An Empty Desert Lake

The valley was green and brown, with signs proclaiming drought as we drove through California's Central Valley. Over the grapevine with the engine whining we crossed into Southern California where a controversy over water rights has raged for decades. As we turned east, chasing the distant lights of Las Vegas, pastel pink and periwinkle mountains rose out of the desert foreshadowing the beauty we were to find at Lake Mead.

We'd been warned not to visit Lake Mead this year. Water levels are at an all-time low, the lowest since the Hoover Dam was constructed and Lake Mead was formed by flooding the valley now hidden in its shifting waters. But we persisted, eager to get our sailing Hobie Cat kayak onto water. We envisioned sailing into tight canyons and seeing the southwest rock layers up close and personal.

Our boat, the Queen Bee, followed that yellow line from Temple Bar past The Temple, a large rock outcropping, through the somewhat narrow Virgin Canyon before coming to rest at a lovely sandbar just outside Hualapai Bay.

What we found was a massive lake, rimmed with colorful rocks showing the many levels the lake has rested at and then receded from over the years. The water lines resemble rings on a dirty bathtub, with invasive zebra mussel colonies hanging on for dear life twenty and more feet above the lake's surface. The tight twisty fingers we looked forward to floating in were dried up and instead looked like canyons rising out of the lake.

Enjoying the mesas and pretty clouds on a sunny day from the comfort of our boat.

In our three days on the lake, we saw just three other boaters, all in power boats speeding along in a hurry to get somewhere, I don't know where. One boat was piloted by a gentleman we'd met at Temple Bar when we were simultaneously launching our watercraft. He'd motored out into the lake to find us and make sure we were okay. We assured him we'd brought plenty of provisions and were self-sufficient, perhaps even better equipped than those back in the tiny outpost we'd left.

Our two nights of backcountry kayak-camping were superb. After sailing We set our camp up on a sheltered beach with lovely 360-degree views. Between our 4-man tent, our outdoor rug, our camp chairs and table set, our sun shelter and our doorstep swimming beach, it was like a private palace in the desert.

After sweeping aside some rocks and smoothing out the sand, we had a lovely foundation for our indoor/outdoor, sun-shaded, pop-up, backcountry cabin.

Our only visitors, apart from the concerned stranger, was a curious duck that swam by each evening. The first night as I lay comfy in our tent reading a novel, I heard an animal noise in the distance. It sounded like a howling coyote at first and I was very excited. Then the noise shifted to that of a donkey (wild burros are common at Lake Mead), before eventually revealing it's true source--a couple of lost cows calling out in anguish.

The sunset from our campsite was peaceful and placid, like we were the only people on the planet.

Our final sail started off with light winds and ended with gusts and water waves so strong that my entire cockpit filled up with water. The boat became a floating bathtub and I opted to sit on the trampolines and laugh like a hyena while the cold water pelted me and Josh sailed us back to dry land. It was an epic ending to our incredible adventure on Lake Mead.

 

Adapting to boat life

When I signed up to live on a boat in Tonga, I really didn't know what I was getting into. In fact, I was just delighted by the prospect of sailing around tropical paradise with a couple friends from Seattle who were sailing across the Pacific. I figured Josh and I would get a taste of home and be able to see places we'd never lay eyes on otherwise. I looked forward to snorkeling, reading books on my iPad and swapping stories of paragliding and sailing adventures with folks who were already my friends. (Remember, I'm an introvert so making new friends in foreign places is tough for me.)

What I didn't expect was all the complications and new norms that are part of life at sea. For those of you who've sailed or lived on a boat or even lived off the grid, these may come as no surprise. But to me, sailing was a whole new world, different from what I've experienced even on long trips in the backcountry or traveling in third-world countries.

 

#1 Fresh Water is a Big Deal

Before we left Seattle, captain Jeff had a part sent to us for the onboard watermaker which needed repair. When Josh and I arrived, part in hand, we all discovered the manufacturer had sent the wrong thing. This meant we'd have to go on producing water 10 gallons at a time, in 30 minute intervals so as not to overheat the pump.

This homemade water is our lifeline in a sea of salt water. We rely on it to stay hydrated, to wash our dishes and to shower or rinse after snorkeling. We try to use as little water as possible, but it's always gone too quickly. And, as I learned, you can only make fresh water where the ocean is clean -- that is, when you're not in port or anchored in a silty bay. In Neiafu, the capital of Vavu'a, we went nearly 6 days without making water and many of those without taking a shower to conserve water. (Yes, we smelled.)

Even when we can make water multiple times a day, we still conserve water, turning off the shower between rinses or showering on the swim deck, rinsing in the ocean for all but the last rinse. There is even a foot pump to operate the bathroom and kitchen sinks, which we use to reduce the water flow and thus wasted water. I consider myself an environmentalist, but this is the first time that I have really conserved water in earnest and, man, is it work!

#2 The Cold Air is Always Escaping

The sailboat's kitchen is nicely appointed with a deep, chest-like refrigerator and freezer. This is where we store our prized items like bacon, frozen meats, diet coke, beer, and fresh veggies. Every time we get into the frig or freezer, a little coldness escapes and must be regenerated by the boat. That means running the generator, creating noise and sucking down the fuel reserves. Josh and I have gotten faster at finding things in the frig and freezer, and have learned to get everything we need out at once. We let the doors slam shut, yanking our fingers out just in the nick of time, but still the cold air escapes.

We monitor the temperature of the frig and freezer on a display mounted on the wall above them. When the freezer gets to 11 degrees, we celebrate. On the day I help Cheri with the monthly defrosting of the frig and freezer, I notice the frig temperature reads a balmy 102 degrees. No wonder I am sweating as I run the hair dryer to melt the ice that has built up inside. It takes hours for the frig to return to its normal temperature in the 50 degree range.

 

#3 The Loo has Limits

All this getting into the frig and freezer results in delicious meals, which we devour along with plenty of water and the nightly cocktail. Eating of course leads to pooping, which is another problem. The toilet tank gets full. Everyday. We have been warned that we don't want it to overflow. There's no way to check how full it is, so we just try to dump it daily. The boys pee overboard. I offered, but was told that's unnecessary. We try to use the bathrooms in town as often as possible. I hold it as long as I can, so as to avoid unnecessary flushes which seem to use a lot of water (and thus, space in the tiny holding tank). In sum, the toilet tank is a daily topic of conversation as the captain debates when and where to dump it and we all try to stay upwind during that dirty trick.

#4 All Anchorages are not Created Equal

Most of the time we are anchoring the boat. The two exceptions so far have been in Neiafu and once, for a few hours, off Euaiki Island when we tied up to a resort's mooring buoy. Early on, Jeff appointed me "cruise coordinator" tasked with selecting the islands we would visit and in what order. I was excited about this job, and surprised to learn that just because it's in the book, doesn't mean we can anchor there. Some key guidelines I've developed include:

• No anchoring in coral as it makes it hard to get unanchored and it damages the reef.
• No anchoring if the ocean floor drops off steeply as it can be near impossible to find the perfect spot.
• No anchoring in very shallow water (less than 15') or deep water (more than 65').
• Avoid anchoring with reefs nearby as the boat may swing on its anchor at night.

The best anchorages are sheltered from the prevailing wind direction, have sandy bottoms about 20-30' deep that gently slope and lack coral heads or reefs to get tangled up on. Oh, and if they can be next to an island with soft, white sand beaches and colorful coral reefs teeming with fish, all the better! Not surprisingly, this is a tall order and one we rarely attain despite our best intentions.

 

#5 Wind is your Foe and your Friend

On a sailboat, the goal is to sail from place to place. (Duh.) But where you go, when you leave and how quickly you get to your destination all depend on the wind--it's direction, speed and regularly. There are wind forecasts and, like in paragliding, they are rarely 100% accurate. One yachtie we met claimed she could give a more accurate forecast just by adding 50% to whatever the weatherman estimated.

Wind direction and wind speed are not static. They change over the course of the day and even from minute to minute. When the sailboat is on autopilot, it turns to keep the wind at the proper angle to the boat. So when the wind switches, our heading switches. This makes sailing to a predetermined destination a little tricky. It also makes it hard to know when you're going to arrive. On minute you are going 5 knots in wind that is blowing 15, the next minute the wind jumps to 20 knots and you're going faster, or worse: the wind drops off and you're barely making 1 knot of forward progress.

When the wind cuts out or blows from the wrong direction, it is tempting to motor. And sometimes that's the only option. But, like I mentioned earlier, fuel is precious and we don't want to waste it when we could be sailing instead. So, we try to time our sailings and pick our destinations to match the wind direction. And when the sailing gets tough, sometimes I get seasick and then take a nap.

 

Seasickness gone, but not forgotten

After more than two weeks aboard the S/V Grasshopper, I discovered that I still get seasick. I had been hoping that all my time on boats in the last month had cured me of that affliction, but no such luck.

As we motored our way upwind towards Maninita Island, we encountered the roughest seas in Tonga thus far. That's not to say they were "heavy" in sailing terms. Jeff was inclined to call them "moderate" seas at best. But they did sport a 4-5 foot swell and rocked the boat from side to side, and front to back as we plowed along at 5.5 knots.

Within a half hour or so, I was feeling off. Then the nausea set in and I watched the horizon, donned my acupressure seabands, chewed up an anti-nausea pill and chomped away on ginger gum, hoping those four strategies would do the trick. They didn't. In fact, it got worse before it got better.

From the back of the boat, I sat with the wind whipping my face and watched the slate blue water rise and fall in big swells. White foam danced across waves that bombarded us from all directions and the light gray sky bounced up and down. I clutched a big blue bucket in my lap and gripped the railing, praying that I wouldn't need it.

My blue buddy

Meanwhile Jeff and Josh surveyed our surroundings and reread the description of Maninita's anchorage. "Untenable in moderate to rough seas," it said. Time for a change of plans. Normally, I would lead the charge in finding a new destination, but I sat this round out while the boys scurried to find an alternative.

Success! With a new heading in place, we set sail for Fonua'One'One Island to the west of our original destination. I continued to uurp along, eyes to the horizon, bucket in my lap. As we neared the island, the seas calmed and we were greeted by turquoise and light green waters which marked a sandy bottom, surrounded by brown coral reefs and breakers. We set an anchorage in the sand and snapped some pictures of the lovely view. My stomach finally settled down, just in time for lunch and a snorkel.

Fonoa'One'One, our day stop before leaving the Vava'u group.

I wish this was the place where I could write, "the end" and happily wrap up this story, but that would be a lie. In the late afternoon, we pulled up anchor and set sail for the next group of Tongan islands, the Ha'apai group. More than 50 nautical miles to the south, this would be our longest sail yet. An all-night endeavor. In rough seas.

As we headed south, the ocean produced swells 10 feet tall and my stomach grew angry again. I watched the horizon and assumed a new position, recommended by Captain Jeff--standing on the bench in the cockpit looking forward across the top of the dodger with the breeze blowing in my face. From this vantage point, my seasickness receded and I started to feel better.

The anti-nausea pills had made me sleepy so I headed down below to take a nap. Within an hour, the salvia in my mouth grew warm and I knew I was going to puke soon. I ran towards the cockpit while the boat swayed haphazardly from side to side, hollering for the blue bucket. I burst into the fresh air, flung myself towards the rail and grabbed the bucket from Josh, puking into it in great heaves.

Afterward, Jeff emptied and rinsed my bucket in the wake behind the boat and handed it back to me for the next go. I swapped seats, this time taking up position on the leeward side of the boat and wrapping myself around the bucket like it was a life preserver. The ocean continue to churn and my tummy grumbled along. That evening, in the dark, I would vomit two more times and, after each time, Jeff -- the self-appointed chief bucketeer -- would rinse away my foulness in the deep rollicking sea.

Eventually I grew so tired, I could barely hold myself upright so I climbed down to our cabin and felt into a fitful sleep while the rest of the crew took turns as the night watch.

In the morning I awoke to calm waters as we motored into a new anchorage at Ha'ano Island in the Ha'apai group. I heaved a sigh of relief and crossed my fingers that I would be done with seasickness for the rest of our trip.*

*As I get ready to post this a couple weeks later, now that we have internet again, I'm sorry to say that was not the last of my seasickness. I am officially a person who gets seasick, regardless of medication.

 

Snorkeling School

The day started on the whitest beach I have ever seen...

The entrance to Whitehaven Beach, at high tide. Yes, this beach gets deeper.

The sand was soft and dusty like powdered sugar. Ninety-eight percent (98%) silica, Whitehaven Beach is made of the purest sand to be found--so clean that the Hubble telescope's lens was crafted from it before a ban was put in place to prohibit the pilfering of this beautiful beach. And allegedly 80,000 years old.

The view from the water's edge.

 

The aquamarine water carves through the sand forming switchbacks that seemingly lead to the sky. And as the tides shift, shallow lagoons dot the beach creating perfect wading pools for small children and those fearful of the jellyfish that await in deeper waters.

My attempt at a panarama from the overlook in shifting sunlight. You can get an idea of the shifting sands.

After a morning spent sunbathing, wading and enjoying the latest Hang gliding and Paragliding magazine, we set off for an afternoon snorkel spot. Our destination was Mantaray Bay sheltered by large black rocks and bearing a tidy tan beach. The water sparkled turquoise and green atop colorful coral.

The view looking out of the bay where I snorkeled.

As I snorkeled between coral heads, I spotted a school of yellowtail fusilier intermixed with black and white striped sissortail sergeant. Next thing I knew the small fish, ranging in size from the palm of my hand to the sole of my foot, we're looking me straight in the eye. With what I can only guess was curiosity, the fish surrounded me on all sides. Swimming in unison, the schooling fish swerved to the left, then the right, then beneath me into the deep blue. A few moments later, I glimpsed them swimming up at me, looking as if they might give me a little kiss or nibble.

Luckily, these were not amorous fish and they eventually let me be.

Alone. Again.

In the wide blue ocean.

But the experience of being subsumed into a school of tropical fish has stuck with me. The grace with which the fish moved, the inquisitiveness in their watery eyes, the way they took turns leading the pack in different directions, the way they amicably schooled with fishes of another design. It all seems to reflect the fluidity which I am seeking in my life. My desire to flow through life with a peaceful contentedness, alternating between being a leader and a follower, accepting all as members of my community--even if it is temporary.

The perfect end to a lovely day.

 

Humpback Sightings

Seeing Humpback Whales in Australia was one of the most moving experiences of my life. While sailing in the Whitsunday Islands, our skipper spotted a mother with her calf. We watched them for nearly ten minutes from the deck of the catamaran as the mother nursed her young, floating almost motionless in the cerulean blue ocean. From time to time the mother would spout, followed by a miniature blow from her babe. It was like two fountains going off in a sequence, first the big one, then it's mini-me.

Eventually, nursing time was up and the calf swam alongside her mother, still spouting in near unison if not in profusion. And then, as suddenly as it all started, the show was over. The mom flipped her tail and dove deep, taking her young with her.

Sorry, no luck getting a picture of the whales, so here's a shot of our "tender" dragging along behind the sail boat.

I sighed in awe and wonder. These great creatures swim thousands of miles each year, from their summer home of Antartica where they gorge on krill to warmer waters in the north where they mate and give birth. I saw them once or twice as a kid growing up in California and feel blessed to witness them again as an adult adventuring in Australia.

Here's to hoping that Humpback Whales will continue to roam the waters of this world, undisturbed and exuberant in their displays of joyous acrobatics!