Ruby Gates — Alone Across the Pacific

As far as I know, I am the only woman to have sailed singlehanded from Mexico to French Polynesia in 2024. I spent 30 days at sea talking to myself, scolding birds who pooped on my deck, shushing fear, dancing to the moon, and mistaking stars for ships. I ate when I liked, slept when I liked, and read a big, thick book. I argued with myself about tactics and congratulated my equipment on a job well done. When it rained, I took a shower. When the wind died, I rested. When it stormed, I cursed.

I did all of this as I steadily made progress across 3,000 miles of the South Pacific.

I had been sailing up to this point for almost 10 years, and singlehanding for two. I bought my Jeanneau 39, Makani, in Mexico and sailed her up and down the Sea of Cortez — and always south to Zihuatanejo for Guitar Fest in early March. But I was getting weary of Mexico. It wasn’t long before the call of French Polynesia caught my ear.

So early one morning in April 2024, I hauled anchor and set sail for the Marquesas. I was fully provisioned and fueled up, had parts for my parts, and held enough optimism to beat a tough day ….

The sea swells argue with the currents flowing off Baja, and my first few days have me cursing more than praising the seas. Eventually, I melt into the rhythm of the rolls and start realizing exactly what I have committed to. This ain’t your mama’s Sunday trip to the farm. No, ma’am — this is pure solitude against the backdrop of seas that will eat you for breakfast. I was well prepared for the conditions, but my sail to French Polynesia was to take some strange turns I couldn’t have prepared for.

Not more than 10 days into my passage, I see what looks like a windsurfer about 100 meters to port. The skies are gray and the seas heavy, with huge swells growing and receding like a velvet curtain trying to smother my stern. The closest land is more than 1,000 miles away, and the nearest sailboat 50 miles to my southwest. I message my brother, who is my emergency contact, to see if someone is trying for a windsurfing world record — upwind across the Pacific. I can’t otherwise explain what I’m seeing!

The “windsurfer” circles behind me and dips into and out of sight, riding the swells deep off my stern. I freeze — is this a bold and clever pirate with a mothership nearby? A hallucination? Whatever it is, it’s eerie and out of place. I squint my eyes; I can’t even see a human on board that thing!

It finally shows up on AIS as an “un-manned vessel” — and eventually I receive information that it’s a sailing drone, remotely controlled from some cozy spot in California. Who’da thunk? I’ve never seen a sailing drone, and I quietly applaud its pluck and courage to be out here, sailing upwind no less, a smudge on the heaving swells behind me. My growing panic over newfangled pirate strategies subsides. I feel like an ancient sailor colliding with a taunting time traveler from the future as I sail the same seas vessels have covered for hundreds and hundreds of years — with a sailing drone. Huh.

I sail on and eventually slip into the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). Squalls hound me. I spend a lot of time trying to avoid them, even slowing down hoping the ITCZ thins out a bit. But my sophomoric strategy doesn’t work, and I find myself encountering squalls so often I become used to them: 30-knot winds at night with seas too dark to see are hallmarks of my passage. So is my swearing.

At first I try to avoid them, but learn quickly they are mostly unavoidable. I develop a quick-draw sail plan before they catch up to me, often pulling the reefing trigger moments before I normally would have even thought about reefing. I’m getting good!

One night I’m hove-to, squalls on three sides of me. The sun is setting, bruising the sky in deep grays and purples, leaving an ominous, lingering green tinge. Suddenly I see a boat on my AIS! I haven’t seen another sailboat in weeks, and my delight is that of a 6-year-old surprised with a petting zoo in her front yard. Eagerly, I hail the approaching vessel.

My excitement soon turns to concern, as the boat coming straight at me is not acknowledging my hails. The great South Pacific shrinks quickly when a boat is going 7 knots and has you in their crosshairs. I hail them again, and again, no response. By now the sky has darkened into a thick soup and visibility is poor. The squall to the east begins pushing toward me and rain pelts my deck. The vessel is coming closer, quickly.

Continue reading in the September issue. You’ll be pleased that you did!