Smells in the Middle of the Ocean

Someday I’ll ask Tom to write a piece on the same theme, though he’ll likely have a catchier title because he was the one actually out there. All I can do is evoke an image from the words he has fed me through satellite texts.

He and his friends are almost halfway between Mexico and French Polynesia. They have recently crossed the latitude 5N, which is where the dreaded Intertropical Convergance Zone currently starts. And by currently, I mean that beast is alive! It grows and shrinks, sways back and forth, and mottles itself with great purple swaths of calm and orange swirls of squalls. It is the band of weather at the equator where the north trade winds meet the south trade winds, and where opposing currents make you sail s-curves.

It is hot. They are hot. Tom is sweating rags full of his own salt water every day. He can’t walk barefoot in the boat for fear of slipping on his own sweat. The wind does what it can to ease the heat, but on a downwind sail, the boat steals most of the wind’s power for itself. The cat hates it. She has voiced her protest by peeing on Tom’s bed twice, so both duvets, all sheets, and the mattress are out of commission. Tom is sleeping on the square of foam we call our dog bed. And so it smells. A centuries-old smell of ships full of unwashed bodies and frightened animals. Bodily fluids seeping into the floor boards and into the bilge, following the same leeward currents of centuries of sweat and pee.

It doesn’t smell when Brian is cooking. Brian has taken over the galley, mastered the messy spice drawer, and cooks up whatever needs cooking. Until there is a fish on the line, and then the meal is of spicy poke, sweet sushi, or tart ceviche. A bluefin tuna was their prize yesterday, and the crew gratefully ate fresh fish over canned or dried meat. But the cabbage is probably starting to wilt, a few oranges showing signs of mold, and potatoes needing some attention. So there are probably still smells to track down and solve. Unless the boys’ olfactory senses are deadened by now.

They have had wind – with the exception of the third day out – and even the ITCZ may be kind enough to allow them to sail at least half of it or more. But the weak Pacific high has meant fluky and weak trade winds for them (12-17 knots, against the more typical 20-25), and they have appreciated their self-steering Hydrovane which keeps them on the same point of sail without their having to adjust the sails with every shift of wind. The big gap winds out of the Gulf of Tehuantapec in Mexico have driven some easterly swell in their direction, which has been hitting them right on the beam and making for an uncomfortable ride. Hence the disgruntled cat. Hence the gratefulness for pre-prepared frozen meals so that nobody has to brace themselves too long in the rocking galley.

Once at 2 degrees south – in about two and a half days’ time – they should be into the southeast trades. They should have more comfortable wind, more comfortable seas, but squalls multiple times a day. They might curse the fluky 35 knot gusts that hit them, but I doubt they will curse the brief torrential rains, which can wash away some of the smells of fish and sweat, though not of upset cat. The perpetual smell of salt water will be in their noses until one day there will be a whiff of something different. They will smell it before they see it. It will smell green and sweet and alive. They will smell land.