08:10

As soon as the excitement of spotting the California Grays dissipates, Ed and John are dispatched to the foredeck, opting to click onto the jacklines so they can safely peer into the thick fog. Eleanor scribbles in a notebook as she asks me to confirm my wobbling course.

“Three five zero.” In an attempt to make it so for more than a few seconds, I aggressively push the wheel to port as we hit the trough.

“What’s the wind direction?” she asks without looking up from her writing.

I look at the wavelets and answer, “West north west.”

And as if she does not need to see, she asks, “What’s the wind wave height?”

“Less than a foot, but we have some pretty big rollers.” Read more

07:50

I refill my cup with stout fine coffee, the kind I personally find too expensive to drink. It is an offering from the Vallero brothers, San Francisco coffee importers who are aboard the ship and must maintain their caffeine standards. The steam roils above the mug as I emerge from the companionway. The plume does not whip away, but slowly swirls, confirming there is still no wind. We should round Point Conception at the end of our forenoon watch. There, we are told by Eleanor with a small degree of glee, “the conditions will change.” NOAA, in a droning electronic voice, corroborates her forecast. “Forty-five knots … at twelve feet … building…midnight…” For the moment though, there is not a breath of wind. The sea rises before us in swelling heaps. Visibility is poor. Beyond the bow the world is gray, featureless and void. Read more