Update: 9th of March, 2024 📍Dromana Bay, Port Philip, Melbourne, AUS

After a longer-than-anticipated stay in Melbourne, we are on our way again! Our next planned stop is Apollo Bay, approximately 15 hours of sailing away… so I’m departing this afternoon to catch the slack tide at The Rip (Port Phillip Heads) and carry on overnight for a daylight arrival.

Our stay in Melbourne was much longer than planned because I arrived rather exhausted after our passages (from Sydney around the southeast capes), and Windfola’s engine was in need of some serious love. While in Melbourne, I also had the opportunity to travel north by train and visit some friends in New South Wales that I’d had to speed past to catch weather windows down the coast. Zia and I even got to do some camping! I also came down with a bad bug and spent a week very sick in bed… I haven’t done the best job of balancing passage making and rest, so it was a big reminder to me that I need to take better care of the skipper in future. 😅

I gave a talk and taught an Intro to Inboard Diesel Engine Workshop for women aboard Windfola for members of RMYS, all to raise money for their upcoming program to get care-experienced young people out on the water! So stoked they’ve taken our message to heart and are finding a way to provide more opportunities for these young folks in their own community.

As we sail westward, I am always looking for opportunities to connect with state care-related or at-risk youth-supporting charities and their young people. If you know any people or organizations working in those spaces, please reach out to me!

Next up: Apollo Bay on March 10th, 2024

GOAL: West Australia by 1 April, 2024 ⛵️

Tasman Crossing: Our Last Full Night at Sea?

This post was originally shared exclusively and directly with our subscribers during our passage across the Tasman.

We sailors are a superstitious lot.

You may have noticed that I never say “after we make landfall…,” or, “when we arrive to Australia…” That’s because the completion of a voyage is never guaranteed, and I choose not to tempt fate. The ocean gives us so much, but can also take it all away. We are so very small and the sea is vast and powerful. We are but guests here. Until the anchor is down and set, I live in the realm of the unknown, with a constant mild undercurrent of fear and anxiety.

But, hopefully, tonight will be our last full night at sea on this voyage.

We are now less than 100nm from the northern tip of Breaksea Spit beyond the top of Fraser Island, which is where we will turn and bear southwest toward the entrance to Port Bundaberg.

This means we are well into what I think of as the “marathon at the end of the marathon” — the last 200nm of a passage. Similar to this stretch of mileage at the start, we are exposed to all the hazards of near-shore sailing: increased shipping traffic, a higher likelihood of poorly-lit or questionably-managed non-professional vessels, and land-altered winds and seas. Last night alone I had more than ten AIS alarms sound for nearby traffic; typically, I might see one every 48 hours or more. This close to land, I must keep a more persistent look-out, so I set alarms to limit my sleep to naps of 30 minutes or less.

I’m a big believer in the philosophy that there is no one right way to do this kind of sailing. However, most of the single-handed sailors that I know share a similar strategy: we aim to transit the first and last 200nm of a passage as quickly as possible, because we know that we cannot subject our bodies to such deprivation for long. Were this to drag on for more than 48 hours, the perspicacity of our decisions would suffer, and in turn, so would our safety.

When I left on my first solo ocean passage, one of my singlehander mentors asked me, “what is the most important system on the ship?” I thought he meant the autopilot, but he quickly corrected me. “It’s you.”

Above all else, without the benefit of a crew to share watches, make hot drinks, ensure you are well fed and hydrated, you must do it all for yourself. And you simply can’t care for yourself as well during this stretch of time. Even with just one other crew member, a skipper could make the decision to slow down and transit these waters more comfortably, sailing a longer course to avoid unpleasant conditions or angles of sail.

I need my sleep, so for me the safest choice is clear — keep the boat moving as fast as possible so we can put the anchor down and rest as soon as possible.

Aside from decreased sleep, the sailing also tends to be trickier and more demanding close to shore. Since mid-morning today, we’ve been fighting our way through headwinds and uncomfortable seas. Even now, they persist, but in the middle of the night, the wind will abruptly shift with the arrival of a southerly front. This will make for even sloppier seas since it’s such a big change in weather direction, and the front also brings higher winds and strong and sudden gusts. I’ll need to quickly reef, then unreef, furl, then unfurl, trim the sails and then ease the lines. While it will be a more comfortable wind angle than today’s sail, it will be nonstop.

If all goes to plan, then we should be making the turn at the tip of the spit in the late afternoon, perfectly aligned with the more favorable tidal current, and with the advantage of daylight. Then, we’ll sail another eight hours or so, arriving to Bundaberg between midnight and eight in the morning on Sunday. I normally don’t like to enter an unfamiliar port in the dark, but I spoke with another sailing couple who made the passage a few months ago, and they said the entrance channel is very clearly lit and simple to navigate (the charts certainly show it to be so).

So, while I’m too superstitious to say anything about our landfall with certainty, I am very hopeful that tonight will be our last full night at sea. Come on, Australia!
By the way, don’t forget to check out our other tracker for shorter and more timely text-message-type updates. I will post there tonight and tomorrow as we track toward our destination.

Sorry for the length and meandering of this post, but I’m too tired to edit, the boat motion is nausea-inducing, and an AIS alarm is about to sound for a beacon in my vicinity! Wish us luck tonight and tomorrow, and thanks a million for all the love and support!

Tasman Crossing: How to Make Potato Salad at Sea

This post was originally shared exclusively and directly with our subscribers during our passage across the Tasman.

What follows is a beloved recipe straight from Windfola’s galley to your home kitchen. I hope you find it useful (but that’s doubtful).

Ingredients:

• some potatoes, not too many for the pot

• spices, whichever ones you like but don’t contain salt

• something crunchy and vegetal

• mayonnaise or aioli

• pickle juice or some (food grade) acidic liquid

Step 1: DON’T gather together the ingredients. If you don’t follow this step precisely, you will instantly regret it because everything is going to fly off the counter top when the next swell hits. Instead, sit down and think about what you have in your stores, where you’ve most likely stowed each item, and what your back up item will be if you can’t actually find the first one you wanted. Also consider a back up item to the back up item, and maybe even whether or not you really want potato salad that much at all.

Step 2: Once you’ve mentally gathered the ingredients together, go outside with your pot and scoop up a few cups of seawater; just enough to cover the potatoes you’ll add. Try not to look to closely at the water; any microorganisms will be sterilized during the cooking process and you need the protein anyway.

Step 3: Carefully place the pot on the cooktop and adjust the pot clamps into place. With one hand, pick up the lighter for the burner. Now, strategically position your body while gauging the rhythm between the waves hitting the boat. When you think there’s a gap, quickly lift the pot with one hand, light the burner with the other, set the pot down again, and grab hold of a hand rail with your newly liberated pot hand. NOTE: if you don’t time this right, you will end up with seawater all over you and you’ll need to return to step 2 (or, again, reconsider how much you actually want potato salad).

Step 4: Find your potatoes. (There’s no substitute for these, sorry. I hope you realized during step one but maybe I should have spelled that out more clearly.) Pick out the best of your inventory, then cut out all the brown spots, the eyes, and that thing that seems to be growing out of the one but might just be a shred of rotten leaf from the old cabbage that you stowed in the same place.

Step 5: Immediately slice each potato in half and turn it cut-side down on the chopping board so it doesn’t roll away. Dice the potatoes into your preferred size, and do it quickly, because soon your seawater is going to boil over on the cooktop…

Step 6: Rinse the knife and put it into a secure location. Wait through one cycle of swell to be sure it’s actually as secure as you think it is.

Step 7: Quickly and carefully lift the lid to the pot and put it somewhere safe. While holding onto a railing with one hand, carefully transfer the chopped potatoes into the pot by the handful. DO NOT try to pick up the cutting board and slide the potatoes off of it with a utensil like a civilized landlubber, because that will take two hands and you will end up in a shower of diced potatoes with the next wave, and only one or two measly pieces will make it into the pot, at which point you are likely to end up giving up on the whole endeavor altogether, but you will still be finding diced potatoes between various cushions in a month’s time and remembering how you failed to make something as basic as potato salad.

Step 8: Put the lid back on the potatoes and turn the heat down to a simmer.

Step 9: Commence your search for the crunchy vegetal items you identified in step 1. I like to add any fresh crunchy veg I have, which on the occasion of this writing, is a cucumber which is only one third black and squishy. Cut away any bad bits and chuck them up out of the entryway and into the sea… oh damn, you’ve likely forgotten about the new solar arch and somehow despite the constant swaying of the boat hit one of its narrow tubes dead-on and splattered rotten cucumber all over the cockpit.**

Step 10: Find more crunchy or interesting things to put in the salad. I nearly always add pickles of some kind, and I highly recommend those if you can remember where you stowed the jar. Fish around until you find it — no, those are olives… those are jalapeños… — but watch out, because I forgot to tell you to put the knife away after chopping the cucumber and it’s sliding around dangerously. Once you find the pickles, chop them up to your desired size and let the juices soak into the cutting board so that you can smell them all night since you only sleep a meter away.

Step 11: Check the potatoes. Hopefully, they are just the right amount of salty, and give easily when pricked with a fork. If they are done, go to the sink and remove the lid from the used coffee press that you’ve been avoiding rinsing all day. Stand the press up in the center of the sink. Now, carefully, with your feet at hips distance and a slight bend in your knees, use the lid to hold the potatoes in the pot while you you pour the boiled potato seawater into the coffee press. Stop halfway through, put the pot back on the stove and secure the pot clamps. Swirl the grounds in the press and take it outside to pour overboard. (Give yourself a little pat on the back for how clever you are at conserving water.) Set the press back in the sink and pour the rest of the water out of the pot into it. Repeat the process with the pot, pot clamps, and pouring out the press (no more back patting though, that would be excessive).

Step 12: Go outside with a non-slip pot rest and look around for a good spot on deck that’s exposed to the wind but has high sides and is narrow enough that the pot won’t slide around. Carefully set the pot down on the protective mat, make a well in the center of the diced potatoes to increase air flow, and leave them to cool in the breeze.

Step 13: Inside, rummage through your onion bin. Find that one onion that is sprouting and has the lovely green protrusions that remind you of springtime. Chop them off on the cutting board and dice them finely. Return the onion to the bin; it’ll be back to its old self in a few weeks.

Step 14: Bring the cooled potatoes inside and return the pot to the pot clamps. Dig out that open bottle of aioli or mayonnaise and remove the lid to sniff and check for any growth. (It’s probably fine.) Into the well in the center of the potato pot, squeeze out what you need, which will surely be more than is remaining in the bottle. Return to that provision cupboard where you usually stow condiments, and dig around until you find another bottle. (This might take awhile.)

Step 15: Add the rest of your desired quantity of mayonnaise, then begin to look through your spices. I like to add dill weed, but only if when I invert the jar the dried herb still comes out. I also add a pinch of garlic powder — a literal pinch, because it is very lumpy and I need to break it up on its way into the pot. I also add a little bit of tart brine from the pickle jar, but if you have lemons — posh, aren’t you? — you can add the juice of half a lemon.

Step 16: Stir the ingredients in the center well until they are combined, then fold in the potatoes from the outside edges. Once combined, grab your pot holder or a tea towel and go sit in a spot where you can wedge yourself into place while you use both of your hands to enjoy your potato salad straight out of the pot.

Et voila! Doesn’t it feel wonderful to make a meal*** from scratch at sea?

NOTES:
*Recipe time may vary from 30 minutes to six hours, depending on the conditions. You may need to insert additional steps not included in these instructions, for example, to trim the sails, take the dog out because she finally wants to wee now that you’re doing something else, adjust the heading, or shoo a booby off the railing that is cute but pooping on your deck.

**After you’ve enjoyed your meal, don’t forget to find all of the pieces of rotten vegetable matter that didn’t make it overboard. You may need to haul up a bucket of seawater and use a scrub brush to remove them, as they have probably baked into the deck by now. It was worth it though, wasn’t it?

*** Hopefully all you wanted was potato salad. That’s the whole meal, and there’s no time to make anything else because the entire day is over and it’s time to go to sleep.

Tasman Crossing: Decisions, Decisions

This post was originally shared exclusively and directly with our subscribers during our passage across the Tasman.

We had brilliant sailing all afternoon today after a long night of motoring. I anticipate that we’ll motor tonight again. The decision to chase wind just hasn’t seemed to pay off, and I figure our best bet when there isn’t enough wind to sail is to motor the shortest course. We seem to be pushing a knot of current much of the time, which really impacts our headway in light winds (that are aft of the beam). Typically I avoid motoring, but I also know that it’s best to cross this hazardous stretch of ocean as quickly as possible.

We have to make a choice soon about whether we’ll head north and take the longer trip to Bundaberg, or if we will continue to head for Southport. It is an agonizing decision for me.

The main issue is a nasty low forecast off the Gold Coast area on Thursday. Half the models say it’s happening and it’s going to be baaaad for 14+ hours — the sort of conditions in which I would typically heave-to and drift. The other two models, which have been more accurate lately, say it’s not going to be very bad at all. Do we plan for the worst? Or trust the models that have been more accurate this past week?

Either way, on the back side of the low, a southerly is arriving on Friday/Saturday/Sunday. Almost all forecast models show this front will be significant and uncomfortable. So if we want to lessen the effects of Thursday’s low by arcing north, but still want to enter Southport, we’d then be fighting upwind in bad seas to get there (possibly with wind against East Australian Current conditions). So if I make the decision to avoid Thursday’s low by going north, we have to sail to Bundaberg.

If we make a turn now and head for Bundaberg, we will be in windless zones for much longer, spend two days more at sea, and risk hitting some weather blowing down from the tropics that some forecast models are predicting. Also, some models show that there’s no way we can go north far enough to be out of the range of Thursday’s low, regardless.

It doesn’t feel like there’s any one right choice, just a number of calculated gambles.

I don’t know what to do. Yesterday evening I felt quite down and discouraged by it.

Last night I had a better night of sleep, and woke feeling quite a bit more positive and mentally acute. We can’t control the weather, and we can’t predict the future, even with the forecasting tools available. I just have to make the best choices I can when it’s time and hope everything works out.

This morning I did boat chores — checking the deck and inspecting the rigging for any odd bits of hardware or slipping pins. I refueled and calculated what our average fuel consumption rate has been so far on this trip, as well as how many hours maximum we have remaining. I’m impressed by how efficient the engine has been; we have enough fuel to motor for 100 hours more if need be. (Thanks to the kind donation of a number of extra jerry cans!)

From midday on I focused on keeping the boat moving as fast as possible for the seven hours or so we were under sail. There were a few squalls that rolled through, each with its accompanying wild wind shifts, heavy rain, and glorious double rainbows. The clouds out here are just beyond compare… they are every shade, shape, and towering fluff that you see in cartoons, or impressionist paintings. I had forgotten how amazing they are, and that you never see anything like them except in the middle of the ocean.

Last night, I saw my first ever moonbow. I remember that when I first heard about them, I couldn’t even imagine one. In the wee hours last night, I went outside after a light rain squall and saw the moon off of our port side. When I shifted my gaze to starboard and saw a glowing white arc in the darkness, I instantly gasped, “Moonbow!!!” It was stunning, otherworldly, like the dark night sky was wearing the halo of an angel. You just know it when you see one. (And I do hope you see one.)

Zia is eating and drinking like usual. She brought me a toy for afternoon play time today for the first time since we’ve set sail; that’s a positive sign that she’s found her sea legs. She is weeing regularly but not doing any solid business yet, poor baby. She’s never been a gassy dog, but now she is, making her a less appealing bunkmate than usual. Hopefully she finally finds some relief in the next 12 hours. As my vet friend told me when I fretted about this on our first passage, “What goes in must come out.”

You may soon see our course change direction sharply, and you’ll know I’ve made a decision. Please wish us luck and ask for only good wind and mild weather to come our way.

Lots more to say but I really must start my night sleep cycle now. Thanks for all the loving and supportive messages; they really mean so much to me! xox

Much love,
E & Z & W

P.S. I’d love to write more, but the boat in light winds takes a lot more of my time than on a steady-wind passage, and I only just feel I’m coming back into a functioning brain. Hopefully, I’ll wake up with full mental acuity tomorrow and steadier wind conditions. Thanks again for all your support, we really couldn’t have made it here without you! <3

Tasman Crossing: Decent wind and looking forward to a good night of sleep 😴

This post was originally shared exclusively and directly with our subscribers during our passage across the Tasman.

All is well with us, and getting better with each passing hour. Just in the past two hours, the wind has become much more steady — exactly what we needed before another long night at sea.

The wind angle has changed slightly and I can no longer hold quite as much north in our course to angle up to Norfolk Island before turning west toward mainland Australia. The main advantage of that course was that there was supposed to be more wind along that latitude, but another advantage is that it would give us more sea room away from any weather coming up from the southern ocean.

Both advantages are largely moot now. The forecast has changed and there won’t be more wind at that latitude, and there doesn’t appear to be anything bad coming from the south in the next seven days. So, for now, my main priority is to keep the boat moving at a speed greater than 4 kt/hr. With the slow wind speeds we are experiencing (7-11 knots), and the angle of sail (nearly dead downwind at 165-170 AWA), this is actually pretty challenging. By heading up slightly, we’ll hold a slightly faster, stable, and more comfortable downwind angle of 150-160 AWA, with a slightly more WNW heading.

If I was less tired, we could go faster; I’d swap our headsail for my 165 genoa or even put up our symmetrical spinnaker.

But, I was troubleshooting an issue with our AIS transceiver the past few days and couldn’t verify the fix until I saw another ship… checking to be certain it appeared on our chartplotter (multifunction display, or MFD). Since I wasn’t certain I could trust the MFD to show dangerous targets, I have been setting alarms to wake me every hour since we passed the northern capes. (Before that, I slept on a beanbag in the cockpit in full kit and woke every 20-30 minutes.) This morning around sunrise I saw a cargo ship on the display, verifying that the MFD is showing AIS targets properly. I cannot express my joy and relief! I’ll be able to sleep in longer increments tonight and should feel a lot better tomorrow.

A number of other interesting things have happened, but I don’t have the brainpower to write any further this evening. Since the sun is sinking below the horizon, it’s time for us to go to bed.

More soon!
-e & z & w xo

P.S. Zia is much perkier today but has yet to toilet. She is eating and drinking normally, so I’m sure it’s just a matter of time now and she’ll slip into her routine at sea. I have her favourite treat (dried Possyum sticks, kiwi as!) on standby in the cockpit for the moment she finally does her business.

Tasman Crossing: The Morning After Our First Night Sailing to Australia

This post was originally shared to our subscribers during our passage across the Tasman.

An uneventful but soulful first night at sea. I dozed off and on all night in the cockpit while listening to the soothing sound of water bubbling past the hull. The crescent moon played hide and seek behind the clouds, while the stars winked and blinked dimly like light through the weave of a blanket thrown over the world. It felt cold despite layers and layers of clothing. I even wrapped a knit scarf around my neck and head under the hood of my jacket. Hopefully today we will see the sun.

The wind is like a fickle child: it has mostly been tapering off since midnight, but then suddenly springs to life again to fill our sails and swing our heading by 20 or 30 degrees. The forecast suggests our wind will die soon this morning and we’ll begin a 24+ hour stretch of motoring. I’ll be sad to lose the soothing sounds of the ocean speaking its language to us… but with such fickle wind all night, I kept the electric autopilot driving instead of the windvane, so now the batteries could use the engine recharge. (Especially if the sun isn’t going to come out!)

Zia has been snoozing peacefully in a nest of blankets down below. She seems unfazed so far by our return to sea.

I am very tired and not able to focus on anything but the sailing yet. I haven’t gotten sick at all — a first for me, when returning to sea, and a very welcome change.

Thank you for all the loving messages and support. I don’t have access to cellular data anymore but will stay in touch this way and vía other satellite communication mediums. More soon. Please wish us wind and sunshine.

Traveling Toward the Light Again

It’s been a long road since our figure of eight “Voyage for VOYCE” around Aotearoa/New Zealand ended in May 2021. I wrapped up fundraising talks in August of 2021, and went on a hiatus after raising $50,000 to create a new scholarship fund so that young people in state care in NZ could have the experience of a lifetime aboard the tall ship Spirit of New Zealand. 

The Voyage had taken everything we had (and then some). Zia, Windfola, and I all needed some serious R & R. Not only had my grandmother passed away near the end of the voyage — without us taking a moment to rest or grieve — but Windfola needed TLC after sailing about 3,000nm over an eight-month period. I felt utterly depleted — I had given more than I really had inside of me, and I needed time out of the spotlight.

Unfortunately, that hiatus devolved into a long spell of challenges for us. We found ourselves stuck as the country went into another lockdown that lasted through the end of 2021. Omicron had finally really arrived in Aotearoa, and the government tried to reduce community spread as it also raced to distribute vaccines. 

Back home, most of my friends my age had already received their vaccinations. Travel to most countries was restricted to only those who had been vaccinated, and given my youthful age, I was a long way down the queue to receive my first jab in NZ. That meant I couldn’t really exit the country, even if the maritime borders had been open!

We were well and truly stuck. I had no visa to work… and the government had shut down most avenues through which to apply for one, even as a “skilled migrant” with a university degree. I had hoped to continue writing, as I had before our charity voyage, but I had slipped into a deep grief and depression. I couldn’t write, I just had nothing left. The sea was calling, but I was lost at land.

The darkness swallowed me whole. 

Our last year and half has been worse than any squall we’ve faced at sea.

I found odd jobs to scrape by, but not enough to give Windfola the attention she needed. The border closure dragged on. Another cyclone season arrived. I kept thinking the borders would open and we could sail on; there was no sense trying to find employment willing to sponsor me to stay, because it would likely only be available if I made a long-term commitment to work.

I thought about flying home. I wanted to pick up my grandmother’s ashes and scatter them. I wanted to hug someone, to really be hugged, that kind of embrace that wraps right down around one’s soul. (As of today’s writing, it’s been nearly four years since I left the USA, and I am deeply homesick for my beloved friend-family.)

But, I couldn’t leave — if I exited NZ, there was no telling when they’d permit me to return for Windfola, my home since 2017! Typically, NZ doesn’t allow visitors to stay more than 9 months in 18, and we were well beyond that. We were in the same quandary we were in during our first year here… leave, with no guarantee we’d be permitted to return for a long time, or stay, living in limbo, parted from bluewater sailing and everyone we love most in the world. Add to that the fact that Zia wouldn’t be permitted to reenter NZ from the USA… Even if I knew someone in NZ who could keep her for 18 months, how could I leave her behind?

So, we stayed, and I sunk deeper and deeper into the abyss. Challenges abounded, and we ended up in a pretty bad situation just trying to get by. I fell out of touch with almost everyone, too ashamed to admit that I, Elana Connor, the woman who sailed around the country championing following your dreams and believing, had lost her hope. I didn’t think anyone I had met along the way would really care to help this pathetic version of the strong solo sailor they had admired.

Oh, how our worst voices degrade and diminish us when we are in sadness!

Finally, in July 2022, NZ opened its maritime borders. I was able to get a work visa at the end of August, but all I wanted was to finish preparing Windfola and GET OUT — I couldn’t make a commitment to an employer with only a few months of departure prep remaining. (It’s not that I don’t love Aotearoa NZ, but I don’t belong here, I have a mission to accomplish!)

I sunk every dollar I earned here (and some that I don’t have yet) into prepping Windfola for another bluewater crossing: a new anchor chain, a bimini to hold up new high-output solar panels and give us shade from the brutal Antipodean sun, restitching the main- and foresails, replacing two of the original foam sea berths in the cabin, and cleaning out every locker and crevice of the mildew and rat droppings that had accumulated during her long neglect.

Finally, in December of 2022, we were ready to return to full-time life aboard at anchor.

Since then, we’ve been floating around in the Bay of Plenty, shaking out all the gremlins in the boat updates, reestablishing our pattern of life aboard, and finding our happiness together again. I’m healing. I’m finally able to write again, and slowly, slowly, to let people in.

Next week when the weather breaks, we’ll start sailing north to get some miles under her hull and make sure all is well before we jump off to Australia. I need to sort out the details for exiting NZ, and for entering Australia (with a dog). It’s still a struggle, but I am hopeful that after giving so much here, the Universe — and my writing — will provide us with the support we need to sail on toward the horizon.

We’re not perfect, but we’re in motion. 

May you always return to your hope,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕

28 January, 2023; Matakana, New Zealand

VOYAGE FOR VOYCE: WELL UNDERWAY!

Last night I had the opportunity to speak to a lovely group of young sailors from the Mercury Bay Boating Club in Whitianga, our second port-of-call on our four-month figure 8 voyage around New Zealand. It warms my soul to see a young person’s face when they step inside Windfola for the first time. Their eyes widen as they imagine what it would be like to sail across an ocean on a small boat, alone. You can see it stoke the adventure in their heart and broaden their understanding of what is possible in this life.

Love, love, love sharing Windfola with young people and their families!

When I imagine a perfect future for youth in foster care, I picture every young person having the safety to dream, the self-confidence to pursue their dreams, and all of the necessary support to carry them along into a successful adulthood. In democracies, we have an obligation to youth in state care — it is our government and our laws that govern their childhoods. That’s why I think we all need to step forward and pledge a commitment to lift up the foster youth in our communities, and that’s just what the Mercury Bay Boating Club has done. I’m so thankful to their Commodore, Jonathan Kline, for acknowledging that there are young people in his community that may need additional support to join their youth sailing program, and committing to helping them to participate. He is fostering a beautiful, kind, and inclusive sailing whanau here!

Whitianga is wonderful, but I’m excited to carry on with our journey down the east coast of the North Island, to meet and welcome aboard more young people in Tauranga. Tauranga is where our sailing family is — the people who welcomed and cared for us during lockdown, and encouraged and supported my figure 8 dream in its most nascent stages. I can’t wait to reunite with our community there, and to connect with even more folks who are championing our Voyage for VOYCE.

I’m also looking forward to sailing on to new ports afterward, like Gisborne and Napier. If you are interested in having me speak with youth in your community as I sail through, please get in touch!

You can follow our voyage on our public tracking map, and enjoy photos and videos of the journey on social media. I hope you’ll also take a moment to learn more about our awesome partner organizations VOYCE - Whakarongo Mai and Spirit of Adventure Trust.

Some of you have asked how you can support us directly, and I’m so thankful to you for that! The number one thing you can do to make my heart happy is to help our Voyage for VOYCE be a success by donating through the Give A Little Page to create a new scholarship fund for youth in foster care to go on the Spirit of New Zealand tall ship’s 10-day, life-changing journeys.

But if you really insist on helping Zia, Windfola, and me sail on, there are a few things you can do:

• Share, share, share! Tell everyone you know about what we’re doing, and encourage them to share with their friends, too. This is truly a grassroots campaign, and getting the word out is key to its success! If just 5% of kiwis gave $5 to the fundraiser, VOYCE would have $1.25 million, enabling them to send 500 youth in care on the Spirit of New Zealand! Please, help us reach enough people to making a lasting difference in the lives of teenage foster youth in this country.

• Supply us with helpful things. We could use fresh fruits and veggies when we get in to ports along our route, as well as slips, moorings, cooking fuel (methylated spirits), diesel. There are some other small things we could use — like, Zia really needs a new life jacket, and in this cold climate I could really use a hair dryer! Follow our track and get in touch if you’d like to help out… or just simply show up if you spot us coming to your neighborhood.

• Help us financially by donating. I am now subscribing to satellite coverage so that followers like you can track us as we sail, and also still paying off our new rig. We are motoring more than usual in order to visit youth around the country, which means we are consuming more diesel than usual. Your contributions will help cover these (and other) costs.

• Sponsor the purchase of a major item. We could use a high-quality spare inflatable kayak, a regalvanized or new 8mm chain (minimum 45 meters), a full replacement of Windfola’s degrading original 1985 indoor upholstery (both foam and fabric), and to replace two solar panels that are no longer producing power with one much better panel. You can ship items directly to us at any marina along our route, or to our sailing whanau at Tauranga Bridge Marina, c/o Windfola.

I really appreciate everyone who has encouraged us in our mission to shine a light for foster youth around the world. Thank you so much for all of your support and cheer along the way! We couldn’t do this without you.

xo & fair winds,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕19 October, 2020; Whitianga, New Zealand

Sail Sport Talk Radio interview!

Very excitingly, I was asked to do an interview on Sail Sport Talk radio! I was super honored, because they have interviewed some absolute LEGENDS in the sailing world, like Sir Robin Knox Johnston, Terry Hutchinson, and Jeanne Socrates… I was even a bit surprised they’d asked me!

Karen and Rick, the program’s hosts, were kind and absolutely delightful to talk to. I hope you’ll take a moment to listen to the interview, and if you like sailing news, tune in every Tuesday morning to have a listen to their great shows!

Returning to the Salt Life

The wind is howling outside, but this 22-knot breeze is nothing compared to the weather we’ve endured for the past 48 hours. Anchored securely in the sand of Coralee Bay on Great Mercury Island, Windfola has been swinging from northwest to southwest and back again in sustained winds of 26-32 knots. (And those are the conditions we arrived in, so you can imagine what the sailing and anchoring was like.) Last night, gusts of 35 knots hit us beam on during ill-timed swings. But we are safe, and thankful for our 15 kilogram Rocna anchor and the catenary created by 39 meters of 8mm chain in just 6 meters of water.

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

As I’ve studied and planned for this journey, my head sometimes seems like a jumble of facts and figures. What are the forecast wind speeds, swell heights, and periods? How many nautical miles in each direction to a safe harbor? How much water and fuel do we have left? How many seconds between flashes of the signal light on that point of land? Depths, weather, fuel, water, charts — my mind is full of these numbers because I treat every sail as seriously as a trans-oceanic passage and prepare accordingly.

My high-tech bunk-drying system.

But this sail is just the prologue to a much greater journey ahead of us, and it is probably my study of the 2,800 nm course I’ve planned that has filled my head with so many details. (More on that soon.)

For now, we are dodging gales along a coast we’ve traveled twice before, destined for a place we’ve not yet been: Auckland. Windfola’s new rig and improvements are holding up well and it’s been nice to let her fly faster than ever. My feet (and Zia’s paws) haven’t touched the earth in four days, and I have eaten the same legume-based dish out of my pressure cooker for every major meal since we departed five days ago. The ice in the cooler has all melted away, there’s condensation under the mattress in my bunk, and there’s only occasionally a cell phone signal. With no heat aboard, Zia and I are snuggling up to a hot water bottle twice a day just to stay warm. And, I couldn’t be happier about it all!

Windfola woke me up last night in the rowdy weather, thrumming a beat with an errant halyard that I’d forgotten to tie off. I ventured above deck in the chilling midnight air to quiet the line. My body felt alive and strong in the cold, caring for my sailboat under the stars.

That’s the same feeling I had at the helm yesterday as we approached the island. I eased the main in a 32-knot gust, and when I peeked over the dodger to look at the water ahead of us, a wave seemed to leap right out of the sea and collapse on top of me. Freezing cold or soaking wet, nature reminds me that I am small… but I hang on to the helm and that makes me feel powerful.

We’ve returned to the salt life, and I’m in love.

xo & fair winds,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕29 September, 2020; Coralee Bay, Great Mercury Island, New Zealand

Big Boat Projects For a Big Sailing Project

Sitting in Windfola’s snug interior, I’m staring at a hole in my roof as I write this. It’s a glaring sign of the major work we’ve undertaken since returning to Tauranga three weeks ago, and perhaps the most obvious reason why we’re not sailing right now. Windfola’s mast has been craned out of its through-deck home, and along with her mast have gone all of the cables that hold it in place.

When it comes to our rig — all of the wires and fixtures that hold up the mast — I’ve known for the last 18 months that we were on borrowed time. I’ve done all I can to take it easy while we cruise, never pushing too hard and always reducing sail early when the weather pipes up. I’ve lovingly sat outside in downpours of heavy rain so I could scrub the swages at the ends of the wires, and after letting them dry in the sun, soothed them with smelly, thick Lanacote grease, akin to balm on a baby’s bum. But even the best of TLC could not negate the fact that Windfola’s cables were 17 years old, and that is seven years of hard use beyond their recommended lifespan. They were a ticking clock. And it stopped ticking a week and a half ago.

I’d intended to limp on a bit longer with our mast’s cables, because we have big sailing plans ahead that I hoped would draw a sponsor to fund replacement. I decided to do only one expensive project now: haul Windfola out of the water. To start our upcoming sail we need to be able to travel from port to port on the North Island of New Zealand, but invasive species cling to the bottoms of boats with depleted anti-fouling paint. It had been 16 months since our last bottom repainting in San Diego, and New Zealand harbors won’t permit a boat to enter with a paint job more than six months old (unless they receive a monthly pressure washing). If we wanted to sail on, we had to haul out and repaint.

Fortunately/unfortunately, a rig inspection while we were out of the water revealed that a wire in one of the cables was broken. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when, other wires and cables would break, leaving the mast unsupported in time of need. I made the difficult decision — made easier by a kind price break from a local rig shop — to go ahead and replace all of her wires. I finished her bottom projects, and we dropped a freshly-painted Windfola in the water. The kind and competent folks at Bridge Marina Travelift immediately craned out her mast and rig, and on that rainy morning, I motored her vulnerable, naked body back to a slip in the marina.

I’ve placed blue tarps like giant Band-Aids over the holes in her deck, and now we wait together, unable to sail, while all of her new cables are fabricated. It’s strange how the moment she’s disabled by a project like this, the itch to cast off the dock lines and fly free engulfs my whole body like an allergy-induced rash.

I’m grateful for the kindness here, to be in this community while we undertake such big projects, but I long for the open water and the wind in my hair. I long for freedom. I long for choice. And I mourn their loss, a mourning that unites my heart with those of so many others throughout the world, navigating unanticipated changes that have brought on new and frustrating limitations.

And so, I recenter myself on what I can still do. I can still wake up every day. I can still tell my friends I love them. I can still set goals. I can still dedicate this journey to a purpose: to raise awareness about and hope for foster kids.

Since we can’t safely leave New Zealand, I’ve decided to take a detour in our global circumnavigation by taking on a smaller — but still majorly challenging — circumnavigation this summer, and use the trip to fundraise for a foster care organization. Once Windfola is pieced back together, we’ll set out on this new endeavor, and I couldn’t be more excited for the demanding sail ahead. Setting a goal that will enable us to carry on making a difference has brought me hope in this time of loss, given me purpose when it was all too easy to feel I didn’t have one anymore.

My wish for you right now is that you might center yourself on what gives you purpose in these times, and set that as both your anchor and your light on the horizon. We are in this together, and there is so much we can still do for ourselves and for one another. Turn toward that light, and don’t lose sight of the horizon.

xo & fair winds,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕25 August, 2020; Tauranga, New Zealand

Hauling Out!

Our hardstand boat life for the next week: scroll through the photos to spot all the boat projects (and what Zia’s up to...!)

First: studying the design schematics for the rudder so I can drop it, inspect, and repair the gland, which is leaking rusty water droplets

Then, replacing the cutlass bearing — that’s the bearing in the strut that comes off of Windfola’s hull to support the propeller shaft.

Servicing all of the through-hulls, and cleaning out the barnacles of growth inside , sanding and fairing some chips out of the bottom, re-doing the anti-fouling paint to prevent bringing invasive species from one NZ port to another, and popping a couple of small blisters in her hull.

During the brief motor around to the travelift well at Bridge Marina Travelift the engine died , but thank goodness for Tony & the fella on the runabout here at Tauranga Bridge Marina, who towed and glided us into the dock with ease. Tony says, “Remember the first rule? Don’t panic!” And it’s much easier not to when you’ve got pro help like him around!

Zia is visiting the lovely Pammie’s super cool boat kids so she can be happier and more at peace while I give Windfola her TLC. Thank goodness for beautiful friends like them, and for sailors helping sailors! We are so lucky and thankful to have landed here.

Time to go to work...

Going "Home" to Tauranga

Have you ever left a place, returned, and felt you’d come home? After three weeks out cruising the coast of the Coromandel, we returned last night to Tauranga Bridge Marina . . . and home. ❤️

Sailors always help each other, but the sailing family we’ve found here is extra special. I decided to return to Tauranga because Windfola needs TLC on her bottom; we are overdue to haul-out. I’ve been fighting an ear infection for a week, so I arrived feeling tired & nauseous, on an ebb tide with a lot of current. Though she’s away right now, the local and ever-nurturing Sonya made time for a chat to boost my confidence before I came into the harbor. Then boat neighbor Pammie — and goddess in her own right — came to catch our lines. The endlessly kind marina manager, Tony, kept an eye out for my sails, & sent me a kindly text reminder as the light waned to turn on my nav lights. He came out in the runabout to boost us into the slip if the current fought me too much.

Dock lines were secured and then a whole parade of friendly faces came by — sweet Thami, Sonya’s Trevor, and another local lady sailor/racer, Rachael. Everyone smiled & welcomed us back, with pets for Zia & hugs for me. We were offered dinner company, an invite to a game night, & rides to the grocery store.

Today, I was loaned tools for the projects ahead — like a cutlass bearing extractor! — and offered more support in the boatyard then I could ever have imagined. People here genuinely care and want to see us succeed at the big (surprise!) sailing project I have planned for the next six months. The boatyard owner has kindly squeezed us in and offered a terrific deal at one of the best DIY yards around, Tauranga Bridge Travelift . 🙌🍀

Family is something you create. Home is wherever you open your heart to others, and they reciprocate. A shepherd that I met recently on Great Mercury Island told me, “Why have enemies when you can have friends? Being grumpy doesn’t achieve anything.” In these times, it feels especially important to remember that it really is that simple.

The shepherd also said, “When it’s raining porridge, hold out your bowl!” 😂 New Zealand, and especially Tauranga, thanks for filling my bowl! 🙏❤️

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Winter Cruising in New Zealand, and On a Mission

Here we are, in chilly, wet, wintry New Zealand, the last place we expected to be during peak tropical cruising season! But, like so many people ashore, our plans have changed… changed to the point of having no real plans, but rather, living and taking each day as it comes.

The borders are closed all around us, and while there’s talk of some countries opening, we’d have to hurry through the islands to reach safety when cyclone season begins again in November. And that’s if each country after the next will even permit us to carry on with our itinerary (we not only need Fiji to be open to cruisers, but also the Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, Papua New Guinea, and then Indonesia). It’s safe in New Zealand, the people are kind, and it’s terrifically beautiful, so I’ve decided to take a more conservative course of action and stay here instead of venturing back to the tropics this winter.

The benefit of staying is that if things shut down again in November, we’re in a safe country and Zia has already gone through the expensive importation process. Another benefit: we were going to have to skip Australia, because Zia can only enter if we come directly from New Zealand. Now, if a trans-Tasman bubble opens, we could potentially choose a completely different itinerary, skipping the tropical islands and cruising Australia’s coastline until we reach the Indian Ocean.

In the meantime, I actually do have some plans. Two, in fact, and you can help with both!

1. We are going to do some epic sailing in New Zealand, and see more than most foreign cruisers do. What does that mean? Maybe we will circumnavigate one or both islands! Maybe we will even go to Stewart Island! I haven’t decided yet, and that’s where you can help: let me know where you think we should go! Have a sailor-welcoming friend somewhere you want to connect us with? Drop me a note!

2. I am going to connect with youth, especially foster children and their carers, as much as possible — both here in New Zealand and over Zoom to any other interested folks! I’ve already had the chance to speak about our journey with youth attending Happy Trails For Kids’ virtual Zoom Summer Camp, and speak on their theme, “Imagine . . . You Can!”. Now I’m looking for more opportunities to connect with kids. Do you know of a summer camp looking for speakers? Do you know a classroom, a social worker or foster parent association, or a nonprofit working with foster or at-risk youth? I am even willing to let opportunities in New Zealand decide our sailing itinerary: I will even sail to wherever they are! So, drop me a note and connect me. :)

As always, we couldn’t do this without the backing of our supporters, so please consider signing up to join the journey! For those of you who are already supporters, be on the lookout for new Logs in your inbox soon! Until then, you can stay posted on our day-to-day via our instagram or facebook.

xo & fair winds
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕

📍Mount Maunganui, Tauranga, New Zealand

Stories of Unpredictability

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Stories on stories on stories, these past few days, weeks, months. The stories unfold so quickly, each bleeds into the next. Before I can share one, another is writing itself.

A few days ago, I was debating about taking a long-awaited weather window that would allow us to sail south to the Sounds, but my replacement for a broken phone (under warranty) that I’ve been waiting a month for was going to arrive any day, I hadn’t been sleeping well due to the cold and dripping condensation on my face at night, and I wanted to finish and send a series of long-overdue pieces to our patient supporters about living through COVID in New Zealand, a strange experience intensified by finding myself so far from my grandma (best friend and only biological family) when she fell and disappeared rapidly into dementia, leaving me to grieve and coordinate her care from across an ocean, behind closed borders...

A few days ago, I was debating about taking a weather window to go south, and looked down over the side of Windfola to see my new kayak (replacement for the one stolen 2 months ago) was half deflated, filled with water, with a gash in one side, and I was out of glue to patch it...

A few days ago, I was debating about taking a weather window to go south, but needed water, so I cruised up through the port to the marina’s guest dock — the marina that welcomed me seven weeks ago when I hit my wrist and needed to go get X-rays —but after filling my tanks with water, I discovered my engine wouldn’t start again...

A few days ago, I was debating about taking a weather window to go south, but instead, I limped into the marina, where a supportive community of local sailors welcomed us — again — with hugs, kayak-patching glue, a dehumidifier, and fresh kiwifruit; and a kind marina manager helped me procure a discounted new start battery.

Stories on stories on stories. Kindness on kindness on kindness. Silver linings to every dark cloud. Exhausted and grateful and frustrated with myself for not writing more, faster, sooner... but just letting the stories unfold, hour by hour, day by day, week by week. This is solo sailing around the world: full of emotions, challenges, wins, rewards, and — most of all — unpredictability.