SCHOONER ADVENTURESS, FROM THE SHIPS LOG AND FROM THE SHIPS POET!

2015-01-08

The Lanzarote lead-up to the Panerai Transat 2015 race from the Canary Islands to Martinique had a gentle urgency during daytime-on-deck preparation for the Atlantic ocean crossing, and an uproarious, rum-lubricated, social blast-off during nighttime-on-the-dance-floor revelry. We also ate dinner now and then. Most notably in a bowels of the earth volcanic sea cavern.

The Lanzarote lead-up to the Panerai Transat 2015 race from the Canary Islands to Martinique had a gentle urgency during daytime-on-deck preparation for the Atlantic ocean crossing, and an uproarious, Mt. Gay rum-lubricated, social blast-off during nighttime-on-the-dance-floor revelry. We also ate dinner now and then. Most notably in a bowels of the earth volcanic sea cavern.
We left the dock with goodbyes and good lucks and bon voyages and au revoirs, the gathered crew of the Adventuress, finding out at the last minute we would sadly be without Victor, El Jefe. Docklines and pushboats and a schooner full of sailors, provisions, and anticipatory feelings of excitement and nervousness, personified by high-fives and hugs. Away and here we go!
The race kicked off with a spread fleet and an ensuing shakedown run around the marks. A few small fixes on the fly and the topsails were flying proudly. The entire field of entries had confident speed, and feeling out our vessel as we made our way down the Lanzarote coast was a proud moment. The conic peaks to the west stoically blessed our voyage, the sails of our competitors to the east beckoned us onward, and we bid adieu to the paparazzi power boats.
Altair made weigh with elegance and power, and I had hope that we looked majestic as well, with a sashay in our waltz toward open ocean. The wind built with the sunset, the waves rolled up and under from our stern, and baked chicken steamed up the galley. Purple-grey clouds sitting on the horizon glowed with hot-pink outlines. Each watch took their turn at the wheel, night's darkness amplifying the conditions for the helmsperson, and, of course, competition developed for which driver could keep truest course and fastest speed. Ship's rolling lee-cloth rest alternating with sail-trimming, rig-checking, systems-monitoring, out-looking vigilance sent us toward the second star on the right over moonlit seas.
Dawn's sunbeams lit up El Pico de Tiede. The crew worked ambitiously for appropriate sail cloth, navigational advantage, and swell-riding rudder position. We realized we are dangerously low on galletas con chocolate. We also realized we have two potent psychological advantages: Pata Negra hangs with a hypnotizing swing in the main salon, promising fantastic Spanish fare for the trip despite our low cookie count, and our agonizingly slow drip coffee making method inspires dedication and determination for each crew member that tackles the task in turn.
And so we go. The bounding main and the sea-soaked decks. A day in the logbooks and laughter in our hearts. Dolphins on the bow and one generous offering to Neptune for luck: sunglasses in the drink! Buena suerte!
-Jeremiah Bailey

We left the dock with goodbyes and good lucks and bon voyages and au revoirs, the gathered crew of the Adventuress, finding out at the last minute we would sadly be without Victor, El Jefe. Docklines and pushboats and a schooner full of sailors, provisions, and anticipatory feelings of excitement and nervousness, personified by high-fives and hugs. Away and here we go!


The race kicked off with a spread fleet and an ensuing shakedown run around the marks. A few small fixes on the fly and the topsails were flying proudly. The entire field of entries had confident speed, and feeling out our vessel as we made our way down the Lanzarote coast was a proud moment. The conic peaks to the west stoically blessed our voyage, the sails of our competitors to the east beckoned us onward, and we bid adieu to the paparazzi power boats.


Altair made weigh with elegance and power, and I had hope that we looked majestic as well, with a sashay in our waltz toward open ocean. The wind built with the sunset, the waves rolled up and under from our stern, and baked chicken steamed up the galley. Purple-grey clouds sitting on the horizon glowed with hot-pink outlines. Each watch took their turn at the wheel, night's darkness amplifying the conditions for the helmsperson, and, of course, competition developed for which driver could keep truest course and fastest speed. Ship's rolling lee-cloth rest alternating with sail-trimming, rig-checking, systems-monitoring, out-looking vigilance sent us toward the second star on the right over moonlit seas.


Dawn's sunbeams lit up El Pico de Tiede. The crew worked ambitiously for appropriate sail cloth, navigational advantage, and swell-riding rudder position. We realized we are dangerously low on galletas con chocolate. We also realized we have two potent psychological advantages: Pata Negra hangs with a hypnotizing swing in the main salon, promising fantastic Spanish fare for the trip despite our low cookie count, and our agonizingly slow drip coffee making method inspires dedication and determination for each crew member that tackles the task in turn.


And so we go. The bounding main and the sea-soaked decks. A day in the logbooks and laughter in our hearts. Dolphins on the bow and one generous offering to Neptune for luck: sunglasses in the drink! Buena suerte!
-Jeremiah Bailey

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