The Other Side of Sailing

Why do boat builders build boats knowing that fully grown human beings will never be able to access the essential areas necessary to maintain them? Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

Okay, full disclosure: Sometimes I do not know which is the correct way to turn a wrench. I think with a different part of my brain. I can sail upright through a gale. I can calculate in an instant the photographic exposure of a bird flying against a fading sunset. But ask me to change the impeller on a diesel engine and I’m a deer staring into the headlights of an 18-wheeler.

After four months on the hard, Flying Fish was re-launched last week in Didim, Turkey. Sailboats, like all machines (and many people), do not work well after sitting idle. It’s the Tin Man syndrome. It requires attention, motivation, and lubrication to start moving again. Complicating things is the fact that my beloved 46-foot cutter is not a simple sailboat. Systems designed to make sailing more efficient and enjoyable often bring about the exact opposite result. In an effort to attract buyers, marine manufacturers stuff modern sailboats with features many sailors like me are challenged to repair themselves. And it is not just the sophisticated stuff like air conditioners, computer-driven engines, and high-tech navigation systems that baffle boneheads like me. It’s the simple stuff, too. Like why put a threaded shaft bearing that needs frequent maintenance into an area of the bilge that is inaccessible with a wrench? Or, why design an engine that requires partial disassembly to service a simple but essential engine cooling impeller.

Flying Fish, with a freshly painted bottom and buffed topsides, returns to the water in Didim, Turkey. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

When standard engine service is necessary on a new vessel, Certified Factory Authorized Technicians are often required or warranties will be voided. That level of service can be tough to find in remote places like Fatu Hiva or Pukapuka, or Sumatra. So when I pass through major population centers I have the engine on Flying Fish serviced by pros. Earlier in my voyage, a Certified Factory Authorized Technician I hired in New Zealand asked me, “How do you access the impeller?” I said, “You’re the one making the big bucks. You tell me.” Soon there were two Kiwi technicians onboard scratching their heads. And then there were four of them–all Certified Factory Authorized Technicians. Bewildered, they then called in a carpenter with a reciprocating saw who said, “These guys tell me I need to cut a hole in the cabin floor (a gorgeous new teak-and-holly cabin floor) for them to access the impeller.” I said some bad words and pointed the Certified Factory Authorized Technicians, and their carpenter with the Sawzall, to the dock.

A kind sailor named Matt Stence from the sailboat Nimbus was watching the departing parade of mechanics. He said, “Hey, let me try.” With his face squished against the engine’s flywheel, his shoulder in the bilge, and his hand bloody and bent at an impossible angle, Matt blindly removed and replaced the impeller on Flying Fish. There is a place in heaven for people like Matt Stence. I have never been able to reproduce his effort.

Eighteen months and 750 engine hours later, it is time to replace the impeller again. Flying Fish is in a reputable boatyard with trained Certified Factory Authorized Technicians. “It is a difficult job,” I tell them when they arrive. “It’s not impossible but I cannot figure out how to do it,” I say. “It will only take one hour,” the service manager assures me. He tells me to watch and learn. Four mechanics open their toolboxes and roll up their sleeves. I feel their confidence; there are no reciprocating saws in their toolboxes. But the mechanics cannot access the impeller with a blind hand under the engine as Matt Stence did. The lead mechanic asks for more tools. Then he begins to remove the heat exchanger, essential for cooling the engine with seawater. This will allow him to access the concealed cooling pump and impeller. He unclamps a hose and suddenly there is a fountain of seawater in the engine room. “Close seacock,” he tells an assistant, who tells the service manager, who translates and then asks me: “Where is seacock?” When the seacock has closed the ingress of water is stopped. I feel chest palpitations. “Is everything okay now?” I ask. “Yes,” the service manager says, facing the engine room “Is okay, except for a little fire.”

A little fire…?

The seawater leakage has shorted exposed wiring in the alternator.

“Please sir,” the manager says urgently. “Turn off electricity.” I pull the master switch to shut down the batteries.

“A little fire?” I ask again, incredulously.

“Is okay,” the manager reassures. “No fire, only sparklets.”

Sparklets…?

In the end, the issue resolves amicably and professionally. The technicians address my concerns and disassemble, clean, and test the alternator. The seawater impeller is replaced. The engine is cleaned and reassembled. No human beings were harmed in the making of this drama.

I understand that it is on me to maintain and fix what breaks aboard Flying Fish. It is the captain’s responsibility, especially if he is sailing shorthanded, to see that his vessel is seaworthy. Some sailors have it–they can build a boat with their bare hands and fix anything that breaks with their eyes closed. And some captains like me have trouble remembering which way to turn a wrench. There are resources available to me when systems become too complicated for my artistic-oriented brain to compute. The kindness of strangers like Matt Stence is one welcomed resource. There is also a helpful organization called the Island Packet Yacht Owners Association, men and women who have seen and resolved nearly anything that could go wrong in both simple and sophisticated boat systems. You never know how many friends you have until you need help on a boat, and the long-distanced IPOYA members have always had my back. There are circumstances, however, when you need boots on the ground right now and you have to call in the calvary.

Today is one of those days. The mission is addressing the shaft stuffing box bearing that allows no access with a wrench. The bearing needs adjustment because if it is too tight it can burn up the shaft seal. If the bearing is too loose the ocean can enter the sailboat and everything gets wet as the boat sinks. I go online to look for ideas of how to adjust the correct tension on the two large bronze nuts of the stuffing box bearing. The yacht owners group has some excellent suggestions. Try heat and penetrating oil, is one idea. Another Island Packet owner writes that he tightens and loosens the large nuts on his bearing by pounding on their edges from above with a hammer hitting a crowbar. It works for him but not for me. I have visions of the crowbar slipping off the nut as the force of the hammer drives the crowbar through the bottom of Flying Fish. There is one more option and it saves the day–using resourceful local boatyard engineers. They are going to brainstorm the problem and make a tool from scratch that will adjust the shaft bearing nuts.

The three engineers arrive, walking shoulder-to-shoulder like the Ghostbusters down the dock. They introduce themselves. “I am Mehmet,” says the first one. “I am Mehmet,” says the second one. “I am also Mehmet,” says the third, who speaks English. “We are the Three Mehmets,” he says proudly. “In Turkey when you are in the company of three people named Mehmet it is a sign of good luck! Make a wish and your wish will come true.”

Meeting people like the Three Mehmets, and receiving the kindness of strangers from around the globe who help me in a time of need, makes me realize that my wish has already been fulfilled.

The “Three Mehmets” will fabricate a tool from raw steel to adjust the stubborn and inaccessible shaft bearing aboard Flying Fish. © Jeffrey Cardenas

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. I welcome your comments.

I hope to be underway aboard Flying Fish in March 2021. Once the voyage restarts you can follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, by clicking this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2021

Let this be a time of grace and peace in our lives   –Fr. John Baker

Three Years Before the Mast

Thoughts, Lessons, and Observations

A thousand miles from land… what happens out here can only be resolved out here. © Photograph: Jeffrey Cardenas / image by remote

“There is a witchery in the sea –Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast, published 1840.

On this day three years ago, Flying Fish slipped the lines from her berth at Safe Harbor in Key West and was underway on a passage that has carried her nearly 22,000 miles and two-thirds of the way around the globe. Along the route there have been wonders and joy, injuries and illness, moments of fear, revelation, and accomplishment. There has also been disappointment. This year, as the COVID-19 virus infected the world, Flying Fish traveled 5,000 of those miles alone–from Thailand to Turkey–on the deck of a freighter as I waited impatiently in quarantine on the other side of the world. I certainly do not seek sympathy for being separated from a boat when millions of other people are separated from their families, some permanently. These are days in which we all live in some form of isolation–physically and emotionally–as a result of health issues, personal decisions, or just simple fate. My isolation was self-imposed when I set off from Safe Harbor. It has been a journey both inward and outward, and one with eyes wide open. Here are some of the thoughts and lessons learned from these three years aboard Flying Fish.


Patience

When things become complicated I have learned that I have two simple choices: I can either let impatience darken my horizon, or I can seek strength in what I cannot control. When I sail alone, I navigate a fine path between what is manageable and what is not. It is essential at sea to know the difference. On a 1,300-mile passage between Tonga and New Zealand in October 2018, I knew that even the best weather window at this time of year would include at least one full gale raging eastward from the Tasman Sea. We can understand the weather but we cannot control it. On this passage I watched satellite weather maps, and, later, the darkening clouds themselves. As the gale approached I braced for impact. Howling wind and massive breaking seas made it seem as if the world was ending. It wasn’t. It was just a gale. I knew that this would pass. And it did.

A face reflecting the wear-and-tear of sailing through consecutive gales en route to New Zealand. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas / image by remote

Sanctity of Life

Who doesn’t believe in the sanctity of life? But the complex decision of what lives and dies at our hands is a gray area that can only be defined individually. These three years before the mast have given me a different perspective regarding co-existence on this planet. Aboard Flying Fish some days pass with no sign of life, nothing beyond my own beating heart–not birds or porpoise, not even any fish. Fish have been an important part of my life. I earned much of my livelihood as a fisherman. For decades, my job was to catch fish every day and catch as many of them as I could. In this pursuit the fish themselves became something less sentient. Sportfishing was entertainment and fish were a commodity. Catching or not catching represented profit or loss. But aboard Flying Fish, when sea life finally did appear, the creatures around me became companions during my long solitary journey. I loved watching shoals of tuna feed on the surface. My eyes followed the flight of every airborne flying fish. I was fascinated by the predatory saga when flying fish soaring above the wave tops were pursued by dorado from below and frigate birds from above. When I was hungry, I would catch one of the dorado. As one fish came to the boat it was often accompanied by dozens of its brothers. Initially, there was an overwhelming impulse to drop a line back for “just one more.” As the days and weeks at sea passed I wondered why I felt I needed more. I was just one person aboard Flying Fish. Why catch two fish when I could only eat one? I began having difficulty justifying why I wanted to feel the life struggle of another living creature? Two thoughts evolved as I gradually transitioned from anthropocentrism to a modified and more Eastern philosophy that holds all life as sacred: I learned that it is important for me to tread more softly. Equally important, I learned not to judge how others view the sanctity of life. I can live only within my own skin.

Co-existence. A Humpback whale breaches next to Flying Fish in Tonga’s Ha’apai Islands. © Jeffrey Cardenas

Changing Environment

I keep a worn copy of Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us aboard Flying Fish. Published in 1951, she wrote: “It is a curious situation that the sea, from which life first arose, should now be threatened by the activities of one form of that life.” I was horrified when I learned of Indonesian fishermen who poisoned and detonated homemade explosives on their pristine coral reefs. Granted, it is an effective method of fishing. The stunned reef fish float to the surface which makes gathering them more efficient. But how was it possible that those who were throwing explosives could not see that they were killing the reef for future generations? I considered this in the log of Flying Fish on August 25, 2019: “Many areas of Indonesia, including Flores Island, show evidence of reef bombing and cyanide fishing. I spent six hours on the not-yet-bombed shallow reefs of Sabibi Island yesterday. I was immersed in a dazzle and diversity of life that was simply difficult to comprehend. It was also beyond my comprehension that a person could drop explosives and poison a reef like this for the one-time opportunity to put some fish in a basket. That said, who am I to judge? My child has never been truly hungry. But would I blow up a coral reef to feed her?” How do we identify the line between immediate need and preservation for the future? And who gets to define that line?

Shallow water reefs still thrive in many parts of the tropical ocean where water quality is untainted by runoff, effluent, poison and explosive fishing devices. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

Orangutans Meet Global Economics

On the rugged island of Borneo in Southeast Asia’s Malay Archipelago there is a limestone cave believed to contain the oldest figurative art on earth, a depiction of a bull, carbon-dated to 52,000 years ago. Nearby is one of the largest coal mines in the world. Borneo is known for its ancient rainforest, home to wildlife including orangutans and clouded leopards. Soon, because of sea level rise and overpopulation, the Indonesian government will move its capital of Jakarta and 1.5 million new residents into what is left of the East Kalimantan rainforest. I have learned that even in the most remote areas of the world nothing is sacred when global economics are at stake. My daughter Lilly and I hoped to see the remaining wild orangutans so we sailed Flying Fish upriver from the south coast of Borneo. At the town of Kumai we anchored the sailboat and hired a riverboat guide to take us to the headwaters of Sekonyer River in Tanjung Puting National Park. Our destination was Camp Leakey, named after the legendary paleo-anthropologist Louis Leakey. We were amazed by the wildlife: Proboscis monkeys vaulted from the trees along the river. We heard the call of a rare rhinoceros hornbill. A False gharial crocodile warmed itself in the sun on the riverbank. And, finally, we saw wild orangutans. At the junction of two tributaries, the tannic but clear water flowing into the clear Sekonyer became jaundiced yellow in color. I asked what was causing it. Was this mud from a rainstorm upstream? “It’s always like this now,” our guide replied. “This tributary brings the runoff of mining and palm oil cultivation into the Sekonyer. Nothing lives here now.” Nothing lives here except more people with better jobs and higher incomes. But what is the cost to the natural habitat in one of the most remote places on earth?

From the security of her arboreal perch, a wild Kalimantan orangutan nurses her infant. © Jeffrey Cardenas

Vulnerability and Strength

I underestimated the level of mental and physical strength required to sail a boat around the world. It’s just sailing, right? It’s not that complicated. But when things go wrong at sea, they can go very wrong. Minor complications are exacerbated when sailing alone. Preparation is essential but even the most organized and experienced offshore sailors cannot completely prepare for the unexpected. In April 2019, I departed New Zealand for Fiji, a solo passage of 1,200 miles. Flying Fish was in better-than-new condition following a months-long refit in Opua. I was personally tuned up, too, eating “heaps” of healthy local produce and strength training daily in a nearby gym. My April departure date was based solely upon readiness and weather conditions. A dozen different weather routing sources finally established my best departure date as April 13. With a fresh Antipodean fall breeze aft of the beam I set sail from New Zealand to Polynesia. Fast forward three days to Latitude 29° 22′ 56” S and 174° 8′ 58” E, or about 700 miles SSW of Fiji. I am asleep in the cabin. Flying Fish is sailing a broad reach on autopilot in moderate but manageable conditions. All is well onboard, until it is not. I awaken suddenly to the roar of water. My world seems to turn upside down as an awful shower of glass, canned food, cookware, and a drawer full of cutlery rains down upon my head. I leap out of my berth onto shards of broken glass that tear into the soles of my feet. Water is pouring through an open hatch. In my semi-wakefulness I am convinced that Flying Fish is sinking in 13,000 feet of water. The boat has been knocked down–mast to the surface of the ocean–rolled broadside by a wave that must have exceeded by multiples any wave I had experienced since my departure from New Zealand. This rogue wave, perhaps caused by seismic activity near the Kermadec Islands, has flooded the cockpit of Flying Fish with nearly a ton of water. Gallons of seawater are inside the cabin and engine room. The boat is sitting heavy and deep. The breaking wave has stripped the deck of loose gear and canvas. A spare container of diesel on the deck has opened spreading a sheen of fuel oil and noxious fumes across the boat. I am disoriented, hyperventilating, and bleeding from the head and feet. I have never felt more vulnerable. Or alone. When my heart rate slows I realize this was a single, freak wave. The sea is once again normal. I pump water from the boat and assess damage. The hull is intact. The initial sense of vulnerability is replaced by an odd and unexpected feeling of inner strength. With the engine dead and the interior of the boat in shambles I deviate course to New Caledonia, the closest boatyard for repairs. I am still hundreds of miles and days from land but something within me has changed. I feel now as though I can face adversity at sea with a different level of confidence. I go below to make a pot of tea and attend to the debris aboard Flying Fish.

Prepping the foredeck of Flying Fish in anticipation of a gale in the Coral Sea near New Caledonia. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas / image by remote

Gratitude

I returned briefly to Flying Fish in Turkey during the 2020 COVID season, but I sailed with a sense of survivor’s guilt. Was it right for me to be on a boat while others were quarantined in their homes? Now, in retrospect, I have replaced that guilt with gratitude. When we can choose the course of our lives we should consider it a privilege and act upon it. When fate chooses a different course for our lives we should seek positives along that route, even when none are immediately apparent. I recognize that this opportunity to navigate the globe is a privilege. I also know that at some point it will end. It may end sooner than I choose. Health, politics, and natural aging constraints are factors that will determine what remains possible for me aboard Flying Fish. It is essential that I live my best life, regardless of whether that life leads me to Borneo or to my backyard. During these three years before the mast I have learned that I cannot waste a single moment.

Turkey’s spiritual peak Babadağ, rising directly from sea level to a summit of 1,969 meters, watches over Flying Fish at anchor. © Photograph: Jeffrey Cardenas

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. I welcome your comments.

I return to Flying Fish in January 2021. Once the voyage restarts you can follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, by clicking this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Let this be a time of grace and peace in our lives   –Fr. John Baker

2020 Photo Year in Review

The Turkish Mediterranean 

Turkish flag and sail.sm

It has been a blessing to spend part of 2020 on a sailboat instead of in quarantine–or worse, in a COVID-19 hospital ward. More than a million people are dead of the virus. To have been able to isolate onboard Flying Fish during this health crisis was a privilege that I did not take for granted. Flying Fish is grounded for now.  My Turkish visa expired, requiring that I leave the country. The European Union, which controls most of the remaining Mediterranean coastline, is closed to visitors with U.S. passports. I cannot sail onward to Greece, Italy, France, or Spain until the virus is under control. Going forward during this time of politics and pandemic will require creative navigation at a date unknown. For now, it provides solace to look back at 2020 aboard Flying Fish


Coastline

Isolation during the time of COVID was essential. Often, this quiet time alone was also euphoric. As I sailed along the Türk Rivierası, also known as the Turquoise Coast, it was my personal objective each day to seek out something positive. There was joy in the simplicity of a quiet anchorage. Where mountains met the sea I was utterly absorbed by the power of the Mediterranean landscape. Isolation in nature, I learned, has its own healing efficacy.

Click a photo in the gallery below to scroll high-resolution images


Ruins

At every anchorage on the Turkish Mediterranean coastline there is evidence of ancient civilization. The ruins are a reflection of the greatness, the fallibility, the faith, and the arrogance of the human species. In 334 BC, Alexander the Great, at age 30, rampaged through what is now modern-day Turkey conquering the Persians and creating one of the largest empires of the ancient world stretching from Greece to northwestern India. Mark Antony is said to have chosen the entire Turkish Riviera as a wedding gift for his beloved Cleopatra. The volcanic mountains near Dalyan, are believed to have been the inspiration for the mythical Chimera — a fire-breathing monster that the heroic Bellerophon slew while riding into battle on the winged back of Pegasus. The ruins of Turkey were a constant reminder to me, coming from a nation less than 250 years old, of the fragility of great civilizations.

Click a photo in the gallery below to scroll high-resolution images


Underwater

On this journey around the world, the keel of Flying Fish has passed over some of the most remarkable underwater landscapes imaginable. But along the Turkish Mediterranean the subsurface is in many ways understated. Instead of delicate tendrils of live coral and a multitude of colorful tropical fish, the Turkish Mediterranean sea bottom is often, like its shoreline, rugged and raw. Still, to a careful observer, there is life and color among the rocks. There is also history below the surface of the water. In a remote area of the Datça Peninsula I made a free dive to check that the anchor of Flying Fish was secure and I discovered nearby a mound of ancient pottery including pieces of amphora and several unbroken clay cooking pots. In the seaside village of Gümüşlük I dove over the ruins of ancient Myndos with its submerged roads, jetties, and walls made of interlocking stones perfectly cut and each weighing several tons. I wonder if future generations will see these same underwater treasures.

Click a photo in the gallery below to scroll high-resolution images


On Shore

The Turkish people welcomed me as if I were a part of their family, despite the fact I could not master the language with its distinctive characteristics of vowel harmony and extensive tongue-twisting agglutination. Usually a smile was the only translation necessary. The food is savory and fresh, often prepared and served only hours after being harvested from the garden or sea. Turkish wines are spectacular. The history of the Turks covers a time frame of more than 4,000 years. They endured invasions by the Mongols and Huns and Crusaders. Modern-day Turkey shares borders with Russia, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and parts of the Balkans. Yet, when it came to confronting a major global enemy–the infection of COVID-19–the Turkish government controlled the virus with early lockdowns and prudent precautions. Virus numbers never spiked in Turkey as they did elsewhere in Europe, Asia, and the Americas. The Turks are as resilient as they are resourceful.

Click a photo in the gallery below to scroll high-resolution images


The route of Flying Fish in the Summer of 2020

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. I welcome your comments.

Once the voyage of Flying Fish restarts you can follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, by clicking this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

An Anonymous Island

In the dramatic recorded history of the Aegean Sea, nothing of note happened on this island. There is no record of wars being fought here. It has not been written that this is where Cleopatra seduced Marc Antony. There are no ruins of Byzantine basilicas or tombs indicating that the island was once a place of pilgramage. It is just a rock rising from the floor of the sea that has given root to a single wind-bent olive tree. The island simply exists. That is what gives distinction to this understated place. In an increasingly complicated world there is solace in a place like this anonymous island.

My passage along the Turkish Mediterranean coastline aboard Flying Fish has been one of quiet introspection during this summer of COVID. I feel an increasing need to seek isolated anchorages, to find music in the sound of wind on the water, to fill my lungs with clean air. Like the solo tree, I am content to just quietly exist.

During most of my travels in the Eastern Mediterranean this summer, history was everywhere I looked. All around me was evidence of great empires that thrived and then crumbled. Armies raged. There were acts of heroism and treachery. Natural disasters buried entire civilizations. As I lay at anchor in the lee of this tiny anonymous island I wonder if there are parallels in the history of these ancients that apply to our modern world?

In the current environment of pandemic and politics it is a particularly vulnerable time for the United States of America. Like many others, I sense a coming storm. I will soon be forced to leave the sanctuary of Flying Fish for an undetermined period of time. COVID restrictions prevent me from sailing onward. Visa restrictions prevent me from staying aboard Flying Fish. I love my country but it is clear that when I return it will be to a divided America that is at a tipping point in its own history.

How does one prepare for the uncertainty exacerbated by a continuing viral epidemic, racial hatred, climate crisis, and a vicious political cycle? There is no easy answer. The ancients could not figure it out and their civilizations vanished. I will have to remind myself of the good in this world. I will remind myself that there are places that still exist without confrontation. I will think back to these days on an anonymous island where nothing happened.

For a closer view of the nature on the island click each thumbnail image above and scroll through the series. Photographs: © Jeffrey Cardenas

one-tree-pufferfish.sm_

###

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Your comments encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Abundance

Market Day is the most festive day of the week in many parts of Turkey. Streets are closed to traffic. Vendors arrive in the early morning darkness to claim prime locations for showing their wares. It is a day to celebrate the abundance of summertime.

Top: Two sisters restock the the cherry bin. The t-shirt on the older sister might say, “Nope” but her smile says, Hoşgeldiniz–Welcome!

Above: A young girl selling fruit and vegetables, and dutifully wearing her COVID mask, cannot hide her amusement and curiosity when a foreigner tries to buy limes.

Right: An olive vendor adds fresh flowers to enhance the sartorial style of her traditional headscarf.

apricots


Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Your comments encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Seeking Aphrodite

Knidos columns.sm

Amid the rubble of ancient Knidos there is an omnipresent ethos of the goddess Aphrodite.  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

Sailing along the Turkish Mediterranean coast is a continual voyage through antiquity. Ruins rise from the sea at nearly every headland to meet the mariner. At Knidos, there are the remains of a temple dedicated to Aphrodite and among its detritus is the essence of a goddess. In the history of classical art the sculpture of Aphrodite of Knidos may be the first example–it is certainly the most celebrated–of a woman portrayed entirely nude. I quickly furl the mainsail aboard Flying Fish and go ashore to ancient Knidos. 

The Temple of Aphrodite Euploia (Aphrodite, Sea Goddess of Safe Voyages) has drawn sailors to this shoreline for more than 2,300 years. Knidos became prominent in the ancient world for hosting this sublimely erotic statue of the goddess, sculpted by Praxiteles in 365 BC. The structure housing it, now in ruins, was a circular Doric temple surrounded with colonnades. The goddess graced the center of the temple; her statue made of Parian marble. Aphrodite teased with a shy smile. Nothing hides her beauty other than a furtive hand veiling her modesty. The statue of Aphrodite was not traditionally placed in the end of the hall of the temple’s cella. Instead, it was sited in the middle of the circular foundation making it possible for visitors to admire the statue from all angles. The statue of the goddess was said to have a particularly attractive backside.

Aphrodite-of-Cnidus-statue-Roman-Praxiteles-Greek

Aphrodite of Cnidus, a Roman marble copy of the Greek statue by Praxiteles, c. 350 BC, Vatican Museum. –Public Domain

Knidos, or Cnidus in the 4th century BC, was a Hellenic city in southwestern Asia Minor, now on the Datça peninsula in modern-day Turkey. Because of this strategic geographical location the Knidians acquired considerable wealth in trade and commerce. The city was less than a mile long, and the entire area remains covered with architectural artifacts. In addition to the spectacular Corinthian temples on Knidos there was an acropolis, an odeum, and numerous marbled terraces and theaters. The ancient city was said to even have its own medical school.

Knidos is now a ruin and deserted, except for tourists and mariners who come to pay homage to its heritage. In ancient times, however, it was at the center of the world on the trade routes from Alexandria to Athens. Its harbor sheltered sailors from the violent meltemi winds. Scorched and bleached by the sun and surrounded by the turquoise Mediterranean Sea, Knidos is both harsh and idyllic. The walls of the ancient harbor still stand. Fragments of column and cornice and terracotta are scattered in the rocks and wind-sculpted bushes of the maquis. In summer the ground releases the fragrance of wild sage growing among shards of ancient earthenware.

Knidos remained somewhat isolated from the western world until The Society of Dilettanti, a group of British noblemen and scholars (and, ultimately, plunderers) sponsoring the study of ancient Greek and Roman art sent an exploratory mission there in 1812. Additional excavations were executed by Sir Charles Newton in 1857–1858 and the great treasures–including the colossal Lion of Knidos–were taken (by battleship) back to England. Missing, however, was the statue of Aphrodite. 

Aphrodite was an ancient Greek goddess associated with love, beauty, pleasure, and passion. She was syncretized with the Roman goddess Venus. In the Iliad she was the child of Zeus and Dione. She also had some well-known siblings including Apollo, Athena, Heracles, Helen of Troy, and the Cyclopes. Aphrodite was the surrogate mother and lover of the mortal shepherd Adonis, who was attacked by a wild boar and died in Aphrodite’s arms. With Athena and Hera, Aphrodite was one of the three goddesses whose feud resulted in the beginning of the Trojan War. But what history remembers most of Aphrodite, and what likely encouraged Praxiteles to bring her image to life, was her erotic beauty.

According to an account by Pliny the Elder, Praxiteles created two statues of Aphrodite (which were offered at the same price): one fully clothed and the other naked. The Greek town of Kos was horrified at the depiction of Aphrodite nude so they purchased the draped statue. Knidos bought the remaining Aphrodite and it was installed in a temple to the goddess where it gained a widespread cult-like following for its beauty. Coins issued in Knidos were minted in her honor. Later, King Nicomedes of Kos tried to buy naked Aphrodite from the Knidians promising to discharge their enormous state debt. The Knidians resolutely kept Praxiteles’ naked Aphrodite.

The statue became so widely known that epigrams were written of it. One anecdote has the goddess Aphrodite herself coming to Knidos to see the sculpture. Acknowledging her perfect likeness she says: “Paris, Adonis, and Anchises saw me naked. Those are all I know of. So how did Praxiteles contrive it?” A similar epigram is attributed to Plato: When Aphrodite saw her sculpture at Knidos she said, “Alas! Where did Praxiteles see me naked?”

The Knidos Aphrodite was different, in a decidedly erotic way. It is one of the first life-sized representations of the nude female form in Greek history, displaying an alternative idea to male heroic nudity. Praxiteles’ Aphrodite is shown reaching for a bath towel while covering her pubis, which, in turn leaves her breasts exposed. Up until this point, Greek sculpture had been dominated by male nude figures. Author Mary Beard writes in her book, How Do We Look: “The hands alone are a giveaway here. Are they modestly trying to cover her up? Are they pointing in the direction of what the viewer wants to see most? Or are they simply a tease? Whatever the answer, Praxiteles has established that edgy relationship between a statue of a woman and an assumed male viewer that has never been lost from the history of European art.”

Men were driven mad with desire for this image of Aphrodite. Pliny observed that some visitors to Knidos were “overcome with love for the statue.” The statue was so lifelike that it was said to “arouse viewers sexually as if she were a woman in flesh and blood.” In Erotes, an explicit essay written around AD 300 attributed to author Lucian of Samosata, a young man was once so overwhelmed by the image of Aphrodite that he broke into the temple at night and attempted to copulate with the statue. Upon being discovered by a custodian, he was so ashamed that he hurled himself over a cliff near the edge of the temple.

Sadly, Aphrodite of Knidos is no longer in existence. One theory is that the statue was removed to Constantinople (modern Istanbul), where it was housed in the Palace of Lausus in AD 475. When the palace burned the statue was lost. That was not the end, however, of the obsession with Aphrodite of Knidos.

Enter the curious appearance of American socialite archeologist Iris Cornelia Love.

Love claimed to be a direct descendant of both the explorer Captain James Cook and American founding father Alexander Hamilton, as well as the maternal great great granddaughter of Meyer Guggenheim. In 1969, with the Turkish archeologist Askidil Akarca, a granddaughter of the last sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Love sailed from Bodrum (ancient Halicarnassus) down the coast of Asia Minor to excavate the ruins of Knidos. On July 20, 1969, the day Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon, Love uncovered a circular marble platform at the Knidos site. Additional finds included the foundation of a circular building with eighteen columns, a life-sized human hand of Parian marble comparable in size to copies of the statue of Aphrodite of Knidos, numerous votive offerings dating from the archaic through Hellenistic periods, and an inscription in marble beginning: “Prax…” The team of young archeologists believed they had found the site of the temple that once housed perhaps the most famous statue of the ancient world and one of Pliny’s Seven Wonders–Praxiteles’ Aphrodite.

Knidos Temple Aphrodite.sm

The excavated ruin many believe is the Temple of Aphrodite Euploia viewed from the cliff above at Knidos, Turkey. Flying Fish appears in the top right of the image.  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

 The discovery propelled Iris Cornelia Love to the kind of fame very few archaeologists achieve. She found herself on the front page of The New York Times, on prime-time national television interviewed by Barbara Walters, photographed by Harry Benson, partying with Andy Warhol. Tabloids ran headlines such as “Love Finds Temple of Love” and referred to her as “the mini-skirted archaeologist”. The discovery attracted intense international media attention when it was presented at the annual meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America. It also attracted many famous guests to the excavation site, including Mick and Bianca Jagger.

This fanfare called Love’s interpretation of the discovery into question. Critics accused her of converting the excavation into an exclusive holiday spot. Noted Turkish archaeologists disputed her conclusions. The Turkish government revoked her research license for Knidos. Love subsequently retired from archeology, devoted herself to breeding dachshunds (for which she won several prizes), and lived in Greece, Italy, and New York with her partner of many years, tabloid journalist Liz Smith. Iris Cornelia Love died this year at age 86, after being diagnosed with Covid-19.

I sit atop the jagged cliff overlooking the ruin of the Temple of Aphrodite Euploia and reflect upon myth and reality. (Could this be the same ledge where the besotted youth plunged to his death after being caught in flagrante delicto with the marble statue?) There is heat emanating from the rock and the quintessence of being in a rare place. I often wonder what it is that drives my ship. On this day it is the mythology of Aphrodite that puts fresh wind in my sails.


SOURCES

  • Erotes: “A Dialogue Comparing Male and Female Love,” attributed to Lucian of Samosata, 2nd century AD 
  • The Venus Pudica: “Uncovering Art History’s Hidden Agenda’ and Pernicious Pedigrees,” Generations and Geographies in the Visual Arts.
  • Aphrodite of Knidos: Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology & the Ancient World,
    Brown University
  • Pliny the Elder: Natural History XXXVI.4.20-I
  • Iris Love, Archaeologist who Discovered the Temple of Aphrodite: The Telegraph Obituaries, May 5, 2020
  • Love Among the Ruins: Departures, Martin Filler, March 30, 2010
  • Epigrams Plato: Wikipedia.org
  • Circe: Madeline Miller
  • The Aphrodite of Knidos: YouTube, Faces of Ancient Europe October 18, 2017 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkwjgv3Nr90

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Your comments encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Mediterranean Lionfish Invasion

Lionfish2 I mention in an earlier post that 130,000 years of human civilization in the Eastern Mediterranean might be a factor in explaining why I have seen so few fish underwater during my first month of exploring this coastline in Flying Fish. In fact, the species loss here has been exacerbated in only the past decade and a single predatory fish may bear some of the responsibility. The first lionfish in the Mediterranean was officially reported in 2012. Other divers have seen them even earlier. Still, these fish originating from the Indian Ocean are newcomers to the neighborhood. Now biologists fear the population of this predator with virtually no natural enemies may be out of control in the Mediterranean as it is elsewhere in the world. Marine biologists with the Cypriot Enalia Physis Environmental Research Centre say lionfish first appeared in the waters off Cyprus in 2012. Since then the number of lionfish has exponentially increased not only in Cyprus but now also in Turkey and around some of the southern Greek islands. “Wherever you dive you can now see the lionfish in masses,” reported Louis Hadjioannou, research director at Enalia. The Mediterranean invasion of lionfish resembles that of the western Atlantic Ocean. Lionfish were first recorded off the coast of Florida in 1994, but only 20 years later it was estimated that there were up to 1,000 lionfish per acre of coastline. A female lionfish can produce two million eggs a year. Marine biologists say they could be reducing Atlantic reef species diversity by up to 80%. The lionfish’s “exponential rise” in the Eastern Mediterranean was facilitated by the widening of the Suez Canal—completed in 2014—and warming regional water temperatures, according to Jason Hall-Spencer, a marine biology professor at Britain’s University of Plymouth. The cooler waters of the western Mediterranean, he reported, have largely been spared of lionfish for the moment. Culling lionfish for food has helped reduce their numbers in other parts of the world. I have yet to see a lionfish in a Turkish fish market but stranger things make their way to the dinner table here–Koc Yumurtasi (ram’s testicles), for example. I look forward one day soon to preparing whole fried lionfish to my new Turkish friends.
lionfish cooked

Whole fried lionfish prepared by the Miami restaurant Fish Fish.  Credit: foodrepublic.com


Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Your comments encourage me to continue writing. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

My Sea Change

Tomb Bay Pine.sm

Flying Fish is anchored bow and stern in the iridescent waters of the Turkish Mediterranean Sea. Photography:  © Jeffrey Cardenas

In the past 30 months, Flying Fish has carried me through the western Caribbean, across the Pacific to Polynesia, south to New Zealand, New Caledonia, Australia, and across Southeast Asia. Within every molecule of water I have encountered a life and landscape that is profoundly different. Now, as I begin my passage through the Mediterranean Sea, I am experiencing another significant sea change. There will be time to reflect and write of these changes, but, as always, my first impressions are visual. Here is a small portfolio of images from the Turkish Mediterranean and some initial thoughts on this exciting new water.


How this gallery works: The text under each image is relevant. Hover the cursor not just on the image, but at the BOTTOM of each image to read the text. When you click on the text it will bring up a full-frame view with a scrolling arrow allowing navigation to each image. Thanks for being interested enough to do this. 

Rock Passage

The landscape is rugged and wild on the Kapıdağ Yarımadası Peninsula of Turkey’s Mediterranean coastline. Photography:  © Jeffrey Cardenas


Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Readers encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

The Fatal Seduction of Oleander

Oleander Bay2.sm

Flying Fish anchored against a backdrop of blooming oleander in the environmental preserve of Turkey’s Skopea Limani.  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

Beautiful anchorages seduce me. Turkey’s Skopea Limani is one of those places: the bay is protected from the meltemi winds, it is an environmentally protected area (SEPA) with clear turquoise water, and it is rich in archeological heritage. But before I knew of any of those attributes though, Skopea Limani had me at oleander…

It is a good year for oleander in the Eastern Mediterranean. Viewed from offshore aboard Flying Fish, clusters of oleander blossoms paint the landscape of this arid shoreline. The plant beckons like a Siren with pink flowers and the fragrance of a fine Turkish rosé. Oleander is also considered one of the most poisonous plants in the world.

All parts of this beautiful shrub contain poison–several types of poison. According to the American Poison Control Center, the two most potent toxins in the plant are oleandrin and neriine, known for their powerful effect on the heart and brain. Ingestion of oleander can cause nausea and vomiting, abdominal pain, and internal bleeding. The effect on the central nervous system may include tremors, seizures, and collapse. The poison of oleander is so strong that a single leaf can kill a person.

Pliny the Elder, who wrote the epic 37-volume treatise Naturalis Historia in AD 77, investigated natural and geographic phenomena in the Mediterranean. Writing of oleander he said it “…grows in sea-bordering places & in places near rivers. But ye flower and the leaves have a power destructive of dogs & of Asses & of Mules & and of most four-footed living creatures.” But it wasn’t all bad news; Pliny added that oleander was an effective antidote to venomous snakebites if mixed with other herbs.

Miniature-Pliny-the-Elder-Andrea-da-Firenze

Miniature by Andrea da Firenze from an edition of Naturalis Historia by Pliny the Elder, c. 1457–58, showing Pliny writing in his study, with landscape and animals. British Library —Public Domain.

It was long considered that oleander could even poison a person who simply eats honey made by bees that have digested oleander nectar. Pliny describes a region in Turkey where bees pollinated poisonous flowers and that toxic honey was left as a poisonous trap for an invading army. King Mithridates also used the honey as a deliberate poison when Pompey’s army attacked the Heptakometes in Asia Minor in 69 BC. The Roman soldiers became delirious and nauseated after being tricked into eating the toxic honey, at which point Mithridates’s army attacked. More recent scholars, however, contend that the flowers have been apparently mis-translated. Oleander flowers are nectarless and therefore cannot transmit any toxins via nectar. According to a team of Turkish doctors who in 2009 wrote the wonderfully titled report Mad honey sex: therapeutic misadventures from an ancient biological weapon, the actual flower referenced by Pliny was probably a variety of rhododendron, which is still used in Turkey to produce a type of hallucinogenic honey.

Oleander also has its own record of hallucinogenic qualities. A 2014 article in the medical journal Perspectives in Biology and Medicine suggests that oleander was the substance used to induce hallucinations in the Pythia, the female priestesses of Apollo, also known as the Oracle of Delphi.

Pythia

A 19th century vision of how the Pythia might have looked intoxicated by hallucinogenics. Priestess of Delphi by John Collier, 1891 —Public Domain

According to this theory, the symptoms of the Pythia’s trances (enthusiasmos) correspond to either inhaling the smoke or chewing small amounts of oleander leaves. And in his book Enquiries into Plants circa 300 BC, Theophrastus described a shrub he called onotheras, which modern editors render as oleander. When administered in wine, oleander was said to “make the temper gentler and more cheerful.” 

Cleopatra was fascinated with oleander. According to her legend she tested its effects on her servants when she was researching the best vehicle to commit suicide as Octavian descended upon ancient Alexandria. When Cleopatra saw the horrific symptoms of oleander (vomiting, facial contortions, severe convulsions), she opted for a less violent way to die. (Interesting footnote: Pulitzer Prize winning author Stacy Schiff suggests that it was also highly unlikely that Cleopatra killed herself with the bite of a poisonous snake, as has been suggested for thousands of years.)

So what does the Mediterranean history of oleander have to do with sailing? Nothing and everything. The voyage of Flying Fish is one driven by curiosity. I am attracted to the aesthetics of nature and how nature not only affects me but also those who sailed these waters before me. That said, the research reminds me that I shouldn’t put oleander leaves in my salad, or mix it with my wine. I would never have guessed that just kneeling on some fallen leaves while I crouched down to make a photograph would set my skin on fire. My antidote was far less complicated than in the time of Pliny the Elder–I just popped a double dose of Benadryl and settled in for some nice dreams.

###

cleopatra2

Cleopatra Testing Poisons on Condemned Prisoners is an 1887 painting by the French artist Alexandre Cabanel showing Cleopatra observing the effects of poisons, including oleander, on prisoners condemned to death. —Public Domain

  • REFERENCES
  • International Oleander Society: Information on Oleander Toxicity
  • Wikipedia.org: Nerium
  • Pliny the Elder: Natural History
  • Stacy Schiff: Cleopatra

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Readers encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Of Saints and Lesser Men

Bascilia Ruins.sm

The ruins of the basilica at Karacaören Asadi.  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

The Byzantine tombs are visible from the sea and even before I set foot on this lonely eastern Mediterranean island I feel the spirit of those who lived, prayed, and died on Karacaören Adasi. I have come to see one tomb in particular. It is not clear who is interred here but I have been told that inside this tomb are remnants of an ancient fresco, a depiction of St. Christopher under a starry sky.

I have rejoined my cutter Flying Fish in southeastern Turkey after the COVID-19 pandemic separated us in March. I quarantined in Key West. Once the initial wave of coronavirus receded in Florida I caught the first flight available from Miami to Istanbul. (Turkey is a non-EU country and at the time of this writing was still admitting U.S. citizens.) Little did I know that the virus in America would return like a tsunami. I isolate now aboard Flying Fish, my immediate future a sea of uncertainty. It is a good time to be among the saints.

Under the watchful eye of the imposing peak Babadağ (Big Papa), I am aware that I will tread on consecrated land when I go ashore at Karacaören Adasi. It is not forbidden but still I feel compelled to tread softly. There is no tourism on this tiny island. No beach, resorts, villas, or roads. There is not even a boat landing on Karacaören Adasi. It is an imposing fortress of rock shards rising steeply from the sea. I anchor my dinghy offshore of the island, put cameras into a waterproof bag, and swim to the rocks. There is no evidence of a living soul on the island but still I sense that I am being watched.

Ruins are visible on many islands in this area of the Turkish Mediterranean. Ancient civilizations existed along the Lycian coastline for millennia. One island nearby, Gemiler Adasi, is a popular destination for large Turkish gulets (tour boats) that bring hundreds of tourists daily to its ruins. Gemiler Adasi is also consecrated land with dozens of ecclesiastical ruins and over 50 Christian tombs. It is thought that Saint Nicholas (Father Christmas) was buried on Gemiler Adasi in the 4th century AD. If so, Saint Nicholas must now be rolling over in his grave. The gulets arrive each morning blasting Turkish hip-hop from speakers loud enough to wake the dead. The day trippers pour out of the gulets and onto the island leaving in their wake soda cans, cigarette butts, and dirty disposable diapers. Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of merchants, archers, repentant thieves, prostitutes, children, brewers, and pawnbrokers. Saint Nicholas must also be a very forgiving soul.

I escape the noise of Gemiler Adasi and choose instead to explore uninhabited Karacaören Adasi. As I climb ashore I find a foothold in the 1,500-year-old steps cut into solid rock. The island is only a half-kilometer square but nearly every part of it contains evidence of a Byzantine civilization destroyed, presumably, by the earthquakes that frequent this part of the Mediterranean. In my periphery I catch a glimpse of something else. Something–or somebody–is moving among cedar trees and densely growing macchie shrubs.

On Karacaören Adasi I am thinking about the martyr St. Christopher. According to the legendary account of his life, Christopher was a Canaanite 5 cubits tall (7.5 feet) and said to be cursed with a fearsome face. The mythos of Christopher tells of one day when a child approached him and asked, because of Christopher’s great height, to be helped across a river. Christopher obliged. However, as they entered midstream, the river rose and the child’s weight increased. It was only with great effort that Christopher safely delivered the child to the other side. When he asked the child why he was so heavy, the child explained that, “He was the Christ and when Christopher carried Him, he also carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Afterward, Christopher traveled throughout Lycia proselytizing to those he met. This was unacceptable to Roman Emperor Decius, and in 251 AD he ordered the pious giant beheaded. Christopher was ultimately beatified and he became the patron saint of travelers.

The steps to the ruins of Karacaören Adasi lead to what archeologists have identified as a three-aisle basilica with a baptistery to one side. I walk amid the rubble, the ground littered with chunks of white marble, terra cotta, and mosaic. Round arches and domes that once brought light and warmth into this basilica still stand along the edges of the ruin but this house of worship is now open to the sky. Behind the basilica is a deep cistern cut into the ground. It is dry and bones are visible amid the debris at the bottom. Behind me I hear a quiet footstep, and then the displacement of small rocks.

There are two rounded crypts together just outside what may have been the sacristy of the basilica. The rock doors of the tombs have been breached and the burial trenches unearthed. The domed ceilings are still largely intact. Inside one of the crypts, above the grave of an unknown Lycian, is what remains of the centuries-old the fresco said to be the image of St. Christopher rendered under the stars a Mediterranean sky.

tomb2.sm_

The excavated tomb. Is this the storied fresco of St. Christopher on the island of Karacaören Adasi?  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

It is gratifying to see something this ancient, free of graffiti and garbage, and to think of the hands and souls that created the artwork so many years ago. This is pure unrestored history. I cannot clearly make out the image of what may or may not be St. Christopher but the red pigment depicting the flowing robes of this subject is clearly visible on the walls. Did the artist who painted this sit on the same stone that supports me now and admire the work? And who was privileged to be buried under this fresco? A high priest, a nobleman?

I am lost in quiet reverie until I hear–definitively–the sound of movement just outside of the tomb. I stand quickly and strike my head on the wedged-shaped voussoir stones that support the ceiling of the crypt. For a moment I see my own sepulcher stars… Then, outside, there is the sound of footsteps running away. I quickly emerge from the tomb. Who’s there? It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright Mediterranean light. And then I am face-to-face with my apparition. A white goat stands atop the ruins, smiling at me. 

###

karacaoren-white-goat-sm

The Karacaören apparition, a happy white goat. Photograph: Jeffrey Cardenas

 

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish. Readers encourage me to continue writing.

If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into the Mediterranean, and onward, you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

A Mother’s Gift

Cutty Shark2

My mother bids me farewell as I embark on my first solo sailing adventure

This image from a half-century ago is etched into my heart. I am a 14-year-old boy running away from home in a 12-foot sailboat. Or so I’ve told my parents. I’m sick of school, I don’t have any friends, I want to be alone. Mom watches from the shoreline as I prepare my sails for departure. Instead of lecturing me, locking me into my bedroom, or simply saying, “No you can’t go”– as another parent might–my mother encourages me to set sail. She tells me to be safe. She tells me that home will be waiting for me when I want to return.

It was 1969. I was living between ages. Kids a few years older were hitchhiking to Woodstock that year. Many others were dying in Viet Nam. A quarter-million were marching in Washington to protest the war. Richard Nixon had been elected president. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. And a British sailor, Robin Knox-Johnson, became the first person in history to sail alone non-stop around the world. At age 14, it was clear who I wanted to emulate.

Mom was born Alvina Sorzickas, the daughter of conservative Lithuanian immigrants who lived in Chicago. She rebelled against her strict upbringing. She was the first in her family to go to college, graduating from the University of Illinois with degrees in both Journalism and English History. She was also crowned as a beauty queen. Mom dated Hugh Hefner (once was enough). Then Mom met Dad and they fell in love in front of the bronze lion at the Chicago Art Institute. They quickly married and moved to South Florida to live an independent life closer to the ocean.

In 1969, Mom had just turned 40. She was a high school teacher raising four children and a squirrel monkey named Sandra. We lived in Ft. Lauderdale with a yard big enough to work on a couple of boats. I acquired a plywood sailing dinghy. Inspired by the image of a clipper ship on the label of a bottle of scotch whiskey, I painted my little boat bright yellow and called her Cutty Shark.

JC early sailing 2.sm

School sucked, I was “going to sea” in a 12-foot boat

One day during the middle of my 9th-grade school year I announced to my parents that school sucked and I was “going to sea” in Cutty Shark. I would sail from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West, for starters. After that, I thought, who knows? The world is my oyster.* I hadn’t read Shakespeare yet but Mom was a drama teacher so I’m sure she understood that sentiment. I remember the conversation, my parents looking sternly at me across the dinner table. Dad said, “Well, when you get where you’re going give us a call.”

Sadly, I have misplaced the log from the voyage of Cutty Shark. Fortunately, Mom, now at age 91, has a better memory than me and she has filled in some of the details. Because my little boat would founder in seas rougher than a knee-high whitecap, I decided to sail the backcountry route of 175 miles from Ft. Lauderdale to Key West. I couldn’t afford charts so I navigated with a Gulf Oil road map of the Keys. My plan was to stop each night on a deserted island and sleep in a jungle hammock tied to the mangroves. I would catch fish to eat, I thought, but I had forgotten my fishing pole. Later, a fisherman in Biscayne Bay would take pity on me and loan me his rod and reel. He trusted me to return it one day, he said, because I wasn’t “one of those long-haired hippies rioting in the streets.”

In the Middle Keys, I encountered rough weather late one afternoon and I ran Cutty Shark hard before a squall for the sanctuary of an island. As night fell I hurried to get my jungle hammock rigged before the thunderstorm hit. Having no time to cook, I stuffed my mouth with cold beef stew from an open can. I zipped myself into the hammock just as the sky opened with a torrent of rain and lightning. Soon I had a nauseating feeling in my stomach. Then that feeling quickly went south to my gut. Uffft! I had to get out of the hammock. Fast. The hammock zipper was jammed. The bellyful of bad beef stew erupted into diarrhea as I thrashed in the enclosed jungle hammock. Crazed, I tore my way out of the hammock’s mosquito netting. Lightning bolts were arcing into the mangroves. I was covered in mierda. Suddenly, in the strobe of a lightning flash, there was the form of something big crashing toward me in the mangroves. Was it the mythical Everglades Skunk Ape? (I had a vivid imagination). Free from the tangle of the hammock, I ran through the darkness–seemingly for my life–tripping over prop roots and through spider webs. I could see a distant light coming from Long Key State Park. A bathroom in the park was open. Safe! I crawled under the open sink and fell asleep on the floor. When I awoke the next morning the squall had passed. Excrement and mud were still caked on my clothing and skin. I wasn’t alone. I peered out from under the sink. A more civilized camper was watching me, warily, while he shaved and brushed his teeth. I missed home.

Things always look more positive in the light of day and so I continued my little voyage in Cutty Shark. On a sandbar near Sawyer Key, I saw naked people walking along the flats. Ever curious, I jibed to a starboard tack for a better look. A man and a pretty woman, with two young children in tow, greeted me warmly. “You look hungry,” the woman said. I was a 14-year-old boy and she was naked. Of course I was hungry. Sawyer Key is a part of the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge but a corner of the island remained private. The couple, sea hippies, had staked out a modest homestead and were living off the land. They had a garden and a few fruit trees with key limes and papaya. I had caught a couple of small barracudas earlier in the day. “Bring your fish and join us for supper,” the woman said. I wish I could remember their names, they were so kind to me. The children ran unattended around the island like baby barbarians. The man, hair to his shoulders and skin tanned brown from the sun, rolled a homegrown smoke. After dinner, we soaked in the warm tidal pools on the rocky shoreline at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. I don’t recall discussing any of the momentous news events that were swirling around us in the outside world. We were in a bubble of calm. The woman took my hand softly and said, “You can sleep here tonight.”

I arrived in Key West like so many other wanderers. It was the end of the line. The island was a quiet little fishing village. Green turtle, lamb’s wool sea sponges, and Tortugas pink shrimp were still being harvested in Key West. It was apparent, however, that times were changing. In 1969, the first cruise ship docked at the Navy’s pier in the Truman Annex. Key West was moving toward a tourist-based economy. Traditional Conch houses were being replaced by hotels. Still, I was grateful to have the opportunity to arrive under sail at this unique island. It would eventually become my home. I tacked my little yellow boat into Key West Bight, tossed a line around a piling, and dropped a dime into a payphone. Mom and Dad said they would be happy to drive down to Key West to pick me up. They’d even buy me a lobster dinner at the A & B Lobster House. I was ready to return to school. The ocean would call me back soon enough.

Mom and Dad went on to encourage all of my sailing adventures. They didn’t stand in the way three years later when I left Florida for New England in 18-foot Icarus. A few years after that I was sailing alone across the Atlantic aboard 23-foot Betelgeuse. Among the ship’s stores I found stashed onboard Betelgeuse was a box with dozens of small, individually wrapped gifts. “Open one each day of your passage across the ocean,” said a note from Mom. The wrapped packages contained little treats like chocolate, smoked oysters, and books–something each day to bring a smile and thoughts of a mother’s love.

Our best moments as a family were spent aboard sailboats. In a wonderfully reckless burst of inspiration, Mom and Dad once took all of the kids in our family out of school to sail from Florida to Europe. For a teacher, Mom didn’t always have strict regard for organized schooling. Instead, she taught us the lessons of fully living our lives. Now in their 90s, Mom and Dad are healthy and still fully living their lives. “Who knows,” my Dad said at the beginning of the coronavirus lockdown, “maybe your Mom and I will meet you aboard Flying Fish later this year to go sailing with you in the Mediterranean.”

Mothers Day card.sm

###

 

* Why then the world’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. –William Shakespeare

 

As the coronavirus recedes, and when it becomes safe to travel again, I hope to rejoin Flying Fish where she is moored in Fethiye, Turkey to continue my journey onward. Please subscribe at the bottom of this page and you will be among the first to know when I am back aboard my little ship.

I welcome new readers. Please consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the continuing voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since departing Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

 

Into Suez with No One at the Helm

FF Suez sm

The satellite track of Flying Fish as she transits the Red Sea and into the Suez Canal. Map courtesy of PredictWind

From thousands of miles away, I watch Flying Fish today on a computer screen as she transits the great Suez Canal without me. It is painfully disappointing.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I clearly understand today’s reality: We are in the midst of a global crisis. Tens of thousands of people are sick and dying. More each day. Our world is changing by the moment. By the grace of God, I am healthy now and so are the people I love. My gratitude far outweighs my disappointment.

It seems like yesterday that borders around the world began closing because of COVID-19. Less than two weeks ago I made the decision in Phuket, Thailand to put my circumnavigation on hold and find a safe place for Flying Fish. I wanted to return to Key West to be closer to family. I secured a last-minute passage for Flying Fish aboard the freighter Annegret. There were only two destination choices available, Turkey or Norway. I choose  Fethiye, Turkey for Flying Fish and then I began shuttling from airport to airport until I reached home. By the next morning most of the planet was in lockdown. I immediately went into, and I remain in, strict quarantine. I have no regrets about leaving the boat behind but I carry some weight of survivor’s guilt. What karma in my life allowed me to find a safe place isolate and be with my family while so many others struggle?

As for Flying Fish, she sails today with no one at her helm on the back of the freighter through the Suez Canal. She transits this gash in the sand where engineering triumphed over nature and severed Africa from Asia. Flying Fish passes the Middle East to starboard. To the west are the great pyramids of Giza, the massive Nile River Delta, and the storied Mediterranean port of ancient Alexandria. In two days, some 400 miles north in Fethiye, the freighter will attach a crane to Flying Fish and lower her into the Mediterranean Sea. I won’t be there to take her lines and guide her into port. A shipping agent has been hired to do that. It will be the first time since Flying Fish has left the builder’s yard that I will leave her helm in the hands of someone else.

I realize that speaking of sailing during times like this can be offensive when so many other people are simply trying to breathe. But there is one thing that unites all of us and drives forward. It is a hope for normalcy.

Annegret.sm

M/V Annegret in Phuket loading cargo bound for the Mediterranean Sea. © Jeffrey Cardenas

 

I am not aboard Flying Fish but you can see where she is the Mediterranean Sea here: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page and you will be among the first to know when I rejoin my little ship. And please consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the (future) voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Sailing in the Time of COVID-19

IMG_9258

Flying Fish is hoisted out of the water in Phuket, Thailand for transport on the back of a freighter to the Eastern Mediterranean. Photo: © Jeffrey Cardenas

It has become clear to me, perhaps later than it should have, that this is not an appropriate time for me to be wandering around the world on a personal adventure. For those of us who are not sailing with our families it is a time to point the compass in the direction of home.

With that in mind, yesterday I had Flying Fish loaded on the back of a freighter in Phuket, Thailand  bound for the Mediterranean Sea. It will bring me nearly 5,000 miles closer to home. After that… who knows. The world is spinning so quickly now that it seems impossible to plan for the future.

Ports worldwide are closing as the pandemic–and the panic–sends cruising sailors in search of a safe harbor. Most islands and countries around the Indian Ocean have closed their borders. Some sailors have been denied entry into countries that had already issued them visas. A number of boats are backtracking as they scramble to find legal dry land. It is rapidly becoming a real-life Waterworld.

Remaining in Thailand was an option for Flying Fish, but it would have been short-term security. Thailand has the virus like nearly every other spot on earth. Once a U.S. citizen  is officially in Thailand their visa is limited to 30 days. I had only a couple of weeks before my visa expired and I would be required to leave the country. But to where? The number of countries accepting foreign visitors was rapidly diminishing as borders closed. Turkey was still open. I accepted transport by freighter (the shipping company would not allow me to ride along) and I booked a flight to Istanbul.

It is interesting how priorities shape in a crisis. While many have suggested that being on a boat in the middle of the ocean might be the safest place in the world to avoid getting sick, being healthy while your family may be at risk is not how families take care of each other.

I am not home yet. Flying Fish will be unloaded in Fethiye, Turkey at the end of March. Once she arrives I will look for a secure place to moor the boat while I determine if and when I can re-enter the United States. My family is healthy now, by the grace of God, but if any of us do become ill the distance between us is now 5,000 miles closer.

Lahaina Rainbow2

A Pacific Ocean rainbow and hope for a brighter future. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

I am not aboard Flying Fish but you can still follow her daily progress as she hitchhikes aboard a freighter from Southeast Asia across the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea. Click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Malacca Won’t Release Me

07B3D81A-FA2C-49C5-BC24-31130B30BD15

Flying Fish, sails furled, motors into the port of refuge at Sabang, Banda Aech, Sumatra. Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

I thought I had put my squabble with the Strait of Malacca behind me. Apparently not. I am diverting Flying Fish to Sumatra.

Geography: The southern end of the Strait of Malacca is the bottleneck at Singapore. Langkawi is at the northern end, and to sail to the Maldives it is necessary to cross the mouth of the Strait, which is about 300 miles wide east to west. During the NE Monsoon season—now—weather comes into the Strait from the Bay of Bengal. It can provide a glorious broad reach all the way to the Maldives resulting in what a Swiss friend described few weeks ago as “champagne sailing.”

Champagne sailing was also the forecast for my passage. Unfortunately, the bubbly was served flat. Contrary to the weather prediction, there was no wind. I motored over a calm sea for more than 36 hours. What concerned me more, however, were two new electronics failures aboard Flying Fish.

The AIS (Automatic Identification System) tells other boats where I am. It is essential, and also a legal requirement, in high-traffic locations like the Strait of Malacca. My AIS failed last night whileFlying Fish was in a traffic jam of supertankers. Course confusion reigned as the big iron tried to pinpoint exactly where I was and how to avoid crushing me. Within moments of losing the AIS, I was in the glare of an Indonesian patrol boat’s spotlight.

Next was a warning alarm aboard Flying Fish announcing that my GPS signal was lost. This system, of course, tells me where I am. The GPS continued to flicker on and off through the rainy night, not the kind of instrument I want to depend on for the next 15,000 miles.

Sabang, in the Banda Aceh province of Sumatra, provided a port of refuge. It will give me an opportunity get online and on the phone to resolve my issues.

Being here also helps me to understand how minor my issues are. I am humbled by a life-sized statue of a woman, arms raised in terror, as a flood of water presses against her legs. My boat problems are insignificant compared to the reality of the world around me. In this province 164,000 people—a third of the entire population—drowned when a 2004 tsunami swept ashore.

NOTE: On passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I activate a satellite tracking link that shows my daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail
Facebook: Jeffrey Cardenas

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Memories of s/v Icarus

Corsair2.sm

A French version of the SAIL Magazine article I wrote as a 17-year-old resurfaced this week. It was published nearly a half century ago about a voyage I made from Florida to New England in a small wooden boat named Icarus.  Courtesy: Thibaud Deves

I am not one who has ever been comfortable waiting around for things to happen.

Today I am in Langkawi, Malaysia waiting for parts to repair the navigational electronics aboard Flying Fish before I set sail across the Indian Ocean.

Forty-seven years ago, I was also waiting. I was counting off the days until high school ended so I could set sail along the eastern seaboard of the United States in an 18-foot plywood sailboat I owned named Icarus.

My brother Bob joined me aboard Flying Fish on the first leg of this circumnavigation. He was also aboard Icarus for the first leg of that voyage. In 1973, Bob was already in college following a sensible path in life studying marine biology, working on a Chinese vegetable farm, and cultivating a crop of high-potency marijuana. He took time off from his busy schedule and we had a delightful passage together. Some days we sailed offshore, on other days we cruised through the Intracoastal Waterway. At Little River, South Carolina Bob went back to Tallahassee for graduate school (and harvest season) while I took a job as a fish gutter on an assembly line with spirited Low-Country black women who sang while they worked and taught me a few words of Gullah. I was broke and happy, and had all of the pan-fried croaker I would ever want to eat.

It was a notable summer. Secretariat had just become the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years. Former White House counsel John Dean began his testimony before the Senate Watergate Committee. The U.S. bombing of Cambodia ended after 12 years of combat activity in Southeast Asia. But then, like now, I felt insulated from world events. Aboard Icarus, I was lost in the fog–both figuratively and literally.

By mid-summer I was alone on Icarus, transiting Delaware Bay from the Chesapeake to New Jersey. I had no navigational gear onboard and I encountered a fog bank. I am a South Florida boy, born and raised. I had never experienced fog. It was a novelty. I could see the air move when I blew it out of my mouth. But couldn’t see anything else. I could certainly hear things, though. The booming fog horns of ships passing me unseen at close quarters echoed out of the gray nothingness. My intention was to sail toward Cape May, New Jersey while estimating my location by dead-reckoning speed, direction, and time. My charts showed buoys with horns and bells, but nothing made sense to me. I remember the day becoming late. I should have made landfall by mid-afternoon. It was transitioning into night. I’ll turn due north, I thought, and that way I can’t miss the New Jersey shoreline of Delaware Bay. I sailed on through the night. There was no shoreline. Just before daybreak the fog lifted and I finally saw some lights. Land ho? Unfortunately, no.

The lights were from commercial fishing boats trawling the Continental Shelf well offshore of New Jersey. It was calm. I thought I was still in the bay. Instead, I was 35 miles out at sea. I pulled alongside a large trawler and shouted out to a mate on deck, “Where am I?” Soon there was a cluster of crewmen and they tossed me a line and lowered a ladder. Icarus tugged at the end the line like a toy poodle on a leash. “You look like you need food and a bunk,” one of the crew said to me. I was escorted to the captain’s mess for breakfast. The captain walked in, wiped sleep from his eyes, raised a fork to his mouth, then set it it down and looked at me. “Who the hell are you?” he roared. I’m from Icarus, I replied meekly. My boat is tied on rope behind your trawler.

The captain could have called the U.S. Coast Guard and ended the voyage of Icarus at that moment. Instead, after some intense interrogation, he said he would tow Icarus within sight of land and then release the tow line once he was sure I wasn’t going to get lost again. This memory is from so long ago now… but I think I remember seeing the captain’s face soften a little. Maybe it was my youthful naïveté, or maybe he saw something in my face that reminded him of himself. He let loose the tow when I was in sight of the amusement park of Atlantic City. Once again I was alone under sail.

How exciting it was to sail Icarus past the Statue of Liberty, along the shoreline of New York City, under the Brooklyn Bridge, through the Hell Gate passage, and into Long Island Sound. I was full of confidence (somehow forgetting about being lost at sea just days earlier). I was Master and Commander of my little ship–and then I ran Icarus onto a rock in the Stamford, Connecticut harbor and put a hole the size of a basketball through her hull.

I was was sinking. I careened Icarus onto a beach and remembered that a year or two earlier I had crewed on a sailboat race from Florida to Jamaica with Mr. Morgan Ames, Commodore of the Stamford Yacht Club. Help from his club was immediately on hand to haul Icarus out of the water. With his instruction (and checkbook) a crew, including his son, immediately began the necessary repairs. That evening Commodore Ames welcomed me into his magnificent Stamford home. “You’ll stay here,” he said, “and we’ll get you some clothing.” At dinner he introduced me to his family. Then a girl entered the room and he said, “And this is my daughter Bambi.” I nearly swallowed my tongue. I was 17 years old, had been alone on the ocean for weeks, and she was very pretty. I was paralyzed. My mouth finally moved. “B-B-Bambi?” I stammered, “Like the baby deer?”

We were the same age. Bambi showed me around Stamford, introducing me to her friends. My selective memory 47 years later remembers her flaxen hair blowing in the summer breeze. I was enchanted. I had dreams of joining the yacht club, of wearing freshly pressed shirts and a navy blue blazer, maybe even attending a debutante ball! In reality, I was just a wild Florida boy who had suddenly turned up on the Ames family doorstep, dirty, broke, and aboard a homemade boat with a hole in it. Mrs. Ames was having none of it. After a few days she took me aside and I remember her words to me as if they were spoken yesterday. With perfect New England elocution she said, “You should know, Jeffrey, that Bambi already has a beau.”

In quick order, Icarus was repaired and I was sailing again. I will always be grateful to the Ames family for their kindness and generosity, and for the life lessons they imparted upon my young wandering soul. Clearly, I had flown too close to the sun.

At the end of that magical summer I found myself in the storied harbor of Newport, Rhode Island. I put a cardboard sign on Icarus that read: “Send A Kid To College, Buy This Boat.” Somebody did, and all too quickly. Within weeks I was enrolled at the University of Florida. I tried to focus on a formal education but I realized that I was waiting again. Waiting for the next opportunity to set sail.

sailor boy small

As a boy sailor I was given a long lead to chase my dreams. Here I pose with with 18-foot Icarus during a teenage sailing adventure from Ft. Lauderdale, FL to Newport, RI

NOTE: On passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I activate a satellite tracking link that shows my daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed since leaving Key West in 2017, click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

Dodgeball in the Strait of Malacca

JC Strait Malacca

Whacked out from the lack of sleep and constant maneuvering in heavy shipping traffic–with 500 miles to go. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

It’s not just any dodgeball. The ships I am dodging in the Strait of Malacca are displacing up to 500 million pounds. A collision with one of those is gonna leave a mark. Underway on a rainy night in poor visibility, it is all I can think about. That, and the dozens of unlit fishing boats in front of me laying nets and longlines from the edge of the shipping channel to the shoreline.

I had always known that getting adequate sleep underway aboard Flying Fish was going to be the greatest challenge of sailing alone. A neurosurgeon who moonlights as my health counselor suggested that lack of rest might become more dangerous than any other risk I would encounter on this voyage around the earth. Until this week, lack of sleep had not been an issue. Then I entered the Strait of Malacca.

The Strait is a narrow, 550-mile stretch of water between the Malay Peninsula and the Indonesian island of Sumatra. As the main shipping channel between the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean, it is one of the most important–and busiest–shipping lanes in the world. It is only about 1.7 miles wide at its narrowest point near Singapore but nearly 100,000 vessels pass through it each year. This shipping traffic accounts for one-quarter of the world’s traded goods, including some 16 million barrels of oil each day.  In addition, in 2018, there were eight reported piracy and armed robbery incidents in the Strait of Malacca and near Singapore, according to ReCAAP Information Sharing Centre, an agency that tracks attacks against ships in Asia. In 2019, China raised the alert status to its highest level of security for their flagged vessels transiting this choke point. 

So what was Flying Fish doing among this volatile mix? Answer: Trying to get from Point A to Point B without coming into contact with rocks, drift nets, long lines, high-speed ferries, or tankers displacing a half-billion pounds of crude oil.

Flying Fish covers an average of 130 miles per 24-hour day. The 550-mile leg from Singapore to Langkawi is about four days of sailing. No big deal on a journey that has already taken me halfway around the globe, right? Wrong.

On the open ocean, I can sleep. I go over a formal checklist before I close my eyes: I review my charts for shallow water. I do a thorough 360-degree horizon scan. I look at my radar and check for AIS returns. I check current satelite weather charts, I set a course and confirm the autopilot is holding accurately. Then I arm multiple alarms–depth, wind, shipping, proximity, and time. I set two alarm clocks with different tones and I wear a watch on my wrist that shrieks and vibrates like a creature in extremis. Then I can sleep for an hour or two and sometimes longer in the open ocean with good weather. This is how singlehanded sailors rest offshore.

Inshore there is always high anxiety when I close my eyes. I still use the formal checklist but the alarms are set for 15 or 20 minutes. In the Strait of Malacca I would sometimes find traffic converging in less time than that. In the 15,000 miles until now I had never encountered such busy water. Anchoring outside of the Strait was not always an option so I decided to stay awake at night and take quick catnaps during the day. That didn’t work, either. I became deliriously exhausted.

From the log of Flying Fish 14 January 2020:

“All is well at 03:00. There is traffic in the Strait, commercial vessels and fishing boats, but the spacing is good. An overcast sky hides the moonlight. There is light rain and a fresh breeze. Flying Fish is sailing well to windward. I am tired. There is no place within 20 miles to anchor. It is only three hours before first light, daybreak always energizes is me.

In the next moment it is 03:08! I stare at my watch in disbelief. What just happened? Proximity alarms are blaring. Control lights at the helm are flashing. I immediately look to the bow and see a bright green starboard running light directly in front of the mast. What is happening?

As I jump up from the cockpit seat my head, and then my mouth, collides with force against the hard fiberglass surface of the spray dodger. I hear my front tooth crack and taste shattered enamel.

I disengage the autopilot and swing the boat hard to port. The rain on the windscreen of the dodger distorts everything. I brace for impact.

Within seconds I realize that I am looking at MY starboard running light. There is NO collision imminent. The shipping traffic priority alarm is just notifying me that a fishing boat has entered my radar’s Guard Zone perimeter a mile ahead. Everything is working just as it should—except for the captain.

I lost 8 minutes somewhere. I fell asleep sitting up. I was disoriented and nonfunctional when the alarms went off. It is unquestionably the worst mistake a helmsman can make. I fell asleep at the wheel. In a busy sea lane. With poor visibility … The blessing is that I did not hurt anyone.”

When I am finally at anchor in the lee of a small Malaysian island I put myself through a mental review to understand how to prevent this scenario from ever happening again. I realize that publishing this log opens me up to a rush to judgement regarding this mistake. A ship’s log is something different to each captain but I believe it should be a personal testament. Writing it helps me to organize my thoughts. In this situation, it is also a catharsis.

I understand I must better manage fatigue at the helm when I am sailing alone. I have also decided I am not going to fix my tooth. Every time I look in the mirror and see the chip out of my front tooth it will be a visual reminder to me of how a simple mistake can have serious consequences in a place like the Strait of Malacca.

AIS

The AIS (automatic Identification System) returns shows shipping traffic in only a few miles of the Strait of Malacca near Singapore. Flying Fish is in the crosshairs at the lower left.

NOTE: On passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I activate a satellite tracking link that shows my daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed in the past year click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

 

 

 

Singapore to Suez (maybe)

Singapore Skyline.sm

The architectural brilliance of Singapore rises from the South China Sea. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

Just as I was finalizing the complicated routing of Flying Fish from Singapore to the Suez Canal, a war of words punctuated by rockets and drones once again inflame the Middle East. The shipping lane where the Gulf of Aden meets the Red Sea passes a mere .88 nautical miles from the shoreline of Yemen. Suddenly, I really miss Polynesia.

I have returned to Flying Fish after a six-week sabbatical in Key West where I was wrapped in the love of family, friends, church, and community. I even managed a rendezvous with my wife in Paris on the flight home. I also found time to visit the family I love in Havana. I share this personal information because it adds relevance and a point of reference to my decision to continue sailing–often alone–around the world. This short sabbatical at home reminds me that I need to make my decisions very carefully now. 

Flying Fish has logged some 15,000 miles–halfway around the world–since leaving Key West two years ago. There have been visits to paradise along the way (Huahine!) and a few moments of drama (nearly losing a toe to an errant hatch board) but no leg of the journey so far has presented the challenges that lie ahead.

I set sail tomorrow into the Straits of Malacca, a narrow, 550-mile stretch of water between Singapore, the Malay Peninsula, and the Indonesian island of Sumatra. This is the main shipping channel between the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean. Nearly 100,000 vessels pass through the Strait each year, carrying one-quarter of the world’s traded goods. Flying Fish will be one small blip on a very busy radar screen.

Ahead lies Malaysia with its historic megalopolis of Kuala Lumpur and the scenic wonderland of Langkawi. At the northern end of the Straits, Thailand beckons with the crystalline water and sugar sand beaches of Phuket. Then it is time to turn Flying Fish westerly and follow the path of Venus into the Indian Ocean.

The journey going forward will take me past Sri Lanka, India, and to the Maldive Islands some 1,500 miles away in the center of the Indian Ocean. The Maldives are made up of a thousand individual islands and some, like those on the Baa Atoll, have bioluminescent beaches that glow at night.

I plan to linger in that glow of bioluminescence because it will be at this point that I will have to choose to sail Flying Fish to either the north or the south of the continent of Africa. Either way I go, this will be a sailing passage that will require my undivided attention.

Cape Agulhas at latitude 34.8311° S is the geographic southern tip of Africa and the dividing line between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. It is one of the roughest bodies of water on earth. North through the Suez Canal is the more logical route except for its history of piracy and the fact that the United States and Iran are threatening mutual mass destruction. Conflict in the Middle East goes back 1,400 years to the death of Mohammad in 632 A.D. The Red Sea Passage transits the heart of one of the most contentious places on earth. 

I never anticipated that this sailing voyage around the world was going to be all coconut palms and hula dancers. I have always accepted the risk because the rewards are so great. I can imagine no fate worse than ending my life on earth fat and bored and sitting in a chair in front of a TV with a gin and tonic in my hand…

I know a surgeon who volunteers vast amounts of his time, talent, and treasure working with Doctors Without Borders repairing gunshot wounds in war zones around the world. He sent me a note this week, signing off with the well-known quote from Friedrich Nietzsche:

“The secret of realizing the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! Send your ships out into uncharted seas!”

And so I go.statue.sm

NOTE: On passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I activate a satellite tracking link that shows my daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed in the past year click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2020

 

 

Indonesia Farewell

326DE474-6B09-4A9A-A797-9DD3CA24E463

Dayak children in the river village of Sungai Sekonyer want to save the world. The village is comparatively prosperous with half of the adults working as river guides and rangers in the national park, and the other half working for the palm oil industry.  Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

Indonesia, its people and their environment, are on the threshold of a major sea change. The capital of Jakarta, already overcrowded and toxically polluted, is now sinking into the ocean.

The proposed solution: Move the capital to the jungle of Borneo and start from scratch–the equivalent of moving Washington D.C. to the Florida Everglades (no wisecracks please about Washington already being a swamp.) This move to Borneo would install Indonesia’s government seat of power in a place where nature already rules.

Jakarta’s proposed move to Borneo is a metaphor, of sorts, for issues bedeviling many developing countries I have visited on my circumnavigation in Flying Fish. It is a familiar story of unchecked commercialism fueled by the overwhelming pressure of tourism complicated by too many mouths to feed resulting in the degradation of the natural resource and the quality of life of its inhabitants.

Jakarta is currently sinking at a rate 6.7 inches per year, and in 30 years it is estimated that 95 percent of North Jakarta will be submerged, according to a report in Singapore’s Business Insider. The rapid urbanization of 30 million people in Jakarta’s greater metropolitan area as well as the uncontrolled extraction of ground water for mega malls and luxury hotels is draining the Java aquifer. The result is that the ground under Jakarta caving in.

Critics say that dropping the government seat of Indonesia and 1.5 million new residents into a natural habitat like East Kalimantan, Borneo is a recipe for environmental disaster. The location of the proposed new city is surrounded by Kutai National Park, known as a sanctuary for some of the last wild orangutans in existence. Deforestation has already been a problem in Borneo for decades. Its rainforests have been slashed and burned to make way for gold mining and palm oil plantations. Between 1973 and 2015, Borneo lost some 16,000 square miles of its old-growth forests due to land clearing and burning. That deforestation has released a steady torrent of carbon emissions, along with other forms of pollution such as carbon monoxide, cyanide, and ammonia. In 2010, land clearing for palm oil plantations in Kalimantan alone released more than 140 million metric tons of carbon dioxide – about the same as the annual emissions of 28 million cars, according to the research journal Nature.

7402B94D-4CC5-4F87-A999-C63758BFF247

A wild orangutan mother nurses her baby with equal attention focused on potential threats from human visitors. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

Everywhere Flying Fish has visited in Indonesia there have been similar conflicts of man and nature competing to survive.

In Bali, the long-tailed macaque monkeys are so integrated into human society that in places like the Uluwatu Temple they harass visitors for food (and sunglasses, jewelry, wallets) and then masturbate in front of tourists if they don’t get what they want.

From Lombok, Flying Fish sailed to the Gili Islands where the water demand for tourist resorts is so acute that small vessels work at all hours transporting tanks of fresh water from the mainland to the resorts.

At the remote island of Bawean in the Java Sea there is a stunning variety of coral species. Sadly, some of the most exquisite coral has been trampled underfoot by subsistence fishermen who walk over it at low tide.

Nature is not at fault here. We are. We are loving the world to death.

Other examples in Southeast Asia of extreme human pressure on the environment: Maya Bay in Thailand had the misfortune to be chosen for the set of Leonardo DiCaprio’s The Beach. Before the movie, Maya Bay received about 100 visitors a day. After the movie that number climbed to 5,000 people per day. Over a million tourists swarmed the beach in 2017 and an estimated 80% of the coral in the region was destroyed due to the impact of overtourism.  In June of 2018, Thailand’s Department of National Parks, Wildlife, and Plant Conservation announced that the natural habitat might be irreparably damaged. Four months later, the Thai government shut down the beach indefinitely.

In 2012, the magazine Travel+Leisure declared Boracay in the Philippines as “The Best Island in the World.” Boracay is less than four square miles but by last year 6.6 million people annually were inundating the island. Sewage was running from hotels directly into the ocean. Inspectors found over 800 environmental violations. Figures showed that the rubbish generated per person on Boracay was more than three times higher than in the capital of Manila. The Philippine government shut down the entire island to reconstruct the infrastructure and give the natural habit time to rest.

In July, the Indonesian government announced that it would close one of its most iconic destinations, Komodo Island, amid concerns that increasing numbers of tourists were affecting the animals’ mating habits. Food handouts were making them docile. In addition, there were also people stealing dragons and selling them on the black market. Last year, nine men were arrested on suspicion of selling more than 40 Komodo dragons for about $35,000 each. Then, in an abrupt about-face, the Indonesian environment ministry cancelled plans to close Komodo Island to tourists and instead proposed targeting visitors with a $500 USD entry fee. Viktor Bungtilu Laiskodat, governor of East Nusa Tenggara, told the UK Guardian, “Only people with deep pockets will be allowed to [see Komodo dragons]. Those who don’t have the money shouldn’t visit the park since it specifically caters to extraordinary people.”

Nearly 200,000 tourists visit Komodo each year, many with a bucket list ambition to pose in a selfie with “one of the world’s most deadly reptiles.” Aboard Flying Fish I had intended to do the same thing until I realized how humiliating it would be to both the lizards and me.  Flying Fish sailed past Komodo Island and I wished the dragons good luck.

Humanity.sm

Graffiti marks a hewn tree stump on the beach at Gili Air. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

I did not begin this voyage with preconceived ideas of how, or exactly where, I would travel. The joy of travel, for me, is in its fluidity. As I prepare to leave Indonesia I do so with a heavy heart. I have fallen in love with this country, and with its people.

I think about Commandant Lahan Bacho of the Indonesian Coast Guard who welcomed me onto his ship and into his home in the Kai Islands. Despite knowing I was Catholic, he invited me join him at his mosque where we prayed together.

Indonesian Commandant Lahan Bacho, at the helm of Flying Fish. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

Jamil Udin is a Renaissance man in the tiny Lombok village of Ekas. He is an entrepreneur in his 20s who runs a single-counter general store, a homestay for surfers, he’s a mobile phone provider, a tour guide, and a fixer. He’s also the village nurse, and he delivers babies.

On Gili Gede I met Alain Nedelec, a French expat and his Indonesian wife Ita, owners of the eclectic Tanjungan Buket restaurant with a kitchen serving exquisite French/Indonesian cuisine.

A happy mob of Indonesian kids entered my life (and my heart) one Saturday on the beach at Selong Belanak as they joined 20 million volunteers worldwide picking up garbage on World Cleanup Day.

One night in Bali I fell under the spell of the gorgeous Yeye Luh Swastini, a living Hindu deity, who presented me with a bronze statue of the Indonesian Goddess of the Sea, Nyai Roro Kidul. The goddess is often described as a mermaid, a mythical creature said to be able to take the soul of anyone who she wishes, and she usually prefers handsome young men. That rules me out.

Forever memorable was 20-year-old Diaz Nugraha, aka the Reptile Boy of Borneo. For three days he showed Lilly and me the wildlife of Tanjung Puting National Park, including a baby spitting cobra, brightly speckled water monitor lizards, tarantulas, scorpions, hornbills, a spectacular False gharial crocodile. He also introduced us to the magnificent orangutans of Borneo.

Croc.sm

A False gharial crocodile warming in the sun near the headwaters of the Sekonyer River in Kalimantan, Borneo. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

In my farewell to Indonesia I cannot help but wonder what the future holds for these people, and the places that they call home.

###

I want to extend love and gratitude to my daughter Lilly who joined me for six weeks aboard Flying Fish as we sailed through Indonesia.

LC Diaz River.sm

Lilly and Reptile Boy Diaz Nugraha riding the riverboat deep into the jungle of Borneo. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

I will be taking a short sabbatical from Flying Fish to visit my home in Key West for the holidays. I will return to the boat in Singapore in mid-January to continue my passage west toward Africa and eventually back to Florida. I hope you will continue to follow to voyage of Flying Fish.

NOTE: On passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I activate a satellite tracking link that shows the daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed in the past year click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2019

 

 

 

 

Into The Northern Hemisphere

DCIM136GOPROG0065428.JPG

Flying Fish, becalmed, at Longitude 105 03’.603 E and Latitude 00 00’.000 N. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

It is now autumn in the South China Sea. An hour ago it was spring. There was no winter. It is always summer on the equator. We have sailed from the Southern Hemisphere into the Northern Hemisphere. The ship’s log shows 14,971 nautical miles.

It is fitting that my daughter Lilly has joined me on this passage. Exactly 620 days ago, Lilly and I sailed together from the Northern Hemisphere into the Southern Hemisphere, at a point southeast of the Galapagos, on a westbound passage to Tahiti and beyond.

The equator is 24,901 miles long. On land it crosses the Batu Islands of Sumatra, the Maldives in the Indian Ocean, Somalia, Kenya, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. The equator passes through the mouth of the Amazon River, the pre-Colombian ruin of Catequilla, the island of Isabela in the Galapagos. It continues westward through Oceania near the atolls of Aranuka, Nonouti, and Kirbuti. The equator meets Indonesia at the Gebe Islands and continues through the Halmahera Sea, the Molucca Sea, and the Java Sea. It crosses Borneo at Pontianak. Finally, at Longitude 105 03’.603 E and Latitude 00 00’.000 N, it is where we meet the equator today.

Sailors have always noted crossing the equator. In the 19th century (and later) line-crossing ceremonies were sometimes brutal events. Pollywogs, as first-timers were called, were beaten with boards and wet ropes, and often thrown over the side of the boat and dragged from the stern. Charles Darwin notes in his diary that on his first crossing of the equator he was “placed on a plank” and tilted into the water after having his face and mouth “lathered with pitch and paint.”

Lilly and I have celebrated our two crossings more moderately. A small ration of rum followed a voluntary swim as we crossed over the invisible line. Our event is recorded with a portrait of a young sailor at peace in the sea.

Surface of Water

The equator, from above the surface of the water in the South China Sea. Photograph © Jeffrey Cardenas

I hope you continue to follow to voyage of Flying Fish

For upcoming passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I have activated a satellite tracking link that shows the daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed in the past year click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2019

Indonesia: Part One

Tuti and Friend.sm

The daily burden of subsistence fishing to feed their families doesn’t diminish the welcome Indonesians offer to a stranger.  Photograph: © Jeffrey Cardenas

As Flying Fish continues its aquatic walkabout around the globe, I sense an acceleration of the calendar and de-acceleration of time spend under sail. It’s time to start moving again.

This week begins a new chapter in the passage of Flying Fish. My daughter Lilly joins me in Bali and we will spend a month together sharing the view of each new horizon. This is every father’s dream.

This shifting of gears also gives me an opportunity for reflection on the past 60 days in this unique and surprising country.

I had originally intended to bypass Indonesia completely. “You will hate it,” a sailor told me on the dock in New Zealand. “I just got back,” she said, “and every beach was knee-deep in garbage. You will suck up plastic into your boat engine intake as soon as you start it.” She continued: “Nothing you have is safe from theft. Indonesians will steal you blind.”

I wonder what Indonesia she visited.

Her exaggeration was unfair. Of course Indonesia is not as clean as New Zealand. Nowhere is. Indonesia is a developing country, and perhaps that is what makes this place stand apart. The Indonesia I have encountered is a country that shows its visitors no acrimony–regardless of differences in race, religion, nationality, economic disparity, or even awkward bad manners. I have never felt threatened. Nothing has gone missing aboard Flying Fish, not in the most remote anchorages or the busiest of ports.

No person is a societal expert of a foreign country after only a two-month visit. I have prayed in mosques and churches and temples where I was warmly welcomed regardless of which deity was in my thoughts. Indonesian Muslims and Christians and Hindus are not fighting each other over words and possessions. They co-exist in kindness.

That’s not to say this archipelago of 18,307 islands is Eden. There is more plastic in the ocean and on the beaches than in many other countries I have visited aboard Flying Fish. The coral reef is extraordinary but in some place locals still utilize blast fishing methods, stunning fish and destroying coral with homemade bombs in Coke bottles filled with layers of ammonium nitrate and kerosene. On some islands there are areas of poverty that are heartbreaking.

Nonetheless, whatever Indonesians have they are willing to share, even with those of us who come from the land of plenty.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

It will be nice to become reacquainted with Lilly. I haven’t seen her in more than a year–she’s a pilot now!–and an expert sailor. Lilly will help me guide Flying Fish through the wilds of Borneo. We will take river trips in search of wild orangutans. We will look for the primitive divers of Sulawesi who spearfish using only their lungs and a pair of wooden goggles. Our destination will be Singapore from where Lilly will return to her work in Lahaina and I will leave the boat for a month to visit family in Key West.

Going forward after the new year… who knows? Maybe Phuket and Sri Lanka. Africa for certain, either via the rough-water routing around the Cape of Good Hope, or the risky passage through the Red Sea to the Suez Canal and Eastern Mediterranean. There is only one shot at life and the acceleration of the calendar reminds me to live each day.

Lilly JC Duke

“Out Of The Water I Am Nothing” — Duke Kahanamoku. Lilly and Jeffrey after a morning surf session together at Dreamland, Bali. Photograph: Ria Wahyuni / Drifter Surfshop

I hope you continue to follow to voyage of Flying Fish

For upcoming passages when I have no cell or WiFi signal, I have activated a satellite tracking link that shows the daily position, current weather, and includes a few personal thoughts from the daily log of Flying Fish. I will not be able to respond to messages via satellite but I love the idea that you are sailing along with me. If you would like to follow the daily progress of Flying Fish into Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean via satellite you can click this link: https://forecast.predictwind.com/tracking/display/Flyingfish

Please subscribe at the bottom of this page so that you don’t miss a new update, and consider sharing this post with others who might enjoy following the voyage of Flying Fish.

To see where Flying Fish has sailed in the past year click here: https://cruisersat.net/track/Flying%20Fish

Instagram: FlyingFishSail

Text and Photography © Jeffrey Cardenas 2019