the boat for 5 days. I flew out of Tahiti back to LA and was greeted by ash falling from the sky. The usual lung-clogging smog combined with the remnants of thousands of burnt acres triggering allergies that turned my nose into a faucet. After reluctantly leaving the cleanest air in the world I’m now slowly acclimating to the urban warzone.

So now I begin the monumental task of editing 5 hours of footage down to 2 minutes. My goal is to shop a short video “teaser” around so that I can attract investors. I am currently in Santa Barbara writing articles for sailing, surfing and kiteboarding magazines so that I can further spread the MysticSail creed.

I will begin to upload photos starting with shots from the Marquesas.  –Ben

Here’s one of our favorite anchorages, Hane Moe Noa:

The local cash crop and Diz sampling the nectar:

Locals:

Vaitahu- Tatoo artists and the boat we see everywhere; Amazing:

We have to keep P-Kiddy and his friend Trinket fed:

We are currently safe and sound in Tahiti, anchored off Marina Taina, which I find amusing since we have had Tina Marina, our only link to the female species on board for a couple of truly pleasurable months now. I hope we didn’t worry our mothers too much and loose the interest of our wonderful followers by the lack of our blog postings, but you have to understand that we went back in time. Way back, to a time before the Internet existed and phones were just installed a couple of years ago. This is the first time in two months I have been able to go online and check our blog and e-mail and it doesn’t look like too much has changed in the world since we lost contact. And through our blog’s lack of our latest news, happenings and stories maybe you got a glimpse of what we knew about the rest of the world during those two months, absolutely nothing. And I have to say I think we all loved it and we were tremendously happy with how small, simple and wonderful our universe was during that unique time.

Our trip through the Marquesas, Tuamotus and Society Islands was one of the most incredible experiences of my life and I will try to write vivid posts of our journey in the short time we have left in Tahiti (we could only get 90 day visas), so keep checking back and I promise we will have some new posts filled with adventure, drama and Ben’s great photographs soon enough. Until then just take solace that we are still out there and are, and have been enjoying every day to the fullest in this absolute paradise.

Just one last note, the notorious trouble makers Sandor and Jamie just departed us, headed back to their families and California after an all too short 12 days aboard the “Natty M” and we all missed them the moment they left the boat. It was, so wonderful to share good times with such great friends from home and I just wanted to say a big Thank You Bros for your great spirits, friendship, help and acquiring and lugging all the crap we need to Tahiti for us. You’re truly missed and we all want you to come back and visit as soon as your wives will let you. Cheers - Kyber

Frenzy gripped the crew of the “Natural Mystic”, everyone was doing their part, chore, task, girl. Getting her prepped and ready for the 3,000 plus nautical mile passage to the Marquesas and our entry into magical French Polynesia. We shot around town like sailors possessed by Davey Jones, doing everything we needed to, in order to stay out his locker. Flying around town, toting our hand held VHF radios, jabbering about this or that, picking up this or tons of fruit and veggies, enough to last us up to 21 days at sea, what we hope would be the longest the passage should take. Stocking up on the most bountiful and cheapest groceries and supplies we would probably see in a long time. And always trying to make an evening appearance at The Chicken Cart for a tasty dinner and Polo’s Bar to see the local crew and say our never ending sting of good byes and thank yous.

Lets not forget a few last minute, tasty waves. Fun waves still to be had at the peak and Kahlil’s and my mysto session at a lava boulder slab, where the wave jacked straight up out of deep ocean, intensified by the ripping current, only to break on a boiling, churning lava shelf just feet from a boulder strewn shoreline. We each grabbed one scary wave, then spent the rest of the set trying to escape getting pulverized into the rocks, then simultaneously decided it was just a bit too mysto a spot for us.

Just to make sure our legs would still work when we arrived, we had to have one last skateboard, thrash session, hitting all the skate spots. Stair sets, gaps, ledges, taco bowls and friendly police are all there for you skating enjoyment. One of the best gaps is right next to the Port Captain’s office and they could care less you are skating on their doorstep and even come out and watch. The Galapagos kids are great too and watch and cheer enthusiastically wherever you are skating, but the fun did have to come to an end eventually. So, with bleary eyes, bellies still full of the biggest pizzas ever (monster truck tire size) from Resturante Calypso the night before and second thoughts about maybe we should have taken our women with us, for our coming weeks at sea and the journey though the beautiful pacific islands. We weighed anchor at 6am Thursday morning, and headed out of the niche we carved for ourselves in San Christobal.

It was perfect breeze right off the bat, 12 knots, an ideal port tack up wind angle, with zero seas and we were instantly blasting along making a smooth 8 knots. We started taking our turns on watch and soon after fighting through the calm lee of Isla Floreana, we’re back on track and leaving Isla Santa Cruz in our wake and lastly Isla Isabela. At dusk I see a large buoy with boat attached to it just sitting there floating 10 miles past Isla Isabela and a Dorado is blasting past it, chasing a school of Bonita. Its body is sky blue with bright blue spots, as it leaps repeatedly out of the water after its prey. It heads past our boat, crosses our wake and boom a fishing line starts spinning away and its fish on. The Dorado had transformed into its incredible golden/green spotted color as its landed and within minutes a Yellowfin tuna follows. The sea is rich with life here and the fishing boat tied up to the buoy was a harbinger of what was to come.

We eat a hardy dinner of seafood pasta with both, Dorado and Yelowfin tuna and are marveling at the stars and chewing our cud when Ben tells me he hears whales through the hulls. I’m like OK whatever, but notice something following us just off our rear quarter. Its dolphins, no its something else. I grab the searchlight and it’s a buoy, aiming the beam into the water and there it is. A fisherman’s long line stuck on our daggerboards. For those of you who don’t know what a long line is, let me explain. Fishing boats steam up current, deploying a thick nylon line with a buoys on it every so often and thick, 400-lb. test monofilament with giant baited hooks woven into it every 10 feet. These lines can stretch for upwards of 30 miles. When they are finished laying it out, the fishing boats head back to the beginning and reel in the line and whatever indiscriminate fish they might have caught, that are basically now lifeless.

We lift up the dagger boards, trying to clear the line and all that succeeds in doing is snagging it further aft it in our propellers and the skegs of our boat. I duct tape a knife to a carbon windsurf mast I have on board and cut the line off on both side of the boat, so at least were not dragging miles of line anymore and try unsuccessfully to free the remainder from the safety of our boat. That didn’t work and we can’t start our engines to back down, so at 11pm on a dark night, 20 miles from any land, we take down all our sails, and I’m putting on my swim fins and mask, armed with a knife and flashlight and tethered by the end of our screetcher sheet tied with a bowline around my waist. We’re basically dead in the water, but my heart is still racing as I plunge into the inky black sea. Avoiding the dangling hooks, I see the first line, its wedged in the gap between the boot of the skeg and the skeg. I dive down and with some tugging its free. I contemplate getting back on the boat and diving back in from the other side, but instead just swim over to the other side and see the line has got into the cracks of the prop. A couple of slashes with the knife and some tugging and the second line is clear. I’m back on the boat in a flash, my heart is beating out of my chest, but we’re all clear. We hoist the sails back up and were moving again.

Then a short bit later, Ben’s “whale noise” is back and I’m thinking that’s no whale, it’s the sound of long lines humming on our daggerboards. A shine of the flashlight and there is another one. This time I keep the daggerboards down and after a few swipes of the makeshift pole knife, succeed in cutting it. Its pulled free on both side of the boat and another midnight swim is gladly avoided. This process happens three more times for a grand total of five throughout the night and in the morning we all feel proud of ourselves for getting through the ensnaring web of long lines and are hopeful we might have saved a couple of innocent fishes lives that eventful night. Making it just a wee bit harder for the fishermen to indiscriminately rape the sea.

The winds turned extremely light to nonexistent after the long line fiasco and in the early morning of day two we turn on the engines and hope we are finally away from the long lines now being over 100 NM away from the Galapagos. Day breaks, crystal clear and still no wind, just a sheet glass sea stretching seemingly forever. We power for the next 24 hours, keeping our RPMs low, trying to conserve fuel and making about 6 knots. We carry about 1000 miles worth of diesel, not enough to make it the whole way. We don’t have our fishing lines out as we still have enough fish for dinner and want only what we can eat, so far it has been slower going than we expected and at our current rate its looking like the passage might take us all of our maximum expected three weeks.

I’m up on watch, its 8am, day 3, the sun’s out, the weather pleasant , a steady light breeze is blowing, our sails are back out and so are the fishing lines, as the fridge is now empty. After loosing some big fish in the past I dialed out the fishing tackle on the “Natty M”. Twin heavy rods, with solid tackle and two thin, but strong (to minimize drag) hand lines with heavy gear to tow giant creatures to death or just winch them in with a boat winch. When BAM, the lines had been out scarcely five minutes and its fish on. Reeling in a gorgeous Dorado, then anther and then another. Three fish onboard in quick succession and I’m quickly trying to pull in all our lines, as we have caught plenty and just as the last line is almost in, WHAM! We hook one more, for a grand total of four robust Dorado and I spend the rest of the morning filleting fish, on the fish fillet factory that is the starboard transom.

We make some epic civeche for lunch, and I concoct a great dinner of breaded, sautéed Dorado, and we are all in deep food comas, laying in our various comfy boat spots, watching the waxing , bright orange, ¾ moon light up the gentle sea directly behind us. Thus far the seas have been truly Pacific, but my heart is anything, but Pacific, its filled with wanderlust, excitement and ambition, as I have dreamt about crossing this vast ocean and all the adventure it has in store for us since I was just a young boy of 13.

Later that same evening, I come up from sleep, to my watch and see Diz who is looking for some baking soda for his upset stomach. Wait a second, soon as he said that I notice mine doesn’t feel so hot either. An hour later my tummy is friggin hurting and I’m doubled over the transom, just vomiting up massive amounts of the just hours earlier “great” dinner. I’m sure the ultra fresh fish was not the culprit, but I just wasn’t into the Mahi Mahi quite the same for a few days after that. The sheer vastness of this ocean astounds me. Everywhere I look and nothing about humanity in sight for days now, only ocean, ocean, ocean and more ocean. When you don’t see humanity for a while you start to question it. As you barrel along at 18 knots, with spray flying everywhere for days on end, you start to ponder questions like. What are my shrouds (they hold up the mast) really made of? They aren’t metal. What is really under that plastic cover supporting these tremendous loads and pressures and you put your faith completely, in something that is totally nonexistent in this part of the world.

Yet, there are friends everywhere you look, lending a helping hand and smiling with you. White horses trot along side of us, with white striding smiles, and we trot merrily along with them. Cheerful truly pacific smiles that have yet to be turned into galloping grins, that test our limits and make us work to stay on course. We are all able to enjoy our watches, and have plenty of time to read books and write in our journals on our off time, but this is all a bit relative as we are now use to jamming along on a broad reach, at a consistent 10 knots of boat speed, with frequent surfs into the high teens and twenties. Nights are the most sensational, as the full moon is at its crescendo mid-passage and our course has it rising directly behind us and setting dead ahead of us. Its like were sailing into a giant, mesmerizing, silver laser beam and it feels like pure magic, pure freedom, pure nature. I will never forget those magical nights, spent on that moonlit Pacific sea as long as I live, they are the single best moments I have ever experienced sailing in my entire life.

Other sea friends appear here and there and some like the flying fish are omnipresent. I have seen tons of flying fish in my sea travels thus far and one might think I would be so use to them by now, I would barely notice any more, but out here that’s impossible. Vast squadrons of hundreds them take flight off our bows nonstop, like Luftwaffe on WWII bombing raids. Poorly guided and with bad aim, we are often their targets and dodge and parry constantly to avoid direct hits, this last part applies 100% more to Kahlil as it has become apparently evident he is their No. 1 Mission Priority Target.

Whales are sighted every couple of days, some swimming gracefully close by for a little while and some breaching with tremendous splashes. One morning, as Kahlil and I were changing watch he had to quickly avoid a pod of 20 Pilot Whales who we were headed directly for us. Their giant black foreheads, resembling the business end of a battering ram and looking like they could do some serious damage if they scored a direct hit. We successfully maneuvered around them, they altered course and tried to swim along side, but we were just too fast and soon they were falling behind and out of sight.

The birds amaze me too. Galapagos Storm Petrels followed us the entire way to the Marquesas and there was never a day no matter how far we were from land where we didn’t see a bird. They spend years at sea only returning to land to nest and rear their young and they help to keep you company when no one is around.

I’m yelling “Shark fins off the port bow.” No, a mistake, gracefully beneath the sapphire sea a giant manta ray over 20 feet across glimmers like a jewel in a fairytale pond, tuning majestic circles just off our bow, its two massive wings sticking up out of the water, their black tips mimicking shark fins. This circle dance, appeared to create a whirlpool vortex in the sea, concentrating the plankton to be gobbled up, I surmise. Breaking its spiral and gracefully banking off our mid ship’s boat wave the manta heads out into the vastness from whence it appeared, to glimmer eternally for ungazing eyes.

A few days later Kahlil takes me aside and informs me he wants to make an “Experimental dinner.” “Um? What is it?” I ask. Kahlil replies “In the Bolivian rainforest the natives there used plantains, mashed them up, mixed them with flour, maybe an egg or two, mixed in onions and peppers, fried it up like a fritter and maybe I’ll add some of the fish in there too.” Yea, what great idea the fish I barfed up! “Why don’t you check to see if its still any good” I say. Its not even dinner time and he’s in the fridge early checking out the fish, taking it out, smelling it and proclaiming “It’s not that bad.” Then the odiferous smell hits me from far across the salon, super fishy and smelling quite some days past its prime. There is fish out, so of course P Kiddy enters the scene, “MEEOOOO MEEEOOOOOOO!!!” “Now you’ve done it Kahlil you better give P some of it now.” I say. Kahlil serves him a generous helping and within minutes, I’m relaxing on the coach house roof, enjoying the afternoon, when the peace is abruptly broken. Kahlil is screaming, “P Kiddy is chundering all over the place.” The P is barfing the fish up everywhere. The fish is now even to Kahlil obviously bad and our little, furry canary of the sea played his part protecting the “Natty M” boys from just a little too “experimental” of a dinner.

While I’m on the topic of Kahlil’s cooking, which please understand is 97% great, but however there is still that 3%. We had some Ecuadorian yogurt on board and it ran out mid way through the passage. Kahlil said they use to take what was left in the old yogurt bottle mix it with some new milk, set it outside overnight and the next day, through the miracle of microbial action you have new yogurt. I remember making yogurt with my mom as a kid and we sterilized all the jars first so no bad bacteria would grow and was quite skeptical of the plan off the bat, basically figuring it was going to be a waist of a precious carton of milk and just am not into trying experimental fermented foods when your 1,500 nautical miles from any land and medical help if it does make you deathly ill. So, I gave him my blessing anyway and the next day its fermented, defiantly thicker, put in the fridge to chill and as I’m coming on for my evening watch Kahlil says “Oh yea, don’t try any of the yogurt. I think it might be bad.” He had tried some and it wasn’t exactly agreeing with him and hopefully he learned the lesson not to experiment with fermenting foods unless your maybe just a little closer to professional gastrointestinal help. Well the wind stayed basically perfect for the next week, 12 to 20 knots the seas were 6 feet or so and we just blasted along, easily banging out 250+ NM days for 7 days straight, with our screecher proudly flying off our bow sprit. “Natural Mystic” was surfing the waves all day and all night long and I didn’t even have an inkling of missing surfing, as we were doing it constantly just on a little bit bigger board. And what a rush it is to be in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, thousands of miles from any land, watching the knot meter hit 20’s, as sheets of water are just streaming off the bows and the entire boat is paining for minutes at a time. Then with about 800 miles left to go it started getting windier and some tropical squalls started roiling through with gusts into the low 40’s. We put the first reef in the main, replaced the screecher with the jib and were still surfing well into the high teens. The heavier weather lasted through the next couple of days and made watches a bit more interesting. As the squalls would hit the wind would progressively grow stronger and go aft, by about 70°, making us to head way up. Once in the squall the wind would lighten up forcing us to sail even higher to the apparent wind to keep the boat moving and then as you got nearly out of the squall, without much warning the wind would go way forward and increase in strength almost instantaneously. You had to be on top of you game and bear off fast to keep the boat from getting way overpowered and then once again your surfing away on the proper course and everything is business as usual until the next squall hits.

We survived this period of unsettled weather, with a little less sleep and maybe some simpler dinners, but just fine and then our (or my) one fuck up happened. It was my watch, about 400 miles to go, the sun was setting, fiery orange below the clear horizon, the wind was dropping, out of the 30’s, just in the teens now, and there were no more squalls to be seen anywhere. I decided to take the reef out of the main to get us back up to speed. We had not done much reefing off the wind as 80% of all our passages have been up wind thus far. I’m raising the main back up and as it is most of the way out, its rubbing against our swept back shrouds, as there is no backstay and the shrouds perform both functions. The main is almost to the top and then it gets tough to go any further. Its always hard to get the last couple of inches of halyard tension, especially when your main is as big as ours and loaded up downwind. The main sail is attached to the mast by a Harken Bat Car System, which is cars with roller bearings on a track, making it possible to pull a sail up and down under load. So, to take the load out of the main, I head into the wind, luffing the sail and have Ben on the halyard grinding, he gets a couple more turns and then it just will not go anymore and it just needed another couple short inches. Right then I see the halyard slack a little and I give it one more little grind on the winch and then a sickening, giant pop is heard. Ben and I just stare at each other for a second, completely frozen, as it sounds like fiberglass is cracking and splitting all around us and our mast and its going to fall over any second. I’m thinking “Oh my god now I’ve done it” and then it stops. I quickly put the main back to the first reef point and figure out what happened. The mast track is held into the mast with screws and one of the very top ones had backed out after 11 days of hard sailing, preventing the car from going over it and causing the car to explode, as it was overloaded against it. The cracking fiberglass sound was the ball bearings raining down from 80 ft. above and bouncing off the coach house roof and the pop was the mast track being pulled out from the mast. So, now we were forced to sail the rest of the passage with a first reef, as well as the remainder of the way to Tahiti, which is the first place we will come to with the ability to get Fed-Ex and the proper parts we need to fix our main. I was absolutely, thoroughly disgusted with myself at this mistake I made, as I dam well know one of the cardinal rules of any boat is “If it doesn’t go, don’t force it.” But, I was tricked by how close the main was to being all the way up and just thought it was the last bit of hard to get halyard tension. Oh well, live and learn and I now know I will never make that mistake again, as I continue to add to my ever-increasing knowledge of seamanship. The trade winds continued to be strong and even with a first reef in, our main sail is still massive, allowing us to keep our average speed hovering in the 9 to 10 knot range and exactly 13 days later we sighted land and the dramatic island of Fatu Hiva was first to appear. We spent the next hours lazily gybing downwind to fetch to Hiva Oa and the only port to clear into the Southern Marquesas, Atuona. We had all our fishing lines out as our freezer was empty and just before we hit the port, zzzzzzzzzz and its fish on! I go to grab the pole, first tightening up the drag and then whatever creature of the deep we hooked just kicks it into overdrive and starts taking out line at the most furious pace I have ever witnessed. Its hooked on our heaviest pole and our biggest reel and it doesn’t matter. There is too much pressure to even take the pole out of the rod holder and like in a movie smoke starts pouring out of the reel. There is a bucket nearby. I quickly dump some water on the reel, and it doesn’t do anything. I yell for a knife, hoping to cut the line before the reel is damaged beyond repair and Kahlil quickly brings one from the galley and the leviathan is cut loose to go back and haunt the deep freely once again. The reel doesn’t sound or feel quite the same any more and you couldn’t even touch the reel, it was so hot after it’s ordeal. And once again I add more knowledge to my body of seamanship. If you can’t slow the boat to a complete stop and don’t have the use of reverse, when you hook a real fish like a 300-lb. tuna it doesn’t matter how heavy your fishing tackle is, you are going to loose the fish, probably destroying your gear in the process too. Thus, trailing a long hand line, with 400 lb. mono or even wire for a leader is better and you just drag the beast to death and then winch it in. This is both much cheaper than wasting your money on expensive fishing tackle and by the time the monster fish makes it aboard, its basically dead tired and not dangerously thrashing around destroying your boat or you.

After ten landed Mahi Mahis, and one Yellowfin tuna, but now uncharacteristically fishless we drop anchor in dramatic Atuona Bay exactly 13 days 9 hours after leaving the Galapagos Islands. We covered 3,150 NM at an average speed of 9.81 knots, which is friggin flying, as all the boats we’ve met took between 3 to 5 weeks to make the same passage. Once again proving multihulls kick tons of ass, both sailing and at anchor, with their fast speeds, spacious accommodations and probably their best quality, they don’t roll continuously while at anchor. However it might not be quite as relaxing during the passage as a slow cruising monohull, for your adrenaline is continuously pumping when your surfing into the high teens and 20’s and the noise of water, hurriedly rushing past the hulls is intense.

The best way to describe these breathtaking, incredible islands that are the Marquesas is they are like the Napali coast of Kauai on acid. They look like the tops of giant mountains that jut straight out of the sea, with sheer, jagged cliffs thousands of feet high that meet the sea, pockmarked by the deepest, steepest valleys imaginable, with waterfalls pouring down them, so lush and verdant it appears every shade of green is represented. Perpetual dark clouds obscure their towering peaks, constantly showering the island in life giving rain and creating rainbows everywhere. Giant waves crash, exploding with tremendous force straight into the craggy shoreline (if you can call it that as there is not much shore just mountains into the sea), straight out of water a mile deep, their distant journey culminating in massive explosions of white spray every where you look. Tucked into the rugged coast is the picturesque harbor of Atuona, semi-protected by its lava breakwater where some of our cruising friends rest at anchor, continuously tossing back and forth in this extremely rolley anchorage. A 15 minute hike over the hill from the anchorage brings you to the quaint town where Marquesian people are extremely friendly, super jovial, quite helpful and seem to understand English if you speak slowly. Most the locals are of a solid, robust stature, not quite as large as Tongans or Fijians, but still much larger than us. Both men and women have extensive Marquesian tattoos and speak a combination of French and the local Marquesian dialect.

Here just like most of the world beauty comes with a price and in French Polynesia its priced in Polynesia Francs, which are currently 77 to the dollar and I believe tied to the Euro. Everything is incomprehensibly expensive. For us to check in, as none of us are members of the European Union (member countries are exempt) we had to post bonds, that are the equivalent value of an airline ticket out of here, just in case we don’t want to leave (I think the cyclones will make us) and they have to deport us. The bill for the whole crew was $5,700, which we can’t get back until we check out to leave and then only from the bank in Papeete, Tahiti. As you purchase the bonds on your credit card you loose on the exchange rate, and then instead of crediting back your credit card when you leave they will only return the money to you in cash, in Polynesia Francs. Which you don’t want as you’re leaving their country and you loose another 5% or so on the backend exchange rate, Fuckers! Just another good reason to dislike the French, but really only their bureaucracy, as all the French cruisers we’ve met are all extremely friendly, helpful and good people. One boat with a French cruising family, with 3 small boys on board even greeted us the day we pulled in by giving us a giant slab of fresh tuna, that we greedily consumed for dinner, as we had not had meat for a couple of days now. Thank you very much, Patrick.

I don’t understand how the locals manage here as the prices of everything except baguettes and butter (both subsided) are through the roof and it doesn’t seem like there are lots of jobs or work to be found. Ben and I were waiting to clear in, but got to the immigration office around noon and everything here is closed between 11:30 and 2:30, so we killed some time by having lunch at the only open place period and the only restaurant in town. The bill for two cokes, two celebratory beers, and two Poisson Cru (raw fish salad) was $48, an absolute shock after unbelievably cheap Latin/South America where a dinner for 4 was always under $20. A trip to the local market was just that a “trip” and I will never think of Lazy Acres, as expensive again. A small bottle of ketchup was $12, small jar of pasta sauce $11, bottle of Jim Bean whisky $90, carton of eggs $8.50, Mayo $10, pack of cigarettes $12, 6 pack of Hinano the local beer $22, as we were out of fresh veggies I thought a cabbage might be cheap, wrong! I bought a $13 cabbage. But, tasty baguettes were a bargain at $.60 and French cheese semi-affordable, so that is what we stocked up on and the best deal of all here is that fruit is free. It grows wild everywhere and is just there for the picking. We availed ourselves of bountiful bananas, mountainous mangos, luscious limes, great grapes and plentiful pamplemousse. First off, every fruit here tastes better than anything you can by in a store back home, but the real story is the pamplemousse. Its one of the best fruits I have ever had the privilege of tasting. It is basically a grapefruit, but green, way bigger, unbelievably sweet and tasty and I have no idea why they have not been imported into the US, they would be an unbelievable hit. A walk up the valley of our anchorage in search of ancient tikis resulted in not finding the tikis, but discovering the fruit fiesta and our transformation into hunter/gathers is becoming more complete by the day. We also learned what the infamous BO fruit that Kahlil availed himself of in Panama is. They grow everywhere here and people are farming them in great orchards. So, we visit an orchard and when asked what fruit they have for sale the farmer replied “Only grapefruit.” I pointed to the fruit loaded tree in question and in broken English he says “No for eating, Noni,” and points to his skin. He tells us people drink the overripe juice for cosmetic benefits and tells us he thinks its disgusting, funny and mystery solved.

Another strange thing here is all the locals seem to drive very nice, large, lifted 4×4 trucks and SUV’s. Big full size American models, Toyotas or English Defender Land Cruisers (I especially like how the Gendarme drive English Land Cruisers, Napoleon must be turning over in his grave). Where they get the money for the trucks I have no idea and how they afford the gas is another mystery, as the price per gallon is a little over $9 and diesel $8 per gallon, a seeming galaxy away from the $1.06 of the Galapagos.

So, as we swing on anchor in this breathtaking, peaceful place, work on getting our boat back into ship shape after the long passage, restock our stores, and get our legs back into walking order, our cruiser friends that departed the Galapagos before us keep showing up. Our young French friends from the Galapagos with their ship’s cat Trinket reappeared and I paid them a visit with a noisy P Kiddy in hopes maybe they would make friends. Trinket was a bit scared of the larger P and just would not meet him face-to-face and meowed and kept her distance. P on the other hand, ultra-confident just cruised around their boat smelling everything he could, unconcerned by the other cat and looked like he was relishing exploring another boat for the first time since the docks of Panama’s Flamenco Marina and charming the Frenchies with his super friendly demeanor. We met a Danish girl looking for her missing boat and let her borrow our Iridium Sat. phone to call and find out where they are and when I made the call discovered the boat was “Amazing” and just hours from pulling into the harbor. I love how small the ocean is and how we are all just a floating community looking after each other and sharing tons of fun times together, it truly is amazing. It looks like we will be shoving off from this port in another couple of days with planed stops at a couple more Marquesian islands, before heading the 500 NM to the Tuamotus and their surf filled, coral reef passes. We have heard rumors of a mysto wave that is suppose to be super gnarly and deadly, on par deadly wise with Teaphoo, on an island south of here, so that’s where were headed, as there is not much surf here. The islands are just too new in the geologic time frame, coral reefs have not had sufficient time to form and enough erosion has not occurred to develop shoaling beaches, but the raw and prehistoric beauty of this place more than makes up for the lack of waves and we all feel truly privileged to have sailed here for our first visit, just like the ancient Polynesians. I think they would be proud of us, Respect. Cheers - Kyber

If the start of a passage is any indicator to the rest of the mission, our first night bound for the Marquesas revealed what would be a long, arduous voyage. After beating the day away, heading for the consistency of the trade winds, I was pretty tired. Once my time on watch was over, I retired to my room for 4 hours of downtime. While relaxing in my bed, I heard the melodic mantra of whale soundings in the active waters off Isabella Island. I had heard those sounds before but only on CD’s made to put insomniacs to sleep. I was excited to witness the calls of such enormous creatures and I wanted to tell the others because I was sure they couldn’t here it through all the noise on deck. When I got outside I realized there was more to be concerned with then the sounds of mammalian mating calls. We then proceeded to hack and slash our way through five different lines place by commercial fishing boats. It made for a restless night that allowed for only an hour or two of sleep in between tangles. Clearly, this wasn’t a good start to our passage.

Fortunately, the rest of our voyage was not as perilous. Once we made it out of the Ecuadorian waters off the Galapagos Islands, we were becalmed in a pond-like sea state with no one or nothing in sight. It was a nice change from the previous night’s paranoia but it didn’t sit well to think of going 3,000 miles at that pace. I decided to make good use of a dry bow by constructing a recliner from our beanbag and our padded “Sunstation”. It was the most comfortable lounge spot on the boat and it did wonders to ease my overwrought mind. Any worries or concerns seemed to evaporate as I watched nature’s theater unfold.

Every night the show was the same, but it never got old. The opening act was the sun’s downward descent into the abyss of the sea. Then came the majesty of the other stars in the universe. With no light pollution (except phosphorescent plankton) to dilute the wondrous display from the heavens, the southern sky came to life. I’ve spent my lifetime in the northern hemisphere, so these stars were all new to me. Meteors exploded in every quadrant of the sky rewarding the patient observer.

The next phase of the evenings show was characterized by our natural satellite. Before the lunar lights made their appearance, we had been crashing along at 10-12 knots through a dark sea. When the moonbeams shone down, we could once again witness the dynamic motion of Earth’s largest ocean. Usually, not long after moonrise, came time for the changing of the guard. Kyber and I would pass the torch to “KaLizzy” (Kahlil and Dizzy are like a couple) so we could recharge or our cerebral batteries and they could witness the serene splendor of night watch.

After four hours of fluid dreams, it was time to witness the final acts of the best show on Earth. Once the moon began it’s final approach towards the horizon, it began to grow larger. The lower it plummeted, the more its hue began to change to a shade of magenta. When at last the moon had sunk into the western horizon, the stars could once again take their place on center stage. This second starry show was usually brief due to ushering in of the final act, sunrise. The period between moonset and sunrise grew shorter and shorter as we made our westward trek across the Pacific. The full moon hadn’t even set before the sun rose on the tenth night of our passage.

One of our simple pleasures included writing creative log posts for the amusement of everyone. Some of the more entertaining entries in the “skipper’s choice” section were as follows: Institutionalized Idiots, Midget Montage, Exhibitionist Enchiladas, Marquesa-dillas, Stuck-up Proctologists, Disgruntled Dingo’s, Volatile Nose Hair, ect.

In hindsight, the journey homogenized the thirteen days into one passage as a whole. Moments of excellence included boat speeds in the 20’s while doing 12.1 knots/hour. We reeled in more Dorado than we could eat and opted to sail with no fishing lines for days on end. P-Kiddy did his best to manage our fish surplus but failed when his legs could no longer support his girth. We all pitched in to create culinary creations, which left no taste bud deprived.

All things considered, this was another dream passage. Our crew was cohesive and worked well, (despite a couple sleep-deprived induced moments of stress). The Natural Mystic sailed like a champion with minimal damage. We avoided bad weather and raced along, completing this leg faster than most people have. Now that we have arrived in the Marquesas at Hiva Oa, we are free to explore the cloud-lined peaks and dense, fruit and flower-rich tropical forests. Soon we will be headed for one of the most beautiful anchorages in the world on Fatu Hiva before we set sail for the surf-o-rific reefs of the Tuamotu’s. Don’t expect a whole lot of activity on the website, I hear they just recently started using the wheel, so I’m sure broadband internet is still a few years away.

Here’s another taste of my poetic musing:

Dynamic Isolation

Our goal is not a destination

Striving for new expectations

No exaggerations or misconceptions

Feeling the pulse of Earth’s vibrations

Dynamic Isolation

For turbulent minds

Unwinding society’s threads

While strengthening the binds

Prominent premonitions

Foreshadowing situations

Arriving at the realization

Materializing aspirations

Clarity arrives

Destiny abides

Floating fascination

Dancing with the tides

- Ben

Bonjour and greetings from the lush hills of the Marquesas. I am quickly reporting my well being and surroundings to those wondering the result of our largest ocean undertaking.

It’s with dashes of exhaustion, spliced with excitement and aftertastes of frustration that we find ourselves breaching the westernmost point of French Polynesia here in the stunning mountainous Marquesas. The lengthy passage to this point was for the first part seamless, gliding over thousands of miles of ocean fluidly with the wind, waves and plentiful Mahi-Mahi fish in our favour.

It was well into our second week where the drama occurred, in the form of a damaged car and sail track (the car being the device that attaches the main sail to the mast and enables it to be hoisted and lowered) that broke under intense strain of constant powerful winds, sending ball bearings raining onto the deck. This conundrum has been dealt to us by a single inch screw working its way loose and compromising our rig, and such a challenge in the more accessible regions of the developed sailing world, nearer professional assistance is no slight task, But out here weeks sail from any chandlery this makes for some uncomfortable realities. However, we are rolling with the punches, and will attend to the issue fully in Papeete, Tahiti, concerning ourselves more at this point with filling the Natty M with the last readily available fruits and vegetables for some time, and preparing for our arrival into the reward of the perfect reef passes of the south pacific, our next destination a weeks sail south east.

We find ourselves here amongst an enormous lush natural fruit store, with most plants furnished with grapefruits larger than your head, mangos, bananas, papayas, oranges, breadfruit, coconuts and an array of sweet smelling gifts I am unfamiliar with. It is fortunate thing that the fauna of these Jurassic park-esque islands are so hospitable as the cost of imported all foods to this far flung region of the planet, already compounded on the expensive euro, makes shopping a comically expensive adventure (I was amused at finding a 80 dollar tin of Milo today.

We plan to make for the Tuamotus and the lure of perfect and empty waves after we have crammed all the produce that will fit aboard our boat and hiking the hills here to find the Tiki god carvings, hidden amongst the towering hills and plummeting ravines that collar our anchorage.

Look forward to reporting in after we unveil the awaiting secrets in the 78 islands of the Tuamotus archipelago and sharing with you our captured treasures,

Much love,

Diz

Message to Assuage Familial Apprehension

Dear Family (and MysticSail followers)

This is a note to let my friends and family know I am alive and well. I am forced to use the blog medium because internet in the Marquesas costs literally ten times what it does in the rest of the world, along with everything else.

The details of the passage I’m sure you will get in full from Kyber’s instalment, but for my part I can say I had an enjoyable sail. The boat once again astounded me with its race-car performance, and I had the pleasure of hand steering us through the passage’s top speed-over-water of a butt clenching 18.5 knots. Am now feeling rested, and very fit and healthy, as I diligently practiced yoga and did a hundred press-ups every day during the passage.

The Marquesas are stunning, reminding me a lot of Punakaiki back home, but on a much grander scale.

I’m amping for Tuamotus surf and believe internet connections to be non-existent from here till Tahiti, so expect email silence for a long while yet, but we can upload blogs via satellite, so watch this space.

Peace, love, tolerance, and generosity find you all.

Kahlil, aka Mullethawk

Authorities are starting to harass us for our blatant disregard for dingy safety. Being the busy people we are, we seem to ignore the normal cruising motto; “Live Slow, Cruise Slower”. Captain Speed Racer is one dinghy ride away from being arrested for his top speed tendencies. Apparently speeding into town warrants incarceration. So the long arm of the law seems to be pushing us towards the South Pacific. Maybe they’re just pissed because we refuse to wear our type one’s. We’ve been told to wear our life jackets about ten times now. Being the trendy socialites we are, we refuse the fashion faux pas it is to be seen in a bulky orange life vest. So after extending our stay twice now, it seems the pressure to sail on is being applied.
Yesterday we were boarded by four officials wondering why we were still in their country. Normally cruisers are only allowed to stay in the Galapagos for twenty days before their cruising permit expires. Since the waves were so good here we decided it was convenient to have “engine problems” so that we could perpetuate this life of riding waves and playing with the wildlife before we began our longest passage across the Pacific. So after haggling with the officials, we were told to leave Wednesday or they would confiscate P-Kiddy and use him for Hammerhead bait. I guess we don’t want to upset the law here since San Cristobal hosts the Navy base and they could easily blow us out of the sea.
Our crew has been accepted into this tightly knit community, but some of our friends here are experiencing some resistance. Take for instance the story of our Irish friend who instigated a bar brawl. One night at Iguana Rock someone decided JP needed to accessorize his look with a hat. It turned out that hat was taken from a crazed Frenchman who proceeded to head-butt him and swing misguided, flailing punches towards Kahlil. JP didn’t even know he was still wearing the hat or that it was stolen. Unfortunately, Frenchy succeeded in scaring away the girls and didn’t even get reprimanded for his violence.
Putting all the melodramatic shenanigans aside, I find solace exploring the coastline. Mother “Lobos” nursing there young, defend against me and the other randy, territorial males when we get too close. The bulbous-headed behemoths are a threat in and out of the water. While strolling around Carola Beach I ran into Mette. She told me the lead singer from Arkobuz was bitten on the hip while snorkeling. I’m sure he’ll be fine and besides, chicks dig scars. The Blue footed Booby’s are less aggressive and quite photogenic. This one didn’t mind me getting 3 feet away while he preened himself.
The cuisine aboard our Outremer has been lacking lately but there are still moments of excellence thanks to one of the hospital volunteers. While snacking on crepes with Benita, the lovely Canadian, we prattled on the Latin approach to marriage. If you’re a hot female gringo be warned, these guys are pretty aggressive. Or perhaps the prospect of making $2,000 dollars to marry an Equadorian is an attractive offer. So I’ve been inspired to create a cooperation that unites the thousands of people in the world that are trying to marry for citizenship. I envision bringing people together from all over the globe that are trying to better their geographic situation. It might be a cross between eHarmony and a Russian mail-order bride company. I’ll have to work on my business plan and hire a master marketer but I’m pretty sure I could pull it off. I welcome any ideas or advice to help me with my humanitarian enterprise.
Parting is such bitter-sweet sorrow. All the folks we’ve met here have been great. Locals like Humberto and his family have been instrumental to our plight. All the volunteer/slaves have been so fun we hate to leave you behind. I’ve wanted to visit this enchanting place since I was 12. Now that I’ve materialized the dream, I feel ready to explore more stunning locations with different cultures. I love the Galapagos and all it’s people but I’m ready to get the flock outta here.

Here’s a 12 second video of a sea turtle I played with in the surf: sea_turtle

Thanx for being on the show,

-Ben Anglin

We all overdosed on surf, like crack addicts to the rock. The south swells that are all hype on Surfline and wetSand back home, where they claim the standout spots will be head-high to overhead, but usually a let down, are the real deal down here. Soon as one swell starts dying and you think your body is going to finally get a rest, a new swell starts filling in and you’re back out there, but you grow pickier and what was once looking fun and rippable, now appears like we need to wait an hour or so, for the tide to fill in and the wave to start barreling on the ledge. But, don’t think I’m complaining for a second, there is so much living to do down here its unreal and we’re trying our best to live every second to the fullest and are just soaking it all in, like a Sea Lion basking in the warm sun.

The world seems to grow smaller by the day (too bad that really isn’t true, we still do have to sail 3,000 miles to our next port Hiva Oa), Daniel a solo sailor from the Czech Republic I met in St. Maarten, at the Soggy Dollar Bar, standing away from the action and overly loud music, like myself and looking substantially more interesting a character to converse with, than the throngs of gyrating, drunkards on the dance floor, pulled up to our current port/home of the world. Just like us, everything on a boat takes three times longer to complete than expected and he was not able to get his vessel ready for a passage down the Brazilian coast of South America for a solo passage, westward around Cape Horn. Hurricane season closed in on him and he was forced to head our way, hoping to make New Zealand by the start of their cyclone season and then head into the Southern Ocean with his sturdy, steel hulled boat, for a passage eastward around feared Cape Horn. It was fantastic to bump into such an interesting individual again and we all swapped stories of our trips and worked to help equip each other for our respective journeys.

His plans had not included a trip through the South Pacific islands and we were happy to lend him our charts and cruising guides to copy, so he would be better prepared for the ship destroying reefs and atolls of the South Pacific. He, without us asking for anything in return helped get Kahlil’s PC computer updated with a backup charting program, so now if our ship’s built in plotter fails we have a better backup system, making it just a wee bit harder for us to get lost at sea. But, his real help was sharing a world tide prediction program, as the reef passes of the Tuamotu atolls can only be entered at slack tide and we had come up empty trying to find any form of tide charts for the South Pacific in the Galapagos or the Internet. Thanks a million Daniel for all the help!

He also befriended a banana farmer and like the true gem of the sea he is, procured bananas for all the cruisers headed for the Marquesas, at a bargain price of $5 for a 50-pound bunch. He did employ us however to deliver the weighty bananas to all the cruisers, as his dingy is hand rowed and “as no good deed goes unpunished.” We were rewarded by the sight of grateful Frenchmen sporting ultra, sexy banana hammocks, cheerfully accepting the bananas, with merci’s all around, while we tried our best to avert our gaze away from their eye level “junk”, for we in the dink sit a bit lower in the water than mostly naked, deck level Frenchmen. Then just as he blew in, he blew out again. We stopped by his boat for one last hand blended, banana smoothie, exchanged our various contact information and vowed to bump into each other soon, which I’m quite sure will happen, probably about halfway to the Marquesas.

And yet smaller still the world grows, we’re walking around town and who do we bump into but the entire McNary family and two of their children’s friends. Fierce competitors of mine in the J-24 fleet back in Santa Barbara, they showed up in San Cristobal for a short family vacation, after purchasing a Catana 471 (a French cruising catamaran) in mainland Ecuador, they plan on taking through the Panama Canal and cruising with in the Caribbean next season. It was wonderful to unexpectedly see such great friends from home in this foreign port and we swapped stories, showed them our boat and I offered plenty of advice, for I had just come from the way they are headed. I hope my love for the cruising of Panama altered their plans a little, as they were planning on just passing through, but there is just so much to see and do their, and the anchorages of Panama are so peaceful and pristine, when compared to the Caribbean Islands.

We shared our passion for the Chicken Cart with them and it looks like they too have adopted it as their favorite eatery here. We bumped into them a couple of nights in a row there and they generously invited us to accompany them on a snorkeling tour of the island, as they had chartered a local boat the next morning. Taking the typical tourist tour we had yet to fork out the cash for. I can’t say thank you enough to them for letting us tag along. The tour had to be the highlight of our trip thus far, except for one key part. They had negotiated a price for the entire boat and didn’t think it would be any problem to bring us along. They pulled up the next morning, not so gingerly along side the “Natty M”, almost taking out all our stanchions in the process, but the transfer of equipment and people was successful and informed us we just needed to go back to the dock and pick up our GNP guide. This is a requirement of all trips to any part of the Galapagos outside of the main port areas. The GNP guide then informed us his fee of $100 was not included in the boat’s charter price and three additional people will add yet another $100 to the price. Now armed with my ever improving Spanish the haggling begins, I accuse them of being swindlers and banditos, dropped a local name or two and we end up only having to pay for the required guide, this is a fairly typical experience in Latin America. So, if you come here make sure the GNP guide fee is included in the price for any trip you set up and there are no other hidden costs. With that hassle out of the way the fun began, first a stop at Kicker Rock, to snorkel with the sharks and bountiful sea life. Upon our arrival, a whale was sounding and Boobies of all kinds greeted us, Nazca, Blue Footed, and Red Footed Boobies nest on the rock and Frigate birds soar overhead on its thermal up drafts. The rock looks like one solid monolith at first, but on closer inspection a giant rift splits the rock in two and sea life of all kind swims through the current ridden channel. We snorkeled through the channel, as multitudes of exotic fish fed on the plankton rich currents and Black Tip, Galapagos and Hammer Head sharks cruised menacingly just a little bit deeper.

The rock’s steep walls are encrusted with amazing blue and lime green sea urchins, giant orange barnacles, psychedelic red starfish and everywhere you looked creatures you had never seen before appeared, like a giant spotted ray or a type of grouper I had never spied before.

I was so mesmerized by the multitude of sea life, I got separated from the group, lost track of time and our guide had to swim around looking for me, to tell me “our time’s up and we’re headed to the next spot.” I was making him earn his money this day, as he wasn’t quite use to tourists free-diving into the inky depths and out of sight.

Then it was onto a beach where we just chilled out for a little while and munched some lunch. While bright orange Sally Lightfoot crabs jumped from rock to rock, earning their name and I marveled at the Galapagos’ unique flora of succulents that are endemic to the island and have adapted, so well to its lower, arid climate and salty air. Refueled, we headed for our last snorkeling stop at Isla Lobos (Lobos are Sea Lions).

Here in beautiful clear water we were privileged to swim and frolic with tons of friendly Sea Lions, while the hulking bull male, intimidatingly swam closely by us, shaking his bulbous head to and fro, making a low rooo, rooo, rooo noise underwater and warning us we better not get too frisky with the chicks of his harem. I got the message and soon was off swimming with sting rays, multitudes of colorful Surgeon and Angel fish and staring up at marine iguanas basking in the sun, on the warm, black lava rocks, digesting their diet of algae and getting toasty in bright equatorial sun, all while sea lions constantly tried to grab your attention.

The trip back was filled with sights of randy, nesting Frigatebirds, some who had their red colored, featherless, skin pouch, called a gular pouch on their necks puffed out like giant, ruby balloons. The males construct the nests and then hangout with their crimson gular pouches expanded, while gently flapping their outstretched wings and crowing.

Trying their hardest to woo the females in the hopes, that one will be impressed by their “game” and “crib” and settle down to check out where all the “magic” happens. We repeatedly watched them, steal other sea bird’s catches, scientifically know as kelptoparasitism, as their ultra-light bones, massive wingspans, super manipulatable V shaped tail gives them superior aerial abilities, making this treacherous tactic a breeze.

Frigatebirds do however catch the majority of their food by expertly skimming the surface of the water for fish and squid, as they can not dive into the water for food. They lack an oil-producing gland for coating their feathers and can’t shed the saltwater once their feathers get wet.

When we said our good byes and thank you’s to the McNarys, at the end of that unique day, I hope they know just how much fun we shared with them and how truly exceptional they helped make our trip to the Galapagos, it would not have been the same without them. It was truly a special thing to share that experience with friends from home and Thanks a Million for everything!

Its interesting to be traveling outside of America during an Election year. I do try to keep up to date on the news and happenings back home in the States and a lot of what I read just doesn’t jive with what we have encountered on our journey. Comments from the American news media, who portray the world dislikes Americans and Barack Obama, on his recent trip to Europe, stating he is going to “Restore America’s tarnished image in the world,” just do not seem accurate to me. We fly the Stars and Stripes proudly from “Natty M’s” transom and have yet to encounter any kind of ill sentiment from anyone towards Americans. Rather everyone we have encountered on our journey is unbelievably helpful and friendly towards us, going out of their way to help us out and point us in the right direction. I just hope Americans discover the news media is full of it and start traveling more, experiencing for themselves firsthand what the world is really like, because we meet a lot of people traveling, seeing the sights and learning about foreign cultures, but its not Americans out traveling. There are tons of Europeans everywhere, Canadians abound, hordes of Israelis just out of the army, Aussies, English and Irish, but Americans seem to be mostly missing, making up such a small percentage of the travelers we meet. I don’t know if it’s the news media scaring them away, American’s lack of interest in the world, the economy or maybe we just love our country so much we don’t want to leave, but it seems odd we have probably met more Irish folk than Americans in all our travels so far.

Just when you think your boat is working perfectly something breaks, shattering your brief, ultra-blissful enjoyment of the seafaring life. In our case it was the pull-cord mechanism on our outboard motor. The Yamaha 25-HP decided to turn itself into a two-stroke blender and grind up the plastic and metal pieces of that device. Our trips to the various island Yamaha vendors resulted in no luck finding those parts in the Galapagos or mainland Ecuador. We were resigned to the fact starting it might involve taking off the engine cover every time and winding the pull cord by hand. However, surfing one day we met Humberto, one of the first surfers in the Galapagos and a true friend. I asked him about our little problem and he said “No worries, I’ll get it fixed for you guys.” Just in a little more broken english than that. Trusting him, we gave him our engine and he didn’t want us accompany him to the mechanic, so we wouldn’t get charged the “Gringo price”. Two days later our engine was delivered back to our boat, repaired with parts from older, defunct engines and all for a bargain $20 bucks. What a true superstar of a person and a real friend. However to our dismay, after we cleaned out our backup engine, stowed it, and remounted the 25-HP it wasn’t just quite right and was still making a terrible noise. But, now with the right parts intact, it wasn’t too hard to see a spring was contacting a spinning flywheel bolt and a little repeated tweaking with some needle-nose pliers had her purring like a kitten again, with celebratory cheers by the crew all around.

One pumping day, Dizzy sent his board into the jagged rocks and then Wrestlemania style knee dropped his backup board as well, causing some not so minor ding repairs that are just a pain in the ass to do on a boat you’re trying to keep resin stain free. Once again its Humberto to the rescue, staying up all night, repairing both boards by 7-am the next morning for $20, so Dizzy wouldn’t miss even a single day of surf. And when Kahlil, broke 6 of his crappily made, Brazilian, fake FCS fins, just by doing bottom turns, running out of backups completely and Dizzy realized maybe he might need a new board, both something you can’t get out here. Who else is it but Humberto to the rescue again. Having a friend on the mainland send out, multiple new sets of fins and a new “Clima,” a Peruvian made surfboard, saving the day and their journey into the remote, surf shop vacant, wave rich South Pacific. If this was California and this happened to people surfing our secret spot, everyone would be happy the interlopers were forced to leave, because of their bad luck and ill forethought.

We set the date for our departure from the Galapagos for Thursday, July 31, continuing our journey towards the South Pacific, but a new, supposedly big swell was forecast to hit Friday and Saturday and who was telling us not to leave and surf some more with him and his friends, but Humberto. It is refreshing to meet people, truly genuine and helpful and metaphorically not interested in getting every wave for themselves. It honestly helps reshape and expand your view of the world and the state surfing.

Well, obviously we missed our self-imposed date of departure, but it had the intended effect of getting us ready for our passage. We were all involved in checking things we needed done off the to-do list, Dizzy and Kahlil cleaning the boat, checking the rig and various shackles, getting our month plus of piled up laundry done for a buck a kilo (50 cents a pound for our American readers, I hope we never give in and convert to the metric system), and me changing the engine oils and transmission fluids.

Which turned into something of an environmental catastrophe, when on the first tranny the pump used to change the oil broke on the intake end, while pumping in new oil, shooting SAE W-90 oil all over the place and coating me and the engine room with new oil, at least and causing me give into some minor cursing like a proper grease monkey. The mess was cleaned up and then it was on to the next tranny. Now I’m pumping out the old oil, its thick, dirty and I’m holding the intake on the pump to make sure it doesn’t pop off again, when BAM! The output end explodes on an upstroke and dirty, smelly oil just flies everywhere, drenching the engine, the boat, the hull, and me. Now I’m really cursing and know first hand just how gross it is to be covered in gooey oil. The new disaster was angrily cleaned up, but the stench on me was impossible to completely remove and when I met a new woman later on shore, who asked me “What are you doing here?” Told me “Oh yea, you smell like a boat.” Its not always fun and games aboard the “Natural Mystic”.

But, its the funny things about the places you visit that make it all worthwhile and get you laughing out loud to yourself. Everyone knows Latin men are a little more forward towards women than most cultures, with their whistles and catcalls. However, we saw it taken to a new level here the other day. Kahlil and I are moseying down the street and the local cops driving down the street, chirp their police sirens three times, at three hot, junk in the trunk, Ecuadorian women and then proceed to whistle and yell at them, while hanging out of the cop car. I don’t quite think it quite constituted an abuse of power, but at least a misuse of public resources.

Sometimes the life of a sailor is really sad and you just can’t help, but breakdown into tears. Volunteers come from all over the world to help try to make a difference in the Galapagos. They are truly caring people who would love to make a difference, but mostly their energy and skills are misdirected towards marginal projects that don’t do much to truly benefit the islands from what I’ve seen. Benefiting the people who organize the volunteers much more as they make substantial money off of them. The volunteers pay for accommodations and other various expenses during their stays here, all money going through the organizers, who take their cut. While engaging the volunteers in performing marginal tasks like digging holes to help a family get a hot water system installed (we haven’t even had a hot shower in months), removing invasive blackberry bushes, but only the tops and not the roots, which is how blackberry bushes spread, and removing rocks out of a family’s garden, its not like the island is lacking great, cheap produce. Don’t get me wrong some of the more skilled volunteers are making a difference, by spaying and neutering the island’s pet population and teaching English in the schools. But, over all it seems to me like a scam and some people have figured out how to cash in on the Galapagos’ status in the world to make a buck, while the true needy, less publicized places of the world still suffer.

One night at Polo’s Bar I happened to meet a lovely volunteer, Tina from Norway. She was teaching English in grade school up in El Progreso, the poorer town of the highlands. Truly a caring person and beautiful too, she like some people you meet in the world seemed a cut above the rest. Adventurous and willing to try new things, we took her surfing with us and she was dropping into overhead waves, getting pounded, literally cut up on the jagged reef, yet still paddling back out to catch more and making me nervous at how hard she was charging. Tina even paddled out with us and caught a couple of solid waves, on a day when the wave was maxing out and everyone was dodging cleanup sets, not bad for a true rookie. We had tons fun together and it was nice to connect with such a nice girl, who spoke perfect California accented English (Dad American) and have a girl around for the first time in a while, diffusing the seemingly endless testosterone on the boat. The boys were awestruck too, as they could burp and fart to their hearts desire in front of her and she would just laugh, telling them “In Norway louder it better,” it must truly be the land of Vikings.

We spent late nights dancing to the funky, hip sounds of Arakbuz, a local band who quickly befriended us at Iguana Rock, the local hot spot. Arakbuz, friggin rocks and has an exceptionally unique sound, when compared to both world and Latin music. Semi Latin rock, crossed with Sublime/Reggae influences and I have to say, its some of the best new music we have heard on our liquidity journey thus far. The kids defiantly have a chance to make it big musically in Latin America. Breathtaking mornings were spent making everyone deliciously healthy, fruit filled pancakes, using up the last of our irreplaceable, real maple syrup and just truly enjoying each other’s company. When, suddenly the bliss is painfully ripped away from you, as her gig was up, she had to leave, back to Quito, then onto Norway and we too have to split soon (although we do seem to lag, quite solidly wherever we go). Who knows what would have happened if we had met under more traditional circumstances, but I guess that’s the life of a sailor and some times its truly sad and all you can do is shed a tear or two and hope the passage to and the arrival in the next port will help you get over it.

We know the world is a small place and we all hope our paths will cross again. Just like with so many of the lovely people we met here. It seems like the town is starting to empty out, the northern summer season is drawing to a close and our good Irish friends David and Edel, had to return to their Irish reality, leaving us and their good friend JP here to morn our losses. JP was lost at the pool table without his usual partner, Dave and I just couldn’t summon up any interest to talk to the girls lurking around. Combine this, with the fact the water has grown progressively colder and the air temperature cooler as well, with even some of the first fog and drizzle we have seen since Newport, Rhode Island and we all agree our time here is drawing to a close and need to venture onward in search of new, warmer lands and adrenaline pumping adventures.

We have set a new goal of Tuesday, for our departure and the long passage to the Marquesas. With some luck, we should score some last, fun surf here, have a couple of our French friends give us a French lesson or two (or else were going to be screwed), reprovision, rewater, refuel, say our many good byes and then set sail, across one of the emptiest expanses of our world’s oceans. So, wish us good luck and fair winds and lets hope our penchant for tardiness is overcome. Cheers – Kyber

Dizzy? yes? Brent Madden is the name from my parents, but Dizzy is a much more apt title (and increasingly a self fulfilling prophecy) given from beer lubricated evenings of my grommy hood. I have been cruising n’ grinning along side the other mystical men for the last few months, but have been hesitant to subscribe to these blogs as my shoulders rub alongside impressively cunning linguists with impressive talents of the pen and tongue and until now, have left archiving the details to better equipped hands.

looking errrr dashing after getting sightly defeated in a recent food fight.

Bio n’ Background styles…so here goes….Tasmanian heritage, occasional Taz devilish antics in the forgotten hours of the evening. 23 years young. Global wanderer that has been gallivanting here and there and aspiring to everywhere. Black with shades of blue. Gin n tonic with a big slice of lime please. I departed my dear mother land of Tasmania at age 17 for a holiday to explore the Australian Alpine and associated ski bum living and didn’t come home again, as blurry horizons of spontaneous global travelling and snowy fantasies distracted me for the last years. I am most content when my material possessions can be stuffed into a single backpack and a board bag, as they are currently (actual lie, they are strewn hurricane Katrina style about my room). Recently been transported into a journey of curiosities pursued aboard the Natural Mystic (Natty M), and into a daily ‘pinch me’ reality. Stoked is an understatement, and something that is in vast surplus aboard. Am blowing out on the daily routines of exploration and adventure we are chasing every day as we use the ever constant and renewable global force of the wind to slide us from country to country. Hopelessly lost in a spiralling addiction with the many faced mistress of the ocean, an obsession which has left me at the end of each day unsatisfied with the amount of time to indulge in the water in each day that passes. However living below the waterline on a boat and immersed by the sea, my first time as such, I find this itch scratched.

I am renewable thunderstruck every morn whilst lying in my bed at the experience of bouncing and spearing through the ocean that envelopes me on all sides, gurgling, rippling, slurping n slapping waves being sliced apart by our bow and the fibreglass that encases me. To this whispered confused cacophony of liquid rhythm beats that reaches my ears as they press against my pillow comes the sounds of the local ‘Lobos’ (Espanol for Sea Lions). The Bubbles they emit as they weave and wind about each other in their perpetual playing connects with the fibreglass hull creating an unearthly alarm clock (that has no daily designation for time) that awakes me and starts my day. It is in this prostate position in bed the feeling of torpedoeing (such a better or this actual word I fear not exists) feet first towards foreign lands and island chains will soon begin again as we embark to the Marquesas Islands, Two-ish weeks sail South East of our current coordinates in Isla Santa Catalina, Galapagos.

my fuzzy floating alarm clocks, tranquillo on the back of the boat

Our arrival into the Galapagos ushered into a whole different realm of unique bizarreness. The animals of these parts that can be stumbled over while looking for waves is like nothing we have encountered, as Kahlil and I found on our first surf here. We were searching for a reef that Kahlil had spied on Google earth, the ever revealing software program that allows you to use satellite photos to scan entire countries coast lines and makes for a great tool to spot find for waves. I had surfed it the previous evening finding the wave after an hour long coffee fuelled paddle and walk from where we were anchored. However trying to retrace my steps of the day before was proving difficult as we were dropped by dingy onto a different section of coast. It had appeared the land had superficially changed with the 18 feet of tidal movement, rendering us wandering the landscape sufficiently lost. The sun scorched ground here resembles the contents of your trash the last time you cleaned out a wood fire hearth. The landscape consists of large black volcanic rocks spewed from inside the molten earth, this being the construction of the archipelago. Kahlil and I wandered the charred terrain bewildered and lost, fancying a chance encounter with a car size tortoise or other bizarre dinotopian fauna that makes this part of the world famous. A few more disorientated kilometres passed with curses and no idea where we were till I heard Kahlil making a racket up in front through the brush. We had stumbled on the giant Iguanas of the Galapagos! They possess serious claws and fierce demeanour, complete with spiky Mohawks and goatees, resembling a smaller version of the sort of creature that ran amok through Tokyo in the Godzilla films. They responded to our laughs of curiosity by launching spit out of their noses at us, giving the impression they definitely didn’t want to be disturbed. With feet filled with 3 inch nails and a body like a husky dog pup we obliged and left them in peace to continue our confusion to find waves. After more cursing and stumbling over the ashen moonscape we found our prize = a grinding left hand point that detonated along the black reef. Only the biggest sets broke wide enough of the exposed rocks to enable you to squeak past and charge for the channel making you pump like a demon and race to keep in front. Good to get the heart racing after near a week getting bounced about the ocean sailing here! We were again greeted by a large group of seals who really showed us how to ride the shallow rocky waves here. I shared a few sets with some playful pups, exchanging cutbacks and weaving to each others liquid lines, both simultaneously kicking out of the back of the waves before the rocky shore break with synchronised little airs. The are the aqua-diligent version of a Jack Russell puppy and a blast to surf with, but its hard ignoring thoughts of what’s further up the food chain sharing the waves with us. Upon arrival back on the beach in the near dark I nearly stumbled over a seal carcass. Remember the last time you ate watermelon and your bite left a perfect half moon in the flesh of the fruit? This exact shape had been applied to the lower half of the seal, leaving no doubt the size of the sharks that frequent the waters here.

Monstrous props to our insane crew of P. Kitty, the ever graceful feline for absorbing the crews excess affection, Kyber for being a densely layered wealth of skills who created and is leading such a mission in a trajectory that oozes his styling’s of fun loving flair, and all others contributing their positive energy to this dream, a unique blend of peeps unified in stoke and the mission of satisfying curiosities (N’ hurting waves). This gratitude extends with potency towards the changing faces of a recurring family of good peeps that we are encountering from port to port; From Juan at Boa Surfboards (boasurfboards.com), Panama City who met us late one Sunday night to open his shop and energies to us ensuring we were properly equipped to handle the great waves of his country. The Man operates as a respected and renowned shaper in panama and he was a one stop shop for our various needs. The morphing but merging tapestry of faces from country to country we are blessed to be sharing our stoke with, currently such as the compounded good vibes accumulated from team Ireland here in the Galapagos, is an element of constant amongst the change from destination to destination and I would like to throw shakas, ice cream and thanx to all that are along for the ride.

Getting some goods in panama, cheers Juan!

A few weeks ago, Whilst on the green shores of Panama, Benja and myself found ourselves entertaining the two local waitresses in the early hours of the dawn, in a mid 80s sedan some fricken where in the Panamanian jungle. The girls had done it in true high school, drive-in movie style and bought a supply of cold beers and munchies to our unknown destination deep in the ever active jungle. Throughout the days that I had met Elena, my lovely company into the wilderness, she had made repeated references to her imagined (there is truth in every lie) efforts I was making towards women within the marina, and I think that the time we had shared came laced in central American style with nuptial designs in the future for which she was testing my suitability. She told me salaciously that our next destination was rife with beautiful ladies which were received by me with a poorly contained smile, which for some reason I am unable to concoct with innocence anymore. This smirk didn’t last long as she erased it with a solid backhand thump into my throat and a “RESPECT ME!!!!” SNAP, local girls hit hard! So fricken shocked I couldn’t help laughing. This wasn’t a good approach as I relaxed, and in my relaxation imbibed several more beers, and proceeded to get belted a few more times, much to my amusement. Panamanian girls are friggen crazy guys, whachya self’s in these parts, the local Hombres will assault you for your shoes and anything else you carry and the ladies belt you for fun.

We have a few days left in these Isles before roaming upon the wind to the Marquesas Islands, and it looks to be filled with one last swell to ride and a lot of boat work to get ‘Natty M’ ready for passage. I spent the afternoon yesterday under her scrubbing algae, Barnacles and what-not of the hull and attending to our anchor chain and in doing so ticked one item of the-to-do-list that stares and challenges us from its place on the wall, behind the coffee percolator . After a few weeks tranquillo here in port without weighing anchor the chain resembled a demented Christmas decoration with accumulated crustaceans and seaweeds that took much lung capacity and a steel brush until I could see metal links again. I bought a spanky shiny new 5′11 round tail and am frothing uncontrollably to ride out one more swell here with my new friend, beginning the introduction to a new boards personality and secrets, and upon completion of this and the remainder of the to-do-list, Marquesas Approaches over the wet horizon.

Till then,

Peace and mucho gusto y’all…..Diz.

Bobbing around between sets, I lazily recline on my 5’9” quad surfboard and don’t even have the power left in my muscles to hang on. My body slips off and the cool, crystal clear Pacific water washes over me, I slowly sink to the bottom, staring upward at the surface of the sea from beneath, watching surface ripples of water reflect and contort the bright sunlight in Nature’s own blue hued kaleidoscope. I’m semi-delirious, life seems like dream, but you never wake up when the all the good stuff happens, because its reality here in the Galapagos. Beautiful, majestic semi-tropical islands with perfect weather, ultra clean, clear water, with almost empty perfect pumping surf, friendly locals, cartoonishly friendly and bountiful animals, a perfect anchorage, ultra-cheap living and a beautiful girl is the dream I wake up to every day here.

And the best part about the Galapagos dream is it doesn’t have to end, we can decide when we want to wake up and move on to the next island chain’s dreamy reality. The authorities gave us twenty days to live it out here and we have been here for twenty-three days now, but because we paid a little extra and used an agent to clear into the country, who happens to be great friends with the Port Captain, it was no problem to extend our stay a for little extra time while we wait for some necessary engine parts to be “fabricated” and who knows just how long that will take. There is no rush, we’re not trying to make it to the other side of the Pacific by the start of cyclone season like most cruisers, as we plan to head into the cyclone free more northern pacific tropical islands come November and North swells and we still have plenty of time to soak up French Polynesia this cruising season. Everyone aboard “Natural Mystic” is exhausted to the bone, at this moment I look over my right shoulder and watch another empty wave peel unridden through El Canon and say to myself maybe in another hour or two I’m out there, but there is no rush. It started off kind of slow here, with plenty of head high waves to rip and shred and time to take in some of the island’s sights and wildlife, but for the last week its been relentless. The Southern Ocean has been alive and sending pumping swells our way and with no islands or any land at all in-between us and the storms. We have just been having a blast and working hard to capture as much of it as we can. But, the Galapagos hold, so much more than just promising surf.

Isla San Cristobal has it all, but beyond that the people of the Galapagos have a vision to preserver their island paradise, ensuring future generations will be able to enjoy the same full of nature Galapagos experience and their quality of life will never be degraded. We have been on the hook here for weeks now in Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. We can’t explore the islands on the “Natural Mystic” as they have limited the number of anchorages you can visit to, two and even then you can’t go from one to the other, you are required to stay where you first clear in. This is both to cut down on yachts disturbing wildlife, polluting pristine anchorages and also serves their economy quite well, as you have to use local tourist boats to tour the islands, thus creating full employment for all the locals. Galapagos National Park boats patrol the coastlines of the islands for illegal activities, such as boating where not permitted and illegal fishing. One massive Colombian fishing boat, complete with spotting helicopter, was detained in our harbor by the Ecuadorian Coast Guard, this is apparently a common occurrence as the fishing grounds here are rich and worth the consequences.

The fines are supposedly steep and we will let you know just how steep, as we have been busted once so far, accused of anchoring where not permitted they allege, its not exactly like there are any no parking signs. The immigration policies are extremely strict here to keep the population down, 7,000 people make Isla San Cristobal their home and illegal Ecuadorian immigrants are rounded up and shipped back to the continent on a regular basis. You need to have roots in the islands to reside here and city elements make up a very small percentage of the land. It is really cool to have so much naturally wild, open space to explore and foster wildlife.

The arid lower islands rise into steep volcanic peaks covered with lush vegetation that is drenched with daily rain showers. The rich volcanic soil and cooler temperatures are perfect for growing coffee and the Galapagos coffee is unreal, all organic and has a deep smoky, rich flavor I had yet to experience. Well worth what ever it costs to wake you up in the morning and as a coffee consieur my entire life, it is the best I have ever tasted. We explored the highlands one day by taxi and were amazed at the sights of giant tortoises, high volcanic mountain lakes and incredible vistas.

The taxis here are perfect too, as a high percentage of the locals don’t have cars or personal transportation. The taxis are a kind of shared cooperative that are extremely affordable, being subsidized by GNP funds. Fifty cents for most rides anywhere and two dollars for a ride out to the distant surf breaks we are prohibited from venturing to by boat. And I almost forgot to mention the taxis are mostly 4×4 quad cab trucks, with ample room for our entire crew, an extra hitcher we picked up along the way, all our boards and camera gear. But, the best thing about the taxis is their honesty. They don’t ever quote you a rip off price because you look like a tourist (the case with every cab in Panama) and when they drop you off in some remote place and you ask them to return in four hours they are there on the dot.

In