Jim Morrison I’ll wager was a superstitious type. Lizard King and all that. Wonder what he would have made of the birds. The pigeon that landed with us struggling with flight and stayed under a hatch for a couple of days before escaping only to drown feet from the boat or the swallow that visited before we got sucked into the Taiwan Straits. He flew into the wet locker and perched on the foulies for ten minutes. We should have seen it as an omen. It was. For the next week we got battered by weather and harassed by shipping. Old Bloodhound struggled up and over wave after wave after wave. Relentless. We found ourselves in the heart of the Asian economy. Ship after ship. It was impossible to keep Volcano’s measure of at least two miles away from these merchant behemoths. One night while trying to sail a course between lines of them going north and south we got a little too close for his comfort. The yell came from the nav station hatch, “steer 345. Or you will get us fucking run over”. Between the weather and the giant ships it became a nightmare. Mr Canon dubbed it Lucifers Playground. Quite accurate. It had its share of surreality. Chinese skippers playing love ballads over their VHF at unknown intended recipients. Violent exchanges of swearing between the bridges of ships in our area.
Having a break
As we increased the latitude the temperatures began to drop. Keeping course increased in difficulty when the light for the starboard helm went defunct. The windex at the top of the mast also somehow snapped. Helming at night became a matter of mastering guesswork and trying to read the digital compass on the mast which spits bingo numbers. No moon. Wind howling and all in front of you black. It felt like sailing in space. Just noisier. I struggled on the helm. I flapped in the dark swell and gybed instead of tacking. I crash tacked twice trying to sail too close to the course. Volcano even succumbed which eased my embarrassment. The dangers were not restricted to keeping course. One morning the yell came from ADHD on the helm that the gas canisters had come free. The are housed in two sections either side of the stern. The waves and weight of the bottles had smashed the lock. These two fifteen kilo weights were now out of control washing around at the back of the deck. I slid down to them and was joined by Popeye. The boat was heeled over at about 30 degrees. We sat in the bottom corner of the boat getting battered by wave after wave crashing up the rail and over us. The lock was trashed. We could only lash the locker shut.
The decision to stall our entry into Hong Kong for repairs was not paying off. The three who left ahead of us were not going to be caught. We fought out a mile by mile exchange with Switzerland and Garmin. But honestly it really just felt like trying to get out of the grip of the Straits. We didn’t really think about the race. It was probably 200 miles of the worst sailing we have encountered. One night we passed the lights of Taipei around thirty miles off starboard. I stared at them for a while, thinking about people doing normal stuff under their glow. I really wanted to get in. I wasn’t enjoying this at all. I slumped in the nook between the rhino bars and the nav hatch, head in hands. The mental and physical marathon of my race was taking its toll. I needed to talk myself down. I couldn’t get off now even if I wanted to. I just have to keep it together till Qingdao. Then I just need to step onboard again for the Pacific. After that it’s all downhill and my circumnaigation is nearly in the bag, or so I convinced myself. Keep it together. Problem broken down I got on with my watch.
Calm before the Straits
Eventually we were freed. My first sight of the Chinese mainland? A power station. We sailed into a bay reserved for avoiding typhoons and re-checked our rig just in case the job in Hong Kong had not held up in our battering. We were fine. It was however looking unlikely that we would manage to get in on time to Qingdao. The race ended up being called at one of the final markers on the course. Engines back on once again we motor sailed through line after line of fishing vessels parked at night in the Yellow Sea. How on earth there is anything left to eat from there is a mystery. They were everywhere we went.
At last we made it into Qingdao. The welcome was bizarre. Squads of media boats came to greet us. The landing was a scrum. A host of local dignitaries were introduced to us by a stage. Volcano was given a red velvet cloak. A distinct passing resemblance to Ming The Merciless. Crew has now changed hands. Wiseman has returned which I am extremely glad about as has Consigliere. Popeye has sadly left us. I don’t think we have seen a harder worker or more consistently cheerful member of crew. He is going to be sadly missed by everyone.
Just a few days till the Pacific. The one that has given me the most sleepless nights. I’ll bet it will give me even more…
A Clipper Tale 