The night was a lot of work. I remember my saying to one of the fishing boats (I called all of the boats that triggered an AIS signal during that night but none responded)
'OK, this is the last message to the boat I have been trying to hail for the past ten minutes because I see your light right on my bow. This is Elise. I am a sailboat, I am in a big squalls, heading downwind at 14 knots with a spinnaker up. I might be able to alter course but then I might not. The swell and the winds are up and it is raining hard, I can hardly see a thing besides your lights that are getting closer and closer. I hope that you will consider moving a bit to the side'
The boat did move...and I passed it without any trouble. Of course, I had control over the boat at any time, I was just annoyed at these boats who were creating unnecessary stress.
I check my instruments for the average for the night - 8.8 knots! Woo hoo! Elise has been truly flying, from squall to squall. I stayed on port pole the entire time as each squall was basically heading me up toward the island, and in the rain, wind and swell I didn't quite fancy a gybe.
It is dawn now, no AIS signal, no boat in sight, no land in sight. I know I should be taking a fix but the wind is still up and the AP is overwhelmed. I decide to keep going until I catch sight of the island. I do maths in my head based on average speed (toward the island and where I was at my last fix). I estimate that I am probably 40 miles from the finish, which depending on where I am (North or South) is 40 miles or some 50 miles...
I check on Clandestino. While I was laboring to keep the boat flat and comfortable for him, the bird has just been looking at the increasing volume of birds flying around the boat as we are getting closer to land. If it had a sense of smell I am sure that it would have smelled land already. But deep down I can't imagine how hellish its life would be if it had a sense of smell so I have rejected that idea.
I assume that Clandestino will soon take off to join its fellow birds but it doesn't seem to be moving an itch, not even its usual 10 minute flight, dive and fish for breakfast.
In fact, Clandestino is so uninterested in its fellow birds and the excitement of the day that it goes back to sleep. Amazing. I can hardly stay in one spot. I am jumping around the cockpit speaking to the bird.
'Hey Clandestino, if my math is right in about 5 hours we'll have crossed the finish line and I'll be sipping my White Russian'. - that's the drink I asked for when I finish.
Clandestino is clearly unimpressed. I scoop up the last batch of dead fish I find on deck and I place them on the solar panel discreetly. Clandestino does not move an inch.
Then I wonder 'oh no! The race committee will be boarding this boat and I have been carrying a shit factory for the last 300 miles! I need to warn them before they come in! Elise looks shitty, quite literally alas...but oh Clandestino, I will miss you even though you really didn't act like a gentleman last night by booting off that poor bird off the panel, off MY boat to be clear.'
I wonder if 'Airbnb for boobies' would be a valid business idea...I wonder how many of these birds pick boats like that for a ride where they want to go.
The day is overcast, much like the night and the wind is still up. I am starting to see a sliver of mountainous land in the distance. I immediately turn to Clandestino.
'Hey Clandestino, I see land! I see Kauai! You happy to be home?'
No response. Clandestino is fast asleep, totally oblivious to the importance of the moment.
Strangely enough, I thought I'd be super happy to see land but I am not. I have a strong sense of how isolated the islands are, exactly like I had when I finished Pac Cup - how big the ocean is and how small the islands are. I am not even relieved. I just want to keep sailing hard for my 2nd place.
Then I realize that it means that I will have to say good bye to Clandestino and an immense wave of sadness overwhelm me. I started to really like this bird.
As we grow closer to the island, I look at my cell phone (I had taken it in a waterproof pocket) and I have reception. I am guessing that we are therefore closer than 25 miles which is when I am supposed to hail race committee. With the usual 'you have 10 seconds before it autodestructs' tactic, I change the frequency on the radio and take the mic with me on deck.
'Race Committee this is Elise, checking in around 25 miles mark'
No response. After a few times, I pick up my cell phone, call Brian and give him a heads up. He asks for my ETA, I reply 'no idea, I am probably less than 25 miles from the islands, but I have to go North to the finish so probably a ways away.'
He recommends to check back in when I am about 6 miles from the finish to give them time to get ready. I ack that and 'hang up'.
I need to head North - the wind is up but I have to gybe and try to make the Northern part of the island now that I can clearly see it (it was in clouds before then) - I know Hanalei Bay is on the northern shore. I have no idea what I am looking at right now on the island but I am clearly on the east side given my heading.
I set up the lines for the gybe, walk up forward and gybe the pole. Again, it is surprisingly easy. 'Piece of cake' I say outloud. I wonder how I am able to gybe that kite in fairly high winds and swell so easily when it is a huge issue when fully crewed, in roughly the same amount of wind in the Bay. Perhaps because the apparent wind is higher since there is no swell?
I try to head up but I can't carry the kite as the wind is too high. I also hear 'zeeeep' and I see that Clandestino isn't in the solar panel anymore. I guess that this was our goodbye...
I head back down as I need to douse the kite and put up the blast reacher in order to make the point. When I am done with that operation which takes a lot less time than I had anticipated given the fairly rough conditions, probably because the perspective of finishing is giving me the winds of Clandestino, I notice that the bird is back on the solar panel, looking at the island.
I go back to the cockpit and I say quietly to Clandestino.
'Hey, this is your home isn't it? Is this where you long to go? I can bring you closer but it won't be a comfortable ride if you stay on the solar panel because I need to be on a reach. I know you don't understand that sailing mumbo jumbo but it basically means that your house is going to be at a 30% angle and you'll be ending up in the water real soon. Just wanted to give you a fair warning. We're probably less than 20 miles from land now so you should be able to make it to the island. You are rested now. I see a lot of your friends flying around. Maybe you're staying because this is not your island? Do you have a territory? I will really miss you Clandestino. Thank you for your company.
The bird looks at me - projecting human feelings onto the animal I imagine that he's thinking 'so that's it? You want to get rid of me? After all that I have done for you, keeping you company for all these miles?'
I feel absolutely awful and extremely sad to have to treat Clandestino like this, almost guilty but I really must be heading up. I move the tiller and point the boat slightly higher than the point. Clandestino falls in the water.
He comes back and tries several times to land back on the solar panel - he hovers and looks at me in disbelief.
He doesn't manage to get back on as the boat is healing badly. He tries again the top of the mast which I shake to discourage him.
Finally, he land briefly on the low side of the cockpit, much like he did the first night I met him before settling for the solar panel. I look at the bird and so wish he will stay with me until the finish.
Unfortunately, I make noise with the winch and moves to grab the blast reacher sheet and trim the sail to increase boat speed. That scares the heck out of Clandestino and he's gone.
I follow him sail away toward the island. He doesn't look back. My eyes are full of tears. Clandestino was the last thing that was tying me to my solo voyage, to my being a solo ocean racer. And now he's gone.
I calculate my ETA - probably 2 or 3 hours. I should cross the finish around midday, a little ahead of schedule, because the night has been fast. I already miss that night. These are the conditions that I just love (and that I know most people hate)...and conditions that the boat seems to have built for, surging from wave to wave...the rig not really loaded up because of increasing boat speed well in excess of hull speed.
The joys of light displacement boats -I can now make out buildings (Kapaa I will find out later), trees, lush forrest - I can't smell much. It feels really strange to discover again a world that is not made of moving parts, that is not all blue and devoid of heights. The number of birds is amazing. They are fishing and quite successful at that. There must be a lot of fish in the area. I hope I will see some dolphins to help me get over the loss of Clandestino but nothing.
It starts raining again. Great. I see several squalls approaching the same area I am sailing toward.
Meanwhile, the race deck is ready to receive boats...
I clean up the interior of the boat. The autopilot can drive just fine on a reach. The boat is doing 8.8 knots with the blast reacher, so all is good. I haven't had breakfast. I can't eat. I feel a knot in my belly. Why? Shouldn't I be happy to finish?
I am now probably about 12 miles from the finish. I see text messages and email notices on my cell phone but I can't look at them. I feel like I would be breaking the race if I did. I will only go back to reality once I cross the finish line. Until I do, I am still a solar ocean racer - and these moments I want to be absolutely present for.
I see a bizarre mountain which I will learn later has been called 'the woman on her back' by the natives. It is a woman praying while lying on its back. Very true. I will see it again during my sail around the island to bring the boat over to Nawiliwili.
I can also make out beaches. I imagine my tanned surfers with a perfectly sculpted torso waiting for me with Mai Tais on the beach. No...I guess that the race isn't that famous...Sigh...if I'd be sailing to French polynesia, I'd have my cool looking dudes at the finish.
I had been calculating my distance to the finish in familiar races since the 600 miles mark. '600, Coastal Cup'. '400, Long Pac'. '90 miles - Monterey race. 70 miles. Windjammers. 60 miles, Drakes Bay. 50 miles, Farallons. 25 miles, lightship'.
I can now see the Kilauea lighthouse on shore - the wind is clocking aft as I get closer to land and I am now nearly dead downwind. I decide to just do wing on wing and pole out the blast reacher to windward. It would be a lot of work to set up a spinnaker and I am not quite sure what the wind will do. I also need my attention to the GPS, the charts, checking out the reefs, etc...and once the kite is up AP function might be limited.
The boat goes still around 8 knots on the new point of sail which I am loving and we are now sailing parallel to land.
I check the charts and I notice that so long as my depth meter says 50 feet, I will be well clear of any reef since there should be another depth band or two before the reef so that's what I decide to monitor. I also have the hand held VHF with GPS info in my hands and the finish line instructions in a ziploc bag at my feet (it started raining again...)
There is one more point I need to clear before I can gybe toward the finish. One little bay I can see on port.
I am probably 6 miles from the lee shore, with very good wind. I look back at the solar panel. The entire stern is full of bird shit. Oh boy...I have never presented the boat is such a sad state to anyone...
But then, I was so happy to have Clandestino with me for the last 300 miles.
The last sliver of sun disappears. I go down below to grab a jacket but I decide not to wear it yet. I check the charts (well boat GPS with charting capabilities) and I notice that I am about 6 miles from the finish.
I am about to grab the VHF when I hear
'Elise, this is race committee do you copy?'
Lucie is on the VHF
'Race committee, this is Elise. I copy loud and clear over.'
'Elise, I can see you from the race deck. We will let you know when you cross the line. Welcome to Hawaii, we can't wait to see you'
'Thank you Lucie. and I can't wait to have my drink! Elise over and out'
I am on layline for the finish if the wind doesn't clock any further. So I gybe the main, then the blast reacher and pole it out to the new windward side. I am on a deep broad reach heading straight for the finish line according to my GPS. I now just sit back in the cockpit with the hand held GPS in hand to make sure that I do not miss the line! There is no visible mark on the water for the line, just two GPS coordinates for each end so it's a bit tricky!
With one hand on the GPS radio and one hand on the VHF mic (the AP is driving as I have set my course across the line), I see a turtle on the side of the boat but I am not fast enough to grab my camera and take a picture. A nice little Hawaian welcome though!
Elise approaches the finish line fast - A series of gusts is pushing the boat forward very nicely. Once again I look at the speedo with a satisfied smile. Really a great boat for me and a great boat for the event. What a wonderful design she is - what a great companion.
I also noticed on the charts that there is a reef, right to the left of the finish line, so I am using the pin end on the other side as my safe mark and choose a course that allows me to clear the line closer to that end.
As I think that I am crossing the line, the AIS goes off and interrupts the race committee transmission
'Elise, this is race committee...garble garble garble'. Even my hand held VHF didn't transmit the message.
Shoot...I rush down below to turn off the AIS and I go back on VHF
'Race Committee, this is Elise. Sorry, the AIS went off during your last message and I didn't copy. I *think* that I have crossed the finish line, can you confirm?'
'Elise this is race committee, yes you have crossed the line and we have your time down. Welcome to Hanalei Bay and congratulations! Please sail to starboard to the mouth of the dragon to the rendezvous point with the greeting boat.'
I see the race condo on the left as I cross the finish line and I imagine Lucie waving at me. That's it. I have done it. I launched a 'Woo hoo!! THANK YOU ELISE!!!!!!'
This is the closest I have ever gotten to snapping a shot of the turtle. If you can see it, great.
I then make my way to the center right of the Bay, toward one edge of the anchorage. I start recognizing some of these boats. Lightspeed is anchored way out.
I check the water temperature. 84.6 degrees. In the light stuff, it was about 74 degrees. Under the black cloud, about 77 degrees. After I hit the sun and trade about 80 degrees (past 80 degrees is hurricane temperature so I worried for a while that I'd be caught in a tropical storm!)
All I want right now is jump in that clear water and swim around the boat.
I have to wait for a while for the boat so I heave-to under main only near the anchorage looking around me. It is now positively raining and I feel sorry for the folks on that greeting boat. I certainly could anchor myself. Darn, the anchor!!!
I go down below and make sure that there is a clear path to it. Phew. I might have bird shit all over the stern, Elise will be a nicely organized clean boat everywhere else.
This is such a great welcome. Brian and Joe board Elise and start tidying up the sails forward as Joe steers the boat to its anchorage spot, right behind Archimedes and Libra. Libra...did I manage to hold my position on corrected time? I ask Brian. He replies 'yes, you're second in your division and you'll be 9 or 10 overall most likely'. Phew...huge relief. My work that night paid off...so glad I didn't sleep.
I don't feel tired at all. Elated mostly.
Brian and Joe anchor the boat. Joe dives to check that the anchor has set properly. Joe, Steve and Brian roll up the main, coil my lines and take my sails below.
Meanwhile, Simin is mixing my White Russian and handing me a croissant!! What a fantastic touch!!! On Bastille Day!!! I love this. I take out a French flag and Cliff hangs it on the backstay. We have to mark the occasion. Everyone laughs. No one seems to care about the rain.
Brian dives around the boat and under it. He says that the keel looks great but the rudder has two notches on the gelcoat, so I probably hit something. I didn't notice anything but there they are, so he must be right.
Elise is secure at anchor. I dive below to grab some stuff but before we get off I ask if I can have a swim. Everyone says yes. Latitude 38 has a photographer on the boat, Ross, who takes the photo below.
Photo credit: Latitude 38. White Russian. Hawaiian greeting. French croissant. International Bastille Day.
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Photo credit: Brian, Doomsday's father.
I swim around the boat and spend a good 15 minutes in the water while the arrival crew finishes to get the boat ready. I just take a waterproof bag with me and we are off to the river, the beach. Land. Civilization.
How odd will it feel?
Strangely, just as if I had left the day before. I walk just fine, eat just fine. My first lunch is in a food court with Brian and Simin in Princeville. Mexican. Fish tacos and quesadillas surrounded by wild chickens. Simin and I go for an ice cream after lunch. That White Russian was the perfect drink for me. It has ice and is served cold and cream. Two things that I couldn't have during my trip.
I have a shower in the race condo and at around 5pm, we head out for the tree with Brian and Simin for Tree Time. I am reunited with the skipper of Libra who arrived earlier that day, and his wife.
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Lucie takes the pictures with PK, Libra's skipper. I drink a Mai Tai. I eat Pineapple. Reminds me of the Pac Cup arrival. It is raining at the tree. There are some flies all over my legs. Ah yes, bugs. Those don't exist in the ocean. My allergies don't exist in the ocean. Clandestino...do you like bugs too, or do you only eat fish? Where are you right now?
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I call Nathan to let him know I have arrived. I text my brother. I email my mom.
After tree time, I meet up with George and Joe - and I move to the Express 27 headquarter, a condo near the race condo in Princeville where I will be occupying the couch. We have a quiet dinner and we talk about the race in the evening, sharing our thoughts about the noises an autopilot makes. I am with George on that one. I find that noise reassuring. Everything is working and the boat is moving. Joe hated it but somehow it could hear a song in the humming of the AP.
I sleep well that night, although I do wake up about four times, ready to check battery levels, wind directions and sails...I then think again about Clandestino. So long my friend. I think about my race. I know I have to do it again. So long Pacific Ocean, and thank you for all the fish.
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