The Galapagos Islands lie 12 days behind us, or over 1500 nautical miles. Ahead of us, roughly the same distance, are the Marquesas, an island group in French Polynesia and the setting for Herman Melville’s first book, part novel/part autobiography, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life.  Rowan, Brooks and I have been reading it during our voyage and sharing Melville’s rich descriptions of the landscape we’re longing to see.  It is strange to think that Melville lived in Pittsfield MA, not far from our farm in Heath, not long after visiting these islands. 

I’m on an early morning watch – 4 to 6 – aboard RV Llyr. The pre-dawn sky is filled with stars, including the Southern Cross, and Llyr’s bow wave sparkles with bioluminescence. We’re sailing the trade winds of the southern hemisphere in Force 5 winds on the Beaufort scale, or 18-24 mph. Our vessel seems to be flying as 12ft following seas lift Llyr up to surf the waves. We make 6-7 knots or about 150 nautical miles per day, crossing the vast 4000 mile expanse between Central America and French Polynesia.

We’re underway for our second year of this Ridge-to-Reef expedition.  RV Llyr wintered over in Panama while we returned to Heath to run our maple farm and markets. The northern Spring’s melting snow found us back aboard Llyr, preparing her for the significant passages of 2013 – 7000 nautical miles from Panama to Fiji via the Panama Canal, Galapagos, French Polynesia, Cook Islands, and Tonga – and the variety of projects we have planned for our landfalls across the South Pacific.

We started this Ridge-to-Reef expedition as a response to calls from scientists and other observers who are documenting and witnessing dramatic changes underway in Earth’s oceans. Loss of species, overfishing, warming temperatures and changing weather patterns, acidification, rising sea levels, pollution, dead zones: the list is grim. Half of the air we breath comes from photosynthesizing plankton; the oceans drive atmospheric conditions and shape our continental weather; billions of people, directly and indirectly, depend upon the sea to feed them. Despite all these benefits and the fact that Earth is, in fact, more water planet than terrestrial, human commitment to ocean conservation lags far behind land concerns. So, out here, in the middle of this Southern Ocean, with little evidence of culture or human-kind, I’m taking the opportunity to explore at least one person’s efforts to engage the sea.

Truthfully, it is a challenge. Mariner accounts often describe this run from Galapagos to Marquesas as one of the most idyllic sails on the planet with tradewinds on a ship’s quarter and reliable weather. Set a rhumb line, find a star, and follow them southwest to the towering volcanic mountains of Nuku Hiva. In fact, we’ve had difficulty aligning Llyr with the winds and sea state. Most days, we’ve found ourselves rocking dramatically from side to side on lumpy, confused seas with swell that has built up to 15 feet in 15 to 20 knot winds that are not quite at the right angle. As a result, I often feel closely identified with Mark Twain who said that being on a boat is like being in prison, with a chance of drowning!

As I grapple with this discomfort and the queasiness that often accompanies it, I’m thinking of lessons to be learned and analogies to be drawn. Aboard Llyr, we must often change course to accommodate wind and wave. Is it possible for human kind to respond to the oceans and change our course before it is too late? I spend a lot of time longing for a still horizon, earth beneath my feet, colors beyond this pallet of blues, whites and greys. Everything is salt-encrusted: the deck, our bedding, the dishes, my skin. Is it possible for me to be an ocean advocate when I also feel kind of miserable? Out here, the ocean really does feel vast and so much more powerful than we humans; surely it must be safe from our influence? And yet, we know it is otherwise.

Someone once wrote: “The sky starts at your feet. Think how brave you are to walk around.” Today, the ocean also starts beneath my feet, miles deep with all manner of life and landforms I cannot see. Each morning, small squid and flying fish litter the deck, having leaped to their deaths on the only firm surface for thousands of miles around. Pods of dolphins regularly visit and ride Llyr’s bow wave. The other day, an Orca, or killer whale,came alongside Llyr to investigate. We watched in awe as the Orca moved around us in crystal clear waters and went beneath the boat several times, turning on its side to gaze upwards to see if we were of further interest. Red footed Boobies have landed on deck, riding out the night tightly gripping Llyr’s plunging bowrail while they sleep, while one weary bird, a Christmas Shearwater, landed unceremoniously on Connor’s foot in the midst of a squall, threw up fish, and spent the night sitting next to us, having made its choices between risks. Like that bird, I hold tight to those moments when I have trust in this rugged steel vessel to bear me along safely. Then I can know that Llyr is not really a prison but a means to carve a path across these waters so that I might learn more about this amazing planet and share this knowledge with others.