Sunday 28th December 2008, day 162. 12° 30’.21 N, 059° 55’.60 W. On passage to Tobago
It is good to be at sea again. We left Barbados with little regret; although a pleasant, safe island, with plenty of palm trees blowing in the constant breeze and gorgeous white sandy beaches, it is quite built up, staggeringly expensive, and seems to be for smarter, richer people than ourselves. Tobago by contrast sounds more like our idea of a tropical island, with jungle, waterfalls, and lots of little bays to anchor in.
The north-easterly trade winds have settled down nicely for this trip of around 120 miles, and are blowing us along at a steady 6.4 knots. The waves are the great Atlantic rollers we had forgotten about in our week in the lee of Barbados: about 10 foot high, with plenty of space between them, they tower over our stern, raise up the side of the boat, twist us, then roar off to starboard in a cloud of foam. The occasional one catches us before the previous one has passed, and then we find ourselves looking out of the portholes into clear blue bubble-flecked water, before Tomia rights herself and surges on.
Tonight is moonless, so we have a chance to look again at the stars, this time with a star chart in hand. Orion falls into place, and, with no light pollution we can make out his sword and bow and arrow. As he marches through the sky, and rises from recumbent to standing, Sirius, his dog, comes into focus, bounding eagerly behind him. To their north, Castor and Pollux, the twins who make up Gemini, hold hands, and then we can make out Perseus wrestling to rescue Andromeda from the rock to which she has been chained, before we get to the Plough, still upside down, still pointing to a pole star which is now below the horizon.
Monday 29th December, day 163. 11° 19’.79 N, 060° 33’.06 W. Pirates’ Bay, Charlotteville, Tobago.
This is more like it! Pirates’ Bay is the right sort of address for a Caribbean island, and Tobago certainly looks more like what we expected. Man of War Bay (of which Pirates’ Bay is an inlet), on the north west corner of the island, is surrounded by steep slopes covered in a dense mat of green vegetation, complete with creepers and brightly coloured flowers. Bananas grow wild – but on slopes so vertiginous we daren’t try and reach them – and steam rises from the darker hill tops where that day’s rain has not yet dried out.
Charlotteville itself is tiny, with perhaps a hundred houses, all simple and mainly wood-built, painted in cheerful pastels. The road along the beach is lined with tiny shops and shacks selling a bit of whatever happens to be available, from pepper sauce through ketchup in plastic bags to cakes of Life Boy (sic) soap. The pace of life has suddenly slowed riiight down. The going exchange rate seems to be that 20 Tobago minutes translate at around a European hour – but hey, who’s counting, when you can wait for the customs officer while watching the chickens peck their way down the ditch, and chat to his wife and children, who have brought him over his lunch. Where’s the rush?
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Atlantic crossing
Hot Bunking across the Atlantic;
or
How to make an interesting story out of 2,022 miles of featureless ocean.
Cast:
The Owl, in charge over all, with particular responsibility for heads and rubbish bins, and stopping the crew doing stupid things to themselves.
The Pussycat, in charge of everything else, and particularly valued for her detailed knowledge of the store cupboards.
Ship’s Artist, to be found at the saloon table at all hours, recording impressions of wind and waves.
Ship’s Siren, named at first for her honking cough and cold, but metamorphosing into a mermaid as the trip and the tan progress.
Gentleman Gin, who gets twitchy at midday and 6 pm, before drinks are served. Doubles as the Cabin Boy, when there’s brass to be polished.
Thursday 4th December
We are off! Re-vittled, re-crewed, revived, watered and slept; Tomia loaded down with spares lugged out by our long-suffering friends; final phone calls made and emails sent, there is nothing more to stop us.
We left Mindelo in a rollicking wind, the Owl steering. We curved around the bottom of the island of Santo Antão, littered with mini volcanoes, as pustulant as a teenager’s chin. At 12.51, we recorded boat speed of 9 knots – flying along. Barbados, here we come!
By mid afternoon, we were in the wind shadow of the island, and the log reports, rather tersely: “Wind all over the place. Engine on.” Over the next four hours, the wind faffed and we fiddled, until we got well clear of Santo Antão, the wind settled down, and we got the main out onto the starboard gybe, where it may remain for several days.
The first twenty four hours of any passage are always rather fractured and awkward. We – and the crew even more – are finding our sea legs, dealing with sea-sickness, remembering how to move and work on a boat that is constantly and unpredictably moving. Anthony and I are briefing the crew, trying to get a balance between giving them all the information they need for their first night at sea, and not overwhelming them with facts – or appearing too downright dictatorial. The crew, however experienced, are getting to grips with a new boat, finding hand-holds, working out how to use the heads without getting catapulted all over the place, understanding the chart plotter and the auto helm and the radar.
Our sleep is uneasy; the boat rolls, the sails frap, Anthony and I sleep with one ear open in case the crew should need help during their watches.
Friday 5th December
Sailing downwind in 10 – 15 knots of wind is exhilarating. Rolling around in 5 knots of wind which is aimlessly wandering about the compass, is quite exceptionally frustrating, especially when the seas are left over from yesterday’s higher winds and are both large and confused. None of us have slept well, and the mood in the cockpit is fragile. We let out the mainsheet, try to pole out the yankee, get the spinnaker out, get the spinnaker down, and in desperation turn on the engine just to give us some steerage and stop the wallowing. We take refuge in our books.
Three hours later, the whole mood has changed; the wind filled in, and settled down from the east. Two bonitos were caught in quick succession – the supper menu is revised in light of the fresh provisions.
We have opened a book on when we are going to arrive in Barbados. The pessimists (Ship’s Artist and the Pussycat) were taking a certain gloomy satisfaction about our slow progress, but now the optimists are feeling smug on the basis of our average 7 knots.
By the afternoon, the crew are really humming. They are all spotting things that need doing, cooking and washing up, keeping the deck log, and, best of all, we are all joining in the debate about how best to sail the boat. This is starting to feel like a team!
The Owl runs the generator, makes lots of water and heats it up and then announces we can all have showers. The crew is delirious with such a surfeit of creature comforts and all scrubbed and clean we enjoy our G&T moment in the cockpit feeling positive about the voyage ahead. A small indicator that we are on a long passage: the fruit bowl has been emptied into the net above the galley, and refilled with a selection of vitamin pills, in case our diet becomes too restrictive.
Simon, the ship’s cat, has been joined by a stuffed tiger, called (inevitably) Richard Parker. Simon maintains his usual imperturbable sleep, while Richard Parker has a look of slightly apprehensive excitement. We will see who ends up eating whom.
Saturday 6th December
We have been taking down the spinnaker at night and using a poled-out yankee. Partly as everyone prefers this slightly less volatile rig at night and partly because raising and lowering the spinnaker gives the crew a late night and early morning workout. This morning’s hoist was smooth and slick and done with great humour. Then we had our first pod of dolphins turning up to put on a display, diving and swirling around the bow.
Now that the crew are settling into the rhythm of the boat, we instigated a ‘happy hour’ and spent it dusting, mopping and generally satisfying our ‘Hyacinth’ side. It is interesting in this stripped down life how one starts to relish having chores to do to break up the time between keeping watch, sailing the boat, making food and sleeping.
Lunch today was a gastronomic feast: a salad of fresh tuna, marinaded in lime, together with the bonito caught yesterday, fried in ginger and garlic flavoured oil, with coriander, freshly squeezed lime juice, and a dash of sesame oil. Followed by chunks of watermelon, straight out of the fridge. Thank you, Siren!
We were just wondering, in a self-congratulatory fashion, whether the food in Barbados would be as good, when we were brought down to earth by the sudden failure of the sparking gadget which lights the gas on the oven and hob. It turns out that this is one spare we don’t carry …
The top drawer in the galley reveals two part-full boxes of matches and one rather tired book from a nightclub, containing a total, after counting twice, of 18 matches, which works out at just over one a day. Mournfully, we contemplate our lockers groaning with a variety of delicious, but potentially forever cold, cans, and wonder if rice and pasta would become edible if soaked for long enough in water that was warmed all day on deck.
At 17.30 ship’s time, we crossed a landmark, 30 degrees west of Greenwich, which means turning the clocks back by an hour. Bad luck for the person on watch, whose watch is extended by an hour – and for the rest of us, who have to wait an extra hour for our G&Ts.
35 minutes later, at 17.05, we achieve 300 miles. Only another 1,723 to go!
17.30. Gentleman Gin asks plaintively if, the clock having gone back, we have to wait a whole more hour until drinks are served.
18.15 On being told about the lighter crisis, the Pussycat, in her quartermaster role, casually opens a drawer with a further seven boxes of matches and three lighters. We are saved.
Sunday 7th December
The spinnaker is up, and the cabin boy is polishing the brass. What a crew! A special cushion is found in the bosun’s locker for kneeling on when polishing brass. What a ship!
Today the Ship’s Artist is on galley duty. Our watch rota is working well. We decided to run 2 hour watches through day and night with the Galley Slave being out of the watch system during the day. We have also instigated a volunteer ‘skivvy’ to assist the chef of the day. It’s a good way of sharing out the fun jobs (oh yes, washing up is FUN here!) and we are also able to knock off and get our heads down, or read our books when not on watch.
As we turned the clock back an hour yesterday, our 24 hour run was read at 1100. 409.8 miles. We can see the quarter of the passage mark ahead of us – sometime tomorrow. We are starting to live completely in the moment, and lose track of time. “What day is it today?” is an increasingly common wonder, as we all try to keep our diaries up to date. Personal space fluctuates in this tiny environment; we are learning to read each others’ body language, and the subtle signs which mean “I am buzzing with interesting thoughts from last night’s watch that I want to share with somebody” or “Go away, I am deep in my book and don’t want to be disturbed.” We can all find our little patch of space, which seems a mile away from the others, whether it’s on the aft deck, or writing at the saloon table.
The Pussycat is loving all these competent cooking crew members. It is the first time since Tomia left her home port that she hasn’t been planning every meal.
Monday 8th December
The Pussycat, asleep in the foreward bunks, is awakened by thundering footsteps above, followed by shouts of “yee hah!” She wonders if a rodeo is taking place, but the wind has come in, the spinnaker is up, and we are doing 10.2 knots surfing down the waves.
Gentleman Gin is on galley duty for the first time, and mighty apprehensive he is too. He has sensibly being laying a stock of goodwill by washing up and making coffees, and now cashes it in all at once, getting advice on every aspect of the forthcoming ordeal.
The last of the fresh fish and meat has been eaten, so it’s cans from now on, unless the fish come and get caught.
Tuesday 9th December
The wind has fallen away, and we are making little progress under engine. The sea becomes progressively calmer, until it is almost smooth, and we can see Tomia’s reflection in the water. We decide to turn off the engine, and go for a swim. Some of us are rather nervous, not of the boat disappearing off, as we check very carefully that there is still one more person on board before jumping in – how stupid one would feel to look round and say “Oh, I thought you were going to stay on board” as she sails off without us! – but of a tentacle reaching up from the deep to caress our ankles.
In the end, we do all go in, in shifts, and the water is both wonderfully warm, and surprisingly silky on the skin. We put the lifebuoy out on a line so we can catch it if the boat drifts quicker than we can swim. The Pussycat swims out to the end of the line, looks at how far away the boat is, and returns at speed.
The wind gradually fills in towards the end of the day, and we get the cruising chute up.
Wednesday 10th December
A hot day. The wind fills slowly, coming aft, and the cruising chute is boomed out onto the main boom, with the jib poled out on the other side. We see a ship! The first in a week. A vast solid lump, like two container ships welded together. It moves steadily southwest across our stern; we speculate that it may be carrying grain from the US to Africa. There is another boat sharing our world; a yacht which we can pick up on the radar, about 6 miles away. We catch occasional glimpses of her sails in daylight, and call her up on the VHF, but there is no reply. “Ships that pass in the night” has an increased resonance for us.
Thursday 11th December
The morning is clouded by two sadnesses: busting the cruising chute when getting it down, and a blockage in the aft heads, which casts a pall over the whole ship. The Owl has been tweaking at it all morning, and has just manfully gone back to the job after half an hour of fresh air in the cockpit – during which the rest of the crew withdrew upwind to give him some space. At least we shall all know how to do colonic irrigation from now on. He and the Gentleman are now making innovative use of a bamboo pole and a drill bit.
The Ship’s Siren is on galley duty, and has put the bread on to rise. The beansprouts are sprouting. We all seem to be thinking about food a great deal.
The unblocking of the aft heads continues all day: the Owl and the Cabin Boy devise ever more interesting appliances as makeshift Dyna-rods. In desperation, The Owl clips two life-lines to himself, and goes down the bathing ladder (Tomia is doing 7 knots by now), clutching the blocked pipe, and the Atlantic Ocean proves highly effective as a pressure washer. We all greet the results with delight, which just goes to show what living on a boat does for your appreciation of the true essentials of civilised life.
For tea, we make an interesting concoction with condensed milk, bread and coconut, baked in the oven. Plaudits all round from the sweet-toothed, comfort-food loving crew. For our evening meal we go to India for a red-lentil curry, via Italy with some parmesan toasted artichoke hearts for starters and finishing off with a watermelon and papaya fruit salad. If we keep raising the food standards like this we’re going to be stretching our culinary imaginations to the limit by the end of the trip.
Friday 12th December
We reached the halfway mark at 0713 today – 1,014 miles at the beginning of the 8th day at sea. Tomia has been romping along at over 6 knots for the last 24 hours, giving a 24 hour mileage of 142.1. A double cause for celebration, and the champagne, stashed in the fridge last night in anticipation of the halfway celebration, was brought out for breakfast. Neptune was paid his due with the first glass being poured over, before we toasted the remainder of the voyage and remembered that halfway is still just halfway and the next celebration will be when we sight land.
The Dyna-rod team’s clothes from yesterday are given a “special” wash, with Dettol taking the place of fabric conditioner.
The Artist takes a delicious, though slightly more ascetic, approach to food, which is probably good for us.
We have a fabulous sunset, maturing to vivid orange and mottled with clouds. The moon is full, and drifts back and forth behind the clouds, almost blanking out the stars entirely when it shines through. The Plough is now quite upside down.
The wind has got up, and we hope it has now settled in for a solid 10 – 20 knots for the rest of the journey. But the waves are causing us problems. These seas are not so much confused as totally bewildered; they come at us from all over the place, and, try as we might to keep her stern to the waves, Tomia is corkscrewing all over the place. None of us sleep well, despite lee cloths and a decent slug of Cointreau in the supper time orange salad.
Saturday 13th December
Well, today was just full of excitements. The biggest was when the impeller of the Duo-Gen, our towed generator, came off, dangling above a 4 kilometre drop. Luckily it was held on by its safety lines, but the Owl is mentally writing a severe note to the manufacturers about building in resistance to the sorts of strains to be expected on an ocean passage.
Then there was a fish, a great big fish on the end of our line. The atmosphere became quite pagan as the winch handle did its work, and everyone crowded round to get their share of blood on their clothes.
Mid morning, we crossed 45°W, which means the clock goes back another hour. Drinks and watches were adjusted accordingly.
On the culinary side, the Siren and the Pussycat have spent a large part of the past forty eight hours whispering sweet nothings to each other, in which the words “last tin of condensed milk”, “ginger nuts”, “banana” and “chocolate chunks” have featured considerably. The result is cooling in the fridge, next to the fish.
Then we did a bit of sail trimming, discovering, a little late, that in these seas, Tomia’s motion is much more comfortable if we do not pole out the jib, but set it on the same side as the main. Quartering seas from port can still heel her over, but her sails won’t allow her to roll back, so she doesn’t set up the corkscrewing motion which has not been lulling us to sleep. To run this rig, we have to set our course slightly south of the straight line to keep the sails full, so we decide to spend the daylight hours going north of our line, and then go south at night. This will add a few miles to our journey, but will be well worth it for a decent night’s sleep all round.
Finally, we found a bit of chafe on the jib sheets where they have been poled out, so got the sail down, cut off the chafe, re-seized the sheet, re-tied it and got the sail back up again.
What with breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea time, drinks and supper… on top of sail trimming and changing, fish-catching and equipment-mending…. you can see that we have very busy days! We just don’t know what happens to the time.
Sunday 14th December
Today started with a bang. The Ship’s Artist was on watch in a flat calm, engine on, tiny bit of mainsail out. Then came a squall – 35 knots of wind and a deluge of rain. The Cabin Boy was woken from his dreams of being a First Class Passenger with a jet of water on his face through the companion way. Hatches were hurriedly closed as the squall passed over leaving in its wake a lumpy sea which threw the boat backwards and forwards making sleep impossible.
The Pussycat, Ship’s Siren and Cabin Boy did their early morning workout with some reefing and unreefing practice, not all intentional. Finally we found a sail combination and course which put Tomia’s stern to the lumpy waves and made coffee time a possibility. The grey early morning cloud cover gave way to brilliant sunshine and opened up the possibility of some scientific suntanning later in the day. The spinnaker was hoisted for the first time in four days – actually it was hoisted twice in quick succession, due to getting the halyard the wrong side of the forestay the first time and not just because the Siren and Cabin Boy needed another workout.
The Pussycat was on galley duty and drafted in the assistance of a superior sous-chef in the form of Ship’s Artist. They secreted themselves in the galley with much whispering and perusing of obscure cookery books. What on earth was cooking today? The waft of baking bread set the nostrils of those in the cockpit a-quiver. Luncheon was served – a beansprout, white cabbage and carrot coleslaw which was devoured hungrily. “Did it really take you four hours to knock that up?” said the Cabin Boy sulkily. But this was Sunday lunch and there were more courses to come. Yesterday’s fish had been finely filleted and slivered to make a glorious ceviche (Mexican dish of fish cooked in lime juice), served with individual bread rolls flavoured with dill. To round off the meal a fruit salad with freshly harvested strawberries grown under glass on the foredeck (we jest of course, but it was a superb melange of tinned fruit tarted up with cardamon and ginger flavoured syrup).
The Owl declared his worry about cooking the next day and announced a back to basics cooking regime. The Cabin Boy volunteered to be Owl’s skivvy so they could lower the tone together. We all agreed that we needed to lower our expectations as the interesting ingredients are rapidly running out!
After lunch the Pussycat and Siren set about working hard on their tans – only a few days to go to fill in the white bits before arrival in Barbados. The run this morning for the last 24 hours was 136.5 miles, a total of 1322.9 since leaving the Cape Verdes. The crew are starting to look forward to arrival, while being acutely aware of how far it is still to go. We sat in the cockpit in the cool of the evening with a canopy of stars above us until the moon rose in the sky obliterating all but the strongest. It feels a million miles away from the UK in December with all its Christmas hype and excess.
Monday 15th. December
Even before the ship was properly awake the cry of “A fish” rang out and the Owl started reeling in what looked like (and was) a whopper. The Cabin Boy wielded the gaff hook, Ship’s Artist and Siren wielded their cameras. The Pussycat took a mouthful of gin. We momentarily wondered whether she was developing an alcohol problem before she squirted it into the fish’s gills. It is supposedly a quick and humane way to despatch the fish, but seemed to require a double dose … or was the Owl feeling in need of an early morning snifter too? The fish was a good 7 or 8 pounds and measured 80cms, we started pondering fishy recipes – this one will do 2 or 3 meals. The back to basics cooking day has been postponed. A beautiful fish he was too, bright yellow tinged with blue, fading quickly as he died.
This morning’s 24 hour run was 125.4 miles. We have less than 600 to go. The Cabin Boy is desperate to keep the boat speed up so he doesn’t have to do another day in the galley.
Tuesday 16th December
It is odd how the knowledge that we are approaching our destination reduces our pleasure in the experience we are having. For the first two thirds or so, we all spent a lot of time in zen-like contemplation of the waves, the sky, the clouds. Now we are counting down the last 500 miles there is at times an impatience to be there, and get the last few days over with. The weather, of course, is deaf to these desires, and serves up not a lot of wind. We flew the spinnaker all day, but only averaged just over 5 knots.
In the morning we found a lump of fishing net had wound itself round the Duo-Gen, seizing the whole thing solid. The letter to the manufacturers now includes a paragraph about providing it with some form of guard rails. The net brought up a colony of finger-nail sized crabs, which were given the choice between flavouring a fish stock or going overboard, and made for the scuppers as one.
The night started off wonderfully full of stars, and we contemplated running the spinnaker through the hours of darkness, until a vivid electric storm a few miles away made us take the more cautious route. Were we the only people in the world to see this display?
Wednesday 17th December
Rain, and no wind. We all loved the experience of sitting out in the rain in our shorts and T shirts, and not minding being wet through. The Siren and the Pussycat, though, are concerned that they are missing out on a tanning day, and will arrive in Barbados with their tummies still white. The clocks go back one last time, and we are now on Barbados time.
We are getting close enough to start fantasising about the joys of land life; fresh pineapple and rum punch are top of the list, followed by dancing on the beach.
Another sign of progress: tonight will be the last time we need to download a seventy-two hour weather forecast!
Soon after the above was written, the wind died away almost completely. We turned on the engine, and motored on into the afternoon. The seas have died right back, and we are surrounded by a grey undulating downland. The moon is about half waned, so still provides a bit of light, but not so much as to drown out the stars – if they weren’t obscured by the cloud.
After talking about it for fourteen days, the guitar is unearthed from the forepeak where it has been keeping the Artist company at night. The Siren plays, accompanied by the Pussycat on the recorder, and the Gentleman on vocals. The result is surprisingly tuneful. Our repertoire is expanded to include “The foggy foggy dew”, at the Gentleman’s request, and then a few carols. We warble cheerfully of halls bedecked with holly, poor men gathering winter fuel, and the frosty wind making moan, while the tropical sun sets behind the clouds.
Thursday 18th December
It’s amazing the difference a day can make. Yesterday was a day of torpor for the crew, with a feeling of wanting to be there and only saved by the early evening carol singing. Not being able to sail drained our energy for other things, and we all read ourselves into a stupor. Today, the sun is shining again. After a night of steady motoring, the total distance to go is less than 250 miles. We know that we will be there sometime on Saturday at the latest. It feels as though we are in control of the ETA at last, despite the lack of wind. Once everyone is awake there is a call for a pre-breakfast swim and the engine is duly stopped, bathing ladder dropped, and the ship’s company dive into the deep blue (not all at once of course, someone is left on board just in case).
We spot a sail on the horizon and the Pussycat calls up the stranger on the VHF. Who would believe it, after 14 days alone on the ocean with just a couple of ships and distant yachts for company, the stranger turns out to be a boat we became friendly with in the Cape Verdes. They left Mindelo a day before we did, and as the boat is 3 foot longer and ten years younger, as well as being built as a racer / cruiser, we feel distinctly smug about it. The whiff of testosterone drifts across the waves. Having motored all night we are enjoying the peacefulness of sailing again and hoist the spinnaker. Not racing, you understand, just making the best of the conditions in a seamanlike fashion.
Friday 19th December
What a way to end! The wind blew, the spinnaker flew, the beansprouts grew, and the fish was blue. Our final fish: a vast wahoo 90 cm long, made the fishing line twang like a tuning guitar as it gobbled its last meal – our lure! We felt a little sorry for it until we saw the array of sharp teeth; it is just as much a predator as we are – as the little fish we found in its stomach demonstrate. We do feel obliged to eat everything we catch, so the Galley slave now has to deal with 12lbs of raw fish in as many appetising ways as she can think of.
The wind was cracking, and the Siren did a great job of tweaking the spinnaker to keep our speed up to the max; her expertise was available for anybody who chose to learn from it. Our final spinnaker drop had the usual share of ropes twisted round the wrong way, but it came down safely, and we romped into Port St Charles, Barbados at up to 8 knots on a three sail reach.
Distance run 2,042 miles, time taken 15 ½ days, winner of the sweepstake on when we would arrive: the Siren.
The lights of the island started to loom ahead; the end of the voyage was in sight. For the Siren, this was just another ocean crossing (her second), for the Artist and the Gentleman it is the start of a holiday in the Caribbean; for the Owl and the Pussycat it means getting to the end of the plans we have made.
Saturday 20th December
This blog has to end somewhere; we leave you in Carlisle Bay. The palm trees are blowing against a blue sky with puffy white clouds; the Artist tells us that the colour of the sea is Cerulean blue; the bars on the beach sell rum punch. And we have just upset the dinghy by misjudging the swell on the beach; our Bajan dollars are pegged out on the rails to dry.
or
How to make an interesting story out of 2,022 miles of featureless ocean.
Cast:
The Owl, in charge over all, with particular responsibility for heads and rubbish bins, and stopping the crew doing stupid things to themselves.
The Pussycat, in charge of everything else, and particularly valued for her detailed knowledge of the store cupboards.
Ship’s Artist, to be found at the saloon table at all hours, recording impressions of wind and waves.
Ship’s Siren, named at first for her honking cough and cold, but metamorphosing into a mermaid as the trip and the tan progress.
Gentleman Gin, who gets twitchy at midday and 6 pm, before drinks are served. Doubles as the Cabin Boy, when there’s brass to be polished.
Thursday 4th December
We are off! Re-vittled, re-crewed, revived, watered and slept; Tomia loaded down with spares lugged out by our long-suffering friends; final phone calls made and emails sent, there is nothing more to stop us.
We left Mindelo in a rollicking wind, the Owl steering. We curved around the bottom of the island of Santo Antão, littered with mini volcanoes, as pustulant as a teenager’s chin. At 12.51, we recorded boat speed of 9 knots – flying along. Barbados, here we come!
By mid afternoon, we were in the wind shadow of the island, and the log reports, rather tersely: “Wind all over the place. Engine on.” Over the next four hours, the wind faffed and we fiddled, until we got well clear of Santo Antão, the wind settled down, and we got the main out onto the starboard gybe, where it may remain for several days.
The first twenty four hours of any passage are always rather fractured and awkward. We – and the crew even more – are finding our sea legs, dealing with sea-sickness, remembering how to move and work on a boat that is constantly and unpredictably moving. Anthony and I are briefing the crew, trying to get a balance between giving them all the information they need for their first night at sea, and not overwhelming them with facts – or appearing too downright dictatorial. The crew, however experienced, are getting to grips with a new boat, finding hand-holds, working out how to use the heads without getting catapulted all over the place, understanding the chart plotter and the auto helm and the radar.
Our sleep is uneasy; the boat rolls, the sails frap, Anthony and I sleep with one ear open in case the crew should need help during their watches.
Friday 5th December
Sailing downwind in 10 – 15 knots of wind is exhilarating. Rolling around in 5 knots of wind which is aimlessly wandering about the compass, is quite exceptionally frustrating, especially when the seas are left over from yesterday’s higher winds and are both large and confused. None of us have slept well, and the mood in the cockpit is fragile. We let out the mainsheet, try to pole out the yankee, get the spinnaker out, get the spinnaker down, and in desperation turn on the engine just to give us some steerage and stop the wallowing. We take refuge in our books.
Three hours later, the whole mood has changed; the wind filled in, and settled down from the east. Two bonitos were caught in quick succession – the supper menu is revised in light of the fresh provisions.
We have opened a book on when we are going to arrive in Barbados. The pessimists (Ship’s Artist and the Pussycat) were taking a certain gloomy satisfaction about our slow progress, but now the optimists are feeling smug on the basis of our average 7 knots.
By the afternoon, the crew are really humming. They are all spotting things that need doing, cooking and washing up, keeping the deck log, and, best of all, we are all joining in the debate about how best to sail the boat. This is starting to feel like a team!
The Owl runs the generator, makes lots of water and heats it up and then announces we can all have showers. The crew is delirious with such a surfeit of creature comforts and all scrubbed and clean we enjoy our G&T moment in the cockpit feeling positive about the voyage ahead. A small indicator that we are on a long passage: the fruit bowl has been emptied into the net above the galley, and refilled with a selection of vitamin pills, in case our diet becomes too restrictive.
Simon, the ship’s cat, has been joined by a stuffed tiger, called (inevitably) Richard Parker. Simon maintains his usual imperturbable sleep, while Richard Parker has a look of slightly apprehensive excitement. We will see who ends up eating whom.
Saturday 6th December
We have been taking down the spinnaker at night and using a poled-out yankee. Partly as everyone prefers this slightly less volatile rig at night and partly because raising and lowering the spinnaker gives the crew a late night and early morning workout. This morning’s hoist was smooth and slick and done with great humour. Then we had our first pod of dolphins turning up to put on a display, diving and swirling around the bow.
Now that the crew are settling into the rhythm of the boat, we instigated a ‘happy hour’ and spent it dusting, mopping and generally satisfying our ‘Hyacinth’ side. It is interesting in this stripped down life how one starts to relish having chores to do to break up the time between keeping watch, sailing the boat, making food and sleeping.
Lunch today was a gastronomic feast: a salad of fresh tuna, marinaded in lime, together with the bonito caught yesterday, fried in ginger and garlic flavoured oil, with coriander, freshly squeezed lime juice, and a dash of sesame oil. Followed by chunks of watermelon, straight out of the fridge. Thank you, Siren!
We were just wondering, in a self-congratulatory fashion, whether the food in Barbados would be as good, when we were brought down to earth by the sudden failure of the sparking gadget which lights the gas on the oven and hob. It turns out that this is one spare we don’t carry …
The top drawer in the galley reveals two part-full boxes of matches and one rather tired book from a nightclub, containing a total, after counting twice, of 18 matches, which works out at just over one a day. Mournfully, we contemplate our lockers groaning with a variety of delicious, but potentially forever cold, cans, and wonder if rice and pasta would become edible if soaked for long enough in water that was warmed all day on deck.
At 17.30 ship’s time, we crossed a landmark, 30 degrees west of Greenwich, which means turning the clocks back by an hour. Bad luck for the person on watch, whose watch is extended by an hour – and for the rest of us, who have to wait an extra hour for our G&Ts.
35 minutes later, at 17.05, we achieve 300 miles. Only another 1,723 to go!
17.30. Gentleman Gin asks plaintively if, the clock having gone back, we have to wait a whole more hour until drinks are served.
18.15 On being told about the lighter crisis, the Pussycat, in her quartermaster role, casually opens a drawer with a further seven boxes of matches and three lighters. We are saved.
Sunday 7th December
The spinnaker is up, and the cabin boy is polishing the brass. What a crew! A special cushion is found in the bosun’s locker for kneeling on when polishing brass. What a ship!
Today the Ship’s Artist is on galley duty. Our watch rota is working well. We decided to run 2 hour watches through day and night with the Galley Slave being out of the watch system during the day. We have also instigated a volunteer ‘skivvy’ to assist the chef of the day. It’s a good way of sharing out the fun jobs (oh yes, washing up is FUN here!) and we are also able to knock off and get our heads down, or read our books when not on watch.
As we turned the clock back an hour yesterday, our 24 hour run was read at 1100. 409.8 miles. We can see the quarter of the passage mark ahead of us – sometime tomorrow. We are starting to live completely in the moment, and lose track of time. “What day is it today?” is an increasingly common wonder, as we all try to keep our diaries up to date. Personal space fluctuates in this tiny environment; we are learning to read each others’ body language, and the subtle signs which mean “I am buzzing with interesting thoughts from last night’s watch that I want to share with somebody” or “Go away, I am deep in my book and don’t want to be disturbed.” We can all find our little patch of space, which seems a mile away from the others, whether it’s on the aft deck, or writing at the saloon table.
The Pussycat is loving all these competent cooking crew members. It is the first time since Tomia left her home port that she hasn’t been planning every meal.
Monday 8th December
The Pussycat, asleep in the foreward bunks, is awakened by thundering footsteps above, followed by shouts of “yee hah!” She wonders if a rodeo is taking place, but the wind has come in, the spinnaker is up, and we are doing 10.2 knots surfing down the waves.
Gentleman Gin is on galley duty for the first time, and mighty apprehensive he is too. He has sensibly being laying a stock of goodwill by washing up and making coffees, and now cashes it in all at once, getting advice on every aspect of the forthcoming ordeal.
The last of the fresh fish and meat has been eaten, so it’s cans from now on, unless the fish come and get caught.
Tuesday 9th December
The wind has fallen away, and we are making little progress under engine. The sea becomes progressively calmer, until it is almost smooth, and we can see Tomia’s reflection in the water. We decide to turn off the engine, and go for a swim. Some of us are rather nervous, not of the boat disappearing off, as we check very carefully that there is still one more person on board before jumping in – how stupid one would feel to look round and say “Oh, I thought you were going to stay on board” as she sails off without us! – but of a tentacle reaching up from the deep to caress our ankles.
In the end, we do all go in, in shifts, and the water is both wonderfully warm, and surprisingly silky on the skin. We put the lifebuoy out on a line so we can catch it if the boat drifts quicker than we can swim. The Pussycat swims out to the end of the line, looks at how far away the boat is, and returns at speed.
The wind gradually fills in towards the end of the day, and we get the cruising chute up.
Wednesday 10th December
A hot day. The wind fills slowly, coming aft, and the cruising chute is boomed out onto the main boom, with the jib poled out on the other side. We see a ship! The first in a week. A vast solid lump, like two container ships welded together. It moves steadily southwest across our stern; we speculate that it may be carrying grain from the US to Africa. There is another boat sharing our world; a yacht which we can pick up on the radar, about 6 miles away. We catch occasional glimpses of her sails in daylight, and call her up on the VHF, but there is no reply. “Ships that pass in the night” has an increased resonance for us.
Thursday 11th December
The morning is clouded by two sadnesses: busting the cruising chute when getting it down, and a blockage in the aft heads, which casts a pall over the whole ship. The Owl has been tweaking at it all morning, and has just manfully gone back to the job after half an hour of fresh air in the cockpit – during which the rest of the crew withdrew upwind to give him some space. At least we shall all know how to do colonic irrigation from now on. He and the Gentleman are now making innovative use of a bamboo pole and a drill bit.
The Ship’s Siren is on galley duty, and has put the bread on to rise. The beansprouts are sprouting. We all seem to be thinking about food a great deal.
The unblocking of the aft heads continues all day: the Owl and the Cabin Boy devise ever more interesting appliances as makeshift Dyna-rods. In desperation, The Owl clips two life-lines to himself, and goes down the bathing ladder (Tomia is doing 7 knots by now), clutching the blocked pipe, and the Atlantic Ocean proves highly effective as a pressure washer. We all greet the results with delight, which just goes to show what living on a boat does for your appreciation of the true essentials of civilised life.
For tea, we make an interesting concoction with condensed milk, bread and coconut, baked in the oven. Plaudits all round from the sweet-toothed, comfort-food loving crew. For our evening meal we go to India for a red-lentil curry, via Italy with some parmesan toasted artichoke hearts for starters and finishing off with a watermelon and papaya fruit salad. If we keep raising the food standards like this we’re going to be stretching our culinary imaginations to the limit by the end of the trip.
Friday 12th December
We reached the halfway mark at 0713 today – 1,014 miles at the beginning of the 8th day at sea. Tomia has been romping along at over 6 knots for the last 24 hours, giving a 24 hour mileage of 142.1. A double cause for celebration, and the champagne, stashed in the fridge last night in anticipation of the halfway celebration, was brought out for breakfast. Neptune was paid his due with the first glass being poured over, before we toasted the remainder of the voyage and remembered that halfway is still just halfway and the next celebration will be when we sight land.
The Dyna-rod team’s clothes from yesterday are given a “special” wash, with Dettol taking the place of fabric conditioner.
The Artist takes a delicious, though slightly more ascetic, approach to food, which is probably good for us.
We have a fabulous sunset, maturing to vivid orange and mottled with clouds. The moon is full, and drifts back and forth behind the clouds, almost blanking out the stars entirely when it shines through. The Plough is now quite upside down.
The wind has got up, and we hope it has now settled in for a solid 10 – 20 knots for the rest of the journey. But the waves are causing us problems. These seas are not so much confused as totally bewildered; they come at us from all over the place, and, try as we might to keep her stern to the waves, Tomia is corkscrewing all over the place. None of us sleep well, despite lee cloths and a decent slug of Cointreau in the supper time orange salad.
Saturday 13th December
Well, today was just full of excitements. The biggest was when the impeller of the Duo-Gen, our towed generator, came off, dangling above a 4 kilometre drop. Luckily it was held on by its safety lines, but the Owl is mentally writing a severe note to the manufacturers about building in resistance to the sorts of strains to be expected on an ocean passage.
Then there was a fish, a great big fish on the end of our line. The atmosphere became quite pagan as the winch handle did its work, and everyone crowded round to get their share of blood on their clothes.
Mid morning, we crossed 45°W, which means the clock goes back another hour. Drinks and watches were adjusted accordingly.
On the culinary side, the Siren and the Pussycat have spent a large part of the past forty eight hours whispering sweet nothings to each other, in which the words “last tin of condensed milk”, “ginger nuts”, “banana” and “chocolate chunks” have featured considerably. The result is cooling in the fridge, next to the fish.
Then we did a bit of sail trimming, discovering, a little late, that in these seas, Tomia’s motion is much more comfortable if we do not pole out the jib, but set it on the same side as the main. Quartering seas from port can still heel her over, but her sails won’t allow her to roll back, so she doesn’t set up the corkscrewing motion which has not been lulling us to sleep. To run this rig, we have to set our course slightly south of the straight line to keep the sails full, so we decide to spend the daylight hours going north of our line, and then go south at night. This will add a few miles to our journey, but will be well worth it for a decent night’s sleep all round.
Finally, we found a bit of chafe on the jib sheets where they have been poled out, so got the sail down, cut off the chafe, re-seized the sheet, re-tied it and got the sail back up again.
What with breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea time, drinks and supper… on top of sail trimming and changing, fish-catching and equipment-mending…. you can see that we have very busy days! We just don’t know what happens to the time.
Sunday 14th December
Today started with a bang. The Ship’s Artist was on watch in a flat calm, engine on, tiny bit of mainsail out. Then came a squall – 35 knots of wind and a deluge of rain. The Cabin Boy was woken from his dreams of being a First Class Passenger with a jet of water on his face through the companion way. Hatches were hurriedly closed as the squall passed over leaving in its wake a lumpy sea which threw the boat backwards and forwards making sleep impossible.
The Pussycat, Ship’s Siren and Cabin Boy did their early morning workout with some reefing and unreefing practice, not all intentional. Finally we found a sail combination and course which put Tomia’s stern to the lumpy waves and made coffee time a possibility. The grey early morning cloud cover gave way to brilliant sunshine and opened up the possibility of some scientific suntanning later in the day. The spinnaker was hoisted for the first time in four days – actually it was hoisted twice in quick succession, due to getting the halyard the wrong side of the forestay the first time and not just because the Siren and Cabin Boy needed another workout.
The Pussycat was on galley duty and drafted in the assistance of a superior sous-chef in the form of Ship’s Artist. They secreted themselves in the galley with much whispering and perusing of obscure cookery books. What on earth was cooking today? The waft of baking bread set the nostrils of those in the cockpit a-quiver. Luncheon was served – a beansprout, white cabbage and carrot coleslaw which was devoured hungrily. “Did it really take you four hours to knock that up?” said the Cabin Boy sulkily. But this was Sunday lunch and there were more courses to come. Yesterday’s fish had been finely filleted and slivered to make a glorious ceviche (Mexican dish of fish cooked in lime juice), served with individual bread rolls flavoured with dill. To round off the meal a fruit salad with freshly harvested strawberries grown under glass on the foredeck (we jest of course, but it was a superb melange of tinned fruit tarted up with cardamon and ginger flavoured syrup).
The Owl declared his worry about cooking the next day and announced a back to basics cooking regime. The Cabin Boy volunteered to be Owl’s skivvy so they could lower the tone together. We all agreed that we needed to lower our expectations as the interesting ingredients are rapidly running out!
After lunch the Pussycat and Siren set about working hard on their tans – only a few days to go to fill in the white bits before arrival in Barbados. The run this morning for the last 24 hours was 136.5 miles, a total of 1322.9 since leaving the Cape Verdes. The crew are starting to look forward to arrival, while being acutely aware of how far it is still to go. We sat in the cockpit in the cool of the evening with a canopy of stars above us until the moon rose in the sky obliterating all but the strongest. It feels a million miles away from the UK in December with all its Christmas hype and excess.
Monday 15th. December
Even before the ship was properly awake the cry of “A fish” rang out and the Owl started reeling in what looked like (and was) a whopper. The Cabin Boy wielded the gaff hook, Ship’s Artist and Siren wielded their cameras. The Pussycat took a mouthful of gin. We momentarily wondered whether she was developing an alcohol problem before she squirted it into the fish’s gills. It is supposedly a quick and humane way to despatch the fish, but seemed to require a double dose … or was the Owl feeling in need of an early morning snifter too? The fish was a good 7 or 8 pounds and measured 80cms, we started pondering fishy recipes – this one will do 2 or 3 meals. The back to basics cooking day has been postponed. A beautiful fish he was too, bright yellow tinged with blue, fading quickly as he died.
This morning’s 24 hour run was 125.4 miles. We have less than 600 to go. The Cabin Boy is desperate to keep the boat speed up so he doesn’t have to do another day in the galley.
Tuesday 16th December
It is odd how the knowledge that we are approaching our destination reduces our pleasure in the experience we are having. For the first two thirds or so, we all spent a lot of time in zen-like contemplation of the waves, the sky, the clouds. Now we are counting down the last 500 miles there is at times an impatience to be there, and get the last few days over with. The weather, of course, is deaf to these desires, and serves up not a lot of wind. We flew the spinnaker all day, but only averaged just over 5 knots.
In the morning we found a lump of fishing net had wound itself round the Duo-Gen, seizing the whole thing solid. The letter to the manufacturers now includes a paragraph about providing it with some form of guard rails. The net brought up a colony of finger-nail sized crabs, which were given the choice between flavouring a fish stock or going overboard, and made for the scuppers as one.
The night started off wonderfully full of stars, and we contemplated running the spinnaker through the hours of darkness, until a vivid electric storm a few miles away made us take the more cautious route. Were we the only people in the world to see this display?
Wednesday 17th December
Rain, and no wind. We all loved the experience of sitting out in the rain in our shorts and T shirts, and not minding being wet through. The Siren and the Pussycat, though, are concerned that they are missing out on a tanning day, and will arrive in Barbados with their tummies still white. The clocks go back one last time, and we are now on Barbados time.
We are getting close enough to start fantasising about the joys of land life; fresh pineapple and rum punch are top of the list, followed by dancing on the beach.
Another sign of progress: tonight will be the last time we need to download a seventy-two hour weather forecast!
Soon after the above was written, the wind died away almost completely. We turned on the engine, and motored on into the afternoon. The seas have died right back, and we are surrounded by a grey undulating downland. The moon is about half waned, so still provides a bit of light, but not so much as to drown out the stars – if they weren’t obscured by the cloud.
After talking about it for fourteen days, the guitar is unearthed from the forepeak where it has been keeping the Artist company at night. The Siren plays, accompanied by the Pussycat on the recorder, and the Gentleman on vocals. The result is surprisingly tuneful. Our repertoire is expanded to include “The foggy foggy dew”, at the Gentleman’s request, and then a few carols. We warble cheerfully of halls bedecked with holly, poor men gathering winter fuel, and the frosty wind making moan, while the tropical sun sets behind the clouds.
Thursday 18th December
It’s amazing the difference a day can make. Yesterday was a day of torpor for the crew, with a feeling of wanting to be there and only saved by the early evening carol singing. Not being able to sail drained our energy for other things, and we all read ourselves into a stupor. Today, the sun is shining again. After a night of steady motoring, the total distance to go is less than 250 miles. We know that we will be there sometime on Saturday at the latest. It feels as though we are in control of the ETA at last, despite the lack of wind. Once everyone is awake there is a call for a pre-breakfast swim and the engine is duly stopped, bathing ladder dropped, and the ship’s company dive into the deep blue (not all at once of course, someone is left on board just in case).
We spot a sail on the horizon and the Pussycat calls up the stranger on the VHF. Who would believe it, after 14 days alone on the ocean with just a couple of ships and distant yachts for company, the stranger turns out to be a boat we became friendly with in the Cape Verdes. They left Mindelo a day before we did, and as the boat is 3 foot longer and ten years younger, as well as being built as a racer / cruiser, we feel distinctly smug about it. The whiff of testosterone drifts across the waves. Having motored all night we are enjoying the peacefulness of sailing again and hoist the spinnaker. Not racing, you understand, just making the best of the conditions in a seamanlike fashion.
Friday 19th December
What a way to end! The wind blew, the spinnaker flew, the beansprouts grew, and the fish was blue. Our final fish: a vast wahoo 90 cm long, made the fishing line twang like a tuning guitar as it gobbled its last meal – our lure! We felt a little sorry for it until we saw the array of sharp teeth; it is just as much a predator as we are – as the little fish we found in its stomach demonstrate. We do feel obliged to eat everything we catch, so the Galley slave now has to deal with 12lbs of raw fish in as many appetising ways as she can think of.
The wind was cracking, and the Siren did a great job of tweaking the spinnaker to keep our speed up to the max; her expertise was available for anybody who chose to learn from it. Our final spinnaker drop had the usual share of ropes twisted round the wrong way, but it came down safely, and we romped into Port St Charles, Barbados at up to 8 knots on a three sail reach.
Distance run 2,042 miles, time taken 15 ½ days, winner of the sweepstake on when we would arrive: the Siren.
The lights of the island started to loom ahead; the end of the voyage was in sight. For the Siren, this was just another ocean crossing (her second), for the Artist and the Gentleman it is the start of a holiday in the Caribbean; for the Owl and the Pussycat it means getting to the end of the plans we have made.
Saturday 20th December
This blog has to end somewhere; we leave you in Carlisle Bay. The palm trees are blowing against a blue sky with puffy white clouds; the Artist tells us that the colour of the sea is Cerulean blue; the bars on the beach sell rum punch. And we have just upset the dinghy by misjudging the swell on the beach; our Bajan dollars are pegged out on the rails to dry.
Monday, 22 December 2008
Caribbean for Christmas
We've arrived! After a 15 1/2 day crossing, we made it into Port St Charles, Barbados at 1 in the morning of Friday 19th December. A good crossing, winds not too strong, but plenty of variety. This is just to let you know we've arrived ... more to follow, but first we've got to find a launderette!
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Wildlife - and temporary farewell
Sunday 30th November 2008, day 134. 16° 45’.16 N, 022° 58’.77 W. Palmeira, Sal, Cape Verde
Describing the Cape Verdes would take a book! We have been to five islands in the group: São Vicente, Santo Antão, the westernmost, then going east, to the uninhabited Santa Luzia, São Nicolau, and now we are on Sal, the most north easterly, waiting for our new crew to arrive and the previous one to depart. I must try to pull all the impressions of the islands together to make something coherent; at the minute it is just a jumble of the harsh country, hard-working people, bright sunlight, and jolting on cobbled roads up and down mountain ridges in shared minibus taxis, through scant fields of maize, taciturn goats, and great webs of spiders strung between the telegraph poles.
Something easier to describe is the wildlife we’ve seen since leaving the Canaries – because there hasn’t been a lot of it. What there has been, though, has more than made up for the scarcity.
To start with – a turtle, all by himself, quietly plodding his way across our wake, when we were half way between the Canaries and Cape Verdes. He was the only one we’ve seen, so it is hard – though foolish – not to imagine him being the sole representative of his species in these waters.
Then, two days out from the Canaries, we were startled by a loud bang in the middle of the night. It was a flying fish, hurling himself from a predator’s jaws straight onto our spray-hood. He was stunned, but we chucked him back in, and hope he escaped. From then on, we have been “catching” a couple every night, usually a few inches long, but we hope to get a decent sized one soon, so we can report on the texture and flavour. They are quite amazing to watch during the day. I had assumed that their flight was just really a long leap out of the water, but no. They fly low over the waves, like a silver skimmed stone, and can easily cover 100 yards, not just flying in a straight line, but banking and curving to choose the safest spot to land. If they time it right they will just catch a wave with their tail, and give a quick flick, to get a boost of speed and a few more yards of flight. On deck, they are about 6 inches long, and mackerel shaped, silver, with blackish fins / wings and tail.
We think of them flying to escape larger fish, but another predator is a local type of gannet, which has perfected the art of flying alongside boats to pick up any flying fish put up by them. The fish leaves the water, the gannet soars after it, matching the fish turn for turn, until the fish re-enters the water, when the gannet will dive. We assume the fish slows on re-entry, which gives the bird a chance to catch it.
I met more wildlife in a clothes shop in Mindelo; I picked out a rather jazzy pair of navy and white striped trousers, and was just admiring the opulent three-dimensional embroidery of a black and gold striped spider covering the back pocket when – it moved. My first thought was to hand the trousers to the owner of the shop – it was, after all, her spider – but she seemed oddly reluctant to take them. We froze briefly, me holding the hanger by my fingertips, at full arm’s length, until she decided it gave a bad impression to customers if she appeared frightened of her stock, and took it gingerly, whereupon the spider leapt to the ground, we all shrieked, and it whizzed into the nearest dark corner, beside what had been a rather tempting pair of red patent shoes. She offered to take any garment we were interested in from the rack herself, and shake it before handing it to us, but somehow the glamour had gone out of the shopping expedition.
These islands seem to be a good environment for spiders; up in the hills, one sees giant webs strung between the telegraph poles, inhabited by up to a hundred of them, all at least an inch across the body. The effect is quite eerie. This may explain the slightly neurotic behaviour of the local flies. We speculated briefly that a spider web like that could be an excellent, eco-friendly alternative to a mosquito net, but on second thoughts decided not.
Now, in Palmeira, a fish eagle is hovering over the boat, and has just emerged from a dive with a decent-sized fish clutched in its talons.
And finally, with roll of drums and a fanfare of trumpets, there are … the fish that we’ve caught ourselves! So far, we’ve had three, one almost certainly a bonito, the other two less easy to identify, but all good eating, the bonito sweet and tender. It turns out, for us novices, that catching the fish is just the first part of the problem. We gaff them fairly easily, then put on gardening gloves against the spines, hold them down on a beech-wood block, and Anthony administers the winch handle. Sometimes the fish have co-operated. Anthony is dead chuffed that his brand new shorts have spatters of fish blood on them; it makes him feel like a primæval hero.
Thursday 4th December
We are now back in Mindelo, have reprovisioned, taken on water, got the next week's weather forecast, all had a good night's sleep, and are about to head west for 2,100 miles. Will be back in touch on the other side.
Just in case we don't get there in time, Happy Christmas!
Describing the Cape Verdes would take a book! We have been to five islands in the group: São Vicente, Santo Antão, the westernmost, then going east, to the uninhabited Santa Luzia, São Nicolau, and now we are on Sal, the most north easterly, waiting for our new crew to arrive and the previous one to depart. I must try to pull all the impressions of the islands together to make something coherent; at the minute it is just a jumble of the harsh country, hard-working people, bright sunlight, and jolting on cobbled roads up and down mountain ridges in shared minibus taxis, through scant fields of maize, taciturn goats, and great webs of spiders strung between the telegraph poles.
Something easier to describe is the wildlife we’ve seen since leaving the Canaries – because there hasn’t been a lot of it. What there has been, though, has more than made up for the scarcity.
To start with – a turtle, all by himself, quietly plodding his way across our wake, when we were half way between the Canaries and Cape Verdes. He was the only one we’ve seen, so it is hard – though foolish – not to imagine him being the sole representative of his species in these waters.
Then, two days out from the Canaries, we were startled by a loud bang in the middle of the night. It was a flying fish, hurling himself from a predator’s jaws straight onto our spray-hood. He was stunned, but we chucked him back in, and hope he escaped. From then on, we have been “catching” a couple every night, usually a few inches long, but we hope to get a decent sized one soon, so we can report on the texture and flavour. They are quite amazing to watch during the day. I had assumed that their flight was just really a long leap out of the water, but no. They fly low over the waves, like a silver skimmed stone, and can easily cover 100 yards, not just flying in a straight line, but banking and curving to choose the safest spot to land. If they time it right they will just catch a wave with their tail, and give a quick flick, to get a boost of speed and a few more yards of flight. On deck, they are about 6 inches long, and mackerel shaped, silver, with blackish fins / wings and tail.
We think of them flying to escape larger fish, but another predator is a local type of gannet, which has perfected the art of flying alongside boats to pick up any flying fish put up by them. The fish leaves the water, the gannet soars after it, matching the fish turn for turn, until the fish re-enters the water, when the gannet will dive. We assume the fish slows on re-entry, which gives the bird a chance to catch it.
I met more wildlife in a clothes shop in Mindelo; I picked out a rather jazzy pair of navy and white striped trousers, and was just admiring the opulent three-dimensional embroidery of a black and gold striped spider covering the back pocket when – it moved. My first thought was to hand the trousers to the owner of the shop – it was, after all, her spider – but she seemed oddly reluctant to take them. We froze briefly, me holding the hanger by my fingertips, at full arm’s length, until she decided it gave a bad impression to customers if she appeared frightened of her stock, and took it gingerly, whereupon the spider leapt to the ground, we all shrieked, and it whizzed into the nearest dark corner, beside what had been a rather tempting pair of red patent shoes. She offered to take any garment we were interested in from the rack herself, and shake it before handing it to us, but somehow the glamour had gone out of the shopping expedition.
These islands seem to be a good environment for spiders; up in the hills, one sees giant webs strung between the telegraph poles, inhabited by up to a hundred of them, all at least an inch across the body. The effect is quite eerie. This may explain the slightly neurotic behaviour of the local flies. We speculated briefly that a spider web like that could be an excellent, eco-friendly alternative to a mosquito net, but on second thoughts decided not.
Now, in Palmeira, a fish eagle is hovering over the boat, and has just emerged from a dive with a decent-sized fish clutched in its talons.
And finally, with roll of drums and a fanfare of trumpets, there are … the fish that we’ve caught ourselves! So far, we’ve had three, one almost certainly a bonito, the other two less easy to identify, but all good eating, the bonito sweet and tender. It turns out, for us novices, that catching the fish is just the first part of the problem. We gaff them fairly easily, then put on gardening gloves against the spines, hold them down on a beech-wood block, and Anthony administers the winch handle. Sometimes the fish have co-operated. Anthony is dead chuffed that his brand new shorts have spatters of fish blood on them; it makes him feel like a primæval hero.
Thursday 4th December
We are now back in Mindelo, have reprovisioned, taken on water, got the next week's weather forecast, all had a good night's sleep, and are about to head west for 2,100 miles. Will be back in touch on the other side.
Just in case we don't get there in time, Happy Christmas!
Monday, 1 December 2008
Creature comforts
Palmeira, Sal, Cape Verdes, Monday 1st December.
I would like you now to stop what you are doing, and go and have a long chat with your washing machine. Make it a cup of Calgon, sit down, and tell it how much you appreciate the way it washes the heavy duvet covers and towels and pillow cases, and hundreds upon hundreds of smaller things, and rinses them and then rinses them again, and then spins them for you until they are almost dry, all without any fuss. Make it feel loved. Because, believe me, you don´t appreciate it nearly as much as you ought!
I would like you now to stop what you are doing, and go and have a long chat with your washing machine. Make it a cup of Calgon, sit down, and tell it how much you appreciate the way it washes the heavy duvet covers and towels and pillow cases, and hundreds upon hundreds of smaller things, and rinses them and then rinses them again, and then spins them for you until they are almost dry, all without any fuss. Make it feel loved. Because, believe me, you don´t appreciate it nearly as much as you ought!
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