Asante - Day 8 of the never ending poem

Day 8 was a challenge, with lack of sleep for me. I really could have done with more. But was clearly not to be. The wind was up. The wind was down. It flitted all about. Mainsail banged, the jib sheet too. So we tried a new plan out. Some sailors may have left it, but our sails we want to keep. We plan to sail around the world. So if damaged I would weep. And so despite our promise, of no more jibes to do. We did just that, and turned around, and set a course a-new. Now, all that aside, I have to tell, of what can throw the mood. It’s usually just a simple thing, and generally it’s the food. Some people have a vague idea, of what it’s like to be. Living with some strangers, in close proximity. They are so wrong, it’s often tough. Way tougher than they think. And so it is the tiniest thing that can set one over the brink. So yesterday, when someone said ‘the Alpen is all gone’. And proceeded to inform me my provisioning was wrong. I calmly said that toast instead, was perhaps the way to go. But sadly this was not a choice. And he clearly told me so. I’m not sure, if he expected me, to stop a passing ship. To raid their stores of Alpen, and transfer it over quick. Now I’ve provisioned boats for several years. And also learnt from friends. That never can one please all crew. For all have fads and trends. Bizarrely though two years ago, when this same crossing I did make. I bought six bags of muesli and not one did anyone take. So I’ve learnt as quarter master, that I’ll always get some flack. But crew get tired and tempers fray, and most people do come back. So you never know. This may be the case. And the Alpen talk forgotten. I will remember though next time. Alpen in the cupboard at the bottom.