Riders on the storm – Singapore to Qingdao

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…

Confusion reigning down – Singapore to Qingdao

Here I am sat overlooking a misty bay in Hong Kong’s Royal Yacht Club. It’s still hard to make any sense of what is going on. Plans are being made and remade by the hour. The first set of yachts set off on their time trial to Qingdao. We have to be there on the 12th apparently. No questions asked. I understand the first batch have their motors on for at least the first 150 miles. We also need to navigate the fishing fleets in the Taiwan Straits. I think we’ll do about 700 miles of actual racing before engines go on to get us in. Depends what is going on in the Yellow Sea weather wise. I feel sorry for the guys who paid to race from Brisbane to Qingdao. There won’t be any compensation. Just some vague platitudes from Clipper management about there being destinations not arrival times, well apart from this final one where it would seem their key sponsor is putting the foot down.

Still on the bright side I no longer need to roll my eyes at the comments from Decapitated Poultry. She was nominal watch leader for the cruise phase from Singapore. I think she pestered Volcano for it. A couple of choice examples from yesterday:

Seeing a fishing vessel two miles off our starboard bow the conversation began. “15 degrees to port. I think that thing is trolling” she commanded. “Don’t you mean trawling?” I inquired. “Trawling, trolling – it’s the same thing” she snapped. The Diplomat and myself then had a spell imagining the real purpose of the Chinese fishing fleet is to harass vulnerable western teenagers online. “Hey! You fat kid from Bridgeport. You ugly. No-one like you!” Banks of laptops arranged on their bridges and on any available space with the erstwhile fishermen decimate the minds of depressed youth in the west. Yes indeed DC perhaps they are all trolling to keep us from repopulating. Who knew?

Last night as we gingerly navigated through fog banks around Hong Kong and the myriad vessels, charging this way and that in the night she shouted for a vessel dead ahead. Diplomat pointed out the ones we could see either side of us. Testily she batted these observations back “No! No! The one off the bow!” I could only see a set of flashing lights 800 feet up in the sky. “Yeah. That’s a helicopter.” I correctly observed. The deck returned to silence.

Don Rumsfeld – Singapore to Qingdao

There are known knowns, there are known unknowns and there are unknown unknowns. I never expected to be quoting Don Rumsfeld trying to explain the distinct lack of WMD’s lying around Iraq but it neatly describes the collective knowledge of the crew in our ongoing saga, or should I say motor-sail tour of Asia. We are a couple of days out of Hong Kong now. Oddly the rest of the fleet has passed us by.

We are to arrive at some pontoon, somewhere in Hong Kong harbour to get repairs done to our forestay, as the rest of the fleet require too (see last blog). These repairs could take an hour or half a day. Apparently Sir Robin himself is flying out to do the work himself. Are they running so short of cash they have to send their venerable chairman to do the graft? Or perhaps he is quite literally hands on type of guy. I’ll give them the benefit and go with the second. We’re not really sure when we will get into Qingdao. We don’t even know if we are to sail up the Taiwan Straits or go round to the east of the island before heading north. The arrival date is vague too. Could be the 10th, could be the 14th. We don’t know. Obviously it’s weather dependent but they should be able to give a narrower margin of error over this. Oh wait a minute, they or we or all of us don’t even know what the route is. It’s either 900 miles or 1,200.

Volcano was examined over all of this glaring ambiguity at the team meeting. He became defensive. He either knows and is not telling us or does not know and can’t tell us. Clipper organisation and Bush administration are showing some spooky parallels.

Or another way of looking at it, and this only occurred to me while getting the one good thing out of this – a sun tan – is that is reminds me of the horror stories you would hear about package holidays going awry with the holiday operator making wild and implausible promises in their brochure about the destination, only for the hapless tour rep (Volcano) to get both barrels from the disgruntled guests upon experiencing the reality on the ground. Let me compare:

• The hotel is a mess, it’s still a bloody building site = the boat was not properly sea-trialed; bits are falling off or don’t work.
• The bus driver got lost from the airport and we didn’t get in till 3am = we don’t really know where we are sailing nor do we know when we will get there.
• The tour rep was ignorant of our situation and didn’t really care = our skipper doesn’t really give a shit.

All analogies and roads draw you to one incontrovertible truth. They don’t know what they are doing. Boats that arrived late and were put together with the aid of the crews have problems. Why weren’t they in the UK earlier? Why was a yard in China used that apparently had not done anything like this before? Guesses can be made but none of them would give you any confidence.

You are probably wondering why I have not packed my dry bags. I am more stubborn than I realised, I will not get any of the outlay back if I jump ship and I want at the end of the all this to say I still managed to circumnavigate the globe despite the tremendous inadequacies of the organisers.

 

Gosport. We have a problem – Singapore to Qingdao

I wonder what Scott would have made of this? Or Shackleton, or our very own latter day adventuring loon Fiennes? “Man up and keep going,” no doubt. But in this litigious age we live in, the race organisers called it off. I listened in my bunk last night as the call came via satellite phone from race HQ in Gosport:

Volcano: Hello ______? How are you?

Race Dictator: blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Volcano: PSP and Derry too? In the last hour?

Race Dictator: blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Volcano: Oh no! We were doing so well. We got a lift and were in third. Just looked like… Oh no.

Race Dictator: blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Volcano: Hong Kong?

Race Dictator: blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Volcano: OK

I stuck my head round the corner into the nav with Mr Canon who had also been eavesdropping. The race was off. Two more boats had become victims to a failure in their bottle screws. Nightmare, I hear you say. Nightmare. Bottle screws. You could have guessed right? These things are found in a few choice spots around the boat. The ones that had failed were part of the forestay. That thing goes from the bow to the top of the mast. The steel cable there to support the mast and basically hold it up along with a few other similar cables set at the stern and the mid sections. One of them goes and you might get a mast on your head. If you need more clarification, take a straw. Hold it at the base between thumb and fore finger at right angles to surface. Take your index finger and apply a little pressure evenly to the top. It should stay straight up. Right? Apply that pressure backwards and it bends. Removing that forestay would be the same as bending your finger backwards. With sail up, eventually the whole rigging would become unstable. Next you have a dis-masted boat. Then you have a boat bobbing around the ocean like a cork. Then you have an issue. It happened to Jamaica first. The bottle screw thing, not the bobbing cork thing. We heard about it but nothing was called. When it happened to PSP, and Derry, they had to call it. Carry on and that mast comes down on a head and you knew about it? Sue sue suedio as Phil Collins once sang.

Add to that the rudder bearing failures and it’s clear we are the paying guinea pigs for this new class of boat. Oh, and I forgot to mention that in that 35 degree angle at which I currently reside we discovered another problem. If the boat is heeled over too far, the salt water intake goes above the water line. The salt water intake is only on one side. Spend too long on one tack? No salt water to flush the heads. I had to improvise swiftly with buckets from the galley which had fresh water from the desalinator which draws from our storage tanks. Feels like a low rent version of early astronauting. “Gosport. We have a problem”. Response. “How long you got?”

Just as well I can spend my nights right now, life jacket for a pillow, looking at the stars. There has to be an upside somewhere…

 

 

Getting up and down, down and up – Singapore to Qingdao

Old Bloodhound is back, pounding over wave after wave that heads our way from the north. We’ve spent all race in this, probably my least favourite point of sail. Heading into the waves and wind, we’re living life at a ridiculous angle yet again. My estimate is 35 degrees in which to survive. We have this all the way to China. Bonus is temperatures will slowly drop, as we head north past Taiwan into the Yellow Sea, down to freezing. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; we just have the tropical temperatures of the lower climes to deal with right now. I sleep next to the generator. Heat and noise from time to time. Sleep deprivation is de rigeur. Imagine living on the side of a steep hill in a permanent low level earthquake, oh and add in being saddled to a bucking bronco for good measure. Just getting dressed requires new levels of dexterity and balance. Getting on deck and moving around is positively perilous. I’ll save you the detail of going to the heads, an active imagination can probably get there. The Witterer fell out of there this morning but thankfully for anyone in eyeshot she was making her way in and was not mid-task.

Back to sweaty bunks

But you’ve read about all this before; nothing new but the distance and time we need to endure it: 2,300 miles. The violence we expect to take on around Taiwan where wind, wave and tide fight against each other, tossing us about like sticks, will be the test. 200 miles of that to contend with. Still, it’s not all insanity. Helming out in this is a mix of surfing and riding a roller coaster. Pure joy. Picking your spot between waves to steer Old Bloodhound down and around without dumping her off the top of a wave and giving the rest of the crew whiplash. Snaking around the sea in a smooth climb and dip while maintaining speed and direction, that’s the ticket.

Position-wise, we are in the pack that converged in the northeast corner of Malaysia. Some have been within sight since we started out. Half took a dog leg north then east and the rest, led by ourselves, went east then north. An enormous game of chess played on hundreds of square miles of sea. We have tacked and covered Henri Lloyd most of the way, edging out in front of them soon after race start. This morning they must have had enough and went to overtake by putting up larger sail. In the process they lost and retrieved a man overboard. Now they are off the scent. Seven of the leaders are within fifteen miles, the convergence of lines and tactics so close.

The mood on the boat is polite and professional. After the debacle of the last race its light relief. The Sealion was to be cast to his fates back in China but ADHD took pity on him as he apparently lost his job. He has been helpful and muted. Sadly, though, we lost Wiseman in Singapore. Not in any back street drink hole but he could not take various disappointments any more. He kept his own counsel well so it was hard to see how badly he felt about things but I did have an inkling things were badly up with him during the last race. He’ll be sorely missed. It’s probably a good deal why the mood has altered in its new direction; a silver lining perhaps to his exodus.

Obviously, I race on. I was checked out by MRI and X-ray in Singapore. I have torn ligaments in my wrist and a chipped bone. It will need work when I return to London but good enough for now the doc said to continue. The work will take three months so that would have been race over.

So back on with Old Bloodhound and let her chase that scent of hot and sour down to the north. Maybe, just maybe this time…

Trouble in paradise – Brisbane to Singapore

It’s approaching 2am. The boat is still and we’re moored in a little cove next to jungle somewhere off Borneo, I think. Outside, cicadas fill the air with their buzz. It’s all the odder hearing exotic land noises after a month at sea. The bunk area is intermittently filled with a sound I can only describe as a pig sporadically but gingerly attempting to breach an electric fence with its snout. Master and Commander’s waking hour pomposity is burst by his sleeping habits.

Moored up for the night pre refuel

We have motored here to refill our tanks with diesel in the morning. The last few days have been filled with farce. Were we going to race to Singapore, some 650 miles from the restart gate, or not? Clipper finally made their minds up last night. We are not. The fleet is now strung out with some on their way there now and some not yet reached our standby point. I would tell you exactly where we are but Volcano has switched off all our systems. We are on “pirate watch”, which is total nonsense. A friendly Australian couple moored near us have been here for two days and nights with no problem and we’re only a stone’s throw from some Malaysian resort we can see from the deck.

The trip here was a mix of motor and sail. We finished the last race fighting for podium but were beaten by angles which worked to the advantage of our competition to the south. The first few days brought an exchange of curiosity with our fellow seafarers, local Filipino fishermen glaring their halogens at us as we passed them at night south of Mindanao, the most southerly of their islands. Daytimes were spent satisfying Volcano’s OCD itch. He claims this will prevent the need for further deep cleaning of the boat inside and out when we reach Singapore. This has been naively accepted by the recent leggers but wearily dismissed by the round the world and longer term legging crew.

The crew have not only suffered the loathsome task of daily cleaning but an outbreak of some form of festering spots. Half the crew got it. Wiseman ended up with a golf ball sized puss leg. We are dry on antibiotics. In the brief exchanges with other boats I noticed no other crew suffered from this affliction. I don’t think they have this bizarre ritual to scrub every inch of their boats. Ironic, really, that their crews seem in better health than ours.

Wiseman sorting a problem

A loose convoy with five other boats delivered us here. The airwaves filled daily with inter-skipper chatter on the VHF. Arrangements were being made for crew dinner swaps and swims while they took an hour to cool off their engines. We were not invited, perhaps the other skippers being warned off by Volcano. One swim was managed only when Volcano had no choice. We needed some equipment off another boat whose crew were in the middle of enjoying a refreshing dip. His excuses ranged from shipping (non-existent) to dirty sea water (nonsense). It’s all about control. His mood had improved when he had rekindled his friendship with Philip Morris but since running out of nicotine, shortly after Brisbane, the good old Volcano we had not seen since the run into Albany returned. Tiresome. Popeye and I were told not to join Derry crew in a swim to a nearby beach half a mile from our mooring; we had to stay by the boat. Uh-huh, right. We both joined up and made the swim. Nothing was said when we returned.

Mr Canon is desperate to leave. He’s travelled with a number of the fleet now and ranks us as the unhappiest boat he has encountered. It certainly has been this leg. The influx of Chinese crew members has created new tensions. We’re not worried about them taking our jobs, but rather their limited work ethic, ironically. The cantankerous Sealion amongst them has been a real sore. Apparently a skipper of a training boat back in Qingdao he expected to receive instant respect. His ego could not handle being watch-led by the young ADHD. Again Clipper has supplied us with a real beauty. Unable to steer a compass course or speak English (potentially dangerous) he is work shy with the many daily menial tasks that need performed and often found asleep on night watches; he has not ingratiated himself with the crew, though some of the other Chinese hold him in an odd deference. Perhaps his old man is some bigwig in the party.

His number was finally called yesterday. With us running short of food and fuel, the heat as sticky as ever and Volcano’s monotonous demands for yet more cleaning, a handful of crew went below to sweat it out cleaning the bunk area. Sealion looked as if he was not willing to participate, again. ADHD reacted, and within seconds Sealion had him in a headlock below decks and punched him. The alarm was raised and a Volcano sprang into action. Sealion was hauled onto deck where he was told in uncompromising language he was off the boat in Singapore. Statements were taken afterwards as things cooled. Now it seems one of them is off the boat. It would be a massive embarrassment to the Qingdao sponsor to have a crew member they vetted kicked off. Will be interesting to see, if a dismissal is required, who takes the bullet and whether Qingdao as a faithful sponsor (read: Clipper needs that cash) gets their way and ADHD has to pack his bags.

The unacceptable face of Chinese sailing. Sealion.

I am totally fed up with it all. If ADHD were to get his marching orders I think I’ll put in a request to move boats. I did this already, months ago. Clipper agreed to put me on Old Pulteney, the closest thing to a Scottish entry, but then reneged. I might have to just try harder.

The second battle of Palau – Brisbane to Singapore

I am hesitant to type these words. A sailor’s mind of superstition must have over taken me. Maybe, just maybe, we could be in…dare I say it? Contention. A mix of luck, forced hands and some tactical moves have conspired to leave us just north of the Palau islands. The same ones mentioned recently and bloodily fought over by US Marines and His Majesty’s Imperial Army over 70 years ago. The battle now is of a different nature. Our foes are not dug in by the reefs and lagoons but fighting hard to get northerly and avoid lessening winds. It’s the second battle of Palau but it’s just a little too early to tell who has the upper hand. Judging from the forecasts we may stay north and run west with the wind before sweeping south on the current that runs just off the Philippines. What they decide to do will be the focus of chin stroking discussions on the decks and nav stations. What I do know is that the mileage we have been biting out of them in the last 24 hours will be making those deliberations all that more intense. They can’t reach us and our weather now. If they tried we’d slip past them and leave them in our wake. It will just depend if we have enough miles left in the race to make our advantages work. It is shaping up to be ding and dong, hammers and tongs. The change in conditions and Volcano’s latching on to the opportunity may just transpire favourably for us.

Sunset in the Bismarck Sea.

Tensions with the increased number of Chinese crew have escalated slightly. An older man, with some apparent sailing in his background has not taken too kindly to being given orders from the young ADHD. Yesterday, Sealion downed tools and tried to swap jobs with ADHD. Finger-in-face wagging ensued. His English is definitely not passable for an English speaking boat (well done once again Clipper). Introduce the poor young Diplomat, on our watch, who works for the British Embassy in Beijing and has somehow become the linguistic and cultural buffer between the Chinese and non-Chinese on our watch. Chinese Princess has abdicated any responsibility to keeping things on a level, her head stuffed with dreams of fame via the lens of the camera man onboard for the leg. She made him get up at 5:30 am this morning to edit video of her in the galley making dumplings for Chinese New Year. All the donkey prep work was done by one of her compatriots but it didn’t stop her shamelessly claiming credit for all the hard work in front of the camera. Nauseating. The increase in her cretinous behaviour has not gone unnoticed. I doubt it will be long before words are had and legs are cut to size.

The recuperation, or lack of, wrist-wise is still unknown. Swelling has gone down but I still can’t manage much weight on it so am ruled out of any deck work. Frustrating considering the position we are in. I won’t know for sure until Singapore but my hunch is I’m probably going to be 50:50 for being able to race to Qingdao. Still never mind that right now. We have a race to win.

A lighter moment with Wiseman and Popeye

Been served – Brisbane to Singapore

We have now passed the vagaries of the recent island hoppings, around Papua New Guinea, via dead air and aggressive squalls. The latter had the benefit of providing much needed flash flood showers for the crew, squeezed between sticking in the required reefs on rain lashed decks. The deluges were so pounding it almost cut out vision from beyond the boat perimeter. The enormous volume of water dropping from the heavy, dark, brooding skies above in a greyish-white mass. The torrents were so violent they hit the skin like thousands of ballistic needles, the noise so thunderous it is a good thing the crew now works like a well-oiled machine; the only communication necessary was a flash of the hand or odd bark of “made” or “grind” to signal the next element in the manoeuvre to begin.

Messing about with the windseeker off Papua New Guinea

The flash storms created a sea full of various parts of trees, coconuts and other exotic debris, victims to the tropical violence on the land. The sky has intermittently flashed bright in the distance and yesterday we passed by a volcano, stood in solitary off the coast, puffing plumes of smoke as if in some kind of fitful sleep. There was something almost prehistoric about it all. I half expected a
pterodactyl to climb out of its peak.

Our very own Volcano has seen his strategy frustrated by wind holes and faulty weather files. He has failed to read the plays correctly. Now it is not our sailing that is denying us promising positions (and eliciting explosions) but his own thinking. He appears to get less angry with himself for his mistakes and errors than he does with us for ours. It may be a good reason why his temperament has cooled and the verbal lava has ceased to flow as regularly as it once did.

Another windless watch. This was all about to change.

The wind picked up a few days ago and we are heeled over once again and in double digit knots. The wind has increased as we drive in a north westerly direction in an attempt to pick up miles from the majority of the pack that are sat inshore. We have switched position with GB as the most northerly boat having crossed the equator and become a northern hemisphere boat once again, if only briefly, before we dip down to Singapore. There is a real big win or bust strategy going on once again, though it’s hard to feel that close to everything when you have spent most of the last two days in your bunk injured.

Two nights ago I became concerned a large pole used for a certain downwind manoeuvre was going rip a stantion out on the guard rail towards the bow. It was moving about as the boat struck the large waves. If it found enough wiggle room against its lashing it could, I thought, take up the whole port side guard rail and, free from its fixture, swing down and do the same to the starboard. I took a length of rope and went to investigate. The foredeck was getting washed regularly by large waves and bouncing up and over others. When the boat is headed into the wind it can make the place a little tricky to navigate. I got to the end of the pole and started my inspection. It could do with another lashing down just to be sure. I had started for only a matter of seconds when the bow climbed a large wave. What goes up must come down. As the bow crashed down I was left levitating three feet off the deck, like being thrown up in a serve. One giant red gore-tex tennis ball. What happened next only took a second, or less. Spun back to face the stern, I gasped as a huge wave hit me like an almighty racquet of water completing the serve. I was lashed on so could not get washed away but the force slammed me across the deck to starboard. The most intense pain shot through my body. I yelled. Shouts came from the back. I tried to pull my left leg out of the guard rail wire. It had gone straight through and ripped my shoe off. All I could care about though was the pain. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. ADHD and Volcano scrambled down to me. I couldn’t get on my feet so they shuffled me back toward the cockpit. My back felt like it had been hit by a spade and my left hand was useless, fingers frozen as if in rigor mortis. I was taken below and plied with various painkilling agents. I didn’t want to get removed from the boat. The nearest A&E was 600 miles in the wrong direction.

Now a couple of days since and I have some use of my hand back and my spine is fine. I’m desperate not to get removed from the race and have been trying little exercises on my wrist to improve its movement. Only a proper inspection in Singapore will say what this will do to my circumnavigation attempt.

Interlude: Witterer update

I have recognised what is going on with the Witterer. I am now of the conviction she has an endless loop in her head of Magic Roundabout episodes. Just one look at her vague face now sets of the theme tune in my head. In her head, Ermintrude, Dylan, Brian, Dougall, Zebedee and Florence are all playing away. This is the reason she is so distracted all the time. I’d find it hard to concentrate too, with that child psychedelia going on all the time. The media man found her stood by his bunk the other night. Silent and swaying. “Hello?” No response. After a minute she wandered off from the bunk area. I’ll give Clipper this; they take equal opportunity to new heights.

Mercury rising – Brisbane to Singapore

I have just woken from another broken sleep. The bunk area is like a greenhouse. We can’t open the small hatches which would provide a draft of cooling air as being heeled over it would also welcome in the occasional wave. Instead we squirm and sweat, limbs sticking together in the damp bunk. I’m only getting sleep through total exhaustion. I know I’m getting there when I start to nod off and begin dreams on watch only to be woken by the jolt of another wave rebounding off the hull. Apparently, eight more days of these conditions. The wind will change direction but the heat is with us till we are two weeks out of China.

Ready for race start

We have an expanded Chinese contingent on this leg. After all we are going to our home port in about six weeks’ time. Instead of the Chinese Princess being escorted by one lucky Chinese legger she now is accompanied by three on this leg. Probably to give her public and the media in Qingdao the false idea that this boat is more Chinese in crew than the reality. Largely, they have been average to useless, with one exception, a real shining star who was more than impressive.

They oddly all suffer from chronic sea-sickness for two to five days on boarding. Chinese Princess for all the media hoo-ha is not that good a sailor relative to all the hype surrounding her. Only last night the now almost, or rather relatively, saintly Volcano loudly called her (I was in my bunk below and heard it) a “fucking idiot” for screwing up a tack she was in charge of. She has been appointed watch leader for this leg as the figurehead of this Chinese sponsored effort in the race. Up to this point, helm aside, she has been one of the last to the effort, rarely ever on the foredeck where the real effort happens. This has all changed. Miraculously, now she is up for anything, practically knocking crew aside to be first. Reason? We have a professional media guy following us around on this leg. Well, more accurately following her and The Chef around. A camera clicking or rolling equals opportunity for this girl.

The whole enterprise is farcical. Clipper is trying to use her as a vehicle to open up China as a market for recruits. She is shamelessly using this as a self-promotion exercise on steroids. I have a hunch her end game is nothing to do with sailing but just enter Chinese celebrity-hood, whatever that looks like. There is a slightly plastic demeanour I can’t quite pin down.  The whole thing with her is that she will be the first Chinese woman to circumnavigate the globe – as part of a large crew. Solo? Yes that would be worthy. As part of a crew? Kind of reminds me of that Private Eye headline with all the media hysteria for Prince George: “Woman Has Baby”. The media attention she gets in port lacks any kind of perspective to the achievement she is possibly making. I’m not sure her head will fit through the companion way hatch when we set sail for San Francisco.

Grind, grind, grind.

I have also been subject to an interesting piece of historical interpretation courtesy of the Princess. Decapitated Poultry of an earlier post has now joined the boat. She is one of those dreadful people who believe organised fun is well…fun. On the boat I would rather have my laughs slightly less organised for me. I was blindsided by Volcano the other day in a request for a volunteer from each watch. DP wanted to have a lunch time quiz. I dutifully wrote out my questions and today we played. I couldn’t resist the chance to be a bit mischievous. What year did China invade Tibet (?) was slipped in. After the quiz was over I was subjected to a waffling bit of revisionism by the Princess. No they didn’t invade. Apparently it was a workers revolution. Course it was. Course it was.

Still, that said she is nice enough with me and the rest of the crew so good luck to her becoming some D-list celebrity in her own country.

The arrival of the professional media guy on this leg, primarily for the promotion of the Chinese Princess, has also had another ugly side effect. The secondary focus of his lens was to be The Chef. Remember him? The one in the race out of Brest who was giving it all the talk about some extreme cooking show the BBC or whoever were interested in doing with him. Since that he has left the idea of cooking in upturned galleys alone. He can’t do it. He has clung to this race as some kind of fame ticket. I had an altercation with him at the end of the Southern Ocean. He claimed ADHD and myself were “lazy” for not making bacon and eggs one morning when the standard fare most mornings was bread, porridge and cereals. I exploded. If we had such a mountain of them to get through why wasn’t everyone else lazy for not doing it for the previous three weeks? No retort. Simple logic floated over his head. I forgot in my rage that he once had made minute noodles for lunch. Unexceptable for anyone. But the Chef? It marked his card with me, along with the rest of his character. Constantly ill or tired, he slowly ambles around the boat with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. Get him on land anywhere near a camera and you witness this magical transformation from boat zombie to media live wire. All smiles, hugs, kisses, the intensity multiplying whenever a camera or anyone from the Clipper press office is within ten feet of him. He has assiduously courted one female from that department. His smarmy charm offensive seems to have paid dividends. She has arranged cook-offs at nearly every port. I attended one. His on-camera chat as he cooked was, well, poor. I believe a yawn escaped from me. This was recognised by channel 10 in Australia who did a piece with him and their resident TV chef. Apparently a lot of takes were dropped.

The other day at the team meeting the girth of his cranium had sufficiently expanded for him to think he had the place to chide the crew on cleanliness. Apparently a bag of onions had lain outside one of the heads for three days and no one had noticed. Far be it for him to pick them up; he used this as an opportunity to take the stage and tell us what for. I was mothering so knew where this garbage was going and went back below. It all kicked off upstairs on deck. Doris and Dr Lichen didn’t take to kindly to his lecture. In one fell swoop he has stuck himself in a field all on his own. With more than half the race to do it will be interesting to see how and if he tries to win the good graces of those he will need to complete this or whether he will go the way of The Passenger. Perhaps.

I will talk about some terrific human beings soon. You may think reading this I am lumbered for 11 months with fabulous cretins. Not true. We have Wiseman, Popeye, ADHD, Dr Lichen, Doris (when not in a grump) and have had the pleasure of many more superb individuals who have not necessarily been mentioned. The roll call includes; BFG, Churchill, Consigliere, Hipster, the list goes on. I’d also like to apologise to Ripley. I was a bit harsh. I confessed to my vitriol in Brisbane before he left the race. Certain things rubbed me up the wrong way at the start but he was a good chap and gave a lot to the effort to win races he competed in.