Day 17 - Black, bloody mutiny, sir!
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Tue 7 Dec 2010 12:36
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13:12N
39:28W
Mutiny.
There's no other word for it. The skipper has
reasserted his (considerable) authority and taken control of the blog again
after three days of chaos. The miscreant crew has all been keelhauled summarily
at dawn and is looking damp and contrite. When in a small fibreglass float a
thousand miles from the shore, discipline must be maintained for the good of
everyone. I am considering a flogging later on...
For all that, morale aboard is good, not
withstanding another torrid night with the spinnaker. At about midnight there
was a yelp from Alex, who was on watch. She thought the wind had dropped
suddenly because the boat's pace subsided rapidly. Then she caught sight of what
she assumed was a huge white whale surfacing alongside the boat. Only after a
few moments of panic did she realise that the spinnaker had disappeared and was
trailing along in the water beside us.
All hands mustered quickly, to recover the sail
from the water. The snuffing sock for the sail had filled with water and was
hard to manoeuvre aboard, and the lines attaching it to the boat had dragged
under the keel. Nonetheless, conditions were benign and the beast was tamed and
landed quickly enough. It now lies disgraced in a bag in the cockpit. We suspect
that the snap shackle on the spinnaker halyard has given up the ghost, so we'll
need to send a man to the masthead to recover the line at some point. Until
then, the sail is grounded.
Happily, Chris Tibbs' long promised trades of 15 to
20 knots have appeared, meaning that we can buzz along smartly with poled out
gib and main in the 'goose wing' position - that is, on opposite sides of the
boat, with the wind dead astern. This morning, Summer Song is surging from wave
to wave at up to 8 knots, with the foam of each swell barking vainly at her
heels as she goes. Large squadrons of flying fish are startled out of the water
every time we surf down a wave, and we are enjoying the company of four
medium-sized, mullety-looking, purple fish at the bow, who seem to be enjoying
surfing on our bow wave.
The crew, which looked pretty weary at midnight, is
looking much more chipper this morning. The sun is up, but the temperature is
not as high as it has been. There is beginning to be the faint smell of land in
the air, and we're all eagerly ticking off the degrees of latitude to St Lucia.
Yesterday, we covered nearly 180 miles, which translates into an average speed
over the ground of 6.5 knots - fine stuff indeed. Today could be even faster
with 'Bee-line' Alex at the helm. There are high hopes that we'll make the final
ARC party and arrive in time for our welcoming committee.
Eagle-eyed Graham spotted a sail off the starboard
bow yesterday afternoon, which we rapidly overhauled until it sank astern. The
skipper hailed the slow coaches on the VHF, only to discover that it was a 56
foot German catamaran, called Blu-Kat. In an unexpectedly terse exchange (bear
in mind we haven't heard a soul on the radio since early last week around the
Cape Verdes), the German skipper answered my questions edgily. "Yes, ve are
okay. Over". "No, ve did not stop, over". Well, roger that, going six
niner...
Potato and tuna (tinned) salad for lunch. A
solitary, juvenile flying fish came on board during the night, but was not
deemed edible by the bos'un. There are high hopes for chorizo and bean stew for
supper. Gordon Ramsay himself could do no better, and we're all putting on
weight.
Until next team, dear readers, fair
winds...
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