DAY 11 (Tuesday 24th Nov)

After a challenging day with the sails on Monday, we were all up at dawn on Tuesday to have a real crack at generating some decent speed.

Fortified with tea (and a zed or two more kip than the night before), we set about our tasks with as much gusto as the 15-20 knot winds we’d been enjoying. Kitkat, usually a sluggish starter in the mornings, was so full of beans he even managed to holler out a passable Basil Brush impression from the mast: “Boom! BOOM!” Which would have been fine had he not followed this outburst with the words: “The boom’s fallen off the mast!”

While the subject of some debate in certain French marinas, in most sailing circles it is generally held that the boom falling off the mast is “not a good thing” and “best avoided”. There are a number of reasons for this. First and foremost, it makes the boat look rather messy. Not far behind is the fact that it holds the mainsail and so is quite important in determining when a vessel completes its voyage on the following scale: ‘About when expected’; ‘a fortnight later than that’; ‘never’.

After a few seconds of what can only be described as group swearing, we set about trying to fix the problem. A nut had worked itself loose from a crucial bolt, causing the bolt to be lifted free due to the force of the sail and the ropes. Fortunately, Captain K managed to find the nut on the foredeck, but screwing it all back together – with Sinan sashaying from side to side was going to be a devil of a job.

It felt like a dozen delivery men trying to deliver a grand piano, a fridge freezer and a washing machine all into the same space at the same time. There was a fair bit of “to me” and “to you”, with added rope pulling (down to a half inch out here and a half inch in there). Miraculously, after about an hour, Colin (fixer supreme) and Kit yelled “it’s there!” from the mast.

A restorative cuppa and we were back to it, hauling up the spinnaker. After the minor shambles of the day before (when we were defeated by blowy conditions), today’s effort felt like a master class. The orange kite (orange in honour of Captain K’s company, Dr Foster) billowed and whip-cracked and filled like a giant lung.

After the near disaster with the boom, I’d felt quietly confident that things could only get better and the sight of the spinnaker sending the speedometer spinning in the right direction was cheering.

A matter of minutes later, what sounded like a huge bass string snapping shattered our complacency. The spinnaker’s guy rope had pinged, narrowly missing giving Kitkat the damned good thrashing some harsh souls believe he deserves. Unleashed, the spinnaker spat and fizzed and ballooned, but stayed attached thanks to the pole and port side sheet.

Captain K remained remarkably calm throughout and even declared himself pleased that controlling and snuffing the spinnaker after the rope break had been a relatively straightforward exercise, which even we’d managed not to bungle. Praise like that had us reaching for more tea bags followed by a tactical rethink.

“Let’s try the cruising chute,” said Captain K. This was quite a big call as he had previously felt that, while spinnaker-like in appearance, this particular sail wasn’t perfectly suited to downwind sailing.

It worked like a dream – a blue and green power monster, which soon had us hitting 8-9 knots comfortably. The sailing was glorious and we lay back on deck to look forward to our “Halfway Party” that evening. Kitkat even managed to make his first loaf during this period, so now we’ve all baked bread on board. And very good it was, too.

With two bottles of cava (we couldn’t find any champagne in Puerto Calero) chilling in the fridge, we relished the prospect of breaking our booze ban for one night only. Cork popping ceremonies done, we tucked into chicken pasta followed by almond tart. The banter was flowing as freely as the cheap fizzy stuff – all, rather worryingly, filmed by Kitkat (who stuck to Coke – what is it with teenagers nowadays?). Different night watches meant the party had to break up at 8pm so we could all get sleep at the right time – but it was easily the best evening we’ve had on the boat so far.

I was on the midnight to 3am shift (my least favourite). The main concerns tonight were being alive to the Auto Helm cutting out (which it has done on a few occasions) and making sure the cruising chute didn’t overpower us in higher winds. But all was well, as the cruising chute powered us through the waves, screwing good knots even out of gentler winds.

And then, at 2.50am, it happened. A silenced gun shot. The cruising chute rippling violently away from the boat. The cruising chute disappearing from view. Our chances of arriving in Antigua this side of Christmas diminishing rapidly.

I stood there gawping for a moment before panicking in a highly professional manner. I yelled for the others to get on deck – but no need, they’d heard the snap and were already on their way.

Fortunately, the sail hadn’t disappeared. It was, however, in the water, clinging to the boat. Colin and I dragged the chute back on deck while Captain K and Kitkat dealt with rope and steering issues. The sail’s halyard (the rope which hauls it up) had snapped at the very top of the mast. Stunned, we didn’t even swear that much.

Ten minutes later the kettle was whistling. As we limped along with a single genoa, the skipper finished his tea and said: “That was unfortunate. Let’s decide what we’re going to do next in the morning.”

RWD

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