Waypoint Bravo, like Waypoint Alpha, feels about as elusive as a fat, juicy steak, as a warm dose of sunshine on bare skin, or perhaps even other life forms right now. We are, as usual, all wearing our greens, and are beginning to feel like as well as resemble aliens from another planet - walking around the boat like Michelin men in our ever-increasing layers, uninspired by the possibilities of getting clean given the temperature and peering out through salt-stung eyes at our strange world through the smallest possible slot between hood and snood. Any visitor to BP Explorer right now would assume that we all have about six hands and four feet - every nook and cranny is breeding big, dripping-wet gloves of every size and design imaginable, whilst the floors are lost beneath hundreds of boots. We have not seen another vessel for weeks and most news from home tells of a lovely English spring that is hard for us to imagine.
The waypoint is about 640 miles distant and overnight we have purposefully cashed in our first-place position, getting some south in, hopefully to better set ourselves up for that 2,500-mile-long line to Cape Town. Whether or not this relatively bold move pays off will be impossible to determine until we finally round Bravo - probably on Monday. Right now the winds are not proving hugely useful and we are experiencing a period of relatively light breezes, but we have great faith that we will fight our way back to the front and that we can dig deep enough into our admittedly somewhat weary bones to remain dedicated to the struggle for that leg win which we all want so very much. In the short term, we have champagne and a crunchy bar each, of monstrous proportions, to look forward to in celebration of Bravo when it eventually materialises!
Naomi Cudmore
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