Imagine our delight as the log crept up to 3.5 knots. Progress at last. It's been a slow ride since sunset yesterday evening, when the wind died to about eight knots from dead astern. The spinnakoo faltered and drooped and consequently had to be hauled in and replaced by a poled out genoa. We kept up nearly four knots over the ground, but with much noisy flapping of the sails as we wallowed in the swell. By midnight, the noise and vibrations through the rigging were unbearable so, with 350 miles still to cover to Flores, we put the donk on.

 

This is really just exchanging one problem for another. For Alex and I in the fo'c'sle, the engine is white noise that is easily slept through; for Chris in the saloon, with earplugs, it is more or less bearable; but for Elise in the grass-snake's den at the stern, directly over the engine, it is like sleeping on the production line of a firework factory. Tonight, we're looking at adopting a different strategy of floating on the current with just the mainsail up - something that should allow us to cover about three miles an hour. Then we can donk again during the day if necessary.

 

In the meantime, the fine weather has returned as the barometer has crept up to 1032. The sun is baking, and we're cowering under the bimini for shade. It's almost Caribbean bathers-only conditions. We stopped for a tepid swim in glorious 30 degree water, which is the particular shade of pure, brilliant blue that we've only seen in the deep Atlantic. It is miles away from the bracing, lively water of the beaches on Long Island and Nantucket, tinged, as it was, with the smell and colour of distant icebergs and roiling with fog.

 

In further signs that we are approaching civilisation again, Chris saw another ship during the night. It slid silently past a mile off to port without troubling us.

 

This morning's deck walk revealed that a very large flying fish had come aboard in the calm of the night. There were scales scattered about the coachroof, suggesting that the beast had been soaring over the boat when it struck one of the shrouds and came crashing down with a stunned look on its face. It was still moderately fresh when I found it, so we rigged the beast in flying formation as a lure with a great rusty hook through his middle, and trolled him out astern to tempt tuna. Needless to say, the bait disappeared without troubling the fishing reel, and we're back to plastic squid.