On the day we left, winds were tumbling off the mountains, and williwaws were raising great sheets of spray off the bays. A gale had just passed. Rather than waiting another day for the weather to settle down, we elected to get going so as to be as far north as possible when the next gale inevitably caught us. Once again, we were entering that different realm that is an inescapable part of the sailing life. For the umpteenth time in our nine years of full-time sailing, we were going on passage.
As we came out of the lee of the island, the Southern Ocean swell began to sweep down on us, wave after wave lifting us up as it sped by. Galactic was knocking along with three reefs in the main and a scrap of jib. Elias is the only one of the family to be blessed with a cast-iron stomach, and the rest of us were immediately fighting off seasickness with various degrees of success. That night we hove-to, partly out of concern over hitting an iceberg in the dark, but largely because neither Alisa nor I were really fit to stand watch.