by karinella | Oct 20, 2016 | sailing
Pyxie is not just a sailing vessel. She is my castle, my cocoon and my magic carpet. She is where I find home. Wherever and whatever that is.
Home is where the boat is
The joy of living on a boat is not exclusively about the sailing. Sure, it is a lot about the sailing. A lotta lot. I am easily afflicted by harbour sickness. Having the mooring lines attached for too long makes both me and Pyxie antsy. So some days, when I don’t have the time or the wind to sail far, we putter off somewhere close, simply to drop anchor. Perhaps I’ll curl up in front of the wood stove, just listening to the rain and reading a book. Or bring a sleeping bag on deck to watch the stars. Even though I don’t live in a house, sailboat living allows me to be a total homebody, bake bread, do office work or practice yoga – all while being on a continuous journey. With Pyxie I can cover great distances, though not at speed. I call it snailing. I’ve got my house on my back, moving slowly around the world. She’s a self-sustained unit, and I can live off the grid for extended periods of time. With a bit of wind and sun my batteries charge up, a tank full of fresh water lasts a long time and I can store (and gather) enough food to keep me full for ages. What more could I ask for? A companion. Which I have.
Home is where the cat is
I’m not really sure who owns who, the cat or the human. The feline first mate is called Poesi, and she has been my companion for 18 years now. She has seen me through my best and through my worst, breakups and all. Like an old honey badger, she doesn’t give a fudge if I mess up. Actually, she’s asleep on my lap as I write this. Although she’s fallen overboard once (while moored, thank goodness) and had her whiskers torched by my clumsy stoking of the wood stove, her nine lives are still going strong. And although she’s peed on my duvet a few times, especially when we’ve sailed upwind in choppy seas, she loves her life on the boat just about as much as I do. I can tell. We’ve been together for half of my life, after all. She’s more at ease on the boat than in any city apartment we’ve lived in, even the one where she had a private backyard in Paris. She and me alike. I sometimes tell our sailing stories they way I imagine she would. You can check one out here, or follow us on instagram. Should I give her an account of her own, I wonder? She’s way more interesting than me, anyway.
Home is where the heart is
Right now, my heart is in the north. I set sail from Oslo last summer, and took my own, sweet time exploring the coast of Norway. I needed to learn how to sail alone, and there could be no better way of doing it than … doing it. I also wanted to explore my own concept of home. Now I’ve sailed up to Lofoten, north of the Arctic Cirle. I’m moored not far from the fjord and farm where I grew up, Grunnførfjord. Fjorden. The Fjord. This is the place where I know the names of every valley, rock and creek, where I know the best spots for chanterelles, cloudberries and mussels, where I spent endless hours playing witch and building tree houses, where I’ve broken in horses and practiced sheep midwifery. This is home. A piece of my heart will always be rooted here. Or, rather, this place will always be rooted in my heart, wherever I go. Not least because of the crazy, wonderful people I call my family. I wouldn’t have traded the love, space and magnificent nature I grew up in the midst of for all the ameneties, gadgets and extracurricular activities in the world. No, Mother, I did not grow up poor. I am forever grateful for all the riches you have given me.
Home where the moment is
Finishing off this ode to the boat, the cat and the people I love, I’d like to make a point that hopefully goes beyond my own, little world. To use hopelessly grandiose words that still fall short: Home is in the serendipitous, magic moments that comprise the here and now. In the good, the bad and the in between. Perhaps this sailing thing is just about making it easier to notice life as it unfolds. When the wind is howling in the rigging, and the seas build, I notice being alive all the more because death can be just a few knots away. When my morning view changes daily I see the landscape with newborn eyes. When my boat neighbour is 86 and still sailing solo it gives me immediate perspective. And when a new friendship in a port makes my heart sing, I can change my planned route in order to share aurora nights, secret anchorages, powertools, porpoise spottings, coffee mugs and sweet silence. I can just go with what life brings. And then sail on, with more songs and more friends around the next corner. Or the solitude that lies only a couple of nautical miles out to sea, at all times. This is what snailing is all about, for me. It is the source of continuous, magic moments. For you, the source might be something different entirely. Please, for the love of chocolate, can you do me the favour of listening in, and following the hunch – or the song – that resides inside of you?
Go home. That’s where it is.
by karinella | Oct 13, 2016 | sailing
On the Wind is already my favourite podcast on all things related to sailing. So do check out all the other episodes too!
Listen to the episode below or go to the 59 North website.
by karinella | Sep 21, 2016 | sailing
Home is where the boat is
After being away from Pyxie for eight(8!) months, it felt beyond amazing to be back home on the boat. But I wasn’t going to sail off into the sunset, not right away. I had a thing or two I wanted to upgrade and fix first … Two months later and I have done a fair chunk of the refit needed for serious offshore voyaging. Plus, and this is important to me, I have installed some solutions for an even greener boat! Hang in there, I’ll get to it in a bit.
Can we fix it? Yes we can
The expression “if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it” does not apply on a sailboat. Because if – or when – stuff breaks, there can be severe consequences. Waiting until the boat sinks is not the best of ideas. So while Pyxie was out of the water, I decided to take care of some issues on the hull. Or, rather, through the hull. Quick explanation for landlubbers: Wherever there is an outlet or intake for water, there is, obviously, a hole in the boat (a.k.a. through-hull). The same goes for things like the log (speed measuring thingie) and in some cases depth transducer. A wise person once said “the safest number of holes in the hull is zero. Most boats have at least seven.” Pyxie fell into the latter category. Two of them were not in use, so why keep them? I wasn’t having any such nonsense, so I drilled them out and added about fourty layers of fibreglass instead. Probably the scariest thing I have done so far in my sailing career. I literally cut open two huge holes in my boat. Luckily I had an amazing book, Don Casey’s Complete Sailboat Maintenance Manual, to help me through the process. It was gifted to me by a good friend who also gave me tons of advice along the way. Thank you so much, Lars!
Old, cranky cocks
Fitted on the through-hulls, inside the boat, there are seacocks. They’re called cocks because they inspire that kind of language when they don’t work. The purpose of them is to provide a way of closing the hole in the boat. Nifty, in other words. Broken seacocks and through-hulls are not just a theoretical safety hazard. Boats sink because of them. A neighbouring sailboat sank in its berth back in Oslo. I knew my seacocks were old, and one of them was frozen in a semi-open position. Strong men had tried and failed to move it, but it seemed impossible. Well, impossible is nothing. There was a jungle of hoses for the head (a.k.a. toilet) blocking access to it, and I was getting mighty p… off at the whole thing. It provided the perfect excuse to get rid of the sea toilet, one of the least eco-friendly things on the boat. Sure, it had a holding tank. A pretty small holding tank that nonetheless filled nearly the entire space underneath my bunk in the forepeak (so many hoses!). And whenever I pumped out, it stank. It felt like I had a smelly monster with tentacles snaking around in the underbelly of Pyxie. Armed with protective gear and powertools, I ripped the whole thing out. If you find decluttering your desk drawer satisfying, imagine pulling out dirty hoses and clearing lots of storage space under your bed. And I finally got that damn seacock changed. Yes, it felt good.
Airhead
To replace the old toilet, I decided to get a composting toilet. I had wanted this ever since I got Pyxie, and the timing was perfect. Unfortunately, there are no distributors of good quality composting toilets for marine use in Norway. But I found one in Sweden! Nuno Antunes, a Portuguese sailor and really interesting human being, loved his AirHead composting toilet so much he started importing them. So I contacted him to see if he could send one to Norway. Indeed he could! Nuno’s service and help was excellent, and shipping fast. I couldn’t be happier.
Good people usually have good stories, and Nuno is featured on my favourite sailing podcast On the Wind (then called 59 degrees North). You can find the episode with Nuno here, along with a whole range of other interesting interviews and resources. Highly recommended!
Installing the AirHead was a breeze, and I am so happy I did it. I can now truly say that I don’t pollute coastal waters with sewage! And, nope, it doesn’t smell. It’s not gross at all, actually. Some might think I’m retrograding rather than upgrading, and that a composting toilet is somewhere along the lines of a bucket or port-a-potty. Nothing could be further from the truth. I believe composting toilets are the future. Regulations for pumping out are getting more strict, and for good reason. The only thing I’ll miss about the old sea toilet is flushing at night and seeing lots of sparkling fluoresence swirling in the toilet bowl. But what more than weighs up is that I can now go night swimming, surrounded only by sparkles and not by … poop.
Fire, walk with me
Since Pyxie has an electrical engine, it felt really backwards that I was heating her with diesel. Sure, the Dickinson heaters are phenomenal. But I was tired of pouring diesel down my arm every time I refilled the tank, and of getting diesel in the bilge. Stinky and bad for the environment. Sure, I tried using bio diesel whenever I could find it, but it was far from a perfect solution. So I decided to install a small wood burning stove instead. I found the perfect match, a Pipsqueak! Super cute and small, just right for getting cozy on autumn and winter nights. It can burn bio pellets of leftover sawdust or wood from our plentiful forest in Lofoten. Plus, I can collect driftwood and dead, dry branches when I’m anchored, so fuel can be as good as free – and make a very small impact on the planet.
Blue Flag
Installing the composting toilet and wood burning stove made me feel like it was about time Pyxie flew a Blue Flag. You might have seen it on beaches and marinas, and occasionally on boats. It’s a great sign. It means measures are being taken to protect the marine environment. Clean beaches and safe water to swim in is one consequence. Healthy marine ecosystems is another. Although you and I might feel like we are but small individuals without much impact on the global environment, we can all make a difference. Our individual choices impact the world, right here and now, and are all part of a larger picture. Plastic waste, chemicals and sewage from private boats are very real problems in coastal areas – and so unnecessary. Any boat owner can go online, read up and pledge to follow the code of conduct, and for that get a Blue Flag or sticker to spruce up the boat with (In Norway, go here!). It’s a great way of spreading the message, like ripples in water.
I encourage everyone with a boat, beach or marina to take the plunge!
List of upgrades and new gear
(for you boat geeks out there):
Removed hot water tank
Removed pressure water pump (freshwater)
New plumbing
Installed foot pump in galley (freshwater)
Installed new faucet in galley
Moved freshwater tank from starboard bunk to bilge
Removed sea toilet, tank and hoses
Installed Airhead composting toilet
Installed composite (TruDesign) seacocks
Removed and sold Dickinson stove
Installed Pipsqueak wood stove
Stripped all exterior teak
Stripped most of the interior teak
Applied Le Tonkinois eco friendly oil varnish on all teak
Painted bulkheads
Painted cabinet doors
Painted the bilge
Painted inside of bunk lockers
Removed log
Drilled out and glassed in two through-hulls
Rebedded two portlights in the salon
Installed one new portlight over the chart table
Fixed leak in bilge pump outlet
Repaired nicks in rudder and keel
Repaired scratches in gelcoat
Polished gelcoat
Painted new bootstripe
New dorade vents
Installed cat litter box inside bunk
Installed new regulator for wind generator (thank you, Martin!!!)
New 25w solar panel for fridge
New life raft
New propane alarm
inReach explorer emergency beacon
New sprayhood made by the amazing Norlense!
New inflatable kayak (ok, that’s fun stuff)
In the making:
Install automatic bilge pump
Salt water tap in the head stateroom
Salt water tap in the galley
Install new 100w solar panel
Install inverter
Complete renewal of 12v electrical system
New cabin lights
New anchor lantern
New cockpit tent, lee cloths and lazy bag by Norlense
New compass
Wind vane (looking at a second hand Aries)
by karinella | Aug 2, 2015 | sailing
See, it’s supposed to mean bad luck to rename a boat, unless it’s done right. There might be many reasons for this belief. One theory is that renaming a boat without asking the gods of sea and wind for permission might cause anger and thus misfortune for the ship and crew. A more likely, but sightly boring one is that a commercial ship that had clearly been renamed might be a sign of bankruptcy.
No matter the reason, I do believe in infusing life with a bit of magic and ritual. It makes me feel connected to whatever it is I set out to do. And in this case, it made me feel connected to the boat itself and the powers of the sea and the wind. It’s quite simple, really. It’s about attention and reverence. The ocean is vast and enourmously powerful. Giving a bit of thought to that, and carrying out a ceremony or ritual that somehow shows humility is never a bad idea in my opinion, if only for the sake of my own mindset.
So I decided to do the renaming right. Not necessarily right as in following the rules set out by someone else and spread across the internet. Just right according to my own intuition. The full moon does have a lot of power, whether you call it scientific or magical. And on July 31st there was a
Blue Moon. Not as in a moon with the colour blue, but a phenomenon that occurs only once every two to three years where there is an «extra» full moon, in this case a second full moon within a month. It is thought to be eeextra magical. In addition, this night marked my last night sailing solo for a while, and also being at the southernmost point of Norway before rounding the cape of Lindesnes and turning north. So I really couldn’t find a better moment to carry out a little renaming ceremony.
I did remove all traces of the old name first, and cleaned the boat thoroughly both inside and out. Then, as night fell, I sat on the bow communing with the powers of the sea in my own way. And, yes, I sacrificed a little bit of wine for the gods too. When that was done, I placed the vinyl stickers with Pyxie on the boat. And, lo and behold, just as I had stuck the name on and was ready to draw the covering film off someone sent up fireworks! Yes! Pretty decent fireworks too, as it turned out. I then made another toast and sacrificed more wine to
Poseidon,
Aeolus and
Yemanja, asking them in turn for their protection for my little ship. It just felt right, and I had a very happy night.
Now I am ready to round the corner and go north with a properly named boat.
Cheers to the wind who seems to be turning in our favour tomorrow. May we sail safely with a gentle breeze in our backs.
