As we emerged on deck last night, we were greeted with a spectacular starry display punctuated by the unblinking beacon of Venus. The moon not yet up, the southern-hemisphere constellations decorated our perfect canopy with a blaze of light, casting their own white star-paths on the water. There is nothing quite as lovely as helming in a fair wind with a star as your guide; it beats the red gloaming of the compass which we have followed through the endless greys of the dark latitudes hands down. Unfortunately, however, the stars have been more like a kaleidoscope on a slow spin than the source of any 'ever-fixed mark' during the past night - as our track on the MaxSea will testify. We have been labouring in swirling, feather-light puffs of breeze and cursing a strong Agulhas current coming towards us. Together, these factors have resulted in the quite demoralising sight of minus-speeds towards the waypoint lit up on the instruments in front of the wheel. We have drawn a picture not dissimilar to the outline of England minus the West Country and East Anglia in a ragged and circuitous red line on the chart (see picture)! Yesterday we ended a 24-hour run having travelled 240 miles; by comparison, over the last 6-hour session we sliced just 2.6 miles off our distance to waypoint. Most of us have temporarily stopped plaguing Andrew and Stephen for an ETA, which at this speed will be some time next Christmas.
As we ooo'd and aaah'd at an incredible moonrise come one in the morning, things did not improve. But there is no denying that this was a beautiful sight. Like a wedge of Edam cheese melting around the edges, the yellow moon slid, sylph-like, up out of the sharp black horizon, lying on it's side in a sleepy man-in-the-moon pose as it took up it's rightful place in the sky and stole brilliance from all the stars around it. Even better than the moon though was the pinprick light which, after some debate, we were soon able to identify out to the west, also just on the horizon. Some thought it impossible given our glacially-slow progress, but the navigation light of Spirit of Sark it could only be. It got our hearts racing and all of us running up and down the companionway to check if the latest scheds had come in yet. Finally, after a cruel delay, they arrived and confirmed our hopes - just in front of us, at four-and-a-half miles distant, there they were!
Sadly, our pleasure was to prove as short-lived as a meagre boat ration of chocolate. As Cop's watch came on deck at two, they joined in our elation and took over the onerous task of trying desperately to get BP Explorer going and escape the useless slap of still water on her hull. But, inch by inch, Spirit of Sark slipped away on a stolen breeze. This morning's scheds show them once again over ten miles away. Meanwhile, with the lightweight kite up, we wade as if through mud to try to reach her. The battle of the bog-doors-on versus the bog-doors-off goes, and on.
On which, happier note I would like to point out that any of you who are worried about our sanitary well-being in the wake of Friday's log might like to check the date on which it was written! We are, in fact, still delighting in the dubious pleasures of plenty of Kimberley-Clarke public-toilet-style loo roll AND fully-functioning heads.
And on a personal but important front I would like to wish my brother Tom a VERY Happy Birthday. With lots of love and hugs Tommy. I will see you in La Rochelle. Xxx
Naomi Cudmore
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