Of mints, frocks and rogue sails
Tillymint.fortescue
Sat 19 Sep 2009 17:23
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23:31:529N 011:28:377W
Woe, woe, woe is us, dear readers! Not serious woe,
you understand. Just the mild frustration of a) no fish and b) no spinnaker. Let
me explain.
Another glorious morning dawned - sans thon, as
usual. All three of us spent a lot of time admiring the burnished brass of a
freshly minted sun. It rose with all the splendour of an after dinner mint,
wrapped in orange foil (wiz zis sunrise, you really spoil us etc). We
breakfasted, chatted and generally had a very relaxing time. Your correspondent
dissected one of the three squid that had come aboard in the early hours, noting
it's vicious beak and saucer-big eyes. The Skipper suggested dangling a member
of the crew out over the water from the boom, holding a torch to attract the
beasts and a net to scoop them up. Fresh calamari!
Breakfast drifted into lunch and, after the
challenge of concocting a salad, something more demanding was clearly needed.
Enter the spinnaker, stage left. Now, I'm not a knitter, readers, but I can't
think of a more apt way of describing the procedure of setting up different
coloured lines, halyards, downhauls and snuffer ropes. We wove a complicated
cat's cradle amongst the rigging, before hauling the spinnaker, still encased in
its bag, up to the masthead.
The moment of truth beckoned. Sticking with my
knitting analogy one moment, we didn't know whether one tug on the crucial rope
would bring the sail out in full bloom, or bring the whole lot unraveling around
our ears. Hold your breath... step back... and...
"Um, not that I want to be called a shandy drinker,
or anything," piped up yours truly. "But it seems quite windy and, well, the
spinnaker even in its bag is managing to lift me clear of the deck. Perhaps we
should lower it and wait for a better moment later on."
Far from the chorus of voices alluding to my
preference for lemonade in my beer and a predilection for frocks, there was a
shifty exchange of looks between the other crew members huddled on the
foredeck. Then the skipper cleared his throat and said, "well, of course, it
might be an idea to wait until the wind goes down. Then we can push on with the
spinnaker through the night."
Brave words and, of course, completely untrue. Some
grog has been uncorked, the offensive chute is tucked aawy in a locker and we
won't see it again until tomorrow. At about the moment this conversation was
taking place, a tiny, beady-eyed turtle bobbed past, goggling at us with
interest. Word had obviously spread amongst the local sealife that the boat that
couldn't even catch a sprat was passing by.
We were graced with some more
dolphins-slash-porpoises this afternoon, who danced around the bow wave for a
few minutes. Otherwise we have found ourselves weaving our way between squalls
as we approach Lanzarote (320 miles down; 240 to go), and spending some
time below. There's something rather regal about being able to watch the
sea slip past at 8 knots with a near panoramic view of every point of the
compass, while the rain patters down.
We raise a glass to the assembled company. My
nephews will be intrigued to hear that we spied a flying fish. He obviously
spied us as well, for he was flapping hard in the opposite
direction.
Our eyes will remain peeled for pirate feluccas
putting off under cover of darkness from the Moroccan coast, which is less than
100 miles under our lee. We're gearing up for a similar watch system to last
night: Stuart sees us through to 1am, then the skipper takes over for three
hours and I do the final spell to dawn.
I wouldn't want you to become jealous, so please
note that it's clearly neither warm, sunny, glorious, great fun nor relaxing in
any way. We're taking it in turns to lick the deck.
More at 4am, or sooner if we play poker and I
win!
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