The Cleanest Line

Mālama Honua: Hōkūle‘a’s Voyage of Hope – Part 2, The Sāmoan Way

By Jennifer Allen

This year marks the 100th anniversary of the U.S. National Parks—and on the worldwide Mālama Honua voyage, the crew of the Hōkūleʻa has visited several, including those in American Sāmoa, St John in the Caribbean, the Everglades in Florida, and coming up in early June, Governors Island in New York City. Along the way, the crew has learned how every community has its own way of practicing Mālama Honua, to care for our earth. The Sāmoan way was clearly communicated by Pua Tuaua, National Park Ranger when the canoe was docked in Pago Pago, American Sāmoa, in September 2015.

“Our land is probably the most valuable asset of our people,” Pua explained.

Above: A thriving rainforest covers Rainmaker Mountain on the island of Tutuila in American Sāmoa. Photo: John Bilderback

Mālama Honua: Hōkūleʻa’s Voyage of Hope

By Jennifer Allen

“He waʻa he moku, he moku he waʻa,” is a Hawaiian proverb, meaning, “The canoe is an island, the island is a canoe.”  

Centuries ago, Polynesian voyaging canoes were tools for survival, enabling islanders to find food and settle new lands. Life on the canoe was a microcosm of life on land. Everyone needed to care for one another and for the canoe in order to survive. The clearest modern-day expression of this truth is the Hawaiian double-hulled sailing canoe, Hōkūleʻa.

Hōkūleʻa is sailed without modern instruments, using only the sun, moon, swells, birds, winds, and stars as natural guides. Her practice is one of pure sustainability, her mission, fully inspired. Since launching from Hilo in May 2014, Hōkūleʻa has crossed three oceans, four seas and eleven time zones—stopping in over fifty ports to connect with communities who care for the health of the oceans and our shared island, Earth. This worldwide voyage is known as Mālama Honua—to care for earth.

Above: Sailing for over forty years now, Hōkūleʻa has ignited a sailing canoe renaissance in island communities throughout Polynesia. Photo: John Bilderback    

All Better Now? The Refugio Oil Spill, Three Months On

By Christian Beamish

With ancestor chants evoking the original stewards of these shores, Chris Malloy, the Farm League crew and I put together a video short to comment on the Refugio Oil Spill. I did a voice-over at Todd Hannigan’s amazing recording studio based on some lines I wrote, but after a nip from the flask to loosen my chords, I went a little Kerouac and riffed poetic (or so it seemed at the time). And I wonder now about something I said.

Above: Refugio – A Hell of an Oily Mess. Video: Chris Malloy  Still photo: Erin Feinblatt

In Search of the Place of Dreams

Words & photos by Somira Sao

One of the primary reasons my husband James and I have gone sailing with our three kids (now ages 7, 5 and 2) has been to give them the gift of experiencing life in the wilderness. For those who decide to disconnect from the masses—whether it be at sea, in the mountains, river, surf or wherever your preferred environment is—choosing to connect with nature comes with its personal rewards.

For the past four years we have sailed over 25,000 ocean miles as a family and lived full-time aboard our 40-foot sailboat Anasazi Girl. Our trade-wind routes have taken us across the North Atlantic, Equator and South Atlantic. We have rounded the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Leeuwin and Cape Reinga via the South Indian Ocean, Great Australian Bight, Tasman Sea and South Pacific.

Above: Tormentina (3) and her brother Raivo (9 months) on their first offshore passage from Maine to France. North Atlantic (July 2011). All photos: Somira Sao

Ten Tuamotus Days – Empowering the sisterhood

By Liz Clark

Last year I got to meet fellow Patagonia ambassadors Kimi Werner and Léa Brassy for the first time. Patagonia kindly arranged for all of us to meet upon the waters of some remote atolls in French Polynesia that have come to be my beloved backyard and playground. From all that I knew about them, I expected we’d have an enjoyable time but I never imagined that we would connect in such a way that, by the end of our time together, it felt like I had gained two sisters.

All three of us enjoy very similar things—wilderness, wildlife, waves, conscious eating, etc.—but I feel like it was our open minds and hearts that made this time together so genuine and so special. Whether we were diving, sharing waves, giggling under the stars at night, wandering on the motu looking for coconuts or just watching the seabirds circle and dive, it was like they saw exactly what I saw: divinity, freedom, peace, respect. Being with Kimi and Léa in nature felt like being completely understood.

Above:  the four-video series documenting Liz, Léa and Kimi’s time together in French Polynesia. Videos: Patagonia

Amelia the Tropicat: A Swell Companion [Updated]

By Liz Clark, captain of Swell

I’ve had a few pets on Swell over the last nine years—most of them made their way aboard on their own. I don’t mind the geckos that often show up in a banana stock. They hide, so I rarely get to see them, but they are harmless and make cute coughing noises in the evening. I’ve hosted a wide variety of ants—from teeny fuzzy black ones to enormous shiny red ones. A roving wasp colony lives in my spinnaker pole from time to time, but we tend to give each other our space. Once a cricket turned up out of nowhere. I never saw him, but I adored his evening serenades until the day they were no more. While I was away on a trip to California, a newlywed rat couple from the boatyard where Swell was hauled moved aboard and raised four handsome rat babies who explored, chewed and pooped inside Swell from bow to stern. Their story had a rather gruesome ending … same song for the prolific cockroach family that sailed with me to Kiribati.

Above: Liz Clark and her cat, Amelia, head back to Swell (outfitted with a kitty ladder in case water-loathing Amelia falls in the drink). Photo: Jody MacDonald

Greenland Vertical Sailing 2014 – Part 3, Back to civilization and summary of climbs

By Nico Favresse, photos by The Wild Bunch

How could we describe the feeling of taking our first shower in over two months? Mmmm...

We have just hit civilization in Greenland. These last three weeks have been very exciting in many ways! Adventurous climbing, a close polar bear encounter (without anything to defend ourselves) and a very scary crossing back to Greenland which included a strong storm with snow and huge waves! On this kind of trip the adventure never seems to end until you are back under that hot shower. It does make the shower so much better!

Editor’s note: Catch up with Captain Shepton and The Wild Bunch in Part 1 and Part 2 of this series.

So three weeks ago, we sailed away from Sam Ford Fjord to explore Gibbs Fjord. Finally, the intense weather conditions in Sam Ford Fjord eased off allowing us to see some blue in the sky. It was very enjoyable sun bathing on the deck while sailing around enjoying the magical scenery of mountains, big walls, glaciers and icebergs floating around the Fjords. However, it being early September, the temperature was decreasing day by day, proportionally to the area of our bodies on which we applied sunscreen.

Above: Nico enjoys a snow-free offwidth on Walking the Plank, Plank Wall, Gibbs Fjord.

The Voyage(s) of the Cormorant, Part 3

By Christian Beamish

“Check out that fin,” my buddy, Dillon Joyce, said.

And there it was, 50 feet off the stern, an unmistakable dorsal, weaving in a slow “S” through the water. Wasn’t the sharp triangle-shape of a whitey, and as we were five- or six-miles out from Santa Cruz Island on our long sail back to the mainland, my best guess is that we were seeing a rather large blue shark. Nothing fearful about a blue shark, even if we sat a mere foot off the water aboard Cormorant. And compared to the wild ride of the day before, we were content to enjoy the light winds and the sight of thriving sea life in the Santa Barbara Channel.

Editor’s note: If you’re just joining us, catch up with Part 1 and Part 2.

I’d ordered a new pintle, cast in bronze by Classic Marine in the UK, fixed the rudder and returned to Santa Rosa to retrieve Cormorant. It happened that Dillon, a young surfer from San Clemente with whom I’ve sailed the islands once before, was planning a hiking trip out there and we agreed to travel together. Solitude has its place, but the safety and company of a good friend is priceless. The ranger had offered to give us a ride out to the backside of the island, as hiking with all the gear for the return sail would be impractical, and he met us at the dock.

Above: A very simple arrangement: The haliyard runs through a hole in the top of the mast and ties off on a cleat—no stays, no fuss. Photo: Dillon Joyce

The Voyage(s) of the Cormorant, Part 2

By Christian Beamish

 

When the pintle snapped I felt a moment’s disbelief and then something like panic spark down in my belly. But I tamped that feeling with a long drink of water and a pep talk, noting to myself that I was not injured, that I had plenty of food and water, and that the conditions were calm. Johnson’s Lee, a good anchorage on the southwest corner of the island, was about five miles down and I draped a sarong over the top of my ball cap and tucked it in to my long-sleeve shirt for sun protection, then leaned into steady pulls on the oars with the thought that I might meet someone at the anchorage who could help me.

Editor’s note: In case you missed it, catch up with Part 1. Photos: Christian Beamish

Coming in close along shore I had a good view of desolate beaches and the scrub canyons that led upwards, the water below was aquarium clear and revealing sand one moment, rock reef and kelp the next. At a corner of rock shelves and low dunes, two big elephant seals pushed against each other chest-to-chest without much enthusiasm for the fight, their percussive groans having no effect on the females in deep slumber further up the sand. I kept on, steadily rowing, not wanting to squander the momentum I had gathered. But I stopped occasionally for water and to shake the numbness from my hands. When a light breeze started up a couple of hours later I raised sail and steered with an oar, Polynesian style.

The Voyage(s) of the Cormorant, Part 1

By Christian Beamish

If I’ve learned anything in these recent years of open boat adventuring aboard my 18-footer, Cormorant, it’s that everything is fine until it isn’t. But also, as Yvon says, “The real adventure starts when something goes wrong…”

Late July, 2014—Shoving off from Gaviota for the 27-mile crossing to San Miguel Island came with a new kind of anxiety, as I no longer travel solo in life but am now married with a soon-to-be three-year-old daughter. When the State Parks Lifeguard pointed to Natasha and our little girl, Josephine, and asked me if I was planning to bring them along, I vehemently replied, “Nooo!” aghast at the thought.

But another thought came on its heels, and that was that if it this sailing journey was too dangerous to consider bringing my young family along, why was it OK to go alone? I’ve rationalized this by telling myself that I pick my days carefully (the forecast was for light-to-moderate winds), wear a lifejacket and lifeline, and carry a Spot satellite device if I really blow it and need to be rescued. So with the mental shrug of the shoulders that it takes to do these types of trips, I pulled Cormorant off the trailer, got her down the beach, and kissed my ladies goodbye.

Above: High-seas selfie, 15-miles into a 27-mile crossing. All photos by Christian Beamish