#like /how/ did they navigate the ocean open via the stars. i know they did it but finally learning /how/ is like holy shitttt

[stunt-lads]

Tagged by @jimtheviking (tysm for tagging me)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag some of your favourite authors

(Under a read more due to length!)

★ Untitled - Wolvlock; Logan kicks in the door to the room he can smell Sherlock’s scent emanating from. He finds him, alive, moving, breathing but he shies away from the light streaming in behind him.

♥ Nonae - OC Backstory; He thinks he had a name once. Before he ran away. But leaving his realm, his home has left him empty.

★ Camping (Working title) - Streddie (IT); “So, we’re going camping this weekend right?” Richie can hear Eddie in the other room, double and triple checking to make sure he has everything.

“Yes, we’re leaving today actually, so make sure you take everything you’ll need for a week.” Eddie snarks from his bedroom across the hall. Richie thinks it's sweet he doesn’t even pretend to believe Richie’s packed already.

Richie smiles to himself as he haphazardly throws things into the bag. There’s something that makes him feel domestic in that.

♥ Vent - OC Style (ft. Carter, Declan, Peyton); The door creaking has him slowly waking up. It’s not common that someone comes into his room at night but maybe it’s dad or Declan in need of something.

♥ Untitled; He lays on his back, looking up at the stars and moon

The ground is finally dry enough from all the melting snow for him to just relax It’s still partially frozen and his clothes aren’t thick enough to stop all the water from seeping into his skin Cooling it in the cold night air But it’s worth it It’s so worth it to look up at the sky and see the vast array of stars.

★ Nitis - Penultimate Chapter; “Are you sure this is the right way?” Soot’s voice echoes slightly in the metal interior.

“I think so. It’s so hard to tell…” Dart sounds unsure of himself. Fern steels herself and steps forward at the same time Ash does.

They look at each other and nod.

“Follow Ash.” Fern’s voice is soft but confident, “Dart, you follow her and then me, and Soot if—“

“Yeah! I can use my antlers if I need to.” He lets them crackle softly to enunciate his words.

“Yeah. Ok.”

Dart inhales deeply, the four of them able to breathe easily even as the smog and black smoke surrounds them and prevents them from seeing clearly. Ash stops in front of him and looks back at them, her eyes glowing a soft green in the harsh red lighting.

“She wants to know which way to go.” Soot says, tilting his head curiously. He gently nudges at Fern’s hindquarters, “Get up next to her. You’re our navigator.”

“B-But I—“

“You can do it Fern.” Dart says stepping aside. Fern lays her ears flat back against her head and steps forward on shaky legs. Ash looks at her with a small smile and nods.

“Alright, ok. Uhm…” She closes her eyes and concentrates until the loud sound of the machinery around them fades away, until she doesn’t feel the rumbling of the behemoth moving around them.

“Right. And then the next fork we go left.”

“Alright! Let’s go!” Dart says excitedly as they all run deeper into the darkness of the metal monstrosity, Soot whooping as he brings up the tail end again.

★ The Thief and the Bard - OC story (ft. Caleb and Lysander); It’s dark now and the rafters creak under his weight as his eyes take in the empty store.

He’s been stalking it all day, watching the shopkeeper, learning his habits. He’s friendly enough, if intimidating. To be expected though. He’s a bear.

As soon as the candlelight went out, the torches were doused with a soft sizzle, and the light from the fire had died down to embers, he made his move.

He genuinely couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the window left open on the second floor. Climbing his way up had been easy enough and the cloud cover had left him invisible to anyone watching.

The fox’s nose twitches as his ears swivel and he waits before swinging down onto the log floor. He winces when the wood groans softly under his feet.

♥ The one where they’re queer - Stozier (ft. Trans Stan); Richie Tozier was a rambunctious boy. But it also wasn’t unusual or hard for him to make friends. Which is how he made friends with the nice girl down the street.

Her name was Hannah Uris and she was the only girl Richie ever liked.

✘ Omega Stan - Stozier; He doesn’t like being soft

He doesn’t like being vulnerable and when he presents his status he’s really pissed about it Especially since He’s the only loser who is an omega

★ FBI Stan + Richie, Witness Protection Eddie (Steddie); He’s had to relocate this dude liketimes and ‘Eddie’ is his new name and he has no friends and Stan feels bad for him

So he says “hey, why don’t I keep you company until you’re settled in and comfortable?” And Eddie goes from 😔 to 🥺 and Stan’s like oh fuck he’s cute

★ The guy next door - Reddie (ft. Trans Eddie); When he first moves in Richie’s already intrigued by him.

He looks perpetually angry and Richie is living for it. Richie makes his move when he goes to catch a box that nearly falls from his hands, the boxes stacked too high.

✘ Barry/Soso - Dark A/B/O; “Please, i dont want this, I asked you not to when I was in heat, sTOP!”

But Barry doesn’t listen and pins his wrists to the bed, after turning him onto his stomach and making him keep his face buried in the pillows.

✘ Corruption and blasphemy? Yes - Reddie (ft. Demon!Eddie & Priest!Richie); For a demon Eddie Kaspbrak is small, he’s unassuming, petite, he thinks he even heard a human refer to him as a “twink” once when he was in a gay club and looking for a hookup to ease his bloodlust.

He doesn’t really care what they call him, he just knows when he sets his sights on someone, they become his.

Must be the greed in him.

✘ Venting via proxy; it’s hazy, his memories, and that’s ok. or, well, it’s not okay, but he prefers the haziness to the vivid memories.

at least with the lapses in his memory he can pretend nothing happened. because even if something did, he doesn’t know what it was, can’t pinpoint it, doesn’t dwell on it late at night when the demons come for him in the darkness. all shadows and long arms.

♥ Christmas but make it horror - Reddie; “Do I have to stay, Richie?” Stan whines, throwing a pillow at him from the spot on his bed.

“You do.” Richie says cheerfully, throwing a wrapped gift in his direction, “And here’s your present you whiny baby.”

Stan tears into it eagerly. He tries not to laugh when he sees the hideous thing, “Thanks, Rich.” He deadpans and Richie presses an exaggerated kiss to his temple.

“Anythin’ for you toots.”

Stan shoves him away laughing.

★ Oceans Embrace - PotC OC/Canon story; what’re ye worried about in these waters? eyes flit to the darkening sky in answer ain’t no harpies for leagues and ‘fore you mention ‘em mermaids flock t’gether in shallower waters.

aye but there's somethin’ worse than harpies, worse than mermaids even. breaths are held, and work is paused as the second mate speaks, somethin’ that's the unholy mixture of the two.

✘ Soft Reddie; Eddie always wanted to believe in unicorns. He wanted to see one one day, a pure white animal, pristine and clean that only showed itself to those who it deemed worthy and good of heart?

Yeah. Eddie wanted that.

♥ Blurb/Ficlet - Reddie; It’s after Derry, when they’re all staying for a week with Richie, ignoring their obligations so they can catch up on things they’ve missed in their time apart. And Stan has brought along Patty and she and Bev are already getting along great. Stan is obviously smitten, if the way he looks at her and just holds her hand is any indication.

✘ Barry/Richie/Milo; He isn’t sure when the turning point is. When he decides he just can’t do it anymore. But he knows it starts when he’s on stage. Seeing the spotlight and suddenly snapping back to beneath Derry, frozen in fear and tense. He vomits on stage and there’s murmurs of “oh god” and “is he okay?” from the crowd and Richie Tozier, for one of the first times in his life, sincerely apologizes.

♥ But Trust me to take you home - Reddie; It’s funny, Eddie thinks, that as things change they still always sort of stay the same.

Key:

♥ - Completed

★ - WIP/incomplete

✘ Abandoned

Tagging: @ull-float-too @bimmyshrug @blueeyedrichie @fuckbitchesgetreddie  @fuji09 and whoever else wants to do this! <33

[andy-the-8th]

Stars and Stripes and Sea Creatures

Part 8 of Creatures That Defy Logic

Read on AO3

Whit reflects on the summer so far while preparing for the 4th of July, before meeting up with everyone for the fireworks. We meet Sam's sister and her cool college friends. Jess gets to do cool sousaphone things.

There's a Brink! crossover - it's more of a quick cameo.

A/N: I may hate America but I do enjoy a wholesome 4th of July summer scene

Whit was standing in the kitchen, carefully moving cups of red and blue vegan jello and tubs of non-dairy whipped cream from the fridge to the center of the counter. It was 4th of July and he and Sharon were going to be preparing a dessert tray to bring down to the cove to watch the fireworks and band performance with their neighbors. While neither of them were exactly what you'd call patriotic, it was still one of the main social events of the summer as much as it was in any small town. The tourist guide boat was closed for the day, with most of the harbor blocked from usual traffic out of safety concerns - the fireworks were launched from a set of rafts in the middle of the harbor, and naturally the town administration wanted to keep boaters and swimmers away from the explosives. Whit was always glad to have the holiday off each year - in the tourism business, holidays usually just meant more work, more people, and ruder customers.

In the month since Cody left, the Griffins had slowly adapted to a new rhythm in the house. Days came more easily first, with work, social obligations, and day-to-day chores around the house and the boats to keep them busy.

The nights were harder. Any parent would worry enough when their kids first start spending the nights outside the home - at a friend's house, away for a school trip. When your kid is spending 24 hours a day for three months and could be anywhere in the ocean, that worry is justifiably magnified.

Whit didn't tell Sharon about his nightmares - it was rare that they kept anything from each other, but he didn't see it doing any good. They were never very specific (or prophetic, as some might believe) - he could dismiss them as his brain simply de-fragging anxieties of the day. Images and ideas that were innocuous enough by daylight, or to anyone who didn't have a 13 year old at large in the open ocean - sharks, whales, Marianas Trenches, tidal waves, ice bergs, tropical storms - and those were just the worries that everyday science had already confirmed. Worries of safety, security, open ended but ominous.

And then there were social (supernatural?) concerns, which both Sharon and Whit had at times discussed to some extent or another. What was mermaid culture like? Did Cody have more family out there? Were they being welcoming to him? Was there a school? Was he making friends? Would there be any way for him to communicate any of it to them if when he came back? Would their language even have words for it all?

Sharon had burned through almost every book in the library about lifestyle tips targeting empty-nester parents. Bohemian and alternative as she may be, she nevertheless was no stranger to research, especially making use of strategies to find natural, healthy solutions to life's problems. And in that search, the best analog she had found to what they were going through was parents of students going away to school for the first time. Many of the concerns were applicable, at least in theory. For the most part, the books helped more than they hurt. Universities out of town generally didn't have a risk of sharks attacking your kid, but there was still advice for parents concerned about safety. Most college kids wouldn't go away and learn a telepathic secret language, but there were still strategies for adapting to your child's social and cultural changes when leaving home for the first time. In fact, the most difficult difference between these hypothetical scenarios and the one they found themselves in was not the existence of merpeople - it was the age of the hypothetical child in question. Sure, trusting your 18 year old to go out into the world and make good choices, knowing you're a phone call away from home, is hard enough. Sending your 13 year old out into the ocean, with no way of knowing where he'll go or how he'll come back, was another matter entirely.

Still, they had each other, and their faith in their son, to get them through it. The Griffins were definitely changed, but as they promised their son and each other, they'd be alright.

Especially considering that this wasn't going to be a permanent change - at the outset, it felt like an eternity before Cody would be coming back. The house felt very large and very empty, and they both felt strangely out of step with the rest of their friends and neighbors, all so genuinely curious about how Cody was doing at this swim training in Australia, always asking how they were doing with him being gone so long. The first few weeks had them feeling very, very lonely, even together.

That was before John Wheatley, of all people, came over one night with a lasagna. He had made it himself, more or less, with Jess's oversight. It had been his late wife's favorite comfort food recipe - Jess had even reminded him to make it vegan, in case that was still Sharon's diet of choice these days. When the big clumsy fisherman had showed up with a big tinfoil tray on their front step, with his small clumsy son right behind him, Sharon had been more than happy to have them in, to insist they stay even though they had only intended to drop it off for them. Whit was surprised at her hospitality more than anything else, given how their last encounter a few weeks before had gone, but followed his wife's lead on how they were navigating their new relationship with the Wheatleys. John and Jess had stayed for the evening, the four of them sharing the lasagna, Jess eventually fitting right in to the conversation with the adults, perhaps sometimes more than his father. It was at first a relief to just socialize with other people who knew the same secrets, but after a while, the Griffins realized they'd grown to genuinely become friends with Big John.

Which was a blessing for several reasons, not the least of which that Whit and Sharon hadn't really realized how close Jess and Cody seemed to have been. Most of Cody's other friends had always been kids from the swim team - friends, like most boys their age, whose connection seemed mostly founded on shared activities. Doubly so as sports players, Cody's other friends had always had a healthy level of competition and rivalry with him and with one another.

Maybe, if there was any truth in what Sharon and Whit heard about Sean Marshall these days, a little less than healthy sometimes.

Jess at their first meeting was a polar opposite of Cody's usual friend group - it definitely had made sense when Cody first introduced them that he was there as a randomly-assigned partner for a science project.  For one, he spoke with them openly and very matter-of-factly, almost more comfortable with adults than he seemed to have been around other kids his age when they saw him at school. He was quite straightforward and polite, if very enthusiastic at the opportunity to talk about anything related to marine biology. He was just as interested in hearing Whit and John discuss boating practices or their experiences at the harbor, or patiently listen to Sharon's various spiritual health and natural healing theories, and would light up with the chance to talk about whatever they were learning.

But the one topic that Jess would light up about more than any other, even more than marine biology or sousaphone, was Cody. Naturally, about him being a merman, but just as often it was about him as a person, from the time they'd spent together since the science project. It was kind of weirdly comforting as parents, to hear one of your kid's peers talk about how kind and respectful they had turned out. It was one thing for a teacher or coach to compliment your child, but other kids don't have the filters or obligations to do so. John hadn't been kidding when he'd said how important Cody was to Jess.

Whit had more than once wondered, somewhat apprehensively, if there was some kind of other double meaning to what John had said on the dock - if Jess maybe liked Cody a bit differently than the other boys.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, he always said to himself. And really he never got that impression from Jess - he was just very earnest, and as far as they could tell didn't really have other friends. And he was 13 - kids were all a little weird around that age. Whit hoped that that wasn't going to be the case, mostly for Jess's sake - if they were such good friends, Jess would probably be completely crushed if he had those feelings, when Cody didn't return them.

Not that there would be anything wrong with that, Whit thought again. It didn't really matter, since it wasn't the case.

Sam had also been coming by the house once in a while, when she was walking home from work at the greenhouses. Whit and Sharon had known her through the swim team forever, before she and Cody were "an item" as Whit liked to jokingly call it. It was a lot to put on a 13 year old girl, having such a secret and not sharing it with anyone but her boyfriend's parents, the weird marina guy, and his nerdy son. Even if it was only an 8th grade relationship, they knew they could trust Sam - she cared enough about Cody that she wouldn't ever want to see anything happen to him.

Over the last few months Sharon had gotten lunch a few times with Lindsey Brathwaite, when they were both free. "Meeting the in-laws" she had joked the first time they went out. Whit had already known Lindsey via the Department of Natural Resources - he was one of the few commercial boaters who always prided himself and his business on following all environmental protection regulations and then some. It was one of the reasons they didn't serve snacks on the boat - no trash or food waste to dirty the water and harm the reefs. Lindsey had a bit of a reputation among the commercial boaters and fishers in the harbor - she was smart and relentless when it came to protecting the environment, and held the respect of most of the town for it. There was a reason Mahone Bay had some of the most beautiful shores, some of the healthiest reefs, all along the coast.

Maybe that's why a mermaid would drop her baby off here, Whit thought with a smile.

On the counter, Sharon had laid out 26 clear plastic wine glasses - a spoonful of whipped cream, then blue jello, then whipped cream, then red jello was to go in each glass, then put them all back in the fridge to keep them fresh for that afternoon. Whit was just finishing up putting them all together - he'd zoned out a bit reflecting on all the changes over the last month.

Sharon came in through the back door, (reusable, biodegradable) grocery bags in hand. "Whit, you done with the parfait?"

"Just finishing, putting them in the fridge now."

"OK, I ran into Lindsey at the farmers market, I invited her to come to the fireworks with us if that's alright"

"Oh sure!" It would be nice to get a chance to talk to Lindsey outside of a work context.

"Her other daughter is in town as well, so we can maybe meet her, if she and Sam will be there too. Not sure if they'll have other plans though."

Whit finished putting all the glasses back in the fridge. "I'm sure we'll be appropriately embarrassing like any teenager's parents are supposed to be." Sharon put the bags on the counter and smiled at him at that. "Did you hear anything from the Wheatleys?"

"I think John is tied up at the boat yard with so much extra traffic in the harbor for the holiday. Jess is playing sousaphone with the school band before the fireworks though!"

Of course he would be. Truly no better event for a sousaphonist than the 4th of July.

"Good for him, I'm sure he'll be excited for that."

"Yep. Can you help with these so we can get ready to go?"

Whit moved to the other side of the counter, helping sort through the groceries, arranging things on platters per Sharon's instructions. They'd be ready well before it was time to head down by the pavilion near the water.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The band finished their latest number, an up-tempo arrangement of "This Land is Your Land," with a cymbal crash and a sustained sousaphone honk. The crowd clapped for the group of 15 or so middle and high schoolers on the big white gazebo that over looked the harbor - some of the spectators on the folding chairs, some on picnic blankets. Anything the band might lack in musical talent - which might be a good bit - they certainly made up for in heart. Standing up in the back corner with his horn, Jess was dressed like the others in red white and blue - in his case, what appeared to be a glittery blazer, covered in stars and stripes. Definitely looked like he made it himself, but it caught the light well enough, and its homemade quality added to the charm. The rest of the band was a wide variety of outfits - a mix of T-shirts and shorts, denim, suits or dresses their parents probably picked - but it all somehow went together.

They'd made their way through "America the Beautiful," "Yankee Doodle," and "My Country Tis of Thee" with varying levels of success. "This Land is Your Land" was the penultimate in the setlist, right before the mayor's comments, then would play "The Star Spangled Banner" for the start of the fireworks.

Sam watched as the mayor got up to the podium, started some bland speech on patriotism or something.

"God doesn't this small town jingoism just make you gag" Jackie snorted from the other end of the blanket. Sam and her sister had met up with Jen and two of Jackie's other friends, Vanessa and Maria, to go down to the fireworks together.

Jackie used to have red hair like Sam and their mom, but had since cut it short and dyed it black when she moved away to school. She looked way more goth than Mahone Bay usually was used to seeing, with her black lipstick and white foundation making her look much paler than usual. She also usually wore black these days, tomboyish outfits of denim, band shirts, and (ethically sourced) leather. Today's outfit was no exception.

"Totally. They always leave out all the terrible shit this country does in speeches like this." Vanessa turned around to face Jackie, gathering her long braids in her hands and back behind her shoulders as she repositioned herself on the blanket. She was doing a political science major, which unsurprisingly had made her usual contempt for the state of the nation even more viscerally infuriated.

Jen reached in the cooler for a lemonade, and passed one down to Sam on the other corner before taking her seat beside her. Jackie and Vanessa continued their cultural critiques in the background.

"Weird we'll be in high school next year!" Jen was looking at the band, a mix from all the different grades. "Let me tell you, high school boys are awhole 'nother story."

"Jen, do you even know any high school boys?"

"I mean technically all the ones in our grade count! But that's beside the point anyway,"

"Hey kids, let me teach you something" Maria spoke up, interrupting Jen's usual interest in discussing boys and gossip at any large social event. Maria dressed a bit more like Jackie, though with more pops of color, choker necklaces, tons of rings. She had also dyed her hair, hot pink streaks over her natural dark brown, contrasting with her olive complexion. Even if it wasn't her style, Sam couldn't deny Maria always looked cool, in that quirky-alternative kind of way. She even had a nose piercing. "Did you ever hear of the Bechdel test?"

"The what?" Sam could tell from Maria's tone that they were about to learn some allegedly-cool college-girl facts of life, like how when Jackie wanted to talk about love languages, or zodiac signs for aligning the spirit of one's womanhood, or unlearning implicit biases.

"The Bechdel test. You apply it to movies to see how feminist they are. Has to have two female characters, they have to have names, they have to talk to each other, and they have to talk about something that isn't a man."

"Mar, that's not a solid test for how feminist something is -"

"I know, I know, the point is that the bar is SO low, makes you really think."

Vanessa nodded back at that, her point made. From a fashion standpoint, Vanessa had really embraced the pan-Africana look in college, dramatic flowy prints on shirts and dresses. Today she wore a long yellow shirt over jeans, the golden color bringing out the highlights in her dark skin. How did all of Jackie's friends manage to grow up so cool and pretty? Sam turned back to Maria, who was finishing her point.

"My point is, can we try to have this picnic blanket pass the Bechdel test for like, 5 minutes?"

Jen blushed and turned away - Sam put her hand on her shoulder. "Thanks for telling us Mar, sorry we're not enlightened yet."

"It's totally cool, just like, now you know" Maria gave them an exaggerated wink and finger guns.  The older girls went back into their previous discussion while Sam turned back to Jen.

"So how are things at the dog washing place?" Jen's summer job was at the Pup'n'Suds that had just opened up - they had their main location way over in LA, but one of their staff had moved over to Mahone Bay sometime last year. Small town and small businesses - made it easy to know things like this, even as a part time high schooler with a summer position.

"Going OK actually! Honestly I always loved the dogs of course, but what a wild company culture. They apparently sponsored some kind of X Games skating team last year?"

Jen and Sam continued off of that, both sharing various stories from work, consciously passing the Bechdel test through the remainder of the mayor's speech, now long past anyone paying attention anymore. Jen someday hoped to be a veterinarian - her interests and Sam's just happened to complement each other like that. Fauna and flora.

The speech finally came to an end, with the mayor turning it over to Mr. Payton and the school band to start the national anthem. Sam saw Jess resolutely stand up straight as they started, as usual executing all 3 honking notes of the sousaphone part with the seriousness of a surgeon.

The band actually played this one pretty well - clearly this was where most of the rehearsal time had gone. On the last "land of the free/home of the brave," Sharon nudged Whit a bit, pointing at the band - in a surprise part of the arrangement, the sousaphone joined in on that final melody.

Jess's face was bright red, cheeks puffed out, every bit of concentration on getting the melody right for the finale. Maybe it was intentional, maybe not, but the sousaphone kind of overpowered the rest of the ensemble by the end of the short phrase.

It got some raised eyebrows but Jess looked so excited and proud when the music closed and the crowd applauded. Sharon managed to get his attention from the crowd to wave - Jess was clearly surprised, but immediately waved back, beaming and still blushed from the performance.

"Well that was a bit unexpected," Lindsey said, laughing a bit, turning back to the picnic table once the band finished. "Never heard quite that much tuba in the national anthem before."

"Sousaphone" Sharon and Whit said together. Their other neighbors at the table, Cynthia and Jack Williams, both chuckled in surprise at that. Sharon and Whit made eye contact with another and smiled, raised eyebrows - both realizing that they unintentionally had exactly matched the way they'd said merMAN semi-regularly just 2 months ago.

Lindsey kind of smiled nervously, surprised at the emphasized correction. "OK, sousaphone. That kid did a good job at least."

"Yeah, that's Jess. He's friends with Cody and Sam actually" Sharon supplied helpfully. "Good kid. Can get a little overenthusiastic, but he's a good friend."

"Oh OK. Sam had mentioned him coming by the greenhouse once, but I'd never met him."

"How is she liking the job?"

The conversation moved easily from there - the rest of the evening unfolded with welcome normalcy - just talking about their kids, work, the fireworks, anything really. Whit relaxed a bit, settling next to Sharon, sharing in the conversation.

They weren't really patriotic, but the holiday was always a good excuse to share time with people away from work. They certainly spent enough time in the house together - they'd needed a chance to decompress and just be adults for a while. He put his arm around his wife as they both looked up at the last blasts of the fireworks. He turned to meet her gaze under the final lights.

"Hey. I love you."

Sharon smiled at him, a bit confused. "I know?"

"Gee thanks, Han Solo."

"Sorry hon. I love you too. Just was surprised - what brought that up?"

"Well I thought we agreed we were going to be the embarrassing teenager parents tonight, as expected."

Jackie, Sam, and the other girls had walked back up to where Lindsey was at the picnic tables, blanket rolled up under one arm. Sam awkwardly waved over at them, saying something to Jackie, who rolled her eyes.

"Ah OK. Love you too Whit."

Yeah, kissing under fireworks definitely counted as an embarrassing-parents move.

END NOTES:

I may hate America but am always down for a wholesome 4th of July scene

"Not that there's anything wrong with that" is indeed a reference to that Seinfeld episode

Sam thinking her sister's friends are pretty is *probably* not anything to read into

might have based Jess's ridiculous red white and blue glitter blazer on something I once made as a kid....might not have

[andrewgmooney]

Thought stream. Word Salad 🥗 Brain Salad Surgery

93... I don't. Not consciously. I've abandoned all notions that my rational mind is supposed to be running the show because I found out that wasn't the case a long, long time ago. Now I just accept my rational conscious mind is a PTSD shipwreck and I accept that I have no idea 💡 or control over what happens next. The more I resist surrendering to thus 'process', the sicker I'll get. #IContainMultitudes, etc. It's now more difficult to not meditate 'excessively' thzn to remember to do so. I gkt trappex jn the doldrums, an albatross adrift on topographic oceans as I navigated my #OdysseanEducation with impatience and irritation, fed up with the blather of #Kabbalah and being stuck on that occult train going #StationToStation with no discernible destination. Like #Bowie in Vladivostock waiting for a boat 🛥 to Hokkaido, I mix ny metaphors promiscuously and I trust in Art as Heilung completely. I was at Victoria Station when he supposedly did the Hitler salute but I neither saw nor recall any such thing. Remember David was a pop star, albeit far less of an arse than the rest of them but he craved FAME and £$¥€ and only 'woke up' from that cultural trance programming after his heart attack to realise 'art 🎨 for Art's sake, money for God's sake' but I told Ziggy in the Bull Ring that chasing mass consciousness via celebrity hysteria was already past its sell by date. Then Elvis flushed his Blackstar down the toilet but the nonsense not only continued, it's been amplified, weaponised by The Spectacle that is the 'living your best life' nanotechnology of delusion that is #Instagram. 15 Seconds Of Fame is the new Soma, the 'Eyeball Attention Economy' of The Globalist pseudo-fake Global Village - Panopticon👀 🙄 🤔' is Warhol' s maxim magnified by orders of magnitude, multiplied by McLuhan. So, this is the kind of stuff running on the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen as I wake up in 😰 terrir from the nightmarish dreams of The Scream 😱 in my head as my body writhes in my restless bed🛏, soundtrack by the pop song sounds of my youth : ✝️ 🌍 🏴󐁧󐁢󐁥󐁮󐁧󐁿 🎸 🎼 🥁 🎙️ 🎤 "The Green Manalishi with the two-pronged 👑 crown. ... Shall I tell you about my life? They say I'm a Man Of The World 🗺... I've flown across every Time : fcukd lots of  pretty boys and girls... Don't ask me what I think of you cause you might not get the answer that you want me to... Albatross (instrumental healing waves of sound ⚡ ⚡).. Bare Trees. January, you've been hanging on me ... Oh Well... " I wouldn't wish PTSD on my worst enemy. Arthur and Tommy Shelby are fictional phantoms from an upcycled #BCFC-z #SmallHeath but I'm the real deal, from the Babylon of Birmingham in the 1970s. Thank God for the small mercies, that The Muses of #MerciaRising let me finish raising my Holy Family before returning to reclaim my soul. I made that deal with the 👿 Devil at the crossroads after watching Crossroads one hundrum evening: Poets Corner. Armory Road. BSA 🏭. factory. The Factory. Should I release the Polaroids proving Warhol met the real mad Art genius Andy in New York City? 🤔 Or leave them with the   35mm film 📼 reels of  porn-orgies with police-priests on Fire Island to be analysed by Posterity? I guess I could just reveal I'm a real/imaginary Bitcoin Billion $ Boomer Baby if The Muses decide that it's Time to let Fame's fatal flames consume me. That's what's so hilarious about crypto : unless you 'manifest in Fiat', only God knows if you're telling the truth or taking the piss. But, that would be too obvious a move and would ruin everything. No doubt that playing with the Faketoshi Bitcoin Jesus #ChaldeanNumerology memetic cauldron is fun but if it gets out of control that would be 'problematic', to put it mildly. That Jane Austen opening line? Amazing how sexy an old man suddenly becomes once a hidden fortune is suspected. Bitcoin brings out the inner Borgia in families, including mine. Of all my travails, this is the one  that has almost 💔 broken my heart ♥ alongside inflamed my traumatised mind. I need Fame like a Cobain sized bullet hole 🕳 t

[cescalr]

Ok so what about an au of stalia as start crossed lovers or like them finding each other through the years?? idk

Star-Crossed Lovers Supernatural/Royalty/Fantasy-Medieval AU coming up!!

i.  Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. 

Being who she was should be, above all things, simple. 

Malia Hale, daughter of Peter Hale, should, in theory, be a noblewoman. Peter is, after all, the biological brother of the Queen. The Brother-In-Law to the Prince Consort; Peter is a Prince. But there is, sadly, a complication: Malia Hale is a bastard child. 

Illegitimate. 

The rest of the country does not know this, of course; Corrine – a lady also known as the dreaded assassin ‘The Desert Wolf’ – died during childbirth. Talia Hale made certain of that. After all, the woman had been attempting to kill Talia via getting close to her brother; such a woman could not live. But Talia was and is, supposedly, a generous woman. So she let the child, Malia, be born. And so, Malia is supposedly the daughter of Peter Hale and his arranged wife (a woman who has kept herself and her blue-blood far away from the tainted mess that is Malia), and that is that. 

But it makes things… complicated. 

Surely, it should. She is not fully of Royal blood – and here, in this place, that is important. Her father does not think so – but her ‘mother’ does. And the other princesses and the prince – they think so too. Talia, however, does not – at least, so she presents to the family - and she is decidedly determined to make sure Malia is accepted as one of them, blue-blooded and pure, despite the obvious and glaring issue that that is simply not the case. 

This world is not hers. 

This world of fancy dinners and balls and galas and crowns and tiaras and curtseying and extravagant dresses and all manner of ridiculousness – it is not hers. Malia has known this all her life – known the way that people look at her, even the servants and the rest of the staff. The way they talk about her behind her back. 

Malia can see it in the people around her. The way they think she doesn’t belong.

She doesn’t even look – well, she looks more like her father than her mother, but her mother was from another part of the land. Malia doesn’t look a lot like her mother, which in this case is a saving grace, but there are aspects to her features you don’t otherwise find here, and many of them she does not share with her supposed mother (who was chosen because she was foreign, and that could explain away the differences in Malia to the rest of her family. If the woman hadn’t been platinum blonde and thin and much shorter than Malia’s father with pasty ivory skin, built with little muscle and a willowy frame and her face ending in many sharp points that Malia’s simply didn’t.).

So yes. She does not, will not, and never has belonged here. This castle, with it’s stone walls and murals and stained-glass windows too high up to see from the ground (in order to stop certain forms of attack), with its battlements and towers and machicolations, with its barbican and its bastions and it’s three baileys; the upper, lower and east. 

Malia sighed, leaning against the side of the carriage and watching as the forest that surrounded the town cleared away, and in it’s place she could see for miles; across open land towards the hill the castle lay on, to the moat surrounding her home, and the vast plains beyond. 

Talia wanted the most secure of places that she could manage. 

Malia could see, even from this far away, the men standing in rows – the garrison’s Captain, a small stick-figure from this distance but really, a man with broad shoulders and full plate armour, usually – having brought them to muster for Malia and her father’s return to the castle. 

They’d been away at a wedding of her ‘mother’s’ relative – apparently the woman’s sister. Malia had to pretend she’d been told anything at all about her extended ‘family’, and had nodded along and smiled so much her cheeks hurt – and now she was back, all she wanted to do was wait until dark and then – 

“Malia.” Her father said. Malia sighed, and sat up straight, placed her hands daintily on her lap and tried her best not to scowl. When passing through the cobbled streets, she’d seen women swearing, laughing, drinking – talking about The Guard, the not-so-illegal fighting done somewhat discretely in back alleyways or far too obviously in stone-ringed arenas set up in the middle of the street. Malia had seen women reading, writing, even fighting in the makeshift ‘rings’ hidden in the alleyways, she’d seen many things Malia herself could never do. Not as a princess – it was improper. 

Of course, her father – much as she disliked the man on a general basis because of the sheer number of times he’d tried to rope her in on his many plots against his sister and her children – had never cared much for whether she was improper or not. It was the only reason she had things other than long sleeves and hoop skirts and hoods to hide her hair but not her face and many, many dresses that trailed on the floor they were so long in her wardrobes. 

(Things like pants, and the kinds of corsets that type of professional woman uses, and everything else she is not allowed. Though, he is still unable to get her anything that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, no matter now nice it is; even if it is ugly and terribly crafted. So blending in is still… difficult, because the materials used still stand out.) 

“Better.” He nodded, and adjusted his own lax posture. 

“Did you find out if Ser Reynard has dealt with the Pirates, yet?” Malia asked, in lieu of anything that could end up personal.

“No, they are still an… issue.” Her father scowled as she grimaced and looked out the window again. 

You couldn’t see the ocean from here, but it was just a carriage ride from the town to the open water, and many folk spent their spare time wading, swimming, lounging and playing on the sand or in the surf. Another half day’s walk down the coast, and you would find a fishing and trading centre. It was a common place for the awful men and women of the sea to attack. A shame, truly, because the few times Malia has been allowed to step foot so close to such danger, she had enjoyed her time, mostly safe within the walls of the keep there. 

The Lord and Lady that ruled over that town were much lovelier people than the ones Malia lives with, and so it was never fun to stay away. Christopher and Melissa. They were widowed when they found each other – it was almost a scandal, given how Christopher’s daughter had been involved with Mellissa’s son, and given how Mellissa had not been a noblewoman herself – but they avoided it, miraculously. Malia would give all she has to have the ease they do of navigating this kind of life, despite everything. 

“What are you thinking of, my dear?” Her father asked. Malia turned her head from the window, sat up straight and readjusted her gloves, her sleeves, and her headdress. Not a hair visible, good. 

“How once the pirates are dealt with that I would like to visit the Lord and Lady Argent,” Malia said, truthfully. “You are aware their son is promised to another?” He asked, amused.

 Malia attempted not to scowl at him. 

He always assumed that – and while Malia had kissed the boy; Scott, once, when she’d convinced him to sneak into the wine cellar with her and they’d had perhaps more than they should - she would not wish for a permanent relationship with him… especially one that she would have no choice but to live with, even if they fell apart. Besides – Kira is a wonderful girl, though her English is as good as Malia’s 日本語; Nihongo, they get along as well as is possible, given that they rarely see each other. Scott is much better at the language, and he is most obviously, incredibly, devoutly in love. 

He is lucky, in that, as is Kira; arranged marriages for political connections to foreign nations don’t always end so well. 

“And devoutly in love with Kira, who returns the feeling wholeheartedly,” Malia agreed. “That is not the reason I wish to visit.” Her father smirked, a most improper expression – and his eyes were blue, in the way that isn’t natural. 

Malia sighed.

“But there is someone else,” He said, knowingly. “Last time you went, there was a scent I did not recognise.” She hadn’t even spoken to the – it had been nothing. 

Malia had taken an order to the blacksmith, and while there had seen someone steal another’s coin. Malia had promptly followed him, punched him, and then taken the money – and there, seconds later, was the person he’d stolen from. She hadn’t even spoken to him, just wordlessly handed the money over, as it was his originally, and then returned to the blacksmith. She’d run into him again, later, at the market – he’d thanked her, and she’d nodded, but again – hadn’t spoken. And that was that. As much as Malia might have wanted to talk to the other, as he’d seemed around her age and had a nice face, she simply couldn’t, and she knew she couldn’t. 

As much as Malia liked to defy the rules she’d been given, certain things that were improper were simply not safe, and talking to this non-nobleman – that is one of those ‘not safe’ things. 

“No.” Malia said, with finality. “There was not another.” 

Peter, her father, hummed, and his eyes flashed blue again. 

The Royal family are werewolves. 

Malia herself is not, and that only makes it more obvious she does not belong – Malia is a werecoyote, her eyes as blue as her fathers when they shine with that supernatural glow. 

Malia got her mother’s power because she died. Because birthing Malia killed her, and coyotes give their powers to their young, like the foxes do; Kira had explained this - that the mother could give willingly or could attempt to stem the flow, but that the power would all go eventually. Either that, or the child would have to kill the parent. Kira’s mother had given all her power willingly. Malia didn’t like to think about whether her mother would have or not, because in all likelihood… she would have chosen the latter. And probably blamed Malia for it, despite the fact that it was Corrine who decided getting pregnant was a splendid idea.

“Very well.” He said. “Shall we?” He stood, stooped so as to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the vehicle, and exited the carriage.

 Malia sighed, adjusted her attire once more, and prepared herself to be eyed suspiciously for the next few hours before she can leave again. 

ii.  Nodus Tollens: the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore

A pirate getting his coin stolen seems rather embarrassing in retrospect, but Stiles admits that he never really keeps track of the pouch anyway. He’s not in this for the money, exactly - though he won’t deny that it is nice. 

To be honest, he’s kind of - well. He got into this business, so to speak, at first for his… mother. She was - ill, something, off in the head he supposes you could say, though that’s rather rude and he’d likely stab you for it. 

Well - anyway, he got into this line of work for her. To find a cure, a magic user of any of the paths, maybe some other form of supernatural being; fae, or shifter, perhaps, that could in some way fix what was wrong with her brain. 

It was to do with the brain. It had to be. Her other vitals were fine, most of the time. A curse had been suspected, of course, they always were - but it wouldn’t make any sense. Claudia was well loved by the town, she had many friends and even protectors, people who had magic themselves (of a sort), at least enough to detect a threat and cancell it out with protective barriers and charms for at least long enough for Stiles’ father to deal with the asshole. 

But then - her health declined rapidly, another illness, this one physical. She died when he was a month from turning nineteen.

After that - well. Stiles’ dad, as many of the widowed did, turned to the local tavern for the comforts it’s drink could give. Shallow comforts, of course - but also, as many did, he grew dependant. 

And then… someone poisoned his drink. And then - well. Stiles went back to the friends he’d made… and saved his Dad’s life.

And then he was exhiled. And now - well. What else is he to do? This is all he knows. 

It’s not - it doesn’t really make sense. He could - but starting a new life, making connections… they’d only discover the truth, eventually. As much as it’s not hte most fun of professions…

Well. He knows - he realised a long time ago, that it doesn’t make sense. Isn’t this the fairytale? A kid’s family falls ill, and he goes on a heroic journey to save them. But Stiles didn’t go on a heroic journey, because - fairytales aren’t life, as much as the fae and shifters and all manner of beings exist - princesses are put away in ivory towers and the knights in shining armour are sent there to keep them locked away, because they work for the nobles that put the girl there. And if someone were to break her free - it’s not a happy ending. 

They’d get put on the block for treason - worst case scenario, so would she. 

But thinks like reality - it doesn’t make sense. It never has. And Stiles - it took him both his parents dying to realise that, for fuck’s sake, but he did. 

So Stiles is a pirate. And it doesn’t make sense, and he doesn’t like it, but his face is on wanted posters back home and this is all he’s got - he doesn’t have to like it. He just has to do it, because there’s nothing else out there for him. 

If he’s caught, he’s dead. And he’d rather have his life make no sense then not have a life at all. 

iii. Onism the awareness of how little of the world you’ll experience 

Malia knows that some of the gear she has makes her look a bit like one of those pirates, but she’d rather wear this than the garb she’s forced in day after day after day. She’d rather a corset she can put on herself than one that takes five other people, she’d rather a skirt that doesn’t need a heavy metal cage around her waist, she’d rather be able to breathe than to be forced to occupy that small, tiny circle within the metal support for the stupidly extravagant skirts they shove over her head every day - she can’t deny that she likes some of them, the plainer ones, the ones that don’t require the metal cage because they have their own support due to the sheer amount of fabric (they’re more comfortable on her body, they don’t constrict) but the ones she must wear to court?

They’re more than a bit of an issue. 

She doesn’t like the headdresses, either, or that her hair must always be so long. It is to be trimmed every now and again so as to keep the ends level, but it must never be cut any shorter than it is (though, it is not to grow beyond it’s current length) and so, when down, her hair trails stupidly along the floor. This is the same for all the noblewomen, of course - the hair is kept that long so it can be put up into increasingly ridiculous styles, intricate braids and buns and many other things she doesn’t know the name of. 

If it wouldn’t get her in trouble, she’d cut it to her shoulders. Much easier to manage, that way. And it would make it easier to keep all hair hidden beneath the headdresses she is to wear when among the common folk - clothes which include the long, trailing dresses and the cowls and the shoes… everything. Complete coverage in case you are to come into contact with something terrible; never mind that they are were-creatures and can’t get ill. 

… she digresses. 

Malia dressed in one of her preferred combinations of clothing, and then absconded out her window, down the vines on the back of the keep. They really needed to get rid of those; as much as they were an escape route for the royal family, they were also a weak point their enemies could take advantage of. Regardless - Malia landed softly on the grass around the building, and then started making her way to the postern. She’d had never had much trouble - one good thing was that the staff and in turn, the guards, didn’t much care what she did due to her not actually being a noble in their eyes, so Malia left the castle grounds with little issue. 

Malia made her way along the path to a small dock, and then took one of the boats to a dock further down on the other side, hidden away in an alcove below the bridge on the east side of the castle. This was absolutely necessary, the boats, because if the Castle were to be sieged they would need a way out - but it was a dangerous thing, so they were not to be used during the day or if the moon was bright and full and the sky was cloudless. Malia disembarked the boat and moored it, quickly; tied it’s rope to a post, and then used the small tunnel that took her to the surface proper, a little ways down the road and within the gatehouse. The room she emerged in was small, four plain stone walls, and the same could be said for the roof and the floor - though above was a murder hole, just in case the enemy got in here, and the floor had a hole in it, through which Malia had entered (as that was the entrance - or exit, depending on which way you came through - to the tunnel.)

Malia found the right brick, and slid her claws into the holes. This was another security measure - they couldn’t know for certain there weren’t any other bastards out there, so it wasn’t fool proof, but only a Hale by birth could use this. Malia had always had the vague thought that since she could use it, she must be considered a Hale fully, by magic, but - well. Neither she nor anyone else truly saw it that way, even if one of the fundamental laws of their world did.

It’s just how it works. 

Malia made her way through the gatehouse - again, the guards paid her existance no mind - they barely even sent a glance in her direction. Once Malia was free, out beyond the gatehouses and the moat and the walls of her home, she moved over to the guard’s stables and paid the hand a few coins, then mounted her favourite of the steeds.

“Hey girl,” She said, quietly, smoothing down the horse’s mane. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

Malia rode the horse at full gallop all the way to the nearest town - the only place she was allowed to go. As much as she was truly freer than her half-siblings and the rest of her family, she was also more restricted. Nothing she did really mattered, but if she did anything it’d reflect on the Royal Family, so she couldn’t say - go around with multiple suitors and join in on the fighting rings or... well, do anything actually interesting, as the latter evidences. 

So she was freer; she could leave the Castle without a huge issue made out of it, and she could do most all of what she wanted to do - but she also didn’t get to go anywhere new; she went to the town, to the Lord and Lady Argent’s home and the neighbouring centre of commerce (if there haven’t been any pirates spotted around recently - the day she’d helped that man get his coin back there had been. After she’d finished up at the market she’d been rushed back to her room at the Argent’s home) and she’d go with her Father and ‘mother’ on visits to the woman’s family... but that was it. She’d never been on the open ocean, she’d never seen the greater country that Queen Talia ruled over, she’d never been out of the continent at all, despite the fact that there are many, many other places she could visit along with her family when they go on their political trips.

But... Malia’s a bastard. Her world is not there’s - it is free, but it is small. She is taught only the basics of what a noble might need; the common tounge of their land, a bit of mathematics, some of the sciences, and a lot of the arts. She is taught a little of self-defence, at her father’s request, but she had to teach herself how to fight. And that was difficult, to say the least, without a sparring partner. 

But, well...

She’d found one. Recently. He was a man around her age - a foreigner. He spoke her language, thankfully, otherwise communication would have been difficult, to say the least. He had an accent she didn’t recognise from any of the visitng dignitaries, which was noteworthy; it was plausible he wasn’t even from this continet. But that didn’t rightly matter, and it didn’t matter to Malia at all, because he could fight. And he must have some experience with fighting were-creatures like herself, because he seems to expect her unusual strength and uncanny reflexes - he even plans around them. She wins as many as he does, and it’s - something. If she were to be attacked, and the guard were more focused on fighting for her siblings than for her, she could defend herself and the idiots around her if necessary. 

He dressed like a pirate. She didn’t ask questions. She spoke like a noble - he didn’t ask questions. It was an arrangement for both of them, in fact; she brought things she didn’t care for, small things that could fit in her pouches (a necklace here, a ring there) and he’d bring her things she’d never seen before from parts of the world she’d never get to visit. Small things, that could fit in pockets. Shells, rings with strange ornamentation and strange gems, a stone with a vibrancy she’d never thought possible in reality. But it was worth it, at least, Malia thinks so.

Of course, they could all be fake. But - so could her’s. So in a way, they’re trusting each other on this, at least; that they will not cheat out of the deal. 

Malia rode the horse at a slower pace as she entered the town. There was a place to hitch up your mount in the centre of the place, near the well and the tavern, and so Malia took her there.

“There you go, girl,” She said, softly, eyes darting about to see if anyone tailed her. It was always a possibility, after all. “Sit tight, I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Malia didn’t think the horse understood her, or that horses in general can speak human, but it whinnied all the same.

Malia made her way behind the tavern, and then took the back streets behind and the alleys between the buildings to reach her destination.

“You’re early.” She noted, as she had scented the other before even entering the courtyard - or, well, the square, average-sized space hidden away among the buildings. He shrugged and dropped off of the balcony on the second floor of one of the buildings, and landed heavily. He stood and brushed himself off and held out his hand. “You got anything?” He asked, in lieu of a greeting. 

Straight to the point. Okay.

Malia chucked him a pouch, which he caught, and then he returned the favour. A small shell, a necklace that sat around the neck higher and more closely than she was used to, with small shining rocks in place of gems - and a coin she’d never seen before. Not bad. 

She’d like to know where these came from. See the places, at least once. But that was never going to happen - and she’d realised that a long time ago. The fifth time she wasn’t taken with the rest of the family on a political visit or a vacation and instead left with the argents like some kind of pet, like she was a nuiscance, well. She’d figured it out. 

Malia tied the pouch to her belt, and nodded to him. He nodded back.

Malia went over to the bench and lit the lamp that was on it - he’d probably brought it. The light it gave shone a dull glow over the wood and stone, and at it’s height it made strange shadows on their faces. 

“Oh, you’re her.” He said, blinking. “Guess I never see you in the day, so it makes sense.”

“What?” She asked, and dare she say it, but he looks a little sheepish.

“You’re the lady that gave me my coin back after that asshat stole it, right?” He asked, and Malia shrugged, noncommital. “Anyone could have done that,” She said. “Sure, I’ve helped people out before, but I don’t remember you.”

“No, it’s you.” He said. “You’re that noble girl. The one I keep on hearing about, aren’t you? Makes sense - I mean, it’d take a princess to get half of the shit you’ve given me.”

Malia grimaced. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” He gestured, waving his hand in dismissal. “You’re just being nice, is all.”

“And you?” She asked. He knew what she was, her ‘profession’, if you will. Malia rather thinks that should mean she knows his. 

“I’m a privateer.” He answered, easy. “And my name is Stiles - S’only fair. Everyone knows Malia Hale, the not-a-bastard daughter of Peter Hale.”

“You’re a pirate?” Malia demanded. That was the most important part of the sentence, really - after all, while it was official that she ‘wasn’t a bastard’, that wasn’t even remotely true, and, in fact, it was hightly unbelieveable. 

“I have no idea what you think my job is when I dress like this,” He said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms, defensive. “Like,.did you think a barkeep’d wear this shit?” He asked. “Your average tailor? Blacksmith?” Stiles snorted, then added, “Priest?”

Malia scowled slightly and started pacing. “What do you do with the stuff I give you?” She asked. 

“Keep it.” Stiles said. “Says a lot about a pirate’s wealth if he doesn’t sell every little thing he finds - says even more if he doesn’t sell proper diamonds.”

Malia continues pacing.

“Chill out,” Stiles said. “I’m a privateer, thanks, and I don’t kill people. Not if I can help it.”

“That’s reassuring,” Malia snapped, sarcastic. “Oh, great, the pirate says he doesn’t kill people! Sure, I’ll just take your word for granted.”

“No, really, I just steal shit.” Stiles said. “I don’t wanna get put in jail for murders I’ve never done, Christ.”

“Why did you think meeting me was a good idea?” Malia snapped.

“Who said I did?” Stiles asked, rhetorical. “Look, princess, you were a pretty decent sparring partner for a cheater and you have nice shit you give for a pretty fair trade, I’d say, so...” Stiles shrugged. “Risks are something I generally think are worth taking. I mean - I’m a thief so that’s usually the case, but whatever.”

A little self-depricating, Malia noticed; the tone on that last part. She supposes that some pirates don’t join because they want to hurt people - but... well. Ser Reynard has lost a lot of men fighting this threat. And here is one of them, just standing there with his arms folded. He doesn’t look evil, not really - just a guy her age with dark hair and pale skin and moles and good bone structure. 

He’s handsome, she’ll admit. But he’s also a pirate. 

“Why are you telling me anything at all?” Malia demanded.

“My dad was a town guard,” Stiles said, “Back home. Mom was a tavern wench but that’s unimportant - no, I mean, I have a healthy respect and understanding of the law, Your Highness. I get cooperation making shit easier for me.”

“You’re a pirate,” Malia said, scathingly. “Forgive me if I highly doubt that story.”

“It’s true.” Stiles said, gesturing, his arms held out as if to say ‘what can I say?’. “Even if you don’t belive me, that doesn’t stop it from being true. Also -there are so many names for my profession, couldn’t you choose something else? Like, pirate’s all well and good but it does get repetative after you’ve heard it for the umpteenth time.”

Malia ignored him and returned to her pacing. 

“I need to think.” She said, decidedly, after a moment. “We’ll meet here again in a week’s time. Be here, or I will make your presence known.”

“Understood, princess.” Stiles said. “Thanks for the stuff, by the way.”

I definitely wanna continue this further but that will be on AO3 once I’m back from where I’m going!! hope you enjoyed this first part, though!

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.

[rnrmarineservices-blog]

Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu

Chasing the surf along the Pacific Line islands from Tahiti to Hawaii, Amory Ross enjoyed the trip of a lifetime

I could only laugh. Travis Rice, world-famous snowboarding pioneer, had just jumped into the Pacific waves to chase down his once-anchored dinghy, which was now floating away. Meanwhile Ian Walsh, professional big-wave surfer (and arguably one of the best ocean swimmers in the world), was nowhere to be found. He had gone investigating our abandoned island with Travis's best friend, Graham Scott. I stood alone at the edge of the water, guiltily amused at our predicament.

We were effectively stranded on tiny Malden Island, 1,500 miles south of Hawaii and 1,000 miles north of Tahiti. Travis' empty Gunboat 48, Falcor, lay anchored a few hundred yards off the beach after the four of us had gone ashore to explore, surf and fish. So impressed were we with Travis' last catch, a fly-snared bonefish, that we completely missed the dinghy breaking free. 

Its grey tubes were soon barely visible in the distance and I wondered how close it was to Travis' limits as he swam away. Ian clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so he didn't have much of a choice.

Falcor had been based in Tahiti for the past three years. Travis had made the long journey from North Carolina to Tahiti via the Panama Canal as part of The Fourth Phase, a snowboarding movie made for his sponsors Red Bull on the hydrological cycle of water. Travis wanted to sail across the Pacific in the same air mass that would eventually hit the coast of Japan, where it would rise up the mountains to make the world-famous snow he'd ride back to the ocean. But first, Falcor needed to get to Hawaii and the Line Islands adventure was hatched. 

All photos by ©Amory Ross

The Line Islands chain consists of 11 central Pacific atolls and coral islands formed by volcanic activity, stretching 1,500 miles from end to end. It is one of the longest island chains in the world and was the route that ancient Polynesians used to sail north to Hawaii. Using no instruments, they navigated without maps, compasses, or sextants, way-finding by observing only the ocean and the sky, the stars and the swells.

No stranger to Polynesian wayfinding and local ocean lore, Ian – a Maui native – was ticking two boxes on Falcor. As a new owner of a Hobie 16 he has joined a growing contingent of Hawaiian surfers that have adopted sailing. He was also scouting the region for future surf missions on the remote, unseen breaks along the way.

Winds were light as we left Pape'ete so we motored north, knowing the edge of the tradewinds was close. We passed Tetiaroa atoll, and its five-star resort founded by Marlon Brando, just 30 miles from Tahiti. With humpback whales playing in our wake, we kept going, anxious to leave the last reaches of first-world luxury behind.

Two days and 450 miles later we arrived at Flint Island. Flint was long, a narrow strip of rock covered with thick vegetation and nothing more. We sailed down its flank and dropped anchor off the north-west corner. The four of us donned snorkels to be greeted by an active and vibrant reef. Turtles were everywhere, as were sharks; French Polynesia's oceans appeared well and healthy. Then with nightfall approaching we raised sails and plotted a course 550 miles north to Malden Island, our first planned stop and more importantly, first potential waves.

The Gunboat Falcor eating up the miles ©Amory Ross

Surfing at the helm

The sailing was nearly perfect. Consistent south-easterly tradewinds and large following seas had us comfortably averaging 22 knots. First-time helmsman Ian was brushing 30 knots, his wave-surfing principles translating seamlessly to the art of downwind planing. 

I have spent plenty of time offshore going fast, but this was entirely different because we were essentially doing it in a very luxurious Winnebago. The helm felt balanced and light with very little lag between steering adjustments and rudder actions. Falcor seemed happiest at an apparent wind angle of 120°, where it was easy to turn up to load up some power, quickly accelerate, before tearing off across the face of the wave, bows free and clear from the water. I did this for hours, alone, with everyone else happily dreaming in their bunks, and absolutely no sail adjustments required.

That is the beauty of a lead-less, lightweight cruising cat: the acceleration is immediate and exhilarating, but the high roach main and self-tacking jib need little attention. We were cruising – but with such a competitive group it wasn't long before we were all monitoring our top speeds and multi-hour-logs at each watch change.

The Gunboat 48 is the ideal owner-operator fast cat. Though its performance may intimidate, its relatively small size means an experienced boatowner is capable of running it alone, and Travis was no exception. The considerable freeboard is safe and dry and allows for ample headroom below. First-generation Gunboat bows, high and straight, provide bottomless storage for things like sails, dive gear and boards of all shapes and sizes.

Travis and Graham had made the previous crossing from Panama but had done little open water sailing since, and Ian had never been offshore on a sailboat, so we started in a two-watch system with Ian and myself on one, Travis and Graham the other.

The B&G instruments proved easy for the less experienced guys to learn and it wasn't long before we moved to individual watches of three hours, with next-up on standby in the bunk, if needed.

On a dark, moonless night we arrived at Malden Island, and with little faith in the accuracy of our charts – the island's radar signature and supposed position did not line up – we anchored conservatively, well outside the breaking waves that we could hear, but not see. We spent that night surveying the island virtually on Google Earth, Ian and Travis scrutinising every wave via satellite images.

After a calm morning at anchor and a three-course breakfast, the dinghy was launched and we turned for shore. Malden's beaches were deep and clean, the island low and bare. A single tree stood above a calm spot as if to say 'land here'. The waves down the line were big, surely overhead, and Travis dropped us off with the fishing gear before hurriedly taking the dinghy back outside the break to anchor. 

At one point in time Malden was an active guano farm, inhabitants mining its land for the valuable fertiliser and transporting it using a sail-powered railroad system. Ian disappeared over the bluff intent on exploring the ruins while Graham and Travis started fishing. 

Juvenile black tip sharks patrolled the shore, visible from the beach through crystal-clear walls of breaking waves, like a window into the sea. All was well in paradise. Until the dinghy broke free.

Miraculously, Travis reached it. I was kind of amazed. The shackle had come undone from the anchor so we somehow managed to find it, reattach and re-anchor. This time, we swam ashore with surfboards. After a good laugh at our own expense Ian and Travis surfed until they could paddle no more – possibly the very first time anyone had ever surfed Malden. It was pure, remote bliss.

Surfing at the helm

The next day we resumed our northerly progress and set our sights on Kiribati, some 430 miles away at 1°N. I knew before we left that both Travis and Graham were certified 'Shellbacks', trusty aids to King Neptune and sailors of proven seaworthiness, having previously crossed the Equator on Falcor in 2016. My own first Equator crossing came in 2011, on Puma for the Volvo Ocean Race. But this was Ian's first crossing and he was due for a king's visit. 

While researching the ceremony's origins we learned that Ian would be joining an elite class of Shellback; a 'Golden Shellback' – awarded only to the sailor who first crosses the Equator at the International Dateline. So at 0°N and 156°W, Neptune clambered up the transom demanding Ian show his worthiness by consuming raw two-day-old fish from the fridge. It was a significant sacrifice for a guy who doesn't like to eat fish, but he survived the encounter and we offered our thanks to the sea with a splash of good rum over the side.

Finding previously unsurfed breaks was a highlight of the trip for the pro surfers on the crew ©Amory Ross

Much as we would have enjoyed stepping ashore in Kiribati, there was no surf in sight and Ian had received word that the Fiji swell we were chasing was coming sooner than expected. Some 200 miles north was Fanning Island with its famed left-or-right wave, breaking on both sides of a deep manmade channel that gave surfers a choice of either direction. It was arguably the best chance for big waves on the trip and Travis and Ian had been salivating over Fanning's promise since departure, so we pressed on.

Ten days after leaving Tahiti, Fanning's trees broke the horizon. Approaching the channel, waves peeled off to both sides and it wasn't long after we had settled into the atoll's shallow interior that Travis and Ian were clammering for their gear. They surfed the channel, cut during World War 1 almost until it was dark.

The next day we went ashore to clear customs, since we were now technically in the Kiribati Republic, and explore the island's colourful shores. 

The team took samples for water quality and pollution analysis along the way ©Amory Ross

During the war, Fanning had been home to a British cable relay station and its dredged entrance was a popular safe harbour for visiting warships. Today, Fanning looks like a shell of its one-time splendour, the overgrown landscape littered with abandoned buildings and deteriorating infrastructure. The USA's Passenger Services Act of 1886 prohibited foreign ships from travelling between United States ports unless they stopped in a foreign country in between, so any foreign-flagged cruise ship leaving Hawaii used to stop at Fanning Island – the closest foreign port – and Fanning became accustomed to more than 200,000 day-trippers a year. That Act has been relaxed and those ships no longer stop at Fanning, so the atoll has since receded into relative poverty.

The customs agents were not at the office so we arranged for them to visit Falcor later that evening. When the time came we ferried them out so they could collect payment and conduct their search of the yacht. Alcohol is banned on Fanning but we were warned of the agents' interest in 'confiscating' it, so we hid as much as we could. They found a stash of beer in the fridge and insisted we share – so they enjoyed several each, before we strongly suggested their time aboard was over. We returned the favour by unknowingly breaking the law of the land with the 12 coconuts we collected the following day from the vacant north shore. The meat and water was sweeter than any coconut anyone had ever had, but we later learned it is forbidden to cut down coconuts on Fanning.

The following day, a young local boy swam out into the surf to join us – grabbing a slippery 1980s-era board from the tree where it had leaned, presumably for decades. After a few unsuccessful attempts at standing up, Ian brought him over to the dinghy to wax his board. The boy eventually surfed and stayed out with us almost all day. When it was time to go home, Ian gave him his leash and remaining wax, then Travis went ashore with a brand new surfboard to leave behind for the next generation of aspiring island surfers.

Jaws beckons

Our final passage was to be the longest, with 1,200 miles of open ocean between Fanning and Honolulu. It was hurricane season in the North Pacific and we would also transit the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, where the trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres collide. The region is characterised by volatile, unpredictable weather and energetic thunderstorms, as well as large expanses of little-to-no wind.

It was a welcome return to the open ocean after a few busy days at anchor. We settled back into our offshore routines and again revelled in the quiet solitude that can only really be found at sea. We practiced with our sextant, studied the night-time stars and anxiously counted down the dwindling mileage until we knew our adventure would be over.

It's hard not to fall in love with 21st century catamaran cruising. In addition to making passagemaking fun and fast, cats like Falcor are very capable of covering long distances with a literal boatload of toys and amenities. I will always remember the awe of that first night, sitting behind the helm at 0200 in a perfectly flat director's chair, a hot cup of proper coffee in one hand and a good book in the other, surfing across the Pacific at 23 knots.

LIFE ON THE OCEAN

One month after the trip, Ian Walsh went on to win the World Surf League's Pe'ahi Challenge at Jaws with a 'perfect 10' wave.

He told me afterwards that after the voyage not only did he feel physically well enough to surf Jaws despite the break in training, but that he felt mentally refreshed. The 20 days away from digital distractions had given him a rare focus and, interestingly, the surfing press were onto it too. He was asked if the time at sea left his body more 'in tune with the waves', as people noted a perceptible change in his surfing.

Falcor has since changed hands and is now owned by two-time Surfing World Champion John John Florence.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An on board reporter on three Volvo Ocean Races, AMORY ROSS has spent more than a decade in the world of grand prix sailing and worked with two America's Cup teams, but his very first published was Yachting World in 2006.

  The post Lines to Hawaii: a dream cruise chasing the Pacific surf from Tahiti to Honolulu appeared first on Yachting World.