The end is nigh
Blue sky and sunshine outside, but otherwise at first glance it's the same old same old – icy cold, upwind in 30 knots, the boat at the perfect angle to make life as difficult as possible, and the staysail back in the saloon, being mended after developing a new rip. However...the radar screen is showing that we're heading towards Victoria at 11 knots (that's good) and mother of all miracles, we've broken the 1,000 nm barrier. Yep, only 832nm to go, which means our little ETA counter is currently showing 84 hours. After 27 days that’s got to be worth a smile.
In the expectation that when we do arrive, I'm going to spend the next ten days either working on the boat, sleeping or shopping, it's probably now or never to reflect on the race – after all, for £4,000 you want to take something away from the experience. So what have I learnt? Firstly, that the leg has been much harder than I think any of us expected. And not necessarily in a sailing sense, though the first couple of weeks saw a run of storms that pushed us physically. Tiredness has been pervasive, particularly since we were short crewed to start with and have been even thinner on the ground, particularly on deck, after a couple of injuries. It seems to go in cycles, for a few days you feel fine, then that lacklustre, not quite motivated feeling kicks in, and finally it moves onto the need to sleep whenever you see somewhere to rest your head. For the female section of the crew you can add random crying into that last phase as well, which leads to more tears just from the sheer frustration of being so pathetic about it all.
Secondly, that adversity does not bring out the best in people (myself definitely included). Whilst the odd emergency may lead to some inner strength shining through, the long term hardship of living in miserable conditions doesn't. When you spend four weeks in cold wet clothes sleeping intermittently in a soaking wet bunk with condensation dripping on you, eating meals that consist of stewed tomatoes and rice, very few people discover hidden reserves of humour and kindness. Instead, we become fixated on the minutiae of life, the things that in any other context wouldn't matter. Which watch works the hardest. Which watch were two minutes late on deck. Why have we run out of sugar. Why do people that in any other circumstances you'd like disappoint you when they don't meet the levels of effort that you think they should put in. And no matter how much you know that life would be a lot easier all round if you pulled together, you just somehow can't stop the odd flickers of sarcasm and resentment.
So, conclusions?
Hopefully after a bit of R&R in Victoria, normal service will resume, contemplation will cease, and we’ll be back to stories of too much beer and helming in bikinis...
In the expectation that when we do arrive, I'm going to spend the next ten days either working on the boat, sleeping or shopping, it's probably now or never to reflect on the race – after all, for £4,000 you want to take something away from the experience. So what have I learnt? Firstly, that the leg has been much harder than I think any of us expected. And not necessarily in a sailing sense, though the first couple of weeks saw a run of storms that pushed us physically. Tiredness has been pervasive, particularly since we were short crewed to start with and have been even thinner on the ground, particularly on deck, after a couple of injuries. It seems to go in cycles, for a few days you feel fine, then that lacklustre, not quite motivated feeling kicks in, and finally it moves onto the need to sleep whenever you see somewhere to rest your head. For the female section of the crew you can add random crying into that last phase as well, which leads to more tears just from the sheer frustration of being so pathetic about it all.
Secondly, that adversity does not bring out the best in people (myself definitely included). Whilst the odd emergency may lead to some inner strength shining through, the long term hardship of living in miserable conditions doesn't. When you spend four weeks in cold wet clothes sleeping intermittently in a soaking wet bunk with condensation dripping on you, eating meals that consist of stewed tomatoes and rice, very few people discover hidden reserves of humour and kindness. Instead, we become fixated on the minutiae of life, the things that in any other context wouldn't matter. Which watch works the hardest. Which watch were two minutes late on deck. Why have we run out of sugar. Why do people that in any other circumstances you'd like disappoint you when they don't meet the levels of effort that you think they should put in. And no matter how much you know that life would be a lot easier all round if you pulled together, you just somehow can't stop the odd flickers of sarcasm and resentment.
So, conclusions?
- I'm never sailing across the Pacific again – the moments of this leg that have been fun could probably be condensed into a couple of hours at most. In an ideal world I’d probably quit in Victoria and use the next couple of months to meet up with friends at the original stopovers planned before the keels fell off, then decide what I want to do next. In the real world I suspect I’ll be back on the boat on 17th May and heading towards Panama, as sometimes admitting you’ve had enough takes more gumption than staying with the status quo. Something to ponder over the next couple of days.
- In normal London life, you never really know how you or your friends will react in difficult circumstances. Ignorance is bliss...
- Snickers bars will bring a smile to the most glum of faces. Rice and peas will not.
Hopefully after a bit of R&R in Victoria, normal service will resume, contemplation will cease, and we’ll be back to stories of too much beer and helming in bikinis...
posted by Simon Eastwood at 9:51 am
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