Before I go on, I just wanted to thank all you who have sent such kind and generous comments (and the few who’s comments are a little more acerbic!). I’m sorry I can’t answer them – I get them summarized by Alice in an email and I can’t actually get back to the blog directly from while I’m here on the boat, to post a reply. I do appreciate your kind words and concerns. All is well here.

Pip pip!

So, where I left you last time was immediately after the storm had passed and we had just gotten the boat moving again, on course and under sail. I went to my bunk once my watch was over at 06.00 and grabbed a little sleep, although the boat was still lurching quite badly and therefore it woke me up every time I slid across the mattress and either crashed into the Leeboard or into the wall – “crashed” might be a bit of an exaggeration – thudded, more like. Crashing would need a little more room! After a few hours I got up and went up to see what was happening. The seas were still very high and lumpy and the winds were averaging 40 knots, with the occasional gust at 50, much better than the previous night. The boat wasn’t terribly bothered by these winds, the issue was the sea state, which was still raging. We were clearly coming out from under the storm and so we should have been seeing better conditions than we were experiencing. Squalls would build astern of us and then overtake the boat and deliver about 5 minutes of wintery precip and then disappear. In the meantime, when the winds would build the seas would step things up just another notch as well, but when the wind would drop, the seas didn’t. Yesterday, early after lunch a few of us togged up and went forward to effect a Jerry-rigged repair to one of the whisper poles so we could pole out a head sail. This proved an interesting maneuver in such seas – and yes I was tethered on! Once this was done, the boat rode a little better, but still we were corkscrewed around about every 5 minutes. I have to say, everyone of us agreed, this boat action was getting old and needed to stop!

As most of the unpaid crew sat chatting in the pilot house, Ernesto and Juan were out in the cockpit with the watertight door between them and the rest if us open. They were trying to get a connection on Ernesto’s Sat Phone. The rest of us were watching the waves build behind the boat and tower over us, upwards of 20 ft. Generally they would slide beneath the boat, lifting the stern and driving the boat forward and downward, at speeds exceeding 25 knots. These waves, at these sorts of intervals have a tendency to eventually break, like waves on the beach. When they do and the timing is right, or wrong, depending on your perspective, they will “poop” the boat, as in come over the stern and flood the cockpit. Well, this was looking more and more likely, with waves getting progressively closer to breaking before they lifted the boat and not afterwards when they had slid under the boat. We watched as one came thundering down, narrowly missing the stern by inches – Ernesto and Juan didn’t see the wave, but the heard the noise and made a dash for the covered section of the cockpit, which would have afforded them no cover, as the waves would have come up and not down. We suggested they come inside, making it clear that we were going to close the door in order to avoid a flooded boat and they should choose which side of the door they wanted to be on. They wisely came inside and we closed the door just in time to watch a huge wave thunder over the stern of the boat, driving the back of the boat up and over to port and the front down and over to starboard, like a childproof top on a medicine bottle, water crashing into the cockpit and up to the door. The cockpit was awash with water, but the pilot house was dry and snug. Otto, the auto pilot manfully moved the boat back around and on we went.

Looking out over the sea, it is quite beautiful watching the waves battle with each other, driving forward, and us with them, seeming to be heading for somewhere ahead of us, always in a hurry. When the boat rose up to the top of a wave we could see all around us, and that’s when we see the white fizzing of the broken waves like the foam on a hot bath, or more likely a Jacuzzi. Over the tops of the waves it is possible to see that about a third are breaking and most of those are doing so at quite a steep angle, rolling over the top of themselves, folding under and then crashing down. When they surge and break they turn from a dull dark green to an almost luminescent turquoise – extraordinarily beautiful. Up close, we can hear the noise and at night, that’s the only way we can tell something is about to happen. The forecast said we would see moderating winds and calmer seas by that time. Well, we didn’t, so someone was telling fibs or just making thing up – poor show. All through last night, we saw winds of about 28 knots surge up every few minutes to the lower 40’s and then back again. To be clear, something we have all agreed upon, that in normal circumstances we would no more sail in 40 Kt winds, than we would watch a repeat of the Eurovision Song Contest (actually, the Eurovision is looking like the favorite there).

On the radar, we could see the ever present building squalls behind us, which then came up on either side of the boat, re-joining together just in front of us, meanwhile unleashing a ton of energy, mostly in the form of wind and hail. It’s like they were in a race to get out in front of us and churn the sea up in anticipation of our arrival. Watching the radar was like watching a cheap cable channel airing informercials on a loop – over and over again, the same scenario – Oxyclean on steroids! The frustrating thing is that this is apparently not normal in these oceans and while we were romping along at 9 – 10 knots most of the time, it was massively uncomfortable. Our sail plan was a main sheeted out with a second reef in, together with the poled out Yankee head sail reefed to about a third. When the wind went down, there was a tendency to want to go and let out more sail to better drive us forward, but then the winds would quickly build and five minutes later we’re flying along, over sailed at 40 knots. Bust to boom!

As of right now, we are about 600 Nm from Tristan, having complete about 1600 Nm over the last 8 days – so knocking out a very respectable 200 Nm a day. Our hope is to reach Tristran early on Wednesday morning and pray for the winds to back from the south west to the east, really the only wind direction that will allow us to land on the Island. The forecast isn’t looking too helpful, but it’s a few days out and things keep changing. We have some strong winds ahead of us, and that is fine, but we would all like to catch a break from these interminable big seas that are crashing the boat and throwing us all around. It is impossible to have something as simple as a shower because keeping upright take all four limbs to be in contact with the boat, so nothing spare to hold the shower or shampoo the head!

The mood on board is upbeat. We’re cooking good food – I made a mushroom risotto last night and Dave the skipper baked a great loaf of sun dried tomato and cheese bread – which he accomplished in the middle of the night. He asked me to take responsibility for taking it out of the oven when he went off watch and Thomas came on. I would rather have taken responsibility for manually helming the boat than taking the the bread out of the oven. In the end, the bread was excellent and we had it this lunchtime with a nice sun dried tomato and basil soup (made from the left overs of the day before’s vegetable soup). We’re basically pulling out any recipe that is nutritious, a little indulgent, but can be cooked in one pot! As I said in a previous post, our days are oriented around two cooked meals, prepared by whomever is on watch at the time of the meal – and the watch system works in three hour shifts, times the three teams, so you end up cooking two out of four days, which is very manageable. My watch buddy’s partner is an accomplished cook, which consequently means – he isn’t! However, he has a good palette! We are now a dry boat, so no pre-dinner snifter or wine with dinner – although I have cooked with wine a couple of times, but that burns the alcohol off! I don’t think any of us are missing beer and wine – the ride isn’t conducive to drinking! Life between watches is now routine as we’ve all settled in. We either sit around in the pilot house shooting the breeze (which is great given the mix of folks). Or, we sit down in the saloon reading or writing, or you lie on your bunk, which can mean dropping off to sleep – and either way you’re going to be thrown around.

Napping it is to be encouraged, because of the watch system, which spans over twenty four hours, while we have six hours between shifts, the pattern is such that there is no discernible normal sleep time – the nearest is if you do the 21.00 – 00.00 and you’re next on deck at 06.00 in the morning, which means there are 6 hours right around the normal sleeping time. Of course, with the seas thumping away at us and throwing us around, sleeping for extended periods is tough. Last night, I came off the 00.00 – 03.00 watch and by 03.15 I was in my bunk reading, asleep by 03.30 and I didn’t wake until about 07.30, so 4 good hours of sleep, the best for some time. The boat must have been thumping around as I had a series of dreams I can just about remember – and not happy ones, suggesting I wasn’t in a deep sleep. One was about trying to buy an airplane ticket to go to Finland, while staying at Bernadette’s mother’s old house in Kenton (Newcastle). A neighbor knocked on the door to let Mrs Riley know about what I was up to. Bernadette was there and she told the neighbor to mind his own business – and then rounded on me for being so stupid. I have no idea why I was buying a ticket for Finland, nor why that would be an issue. This has to be boat related don’t you think? My cabin buddy is from Sweden, via Latvia – may be that’s the connection (Finland being close to both). Anyway, I’m not going to Finland – couldn’t get the ruddy ticket and Bernadette was left waiting for an explanation I just don’t have. Maybe part two will happen later!

Just before lunch we noticed some activity off the starboard bow (being the very watchful watch team that James and I are) and then the sea opened up with Dolphins and Sealions all over the place. When we looked astern, the dolphins were leaping out of the water and dancing in the air – literally dozens. This was quite a spectacle and in such big seas (evidently, wave size, pitch and interval make no difference to dolphins – they’re buggers for showing off and rubbing it in). As I sit hear writing this, the boat is back to extreme corkscrewing and it is impossible to sit still. I am gripping a table leg with one foot and the other is braced against the bottom of the banquette  I’m sitting on. We just had another side swipe that sent the kettle lid flying across the galley (it was sitting in it’s protected spot on the top of the reflex boiler). That is a first and luckily, the hot water that flew out didn’t hit anyone, but the steps up to the Pilot house just got a thorough clean!

So that is it from me for the day. I am going to go and brace myself in my bunk and read and maybe catch a nap ahead of my 18.00 watch duty, which will be followed by my 03.00 watch duty in the middle of the night. We are now counting the miles down until we reach Tristan, and by this time tomorrow, when I will be back on watch again (12.00 – 15.00) we will be down to less than 400 miles away, which we will knock off at something like 8 knots an hour (or more if we can). A snip! We are almost exactly half way across the South Atlantic or will be with in the next couple of hours. Nothing memorable at all!

Pip pip

Weather forecasts arrive on board via satellite communications, in the form of a thing called a GRIB file – a binary file that populates another application already on one’s chosen device and shows the weather for the next several days for the area one is going to as that is interesting to one (as in – of us). Of course, what you then have is only a forecast and as such it can be wrong. Here especially, weather is a law unit its self given the scale of everything involved – the sea, the continents that border that sea, the distances air masses cover, the extremes in temperature. Usually, one can believe most of the stuff three days out, but after that -hmm – not so much! On Monday of this week we started to see a couple of frontal systems – depressions, anticyclones, lows, call them what you will, that could spell danger for us.

Our skipper, Dave, discussed them with us crew and explained that he was going to course correct to try and miss the first one and we would just keep monitoring the second to see how things developed. We beautifully missed the first one by planning to skirt around the top of it, heading a little further north. We couldn’t get around the second, which continued to build itself into quite a storm, picking up energy from the ocean as it traveled towards us. It was most likely formed off the River Plate, a nasty place for weather to form. You may remember the River Plate, either from secondary school geography or from the 1960’s movie – “Battle of the River Plate”, that hugely enjoyable, yet somehow forgettable British made war movie that tells the tale of the sinking of the Battleship Graf (no idea how it was spelled – may be a distant relative of Stephie.) It divides Argentina and Uruguay and it has a massive, nasty mouth (a bit like Howard Stern). Of course, it may not divide those two countries for long, given the Argentines’ voracious appetite for claiming territory on the basis of proximity – if you know what I mean.

Anyway, for a few days we monitored the second depression. Up until yesterday afternoon we anticipated catching the back end, or rather joining the depression after the warm front had moved through and before the cold front  arrived – uncomfortable, but nothing special. When the the latest forecast arrived on Wednesday things had changed – it had slowed down to pick up more energy and it was looking like we would catch the entire thing – and so we did.

I can’t make light if this, because in all honesty, last night might just have been the scariest night of my life, even scarier than the night I went to see the Woman in White – an Andrew Lloyd-Webber musical flop that I think only lasted a few months (OMG it was terrifyingly bad). The barometer dropped steadily all day, alerting us to the arrival of the weather system, lets call it “The Bugger.” We started shortening sail during the afternoon as the winds freshened, eventually having only our main sail up, with the 4th reef in (so like a storm sail) and the engine on. About 16.00 hrs, the wind started to build more significantly and moved from about 25 knot gusting to 30, up to 40 knots, gusting to 45. The seas reacted to all the energy coming from the wind now traveling over them, added to the huge fetch that they had – from traveling all the way from Antarctica. The ocean really did start to bubble like a cauldron of boiling soup – using an oft used simile that I’d never really understood until yesterday. The difference was that this sea didn’t just have lumps emerging on the top, it had very steep sided waves which then crashed down onto the one in front sounding like claps of thunder and throwing white “sputum” all over the place.

We knew we were in for a bit of a shaking and needed to batten the hatches and be prepared to tough out through the night. James, my watch buddy, and I were on watch from 18.00 through 21.00 and as the skipper headed to his cabin to get some rest he instructed us to alert him if the barometer dropped quickly, even if it started to recover. Thomas, the first mate and a very experienced sailor and seaman, was left to hand hold us and we needed it. By the time our watch ended at 21.00 we were seeing sustained winds around 45 knots and gusts well above that. We were being thrown all around the place and standing on the spot was more active than the average pilates class. I stayed up for the next couple of hours to monitor things, because in truth, I didn’t fancy trying to lie in my bunk at the front of the boat as it rocked and rolled and crashed. By about 22.45 things were settling down and the winds seemed to be dying off a little. So I thought I would try turn in, in anticipation of our 03.00 – 6.00 watch, now only a few hours away. I was being naïve. I climbed into my bunk wearing pretty much everything I had been wearing all day, in anticipation of there being a crew call to deal with a sail change.

At first, I read passively listening to the winds howling and the waves crashing into the boat, just inches from where I was lying. Eventually, I wasn’t able to maintain a still position in my bunk, because we were being thrown around so much. Clearly, things were hotting up again. Around midnight my cabin mate, Edgar, came down having finished his watch and told me the winds were now maintaining 55 knots and we’d recorded gusts of 58 knots and the sea state was now very rough. Hello – I knew that – I had bruises all over my body to demonstrate that – from being thrown around the bunk like a child throwing a rag doll (if children still do actually do that or should it be like children dealing with a space monster on their iPhone). I decided to cut my losses and get up and head to the pilot house where I sat for the next 2 hours watching the winds continue to build and the skipper continue to try various techniques to reduce the impact on the boat. By just before 02.00, we had sustained winds of 60 knots and we’d seen gusts up to 68 knots (alright, hands hp, 67.9 – I exaggerate for effect).

Just for reference, a hurricane is declared to be a hurricane when it reaches 63 knots sustained. Old Beaufort, the naval wonder of the nineteenth century, who formulated his wind definitions used extensively by mariners and the BBC in their shipping forecast, would classes this bugger as storm force 10, occasionally 11.

Earlier, as I lay in my bunk listening and feeling this massive energy force kick us all around the place, I listened to music on my trusty iPod and rediscovered stuff I hadn’t heard in years, including listening to a number of episodes of Count Arthur Strong’s Radio Show, and for those who have never listened (and possibly haven’t ever heard of him), it is program where a British comedian plays a very minor celebrity of yonder years, if ever, who gets into trouble and speaks in malapropisms. There I was laughing out loud to Count Arthur and it must have sounded like I had lost my mind – laughing while all around us a storm was showing us why we shouldn’t have come here.

Anyway, even that couldn’t keep my mind away from – well if this continues (the storm, not Count Arthur), I may really be in the danger that I so vehemently told people there wouldn’t be any. I wasn’t scared – I was way past that, but I applied a stiff upper lip and didn’t show my fear to anyone, and to be clear, everyone else was dealing with the same thing – being very afraid and trying not to show it.

By 02.00 hours, we were all crammed into the pilot house when the Auto Pilot alarm went off, indicating it couldn’t react to the violent changes in direction we were being handed. So, Dave announced that he was going to manually turn the boat to windward, to use the wind to slow things down and then tie the helm over to the weather side and see if she would just sit and settle down. This maneuver was something between a tactic called “lying ahull” and something called “heaving to.” Heaving to is standard thing to do, to effectively stop a boat and provide time to figure things out, but we were way passed that. Lying ahull is something Sailors have done for years when in a storm and needing to get some respite, but it is now frowned upon by many, because it can leave the boat vulnerable to being side swiped by a large wave and then broached (rolling down sideways and sometimes completely over). But, drastic times lead to drastic measures.

In the end, Dave did a hybrid of these two, neither fully one, nor the other, but something we will know forever call “lying aDave.”  He managed to get the boat to sit stable about 60 degrees off the wind and to just take what was handed to her, without being constantly bombarded the way she had been for the last six to eight hours. Like in a heave to, the boat creates a flat wake to her lee side as she drifts and that tends to quieter things down. We all needed to steady our nerves and get some respite from this constant bombardment. In truth, despite taking medication, I was also starting the early signs of being sea sick and so were most of the others.

Dave togged up and went out into the cockpit, closing the watertight door behind him and executed the maneuver brilliantly. When he got back inside we all sat waiting to see what would happen. The first thing was the slamming that we’d been feeling for hours was significantly reduced. Next, because of the angle we were now at, the wind noise quietened considerably. It was looking like this was going to work for a while and at least long enough for us to catch our breath. As we were sitting there, contributing to the gallows humor, there was a discernible sound of relief in the conversation. Then, all of a sudden, a bloody great wave smacked the weather side of the boat, crashed onto the deck and against the window of the pilot house – moving the boat many many feet to Leeward and it shuddered, gasping for air. This is a big, heavy yacht and the force required to do what had just been done had to be immense. The forces surrounding us were immense.

We all gasped and waited for what would come next – but nothing did. However, while watching the various instruments on the panel opposite where I was sitting, I could see that as we crested a wave and slipped sideways down the other side, we clocked 23 knots of speed on our instruments. Slipping down waves at 23 knots is quite something and not something to cherish!  And with that, Dave the skipper headed off to his cabin with a “wake me if anything develops.”

Well pardon me for saying, but what else was likely to develop for God’s sake? What more could there be in store? Thomas now took charge. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Dave heading to his cabin –  either he was very comfortable with where we were, a supreme act of chutzpah, or he had given up and wanted some solitude before we went down to the bottom. I was rooting for the Chutzpah.

While we didn’t officially come on watch for another hour, James and I stayed up in the Pilot house watching for developments. The barometer had stopped dropping and was now edging up, but only millibar by millibar. The winds had stopped notching gusts in the 60’s, but they were still registering sustained 50’s. Periodically, we would switch the foredeck spotlight on to check on the sail, but it would also allow a clear view of the ocean rolling past the boat. It looked really angry, circling white foam, leaping up into the air before crashing into the boat showing that behind the foam was a solid wall of water. Off the stern, we could see waves that towered above us by 12 to15 feet. As we rolled onto our watch, some of the other guys decided to try and get some sleep and so James, Thomas and I ended up alone monitoring things.

We stared at the instruments, willing for the wind to decrease. By 05.00 were were regularly seeing wind speeds in the middle 40’s and sometimes down to 30 which started to relieve our anxiety, but this wasn’t a linear reduction – as it dropped into the 20’s it would zip back up to 50 to wrong foot us. We decided we needed to once again start to sail and so we untethered the wheel and headed a little more down wind to try to resume our chosen activity – sailing. Once again, the Auto Pilot was engaged and the movement of the boat resumed, still banging and clattering and swaying and rolling, tilting and leaping.

A shout out the Auto Pilot here. Hand steering through this wort of weather is miserable. I have done it in lesser conditions (40 knot winds) and there is nothing romantic or heroic about it, its cold and demoralizing. You can’t see where you’re going and you can’t see what is about to hit you. The Auto Pilot takes huge amount of pain out of coping with heavy weather, but even it has its limits, as we found out. At 06.00 our relief watch came up from their bunks, ready to take over and so I slid away to mine and got into my sleeping bag and caught a couple of hours of sleep.

This had been quite a night. While I never really thought we were in so much danger that we might not make it through, I did feel ultimately and totally out of control and at the whim of the wind and the sea. Unlike most modes of transport, when you’re on a boat out at sea and away from the land – you can’t change much to hide from the weather you get given. Of course, you can try and avoid it by taking careful note of the  weather systems in advance and then delay your departure, but when we left Stanley, these systems were nowhere to be seen. If they had, we would probably have left anyway, but knowing the power earlier, of the second one, we might have slowed down or tried a different route, but frankly, there is no avoiding weather all together, we just have to deal with it and that’s why we’re here, to learn to deal with it, as much emotionally as technically.

When I signed up for this lark, I knew that I was likely to encounter discomfort of this sort, and I can’t overstate how uncomfortable, physically and emotionally, last night was. I had no idea how quickly and how brutally things could develop (and I have read thirty or more books about crossing oceans and dealing with heavy weather, a euphemism for shit scary). Now that I have encountered it, what do I think?

Well, first of all, I know the boat is as strong as she looks and capable of withstanding most of what this ocean could throw her way. Second, I’m fine if we don’t have to demonstrate this ability again. Third, it was chutzpah!

Pip pip

P.S. – again! As I was sitting writing this piece, down in the saloon, the night after THE night, I was sitting minding my own business accompanied by a couple of the guys who were washing up after dinner when all of a sudden we were side swiped by a rogue wave. It sounded and felt like it does when you are in your car and another car hits you in the side (never felt that – hmm). It knocked me across the saloon where I was sitting on the starboard side of the big table and ended up 10 feet away on the port side –  all the while I was juggling with my iPad which I was totally resolved wasn’t going to lose. I eventually palmed it onto the safety of a padded bench while the key board slid across the floor. We were all in a state of shock, but essentially no one and nothing were hurt (the skipper was outside and got soaked – well, his fres socks did – but that’s the price you pay for nipping outside for a sneaky smoke). This was a timely reminder that we are in the world of the elements and we shouldn’t forget that – I don’t think we will.

As I sit down in the saloon writing the prior blog about hair intrusions on Wednesday early afternoon – it has just started to snow outside. We have big seas – more short wave length and short interval than sheer height, but big enough to cause the boat to corkscrew about 50 degrees as it rides down and up the other side of waves and it is quite difficult to sit up straight in the saloon and write this. There is a weather system that has been dallying with us all day and it has finally just caught up with us.

At about 07.30 this morning, while on watch, I went out with the skipper to change the head sail configuration as the winds had somewhat unexpectedly built to over 30 knots. So we went up to the bow and again poled out the high clued yankee to keep it stiff and catch the winds that were directly astern of us, where it is accompanied by dark threatening clouds associated (or vice a versa depending on your point of view). At that hour, we thought the weather would come right over us imminently and we might get a good soaking while on deck (even the skipper had his foulies on), but it didn’t and so we didn’t get wet, just very cold hands and you can’t wear warm gloves when you’re handling lines.

All morning since then, the winds and sea have been building and then finally the very dark grey clouds behind us caught up enough to dump moisture, which has come down as snow. Juan, one of our two wonderful resident Colombians, has never seen snow – so he has immediately gone and sat outside to relish it. Right now, the winds are continuing to build even higher (just notched 40 knots) and we may have to go and put another reef in the main.

I’m not on watch and even when I am (which is in a couple of hours) my main task is to cook the evening meal. I’m not volunteering to go outside unless I am volunteered by someone else! I think this is real southern ocean weather now. Someone just said – well this is what we came for, which is true, but now we’ve had it – lets move onto the smooth sailing under blue skies with great winds off our beam – driving us fast to Tristan.

Not likely for a few days now!

Pip pip

P.S. Strange world out here and the forecast doesn’t always play out. After a lengthy period of winds backing and veering around the compass and falling away and coming back, and with more wintry mix showers, the wind has now all but gone and the Iron Genny had just gone back on and we’re making way nicely.

I’ve been back on watch and come off it (and dinner was very nice, thanks for asking – bangers and mash with a very nice onion gravy – the request was for some gastro pub food – so that’s what they got). Now I am sitting alone down in the saloon writing this, drinking a cup of green tea (I’ve already had the day’s caffeinated coffee) and getting ready to go on watch from 00.00 – 03.00. I suspect the engine will be on for most of the night, unless the god of winds smiles on us and comes back earlier than the new forecast  suggests. The sea has calmed quite significantly (still a little Rockies and Rollie though), but it’s not like it was (HUGE!), still big enough to spill the green tea I was so enjoying – idiot!

If you spend your waking hours looking carefully for things to appear – on the horizon or up in the sky, it can eventually have a bit of an impact on what you notice the rest of the time, or so it seems. Earlier today I was cleaning the head (toilet) on my side of the boat (starboard side). The boat is symmetrical down the centre line, so one head on each side. As I was cleaning the one on my side (I didn’t want to deal exclusively with other peoples’ s***, thinking some of my own might make this more acceptable), I looked at the mirror to see if it needed a clean, and I was shocked at what I saw.

Of course, it was my own reflection, usually a little shocking these days and one I had already seen earlier in the day when I was doing my morning ablutions. But, to my complete horror – my eyes were drawn to the newly acquired bushy hairs sticking out from my eyebrows – long, grayish, curly hairs. I know what you’re thinking – what a vain person I am. I think not. I think there are appropriate standards of grooming and ones that help push off the more obvious signs of aging (like stooping, limping, snorting, teeth sucking or coughing at inopportune moments). There isn’t anything wrong with taking care of one’s grooming carefully and for me anyway, that means not having facial hair where it may believe it has the right to be, but I don’t, and it’s my face. I will not accept squatters in my ears, nose and eyebrows – I don’t care how far from land I am.

When I get my hair cut, Anh, who’s been cutting my hair for about 15 years now – which is a long hair cut by any stretch of the imagination – always discreetly shaves / trims my eyebrows. I take care of the ears and nose personally. Now, trying to deal with follicular extrusions on a moving boat with a pair of bluntish nail scissors is irresponsible, and so for now it will be another one of the many things I am having to live with because of what I am doing, but compared to egg sandwiches – it’s right up there from a discomfort point if view. The end of any selfies from me until I hit the hotel in Cape Town (an untended benefit for most of you).

Pip pip

As I sit and write this guff, I am down in the saloon, actually sitting at one of the two  Comm’s stations, so quite fitting really. Most of my other posts have been written in cafés, bars, or sitting at a picnic bench in Port Stanley. There isn’t any dedicated space in the cabin I share (which has plenty of storage space given it’s size, but it is a corridor through to the forepeak where the fresh food is stored – and the work shop where repairs can be made). The food is stored in the forepeak because it is unheated and therefore cold. So is our cabin – as the small radiator in there is at the end of the line and doesn’t work. There isn’t any heating in the heads either, which has dramatically shortened trips there and the time spent on daily ablutions. There is nowhere to sit and type in the cabin. Since coming to sea a few days ago, the cabin has taken on a new purpose – it’s where one can go between watches to relax, read or sleep – it’s no longer a place to just spend the night. Now, one goes there mostly to sleep, but not the way we used to! It’s also where I make my morning and evening broadcasts on Satellite (send and collect emails, call Bernadette and occasionally the kids, attend to matters of state). As of now, this is likely to go to a once a day action as the watch system means the days no longer have the anchor of getting up in the morning and going to sleep at the end of the day. Instead, our anchors (definite pun here) are lunch at 12.00pm and dinner at 6.00pm. There after, there is no common time.

We are in three watches of two people. My watch buddy now is James (who left the boat, you’ll remember, and then got on the boat again – I am not convinced he is fully firing on all cylinders still). Whichever team does the watch from 09.00 – 12.00 cooks lunch ready for everyone at 12.00 and whoever does the 15.00 – 18.00 cooks dinner (3.00pm – 6.00pm land lovers!) ready for everyone at 18.00. What this means is that we see the other crew members either as we hand the watch over or as we take the watch on – and at meal times. There is really no time to sit and kick it with everyone.

There is a legal definition of standing watch as defined in the International Regulations for the Preventing of Collisions at Sea. The rules state that every vessel should at all times maintain a proper look-out by sight and hearing, as well as by all other means appropriate in the prevailing circumstances – so that’s pretty clear. We watch out for things in order to avoid causing or being in a collision. Standing watch also means making sure that we are safe, there are no issues associated with the boat’s running, our sail plan is correct for current conditions and we are prepared to change the sail plan if the conditions either change or they are predicted to change.

A case in point. We were on the 00.00 – 03.00 hrs watch last night. Around 02.00 our skipper discussed the changes in the wind and we decided we needed to change the head sail (which was being pushed out straight by a long pole – called poling out). This discussion was from the safety and comfort of a fully enclosed pilot house with great visibility all around of the boat and the horizon (we do keep the door open for air and to be connected to the sea etc.). So, we togged up, donned our life jackets, and went up on deck, attaching our tethers to the jack lines and went forward to attend to business (well two of us did, the third seemed to stay back in the cockpit – not sure why). Anyway, we changed the configuration of the head sail, furled it in, took down the pole and then pulled it out on the other tack, then sheeted the main in. Bob’s your uncle. All of that action only managed to increase our speed by under 0.5 knots due to the weakening wind. Time for the engine and so that’s what happened – motor sailing! Then after completing the log (which is pretty thorough on this boat – or any boat crossing on such a long passage), James and I handed over to Edgar and Tig and went to our bunks. The problem is – that at 03.00 (3.00am) in the morning – I am often lying awake and quite regularly I get up and go to the office (in Waneta) to attend to something. Here, I read and then slumbered in and out of sleep (listening to the water flowing about 6 inches from my head) until it was 08.00 and time to get up, eat breakfast and get ready for the 09.00 – 12.00 watch. As you can see, there is a routine about this and that’s how the boat works, including maintenance and cleaning tasks. Most importantly, the brewing of tea (not for me) and coffee (for me) takes precedent over pretty much anything else – most especially through the night (and yes, I drink green tea at night – re-read what I said about coffee and when I would drink it).

We will have about 8 – 10 more days of this routine until we reach Tristan and then about 8- 10 days until we reach South Africa – unless there is a major change to the weather, then it may mean all hands on deck all the time.

Sitting in the pilot house, one can watch all of the instruments, and as I’ve already mentioned, this boat is equipped. The one I love is the one that tells up the baring and distance to Tristan. When we left Stanley, the distance was about 2,040 Nm and now it’s sitting at 1,846 Nm– so you see, progress. Looking out to sea – the view has definitely changed and because we currently have thick cloud cover (measured in numbers of eights – for those who didn’t do O Level Geography – they’re called Octas I think – so currently 8/8) – which means that everything looks pretty grey. As the clouds clear, we will see more blues and greens. For the first 48 hours we had what would be called very lumpy seas – pretty big swells periodically thumping us and flipping the head of the boat around and occasionally knock us over to about 60 degrees to the sea – mainly because of the boat’s shape, it means she rocks and rolls quite a lot. Lower bunks have a lee boards slotted in  which stops one rolling out of bed and I can distinctly remember slipping across the mattress into the lee board with a thump several times earlier this morning – but preferable to landing on the floor. Upper bunks have a lee cloth to do the same thing

So we are now at sea, and using the common idiom – we’re not at all at sea with life. We are gradually adapting to the routine and responsibilities and while we’re all counting down the clock so we can step off, I think we’re all doing just fine thank you. Still, there’s a long way to go!

Pip pip

Part 3: When life turns serious

Today, the six of us (the crew) decided to spend our last day in The Falklands going on an excursion. After a bit of back and forward, Ernesto and Juan negotiated for a large 4 x 4 to take us across the East Island to Goose Green. It just happened to be with the only Colombian Taxi Driver on the Island!  For some of you, the name “Goose Green” will mean something and for some it won’t. The difference will likely be those who were around in the UK during the Falklands War. Names like Stanley, San Carlos Bay and Goose Green were front and center in the news throughout the encounter.

Being here on the Island and specifically being in Stanley over the last three weeks, has meant being exposed to the war and its impact – through plaques, monuments, museums and conversations with locals. It is very clear that the Islanders and residents do not want to be anything other than what they are now and have been for a while – a protectorate of the UK with full governmental autonomy and elected representatives. They are fiercely loyal to the Island and the connection to the UK. There are large UK influences, with UK institutions providing services – like Customs and Excise and the Prison Service. There are also a smattering of Royals – like the Royal Falkland’s Police Force and the Royal Mail. So the connections to the UK are still alive and kicking and a serious part of life out here. Cars drive around festooned in Union Jacks. As we spoke to locals it also became clear that the War of 1982 is not behind them, and they hold on to the pain and anger it caused, partially I think to remind everyone that Argentina still claims the Islands as their own and periodically they rattle their sabres and there is an ever present danger. Those who lived through it remember how terrible things were and while it was a relatively short occupation, these were very tough times – an aggressor took over their country and subjugated them to military rule, stripping them of their freedoms and restricting their lives, often through enforced custody. Given the presence of the UK armed forces and the amount of military hardware around today, it is highly unlikely that Argentina will ever decide to attack, but the Island is prepared.

Of course, there is now another incentive to hang on to the status quo: Oil. There has been enough work already done to determine that there is likely a lot of oil sitting beneath the ocean, within spitting distance of these Islands’ shores. There is already an administrative company in place to control how this will all work and exploration contracts have been executed. Apparently, they are waiting for the price of oil to hit a certain level (and I was assured it’s almost there) and then the real drilling and production will begin. I suspect that will lead to two things happening: 1) the economy of the Island will take yet a further bump upwards, potentially a major bump and 2) Argentina will step up its claims to sovereignty.

Back to Goose Green. I can distinctly remember the news broadcast that reported that Goose Green, a Settlement on the south side of East Falkland, had been occupied and the residents had been made prisoners in the village hall. Back in Blighty, there was a little bit of Dad’s Army about all of this, because what became abundantly clear, was that The Falklands operated a bit like Britain had, 40 years before, so being locked up in the village hall had a slightly old school, quaint feel to it. In reality, it didn’t. Over 60 men, women and children were locked up in a small hall with limited food, beverages and facilities and no opportunity to go outside. This remained so for nearly 60 days. Most troublesome, was the complete lack of contact with the outside world – so no news, information or anything. From a psychological POV – this had to have a major impact on this group.

So, today, we set off across the island on the unsurfaced roads with our Colombian driver. It took up almost two hours to get there (less than 50 miles). Just before we took the final turn to drive down the last couple of miles into Goose Green, we took a left turn up a totally unmade road with a small directional sign post, announcing the Argentinian War Cemetery. In a settlement agreement, the Argentinian Government assumed responsibility for maintaining this war cemetery. All of the 690 plus Argentines who lost there lives are listed on the walls that frame the top of the cemetery, but only a fraction are actually buried here and have headstones (crosses). This is a barren location, with nothing beautiful about it. The landscape is bleak and cold, exposed to the winds that blow most of the time in that part of the Island. The many dead who weren’t buried here, were buried elsewhere in the Islands, by the Argentinian Army, but their bodies were never identified and so the parents, wives, children and loved ones of those fallen soldiers have never had the chance to visit a grave marked for their specific fallen son. This is now changing, because the UK is using new technology that identifies DNA and makes specific identification now possible. Consequently, grieving families are now able to visit the Island and finally get some kind of closure by seeing a grave marked for their loved one.

Yesterday, I took a walk to the town cemetery (acting on new information about the location of Monsignor Scraggon’s grave – which I dutifully found). Just above the cemetery is a Remembrance Wood – where every British soldier is remembered through a marked spot and a tree, planted to remember them and what they did for this Island. This is fully notated and there are trinkets and flowers on every grave, sometimes with several name plaques indicating a number of loved ones have been to pay tribute. This was a stark contrast to the Argentine Cemetery. What struck me as I walked up the shingle path to the Wood was that a number of parents, just like me, had walked that path, but they were going to remember a very specific and personal spot, that represented the loss of their child. It made me shudder. As I approached the Argentine graveyard, I was shivering with cold, but also with sadness. The reality is, that no-one needed to lose their lives here at all. There were many contributing factors and neither political side can be completely exempt from some level of blame (of course, the bulk falls to the Argentinian General who made the decision to invade for political advantage), but one thing is for sure, whether your son was on the British or Argentinian side, none of these kids deserved to die. Most of the Argentinians were poorly trained conscripts, under prepared and ill equipped for any battle, but especially one in such an inhospitable place.

When I was doing business in Argentina with Blockbuster, a couple of colleagues from that business had seen action on the Island and served and they had stories they were willing to share about abject torture at the hands of the cold and lack of food or shelter. When they were captured, they had their first hot meal for weeks and blankets to try and keep themselves warm. The loss of life for the British was equally appalling and saddening. But, here is one difference I would suggest. The British troops were freeing an illegally occupied country where the residents were in enforced captivity. They had a purpose, and arguably a very noble one – no matter how you view the in appropriateness of war. The Argentine soldiers had no noble purpose. They were just the collateral damage associated with a dictator trying to save his own hide. These were just kids of 18 or so years.

So, after spending some fantastic time around these Islands, the sad reality of where we are and the world we live in came crashing back to us as we visited the graveyard and then took drove down the several miles into the tiny hamlet of Goose Green where the only suffering we endured was inside the grimy, dirty café that graces this run down little settlement. The key for the village hall is given to anyone who asks (at said café) and you are free to wander in and around the hall to see how small and basic it was. Should you inquire, the food at the café turned out to be rather good – quite a surprise given how much time the lady who runs it must spend cleaning!

Not a happy Pip pip.

Part 2: The laundry returns

One of the benefits of a few days back in port, was the ability to get some laundry done. We’d all been away for three weeks or more and the place was getting – well a little stinky. So, we each took a black sack and decanted our closet into it, tying them with tape and adding our names (COPA NICK was festooned on mine). I went a step further and separated out my Merino wool gear and placed it in a clear plastic bag marked – cool or cold wash only – Merino wool (which incidentally performs as advertised and it doesn’t smell after extended wear – and I’ve tested it). I placed that clear bag inside my personal black sack. The laundry company duly collected the bags and promised their return later that day.

As we were assembling to head to the Victory Bar for their steak night extravaganza – said laundry was delivered back. Now our expectation were a number of nicely labeled bags, reflecting the labels on our neatly tied black sacks. Not quite so. There were two large white trash sacks (bin bags) marked “underwear,” two even larger sacks marked “tops,” one marked “socks,” and several marked “trousers.” What had gone in individual bags was now united in a pot pourri of clothing. I was reasonably aware of what I had sent – but not entirely. I can remember once suggesting to Bernadette that we should keep an inventory of what went to the dry cleaners – because what went sometimes didn’t return and some weeks later we would be searching for a particular shirt or something – only to find it missing. Upon inquiry at the dry cleaners, the lost item might be produced, sometimes the original, sometimes a facsimile and sometimes a complete denial of ever having had it. Well, in this case we had two issues to deal with: 1) non of us were completely sure about what we had sent and 2) none of us were completely confident that what we collectively sent was what came back and missing items weren’t actually in the possession of one of our colleagues, but in the possession of another customer of the laundry.

So then the auction began. Some items were confidently reclaimed – the shirts and trousers went first. The tops caused some friction, but eventually went, but all hell broke loose when the socks and underwear were picked over. Six grown men trying to remember which underwear and socks were theirs, and things they would publicly own up to. I could locate most of mine – I think, but there were certain items that no-one wanted to claim. However, over the course of the evening, when no one was looking, the unclaimed items all disappeared.

When the last of the tops and such were claimed, all of my Merino wool items seemed to be missing, but apparently, there were things still drying at the laundry and that sounded like they had actually followed the instructions on my inner bag. The fun really started the next morning my colleagues started to surreptitiously arriving into the saloon bearing items of clothing and quietly asking if they belonged to any of us, now conceding that they had prematurely taken ownership of some items in the previous evening’s bun fight. From thin air, a bag of additional laundry arrived mid morning and that was claimed by me.

There’s an old saying “you never really know a man until you’ve spent a day in his underwear” (no there’s not really) and so by the end of this trip, based on the action of a small laundry in The Falklands, we will all know each other really quite well – I suspect.

Pip pip

Part 1: Having to reinvent myself and clearly for the better

As we were getting the boat ready to leave – I committed myself to taking stock of a number of things about myself and concluded that some reinvention was necessary in order to make this chosen isolation tolerable. Making a 21 day journey, without any possibility of a stop (well, possibly Tristan da Cunha – if the ocean surge isn’t too ridiculous, and we’re all hoping it isn’t  – because how cool would that stamp be in the passport?) will require some re-calibration. I generally take stock of things (behaviors, attitudes, whether to spell the English or American way) on New Year’s Eve ahead of the coming year, something I’ve done for years now. Anyway, in anticipation of this ride over the ocean, I sat down yesterday afternoon for a good solid think and this morning I was resolved to make some serious changes. By sharing these with you, there is no going back, so here are the highlights.

Firstly, I am determined to drink fully caffeinated coffee instead of mambi pambi decaf.  Going forward, every morning of the voyage, either for breakfast or coming off watch, it’s caffeine for me. I started drinking caffeinated coffee a little at a time about a week or so back and now I’m ready for the big jump, fully committed, no half measures. I don’t know if this will be a permanent thing, we shall have to see.

Next, an equally significant adjustment, a move most necessary on a challenging journey like this one – I will be having long life milk on my oats and fruit each morning – and that started this morning too. I have always held that I would rather drink no milk at all, then go for the sorry apology for milk that 2% or fully skimmed or anything else that approximates for the real thing is. As they say in Texas, it’s like kissing your sister. Now, I know this change will not be a permanent one because once back on dry land I won’t be drinking milk at all, in fact, I haven’t for a number of years, but after great reflection, this one is a must if I am to retain my sanity while at sea and be able to enjoy breakfast (toast is off the menu and I don’t fancy cooking oatmeal every day). Please remember, these behavioral changes are coming hot on the heels of eating an egg and mayonnaise sandwich and having bread AND butter with a bowl of soup. I am shocked at how much change I am able to embrace.

The final change I will make is not quite on the scale of the others, but possibly one that may impact other people. I will no longer fret when people to whom I have sent an email – don’t bother to reply, or reply tardily. With a wave of the hand, that care and concern is no longer one for me. I recently sent a note to someone I care about and who I was a little concerned for – they were trying to achieve a major personal goal and in quite difficult circumstances. I sent them a note of support from my little satellite device and then followed through with a note after they had in theory done what they were going to do, to check that all went to plan and they were safe and sound. Sadly, after a week – there was no news. I spent a few days wondering whether they were OK, may be something unforeseen had happened? May be they thought there was some kind of personal agenda at play and I was trying to self profit (absolutely no idea how)? So, I sent a further note saying “you may not have received my previous notes – just checking in to make sure all went well.” Through the cunning of e mail “cc” ing, I copied a mutual friend on the last note and do you know what? That mutual friend replied congratulating our other mutual friend on their success and saying they’d seen something on social media with pictures. As of now – still no word back from the targeted friend. Is this just tardy, or is this, in fact, a breach of the fundamental rules of acceptability associated with social media – the protocol of mutual politeness and civility?

In any event, while drinking my fully caffeinated coffee (which I followed with a cup of green tea – just to be on the safe side) and eating my oats and fruit with long life milk (alright, long-life whole milk, but it’s not pasteurized) I contemplated the meaning of email silence and decided it was an indication of lack of care (or it could indicate that my emails are going directly to junk because the address is a little strange coming from Iridium).

Upon further flirting with this notion of civility and tardiness, I contemplated that I had not had access to my Yahoo email account now for nearly three weeks. As a consequence, there may be a number of people who have reached out to me without knowing that I do not have access to Yahoo and nor will I for the next 3 weeks plus. So, there may be a number of folks who think I am currently ignoring them or being tardy or uncaring by not responding in a timely way – something which I always do. Add to that, ignoring Facebook Messenger and WhatsApp – and I am potentially ignoring and isolating a ***t load of people, and consequently I too will be a accused, judged and found guilty by the many – of being the perpetrator of the crime that I found my other friend guilty of – tardiness or a lack of care. And so the only possible way to resolve this dilemma is to no longer give a ***t when people ignore my emails and concerning myself that others may think less of me because I haven’t replied to their messages. I thought about putting an “away message” on my Yahoo account, but didn’t remember to do it before I left Dallas and you can’t do it from an iPad or iPhone. So, if you hear any chat about me, concerning my tardiness or lack of care because I haven’t replied to someone’s message, or worse still, speculation that I may no longer be of this world, please let them know the reason for this “seelonce” – I just don’t care (until I arrive in South Africa when normal service and worrying will be resumed – no doubt)!

Pip pip

At just before 7.30am this morning (Wednesday), we eased the boat alongside the public jetty here in Stanley – 12 nights after we left it for the Falklands element of this adventure. I’m currently sitting in a little coffee shop overlooking the waterfront from where I can see our boat sitting robustly tied up to the jetty. It’s hard to imagine that in just over three weeks she will be tied up to a dock in Cape Town, South Africa. We left Ten Shilling Bay on West Falkland around mid-day yesterday and romped over to the south side of East Falkland and up its east side and back in to Stanley. In the entire 130 Nm. of the sail – we didn’t see a single other vessel, not even the lights of distant fishing vessel. We did pass some land lights – belonging to the military. There is an imposing and obvious British military presence around here. There are no chances being taken – if you’re not welcome here, you won’t get in or on – things have changed since 1982.

Our first night sail as a team all went swimmingly – maybe a bad choice of word – all went well. My watch buddy was Edgar, my cabin buddy, too. We took the 6.00pm – 9.00pm and 3.00am – 6.00am slots. There is something quite unique about sailing along in the dark, unable to see much of anything, but hearing the sound of the water as it parts in front of you and comes together again behind you. During the day, that sound is hardly discernible, but in the dark of the night it comes as a distinct woosh. As I said in an earlier post – I like night watches, there’s something ethereal about them – almost spiritual. Of course they’re better when its warm and dry, but when its wet and windy and cold – they may not be so nice. Sailing through the night feels not how it was when as a child, we would, as a family, occasionally drive to London to somewhere equally far afield – and we’d inevitably do it through the night. I’m never sure why we used to do that – maybe because Dad thought a drive through the night was less stressful (and it was for him), it maybe Mam and Dad thought us rabble in the back would be asleep – which was unlikely as we were all being asphyxiated from the cigarette smoke billowing from the front. I think there was a formula for the numbers of cigarettes per driving hour or per 20 miles – because Mam would faithfully light one up and pass it to dad and he would always say “just on queue, honey!” Of course, directions to where we were going had to be passed forward from us in the back – to make sure we got to our intended destination, but even when they were clear and unequivocal, supported by a huge road sign  – Dad didn’t always follow them – waived aside with a “well that can’t be right” almost immediately followed by “well that’s handy” as we drove into a local industrial estate or lorry park (I kid you not and this wasn’t an isolated incident).  Alternative routes would have to be established and dad would suggest we kept a better eye on things and give him more notice (to ignore what we said at great leisure – presumably).

I took my first nighttime helm in quite some time – at about 6.30pm last night – just as it got really dark. I asked for a compass heading and the compass light to be be turned on. The skipper told me to just to steer 150 degs of apparent wind. Now there are a couple of ways of achieving that. One way is to look at the windex at the top of the mast – but I was foiled there – the light wasn’t working. Never mind – there is a clever readout which shows the apparent wind direction with respect to the boat. It also tells you the strength. Well bugger me – I couldn’t see the damned gauge and so I decided to steer based on where the wind was hitting the back of my head. What a disaster – I steered the boat about 200 degs off the wind and trust me those extra 50 degs make a huge difference – I almost jibed the boat. I got some significant verbal coaching by the skipper for that one.

Luckily, the autopilot gauge was on (but not the auto pilot) and that shows a course and also how many degrees of rudder you have on – port or starboard – a very useful piece of info – or you can just feel the piece of cording on top of the wheel – it tells you the same. With the addition of my glasses – that gauge and the wind read out came into focus and I was able to helm well within the level of acceptable tolerance (to the skipper level of tolerance).

We had good winds pretty much all the way here – which to start off meant we were sailing on a deep broad reach – with the apparent wind coming in at about the 7 o’clock location it you imagine the boat as a clock – 12 being the front and 6 being the stern (back!). In any event – we saw our watch through without further incident. The boat is really well equipped from a navigational equipment perspective. We have a combined Chart Plotter (electronic charts thrown up on a screen down in the pilot house – not in front of the helm) and the color screen is over laid so a complete picture is provided – meaning we can see whatever is in front and to the side of us and investigate what it is and if we need to take avoiding action, then we can. Of course, it is a legal requirement for a boat under way and making way to keep an active and attentive watch, which means eyes and ears as well as any other options (like radar, if appropriate). Unlike poor Tonic, the boat we took around Great Britain, which had few fully working instruments – or at least they were intermittent or else not calibrated properly, this boat is set up for serious Ocean Sailing and as we do our watches, we have the best equipment available to us. Edgar and my second watch slot was a little more active – but no helming. The skipper reluctantly allowed the autopilot to be switched on – shortly after it started to rain on one of the watches that came after our first stint. So when we went up for our second stint – I was delighted to find the entire watch (all three of them) collected in the pilot house – thus indicating no-one on the helm. All week we’d been harping on to the skipper about using the autopilot and all week he had resisted – telling us it wasn’t functioning and it MIGHT be repaired when got back to Stanley – the little liar! The thing about the autopilot – it is very reliable (when set up properly) and so you can guarantee it will hold a course – steer on a heading – which is important if you’re up on deck working on putting in, or shaking out a reef or something. Bernadette and I sailed in the BVI recently without the autopilot and it makes a huge difference when you’re short handed – ask her!

Pulling into Stanley had a surreal feeling – and it was a little bit like seeing an old friend and its not like we had a lot of time here before we went to sail around the islands, but returning here does have a special meaning. It means we’re about to finally get going on the adventure all six of us really signed up for – sailing the Southern Ocean.

Pip pip!

P.S. The skipper who will be with us, Dave, was there to meet us as we docked. He seems a good guy and looks and speaks the part. I’m sure there’ll be more on him to follow. James was also there to meet us and is about to move back aboard.

The forecast for Monday was for reducing winds mainly from the South West and West, exactly from the direction we wanted to travel. In any event, we needed to move on and so we carefully moved the boat out of the channel and into the open sea again. I was the skipper/navigator for the day. A number of nights previous, we had gotten into quite a discussion after dinner (and wine) which started with Alan and the skip criticizing the use of the Chart Plotter. That grew into Alan condemning electronic assistance in navigating – remember, one of his prime missions was to teach us Celestial navigation, his passion. The thing is – celestial navigation isn’t anywhere near accurate or timely enough for coastal pilotage, but there are a lot of other techniques that can be applied and the paper charts and pilot books provide the information needed to safely navigate. While I wasn’t able to nail down the exact nature of Alan’s concern, I did volunteer to navigate without access to the Chart Plotter for this passage (of about 40 Nautical Miles) through a tight pass and across water passing closely by a group of Islands and their rocky outcrops and on into a little bay with Islands, rocks and kelp as dangers. I do know that Alan, who had assessed my previous navigation skills to be appropriately at the yacht master level, now said that all yacht masters should be able to function without electronics (for navigation you understand). And – he is right – and I had learned to do just that and practiced it a lot – but I haven’t done much for the last couple of years. Anyway, I was now navigating this passage without the use of the Chart Plotter. Just to make it a little trickier, the wind backed was we sailed out of the tight channel that had been home for the previous 48 hours and we decided we wouldn’t have a good enough angle to proceed under sail alone, so we changed our plan and changed our route!

In any event, with the combination of the hand bearing compass and sightings from the land – back bearings and forward bearings and holding the helm’s hand for the last 30 minutes, we pulled up in the most beautiful natural harbour on Beaver Island, right in front of the settlement there (described in the Pilot Book as having Stella Holding), safe and sound without incident or a Chart Plotter in sight! No arguments, this was a yacht master standard day! This place notched up the beauty stakes once again! We had hoped to go and collect mussels again and have them for dinner, but the tide was too high and the mussel beds were still covered. Giselle radioed from ashore to alert us the need to make a different dinner plan and also to tell us that we would have three guests join us. Thomas (First mate) volunteered to whip some fish dish up from what we had onboard and the raiding party from shore came back to help. Shortly afterwards, our three guests arrived, Leif, Dionne and Juliet. These were two brothers and one brother’s wife. Their family (the brothers’) had arrived here on a sailing boat just over twenty years earlier, from France and they had called the Falklands home over since. The boat they came on was the original lifting keel boat, designed by their father (who at the age of about 70, was currently floating up the coast of Chile and heading somewhere out on the Pacific). It just so happened that the boys mother was Sally from the conservation trust we had met and spent time with on Friday. She is no longer married to the father. There was a third brother, but he was in Stanley where he worked as a gardener. He had actually been born on the saloon table of their boat, delivered by the hand of his father, on board their boat somewhere off South Georgia. Apparently this experience had a lasting impact and he isn’t the intrepid sailor the rest of the family were. Maybe I was born up a tower somewhere and that might explain my fear of heights!

Dionne, the oldest and Juliet, his wife (I say wife – not sure if they were technically married, but they were an item) have just sold their business, which was a big tug of a boat, which had started out life in Norway as a rescue and fire vessel and was gradually relocated down to the Falklands where they used to run charters down the Antarctic peninsula and to South Georgia, often on Charter to groups of film makers or climbers or something. They had been doing this for a number of years and were now burned out (I suspect a bit like Alec and Giselle – who I only just found out were doing their last trip together on this boat – more to follow on that, no doubt). D & J’s boat had been moored alongside Pelagic Australis in Stanley and now it was anchored right beside us off Beaver Settlement. They provided excellent conversation over dinner. I hadn’t realized it, but Dionne was quite shy, but he held his own with the rest of us over dinner. Juliet was a fire cracker, asking a lot of detailed questions and unearthing a lot of information about us. She too had an interesting story. She was French, from Cherbourg and also an intrepid sailor. She had been delivering a friends boat from Ushuaia in Tierra Del Fuego up to Uruguay when her boom broke open and she ended up coming into Beaver Island to make repairs. I suspect Dionne impressed her with his quiet skillful ways. She fully admits that the boat she was sailing probably wasn’t sea worthy and she had agreed to do the delivery too easily – “I was quite naïve back then” she told us. She spoke English with a slight accent, but not necessarily traceable to France, but her vocabulary and pronunciation was excellent. Both boys spoke excellent English, and Leif spoke like he had recently returned from a British Public School (he was in his mid 30’s – so obviously he hadn’t!). Juliet had piercing eyes and a ready follow up, clarifying question to any remark. When she first arrived in the settlement, she had been married to someone else and now was married/with Dionne. These things happen!

After a little prodding, Leif told us he wasn’t sure he was cut out to be a passage making sailor. However, he had only just returned from sailing his old, smallish, steel hulled, 40 foot, boat up to Alaska and back single handed – via some Islands out in the Pacific. We also pried out of him that he had sailed the boat back from Spain, where he had bought it and he’d been over to Australia and New Zealand, not to mention across to South Africa……. A lot of sailing to then figure out you might not be cut out to being a passage maker. All of this he had done on his own – in an old boat that he constantly worked on. The neatest thing was that he had built a wood burning stove for his boat, out of an old oxygen cylinder, which he had built into where the refrigerator used to be so he could stay warm when sailing in high latitudes and he carried sufficient wood for long passages. Of course keeping food fresh was now going to be an issue – compromises have to be made! I have huge admiration for someone who has the skills and the fortitude to tackle this sort of challenge, but I think it must be a lonely life sailing so far away and then gong to places that have so few people there. I think he had been away on this last jaunt for close on two years! I don’t mind a little solitude time and time to myself – like being in Buenos Aires for that day – but the thick end of two years – wow, pass me the knife.

Once again, I ducked out of dinner a little earlier than some to call home and send of some messages and also to give Alec and Giselle some time with their friends . The next morning we assembled a raiding party and headed to the mussel beds where we extracted two huge buckets of the things. Depositing them back on the boat as we passed, we then headed to shore and to coffee with our previous nights guests. Once again, we were experiencing great hospitality and the opportunity to learn more about these folks. On shore, Dionne took us through a couple of sheds of parts and pieces taken from a succession of boats. There original boat, Damien II, was pulled up on the hard and it was in the process of a twenty year overhaul. I was assured it would be finished at some point! Leif invited us onto his boat, which he had already pulled apart since his recent return to effect repairs, like rebuilding the Land Rover engine he used to power it. On lowering myself inside his boat, I have to say, we’re not talking about cosy comfort and a prestige supper yacht interior here. It was basic, oily and in need of a spruce up (just this man’s point of view). However, this was a means to an end for him – a way of getting to places he wanted to see and the more important thing was that it was sea worthy and could sail safely. I could imagine on a long and lonely passage, with the wood fire burning away and the wind vein auto steering looking after the boat – it might be cosy down there, but it would still be rather lonely. Leif was a good looking guy, well spoken, smart, educated and interesting. But all of this single handed passage making has to have an effect on one, and then returning to an isolated Island that was equally spartan when it comes to people – doesn’t make for a lot of clandestine meetings and romantic assignations and the like! Did I mention they farm sheep, but they only have 300 head.

We toured the various houses that made up their settlement, a couple of them works in progress – which seemed to be the modus operandi around there and then finally went into the main house for coffee. They were hoarders for sure. There was a lovely timber floored sun room stretching along the North side of the house, completely windowed for the entire length (we’re in the Southern Hemisphere – think!). It was low and warning. However, along one side, things were collecting. The main dinning area and kitchen was also cosy, but reflected the sun room – from a collecting proposition. There were three defunct printers that I could see – none looking like they were in working order. There had to be a forth lurking below the surface that actually worked – because they were referring to stuff they’d printed out! Our Colombian friends took some of their treasured coffee as a gift. Dionne brewed it and then hunted around for 7 cups to drink it from. He found them – everything from mugs to small cups! This was a light and airy room. I noticed what looked like newly added central heating radiators. Juliet told us that Dionne had recently taken the ceiling apart and renewed the insulation, which explained its presence paint job. Once again the conversation kicked off. Juliet, who had sort of scared me the evening before – was more playful in her questioning and we all laughed at the accents of people trying to speak a foreign language (mostly the brothers’ father – who was French) and the inability of the French to recognize the effort of other people trying to speak their language and their intolerance with those who do.

As we said goodbye, we hugged and wished each other “Bon Chance,” but I could see Juliet had an unasked question – and so I invited it. Of course, what she wanted to know, but had been uncertain to ask (which suggested a certain sensitivity that might now have been immediately apparent) was about life in Texas with Trump as President. However, she wasted no time in prefacing any answer I might have been about to give by providing me with her own, pretty well informed hypothesis (it turned out her mother was American). I gave her my elevator speech and departed!

This had been a fantastic visit to a wonderful place – unparalleled in my view from all of the places we had thus far visited in the Falklands -unparalleled for its remote, simple and quiet beauty and, it’s seriously good, nice and interesting people. We raised the main, upped the anchor and pulled out amongst the islands and headed South to Ten Shilling Bay about 30 miles south. This would be our last anchorage of our Falkland cruse and from where we would sail overnight back to Stanley, having completed a circumnavigation of the Falkland Islands, and then our preparations would start in Earnest (which is not a small place to the south of Stanley – yes, that was a seriously bad, old joke)  – preparations for the second half of our time together – the passage across the Southern Ocean.

On our last night of this stint, five of us stood on the stern deck, sipped beer and scrubbed the seemingly bottomless buckets of mussels we had collected earlier on in the day. The sun was setting and the wind was freshening. We were cold, but cold together, laughing about what we’d discovered about each other and chatting about the next night when we would do our first overnight sail as a crew. I like overnight sailing as a rule, but this would be a taste of what would eventually be three weeks of sailing through the night, operating a proper watch system and keeping each other awake and alert through three hours that had until now, been asleep time! We would no doubt start our second phase of learning.

Pip pip!

P.S. We heard just this morning that James, the package we delivered to Carcass Island for shipment back to Stanley, looks like he will be re-joining us when we get to Stanley. He had wanted to fly out to meet the boat and come back with us, but as we were only 24 hours from arriving in Stanley – and about to pick up the anchor, it seemed better is he just met the boat upon our arrival. We will be six again!