31o08N 48o04W

Tonight BP Explorer is becalmed in a slight swell. She is making that particular noise - a gentle thudding slap of hull against the gloopy-sounding water - 'thwump. pause. thwump. pause. thwump'. This is not exactly music to the ears of the helms who wait patiently for enough wind to make it possible to sail course. Every few moments the navigator pops his head up like a meerkat through the companionway. Squinting into the gloom of the cockpit, he delivers a running commentary on our progress, which he has been watching
below on the MAXSea. In this case it is Stephen.

Up the steps he goes. 'That's course Holger. Keep steering 345 degrees.' Down he goes. Five minutes later, up he goes: 'You are 25 low, we need to start thinking about a gybe.'

And so we yo-yo back and forth, back and forth.

People are trying to contain their sighs and remain patient, but even a saint would struggle right now. Our probable arrival date is slipping back (it looks like Saturday at the moment), and the prognosis for the next 24 hours or so is not brilliant. The navigators order new weather forecasts
almost every day via email, and BG SPIRIT, around 150 miles to the north, can clearly see the same thing as us. They have continued their flyer but have been sacrificing miles to us as they sail due north. 'They are keeping an
eye on this lousy mess and are trying to avoid it,' I am told. This 'lousy mess' (a technical meteorological term) is, crudely speaking, caused by two highs, with north-flowing wind on one side, south-flowing wind on the other and very little - just light, flukey winds - between. This is where we are.

Those of us at 31oN or thereabouts are fighting a battle through similar conditions. Within our own horizon, we are engaged in an ungainly dance, with Spirit of Sark watching us watching them, and Team Stelmar watching us watching Spirit of Sark watching them. If you see what I mean. Meanwhile, some 20 or so miles to
the east, Barclays Adventurer and SAIC La Jolla are also experiencing much the same pattern of events and are now three miles and almost seven miles behind respectively - which at least puts us back in third.

Bob Dylan sings 'The times they are a-changing' on the stereo, Christian is baking bread in the warm fug of the galley, time seems to be slooowing down. The meerkat, sleepy by now, appears again, huffing and puffing, exhaling his
words with a tired groan. 'We are still 25 low. We just need some more wind!'

'Well, YOU ordered this sh*t!' jokes the helm. 'Why don't you go and order something different - like about 20 knots!'