53' 22S 103' 51E

The doctor's special day is over and another birthday dawns - today Laura is 31 and surely enjoying one of the strangest birthdays ever - not only is she at 53 south, but she is also supposedly on honeymoon, although Graham is currently 66 miles away on Pindar. At least she can celebrate it in first position! Just as for Holger, Laura's birthday will no doubt seem to last longer than usual as she will wake up to a chorus of 'happy birthdays' three times today.

So far we have got up around 35 times - just another 55 rude awakenings to go based on our average speed to date! Getting up during a gale (we cannot remember when this one began) on a Southern Ocean leg is the bane of our lives. The 30-minute trial goes something like this: squirrelled away in the depths of a three-layer sleeping bag, tied in behind your lee cloth, you hear the distant sound of the 'waker' - sometimes soothing and calm (John Stewart and Goldie have been voted best wakers), sometimes in an unforgiving bellow (mentioning no names). You must acknowledge the waker to avoid being shaken and generally prodded and poked. There follows a three-minute period of total denial in all directions - 'Jesus no it can't be that time already' , 'How can it be this cold? It's isn't humane!' 'If I close my eyes again I will be back on a sunny beach.', etc. The waker then returns to make sure you are no longer in denial. You undo two zips and wriggle out of the bags, whilst untying the middle lee-cloth strap and trying not to fall out of the now-unprotected bunk as the boat launches off an enormous wave. Once on the ground you put on as many cold, wet clothes as you can find with your name in them, as fast as possible - bearing in mind that they have probably all been thrown around by the motion while you slept and that your clothes look exactly the same as 17 other peoples' anyway. Plus it is dark. You then stagger through the boat to the heads, where you wait in the queue before planting your sleepy behind on a cold, damp, pitching loo seat. Open valve. Pump 20 times anti-clockwise. Shut valve. Pump another 20 clockwise. Wash hands in freezing water. Task over, hold on with one hand and brush teeth with the other. There follows another assault-course back towards the saloon, past waiting bodies, wellies and wet sails. If you have time you grab some food on the way through the saloon and then it's on to the foulie locker.

Oh the foulie locker! Nine sets of foulies and nine survival suits attack you - all dripping cold water onto the mid-layer you are desperately trying to keep slightly less wet. You retrieve your own soaking yellow mass of goretex and carry it back to your chosen 'changing spot' (somewhere you can wedge yourself in). You wrestle your way into the suit or foulies, contort yourself into sodden lifejacket and harness, pull on wet snood, hat and first glove. Then you find a volunteer to put on your other glove for you (if wearing mitts). Next stagger up the companionway steps, roll back the hatch and hand out your lifeline. Bam! The wind-chill and, typically, a massive wave, smack you in the face. Sight regained, safely clipped on and cheered by the off-going watch, you hoist yourself over the duck boards and off you go. We have a race to win and hey ho, only a few hours until bed.

John Bass' least favourite thing about getting up? 'The fact that I am not asleep anymore!'

Naomi Cudmore