Our "Lady Charlyette" is ready. Even the spinnaker pole is already sticking out to the side, making the boat look less elegant and reminiscent of a bulky fishing trawler. From a distance, our boat looks so small and vulnerable. This nutshell will carry us 4,000 nautical miles across the vast ocean, through waves and wind. We, my husband Stefan and I, have been living on her for four years. It has taken us from Europe across the Atlantic to the islands on the west coast of Panama, on the edge of the Pacific. We set our start across the endless expanses for 30 January. Mentally and morally, I am ready and looking forward to the land beyond the horizon. Morning tea and muesli are obligatory beforehand. The stomach must never be empty at sea. That means eating something every two hours or so. Then the anchor chain rattles at the bow.
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One sail after another is set. In the lee of the island, however, they flap around listlessly. Very slowly, our "Lady" starts to move. It's a slow-motion start in every respect. I soak up the beautiful landscape of the island world once again. The rock sculptures become imperceptibly smaller. A fishing boat comes towards us, hotly contested by seabirds. The green coast of San José gradually loses its contours and colours. "Farewell, enchanting Las Perlas, oh beautiful Panama! See you again in the South Seas, all you other sailors! Please come back soon! I look forward to seeing you again," I call back in my mind.
Thousands of nautical miles of endless Pacific ahead
"Wild Thing 2", "Meerla", "Avanti", "Anixi", "Rumb Runner", "Cavatina", "Cerulean", "Wadura", "Pangaea", "Trinity", "Altimate", "Matilda", "Obelix" and their crews appear one after the other in my mind's eye. They are all travelling the barefoot route just like us. We have met them at least once and have kept in touch ever since. Some of them will be travelling to the Marquesas after us. Others are heading for the Galapagos Islands despite the strict regulations. One boat will even sail directly to the Gambier Islands in order to reach the Tuamotus from there. These islands are said to be very worth seeing, but are so far south that they are already in the cyclone area. Our boat is only insured against storm damage there from May onwards.
Las Perlas is now just a narrow dark strip on the horizon. Now the promised wind slowly makes itself known. First a gentle gust comes and tightens the genoa, then another one, and suddenly the "Lady" roars off. The wind is blowing from the side. That's her favourite direction. We also set the small jib. Now our floating house is travelling through the water at seven to nine knots with four sails. The sound of the bow and stern waves is music to the ears. The gentle swell ensures undisturbed sailing pleasure. We are at sea with few waves and the perfect wind. My mind detaches itself from the land. My eyes look ahead to a straight blue horizon. Ahead of us lie days and weeks with this view, thousands of nautical miles of endless Pacific, the legendary South Seas. Beyond the horizon, French Polynesia awaits us. Marquesas, here we come!
Poesie des Pazifiks
Wild und wunderschön: Eine Segelreise durch den Pazifik
Der Pazifik, oft als friedlicher Ozean bekannt, präsentiert sich von einer faszinierenden und herausfordernden Seite. Ricarda Wilhelm, die zunächst wenig für die Weiten des Ozeans übrig hat, wird dennoch von der Aussicht auf das Segelabenteuer in der Südsee gelockt. Zusammen mit ihrem Mann und Kapitän begibt sie sich auf eine Reise durch die beeindruckende Welt der polynesischen Inseln, von den Las Perlas bis zu den Marquesas und Atollen der Tuamotus.
Eine Reise voller Farben und Eindrücke
Ricarda Wilhelms Erzählung bringt die farbenfrohe und bildgewaltige Landschaft der Südsee zu Ihnen nach Hause. Ihre Schilderungen lassen den Leser förmlich neben ihr im Bugkorb durch das glitzernde Blau gleiten, begleitet von Meerestieren wie Delfinen und Schildkröten.
- Umfassende Hintergrundinformationen: Erfahren Sie mehr über die faszinierende Natur, Kultur und Tierwelt der Südseeinseln.
- Praktische Segeltipps: Nutzen Sie wertvolle Ratschläge für lange Segelreisen, direkt aus der Erfahrung einer Abenteurerin.
- Ehrliche und humorvolle Erzählungen: Genießen Sie eine authentische Darstellung, die sowohl die Schönheit als auch die Herausforderungen des Segelns offenbart.
Die duale Natur des Segelns: Romantik und Herausforderungen
Neben den idyllischen Momenten der Reise beschreibt Ricarda auch die Härten der Segelwelt. Sie teilt die Höhen und Tiefen ihrer großen Fahrt, spricht über Gefahren, Risiken und die Notwendigkeit von Ausdauer, um den Traum zu verwirklichen. Diese Reisebeschreibung ist eine Einladung zum Träumen und Mitsegeln, angereichert durch die vielen besonderen Erlebnisse und Begegnungen auf dem weiten Meer und den nahezu unberührten Inseln.
Erleben Sie den Zauber der Südsee durch die Augen einer Seglerin, die sich auf ein unvergleichliches Abenteuer eingelassen hat.
The waves rush in evenly and flatly from behind. Yes, this is how we imagined sailing in the Pacific. This ocean lives up to its name and is peaceful. The trade winds are a little weaker than promised, but they move us along quickly. Despite the speed, our boat lies calmly in the water. We can continue like this. We need the entire first day to cross the Gulf of Panama. That's how big it is. The routes always look much shorter on the map.
First night voyage on the Pacific goes smoothly
The first sunset bathes the sky in front of us in warm colours. We sail westwards, following the course of the sun and moon. Over the next few weeks, the Fire Star and the Earth's satellite will disappear behind the horizon in front of the bow, only to reappear behind us a few hours later. The journey continues apace at night too. We don't stay awake to keep an eye on things. However, Stefan always sleeps in the cockpit during a crossing lasting several days. This allows him to react quickly if necessary. His ears are sensitive to the sounds of the boat. As soon as something changes, he wakes up.
I sleep below deck in one of the beds. Depending on the conditions, I choose the quietest place. The capitaño only wakes me up if he needs my help or has to leave the cockpit. The autopilot steers the ship independently 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It is the most hard-working and reliable employee on board.
At night, our devices see better than any human eye. The AIS warns us of ships coming closer than half a nautical mile. Radar waves see all elevations. Even the waves when they get too big. Our warning radius here is twelve miles. The radar also shows us thick rain clouds, which are usually accompanied by strong gusts. After an alarm, we have enough time to reef. To get the boat and crew safely across the sea, we must not give the wind too much room to attack. We would rather travel slower and longer than let the gusts smash our rig or tear our sails.
However, our first night is very quiet. We both sleep quite well and get up with the sun in the morning. It is already light before the red ball crosses the horizon. This diffuse blue light, which slowly changes to yellow and orange, creates a unique romantic atmosphere. It bathes the surface of the water in glowing gold, setting the mood for another precious day. "Live in the now and enjoy the present. No matter what happened yesterday, today everything is back to square one. Make something of it!", the shimmering air spirits whisper to me.
Slump on the horizon
We started at 9.15 a.m. and will therefore write the nautical miles travelled in the logbook at this time every day. This is the distance travelled after exactly 24 hours, one day, one etmal. That's why we never change the time on board during a crossing. Even if the sun rises about ten minutes later every day, our day on board always ends at 9.15 a.m. Panama time.
At the start of the crossing, this is long after our morning tea and muesli. Shortly before the finish, it will be before dawn. An alarm clock rings every day to make sure the time is right. Our first sea mark is 178 nautical miles. So we were travelling at an average of 7.4 knots. That's a good result. If the conditions are optimal, we can even manage a little over 200 nautical miles. Yesterday, however, we mostly had a knot of counter-current, so we didn't set a record on the first day.
If things continue to go so well, we'll reach our destination in three weeks. However, the winds are dying down and the counter-current is staying with us. That was a short pleasure. This early after the start, the weather forecast should actually still be right, and it offered us between 15 and 20 knots for the first four days. We would have gladly accepted that. With the current ten knots from behind, our 20-tonne "lady" is not making good progress. We are drifting rather than sailing. That's no fun, and we're not making any nautical miles.
Utilising every breeze on the Pacific
The butterfly sail with the spinnaker pole is a practical invention. To avoid rocking too much, you still have to cross a little before the wind. That means more distance. However, 4,000 nautical miles is far enough. So we decide to unpack the Oxley. This large light wind sail was modelled on a kite. It stands in front of the bow and we affectionately call it the Ox. The exceptionally thin material is designed to hold up even in particularly light winds. The sail inflates, becomes smooth and bulbous. Now it shows itself in all its splendour. We pick up speed again - until a large wave ruins all the beauty. What a bummer!
This is an important lesson on our journey. Waves can be a knock-out criterion for sails. If there is too little wind, they can cause the boat to sway to such an extent that even the most well-cut and positioned sails lose their profile. Then the wind cannot press on the surface and the journey is over. As a result, the boat rocks even more in the sea. This is now happening to us with this super ingeniously designed kite for sailors. It sets up tirelessly, showing itself in all its full splendour, only to collapse again with the next big wave.
It alternates between crackling and cracking. Each time we are afraid that the fabric will tear. Just one more knot of wind would solve the problem. But the weather gods don't take orders. We leave the ox standing for a while, but the umbrella keeps losing its balance. It collapses rustling, only to tear at the sheets when the wind catches it again. There is an explosive bang in the material. It hurts to see and hear that. We soon take this beautiful, expensive sail down again. The engine has to go.
Our boat only makes progress thanks to engine power
Hopefully the Passat will be back soon. After all, everyone praises its reliable and consistent power. It is the reason why the sailing routes are the way they are. Where has the wind gone? I sit in the cockpit and look out over the water. A long line of rubbish drifts towards us and past the boat. I recognise plastic bottles, slippers, pieces of polystyrene, smashed plastic pallets and even a life jacket. It looks as if a boat has sunk in front of us and all the floating rubbish is collecting here in a narrow stream.
The engine hums the entire second day and the following night. Although it only runs slowly to keep us going, my head is pounding. The waves and slow speed make the boat restless. Sleep is out of the question. During the day, the calm sea allows me to escape to the front deck. In the last 24 hours, our second day, we have only chugged 134 nautical miles towards our distant destination. "Marquesas, it will probably take a little longer." Even on the third and fourth day, our sails are only used briefly or not at all. The "Lady" motors across the largest and deepest ocean in the world at five knots. We have never travelled so long without wind power. You'd think there would be relatively reliable weather forecasts these days. We set off on the basis of such misinformation.
In the morning, we call up an up-to-date weather report via our Iridium. He sticks to his guns. All the models are of the opinion that the wind will blow at around 17 knots here and as far as the Galapagos Archipelago. Only there is a small wind hole to be expected. The reality is very different. Our floating home continues to bob in the doldrums and only makes progress thanks to engine power. We will soon have reached the annual average of 200 engine hours, and it's only February. At least we have the hard-working iron employee. Magellan and all the other old sailors could only wait.
Over time, even the sea calms down. We set sail in every gentle breeze and learn to enjoy travelling at two to three knots with three to four knots of wind. The waves roll softly and smoothly under the hull. In the morning light they billow like liquid gold. Only soft whispering waves appear on the surface of the water. It ripples slightly. On the fourth night, it is so calm that we can sleep again. After all. The Pacific really lives up to its name. The Germans call it calm. But nobody has told us that there is no wind. All the descriptions so far have assumed that it is called the Pacific because of its peaceful sea. I had hoped for wind and few waves.
The calm is wonderful for life on board
The advantage is that there are hardly any restrictions on board under these conditions. Not only can we go to the toilet and shower without any problems, we can also cook in a relaxed atmosphere. I read, write and learn French without feeling sick. Stefan even repairs a few things on the boat. It's the first time I've experienced this on a crossing. At night, we sleep together in our bed. That's never happened on the sea before either. I bake bread, cut up ripe fruit and even have dessert for lunch. I would love to go swimming, but the capitaño won't allow it. "It's far too dangerous," he always says. "A single unexpected gust could separate you from the boat. I want to keep you for a while longer."
How long will this lull last? It is wonderful for life on board, but not at all suitable if you want to make progress and arrive. Three to four weeks in the middle of an endless desert of water is long enough. We want to reach our destination as soon as possible and wish for the wind back. Hope dies last. The Pacific calms down more and more every day. By now, the "Lady" is hardly rocking at all. In the end, we fight our way through the calm for more than 1,000 nautical miles in ten long days and nights. The hours flow by like thick porridge. What do you do for so long on a boat that you can't get off?
There are two of us and we haven't saved any conversation topics for this situation. It would certainly be a bit more varied with more people on board. But then the captain would also be responsible for our fellow travellers. He wants to avoid that at all costs on such long journeys. Unfortunately, we don't have any real sailors in our family or circle of friends with whom we could embark on such a journey together. Having strangers on board for three to four weeks would be an additional risk for my husband. Especially as you can't predict the conditions at sea and the associated challenges.
It would also be cramped in the cockpit and below deck. The choice of seats would be limited and we would have to be more considerate. In rough seas, the space available is also reduced. I get seasick more quickly below deck. The shaded areas in the cockpit are also limited. If I feel unwell, I don't have to look after others. As much as I get bored and tired during the long lonely periods of togetherness, I still enjoy the familiarity with each other.
Visit on board
So for the first ten days, it's mainly setting and taking down light wind sails that keeps us moving. Apart from that, there's not much else to do. I make good progress writing about my travel experiences and learning French. We read one book after another and have new things to talk about. If it wasn't for the logbook, we would have to draw lines on the side of the boat for each day. They are so similar that you can't even keep count. But sometimes something surprising happens.
Quite unexpectedly, a small, delicate seagull lands on the foredeck, looks around and perches on the deck with its thin, long legs. This flying visit makes a welcome change. At first I don't move at all or only very slowly so as not to scare it away. After a while, the bird peers into the cockpit through the open front window. It doesn't take long for the curious seagull to poke through. It looks around anxiously, ready to retreat at any moment. As the unfamiliar people remain seated, just looking and seemingly not so dangerous after all, the bird relaxes. It looks around, drops a blob and returns to the foredeck. The open sky above his head is probably preferable after all.
Our visitor seems to want to go for a ride. She makes no attempt to use her wings. I fetch a few breadcrumbs from the kitchen. Perhaps the seabird has exhausted herself too much and needs new energy reserves. After all, Panama is now a good 600 nautical miles to the north-east behind us. Then I even sit on the foredeck with the delicate creature. Stefan films these unique moments.
In the end, the little seagull stays with us all day. Only when the sun is glowing red-hot in our pulpit does the seabird stretch its white wings, as if they need to be stretched a little first, and take off, never to be seen again. Bon voyage, little friend!
Read more: "Poetry of the Pacific"
Why is the Pacific Ocean called the Pacific Ocean?
The term "Pacific" means calm, peaceful. Nevertheless, there are also violent storms in this sea. The cyclone season in the southern hemisphere begins in November/December and lasts until April/May. Near the equator, there is the so-called Kalmen zone, known for little to no wind.
North and South America, New Zealand, Australia and East Asia frame the Pacific Ocean. It covers 35 per cent of the Earth's entire surface, making it larger than all the continents combined. This ocean of superlatives accounts for half of all the water on our planet, even without its oceans. This is also due to the fact that it is particularly deep. In places it goes down 11,000 metres.
The Pacific was not discovered by Europeans until the beginning of the 16th century, when a Spanish expedition crossed the isthmus in what is now Panama. At that time it was still called the Southern Ocean. Only Magellan would refer to it as the Pacific, the calm or quiet ocean. Rumour has it that he bobbed around in the doldrums for 100 days before the sails brought speed back to his ship.
How did Polynesia's islands come into being?
If we were travelling more than 60 million years ago, there would be no islands in the entire Pacific. Australia separated from Asia and drifted southwards. It was only 50 million years ago that the Tuamotus began to rise from the seabed.
Their formation took 20 million years. To date, the volcanic mountains have eroded completely. All that remains are their fringing reefs, which formed around the former islands and now enclose lagoons filled with seawater. Around 20 million years ago, the Gambier Archipelago formed a little further south. The Austral and Cook Islands then grew out of the ocean. They are still real islands today and are surrounded by a fringing reef.
Six million years ago, the Marquesas were formed and only much later, until about 20,000 years ago, the Society Islands. Today, there are all these patches of land on our way. Most of them belong politically to French Polynesia. They are spread over an area equivalent to that of the entire European continent.
