Land Ho

Ingrid Molitor
8 hours ago
5 min read

There are a few phrases sailors dream of saying out loud, and after 37 days at sea, crossing the longest open stretch of the Pacific without touching land, Peter and I finally earned one of them: land ho.

When the Big Island first appeared on the horizon, I had to call my wife and show her. Trying to describe the feeling of seeing land after more than a month at sea is nearly impossible. Relief, joy, excitement, and a quiet sense of pride all collided at once. Moments later, we stepped onto Hawaiian soil in Hilo. We made it. We arrived with almost no water, diesel fumes in the tank, and a noticeably leaner crew, but we made it.

The passage taught us more than any classroom ever could. It felt like an expensive and slightly risky college course in blue water sailing. Maybe we chose an aggressive route for sailors who are still a bit green, but if you are going to do it, you untie the lines and go. Hazel carried us safely and steadily the entire way, and she deserves the credit. Our journey is not finished yet. The final destination is Oahu.

Lemons into Lemonade

I want to begin this section by saying something simple. There are wonderful people everywhere in this world. I do not know if Peter and I are lucky, or if years of traveling for work have taught us how to connect with people quickly, but time and again we meet individuals who rise to the moment with generosity and good humor.

That was certainly the case as we entered the Hilo breakwater.

Since our last landfall was Costa Rica, we had to clear into the United States through Customs and Border Protection. The CBP Roam app lets you submit your case, complete a FaceTime interview, and present your documents, vessel, and crew. Once approved, you must complete several pages of paperwork before receiving your stamped clearance to enter the country. In Hilo, private vessels are allowed to stay only 48 hours without additional fees. We planned to stay no more than eight. All we needed was potable water and diesel.

After many phone calls, it became clear that Hilo Harbor had neither available for private boats. Everything was on the commercial docks, and private vessels are not allowed there. We were stunned. I called the harbormaster, who began the conversation by telling me, rather sharply, that we would never be allowed on the commercial docks. I asked him to consider the situation human to human. What if it were him? How could he help?

His tone softened. After a pause, he said he would give me a number and call ahead to explain. The woman he connected us with was warm and helpful. She told us to call her once we cleared customs. She would arrange a slip at her small marina, provide potable water, and from there we could take a short Uber ride to a nearby gas station for diesel. Hearing that felt like a weight lifting off our shoulders.

All we had to do now was get Hazel into the marina.

The entrance was shallow, exactly five feet at low tide, and we were at low tide. Rocks on the port side, a sandbar on the starboard side, and a narrow six foot channel that surged with the swell. Inside, the space was tight. Maneuvering Hazel would be difficult even on a good day.

Enter two lifeguards on a personal watercraft. After a short conversation, one dove the entrance to check the depth while the other stood by to assist if we grounded. Hazel draws five and a half feet on paper, but in reality she needs about six. We decided to wait an hour for the tide to rise.

Then came the next surprise. Hazel’s bow thruster did not work. Moments later, we discovered the windlass did not work either. No anchor. No bow control. Panic for me. Not for Peter. We spent the next hour driving slow figure eights on the last fumes of diesel, hoping we would not run out before even attempting the entrance.

When the hour passed, we made our approach. The lifeguards stayed beside us, ready to help. We slipped through the channel with what felt like five inches to spare. The depth gauge read five feet, though I still need to learn exactly how it measures. Once inside, maneuvering Hazel was nearly impossible. Her full keel is a gift offshore, but in tight quarters she refuses to back up or turn with any grace.

Once again, Peter worked his magic. He enlisted the personal watercraft as our temporary bow thruster. The lifeguard pushed Hazel’s bow into position while the second lifeguard jumped onto the dock, grabbed our lines, and tied us off. Between the two of them, they parallel parked Hazel into a narrow breakwall slip.

At the dock, we filled Hazel’s tanks with two hundred gallons of potable water. Then came the diesel problem. We had seven jerry cans tied to the deck, and the plan was to Uber them to the gas station. Before we began, we helped a commercial fishing boat dock in a tight spot. The fishermen were kind and appreciative. After some lively conversation with Peter about fishing, they offered to take their truck, which had a diesel tank and pump for servicing their fleet, to the gas station. They filled it and then came alongside Hazel to pump the diesel directly into our tanks.

How incredible is that. How generous can people be. I do not know if we are lucky or if decades of exposure to different cultures have taught us how to break down barriers quickly, but once again, people stepped in at exactly the right moment.

When the morning began inside the bay, everything felt like lemons. By the end of the day, thanks to the kindness of strangers, we had lemonade. After a nine hour turnaround, we were fully supplied and ready for Oahu.

And in case anyone is wondering, Peter found a local watering hole near the dock and celebrated with an impressive amount of beer and tequila. He is currently fast asleep, blissfully self medicated. Or maybe the happiest person on Hazel right now is me. I spent the night watch sailing along the most beautiful stretch of coastline on the Big Island, under a sky full of stars and a crescent moon lighting the way toward Oahu.

Is that what I think it is?