The next 3000nm: Part II

Fishing provided days of entertainment. Initially we switched lures most days. However, towards the latter half of the crossing, in desperation we changed the lure sometimes every hour. We didn't catch a single fish in over 2,500 miles. I became convinced that the Atlantic had indeed been fished completely emptied by all the large trawlers; we should give up hope. However, there was one common denominator to all Casamara’s fishing failures: that was me.

We had a HUGE mahi-mahi (at a guess) bite off yet another lure, the fat bastard! So yet another day passes and still no fishing success. It’s just the suicidal flying fish or occasional squid curing themselves on the foredeck – every sailor is told to steer clear of flying fish, not the yummiest dinner apparently.

We did have one close catch, largely/all my fault. After a long struggle, skipper J had reeled in a metre or so long mahi-mahi. It was attached to the line and next to the boat. All that was needed was for someone to scoop it up, douse it in fish rum and dinner was served. I lowered a bucket to do just that, but alas I had not tied a good knot and so we could wave goodbye to the bucket and the fish which shortly after loosened itself from the hook and swam off. Another big failure of mine while reeling in was neatly placing the line in the wind vane; the lure and some 50 metres of line were lost to the sea. By the end of the passage, lures were in rather short supply and I swore never to fish again.

3,000 nautical miles: 6 lost lures and many metres of line, 1 lost bucket, and not a single fish.

The chat on the SSB usually centred around fishing successes and failures. ‘Was the squid-like “wobbler” or the weighted fish-chasing-fish situation better to tempt in the fish’, and ‘do mahi-mahi prefer red or blue lures.’

It’s the first of December! Is there a better place to be than in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? I believe not. Wish I could somehow capture the stars out here. There remains not a patch of sky unmarked, shooting stars so frequent they’ve lost their charm. The only light pollution is the tricolour at the top of the mast. Phosphorescence lights up the sea.

In these conditions it was so easy to forget where we were, and the power of the sea. Two ARC yachts were abandoned during the crossing, one a serious incident with a fatality. I distinctly remember receiving that news during the SSB call. We had just passed halfway and were over 1,000 miles from land in any direction. It was humbling news and a silent day on board.

The lowest time for me on the crossing was a couple days in the middle when I got a throat and ear infection. How I managed that so far from land I have no idea but was lucky to have a course of antibiotics with me. I know now never to sail without!

It’s the fourth day of antibiotics and they’re still not doing much to budge this. Still so much pain and taking 6+ ibuprofens a day…my liver will need a refit soon.

However, music was a key feature of the passage that helped to pass the time and bring lots of laughter. Some of the best songs played by J on the guitar and sung (badly) by us were, ‘I want my dog to live longer’ and ‘I woke up this morning and my dog is dead’. I’m yet to understand the clear dog theme but it certainly livened up the water on what was essentially a silent ocean!

The Caribbean Sea is notorious for squalls, and you find yourself in a constant state of looking around for darker clouds or shifts in wind direction and speed.

The highlight of today was a sail change, which have been rare occurrence on the crossing. We’ve gone from two poled-out headsails to one starboard headsail and the main. The wind has increased slightly and we want to get there pronto. The rum punch is waiting! However, Mary Doll [another ARC yacht] reported a shredded genoa on today’s SSB and Ruth II [also an ARC yacht] a ripped main! So, any light wind sail is a gamble as the squalls worsen towards to Caribbean.

Characteristic of the squalls as we neared the Caribbean was their appearance just five minutes in to my shift. Night after night saw J appear at the companionway in his boxers to ask what the hell was going on and why was he rolling out of bed. Meanwhile, I would be muttering ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ under my breath, the sails would be slamming all over and the downpour of rain would be just about to begin. We would reef the main and jib and huddle by the nav station, making necessary adjustments with the autohelm remote – luxury!

The last day of passage started in the usual way. Skipper J: ‘I’ve turned on the immersion heater so there hot water if anyone wanted a shower’, followed by a quick glance at me. At this point, I would sheepishly glance at my under-boob sweat patch, smell my armpits, feel faint and retreat to the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later I’ve been half successful at combing through my too-curly mop of hair, just pulling out the majority. But now the rest of the boat can comment on the lovely soapy smell – inevitably doesn’t last long in this heat.