Thinking of doing the race?.

One of my aims with this blog was to leave an account of what is was like living and sailing with a group of strangers for nearly a year. Luckily a side effect of this account is the match up of what I’d heard from Clipper (or not heard as was often the case) with what the reality of partipating in this odyssey became for me. This hadn’t actually been an intention initially. When I had tried to do my research on Clipper and life onboard I struggled to find anything of worth. Nearly a year at sea? Surely it couldn’t be all fantastic. There was a fair amount of sycophancy out there (and still is) but there had to be down sides. Surely. But what were they? There was a complete lack of a balanced view. Good and bad. Or even the ugly. What I did manage to find was then really no use in my decision to race and didn’t give me any idea of what I was about to embark upon. So I took a leap of faith and signed on regardless.

If you read back from the beginning I was highly motivated and excited about what lay ahead of me. The scepticism came later once the race was well under way. Now obviously it’s a subjective and highly emotive topic; everyone’s experience will vary widely on some matters but less so on others. These are some of the things I observed and if I was to hand out advice to the curious this is what I’d offer.

Despite claims about selection for “mental and physical” abilities to take part in the race the process to get onboard is simple. As written about in the blog before they were really only interested in one thing: the state of your bank account. “No Experience Necessary. Fat Balance Mandatory” could probably be their full marketing strapline. As for “mental and physical” requirements, they were certainly debatable. There were no tests for aptitude in either. Which is great news if you are concerned about your readiness before applying. I didn’t hear of anyone in selection who had failed, though who knows there might have been a couple.

The race itself was used to weed those out who couldn’t hack it; especially multi-leggers and Round the Worlders. If you drop out because you can’t handle it you won’t be able to claim any fees back. Injuries, family bereavements and so on were treated differently by the insurer, though I would check this as I heard insurers for the race change. I remember seeing a lady of very rotund proportions in one of the other crews at race start in London. I wondered how on earth she was going to just live on the boat, forget play a part in racing it. She was a Round the Worlder. She left shortly after the series started. One glance was enough to recognise she was not fit to race. She would be a liability to her skipper and crew It was cynical to take her cash. Make an honest assessment of yourself first. It’s a lot of money to throw away.

I wrote for a while early on in the race about a passenger on our boat. Truth is we had many of them scattered around the crew, leg to leg, as did the whole fleet. They were either not physically capable of doing tasks, especially on the foredeck, or were unwilling to get involved in them. Without these jobs getting done, which were demanding, the boat would not sail nevermind race. If you are considering doing the race take this into account.  It is just a consequence of the fact there is no real selection process. I can guarantee this will be a fact that every “team” needs to negotiate. There will be crew who do next to nothing to sail the boat you’re on. Quite simply you’ll have to come to terms with it or try to ignore it.

Though the truth of it was, for our boat, we could have all been athletes and it still wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to our final standing. The balance between grunt and brain is crucial. I think we had all the grunt we needed to do far better maybe even win, inspite of carrying passengers. Without the brain you will never really compete. If you do anything study and learn all you can about weather systems. That’s what will win you races. Learn what you can to keep those making the decisions on your boat on their toes. For us? That came too late. Trim is also another crucial aspect. I learned more about trim from Lebowski in one month than I did in eleven from my skipper. Clipper won’t really teach this. Its all about safety which is fair enough. Learn all you can about trim for big boats and ocean racing. You will be invaluable to your watch and team race effort.

Unfortunately the skipper you get is down to luck. I think you can put in for a particular one pre crew allocation but chances are if they are popular from training you might struggle. I can’t say how important it is to get a good one. There were three other skippers I would rather have raced with and a handful that would have been preferable. It may seem an obvious point to make but the skipper really sets the tone for the boat. Some crews were happy and some were not. Much of that rested with the skippers attitude to the race and to their crew. I am grateful to him that I got round in one piece. What I was disappointed with, especially as the race wore on, was that our race strategies often put us towards the back of the fleet. This was more to do with his inability to weather route wisely. That handicap lay on top of a very mecurial temperament. It was a frustrating mixture. If you are thinking about applying then try and do some homework on the ones that have been selected, ask around during training and just try and gather as much information as you can about them. Then lobby Clipper as hard as you can to get the one you want.

The sponsor also has a part to play. Ours put on some pretty to very useless crew on who were somehow connected with the sponsor. We had more than our fair share of passengers from their alloted number. They also took more care with their own, for instance buying their home crew dinners at stop overs and generally giving them preferential treatment. From my experience I would strongly suggest you try and get on a European or American sponsor entry. Those boats generally had a better time and were better treated by their sponsors than we were.

On the subject of money. The recruiters at Clipper will gloss over the true cost of the race. It’s expensive. Very expensive, especially if you add in loss of earnings. On top of the base outlay for the race, which I understand has gone up again for next series to £45,000, you need to consider insurance, kit, living expenses and other onboard costs like email. Insurance set me back £4,200. My kit costs were around £3,000 and that was without a drysuit which I would definitely recommend if you are considering doing round the world. A new drysuit costs around £1,200. I will talk about kit in detail later. Living costs around our crew probably averaged £1,100 per port, excluding those who stayed onboard which I wouldn’t recommend. Some stops were way more expensive than others. Australia with the exchange rate and duration was very expensive, a stop like Qingdao considerably cheaper. Do some research and make your budget. I can’t emphasise how important that is before you sign. Once in and past your level one payments cannot be reclaimed. If you find yourself way over budget you can’t pull out and get your money back. They may make claims about how cheap it can be done but honestly I would not recommend that kind of trip on a shoe string budget. Your costs are obviously on accommodation, meals and drinks, replacing broken or damaged kit and so on. Also many of our stop overs were cut short due to this being the new series of boat. The Clipper race team had a poor grasp on their speeds, especially in upwind sailing, when they set the race calendar. Stop overs for the next race will probably be longer, weather permitting, so expect a hike in onshore living costs. Email was a good example of a hidden cost. I averaged a boat email cost of roughly £100 per month during the race and only a few people had access to my email address. This was based on a flat fee and a per kilobyte cost to send and receive messages via satellite. At selection make sure to prepare a good set of questions to which you have answers to a few already, just so as to check the validity of their responses. Answers might be slightly economical, especially around the subject of cost. The recruiters role is to get berths filled. It’s a business after all. I estimate the cost of the round the world race to me, without loss of earnings, was in the region of £65,000 (plus).

I managed to get myself around the whole race. If you cannot commit to that due to time or money I would think very carefully about the legs you do pick. My favourites were the race to Rio (Leg 1), the Southern Ocean (Leg 3), around Australia (Leg 4) and the Pacific (Leg 6). These were stood out due to the conditions and probably us doing OK in races standings. From my experience I would not suggest the race to Cape Town (Leg 2) though this is probably down to the bizarre route Volcano decided to take us on (we came last). Perhaps find someone’s elses feedback on that one. Another forgettable race was China via Singapore (Leg 6). We motor sailed vast sections, especially from the southern tip of the Philipines all the way to Singapore, making it feel more like a cruise in a fibreglass oven. The races around the US (Leg 7) were also frustrating for the amount of motor sailing. If you are thinking about Legs 6 or 7 I would really do some deeper research. The engine was turned on to get us places far more than I ever expected. I listed a breakdown of these in an earlier blog you can read here. Also try and stick with the leg(s) you do go for. One crew member on our team had to change a couple of times. She was stung with a hefty “admin fees”. Ouch.

On the subject of kit I would recommend taking fewer items but paying for better quality. Common sense I know but I bought a few things out of ignorance and corner cutting to save cash and regretted it. You can stay within the standard crew limit of 20 kilo’s if you are careful about what you bring. Some skippers enforced this to make sure boat weight stayed down giving them another advantage. Ours did then somehow relented.

Make sure you have a great pair of boots. My Henri Lloyd Ocean Extremes were poor, though apparently they have offered to crew who bought them replacements. If you don’t know your brands then I’d go with a pair of Dubarrys. Crew that wore them never complained about them. I constantly had wet socks, when spending periods on the foredeck, despite the claims of a guy from Henri Lloyd who said the gaitors were so good I’d have dry feet even in the Southern Ocean. Nonsense.

For the warmer climes I wore a pair of Keens. An inspired buy. A number of others wore them. They were hard wearing but kept your feet cool and prevented soles from getting singed on a scorching deck. The deck shoes Clipper provided (well not me, apparently Rockport “ran out of material”) were pretty useless. Most got tossed as they began to stink in bare feet. Best get a back up pair.

Next to boots are socks. One of the best bits of kit I bought were my Sealskinz socks. With my leaky boots they at least kept my feet reasonably dry and warm. With a pair of hiking socks underneath my feet stayed warm and dry even at the coldest parts of the North Pacific. I’d buy three pairs. Two knee length and one short pair. Base layers were also incredibly important.

Another great buy I made was with Icebreaker kit. I could wear these for up to a week without changing or getting discomfort. They dried quickly if they got wet or would even dry if you slept with them in your bag. I bought more than I needed. I would recommend getting three long sleeve tops, two long johns and two boxers.

An essential piece of kit was my midlayers. I shelled out the extra money to get Musto and didn’t regret it. They were a couple of my favourite pieces of kit and were essential to staying warm in the colder sections. They also dried quickly and using Gore-tex didn’t get wet on the fleece inners. Definitely worth the money. As mentioned above I’d recommend getting a drysuit, especially if you are going to take on the circumnavigation. Crew that had them had a far more comfortable time in the Southern and Pacific oceans. One trip up to the foredeck in the Henri Lloyd kit you are supplied with and you will understand why. Sail changes can take up to 40 minutes in heavy weather. In that time you will be wet through on your arms and legs in the foulies supplied, especially as the series continues. If you are doing one or two legs and not Southern or Pacific oceans the foulies will get you through. If you are doing Southern, Pacific or multi-legging then better pay for the drysuit. Every drysuit on our boat was Musto. Their owners loved them. Though the Henri Lloyd one saved a guys life so it’s clearly a good buy too.

I bought a Gauss bag which was fine but a bit bulky. Many of the crew had the Ocean Sleepwear one which was less so and just as warm. That’s really just a matter of taste and getting a test if you can manage before buying. On hotter legs some crew had silk liners to sleep in. I didn’t but they were popular with those who used them. Other sleeping kit bought and brought included eye masks and ear plugs. Get these if you are a light sleeper. There were a few heavy snorers in our crew and if you have to motor sail long stages like we did, the noise of the engine is pretty deafening especially in the port side accommodation. You’ll need your sleep; do what you can to make sure you get it.

For personal safety kit I’d make sure to get a good sailing knife. I needed mine in a few emergencies when seconds counted. It will be with you the whole way. Get a good one. Mine was Gill and worked great with a good clean at each port. The subject of personal AIS has now been won with the man overboard in the Pacific. He would have been dead without one. I bought the Kannard R-10. Thankfully it wasn’t needed but served as peace of mind when dealing with some of the more insane moments on the foredeck.

The rest like beanies, hats, sunglasses, gloves etc are personal choice really. Make sure to buy a couple of each. Things tend to go missing for days onboard, especially in big weather. For a watch I just used my Casio G-Shock. Saw me round. Some guys had expensive sailing watches that fell over and stopped working. Best not to go crazy on that one.

Some things will come down to pure luck. How the weather plays out will be a major one. I griped about motor sailing many parts of the race. Some were due to bad routing and some were not. The ones that were due to little or no wind can’t be accounted for. It’s just what happened at that time and place. There is nothing you can do about it obviously, though it didn’t make the experience any less frustrating.

So despite the extra cost, having drawn a shorter straw on skipper and sponsor, I’d still recommend doing the race if you are looking for something completely different in terms of an adventure. I had some of the best times of my life, saw some amazing sights, brought on a heap of new skills, witnessed some incredible shows of nature and met some great people. If you think you can do it (and it is very hard!) give it a go…their application is here. If you have any questions on my experience I’ll be happy to answer them. You can use the comments field below or use the contact form on About This Blog

Home – Den Helder to London

And so it was after a welcome spell off the boat in Holland we rejoined for the final race. Volcano’s authority to keep the crew tied to the boat to run tasks was weak and had been weakening at every stop over since Jamaica. He was now fretting how the boat was going to get cleaned after we left in London. To compound his problem there were no crew coming forward to deliver the boat back to Gosport. By comparison I heard stories of other round the world crews signed up to a man to help with that final sail as a thank you to their own skippers.

We slipped lines for the final time and rafted up with Derry and PSP in the lock which would let us out into the North Sea. It was a beautiful day and we had the option of a kite start, the last time we had run this was our first off Southend pier some 304 days previous. The boats jostled in the lightish airs after the gun. We had a reasonable start, mixing it up with Switzerland in close quarters as the afternoon wore on. It was all mid table stuff. Henri Lloyd had yet again managed to pull away from the chasing pack and were some miles in front.

I don’t really remember the next days racing. The wind blew up for a final time to give us some proper speeds. So good in fact the race committee decided to send us out north, towards Great Yarmouth at the top end of the course, again to make sure we were not milling around Southend and our final race finish for too long. So we raced on into the afternoon and evening. We were somewhere mid fleet but in this line procession the places were all but made up. It took Switzerland and Mission to make the mistakes. Missing a mark on the course they had to double back which cost them places. GB’s skipper, who comes from London, had some local knowledge which came in handy. He set the boat across some shoals which acted like a travalator. They leapt from 8th to 1st and stayed there till the end.

We ended up in a tight squeeze over the final stretch with Old Pulteney, Invest Africa, PSP Logistics and Jamaica. There was a chance to sneak in and grab a couple more points at the end but we didn’t make the choice to drop the kite and go to headsails quick enough.

Final mother watch

So here I was back at the start. Around 6pm on the final day I crossed the track of our outbound race to Brest. I had circumnavigated the planet. All the oceans, all that mileage and experience. Hundreds of memories now lay within that loop and around my mind. I expected to be dealing with a surge of emotion but I didn’t. I surveyed Southend pier as dusk settled in and imagined me there at the start. Excited, nervous and with hindsight, unsurprisingly naive about what I was about to encounter. But now it was finally over. I couldn’t do it again but was glad I had. Yes it might surprise you, having read previous entries, but I was very pleased I had stuck it out. After Brisbane I knew there was probably little chance we would finish in contention for podium, we had only contended for it twice since then but had failed. This had all been about getting around and I had done it. Sir Robin told the band of remaining round the worlders in Den Helder (around 100 left from 200) that only about 3,500 had ever made it round on the vast route we had taken. Far fewer than have climbed Everest.

I went round patting backs and shaking hands as we settled into the evening. ADHD, Wiseman,’Oskins, Doris I can’t remember all the ones but I knew the crew I had to thank for keeping me sane on this voyage. We decided not to anchor and slowly motored around through the night.

Procession up the Thames begins

Early next morning we got ready and in order for our procession up the Thames. We were headed back to St Katherines Dock, the spot by Tower Bridge where this odyssey had begun. We passed the docks, factories and fields slowly but surely making headway up the river. A champagne toast was handed out by Hipster. Soon enough a supporter craft appeared. Its decks stacked with wildly cheering family and friends, more joined. We were surrounded on our port side by these boats passing up and down. The Thames Barrier came into view and then Canary Wharf. We were back in London. Finally we rounded the bend I had been waiting for and there she stood. Tower Bridge. I had made it. We had made it. I had imagined this moment for months, especially when I was hanging on by a thread mentally and my mojo was drowning. I expected to have a bit of a wobble, a lump in the throat, a smarting of the eyes, something. Nothing. I was just happy to be back, to be home.

The end.

More milling around at Shad Thames and then we finally entered the dock. After a few three point turns Volcano finally got us in. There on the dock was the crowd and in that crowd was Leslie who had put up with all this nonsense for nearly 11 months. There too were my parents, Trish, Iain, Sandy, Olive, Harris and a bunch of friends. Now I just wanted to get off the boat. First though we had to take the stage. The congratualtions were handed out. Sir Robin at the foot of the stage in shades, beaming a smile, shaking the crews hands. Then the announcement we wanted but were not sure we’d get. We had finally received recognition for returning to aid Mission outside Hobart all those months ago. We had won the Seamanship Award for the race. It was a good consolation and one Volcano deserved for quickly taking action and reacting faster than the rest of the fleet to the situation that unfolded that evening near the race start to Brisbane.

We returned to the boat along the pontoon. The sun blazing, the crowds cheering from a packed dock. I stepped on the boat for the last time and got my bags, patted the deck and stepped off. My race was over.

Deja vu and despair – New York to Derry

I have woken to a familiar motion for this boat. A slight nod from side to side. I know we are listless, barely moving once more. I don’t have to go to deck to see it. We are being sucked into the centre of a high pressure system off the west of Ireland, hundreds of miles from the finish; a finish which Clipper decided to call early. The race finishes tomorrow at noon. To our north, crews are actually having the advertised “race of their lives”. We languish south. More inept tactics from Volcano. There is little surprise. Zero. We had the chance to take PSP days ago now and cover their positions (see last blog). Their skipper knew what to do. I heard him over the VHF telling Volcano there was a wind corridor that would take us straight there. Sometimes boats at the back chat tactics and how to get out of a mess. What does he do? Try to duck south under the high pressure into head winds and slip up the coast of Ireland. Issue is that pressure systems in the Atlantic move from west to east in a clockwise fashion. That never changes. We were starting to head round against the arm of wind swinging towards us. These boats do not deal well with head winds. We would be slow and add a vast mileage by having to tack at bad angles. That was flawed from the start. The picture was becoming more and more obvious a few days ago. Some had started their effort to latch onto the south western edge of the system and grab hold of the following winds that would eventually turn and point to the finish line. Some are a day away now from that finish line, kites up streaking across the final section of our last ocean crossing. We are not. His tactics left no option but to try and sneak across the high with its windless centre — a bit like trying to creep across a crowded minefield with a blindfold and out-of-control pneumatic drill. The outcome was inevitable but it was too late by that point to follow north. I could see it. ‘Oskins could certainly see it and used his role as watch leader to try and persuade the dimly lit recesses of his thinking to the sense of it. Go north. For the love of God, man. Go North.

Contemplating

Fail. Our fate sealed in this windless dead-end, Volcano had the temerity to brand yet another hapless tactical performance at the lunchtime team meeting today as the “poor decisions we made.” “We.” I felt the adrenalin begin to pump. I clamped an outburst long enough to make it below to my bunk for a spot of silently mouthed f-ing and blinding at him. He lacks the grace of the skipper of DLL, who had made an uncharacteristic routing gaff in the first third of the race leaving them at the back of the pack. Instantly, he confessed on the Clipper skipper blog to his error praising the diligent hard work of his crew to salvage the mess. They will maybe finish top five. They were over a hundred miles behind us. The same can be said for Old Pulteney who got off the canvas and fought back and will earn a respectable placing. We, however, will have the ignominy of yet again turning on the engine to motor in the last three hundred-odd miles after the race is called. That is half of all races that we will have crossed the finish line under motor.*

‘Oskins is rightly raging at Volcano’s incompetence. His appearances on deck are met with muttered “idiot”. Question is whether we can finally wrest control of the tactics and navigation from him and Master and Commander for the final worthwhile race to Holland.

Sorting spinnaker sheet

Understandably, crew morale is blacker than Dick Cheney’s heart. Gipeto, who had largely given up the ghost races ago, now sleeps through his watches and reads on his off watch. Chinese Princess types up notes on her phone on watch, though she did always try and push the limits of a watch leader anyway. Her sense of herself  bloats as we near the finish and her crowning as the first Chinese woman to be sailed around the planet. The rest seem only vaguely interested in what is going on. He is slowly losing control of his command and I think the rusty cogs might just be beginning to process that for him at analog speed.

On the plus side, we have seen a handful of whales at very close quarters, and a couple of sharks–sharks in the wild a box I wanted to tick from the start and I have crossed my final ocean. Though I need a break. It’s been another long and frustrating leg. The last somewhat competitive race we had was the Pacific. That seems an eternity ago now. It definitely feels like time to go home.

*Sail and motor finishes to race

Race 1 – called early due to schedule and fog

Race 2 – ran as planned

Race 3 – we conceded last to motor in after rest of fleet had finished

Race 4 – ran as planned

Race 5 – ran as planned

Race 6 – ran as planned

Race 7 – first race ran as planned then race to Singapore motored

Race 8 – race stopped due to rigging failures – motored to Hong Kong then last section to Qingdao

Race 9 – ran as planned

Race 10 – called early – motored to Panama

Race 11 – ran as planned

Race 12 – called early due to schedule – motored to New York

Race 13 – new finish line – will motor to finish

Cold Labrador – New York to Derry

The iceberg scare passed us with only an ice-cube’s worth of fright. Last couple of days a few of the fleet saw SUV sized blocks meandering the swells with an unknown amount of pale, blue, cold menace beneath. The Labrador current which brings that flow south from the Arctic is behind us with all its assorted frozen, spring detritus and accompanying bitter winds. My six layers are now four. The warnings from an iceberg survey vessel over VHF just a detail in my story. The deep chill has gone. So have a few of the boats we were racing with. Volcano convinced yesterday we needed to sail due east to try and skip a wind hole at its narrowest margin. The leaders have got beyond that. They are gone. Won’t see them till we appear in Derry now. Podium kaput. So last night we had the option to sail higher on the wind. Higher on the wind. Better speed. By my reckoning we could have made another forty miles with a twenty degree push higher on the compass by this morning. Instead we lamely followed PSP when we had the chance to take them on the windward side. They are one of our closest competitors in the table. Makes sense to race them then right? Apparently not. I discovered upon surfacing from my bunk they pulled away nine miles from us in the night. I could see their deck light last night as we chased them down. Now I can’t see them at all. Now all of sudden we are taking that higher course. Too. Little. Too. Late.

Dropping the spinnaker

To compound the nudging misery of another hapless, racing performance I got paired with the Chinese girl on the boat, for this leg, who had the family connections back home to get onboard. All the gear. She wears expensive Musto kneecaps on deck to sit in the cockpit, gawping at the activity around her like a dim haddock. No idea. Not even in the galley. Woken late I had to pull the boat’s breakfast together. Solo. The opposite number on the other watch should be getting things going at 4 am. She didn’t even have the gumption to get the cereals out. Apparently she was dozing in the saloon. Fail. I kicked her out the galley and back to her bunk. I’ll cook. You wash and dry. Deal? Deal.

I had, for some reason, thought the Atlantic would be a bit of an easy ride. The other day proved me wrong. Wrong sail was put on the rig ready for hoist for the second time this race. Wind got up. Had to get taken off before it was even raised. Up to the bow ‘Oskins, ADHD, myself and a reluctant Parker got to work. I was keen to show him that getting this thing from A to B requires a bit of graft in nasty conditions from time to time. One sail was bagged and taken away. Another put on. One dropped and the new one hoisted. They are big bits of canvas to drag around in the wind and a wet, angled deck. Took best part of four wet and cold hours. Parker I don’t think had been at the pointy end of the boat before. To his credit he dealt with it, even taking a whack in the face from an out of control line as we brought the sail down. A bloodied nose his medal of honour. As we sat on the deck after the canvas and wind fight was won I patted him on the back. “Well done”. He looked like he’d just been ejected into space after running fifty miles. “Hardest thing I’ve done in my life,” came the weary reply. Still since that watch I have seen a new Parker. He no longer wants to be a passenger. He has finally discovered the fun the foredeck crew has getting into scrapes with the weather and the boat. He’s pulling his weight and has received new respect from the watch. A good thing. The watch has been a good one. Dr Lichen, ADHD, ‘Oskins, B and the return of Lebowski and his horizontal, Bermudian ways. I sailed with him last around Australia. Seems a long time ago now.

Lebowski in the cold

Tomorrow I’ll say good-bye to my own passenger. The ashes of my good friends father who has come along on the ride around the planet. It was my friends wish and an easy one for me to accommodate. Just a small 35 mm film case of him tucked into my kit. He was a keen sailor and never, it seems, had the opportunity to go on the kind of sailing adventure I’ve just been through over the last ten months, his life tragically cut short before his time. I’m glad I was given the chance to do this for a friend who has always been there when I needed him.

Ahead of us we have the navigation of some high and low systems as we try and pick our way north to Derry. We’ll be late. Again. Question is. How long?

Titanic – New York to Derry

Somewhere around here, beneath me lies the wreck of the Titanic. White Star Lines’ shining hope for a period of Atlantic steaming glory. The story of what happened does not of course need to be retold. A captain’s ignorance, or hubris, and an uncontrollable chain of events the second the bow cut into that iceberg and consigned hundreds to a cold, watery grave. What’s my point? Well, using an admittedly overdramatic parallel, our hopes for podium look like they too are rapidly descending beneath the waves.

Things started (relatively) promising. Volcano realised the error of his ways to New York, that self-serving tack near the start of that race which I wrote of last blog. No crazy attempts (or self-serving ones) were on the cards. We would stay with the pack. Initially, at least. A glimmer of light hit my expectations for the race across the Atlantic.

A few hours into the race of the Atlantic

The fleet motored away from New York and set up sail. The starting line was half a day east of the city we had left, still a small outline on the summer horizon. We had a decent start. Things were looking good, or good enough. Night descended and we match raced in tight formation. This was fun. No stupid tacks. I was enjoying this. The wind was enough to keep going at a decent pace. It gradually dropped. We encountered miles of slick, no doubt the illegal doings of some tanker skipper. The ocean reflected a diesel coloured sun. A few tuna popped up and down in distress not far from us. It went on for miles. I hadn’t seen anything like this on the whole trip and it pretty well disgusted me.

That same evening a fog moved in. ‘Oskins and I were in the nav as we watched Switzerland and a few other gybe away almost directly south. We were still moving. My lack of weather nous was no help but it seemed a strange move at the time. Slowly our wind died. I remembered the fog off China. Fog? No wind. Too late. We were trickling along now, the boats to our north even worse off. The schedules came in over the next 36 hours. That strange move seemed the correct one. They were gaining miles from us. We dropped gradually from second to eleventh. Familiar.

Different variations of a similar plot line were rolled out by Volcano at the lunch time team meetings. ‘Oskins queried him on the barometric charts. The answer sounded vague. By plan or design, we now find ourselves climbing the table again. The wind has filled in. Ocean–racing wind. We are currently further north, but not farther east than the rest of the pack, though there is still time to recover. The ever impressive Henri Lloyd are now (almost) within sight.

Wake up for watch

Stupid calls are still being made though. We put up our largest head sail before entering this system driving us. It was forecast to drop. It didn’t. Why he didn’t go with the middle option and change up instead I don’t know. Wiseman, Doris, ‘Oskins, ADHD and I had to wrestle it to the deck. I don’t mind when we are caught by surprise but this wasn’t one of those times; this was just a lack of common sense.

Common sense also is lacking in Parker who has returned for more after his furniture-like performance in the Southern Ocean. He does nothing, another passenger on our trip around the globe. We have had too many to care. I think about consigning them to the same place as the unlucky souls below us.  These shiftless individuals are just part of the money making Clipper plan. Anyway. We race on.

Stephen Hawking – Jamaica to New York

Well, this is familiar. We are setting a pace Stephen Hawking could match. Out of his chair. Stick to a plan. That might be lesson I take out of this whole thing. Volcano, to be fair, didn’t have one so there was nothing to stick to in the first place. The first place. Seems a good place to tell you this story (yet another) of inept racing woe. I say inept racing woe as the chagrin is on the racing. Not the sailing. I am after all just northeast of the Bahamas. Not a bad place to find yourself bobbing around. And as I watched another sunset the other night I remembered something; I will only be on this boat until July. I probably will never sail a 70-foot racing yacht (slowly) through the Bahamas ever again. The sun is out daily and the sea is blue. So dry your eyes. Enjoy it. The sailing, that is.

I digress. How did we end up here? Things didn’t look promising on race start day. Volcano looked weary; tired after nights of being a little too enthusiastic with the local product. That’s the liquid one, not the other one. I think. The fleet did the usual parade around for photos then headed to the start line. The minutes ticked down and the horns went marking time to the off. We sat in behind Henri Lloyd up to the start line. They around swerved in front of our line to the start like a getaway from a cop car. We followed. Across the line we lost them and pretty much the whole fleet. We went from third over the start to last round the first mark. His eye was not on the ball. We harried and chased, trimmed the sails, whole crew working hard to bring us back into contention. By evening we had climbed a few spots. The whole fleet, bar DLL and Jamaica, were in sight. We were match racing GB. It was getting late but we were beginning to pip them. The mighty GB. The whole fleet was in close quarters. This was fun. The crew was up for working hard all night and seeing where we could get to by morning. Then, the bizarre decision–Volcano called a tack. We had been headed for the line out between Cuba and Haiti. This was the most direct route north to New York, our destination. The wind hadn’t changed. Now we were going directly east for Haiti. Why? We had no humanitarian aid on board. Some of us were confused. Some still don’t know what a winch is for so were not. We watched the rest of the fleet’s mast lights or tri-colours disappear gradually over a blackened horizon. We were on our own again. Volcano went below. Straight to his bunk. Suspicion is that he was too tired after a week of late nights to deal with being on call for some tight racing and tactical work. Take us out of the race completely and there was no need. This is a man who has thrown the towel in the ring, left his boxer and is in the car park key in ignition. Out of here.

Enjoying the sunset as we’re not contending

We finally scrambled through the Windward Passage, Guantanamo to our left and Port au Prince to our right but were now well behind the fleet. The humour on board has gone fifty shades darker. We joke about now 7th being a good result. 7th. That thinking would have been consigned to the bin marked “shit” a few months ago. Times have changed.

‘Oskins and I were trying to get Volcano to push west early to pick up the current from the Gulf Stream; he prevaricated. That has led us to where we are right now: N23.38.092’ W075.58’. Those numbers should have changed as I typed this, but they have not. This is not good. So this is why Stephen Hawking is faster than us and why 7th, in the current state of play, would mean glory. Only the next few days will tell if even those heady heights can be reached.

Breather – Panama

So we have now passed another major milestone. Panama Canal has now been and gone. I spent most of the day up the mast snapping away and getting a slight breather from the crew. The happy go luckiness had been a little exhausted. The calmer spells give people time to think about who is doing what, or not as the case may be. Princess Margaret had been the focus of much of the negativity. Another who strains any logic for their appearance. Work shy, unless washing her clothes daily. A social climber. Isaac pulled her leg about her efforts one day. It received the oddest response, “I have a husband who loves me and a very large house”. I see.

Doris and Chef had handbags in the saloon over a long running debate concerning who should be on one of the mothering slots. Chef issues vague threats about boxing and back alleys. Someone should call him on that. Petty stuff. Some folks seem to think its okay to pull rank to get out of stuff if they can. I expect tolerances to get lower the closer we get to home. Keeping it together was needed when months of racing were ahead of us. That’s now no longer the case.

Getting some space up the mast, Panama canal

Anyway. What was billed as a two day sprint to Jamaica turned into a four day slog. We got it wrong again. No surprise there. Volcano was more interested in what was going on with Game of Thrones than winning. He now has accepted middle table is the best we are going to manage. I have thought that was the case a long time ago.

Our lock neighbours

I am now tired too. It’s getting harder to keep motivated, especially in slower times. Still it’s not long now. New York, Derry, Den Helder and home. Less than nine weeks now. Circumnavigation nearly done. Nearly.

Leaving the Panama canal

Nature and shit – San Francisco to Panama

I write this with sweat dropping from my overloaded pores to the keyboard resting on my slick lap. Drip, drip, drip. It’s 40c in the saloon. The fans can’t push the heavy air. It’s like sitting inside a boiling cloud. We have left the Mexican coast and swapped it for the Guatemalan one.  Nicaragua, El Salvador, a snip of Honduras and Costa Rica coast lie to our south east. Over the distant land, large thunderheads rise, billowing thousands of feet into the atmosphere. We are most definitely back to the tropics. So little of this race seems to be run at the right temperature. Too hot. Too cold. It’s mostly one or the other. Cool respite will have to wait in the waiting room a little longer.

Back to the tropical sunsets

The Volcano-Master and Commander duo in the nav station has produced another zero out of ten for weather routing. Mediocrity is a steep ascent from here. The daily crew meetings have become less and less of interest. Where the fleet is supposed to have sailed into a wind hole and we strike meteorological gold have been proved false time after time. We have bobbed about on flat calm waters while the others have pushed on through gate after gate. The word “luck” keeps getting bandied about. It’s not luck. Ask Henri Lloyd or GB. They are not chucking darts at a chart or reading into the patterns of their Corn Flakes to plot their routes. Just ourselves and the usual suspects, the stragglers left shuffling at the back of the pack, ineptly creeping south towards Panama.

Just as well then really we have had plenty of distractions to keep us from developing mutinous thoughts. Dolphins swim with us night and day. Some groups hang around for quite a while, weaving in front of the bow, their squeaks and clicks audible if you sit legs dangling off the bowsprit. They eye you sideways through only a foot of water, bodies tilted, eyes peering. They can be heard approaching at night. Spouts exhaling spray as they come alongside. Yesterday we had probably the best display since the approach into Brisbane. Three leapt high in the air in front of the boat and simultaneously twirled before splashing back down. On another searing, listless afternoon they came to check us out aimlessly bobbing while Dark Side of the Moon was on the deck speakers. A hippy’s wet dream. Pods of them can be seen; almost daily, chasing and feeding on shoals of fish a few hundred metres or so from us.

Dolphins playing at the bowsprit

The steaming light we have used to help keep sight on the kite for night time flying has attracted squid to the surface near our hull. Dolphins speed in for the kill. Many squid have jumped to their deaths on our deck. Chef tried to do something with them. After spending time marinated in a bilge bucket and then freezer I decided best to not try. Most crew followed suit. The Chinese partook it seemed out of courtesy or perhaps for the fact many things beyond the most adventurous western palate are shrug-of-the-shoulder normal for them.

Turtles are everywhere. They bob about in the swells and some seem to wave a fin as we pass. Sea snakes. Manta rays. The other evening a sailfish lazily swam up next to us and checked us out for five minutes before disappearing. Above us, electrical storms nightly provide the awe, the skies flashing for hours. Thankfully, it would seem lightning does not strike twice (yet). The sun sets, the clouds glowing orange and pink. The sun rises, clouds fiery red as they climb up from the horizon before turning amber then bright white. It’s the things we have seen that have set this leg apart. It’s certainly not been one for the racing aficionado.

The happy go lucky feel to the boat has somewhat disappeared. In this stifling, thick heat it’s to be expected. Spats between crew have started to surface, though all pretty much been kept in check. Sleep-deprived in this heat, it’s not a bit surprising. My own yardstick for obnoxious behaviour became Decapitated Poultry whose irritating ways we have not had to suffer any further after San Francisco. Now we no longer have anyone hiding food stuffs, the crew laptop or anything else she deemed was hers first and everyone elses second. She wasn’t even paying for the trip. I realised the other day, as I was about to go on watch, absent mindedly looking at the names on the watch list that an anagram of her name is A Man Rod. Clearly her parents even knew, on some subliminal level, what kind of twit she was going to develop into. After her departure I don’t think anyone has to ability to rile me anymore, no matter the temperature.

A quiet foredeck

As we head further into the heat, I think the decision to call the race due to the lighter winds will be made in the next day. Once more the engine will be turned on and we’ll motor sail the closing stages to the Panama Canal. For me now, it’s just a case of enjoying the sights we’re lucky to be seeing. This is definitely no longer about points. We are now in a mid-table fight overall. In this energy sapping heat, my mind says it’s not a fight worth having. ‘Oskins wants to take the weather routing off the failed Volcano-Master Commander partnership. I’m not sure we would do any worse. At least then Volcano would have someone to blame for poor performance; might suit him nicely.

Psycho – San Francisco to Panama

The end of the last race was anti-climactic. Once again the final stages demonstrated we did not have the talent in the nav station to break into the top order. We wallowed in the foggy stillness around the Farrallon islands. DLL just out of reach ahead of us and Henri-Lloyd and GB already into the Bay. I’m beginning to doubt we’ll ever achieve podium again in this race.

We’re a week out of San Francisco, sliding down the Pacific a few hundred miles off the Mexican coast. It was a fairly inauspicious start. We practised a man overboard drill in the bay before the race gun, the fallout from the man overboard of the last race, ordered by perhaps a slightly more alert Clipper race committee. Everyone was supposed to run one but not everyone did. We arrived at the start line tardy and a bit disorganised. The other boats were fixed to race at the line while we were set back getting trying to get our act together. Race underway, we tacked out through blustery conditions under the Golden Gate no longer cloaked in thick fog of the finish across the Pacific but in full view of gleaming Californian spring sun. As the bridge disappeared from view, the pack kept inshore apart from us and GB who headed southeast. Spinnakers were soon up in the following winds. The smile that accompanied me on the helm across the latter Pacific returned though this time it was not through frozen lips. Hours into the new race our weather routing appeared suspect; GB who had driven offshore with us headed back in. We stayed out. Gradually, the others sprang leads on us. We tailed the pack in twelfth, though with the vagaries of the distance to finish system it probably did not tell the full story. We were sailing the boat well. Just perhaps in the wrong direction. Different weights of kites were being swapped out depending on the wind with no hiccups.

Foredeck check

In a master stroke, Volcano had finally seen the light and procured deck speakers which were now fastened to the A-frame at the stern. Most other boats sorted something like this out months ago to keep morale up when it was cold and wet. Better late than never, it was welcomed by the crew. Apart from one. Master and Commander had a relatively dramatic response to their arrival. Thank Neptune he is not on my watch but I did witness a fit of pique worthy of any petulant five year old who had been sleep deprived then given a sugar rush. Toys were flung. Quite the tantrum. Going to the helm he demanded that the music be “fucking turned off!” To him music and racing are incompatible. A new boat wit, Isaac Newton, has dubbed him and Chef, Glum and Glummer. I couldn’t agree more.

Late afternoon somewhere off Mexico

So on we raced. We slowly clawed back some places and were approaching leaderboard respectability, then disaster. The kites have been taking some wear over the last couple of months, stitch jobs being spotted here and there. None apart from the lightweight were in good shape. It was under these circumstances that one night I took the helm in lighter winds and rolling swells at night with the lightweight kite. I had only been driving for three minutes, trying to adjust and pick up the sequence of the waves, when I got hit by one knocking us sideways. I didn’t react quickly enough and the spinnaker began to wrap itself around the rigging. Not good. I fought the helm to port and starboard to try and free it. Mind in a panic. It would not come. The wind was wrapping it further.  It was now a lost cause. Volcano appeared on deck in full force. I handed him the helm and went to help get the kite out its mess. Tears were clearly visible. Really not good. The other kites were being repaired. We had none left to hoist. Isaac aptly noted it looked like the shower curtain from Psycho. The sewing machine was busted. Repairs on this relic were attempted to no avail. I spent the next day stitching the gashes by hand along with Little Bird.  Isaac has now dubbed me Jack The Ripper. My mistake cost us a debatable amount of miles. It certainly helped put us back at the rear. The small gains we had been making were wiped out.

As speed has decreased, Fahrenheit has increased. Jackets have been discarded. Shorts and t-shirt have returned. Winds are weaker but the night skies are clear. Planets and constellations, hidden from us while we crossed this ocean further north on the last race, are vivid once more. Wildlife that had subsisted below has resurfaced. The deck was invaded by jumping squid one night no doubt trying to evade some predatory dolphins. Dolphins have become commonplace to the point we almost don’t notice their displays for attention. Jumping day and night, flashing around our hull in bursts of sporadic speed and direction. Flying fish too. ‘Oskins was hit on the arm while trimming the kite last night and nearly let the whole thing go. After watch we discovered one in the accommodation corridor on starboard. Flipping around, quite alive. It must have shot straight out the sea and through a small open hatch. Couldn’t do it again if it tried. It was returned to the sea before I could suggest it be left in the head for the other watch to discover while they were on the job.

These entertainments are keeping us going. My watch is good fun for a change. It remains to be seen if we can catch enough of the competition to go through the Panama Canal in the first load. That would at least give us a couple of days off (read cleaning the boat) before we head north to Jamaica. Still there are 2,000 miles of this race yet to run.

Long way gone – Qingdao to San Francisco

We are probably now only a couple days from completing the Pacific leg – three hundred and some change in miles. We, along with a handful of competitors, are homing in on San Francisco. We have escaped slower winds that have snuffed out the podium chances of the boats behind. Our small pack has swapped miles with each other since just after the half way mark. The crux to all of this will be the high pressure stationed off the coast. Whoever finds the best way round all of that will take the podium. Right now we have located one light wind cul-de-sac. It adds to the frustration after a long and difficult, but somehow enjoyable, trip.

Big seas in the North Pacific

Long gone are the crazy winds off the coast of Japan which welcomed us to the Pacific. The barometer slowly rising as we left Asia for the last time, with a few blips back into the 900’s over the 5,700 miles. Gone, too, are the consistent large swells which joined that wind to propel us east. We have escaped the fierce pattern of lows which tormented initially but, as mind and body adjusted, ultimately managed to get us into their groove. I was able to stabilise the freak out that my body was giving me via endorphins and adrenalin off Japan. My mind became less shredded the more exposed to the conditions I got. Some of it became enjoyable, very enjoyable. I wanted to keep pumping the slot with coins to keep those moments going. Swapping turns of the helm in all conditions, all sail plans and day and night, chewing up miles with ease.

I have a mental snapshot of a scene one morning, driving the boat just after sunrise, through heavy seas. Squalls were passing over us from port and starboard at regular intervals, sending intermittent hail showers into our backs, making the wet weather gear rasp and rattle. I did worry if we started taking golf ball sized lumps from the skies what I’d do on the helm to take cover. Luckily it didn’t happen. A white, anaemic sun would occasionally attempt to break though the grey, misty cloud. As the winds picked up higher, the accompanying raised pitch screech through the air would begin and the fight with the steering columns would ensue to make course, as we continued to surf the walls of water the system was providing. The nose of Old Bloodhound digging into the following side of waves sending up fine spray that was whipped across the fore deck, the stern lifted high at the crest giving you a view down on seemingly hundreds of square miles of white-capped seas, for just a moment, before barrelling down the face of these sweeping giants. Locking, then nudging, the helm to stay straight and take the surf, speed doubling within seconds. This went on for hours (swapping out with others hour to hour), wave after wave, the most enjoyable time I’ve had on here. Just me, the weather, the boat and my humming. All out in the maritime wilds in the middle of a vast nothing. That one memory took place just after the midpoint at the far northern latitude to the course where our nearest landfall, were we to hit trouble, would have been near Kodiak on the south western tip of Alaska, near the Aleutian Islands. Apart from our competitors, scattered across the ocean, the nearest human beings circled us in the heavens above aboard the International Space Station, a star sized dot that crossed the skies nightly. Moments like those are what I came for. For this I owe Clipper my gratitude. Credit where it’s due and all that.

Doc wrapped up, somewhere in the middle of the North Pacific

It was also around this point that Derry had their man overboard. How they managed to recover him after 90 minutes in those seas is near miraculous. I hear this has all been well reported back home. I wonder what was going through his mind after an hour. He must have thought that was it. I’ll no doubt find out when we land. What saved him was his dry suit and his AIS personal beacon that a number of us bought.

Qingdao supplied us with a couple of the biggest idiots yet, one barely able to speak or understand English. A perennial problem we get dealt– Sealion on the last leg was the same and there have been others. A constant danger in the conditions we have gone through. For the entire trip, Idiot No.1 did not take his rubber boots off. Slept with them and bizarrely wiped off the water, on the outside, after watch. He was forced, when this was discovered, to remove them. He had a severe case of trench foot. Our Good Doc claimed he was just days away from needing them amputated. Where are we getting these people from? The asylums of China?

Still we are nearly there and two of the shadows that wandered my mind about this race will have been conquered; The Southern and Pacific Oceans. I have done nearly 35,000 miles now, and when we land will have raced from and to six continents. Less than one hundred days left till I return and take in the view of Tower Bridge. I now have time to reflect on all of this, in what will be my first decent break since Sydney last December, but already I feel the back of my circumnavigation is broken.

Golden Gate Bridge. Pacific done.