October 29–31
Food, Glorious Food
No wind at all last night. No wonder the weather people get it wrong all the time—they are getting a lot of nonsense from the same weather models that I've been downloading.
When there is no wind, it's a good time to eat. But I can't eat too much, because I budgeted a certain amount of food each day. For breakfast, there's cereal or instant oatmeal, with raisins or a sliced apple.
Lunch is often a peanut butter and jelly or tuna-salad sandwich. The bread I bought in England is already getting moldy, but I have some from Spain as well. When that's gone—or over the side—I have Ziploc bags filled with tortillas, which are great for making sandwiches. Dinners include a variety of freeze-dried options such as beef stroganoff, sweet and sour chicken, and spaghetti and meatballs. The meals are ridiculously easy to prepare—boil some water, mix, stir, and cover. About 15 minutes later, dinner is ready. I eat it right out of the pot to save on dishes—and the dinners are really quite good. I also snack on apples, oranges, applesauce, fruit cups, cookies, crackers, and candy bars.
All of this gets washed down with lots of water. Water is all I have to drink besides little cartons of orange juice and milk. I brought a lot of water, plus I have a machine that makes fresh water out of salt water. I also have two miniature bottles of champagne, but that's to celebrate my first crossing of the equator. It is an old sailing tradition that you pour a little drink into the water at the equator as a gift to Neptune, god of the seas. Other than that, there is no alcohol onboard. Solo sailing and alcohol definitely do not mix.
October 26—29
Crossing from Europe to North Africa
On Saturday, October 26, I crossed the latitude of the Strait of Gibraltar, the official dividing line between Europe and Africa. For the next five weeks or so I will have Africa on my left, or the port side of the boat.
I finally ate a couple of good meals. With the recent rough seas, I was not in the mood for big dinners. I also had a bit of a medical problem. Back in Spain, I twisted one of my creaky old knees. It was painful, so I bought one of those beige-colored, wrap-around bandages to stabilize the knee. By Saturday afternoon, I noticed that my right foot was swollen and slightly numb. After some phone calls and e-mails to race headquarters, the medical advice was to take the bandage off, elevate the foot, and take an ibuprofen. (Done.) It made me realize what a really bad medical emergency would be like out here—plenty scary.
It's now Tuesday and the water is flat and it's getting hot. I broke out the bag of tropical clothes this morning. I'm at about the latitude of northern Florida right now and heading south, so I'm going to be using this bag for a while.
There is a big high-pressure system—good weather—that I need to negotiate just to the south of us. The weather models all show very little wind there. All the boats have to cross the system before they can hope to find any trade winds, which are steady and reliable. The first ones to reach the trade winds will take off. Each boat will leave the others behind, and we'll all stretch out on the sea like an accordion.
October 23—25
More Water Stories
We left Spain in the order that we arrived, so I was the last of the five boats anchored near La Bayonne to get towed out to sea. But we are finally underway! I want to get to Cape Town as quickly as possible so that I can see my daughters, Whitney and Alison, for a whole week! They will meet me there. Yet there are a lot of miles to go—tactical decisions about the Canary Islands, the equator and its warmer weather, and then more colder temperatures again as we approach South Africa.
The other night was very uncomfortable—big seas, lots of freighter and fishing traffic, so I had to sleep in tiny snatches. The ocean is a mess after that huge storm. The boat is jumping off waves all the time and landing on that nice, big, flat part of the surf.
Unfortunately, there is more unwanted water. This morning I was on the deck in the front of the boat, untangling a line. I discovered the forward hatch was not fully closed. A fellow had helped me leave the harbor in Spain, yet he didn't secure the door properly. Remember the rough seas—the boat is covered with spray.
The sight I found when I opened the hatch to the center compartment just gutted me. A foot of water sloshed on the low side of the boat. My clothes bags, lashed up high, were in the direct line of fire from the incoming water. It took over an hour to bail the compartment out with a bucket. A small bag filled with books was soaked. They are nothing but pulp. And the bag with the spare laptop, wrapped and sealed, was dripping as well. So the books and backup computer are history, less than 24 hours into a 7,000-mile trip. It's a simple reminder that the skipper's responsibility is nothing short of everything.
—Tim Kent
Conitnue on to November's Journals
