Leg 2 Day 17 : 55 47S 101 20W

Come Hell and High Water 

The voice of the wind has by this time worked itself up into a constant banshee chorus which screams through each scrap of sailcloth, every wire of the straining rigging, and wails across the myriad boiling surfaces of the sea. It is lost for a moment in the huge breaking waves which heap up in all directions, their blown foam mingling with the tiny prions which weave in and out of sight around the pitching horizon. My lifeline - which hangs from a handrail on the high side of the snakepit (where, by turns, Laura, Goldie and myself do our 'stuff') - pulls taught as the boat is launched off the back of a picture-book wave and slides down into the trough, 40 feet below. The perfectly-curved crest is green, translucent and roaring as it breaks over the bow and plunges towards my stinging face. Six legs - belonging to Rich, Giles and Major - disappear briefly from my view as they are submerged in the cold, cold water. Upright again, they continue fighting down the staysail, which snaps angrily against sheet and shroud, struggling to keep their balance, and a weather eye open for the next punching wall of water. The snakepit is a great place to duck down out of the worst of it, but only if you can crouch low and turn your back on the wind. Whilst easing out the rope and awaiting the hand-signal for 'halyard made' from Rich, I force myself to keep standing and looking forwards, the salt all the while burning my eyeballs, whilst an unfriendly concoction of snow, hail and spray pound already raw nose and cheeks. Ridiculously I realise that I am now also crying (which at least is warm) - because everything is so Goddamn hard, so very heavy and so unrelenting. For today at least I have had my fill. My arms feel like they are about to come out of their sockets. I remind myself that if I think this is hard I want to try being up there on the foredeck - once they have this sail down and back, the boys have to take the storm staysail forwards and hank it on in a rising wind. They have already done three sail changes this watch. I am too nervous in weather like this to take even the briefest of trips up there; I silently take my hat off to them and winch up the slack on the halyard. This is what is was like two days ago, what it is like today and no doubt what it will continue to be like every few days until Auld Lang's Syne is being bellowed in my cosy, West-Country local. The rough weather seems to come in cycles every few days; it makes a Force 6 in this bleak, yet beautiful environment seem like a birthday present and reduces everyday life to its most basic. We are still racing, though, and this helps to give shape and meaning to work on deck when otherwise anyone in their right mind would pack up and go home. This morning's scheds (two hours old now) show that for all our efforts we have made a small gain on VAIO and slightly larger one - six miles - on BG SPIRIT. Naomi Cudmore