by: Jamie Chase

In a few minutes the rim of the sun will finally peek over the eastern horizon from behind me as we sail southwestward.  I’m cold, a damp cold, and 1,000 nautical miles from land on the Pacific Ocean, though not quite south enough to be considered tropical sailing.  The gray light offers no warmth, but the promise of the minutes ahead does.  I have almost finished the last watch of the night, and soon enough I’ll be passed out in my berth below, recharging for a couple hours before my next turn on deck.  Before that happens though, the rituals of welcoming the new day begin.  From down below in the galley the first hints of the aroma of strong coffee percolating in the French Press waft up the companionway into the cockpit.  Soon enough, someone will venture out into the cockpit with a mug for me, with its steaming jet-black contents sloshing about in the half-full cup as we weave through the swell.  I’m helming (steering) the boat, so I time quick grabs at the mug with one hand, and a few brief sips to coincide with lulls in between the biggest waves.  At about the time that I finish off the coffee the light changes from gray to yellow with the sun’s debut above the tops of the waves on the horizon.

            As the objects around me begin to warm from the radiation beaming on to the boat, a new smell begins to build from below decks.  I can faintly hear the sizzling coming from the three-burner stovetop in the galley, and my anticipatory salivation begins.  The distinct greasy smell of frying grows stronger, and there is no mistaking which culinary delight will be arriving soon.  Of course, it’s the exact same meal we’ve had every morning, for over a week and a half now; yet, I look forward to it every dawn as if it were the finest meal I’ll ever eat.

            A few more members of the crew, still on their off-watch time, make their stiff, squinting way out into the cockpit to wake fully, absorbing the solar energy into their skin.  Plunking down throughout the cockpit they too have been drawn out by the sun, and the promise from the galley stove.  I haven’t perused the latest weather forecast yet, and the sky overhead does not give any definite answers of what the day will bring.  It has been a chilly and overcast passage so far, but without any extremes of meteorological note.  Today could end up clear and hot, or we might be in for more clouds and rain; neither really matters as long as the wind cooperates.  

            A disembodied hand belonging to the skipper (and exclusive galley chef) reaches up the companionway from below, balancing a couple of bowls that are eagerly snatched up by crewmembers sitting closest to the hatch.  Each bowl contains a fork embedded in a small mixed heap of its steaming contents.  The best offshore meals are always one-bowl affairs; whatever the meal may be, its ingredients are all piled together in a form that can be eaten with a single utensil.  Bracing your feet on something solid allows you to hold the bowl with one hand close to your mouth, and shovel its contents in with the other, with a minimum of mess or fuss.  Any meal requiring you to place a plate on a table, in order to use a knife and fork in tandem, is almost a guarantee that you will only enjoy half your meal as you pitch about in the waves, with your table heeled over at a 20 degree angle.  

 Minutes later, a crewmate finishes his breakfast and steps in behind the wheel to take over from me so I may too have my turn at the “breakfast table”.  Sure enough, a couple more bowls are on their way out to the cockpit, followed closely by the skipper himself, and now all six of us onboard are seated out in the fresh morning ocean air.  This moment and another quick gathering in the evening, before the start of the night-watches, will be the only time that the six of us can relax and chat together.  There are plenty of other times that we’re all on deck, but those are usually frantic sail changes, reefing the sails down in high winds, or fixing newly broken gear: times that are all business, with zero time for non-essential chatter.

The Red Sheila Crew in Victoria, BC, 2016 Vic-Maui Race.             

 - The Red Sheilla Crew in Victoria, BC, on the day of departure: 2016 Vic-Maui Race. - 

The bulk of the meal consists of fried shredded potato, and it is topped with a gloriously runny over-easy egg.  The egg’s golden yolk will act as a sauce throughout the bowl once my fork breaks into it, but the real enchantment of this concoction comes from its third ingredient.  It is a food product that, before this trip, I had scorned and avoided: a substance that I would condescendingly have derided as not fit for human consumption.  An item only worthy of being fed to an animal, or being made fun of in a Monty Python skit.  That’s right: Spam.  Fork-shredded and pan-fried Spam.

            Way over-salted homogenous, unidentifiable mystery meat that when being fried does not have the olfactory appeal of bacon or sausage.  In fact, the smell of it being heated can be rather unappealing.  It can sit in storage unrefrigerated seemingly indefinitely.  That is one of its primary reasons for being stocked on board a sailboat: that it can be loaded into some forgotten storage locker and will reliably be just as “fresh” as the day it was stuffed in there.  This is the magic and crucial third ingredient in the morning’s source of sustenance; glorious, salty, delicious fried Spam.

            Maybe it is just my physically taxed body crying out for electrolytes, maybe it is the breathtaking setting of partaking in the breaking of the fast while in the middle of the open ocean.  Perhaps it is just my associations with that meal as a part of welcoming a new day at sea.  Most likely, a combination of all those things is what created a special place in my heart, and in my stomach for this otherwise strange concoction.

            Now, here I sit, four years to the day since the start of what remains as my most epic ocean voyage thus far.  I am not in the galley, nor the cockpit of a sailboat.  I am at my dining room table at home far from the sea.  I had no sensible reason for buying a can of Spam at the grocery store last week; my house is close to the store and we have ample refrigeration.  Since I am not able to be at sea right now though, I suppose I am still suffering a salt-deficiency of sorts.  A steaming bowl of hash browns, Spam, an egg, and happy memories seem to be exactly what’s needed.