Equatorial Equinox
1977

The Seminole was a thirty-eight foot Atkins designed double ended cutter, sure footed and steady on, and not fast to weather. But to weather we would go, because we were on our way to Ahe’ in the Tuamotu Archipelego to meet Bernard Moitessier, and it was going to take some of that to get us there.

We were four on board. Patrick, a thirty-five year old Frenchman,  my new found mate who was heading home to Tahiti; Stephan, twenty one, a conscript in the French army on his way to serve his time in Tahiti and completely new to the idea of crossing oceans in small boats; and there was Amber, also French, beautiful, and along for the ride with me.

By the second week out we were thinking we could cross the Equator around the Vernal Equinox. It was something to focus on, a goal for getting more out of the sail trim, to pay more attention to steering and course. The weather had mellowed the farther we got from Hawaii, and it was getting warmer and smoother all the time. As we entered the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone with about four hundred miles to go, the wind got fluky and Seminole demanded more attention. But that was good for keeping the crew from having too little to do.

Light winds made life aboard most comfortable. By this time we were all living naked, and had worked out the watch schedules that fit us together best. There was a batik dyed sheet over the center cockpit behind the spray dodger. This turned the middle of the boat into a kind of nomad’s haven, with soft cushions and pillows, incense, playing cards, and reading in the shady comfort. The boat would steer herself with the wind vane for hours without touching anything. Music drifted from the stereo. We floated on the ocean.

On the day we were supposed to cross the line, the sea was inviting. The sky was almost cloudless, only the dark below. Our morning sun sight was already showing almost ninety degrees and we would be there most of the day. The heat fit with the searing sun directly over head almost all day long. We had no ice or booze, so it was popcorn and Big Island oranges that were our banquet. We hung out in the patterned light doing our best to stay on deck and in the coolest place. 

By noon we were almost perfectly on the Equator. I guess because we had imagined it so much, the ocean and the sky conspired to have us make it there to experience a true noon day sun. And it was a hang dog day in that heat. The wind was around three to five knots, barely rippling the surface, perfect for the full main, drifter, and light weight stays’l. With a low, long ground swell we were gliding along with pressure in the sails, heeled a few degrees. The quiet is distracting.

Then we heard the gasp of air exhaled and taken, the breath. Whale!

We threw open the sides of the tent, and off our starboard beam was a large whale, perhaps as long as the boat. It had taken a position alongside, about twenty feet or so from our rail. One enormous eye was looking at us, scanning from bow to stern. We all got on deck and stood at the lifelines, four naked humans, nothing to say. It watched.

We were about as far as you can get from any land on the planet. It was around twelve hundred miles to Hawaii, the same to Tahiti, and thousands more in the other directions.The chances of another human being within a thousand miles were more than slim. It was definitely a visit.

Then Patrick saw other whales off the bow. Soon the other crew members were looking and there were whales everywhere. Patrick and I went up the mast to the spreaders and saw dolphins leaping and whales spouting as far as could be seen in any direction.

When we got down from the height, Patrick went below and took the stereo speakers and put them next to the hull. He cued up Paul Horn playing in the Great Pyramids to the cut with the great whale sounds, and cranked the volume full on. Now the whales really knew we were there.

Even though the boat was only just making way, that big old whale slid along right next to us, looking, always looking with that big eye, an eye as big as a football. Everywhere we looked, we still saw whales and dolphins. Spinners were leaping, and bigger ones wheeling along in large pods. Our crew was included in a cetacean convention.

We must have been attractive out there, with our light weight genoa in bright yellow, a huge orange sunburst appliquéd in the middle. The genoa stays’l was light blue with an Earth sewn in, a view of the Pacific side of the planet that showed. Our tanbark red mainsail rounded out the odd and brilliant color scheme. We discussed what it was that would bring these hundreds, if not thousands of performing beings out to greet us on this auspicious day. The Equator at Equinox.

After about a half an hour, the big old boy who was watching us made a couple of wheeling moves and slid away. The others had been dwindling and soon the sea was empty, and we were alone again. The breeze was steady and the Seminole hardly moved doing two or three knots. Dreamy.

But the universe saved the big one for last with the sunset from heaven. I don’t know if something odd happens when you see a sunset at the Equator on the Equinox, but somehow it did to us. As the sky grew into deeper twilight, it appeared that there was a golden dividing line across the cosmos. Stars were visible, can’t remember the moon phase, but this sky was like it was split in two, horizon to horizon. The effect was short-lived, an afterglow, witnessed again in silent awe, simple naked humans treading the boundaries of space on a wet planet.

Barry Spanier
About a time in 1977