Dear Marge,

DATE: 2002-11-11
POSITION: 28deg31N126deg24W
WEATHER: Warm, sunny 10kn wind

Just received your messages so I'm feeling warm inside. Feel a bit bad, because the rest of the crew know from the beeping that I have received messages, and they haven't.

Well finally yesterday I felt well. It was a lovely day and we really got the boat sailing, we had 10kn in a 15 kn wind. It's a fast boat, but it's really scary with its high tension rig. Christian, my ex-Olympic sailor friend, would have been proud of me, because when I did the night-shift I eased off the sheets, let everything go nice and loose, French-style, and got another half a knot of speed out of the boat. Everyone else wants to tension everything up, but with 10 tonnes of force running through the winches, it scares the hell out of me.

So now I am feeling better, it's time I described life on-board. My father wanted me to be an astronaut. Well, each night I have to climb feet-first into the bow of the boat to sleep, and I think in some ways it's not dissimilar. The biggest difference is the constant movement of the boat. Being a big boat, but very thin and pointy, she rocks and rolls and tosses from side-to-side. It is not unlike being in a washing machine, but the washing machine is on slow-tumble, and it is on a Sri Lankan train going up a mountain pass. There is no comfortable way to sleep. The only thing that stops me rolling onto my bunk-mate, Fred, is a lee-cloth that hangs between us. If we are on starboard tack (we will be most of the time) then I squeeze myself into the lee-cloth and hope that I won't be thrown out too many times during the night. Being such a long boat, she straddles the waves, and because of all the food, water, and diesel that is loaded in the bow, the nose is heavy. This causes the boat to nose-dive on every second Pacific roller we meet. The noise of the wave crashing over the bows is like an express train hitting a mini, and it occurs every half an hour or so. So you don't really sleep, you just doze as your body is thrown around from one position to another.

I have completely forsaken coffee. With a dodgy tummy, I have been drinking nothing but hot water or cold.

The daily routine is settling down. The skipper is a grumpy bastard in the morning, I suspect he is an alcoholic. He gets very loud and excitable when he is drunk, but at least he's not a bastard. The arguments start early. This morning there was another toilet fiasco. The heads keep blocking, and Bart is fed up with clearing them. Personally I am happy to go over the side, no-one seems to believe what is it like on Wilfa! Then people shower and breakfast. There is no rush, as there is nothing to be done. We set the sails this morning.

I was called away to climb the mast so my flow was broken. Yes I've just been up a 70ft mast in the middle of the Pacific. I was really keen, and Bart was for just throwing me up, and letting me find my own way to the top. But David came over all serious and by the time he had talked it up, I was quite nervous. I had to check out the jib halyard and some other things. I swung around a lot, and it's easy to slip and fly off the mast, ending up suspended above the sea, dangling like a fly from a web. But I managed to hang-on and the view was fantastic (I didn't manage to carry a camera up there). The boat seemed so small. Fred videoed it, so I hope I can send you a picture. I got a bit cocky on the way down, and hung upside down in the spreaders, attaching a halyard with my teeth.

Just cooked lunch, I'm cook today, though due to the usual disagreements, I had to do a night shift last night as well. Oh well. Everyone is really chilled now, I was just thinking how much you would be enjoying it. The sea is gently rolling. The sky is a perfect blue with fluffy white clouds. The sails are set full, and we are creaming along. The crew are sitting about reading or contemplating, each in their own quiet reflection. Radiohead is playing on the stereo (there are even waterproof speakers outside). I am really enjoying Radiohead, and am sorry for being rude about them. They are very chilled and suit the current mood. I am really enjoying this moment, and from now on it is south, over the equator, through the doldrums and into the Southern Hemisphere. The only thing that gnaws at my mind is work. It is easy to sit on deck and just let the hours while away. It's much harder to find the will-power to sit indoors in the saloon, and type at a computer. I wish I had brought that inverter, because we have already run the batteries flat once, and now power is being rationed.

This boat is really high-tech. At night the cockpit is like something from Star Wars, with the radar scanning, the chart plotter tracking our course, and a battery of readouts: showing wind-speed, direction, our speed and a thousand other details. All this is displayed in either red or green and if it goes wrong it flashes red-green. Staring out through the windows it seems like a computer-simulation and I have to go and sit outside and feel the warm breeze in my face and stare up at the stars. I tried to identify Orion's belt, but couldn't. Listening to the boat creaming along (and she does shift) is the real connection with sailing. I want to take the wheel in one hand and the sheet in the other and ride up and down the waves, but this is no dinghy. Bart had me take the wheel last night, with the auto-pilot off. We bucked like a mule, and the only thing to steer by in the dark is the mass of digital readings in front of the wheel. You have to let the boat sail itself, it's huge momentum gathering up speed. Then you tweak the autopilot - coaxing it to use the wind to the optimum advantage. It feels like I'm learning to sail all over again. There is a lot of jargon bandied around - a non-sailor wouldn't understand any of the conversation on board.

I did some washing today. Simple things like that can take an hour, rinsing my socks in a bucket. I have some soldering to do later and then I have to cook dinner. I think as things relax there will be time to read and enjoy the trip. The boat is awash with booze which is nice, but I am holding off until I know my stomach is strong enough.

I needn't have stressed about packing. We are provided with suncream, toothpaste, soap and more food than I have ever seen. Our skipper used to be a chef, so he is looking after us in style. I'm glad I brought trousers and foul-weather gear though. It has been very cold up to now (we are 10 degrees south of Los Angeles) and I have grabbed the only sleeping bag. When it's windy and the waves crash abroad, I need my foulies. I have been in long trousers, as I spend a lot of the time crawling around in holds and engine rooms and stuff. It's not all glamour, running a boat is a very mechanical job, a bit like being an engineer on a train. Especially with all this techno-wizardry to look after. I don't feel very confident that we would manage if the electrics failed, the skipper doesn't even have a sextant (though we do have 4 battery powered GPS receivers)!

I keep thinking about arriving in Tonga, it's all there is to focus on, yet it is some 3 weeks away. That is only the half way point. After that it is back to sea for a week or more at a time, as we island hop our way to Singapore. Once there, I am tempted to team up with Bart and go to Sri Lanka. He sounds well connected and it could be a really good time.

I have decided that a week at one time at sea is enough for me. After that it is just stemming the boredom. I have plenty to do, but it's all quite antisocial, and requires focusing on something. This isn't the sort of boat you sail by hand. Actually what it is is the thought of all the interesting things I could be doing with my time. I could be visiting new places, learning new skills, meeting new people, spending time with you, visiting friends and family.

I'm glad you like my emails. I am using this as a sort of log, because I don't really have time to write to you and type a log. I sit on deck and I talk to you, by my side. I wonder what you are doing and whether, 6000 miles away, you know I am thinking of you. Goodness, that's making me well up. Just as well the skipper wants me.

I managed to bring my sister's Christmas cake with me after all.

Dom wouldn't be too happy if he saw us prat around with no harnesses or life-jackets. There is very butch attitude amongst professional sailors. I put my life-jacket on to go up the mast, despite a few jeers, because if I fall from there into the water, I wouldn't be confident I could swim back to the boat, in the cold water and the huge swell.

Ben