Day 15
Not far now
Its now two weeks ago since our restated race. We set out with South in
the back of mind but in the end decided to hedge our bets and go central
to enable us to head north or south depending upon the outlook at the
time. Mixed weather reports gave us an inclination to head south, but
we changed our minds a day or two after setting off southbound and went
north. And here we are, on the 'Great circle'. We are well ahead of all
the re-starters and have over taken the first of the first day-ers with
two more in our sights. The 4 race leaders seem to have an unassailable
lead. But this is Ocean racing, and there is all to play for.
This morning we decided to go for a tuna again. This time we snagged
one, but it proved to be the one that got away. In fact it got away with
the entire lure. We saw it jumping and wriggling trying to free itself
some 50 metres from the boat, and it did a good job.
Looking back through this blog, I can see several mentions of the
spinnaker. For novice Ocean racers such as all the crew, the mere
mention of raising the spinnaker in the dark, can make the hairs on the
back of the neck jump up and a feeling of dread knot the stomach. For
the inexperienced everything to do with it in darkness is simply a nerve
jangling, tense process. For a start it is eye watering expensive. The
material from which it is made is superlight and super strong; it needs
to be, because when pulling the boat it is pulling not far off 20 tons.
It is also massive. At 1,100 sq ft. its surface area is bigger than
many London flats, so when its full of air from the wind travelling at
30 miles per hour, as it was last night, you know better be holding on
to it tight.
I think we're probably all analogy-ed out when it comes to the
spinnaker, but when it is straining and stressing, and puffing and
panting like it was at the end of the sheets and blocks last night, then
there is no apt an analogy then lassoing a prize bull on the streets of
Pamplona and riding behind on a skate board hoping that the string
doesn't break.
Most mariners form an attachment to their vessels. Literature is
littered with such references and it is clear that Tuscan born Valerio
is very much in love with his Milanto. He is as proud as he is
passionate about almost every fitting, and plank which graces her decks,
and every screw and panel of wood down below. But there is a special
place he reserves in his heart for the yacht's bow. And as we ploughed
through the surf last night, he followed every splash of water and every
fleck of foam, as the graceful bow wave arced through the air at the
front of the boat, as it was thrown clear by the gentle curve of the
boat's skin where hull turns to gunwale and rail turns to teak deck at
the sharp end.
His boat has been a marvel to us. From new recruits way back when, She
was a welcoming place to put our feet up and call home, and She has
continued to provide ever since. We have been fed, we have slept, we
have washed and we have just been, outside and in, Milanto has looked
after us. As much as we like to think that our now seasoned (near)
Atlantic crosser selves deserve a slap on the back, and a small look of
respect for navigating and sailing over one of the great seas of our
planet, we need to draw breath and look around us at the real reason for
our passage's success.
It was the boat what got us here. And what a beauty She has turned out
to be.
Spi