• Position: 12° 32.5′S, 153° 06.0′E
• Weather: Overcast, rain squalls
• Wind: Force 3 (gentle wind; crests break, whitecaps)
• Sails: Braced nearly sharp on a Port Tack
• Speed: 5.3 knots

The sea cook has one of the most difficult jobs onboard a ship: he is responsible for keeping the crew well fed while in port and underway. Joe, the Picton Castle’s cook, plans well in advance when provisioning for long ocean passages because at sea we cannot run out to the grocery store for a carton of milk. We have to make do with the resources that are already onboard. So the veggie lockers and fruit hammocks are well stocked when we leave each port, fresh meats and fish go into the freezers, and the types of food items that we run through most quickly are stocked up again (besides the essentials, our crew has a sweet tooth for packages of cookies).

In old sailing ship lingo Joe is called an “idler,” meaning he sleeps through the night and has specific duties to perform during the work day. Joe wakes up at 4:30 every morning to heat the water for coffee and tea and to make “Mug Up” (traditionally hard tack, jam and coffee, but we get muffins and all sorts of baked treats) to serve to the 4–8 watch around 5:45 AM. He then prepares breakfast for 50 people to be served in two sittings. He prepares three meals daily, paying especially close attention to details such as making sure we get a balanced diet and also tries to meet individual dietary needs (i.e., vegetarian or non-dairy options) as often as possible. Joe’s work day ends only when dinner is finished, around 6:30 PM.

One hundred and fifty years ago the position of sea cook might have gone to the youngest or least physically capable crew member onboard the ship. It was not considered a profession and consisted mainly of chopping and boiling, and cleaning the pots and pans. On a whale ship, the cook would have also had the responsibility of tending to the foresail when the ship changed tack (direction) and he would have performed specific duties aloft in the rigging.

Joe is truly a professional sea cook, having cooked on many boats, including a ship that Captain Moreland skippered years ago. Joe’s job is to provision the ship and to prepare our meals. He does not have any responsibilities in sail handling or in maintaining the rigging. Feeding 50 people three times a day, every day, is a big enough job! While Joe is responsible for planning our meals, three crew members (one from each watch) are assigned to assist Joe on Galley Duty each day. The Galley Crew (his assistants) sets up meals, cleans the dishes and the Galley between meals, and does the bulk of the chopping and preparation of sauces, deserts, and salads. The Galley Crew also cleans and stocks the scullery shelves; keeps hot water, coffee and juice flowing; and cleans used dish towels so they do not go sour or mouldy.

In the old days, a sea cook might have been treated with disdain or suspicion by the ship’s crew, but that is not so on the Picton Castle. Joe is a nice guy, and he’s fun to have around. He is a good cook. When you are nice to him, you get to lick the spoon and bowls when he makes cakes and icing, and sometimes you’ll even find that he’s slipped your favourite treat or dish onto the menu!Compared to a sea cook in the Age of Sail, Joe has a lot of help. But one aspect of the occupation has not changed in the past 150 years—the cook has to make sure all of the food and boiling water does not slide off the stove and onto the galley floor as the ship pitches and rolls on the ocean swell. To keep food on the stove, Joe has installed “fiddles” (metal bars that clamp down to hold pots and pans in place on the stove top), but that does not prevent boiling water from sloshing out of a pot from time to time! When boiling water for the night watches, I’ve learned there is an art to balancing and timing movements so that you don’t get scalded or burned—because even if the pot stays still on the stove, the water will not.

The things you will find in the Picton Castle’s Galley are very similar to what you might have in your own kitchen at home, with the exception of a few items:

• Cast iron stove (the Picton Castle’s is from the 1800s; it used to be heated by coal but has recently been converted to diesel)
• Cook (recipe) books
• Pots, pans
• Pie plates
• Graters
• Kettles and pots for boiling water for tea and coffee (we do not have electric kettles or coffee makers)
• Carving forks and knives and cake testers
• Ladles and tongs
• Cooking spoons
• Five-gallon buckets for mixing bread dough
• Baking pans
• Icing kits
• Funnel
• Chopping board/ butcher’s block
• Coconut meat scraper

The Galley supplies and the food stores in the hold are off limits to the Picton Castle crew, but the scullery shelves are lined with snacks that we can fix for ourselves between scheduled mealtimes. In the Age of Sail, when food was rationed closely, Hard tack—a rock-hard, flour-dry sea biscuit—was one of the only treats a sailor could fix for himself. If he played his cards right he could sweeten his treat by talking the cook into sparing some molasses or leftover drippings from cooked meat. Hard tack is still found in bakeries (and homes) in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. Here is a variation on this staple in a sailor’s diet that you can make for yourself:

What you need:

• Paper towel
• 1 tablespoon shortening, such as Crisco or butter
• Small baking dish
• 1 cup of crushed crackers, such as saltines
• 1 gallon re-sealable plastic bag
• Drinking glass
• ¼ cup light molasses
• 2 tablespoons butter
• Fork

What you do:

1. Preheat the oven 350° F.
2. Dip the paper towel into the shortening can and scoop out a tablespoon-sized amount. Use this to grease the baking dish.
3. Place the crackers in the bag, seal it, and roll over it with the glass until the crackers are coarsely crushed.
4. Pour the crackers into the baking dish. Mix in the molasses and butter with a fork.
5. Bake for 15 minutes

Makes four servings

I never did find out where I lost my wallet. It was our second day in Banam Bay, a beautiful and very traditional thatch and bamboo Vanuatu village surrounded by forest on the island of Malekula. I’d packed my bag and gone ashore, ready for a day of snorkeling and lying around on the beach. Chief Saitol (the most energetic and spry 87 year old I have ever met) had planned for the Picton Castle crew a grand performance of Kastom (custom) dancing and a Kava party complete with a string band for later that night. We were told we might need money (Vatu is Vanuatu’s currency; 107 Vatu is equal to 1 US dollar) to make a donation to the dancers, so I’d thrown my wallet into my bag without a second thought. It was a great day ashore! Chief Saitol and the villagers rolled out the red carpet for the Picton Castle crew. The dancing was amazing, and the party was a blast!

I was scheduled for watch aboard the ship the following day. The next morning at the on-duty watch muster, Greg (Second Mate) mentioned they were collecting donations for a feast on the beach that afternoon. I went to my bag to grab some money. No wallet. I searched my bunk. No wallet. My sea chest. Still no wallet. I quickly came to the awful conclusion that my wallet, and all it contained, was not on board the ship. At one point, Sam, the Chief Mate, asked me what the heck I’d been doing for the last half hour. I told her I’d been searching for my wallet, and I thought it was lost on the island. Dave M. (trainee, UK), overhearing the conversation, asked “Why did you bring your wallet ashore?” Another helpful shipmate piped up, “Yeah, I needed my ID twice yesterday.” Ha, Ha. Banam Bay didn’t exactly have an ATM. Truth was, it had never occurred to me not to bring it. Yet another valuable traveling lesson learned!

Being stuck on board until the feast, there wasn’t much I could do about my wayward wallet, so I tried to concentrate on the ship’s work we were carrying out onboard that hot morning. It didn’t work. Finally the on-watch was permitted to go ashore for a few precious hours to participate in trading with the villagers and to attend the traditional feast that was prepared for our crew and for the crew of the Brigantine SOREN LARSON, which had joined us at anchor overnight. As much as I was caught up in all the excitement, I’d not forgotten my mission to find my wallet. I checked the spot on the beach where Andrea (trainee, USA) and I had purchased some shells the previous day, but no luck. I followed the rest of the crew into the village. I wanted to search the grounds where we had seen the dancing the night before, but sensitive to the various taboos in Vanuatu society, I didn’t want to go traipsing around what was obviously an important place in the village. I would need permission to do so.

As luck would have it, I ran into my friend Charo. He’d shown me around Banam Bay my first day ashore. We had hung out together the entire day, and he was very good at explaining the details of their society that were completely foreign to me. He effortlessly scampered up a coconut palm to retrieve coconuts for us to drink and he answered all of my questions in perfect English. I told him about my missing wallet and asked if we could check out the grounds. He told me that we ought to pay a visit to Chief Saitol instead. When we arrived, Chief Saitol was sitting under the covered gathering area where we’d had the party the night before. He was chatting with our Captain as well as some village elders. When Charo told him of my predicament, he looked quite concerned, as did the others. They spoke among themselves in their island’s unique Melanesian language. (The Vanuatu island groups boast more than 100 Melanesian languages that are specific to the different villages and islands. Islands, even valleys, that are in close proximity to one another cannot communicate in their own Melanesian languages, but instead have to use the Nation of Vanuatu’s lingua franca, Bislama). I don’t know what they said, but the message was clear: “Dude, that sucks.”

Curious what the interruption was about, Captain Moreland asked what Charo and I were up to. I told him I’d lost my wallet. He replied, “Well, at least you know no one’s going to take it.” That was true. If I had to lose my wallet, this was about the best place in the world to do it!

Chief Saitol then excused himself from his guests, apparently to help me find my wallet personally! As we walked back toward the beach where the crew and the villagers were engrossed in trading, I figured we’d go asking around after my wallet. Not quite. Charo told me that we were going to see a woman they went to when they lost things. Apparently she had visions and could help find my lost wallet. Okay, I thought, I’ll indulge them a while. We found the woman among the people who were trading, and the four of us went to one of the houses nearest the beach. After shooing away the children who were curiously milling about, we sat down and Charo explained the situation to her. They were all taking this very seriously. I figured I’d better take it seriously, too. They talked back and forth for a while. I watched intently, unable to understand the conversation. Charo touched my arm and put his hands together: We were going to pray. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, listening to the lengthy prayer and envisioning my poor lost wallet in my mind. Maybe it would help. The only words I understood were “Jesus Christ.” After the prayer, they talked again briefly and then stood up. The meeting was over.

As we left the house, Charo explained to me what had just taken place. The woman had seen my wallet in a vision. Apparently it had fallen out of my backpack and someone had picked it up. It was dark, however, so she couldn’t see exactly who it was. We were to wait, and that person would be compelled to return the wallet. I was a little nervous at this point.

“So, we just sit here and wait and someone will bring me my wallet?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

I was unsure what to do. Part of me wanted to believe in her vision and the prediction that my lost wallet would appear; part of me wanted to retrace my steps and scour the island looking for it. I asked Charo if it might be helpful to go around and ask people if they had seen my wallet.

He calmly said, “No. Just wait here.”

I remember thinking to myself: I’ve always been told to just trust in God and everything would be okay. I didn’t know what else to do, so I figured I’d just trust their faith and confidence. I went over and sat down with some of my fellow crew members, feeling anxious and somehow hopeful. I told myself that everything would be cool, but all I could think about was how I would replace all the contents of my wallet. It would be difficult enough if I were back home, but out here, traveling in the South Pacific, it would be impossible. I looked down at my watch. I had little time left before I had to return on the skiff to turn to for duty on the ship. I couldn’t just sit there. I remembered one more place I hadn’t checked and was just about to get up to go look. Then a woman approached me from behind.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Did you lose something? A wallet?”

“Yes!” I said, surprised.

“My sister’s son found it on the ground and brought it home. Come, I’ll show you.” We went over to where a young woman was standing, my wallet in her hands. As she handed me the wallet, a small crowd gathered. Apparently word of my loss had spread. I checked through the wallet. Everything was there. It had been sorted through, but the 9,000 Vatu cash was still there, as well as everything but my credit card. When I told her this, a few words sent her red-faced son sprinting back to the house to get it. Maybe it was a souvenir, or perhaps it simply didn’t make it back into the wallet with the other stuff. No matter; he couldn’t have used it here anyway. I pulled out 2,000 Vatu (about $24 Canadian) and handed it to him, thanking him profusely. I thanked his mother and her sister, who had approached me in the first place, and walked back toward the beach where the feast was about to take place. I sat down on the woven palm mats, relieved and contented, and enjoyed our delicious feast with my wallet tucked safely in my backpack.

I suddenly realized what had happened: The vision, the prediction — it was all true!

Now, I could propose that she made it all up and that my wallet was returned to me regardless of what she said, but I prefer to believe. I prefer to think that here in Banam Bay — a place where modern science meets ancient tradition — that an elderly chief, a village seer, and a newfound friend helped me find a couple of things that I was sure I’d lost: my wallet and my faith.

Sunday afternoon the Picton Castle cleared into her current port of call in Suva, Fiji, and there was only one thing more exciting than arriving at a new and exotic port: Mail Call!We had not had a mail call since Rarotonga, and that was four ports of call ago! Lo, the ship’s agent, stepped aboard with paperwork, and after some time had passed, Captain Moreland called a muster amidships and introduced Lo to our crew. She gave us some advice about places we might like to visit, and places and people we might like to avoid. And as it turned out, she had brought mail with her! Cheers all around! We were given the opportunity to pick out our mail and read as much as we could before we get the order to “Up and stow.”

I circled the hatch, looking at the piles of envelopes and boxes. I had two letters in the first stack, and few more letters scattered in the next few stacks. I even had a big, bubble envelope that rattled a bit when I shook it. SCORE! I hit the mother lode of mail calls! First postcard made me cry, the pathetic guttural sobbing kind of cry. Not so embarrassing now that I’ve been living with this crew for nearly six months. Second post card was from my father, and I laughed so hard the Captain even came over to read what was written. Third and fourth envelopes were Thanksgiving and Halloween cards, respectively, and my family had thought to stuff the cards with tiny Halloween confetti that static clung to everything it came in contact with. I recognized the writing on the next envelope as that of my best friend of more than 16 years, and I had just begun to tear into it when we got the order to “Up and stow” (go aloft and stow the sails).

I stood up to anchor my mail under some items on the hatch, and I realized it was the first time I had looked up since I sat on the corner of the hatch to read my mail. Boxes were torn open and their contents were strewn everywhere. Colourful witch hats and bags of chips and chocolate, magazines, t-shirts and fans were scattered in every direction. The scuttle door had been covered with a plastic Halloween sign that had battery operated lights.

The crew scattered to the Fore and Main Masts and laid out on all the yards. I was still wiping my runny nose when I laid out on the Main Upper Topsail and then Lower Topsail with Morgan (sailmaker’s assistant, Canada) and Jeff B (trainee, USA). We busted the sails up onto the yards and had a short discussion about a gasket that was too short. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, and typically we would stay out on the yard as long as possible, feigning some kind of work, but from where we were aloft, we had a direct line of sight to our unopened mail. Calls of, “Laying off!” were heard all over the Main Mast as we hurried down to deck again. I scooped up my mail, and that of my cabin mate, Mhairi (trainee, Canada), and slipped below deck and into the Bat Cave to open the rest of my mail.

It was like watching a hungry person eat. I held the envelopes that were impossibly bound with too many layers of tape and I felt absolutely desperate to get to the contents inside. I just wanted to read my mother’s handwriting again. With her swooping and dipping cursive, she always manages to summarize a few months’ worth of activities and events into a few lines and still make me feel like I was part of it. I wanted to read my best friend’s letter because she is the only person I know who writes just like she speaks, and coming from Cape Breton, it’s always colourful!

The big bubble envelope was from my parents, and using my sheath knife, I made short work of getting into it. I felt something soft and pulled it out. Long underwear? I reached in again: sure enough, it was a matching long-sleeved shirt and pant long underwear set. It is 27°C in Suva and they sent me long johns? I laughed out loud. What were they thinking? A little note inside answered my question. It read, “Because you said you were cold.” It’s true. I had told them I was cold when we were sailing between Galapagos and Mangareva, but that was winter in the South Pacific. It was now spring and we had just sailed into Melanesia; the sun was out and those familiar beads of sweat were back!

As we sat around the Bat Cave, we took turns opening our mail and showing one another the contents inside. Maggie (trainee, Canada) gets the most hysterical gifts from home, and we were not disappointed this time: she pulled out two dozen hair combs of difference colours, shapes, and sizes. I got new Cape Breton and Canadian flag patches for my backpacks from my grandmother. She knows me so well. When I came back on deck, I learned that Mike’s (trainee, Canada) mother mailed him heaps of peanut brittle, fudge and toffee, and she made a lot of sons and daughters happy for several days!

I guess our message to home is this: We take great care of one another, but the minute there is a glimmer of hope that there might be a special note or package for us from someone who loved us before this all began, the salty exterior and calluses threaten to melt away and reduce us to a puddle of raving derelicts. We may be very good at making our own adventures on exotic South Pacific Islands, but there is no place like home.

Weather: Black, starry skies and cool, fresh breeze.

The first thing the Picton Castle crew saw when they stepped from the dock at Neiafu, Tonga, were rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables. In the open-air market, oranges, watermelons, lemons, limes, coconuts, pumpkins and leafy greens crowd the table tops. Vendors sit near their crop, promising to “give you best price,” while a torn piece of cardboard attached to a dowel sticks up like a flag above the produce advertising the suggested price. There is not much room for bartering in Tonga, but they will often quote too high a price and let you believe you have dickered the price down, while they really have all control over the cost. At any rate, a crate of oranges for the equivalent of US$3 is a steal, so just pay the man his money.

Attached to the outdoor market is a large concrete building with a high ceiling and oversized cut-out doors and windows that are covered with chain link and tarpaulins rather than panes of glass or wooden panels. Inside the building is the artisans’ market. Only natural sunlight through the doors and windows lights the entire building. With the overcast skies and the endless rows of unfinished wooden carvings and earth-hued woven crafts, everything appears cast in shadow.

Absentmindedly, I pick up and examine a woven leaf-shaped fan that is in a large basket of woven crafts, including a breadbasket and wine-bottle holder that looks a little too small to hold wine. A pleasantly plump older woman leaps up from her stool when she sees me and asks if I like the fan I am looking at. I tell her that I think it is very nice and I ask her how long it took her to make. She tells me it took her five to seven days and seems pleased that I am interested in her labour. I start to put it down and she presses it into my hands. “You like? I give you special price.” I tell her I have just stepped through the door and am not prepared to make a decision and thank her for her time. She grabs my hand and leads me around her table to show me the other crafts she weaves to sell at the market. There are large, flat platters with geometric shapes woven in complementary hues and bowls of all different sizes made of the same materials. She promises me the best prices, and as I walk away, I thank her for showing me her crafts and promise to keep her in mind when I decide to buy something.

I purposefully walk down the next row, which does not have a vendor sitting in it. I examine the racks of carved necklaces made mainly of cow bone and mother of pearl shell. They are not nearly as nice a quality as those our crew have purchased along the way from Pitcairn to Rarotonga. I pause from time to time to examine the wooden carvings stacked high off the tabletops. There are many carvings of humpback whales and dolphins—creatures of great importance to Tongans. There are carvings of what look like a wooden troll doll wearing a tribal mask. These odd little men with gruesome faces represent the different gods that play a large role in Tongan religion and culture, such as Maui, Tangaloa, and the gods of War, Peace, and Love.

Something on the next table over catches my eye. It is shiny and looks like old, cracked leather. Is that a turtle shell? I walk over to the object and pick it up for a closer look. It is the shell of a sea turtle, about the size of my chest, and is chipped and decaying. Right next to the turtle shell is a carving of two humpback whales breaching, but rather than being carved out of wood, it is carved out of what looks like a very porous grey stone. Is that whale bone? As if reading my mind, a vendor steps up alongside me and smiles. Pointing to the carving, he says, “Made of whale bone.” I am a bit taken aback that I am actually looking at whalebone because hunting whales was banned in Tonga in 1978. Rather than ask their origins, I inquire as to whether tourists have any trouble taking whalebone and turtle shell souvenirs out of Tonga and back into their own countries. “No trouble,” I am told. “One can get a permit from Immigration,” he says, gesturing to the white building next door to the market. (Editor’s note: Much old whalebone has been lying around for years and it is very unlikely to be recent; more likely it is at least 50 years old.)

I thank the gentleman for answering my questions and shuffle away, pretending to eyeball something across the room before he tries to sell me something made from the bones of a poached whale. There is something specific that I am looking for that is not available at the market that day—I am in search for Tapa cloth. I have been told I will know the real deal when I found it.

“This is your wake-up call. Twenty minutes till watch.”

Without thinking, it comes almost as second nature, clothes on, found at the foot of my bunk, flashlight in my pocket. Up and out of my bunk I start up the Salon steps. Ugh, back down the Salon steps, grab my toothbrush , a cursory quick rub over my teeth so I don’t kill people with bunk breath, back up the steps, ugh, back down the steps, grab a sweatshirt just in case.

They say the coldest part of the day is just before dawn. Well, here I am. It is “four o’ dark AM” in the Barque Picton Castle. Up on the hatch I join the rest of my watch who are also bleary eyed. We sit on the port-side of the hatch mustered for watch waiting to be given our duties by the lead seaman. At the sound of my name I try to focus my eyes. “Kimberly, look-out at five and helm at seven.” Got it. He moves on to the next person. I wait to hear the rest of our muster and then head quickly for a cup of coffee. The off-going watch has made us fresh pots of coffee and these are greatly appreciated. After my second cup, I wander up to the quarter deck to hang with the rest of the watch. The sky is just beginning to change colour from inky black with stars to a bit of rose off to the east. The talk is of food: what you would eat if you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life. The mate is in and out of the charthouse watching a vessel on radar that was reported by the watch before us. We all try and figure out what it is and how close it is; this is better than TV for us!

My look-out hour comes and I go to relieve the person already up on the foc’s’le, which is the deck farthest forward. “Anything to report?” I ask the crew member I am relieving. Basically when I am up there on look-out, I am looking for any traffic, or squalls, general things floating and anything else that may wander into my vision. It is also important that I look around 360 degrees of the horizon and not just forward. The ship from earlier has passed and I cross under the arching foot of the foresail to check the other side. Nothing there, either.

I love being on look-out. It is one of the only times on the ship where the quiet is all yours. It’s amazing how fast it goes. Soon I am relieved, and I go off to do my ship check. When I am done, I report to the mate on watch that I have been relieved, that there is nothing to report from lookout, and there was nothing to report form my ship check. In fact, all is well.

I have an hour before I am due up on the helm, so I start to help get ready for the deck wash that happens at this time every morning—6:00 AM or dawn, whichever comes second. The cook is just stumbling on deck to start preparing for breakfast. We don’t try and chat until she has woken up a little more. The sun is turning the sky beautiful shades of red and orange, and we stop to admire it before we head aft to move the fishing-gear chest and fill up the salt water rinse-sinks for the dishes from breakfast.

I like the 4 to 8 watch. It has the benefit of the sunsets and sunrises. However, the down side is that it misses most of the general ship maintenance that happens on the 8 to12 and 12 to 4 watches. Later this morning the mate has asked us to prepare the rail so the next watch can varnish, but we are limited to things that do not make much noise.

“Helm” means steering the ship. Standing at the big teak wheel on the quarterdeck, I relieve my fellow watch-man and ask the course and how many turns he has on the wheel. The ship is easy to steer this morning and it feels like she is just cruising on the water. Slow I think, but I can’t really tell. The Mate wanders back to check my course. All is well. The Captain comes up on deck and checks the sails, looking up and around at the weather. He comes aft, takes a look at the compass, asks me my course and notes I am a little off. How he does this I am not certain. I haven’t strayed off course for over 30 minutes, yet it’s like he may have magnets in his pockets. I give the wheel a couple of turns and wonder what is for breakfast. Soon enough the hour is over, and I am done and relieved. I plot my position on the chart and log my course, barometer, and weather conditions in the logbook. The next watch is mustering and my watch is waiting for me to finish up so they can go eat breakfast.

Breakfast seems like lunch to us. We’ve been up for 4 hours and it takes us a while. We are the off watch now, and so we relax and eat slowly. When that’s done most of us wander off for a nap or a read of our book, at least for an hour or so. I manage to nap for a while and awake only when the 8-12 watch are unloading the canvas for sailmaking out from under the salon “sole,” the area beneath the salon floor.

Back on deck, I take my book to the hatch before becoming entranced with an ongoing game of Scrabble that is taking place in the sunshine. Then “Hands to the main braces!” is called out, so we all pitch in bracing the main yards to catch the wind a little more effectively. I return to my book and my sun cream, which I had abandoned on the hatch while I helped brace round. I have a few minutes until it is time to have our workshop on ditty bags (the bags where we store all our sail-making tools and general gear). Mine isn’t coming along too well, but I persevere until the sail-maker tells me that I may have to take out that particular row of stitches.

Then it’s all of a sudden lunch time. How this happens is always a mystery, how the days seem to pass by. After a beautiful lunch of pasta, blue cheese, and bacon, and some of the remaining lettuce for salad, I go to help with mending the sails if the sail-maker will have me after my terrible stitching earlier. By four o’clock I feel that I have had a busy day. It is back on watch for me now, and I muster on the hatch with my watchmates for my duties to be given to me. “Kimberly, helm now and Look Out at 1900 hours.” Off I go to the wheel.

“What are you steering?” I ask the helmsman. He tells me and I repeat it back so he knows I have it right. The watch passes uneventfully with a quick brace up around 1830 hours. Dinner is chicken breasts and gravy and tastes so good! We eat quickly on this watch as… we are on watch! When 2000 hours rolls around I am ready for bed. I muster and have happy thoughts of getting in my bunk to read. We get stood down, and the watch wanders off to different parts of the ship, some folks to bed and others to sit and chat, but for me 4 AM comes early. Toothbrush in hand—one final job tonight—I brush my teeth on deck and check out the scenery and then it’s below to bed, piling my clothes at the end of my bunk to be ready for my next watch.

I love being at sea. Life is simple. Some days are more exciting than others, and some days are worse than others. But mostly they are fairly quiet, with workshops to busy yourself with, learning how to navigate and take sun sights, projects to fill your free time, ship work to do, painting and sail-making, carpentry, loosing stowing sails aloft, watches to stand, a ship to sail and maintain . . . it’s amazing how busy you really are!

I spotted Palmerston Atoll of the Cook Islands Group at about 1130 hrs while on lookout. It came up over the horizon just a half point off the starboard bow and the excitement grew as word spread aboard ship that our next destination was about three hours away.

Through my binoculars I could make out an edge of palm trees rising above the swells then disappearing again with each pitch of the bow. The atoll was only ten feet or so above sea level and impossible to survey at a distance of more than 15 miles.

One by one the neighboring atolls or “motus” began to show themselves until we had six of them in view. Those of us not on watch took the time to organize our gear for going ashore, and by 1430 hrs we were rounding the south end of Palmerston past four or five yachts (sloops and cats) anchored on the coral reef. We struck sail and readied our own hook.

We were met by several small aluminum outboard motor boats—islanders coming to collect their cargo—and it reminded me that there was a lot of work yet to be done before we could go ashore. We had brought freight from Rarotonga—lumber, roofing, supplies, and parcels—and it all had to be off-loaded onto these little boats while standing at anchor about 50 meters from dangerous coral. Just another day at the office for these hardy islanders. The Captain chose a good spot to leeward of the reef and dropped anchor so that our stern was stuck out over several hundred feet of water. We had that cargo unloaded in short order: cement, bicycles, freezers for storing fish—all carried ashore by burly men with grinning faces. Then it was our turn, the crew’s chance to experience this little paradise.

We climbed down the rope ladder and were shuttled ashore via a maze-like pathway through the shallow waters of the reef. I saw twisted rusting hulks sticking up out of the water where less fortunate sailors had ventured with their crafts. Looking down I could see that we were riding over jagged coral, some of it hidden only by 4-6 inches of water—and this at high tide!

I felt confidence in our coxswain and host, Paul, who knew his way through the reef like the back of his hand. I thought this island, with its encircling reef, must make a good natural fortress against anyone looking to raid its shores. That was just the romantic side of me thinking, and I knew that it was not the intention of these people to keep anyone out. Quite the contrary: Paul explained to me that the people who live on Palmerston Atoll benefit greatly from having visitors, and so they welcome them with open hearts. With no regular supply ships, Paul and his family of seven must live off the land, catching fish on the reef, and rainwater from their roofs, until a ship or visiting private yacht comes with goods and supplies.

From my experiences with previous islanders I carried with me some items to give to Paul in return for letting me stay at his house. A machete, a set of paint brushes, a wood chisel, a bolt of cloth, pencils for the kids, and some food that the Captain had given me for them. This was much appreciated by Paul, who was a wood carver, and so much that he set to making me a Korero drum of white Mahogany to take back as a souvenir.

I Love Palmerston.

Brian Snelson

As we approached Rarotonga on Thursday, September 1, we were greeted by half a dozen vakas, that is, outrigger canoes, each paddled by six people. It was an impressive sight as they came racing out from Avarua. With three people paddling on each side of the vaka, and all perfectly synchronized, they moved along at approximately 8 knots, passing by the Picton Castle as we sailed towards Avatiu harbor.

Vaka is the Polynesian word for canoe; oi is the word for paddle. So, an oi vaka is a canoe that is paddled. We also saw sailing vakas that are handled by three people. And there are large voyaging vakas that, depending upon the size, may take 20 to 100 or more people on long journeys. These are the traditional watercraft used by Polynesians hundreds of years ago to explore and carry on trade throughout the Pacific islands. Traditionally the vakas were built of wood; today’s racing vakas are all built of fiberglass.

Vaka paddling is now a competitive sport that is taken very seriously in Polynesia, particularly in Tahiti, Hawai’i and the Cook Islands. Vaka clubs with both men and women’s teams have a rigorous training schedule, meeting as often as six days per week. In addition to paddling, they also cross-train with swimming and bicycling. While vakas may be built for one, two, three, four, six, or nine people, the ones most commonly used in racing are the six- and nine-person vakas. These may be raced singly with an outrigger attached, or with a second hull in place of the outrigger to make a double vaka, in which case there are 12 or 18 people paddling together. As vaka racing becomes more popular in other countries, there is talk of making it an Olympic sport.

The Picton Castle crew were eager to meet the vaka team, and we invited them to a party on board the ship Saturday evening. One of the vaka team leaders, Te Atu, offered to arrange for us to paddle the vakas. So on Wednesday afternoon, 12 of us from the Picton Castle went with Te Atu to Muri Beach for our first training in vaka paddling. Our crew included Ivan, Johanna, Catharine, Ryan, Jeff Bartlett, Keith, Paulina and her husband, Alan, Torunn, Jane, Barbara, and Dave Zimmer.

Using long strips of rubber (cut bicycle inner tubes), we strapped two six-person hulls together to make one double vaka that seated 12 persons. Before getting into the vaka, Te Atu instructed us on the proper paddling technique. With one hand atop the end of the paddle and the other hand at the base of the shaft, just above the blade, you keep the lower arm straight and make the stroke by twisting your torso.

When paddling on the port side of the vaka, your left side is forward as the paddle goes into the water and you turn your body to the left while making the stroke so that your right side is forward when the paddle comes out of the water. This not only gives much more power to each stroke, but it also allows greater endurance as compared to just using your arms and shoulders for paddling.

Having paddled one- and two-person canoes since I was a child, I was amazed at the difference this paddling technique makes. I can’t wait to try it out on our small canoe when I get home. I was able to paddle much longer and harder than I ever imagined possible without tiring or feeling like my arms would fall off.

Another key to vaka paddling is to coordinate the paddling so everyone works together. We alternated the sides of the canoe on which each person paddled. When the first person in each hull paddled to starboard, the second person paddled to port. Third and fifth positions always paddle on the same side with the first person; likewise, the fourth and sixth positions paddle on the same side with the second person. Periodically, when the command is called by the steerer, the paddlers on one side of the vaka switch to the other side. An experienced vaka team does this without missing a beat in the stroking.

Timing is everything when paddling with a team, according to Te Atu. Again, we learned this first-hand as we experienced the difference in the way the vaka moves when we are all synchronized, paddling in unison, compared to moments when we were not so well coordinated. He kept reminding us of this by calling out, “Timing!” whenever we got out of time with one another. When everyone is synchronized, the vaka surges ahead; when we are not in synch, the vaka does not move as smoothly and easily.

Once we learned the basic techniques for paddling and staying together in our strokes, Te Atu had us do several time trials on the 500-meter distance between two buoys in the lagoon. On our first attempt, it took us approximately 8 minutes to go from one buoy to the other. We asked Te Atu what a good race time is for that distance. When he told us their team does it in 2 to 2-1/2 minutes, we motivated ourselves to go faster. On our second attempt, going upwind rather than downwind, we brought our time down to just over 4 minutes. After several more runs back and forth along the course we got our time down to 3 minutes, 20 seconds—and that was going upwind. Imagine what we could do with a regular training and workouts! We’re ready to launch the Picton Castle vaka team. We just have to convince Captain Moreland to pick up a couple of vakas for us.

• Cream together butter and sugar
• Mix in lemon juice and eggs
• In separate bowl, mix flour, salt and baking powder
• Slice and fry plantains then mash it up to a pulp
• Mix plantain with butter-sugar-eggs
• Gradually add flour mixing well
• When all flour is mixed in, add chopped nuts (and chocolate chips)
• Mix well
• Bake 1 hour 350 degrees

Along with standing lookout, steering the ship, cleaning and doing ship’s work, those of us who are not daymen or lead seamen also have a rotating schedule for working in the galley. Each day one person from each of the three watches is assigned to help Joe the cook. Early in the voyage when the watches were larger each person had galley duty about once every two weeks; now that some people are daymen the rest of us rotate through galley once every 9-10 days. Much of galley duty actually takes place in the scullery where we wash all the dishes, utensils, pots and pans. We also set up and clear the serving area for each meal (breakfast and lunch are aft on the aloha deck; dinner is usually served on the hatch midships).Joe tells the galley crew each day what they need to prepare - salad for lunch and or dinner; wash and cut a large pot of potatoes; slice onions; whatever he needs for the next meal. And there’s usually some additional project to do like clean out the veggie lockers get rid of over ripe fruits and vegetables, wash dish towels, clean shelve sin the scullery. Needless to say, galley duty is a busy day, starting at 0630 and usually ending around 2000hrs.

One day each weeks Joe has a day off from cooking. On his day off the three people assigned to Galley get to cook all the meals as well as doing the usual cleaning, keeping the coffee pots and juice pitchers full etc. This past Monday I was one of the three galley crew working on Joe’s day off. Bruce and Erin were the other two, Bruce had already cooked on Joe’s day off once before, and did quite a fine job of it although he wasn’t eager to be in charge of producing meals again. And Erin claimed to not be a very good cook and was happy to have someone else do the cooking. After asking several people what they might like for meals, I proposed a menu for the day, checked with Joe to be sure we had all the ingredients (there aren’t any supermarkets out here in the middle of the ocean; we have to make do with whatever is in the cargo hold), and asked Bruce and Erin if they if they liked the plan. They did.

The menu started with a simple breakfast of cold cereals and milk, fruit salad and the usual juices coffee, and tea. Bruce and I started at 0630 to get everything ready in time for the first serving of breakfast at 0730 (Erin had been on watch until 0400, so she was allowed to sleep in until 0900). Fortunately for me (and anyone who might drink coffee), Bruce took care if the coffee station- I don’t drink coffee and can’t even pretend to know anything about making it. Meanwhile, I started cutting pineapple, pears, apples, grapefruit, and oranges, for the fruit salad. Bruce made a couple of runs to the cargo hold to replenish our supply of cereals, milk, and juices. Then he helped me with cutting fruit. We had one large bowl ready to go at 0730; while the daymen and the 8-12 watch ate we cut more fruit for the second serving of breakfast at 0800for the other two watches, and started washing dishes. Somewhere along the way I sat down long enough to eat a bowl of fruit.

As soon as the breakfast clean up in the scullery was finished, I went forward to the galley to start lunch; egg salad, chickpea salad, cucumber vinaigrette and, for anyone who doesn’t like that peanut butter and jelly. After a couple of trips to the hold to search for chickpeas, I finally realized that there were none within reasonable access, so the menu was modified and simplified- sliced tomatoes instead of chick pea salad. Serendipitously Joe came by to suggest that we went through the tomatoes and cucumbers. I asked him how many eggs we should use to make egg salad for 51 people (I’m not accustomed to cooking to such quantities). I had thought 60-70 eggs might be enough. He suggested cooking 5 flats of eggs, that’s 150 eggs! It took the better part of the morning to boil and peel all those eggs - thank goodness Bruce and Erin were there to help peel eggs and mash them up. Bruce sliced 6 loaves of bread that Joe had baked the day before. I whisked up the vinaigrette for the cucumbers and dressing for the egg salad. We finished the first batch in time for the 1130 lunch and had just enough time to peel more eggs and make the second batch by 1200 for the second lunch serving. I thought we were making way too much egg salad, yet everyone liked it and there was none left over. Nor were there any cucumbers left.

As soon as lunch was served, I started on dinner. Pasta meals are popular, and relatively easy to prepare, so when our chief mate, Sam, suggested baked Ziti I decided to aim for something akin to that. Also I’d had a hankering for banana nut bread for awhile, but since we were all out of bananas I used plantains instead.

Cooking on the diesel stove and ovens that don’t have any thermostat is something of a guessing game. Because the ship was heeled to port, on a starboard tack, the port end of the grill on the top of the stove was hotter and cooked faster. The upper shelf of the port oven baked much faster than any other oven spaces; after 20 minutes in upper left oven rack the plantain nut bread was burnt on top and raw inside. Moving it to the starboard oven for an hour it finished baking without too much additional burning. I did not master the fine art of baking in unknown temperatures in one day, as evidenced by the fact that the burnt tops of all 6 loaves of bread had to be scraped off before serving. The end result seems to have been quite acceptable as it was nearly all eaten at dinner and several people asked me for the recipe.

Another lesson I learned quickly about cooking at sea is that it’s much better too cook two half full pots of tomato sauce than one very full pot. Not only does it heat up more quickly in two pots, but also it prevents spills when the ship rolls on a swell. Perhaps the most difficult part of making dinner was getting the food out of the hold. It took patience and determination for me to extricate two large bags of pasta from behind cargo netting, under a 2×4 and over the edge of a plastic tote. Erin had an even more difficult time getting 3 large cans of tomatoes for the sauce. Eventually it was all simmering on the stove tomato sauce with sautéed onions, mushrooms, garlic, zucchini, and a generous dose of basil, oregano, thyme, tarragon, salt and pepper. Then two large pots of water to boil for the pasta, cheese to grate, and another batch of plantain nut bread to bake.

Bruce and Erin saved the day for me many times as they came through with exactly what I needed at just the right time — supplies from the hold; slicing and dicing vegetables, garlic, plantains; finding the paprika; and cleaning the mixing bowls, pots on top of the stove, pans in and out of the ovens. And all of this aimed at serving dinner to 51 people at 1800. Late in the afternoon I learned that we were having an all hands drill at 1700, so I had to take the breads out of the oven. I managed to get the pasta cooked in time to mix it with the tomato sauce, layer it in the baking pans with cheese in the middle and the top , and covered it with foil to keep it warm until I could get back to the galley to bake it. We had enough to make two extra pans (beyond the usual 4) of pasta and sauce without cheese. After the muster ended I put the breads back into the oven, rotated the pasta pans through the hottest to the cooler oven racks and served it all by 1825 — just at the same time that a Mahi-Mahi was reeled in at the stern of the ship.

While it was fun to mess about in the Galley for a day, I’m more than happy to let Joe have his job back! And I understand why he likes a drink at the end of the day.

For more of Barbara’s journal go to www.travelswithbarbara.typepad.com

I sailed to Pitcairn two years after my eldest son Alexander came aboard the Barque Picton Castle. Now I know why it was his favourite place ever. The locals pronounce Pitcairn as PitKern. Pitcairn is only a few miles in area, but it is over 1,000 feet high. That makes it seem bigger. Only 35 people live there now, but they all have such big hearts it seems like more. Everyone gets to know you quickly and you become a member of the island family. Pitcairn has no airport, and a supply ship from New Zealand visits every 3 months or so (depending and unloading only if the weather is suitable). The mode of transport on the island is all-terrain vehicles. They are perfect for the muddy roads and steep hills