At 2200 last night, we emerged on deck to find Imagine it. Done. close by on our port beam, with Spirit of Sark visible out to the east to starboard; three yachts, reaching hard under spinnakers for the waypoint which lies 50-odd miles from Boston. Sticking out our noses for fifth place, we were so close that Eolus, the god of wind, could have strung his washing line between our three masts.
As a gauze of mauve and gold dissolved into the flat chill of the water, the sea turned from a mermaid silver-green to inky black. Polaris peeped out beside the shivering fabric of the kite and night fell. A drift of stars showered the skies above Cape Cod and mingled with the flashing undercarriages of a dozen trans-Atlantic flights.
Across the water, the lights from other vessels criss-cross from every direction, whilst we keep a razor-sharp eye on the relative bearings of our competitors to see who is making or losing ground with each passing minute. The points between us are absolutely crucial for the overall leader-board. Come fifth and BP Explorer will be level-pegging with BG SPIRIT; six or seventh means that we will lose our lead. Spirit of Sark currently lie two points behind us, so if they achieved fifth and Imagine It. Done. sixth, being in seventh would mean that we would be level-pegging with them in equal second.
It was clearly going to be a tough watch; figures on a screen do not have the immediacy of lights flanking us neck and neck. Our fate is unfolding before us and we are doing everything humanly possible to make sure it goes the right way. There is no time to check the scheds, but no matter; it is laid out within our own glimmering horizon for all the protagonists to see.
The communication on deck is about fine-tuning BP Explorer to get her flying along at her absolute best - and this in the face of difficult, shifty winds. Commands and confirmations are ping-ponging back and forth between helm and trimmer, trimmer and winchman, cockpit ad snakepit - batting back and forth as sheets and guys, foreguys and preventers are altered every couple of minutes.
Then there is that fabulous call: 'Laaand-Ho!' Chris, trimming the kite at the shrouds, has spotted a lighthouse about 20 degrees off the port bow. Slowly the low orange glow of Boston dims our ceiling of starlight and we count down to the waypoint. As I head for bed, I can hear the new watch continuing the game. We are about half a mile in front of Imagine It. Done. and Spirit of Sark. David is at this moment overseeing progress right above my head in the cockpit. 'Well done everybody, we are now round the first waypoint! Let's just keep it going, stay focussed and trim the ass off this boat!'
Stick with us. We are sailing our hearts out. We are nearly there.
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