2:45 PM Fri 4 Dec 2009 GMT
23.00 hrs Thursday 26th November
23.00hrs In my bunk
Off watch: In my bunk sorting kit and trying to get comfortable - we've been heeled right over on a port tack for some days now. I'm mid-ship in a lower bunk on starboard. It's pretty calm now actually. For days I've just taken to lying on a towel on my sleeping bag, using the latter as a puffy mattress and snuggled up in a silk liner with my thermals on to keep warm. Far easier to rest that way when we're heeled over - it's as much as I can do to stay on my makeshift mattress and it doubles up as a cushion against the cold damp inner wall of the boat too as I face towards the starboard hull lining, nose pressed against my cubby hole lockers hearing the cold Southern Ocean water slosh around. With the guardrails in the water, I am well below the waterline. I'm settled. Well, as much as you can be when you're bed is constantly moving about and you are continually readjusting yourself inside the warm lining of the sleeping bag as it shifts around together with the pillow (which in any case doubles as an airing cupboard/radiator for my clothing). Earplugs now in: kip time. It's about 23.00 hours; I came off watch at 22.00 hours and will be on again at 02.00 hours. As I lie there reflecting on the day - a great day's sailing with good winds (22kts occasionally gusting 30kts), comfortable helm with our 'big blue canoe' cruising down some pretty big swells (about five metres) - all is well with the world here in the Roaring Forties and we're leading the fleet. I need desperately to get some good sleep in before the expected squalls as we head towards the band of low pressure we need to go further south to keep on the wind as we take our 'great circle' route to Australia.
Strangely, I nodded off thinking about grabbing, under the stairs at home, my elegant long black wool coat that I would be wearing to go to work at this time of the year!
01.03 hours Down Below in the Ghetto - Mid ship by the mast box
A massive thud, then a violent lurch to port. I hang on tight to the bunk above only to career through the shower curtain (I'm in the 'wet' bunk by the mast and stairs to the hatch on the bow) suspended above my bunk. My lea cloth has flopped down and I land with my silk liner onto a soaking wet sail beside my bunk. I hear shouting and an army of feet above my head. Frantic grinding on the primary winch, waves crashing right over the bow, I hear a loud cry: 'God, that's freezing!' then look up at the hatch and see lightning illuminate the fuzzy vision of water and red jackets. Torrential rain pours down as the jacketed figurines flay around while sails flap and ropes swirl. Another massive lurch and another bruised shin as I crash against the metal bar of my bunk. The hatch then opens and a sail plus what feels like an empty cold bath flies down, narrowly missing my head. Better get ready I think before a big wet sail swamps me and soaks the bunk in the process. I look at my watch. It's 01.03 hours. Thermal leggings and boots now on, I bag up my sleeping bag in its trusty bivi, reattach the shower curtain (thank heavens I brought a spare - even if a wave doesn't soak my bunk, the constant pounding of waves over the bow means a steady trickle of cold salt water through the leaky hatch across the ceiling and down the curtain). For some reason, I have a flashback to getting soaked heading for my train at Waterloo from the office on the Strand crossing Hungerford Bridge (I hate the tube). Then fellow round the worlder Simon appears. He's drenched. 'Got to get the Yankee 3 bag up and the Yankee 2 sail', he mutters, pretty calmly I recall. Another cry: 'Hatch open!" I hear the familiar screech of the hinges as the hatch opens up above me and look up and see two fellow Cape Breton Island crew looking pretty sodden and ruddy-faced as they try to drag the newly-dropped soaking sail in its bag towards the hatch while at the same time hanging on for dear life. The wind is howling but with the new sails up the boat feels more stable now even if the bow is thumping down the sides of each powerful wave. My watch is waking now for our 02.00 hours shift. I'm conscious I've not slept again and it's going to be a long, cold, wet four hours. Sleep is a precious commodity on this gruelling four hour on and off shift we are doing, with time to eat, brush teeth, even wash (albeit wet wipes only) extremely constrained.
05.00hrs: On Deck
I'm penning this blog now at 05.00 hours before I come off at 06.00 hours for breakfast and then get my head down. Time to do other things, whether jobs on the boat or just relaxing reading a book, must be calculated carefully to not compromise valuable rest and sleep.
As I sit here now, all is well albeit there's a bitingly cold wind and raining and my damp foul weather gear isn't any comfort despite its waterproofing. I've just notched up 18.3kn of boat speed on the helm as I watched the bow climb the swells and then nosedive down them again. We've 38kn of wind and we're expecting more gusty weather before an expected high bringing lighter airs. We need to maximise on the wind we have for as long as we can to hold off the fleet catching us. A pair of albatrosses rejoined us as they do every dawn only to depart us - seemingly at any rate - at dusk.
As I think about last night, well, this morning, I recognise that for one fleeting moment I had felt fear. I had realised our boat was like a toy in this vast and most unforgiving of oceans and miles from land if you can call less than 1500 miles from Antarctica a comfort! As I look out across this treacherous yet quite beautiful ocean and then at my fellow crewmates, I know we all feel the same way - that that fear, though very real, is only momentary as we are confident in our boat, our safety procedures onboard and, of course, our skipper, Jan Ridd. We all look out for each other at all times, either on deck or below deck whether in difficult circumstances or not. That we all now understand is the key to being a good sailor - that and constantly preparing and checking and looking after the boat.
As for the lurching, I realised that we had simply been overpowered - too much canvas up for the wind speed and sea state - and reducing the sail size was all that was needed to keep the boat under control. While our skipper was surprised by the massive gusts which destabilised the boat in the first place, he knew what was needed to be done but had to rely on his crew to do it. We did.
His confidence in us, his crew, to get the job done and get us out of the danger zone has inspired our confidence to handle more and more crises efficiently and without fanfare. Being in control is what ultimately will keep fear away. I know we still haven't seen anything yet but at least we are better prepared now. Better go check that shower curtain!
Cape Breton Island standing by.
by Carol Reed
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BEAUMARIS, VIC
