Anticipating, and then devouring, a lovely lunch al fresco is the big all-crew event of the day. This morning the menu had been announced as diced beef with spinach and mashed potato - a favourite dish of the chef of the day. All was going well and the delicious aroma was wafting up to the cockpit. "I'm about half way through the preparation" announced the chef. Not long after sitting on deck for a while, the same chef announced: "but I can't do any more", followed shortly by "and I think I must lie down". In due course two other crew members opted out, leaving six portions of this delicious dish for the three remaining crew members. Two had double portions, the third had three.
"A fish!" cried the owner, who was already firmly secured within the aft cockpit and grappling with the fishing rod which responded promptly by escaping from its stainless steel fitting on the taff rail. I had just decided to take a nap but was aroused by the excited call for assistance on deck. Our only experienced angler was already at the owner's side and in due course a sparkling green mahi-mahi was landed. It transpired that another crew member knew how to fillet a large fish so the owner was surrounded by the three female crew members offering advice on what he should do next. Soon the fillets were in the frying pan and boy - were they delicious, served simply with a splash of freshly squeezed, mould-free lemon.
Since the start of the leg Rohkea had been practising her simple harmonic rolls and was becoming more proficient at them day by day. She achieves her greatest impact with a series of three: the first is manageable with crew members grabbing a hand-hold. The second knocks us off balance and challenges gravity so we have to secure ourselves at three points. Two hands and one foot, or two feet and one hand or seated with two feet in the cockpit all seem to work. The third roll is the one that takes its toll as previously stowed items become weightless and take to the air. Inevitably, a hand hold is sacrificed and the result is the spontaneous instability of both the crew and the inanimate items. Rohkea has a good laugh and then resumes her demeanour of a model of propriety.
Any change of wind, course or sail plan stimulates an animated discussion amongst the six crew. The first night had heard us all muttering about the endless tweaking of the vast shocking pink asymmetric gennaker. The winds were blowing lightly, not at all, or perhaps playing deftly with the masthead wind vane by whirling it in 360o circles. We gybed the gennaker a few times and were pleased how the damp hanging mass of this mail-ordered Chinese sail stood up to the many tests that nature threw at it. The second night saw Rohkea powering ahead under spinnaker. The third enabled us to sail a broad reach with simple white sails. When would the fabled, steady NE trade winds start? The fourth night gave us the answer so we poled out the genoa, set two reefs in the main and set off in harmony with "the trades".
How many thousands of people before us had taken this route? How many square riggers ferrying their terrified cargoes of slaves to the sugar plantations of the Caribbean and Brazil? How many flag officers had spent hours working with their sextants and sight-reduction tables and how many crew members had sacrificed their lives unexpectedly and unceremoniously to the oceans? The biggest waves we have seen so far have topped out at 3 metres - mere bagatelles in comparison with the fishermen's tales we have heard and respect. What will we face ourselves? What did those seafarers before us face? We are such a small dot on the surface of this huge mass of water stretching as far as the eye can see under the enormous and sparkling sky. The mind wanders, but - hey - look, a space station is tracking overhead. We are no longer alone. "Hello all you brave souls above; we are that minuscule mark on the ocean below you. We send you our greetings!"
Needless to say there is much competition aboard. Each three-hour watch tries to clock up the highest number of miles; maintain the best speed; minimise the banging of the genoa sheets on the shrouds or reach whatever target we can think of at the time. To begin with there were quite lengthy discussions between sequential watches, but now we find ourselves with few seafaring details to exchange except: "same course, same wind direction and speed, no traffic". We opt for pleasantries instead and offer to make hot drinks. Oh no, the cocoa has run out - the jar was only half full and no-one had touched it for years. Now it is finished. It seems that our stocks of mint tea, lime flower tea, black tea, Taiwanese tea, instant coffee, ground coffee and water are but poor substitutes for cocoa.
My own watch is the graveyard slot of 2 am to 5 am, but at midnight I was awakened by the sound of male voices singing raucous sea shanties. We have one female watch, one male and one mixed and the boys have the slot before mine. As I listened I heard the rhythm of the song, could just about make out the melody, but was struggling with the lyrics. The resultant composition sounded like noisy caterwauling. I thought it was rather extreme of the male watch to resort to such tactics to retain their wakefulness but when I queried their purpose they denied all knowledge of such activities. Returning later that day to my bunk I concluded that the rhythm must have been the auto helm squeaking with each wave and the 'voices' some running rigging creaking and groaning.
Last night the night sky was at its very best, glittering from horizon to horizon and enhanced by the most beautiful full moon. The Pole Star was mirrored by the Southern Cross with Orion keeping guard overhead with dagger poised for use in a manner identical to our own sharp knife stowed by the binnacle for emergencies. During the small hours each morning my attention has been caught by a bright masthead light that suddenly appears on the horizon - or is it Venus playing her tricks again? Only Venus. Once again, nothing shows on the AIS screen and it cannot be a tricolour light in such close proximity as the aspect would be incorrect.
Crew safety is paramount at all times. Rohkea has two cockpits, separated by a substantial but vertiginous bridge deck. Our routine is to climb the companionway, clip on to a safety line and clamber on hands and knees over the bridge deck as it wallows and rolls in the seaway. Two of the female crew wear knee pads at all times on watch, in readiness for the necessary for deck work or for traversing the bridge deck. Once in the safety of the aft cockpit, there is space enough for all six crew to sit and chat over lunch. On the sunny, calmer days we erect the bimini for shade and behave as though in the Mediterranean rather than the Atlantic.
The generator fires up once more. We are running it increasingly often and for longer periods as the ambient temperature rises and the fridge and freezer struggle to do their duty to keep us supplied with a wondrous array of fresh food. The hydro-generator is not doing its stuff as we cannot find any material suitable to hold the impellor in the required immersed position. We've tried polyester, plastic, steel and Dyneema fastenings. Nothing will do the trick. The owner perches hazardously on the transom once more as he tries yet another potential solution. What a pesky piece of kit. No wonder its first owner sold it on eBay.
"May I take a shower?" is a request heard as regularly as: "There is a red light on the water maker". We agreed to keep three tanks of 100L as reserves should the water maker pack up and the portable back up option fail. In this day and age, a tank of 100L does not seem to last long and so it is frustrating that the water maker seems to be so sensitive to the battery voltage. The owner juggles with the generator, the water maker controls and pressure release valve and mutters quietly and regularly under his breath. The crew stoically maintains the status quo and somehow manages to remain clean and fragrant. Even more impressively, we have one crew member who is extremely elegant, as well as being poised to assist at any time. This morning I choose a minimal water wash which is reasonably effective although attempting to remain upstanding with one foot in the high basin smacks of contortionism. After completing my ablutions, I prepare a teaspoonful of cooking oil to drop into the troublesome heads - a temporary solution to extend the functional life of the recalcitrant pump.
Sleeping has been problematic for some. Those used to long-distance sailing just pop down for a nap at quiet, off-watch intervals and fall sound asleep in seconds. Those who have been feeling seasick and find the noises and motion of the yacht unusual are not so lucky. They emerge on watch saying that they were unable to sleep. Hopefully they will settle into the rhythm soon. Meanwhile Rohkea's rolling rhythm continues unabashed. The quartering seas have proved the most disruptive. Reports have emerged from the aft cabin of the owner installing a lee cloth longitudinally down the wide berth to stop its inhabitants ending up in a pile to leeward. The first night of the new system was unsuccessful. The cloth was set too loosely and the upwind incumbent ended up heaped against the lee cloth while the owner was squashed against the side cushions. He resorted to picking up the sharpest object he could find and prodding his sleeping neighbour repeatedly until he got the space he craved.
This morning's task is to audit the rubbish. Personally I prefer auditing for mould or rot the oranges, the apples, the tomatoes, the lettuce ... anything else, in fact. Checking the green banana branch for ripe or blackening fruit is another form of entertainment. We know all the bananas will all ripen on the same day, but which day? I let my mind wander in an effort to forget the rubbish. I then collect the rubber gloves, a bucket of seawater, an old brush and two plastic bags. Despite adopting a policy to throw organic material overboard, some vegetable peelings are rotting in the bin. The meat packaging has not been rinsed sufficiently and smells. I scrub in seawater the plastic containers: the butter box, yogurt pots, milk Tetrapaks and the like, plus any old foil or film wrappers. All go into a longer term storage bag. I spray antibacterial liquid liberally around the area and - hey presto - all is clean, sorted and fragrant once more.
Today the wondrous smell of chicken curry lunch is reaching the nostrils of the watch. We all anticipate enjoying together this meal, prepared so lovingly by the chef of the day. Forks and condiments are passed up the companionway into the cockpit. All six crew are seated and are adding the only ripe sliced banana to their bowls of fragrant chicken. Our most elegant crew member is handing round freshly-made raita when - oh no - her bowl of curry flies off her lap and lands, upside down, on the cockpit sole. One crew member's foot turned yellow and my own pink shoes, worn for the very first time, were christened with an array of colourful smudges.
We all recognise that worse things happen at sea. We are still smiling and laughing. We remain in awe at the magnitude and magnificence of the ocean and the sky and feel humbled and challenged by the environment and the way it trifles with us. We have every confidence in the sturdy yacht Rohkea who has travelled these waters before. We love every day although the hours simply fly by. I've told the tale of a mere twenty four hours. Just one, brilliant, day afloat in the middle of the Atlantic aboard the merry and trusted yacht Rohkea.
Cynthia Robinson
On board the yacht Rohkea, mid-Atlantic, 28 November 2018