26:51.00N 64:06.00W

Nowhere, man

It's nearly midnight on a moonlit Saturday night and I'm writing this at the chart table of a little boat floating out there somewhere in the middle of nowhere in particular.  

We've been at sea for almost 5 days and nights, sailing a course almost due north from the Virgin islands.  With either very light head winds or no wind at all, we are not going to take any records for speed on this passage.  Looking out from the cockpit, there's little to see from horizon to horizon.  A heavy swell of about 2 metres rolls in towards us , rather less than yesterday, and is a remnant from bad weather further north; a deep depression that is now winging its way across the Atlantic towards Europe and burning itself out in the process.  The moon shines brightly overhead in a clear sky, with a few small clouds ahead of us.  These don't look  threatening, unlike one or two of the dark squalls we had earlier on, suddenly pushing the boat hard over so that we run about reducing sail, only for it all to go calm again 10 minutes later.

But despite having to motor for long periods, the journey so far has been a pleasant one.  The nights are a lot shorter than they were on our Atlantic crossing in January, and somehow feel friendlier when bathed in the bright light of a waxing moon.  Dawn is at about 5am and apparently comes with a fabulous range of colours; reds, oranges, yellows, turquoises and blue (information courtesy of Stella who has been doing the early morning stint, the so called 'graveyard' watch!).  At one stage we stopped the boat to look at something floating in the water.  It was an orange buoy, marked 'underground cable' that had probably been washed into the sea somewhere.  But as we stopped and looked down into 5000 feet of clear  water, we saw a shoal of about 60 silver fish, about 12 inches in length with stubby tails like those on parrot fish.  They seemed curious and stayed close to the boat. 

Last night, we spotted a tell-tale water spout astern, then another nearby.  Playing on the surface was a Fin whale, with an asymmetrical white underside to its jaw and tiny dorsal fin placed well back along its narrow body.  It made 4 or 5 shallow rolls over a minute or two with a final steeper arch of its back before disappearing into the deep.  These beautiful creatures are big, second only to the blue whale, and can grow to nearly 90 feet and 76 tons.  Reaching speeds of over 20 knots they could out swim the early whaling boats,  though sadly not the diesel powered Japanese whalers of today.

Alarms galore

In keeping with the usual nautical way of things, we've had our share of technical hitches too on this leg.  Within 24 hours, both engine and generator exhaust alarms went off. 

The generator sea water pump impellor had stripped its fins off, and replacing it took a couple of hours of bending over on the cabin sole whilst Stellie tended to the sails in the rolling ocean swell.  But the following day I had to do battle with the mighty main engine impellor too.  The fight was long and hard, taking most of the day, but persistence paid off.  I emerged from the hot engine room battered and bruised from the struggle but victorious!  The massive impellor was replaced, but in the event my diagnosis had been off the mark.  The overheating was in fact due to a blocked strainer in the seawater inlet, and soon sorted by Stellie and me.

As if I needed more to do, the next day the main engine alternator alarm went off. Despite this indicating alternator failure, a play with my multimeter showed this not to be the case, with much relief all round.  Than yet another alarm sounded - an unfamiliar 'chirrup' this time, and only a carbon monoxide alarm with a flat battery. All just too complicated, eh?

Moving on up

Every morning, we try and check into the rum-runners, an informal SSB radio net for cruising yachts.  But as we all stray further apart, reception has been difficult lately and I can only check in by relaying via another boat.  There's also the legendary Herb to try and contact in the afternoon, if I ever get the chance.  Operating from his home in Canada, Herb has won every prestigious award going for his daily weather information service dedicated to yachtsmen making ocean passages, and he has assisted in many emergencies too.  A retired forecaster with formidable knowledge, he continues to practice what has now become his hobby on a voluntary basis.

Yesterday, we were called up on VHF by Dulcinea, a yacht that we could just see in the distance to the west of us.   It was good to chat to the friendly owner and exchange weather information, an understandable obsession for all of us out here on the oceans.  He was on passage from Antigua to Newport via Bermuda in a custom 63 foot yacht, designed for the owner by Bill Dixon.   Dulcinea slowly overhauled us over the course of the afternoon, no doubt helped by a slippery, freshly antifouled hull.  Our own bottom paint, now 2 years old, is slowing us down.  Despite our regular forays with snorkel and scrubbing brush, the hull is becoming so encrusted with weed and molluscs that it is beginning to resemble the hanging gardens of Babylon!  Definitely time for a repaint - maybe in America?

So onwards and upwards we go.  It's less than 300 miles to Bermuda, our next port of call, which should be a sort of homecoming for me.   A long time ago I  worked for a year in King Edward V11 Memorial Hospital, so time to revisit old haunts.  Stellie knows Bermuda well too, as back in in 1979 we sailed there on our first boat Coot, along with our good friend Tim.

But as we head north away from the tropics, the nights are definitely becoming cooler.  Although this comes as a bit of a relief for now, it does mean that at some stage we'll need to start wearing real clothes...