36:02.0N 50:27.1W

A modest 101 miles, but we’re satisfied with the day’s run given that we had eight hours or so of very light winds. But today started very well and we’re making excellent progress in a following wind of 15 to 20 knots. Our heading is still generally northeast, working our way towards the upper edge of the Azores High that hasn’t been in its usual place but does now seem to be forming.

The balance of today’s blog will take you behind the glamorous exterior of Neroli and her voyage; beyond the glossy facade: relaxing in the sunshine, enjoying tropical drinks, composing Haiku, sampling the cuisine and enjoying peaceful sleep in the luxury guest quarters. We’ll see past the evening studies of the Ecliptic under the guidance of renaissance man Paddy Smyth; we’ll look beyond new and ingenious ways of tying two bowlines simultaneously under the keen eye of veteran sea salt Allan Collison; we’ll look deeper than practical exercises in shipboard stowing, cleanup and organization led by new age skipper (or “chief coach” as he likes to style himself) Charlie Tongue.

Let us instead take you into the working portions of the vessel, into the galley for example, where the cook struggles to produce meals worthy of the over-the-top descriptions Charlie used in recruiting Paddy and Allan to this project. To give you some insights into the conditions that we have to work in, allow me to share with you a few highlights from my first shipboard attempt at scrambled eggs.

The conditions were not untypical of this voyage: Neroli was close-hauled on port tack. And while that means, in layperson’s terms, that the boat is generally tending to lean to the right as you look forward, this isn’t guaranteed. Occasionally (quite often, actually, on this particular day) some combination of autopilot, man on watch, wind and/or wave produces a surprising and unheralded move in the other direction.

To add to the fun, encounters with large waves produce an additional kind of unexpected movement in the form of a discontinuous jump that may be (and usually is) in any direction at all, including up and/or down. If one is holding a container, you and the container may move sharply (because one is holding fast to a part of Neroli’s interior, as directed by the old maxim, “one hand for yourself, and one for the ship”) while the contents of the container (if open) may not feel constrained to move in the same direction. And if a further sharp movement in another (e.g., horizontal) direction occurs, then those contents are very unlikely to make it safely back to the container.

So there was I, following the “one hand for...” maxim, although in my case, and especially when cooking, several more appendages than two hands are called into play. A hip is wedged into the corner between the stove and the working surface; a knee is braced against the counter opposite; an elbow is wrapped round the post conveniently located nearby, with that hand holding a saucepan; the other arm has an egg nestled in the crook of the elbow (creative, yes?) with the hand clutching the box of eggs in an attempt to keep that under control while breaking the first egg into the bowl in which I am attempting to assemble the eggs prior to scrambling.

The skipper has thoughtfully equipped Neroli’s galley with an extensive range of non-slip pads. The idea is that you put one of these on the working surface, then place a container on the pad. The pad won’t slide and nor will the container. Unfortunately, as you will very soon learn, other degrees of freedom are usually available.

I managed to break eight eggs into the bowl, and placed it securely (as I thought) on a non-slip pad. As I attempted to free up a limb to reach past the stove to open a drawer to extract a fork to beat the eggs (and, by the way, another hand is needed here to hold the drawer open while getting out the implement) Neroli rolled sharply. (Charlie doesn’t like me to use phrases like “lurched wildly” or I would have done so here.)

3M can be proud: the non-slip material performed superbly. Neither mat nor bowl slid. But as the angle increased, most of the contents of the bowl emptied neatly into the sink. Disaster, you might think...but no (not yet) because at least the eggs are still somewhat constrained and perhaps a fast rescue can be effected. But there’s not a moment to be lost: the eggs are just about to slide down the centrally-placed drain (since for just a moment the vessel is level).

Digression: another blog may have to address this whole thing about working with sinks that are moving oddly and unpredictably and are therefore not amenable to the usual emptying arrangements, not to say pouring scalding water from a kettle that goes off sideways because what your brain says is vertically down into the teacup is actually 35 degrees to the horizontal since the whole galley (kitchen) is leaning and you have no exterior frame of reference (a horizon would be nice but it can’t be seen because of the lean – all you see is water racing by just outside the window, looking as if it wants to get in). (End of digression).

But then Neroli returned to her previous angle and the eggs slopped to the side of the sink, out of reach of the drain. A mild curse, a couple of dropped implements, a risky move with no hands attached to Neroli and I scooped up the eggs (aided by the quality that before I had never appreciated, that if you get one bit of a raw egg, the rest tends to follow) and I had let’s say 75% back in the bowl along with a few coffee grounds and some scraps from Paddy’s breakfast bowl (actually, it must have been Allan’s bowl because Paddy doesn’t leave any scraps – but is a bit sensitive when we call him names like the Marine Vacuum Cleaner aka the Gannet).

Luckily three more eggs remained in the box and these were very soon added to the bowl to make up the deficit. Determined to avoid a recurrence, I moved the bowl downhill to the outer edge of the kitchen, safely away from the sink and with the added security of the bulkhead (wall) to wedge the bowl against.

Now I had to light the stove, a process requiring at least three hands: one to hold the lighter; one to turn the knob and hold it pressed in for several seconds; and of course one more to keep me from flying in any one of the several available directions. As ignition occurred Neroli repeated her earlier move, this time with a charming little extra twist that was just sufficient to bounce the bowl away from the bulkhead and enable it to tip again. I watched helplessly, lunging fruitlessly with the gas lighter (though what effect that was supposed to have I can’t imagine – perhaps instantly bake the escapees into immobility) as the raw eggs exited the bowl pretty much in their entirety, briefly marshalled themselves, and then began to flow across the working surface towards the albeit distant sink.

For a moment I thought I had a chance to corral them again, using a couple of sponges, a dishcloth and my hands. They had at least half a metre to go across the top of the chest-type fridge. This being a marine-grade piece of equipment, I was confident that it would be equipped with seals around the industrial-weight lid that would keep out the Atlantic, let alone a few wayward uncooked eggs. No such luck. As the leading edge of the viscous mass reached the lid it hesitated only briefly before taking a sharp downward turn and flowing swiftly and silently into the fridge, the aforementioned property of connectivity of raw egg ensuring that the entire mass, yolk, white and all, took the trip.

I uttered several short words of Anglo Saxon origin, mostly beginning with earlier letters of the alphabet (credit: Winston Churchill).

I stood silently for a few moments picturing the scene within the carefully stowed fridge and considering what effect eight raw eggs would have as they flowed past the contents and accumulated at the bottom.

I started to raise the lid of the fridge. As I did so I could hear the first-class passengers chatting with the skipper as they relaxed over their morning cup of tea.