The Panama Canal

The Panama Canal is quite a feat of engineering, and I thoroughly enjoyed transiting the canal two days ago from the Pacific to the Atlantic side. On the Pacific side, there were three locks, the Miraflores Locks and the Pedro Miguel Lock, which in total brought us up 26m above sea level to the level of the Gatun Lake. Once through that, we descended back to the level of the Caribbean using the three-step Gatun Locks.

I was handling the port bow line together with Will throughout the transit, and so had a taste of life as a line handler in the Panama Canal. It’s interesting enough for the first time, but I couldn’t imagine doing that day after day. There were men on either side of the canal with thin lines called “messengers”, which they threw to us so that we could attach our much heavier mooring lines to them to be pulled up and secured to the bollards on either bank. Once all the vessels were in the 980-foot long lock - in our case, an enormous cargo ship and Derry-Londonderry, De Lage Landen and ourselves, the gates were shut behind us and water started flooding in. Obviously, as the water level rose, the four mooring lines holding us in the centre of the lock became slack, so it was the job of the line handlers to keep taking up the slack to ensure that we wouldn’t drift towards the very solid walls of concrete.

Once the water level in the first lock was the same as that of the next, the gates opened and we passed through to the next lock. While we were motoring from one to the next, the men on either bank fed us back our mooring lines, still connected to the messenger lines, and then proceeded to walk along the walls to the next set of bollards that we were to be secured to. Absurdly, I thought it was a bit like walking a dog, albeit a ponderously slow one, on a disproportionately thin leash.

Descending was the opposite, where the water started draining off once the gates were shut. Instead of taking up the slack, therefore, the line handlers now had to keep easing the mooring lines to allow for the drop in water level. I had amusing visions of the boat suspended in midair by its four mooring lines if we failed to ease the lines while the water drained off, but in reality either the lines would have snapped or a cleat would have been ripped off the deck had we been so negligent. As it were, we transited the three-step Gatun Locks with no problem at all, and emerged on the other side of the Panama Canal feeling like we were finally back in the Atlantic Ocean, although we’re technically still in the Caribbean Sea.

I’ve been in Panama for six days, but because it’s been chopped up by the transit, haven’t really found much time to go sightseeing apart from that afternoon of wandering about Casco Antiguo, the Old City. We’re all just waiting for the race start to New York, but it’s been postponed a couple of times because of DLL not having a functional gearbox.

thereadables

The remainder of the top 20 photos from Leg 7, Race 10. Only the last four photos were taken by me, because I was more than happy to let Jeff be in charge of taking photos on this leg, with his Canon DSLR. It was perfect timing, really, to have him on board because I found myself rather busy watch-leading and would definitely have done a shabby job of recording the race with photographs.

Here are ten of the top 20 photos from Leg 7, Race 10, mostly taken by Jeff. Sailing down the coastlines of the USA, Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Costa Rica and finally Panama was vastly different from the Pacific crossing of the last race. It was scorching hot for most of the race, with very light winds in the later half, and almost the entire race was sailed under a spinnaker. After the anti-climactic finish on the 30th of April when the race office called the Santa Cruz Gate the finish line for the last few boats, we motored for six days to get to the Pacific side of the Panama Canal. 7th place was not bad, considering we’d been languishing in 10th place for a good few days before that following our monster kite wrap, but I hope we do much better in the following few races.

You know the sinking feeling you get in your chest when you know that something bad is happening, and you’re completely helpless to stop it? That was what it felt like last night, when our lightweight spinnaker “Josie” collapsed in on herself, and billowed out again on the wrong side of the inner forestay. Dashing to the shrouds, a few of us pulled with all our might on the leeward leech of the kite, trying to free up the wrap before it got too severe. Alas, our efforts were in vain, and we watched in despair as Josie proceeded to wrap herself about four or five more times around the inner forestay. I happened to be wearing the harness at the time, so Ben asked me to get ready to go up the forestay, which is the bit of rigging that extends up from the bow to the very top of the mast. “The forestay? Surely you mean the inner forestay?” I tried to clarify, because I didn’t think that I would be able to reach the kite from the forestay. Ben was understandably grumpy though, having just been woken to such bad news, and snapped that it was indeed the forestay that he wanted me to ascend. Minutes later though, he had calmed down a bit and conceded that I would stand a better chance of unwrapping the kite from the inner forestay, since that was what the kite was actually wrapped around. And so for the first time ever, I went up the inner forestay, which goes from the foredeck to three quarters of the way up the mast. Grabbing handfuls of spinnaker, I tugged and tugged and managed a couple of times to get one wrap of the kite unravelled. “Well done! That’s one down, seven thousand to go!” Ben yelled from the deck. It seemed like it was going well for a time, but the problem was that the helm had to go dead downwind to collapse the kite in order for me to pull it around, and that inevitably caused the kite to wrap a few more times around the inner forestay, my halyard, and occasionally my head and shoulders. Nearly two hours later, with my arms burning from the lactic acid build-up, we decided that it was futile, and it would be better for me to return to the deck. Unfortunately, with my halyard wrapped up so tightly by the spinnaker, it wouldn’t let me descend, and I had to attach another halyard and cut the old one. That was a rather tense moment for me - cutting the rope holding me up and trusting that I’d attached the new halyard correctly while being swung around 40 feet above the deck at night. With phase one unsuccessful, we moved into phase two of the spinnaker salvation scheme, which involved Will and James going up the rig to spike the spinnaker halyards and try to untwist the kite from the top down. My watch and I went below decks to catch some shuteye, and returned a few hours later to find the three corners of the kite detached from their ropes, but the kite more hopelessly melded with the inner forestay, if anything. After the two rig monkeys had returned to deck level, all of us fought Josie while she flailed about wildly, finally succeeding in twisting her lower half into a very tight sausage. This was then secured as far away from the inner forestay as possible, so that there was no chance of the kite wrapping itself further. At daybreak, James went up the rig again, and came down a while later, swearing that it looked hopelessly entangled from up there. From where I was lying on the foredeck, the last bit of the spinnaker that was still catching wind was loosely furled around the inner forestay, looking quite like a nautilus shell, with the seams joining the panels of sail resembling the radial spirals of the shell. The situation was getting rather grim by that point, and we were starting to consider our options. The less plausible ones were to leave the kite there until we reached Panama, or to slit it all the way down. Something we were seriously considering, however, was detaching the inner forestay from the mast and lowering it to the deck so that we could unravel the kite from on deck. This would be very troublesome though, and none of us was particularly keen to do that. In addition, having no inner forestay would mean that the mast wouldn’t be as well supported as it should be for however long it took us to sort out the wrap, which was hardly ideal. By this time, my watch had gone off-watch again after breakfast, but I couldn’t bear to go to bed with the kite still stuck up there. Instead, I stayed up with the Nauticats and tried to brainstorm for other ideas we could try. Refusing to accept that the kite was impossibly entangled with the inner forestay, I begged Will to let me go up the rig again. He was reluctant to let me do so, in case we lost another halyard, but eventually got tired of me and agreed to give it one last go. And so I went up to the second set of spreaders and tied a line to the head of the kite, which the guys on deck then used to unravel the kite slowly, by walking round and round the inner forestay as if they were dancing around a maypole. I was keeping an eye on the wraps while passing bundles of spinnaker material around the top of the inner forestay and yelling down instructions, but it still came as a surprise to me when all of a sudden something gave, and the spinnaker started sliding down the inner forestay. Full credit to the guys on deck, who amidst whoops of delight and relief responded quick as lightning and retrieved most of the kite before it fell into the water. Suckers for punishment that we are, we immediately hoisted the medium-weight spinnaker and started patching Josie up. Within five hours, she was up and flying again, with nothing but a five-foot long patch to remind us of the drama she put us through. All in all, it was a knackering and slightly stressful nine hours, but as always, I was very impressed with the way the whole team reacted and dealt with the situation, all while managing to maintain our sense of humour.

You know the sinking feeling you get in your chest when you know that something bad is happening, and you’re completely helpless to stop it? That was what it felt like last night, when our lightweight spinnaker “Josie” collapsed in on herself, and billowed out again on the wrong side of the inner forestay.

Dashing to the shrouds, a few of us pulled with all our might on the leeward leech of the kite, trying to free up the wrap before it got too severe. Alas, our efforts were in vain, and we watched in despair as Josie proceeded to wrap herself about four or five more times around the inner forestay.

I happened to be wearing the harness at the time, so Ben asked me to get ready to go up the forestay, which is the bit of rigging that extends up from the bow to the very top of the mast.

“The forestay? Surely you mean the inner forestay?” I tried to clarify, because I didn’t think that I would be able to reach the kite from the forestay. Ben was understandably grumpy though, having just been woken to such bad news, and snapped that it was indeed the forestay that he wanted me to ascend.

Minutes later though, he had calmed down a bit and conceded that I would stand a better chance of unwrapping the kite from the inner forestay, since that was what the kite was actually wrapped around. And so for the first time ever, I went up the inner forestay, which goes from the foredeck to three quarters of the way up the mast. Grabbing handfuls of spinnaker, I tugged and tugged and managed a couple of times to get one wrap of the kite unravelled.

“Well done! That’s one down, seven thousand to go!” Ben yelled from the deck. It seemed like it was going well for a time, but the problem was that the helm had to go dead downwind to collapse the kite in order for me to pull it around, and that inevitably caused the kite to wrap a few more times around the inner forestay, my halyard, and occasionally my head and shoulders.

Nearly two hours later, with my arms burning from the lactic acid build-up, we decided that it was futile, and it would be better for me to return to the deck. Unfortunately, with my halyard wrapped up so tightly by the spinnaker, it wouldn’t let me descend, and I had to attach another halyard and cut the old one. That was a rather tense moment for me - cutting the rope holding me up and trusting that I’d attached the new halyard correctly while being swung around 40 feet above the deck at night.

With phase one unsuccessful, we moved into phase two of the spinnaker salvation scheme, which involved Will and James going up the rig to spike the spinnaker halyards and try to untwist the kite from the top down. My watch and I went below decks to catch some shuteye, and returned a few hours later to find the three corners of the kite detached from their ropes, but the kite more hopelessly melded with the inner forestay, if anything.

After the two rig monkeys had returned to deck level, all of us fought Josie while she flailed about wildly, finally succeeding in twisting her lower half into a very tight sausage. This was then secured as far away from the inner forestay as possible, so that there was no chance of the kite wrapping itself further. At daybreak, James went up the rig again, and came down a while later, swearing that it looked hopelessly entangled from up there. From where I was lying on the foredeck, the last bit of the spinnaker that was still catching wind was loosely furled around the inner forestay, looking quite like a nautilus shell, with the seams joining the panels of sail resembling the radial spirals of the shell.

The situation was getting rather grim by that point, and we were starting to consider our options. The less plausible ones were to leave the kite there until we reached Panama, or to slit it all the way down. Something we were seriously considering, however, was detaching the inner forestay from the mast and lowering it to the deck so that we could unravel the kite from on deck.

This would be very troublesome though, and none of us was particularly keen to do that. In addition, having no inner forestay would mean that the mast wouldn’t be as well supported as it should be for however long it took us to sort out the wrap, which was hardly ideal.

By this time, my watch had gone off-watch again after breakfast, but I couldn’t bear to go to bed with the kite still stuck up there. Instead, I stayed up with the Nauticats and tried to brainstorm for other ideas we could try. Refusing to accept that the kite was impossibly entangled with the inner forestay, I begged Will to let me go up the rig again. He was reluctant to let me do so, in case we lost another halyard, but eventually got tired of me and agreed to give it one last go. And so I went up to the second set of spreaders and tied a line to the head of the kite, which the guys on deck then used to unravel the kite slowly, by walking round and round the inner forestay as if they were dancing around a maypole.

I was keeping an eye on the wraps while passing bundles of spinnaker material around the top of the inner forestay and yelling down instructions, but it still came as a surprise to me when all of a sudden something gave, and the spinnaker started sliding down the inner forestay. Full credit to the guys on deck, who amidst whoops of delight and relief responded quick as lightning and retrieved most of the kite before it fell into the water.

Suckers for punishment that we are, we immediately hoisted the medium-weight spinnaker and started patching Josie up. Within five hours, she was up and flying again, with nothing but a five-foot long patch to remind us of the drama she put us through. All in all, it was a knackering and slightly stressful nine hours, but as always, I was very impressed with the way the whole team reacted and dealt with the situation, all while managing to maintain our sense of humour.

It’s always difficult to get mentally prepared for the start of another race, I find, especially after a long stopover. Having settled back into the habits of life on land with all its accompanying luxuries, I was once again feeling a little reluctant to get back to racing. The crew briefing did help to get me excited about going through the Panama Canal though, with the photos taken on the previous race of passing through that symbolic gateway to the Atlantic, the home ocean of most of the crew. It will be a fantastic experience, I’m sure, especially after what is likely to be a slow race there - well, slow compared to the speeds on the last leg. The race start itself was quite intense, with boats jostling for positions on the start line. As a result, Gold Coast Australia, Edinburgh Inspiring Capital and Singapore were over the start line when the starting signal was given, and hence had to turn around to round the pin end before heading off. Fortunately, that didn’t cost us too much, and by the time we passed under the Golden Gate Bridge we were back in a fairly decent position. The sea was incredibly lumpy right from the start, as if the Pacific Ocean was doing her best to give us one final kicking before letting us out of her grasp. We were thrown right back into “splishy-splashy” upwind sailing, with the boat heeled over at quite an angle, requiring us to maintain three points of contact with the boat while moving about. For the round-the-world crew, it felt like getting back into something familiar, but the new leggers didn’t take to it so well, and all but one of them felt queasy at some point. Mere hours into the race, we bore away downwind and hoisted “Sticky Vicky”, our beloved heavy-weight kite. Settling back into the rhythm of racing, I couldn’t help but agree with Ben that being out at sea makes everything so much simpler - all the worries of life on land are left behind and don’t surface again until we reach the next port. I’m loving being out here again, and looking forward to another excellent race, different as it will be from the last one.

It’s always difficult to get mentally prepared for the start of another race, I find, especially after a long stopover. Having settled back into the habits of life on land with all its accompanying luxuries, I was once again feeling a little reluctant to get back to racing.

The crew briefing did help to get me excited about going through the Panama Canal though, with the photos taken on the previous race of passing through that symbolic gateway to the Atlantic, the home ocean of most of the crew. It will be a fantastic experience, I’m sure, especially after what is likely to be a slow race there - well, slow compared to the speeds on the last leg.

The race start itself was quite intense, with boats jostling for positions on the start line. As a result, Gold Coast Australia, Edinburgh Inspiring Capital and Singapore were over the start line when the starting signal was given, and hence had to turn around to round the pin end before heading off. Fortunately, that didn’t cost us too much, and by the time we passed under the Golden Gate Bridge we were back in a fairly decent position.

The sea was incredibly lumpy right from the start, as if the Pacific Ocean was doing her best to give us one final kicking before letting us out of her grasp. We were thrown right back into “splishy-splashy” upwind sailing, with the boat heeled over at quite an angle, requiring us to maintain three points of contact with the boat while moving about. For the round-the-world crew, it felt like getting back into something familiar, but the new leggers didn’t take to it so well, and all but one of them felt queasy at some point.

Mere hours into the race, we bore away downwind and hoisted “Sticky Vicky”, our beloved heavy-weight kite. Settling back into the rhythm of racing, I couldn’t help but agree with Ben that being out at sea makes everything so much simpler - all the worries of life on land are left behind and don’t surface again until we reach the next port. I’m loving being out here again, and looking forward to another excellent race, different as it will be from the last one.

This has been quite a relaxing stopover, with lots of lazy lie-ins and days of doing not much at all. When we did go out though, we’ve taken the BART into San Francisco and wandered around the city a bit on foot. The Ferry Building which is known for its collection of good artisanal foods did not disappoint - we tried Moroccan, American, Vietnamese and Mexican food all in the same day. Strolling down the piers, we popped into the Musée Mécanique, which was interesting but also filled with macabre puppets and figures that I didn’t like.

Another day, we visited the California Academy of Sciences located in the Golden Gate Park, which I really enjoyed. It had a planetarium, a tropical rainforest biodome, and an aquarium with fascinating species I’d never seen before. Dinner at this Chinese restaurant called San Tung was simply splendid as well.

I would have liked to go out to Napa Valley to tour a vineyard, if only because it was featured in Parent Trap, which my sister and I have watched about 30 times. Also, it would have been nice to see the redwoods in the Redwood National Park, but that’s quite a drive away and not that easy to fit into our fragmented schedules. I guess I just have to come back to San Francisco at some point.

Now I’m really looking forward to our day trip to Philadelphia for the Penn Preview Day. That ought to bring home the fact that this race is ending in a couple of months and a whole new adventure awaits me on the other side!

Here are some of the top photos from Leg 6, Race 9. We conquered the mighty Pacific Ocean, sailing more than 6000 miles from Qingdao to San Francisco in a mere 28 days from 4th-31st March, and crossing the International Date Line along the way. In particular because this was billed as the longest and toughest race of the entire circumnavigation, finishing under the Golden Gate Bridge second only to Gold Coast was an incredible achievement.

With the wind gusting up to 48 knots today, it was a bit too windy to fly the spinnaker, so we opted to pole out the Yankee 3 instead. Also known as sailing goose-winged due to the two sails being on either side of the mast, this sail configuration allows us to sail almost dead downwind, and creates a unique side-to-side sway of the boat as the headsail and mainsail power up in turn.It took a while to get used to helming in these conditions, as the last time we poled out a headsail was in the Celebes Sea on Race 7. Once you get into the groove though, I find helming while poled-out one of the most rewarding activities, simply because it’s so challenging. Sail too high on the wind and you risk backing the headsail, which puts immense strain on the spinnaker pole and can quite easily snap it in half, leaving one end flailing wildly and capable of puncturing the mainsail. Sail too low, on the other hand, and you risk an accidental gybe, which would bring the two-ton boom swinging across the deck, obliterating everything in its path and probably ripping the block off the traveller. With such a high potential for screw-ups, Ben restricted the helming to experienced helms, so we had Graeme and Willy on the other watch (Will P being on mother watch), and Jono and me on my watch driving.Jono and I concur that on a scale of one to ten of difficulty, helming in the last few night watches has rated about fifteen. Either because the sky was overcast or it was the new moon (I haven’t seen the moon in so long I’ve lost track of which phase it’s in), the surroundings were pitch black again. We started off with the deck light on so we could see the yankee, but Ben decided that it was better without it, so we switched it off, which felt a bit like removing the training wheels on a bicycle. Helming then became a multi-sensory experience, where sight, hearing and touch were all necessary inputs to steering the boat in the right direction.In the day, one can see the waves and the yankee in addition to the instruments, but at night one has to listen out instead, to pick out the flogging of the headsail or the thunderous rush of a breaking crest over the general cacophony of 40 knots of wind. It’s terrifying sometimes, hearing a massive wave charging up behind you with the speed and force of a freight train, but all you can do is bear away and try to surf down it. Occasionally that works, but at other times the wave will round you up by up to 60 degrees, which causes the headsail to back and the mainsail to luff, and creates all sorts of chaos. Then there’s also the odd rogue wave that comes from the wrong direction with no warning at all, and dumps colossal amounts of water into the cockpit. We call these “cockpit fillers”, and their sole objective seems to be to fill everyone’s boots.Along with the massive waves we’ve seen have been some fantastic surfing opportunities though, and I’m really chuffed to have broken both my previous personal best of 18.9 knots and the boat record of 22.2 knots today. As the boat got picked up by a wave, I bore away and found the boat accelerating to such great speeds that the wake on either side of the boat resembled solid walls of water. I thought it was a bit like the parting of the Red Sea, with the boat ploughing straight down the middle. One such surf got up to 23.6 knots, another to 24.5 knots, and the last good surf I had, I was too busy keeping the boat under control to check out the speed. It was incredibly thrilling, and after each of those three surfs I found my heart racing and my hands trembling. It’s a good thing I managed to sort out the CCTV just before this, so we’ve got some footage of the surfs as mementos of the great Pacific waves.So yes, it’s been an exhausting 24 hours, and will continue to be so for the next 24-48 hours, but I’m still buzzing from the high of setting a new speed record. I know I’ve said this before in the Southern Ocean, but today has definitely been the best day of the entire Clipper Race for me so far.

With the wind gusting up to 48 knots today, it was a bit too windy to fly the spinnaker, so we opted to pole out the Yankee 3 instead. Also known as sailing goose-winged due to the two sails being on either side of the mast, this sail configuration allows us to sail almost dead downwind, and creates a unique side-to-side sway of the boat as the headsail and mainsail power up in turn.

It took a while to get used to helming in these conditions, as the last time we poled out a headsail was in the Celebes Sea on Race 7. Once you get into the groove though, I find helming while poled-out one of the most rewarding activities, simply because it’s so challenging. Sail too high on the wind and you risk backing the headsail, which puts immense strain on the spinnaker pole and can quite easily snap it in half, leaving one end flailing wildly and capable of puncturing the mainsail. Sail too low, on the other hand, and you risk an accidental gybe, which would bring the two-ton boom swinging across the deck, obliterating everything in its path and probably ripping the block off the traveller. With such a high potential for screw-ups, Ben restricted the helming to experienced helms, so we had Graeme and Willy on the other watch (Will P being on mother watch), and Jono and me on my watch driving.

Jono and I concur that on a scale of one to ten of difficulty, helming in the last few night watches has rated about fifteen. Either because the sky was overcast or it was the new moon (I haven’t seen the moon in so long I’ve lost track of which phase it’s in), the surroundings were pitch black again. We started off with the deck light on so we could see the yankee, but Ben decided that it was better without it, so we switched it off, which felt a bit like removing the training wheels on a bicycle. Helming then became a multi-sensory experience, where sight, hearing and touch were all necessary inputs to steering the boat in the right direction.

In the day, one can see the waves and the yankee in addition to the instruments, but at night one has to listen out instead, to pick out the flogging of the headsail or the thunderous rush of a breaking crest over the general cacophony of 40 knots of wind. It’s terrifying sometimes, hearing a massive wave charging up behind you with the speed and force of a freight train, but all you can do is bear away and try to surf down it. Occasionally that works, but at other times the wave will round you up by up to 60 degrees, which causes the headsail to back and the mainsail to luff, and creates all sorts of chaos. Then there’s also the odd rogue wave that comes from the wrong direction with no warning at all, and dumps colossal amounts of water into the cockpit. We call these “cockpit fillers”, and their sole objective seems to be to fill everyone’s boots.

Along with the massive waves we’ve seen have been some fantastic surfing opportunities though, and I’m really chuffed to have broken both my previous personal best of 18.9 knots and the boat record of 22.2 knots today. As the boat got picked up by a wave, I bore away and found the boat accelerating to such great speeds that the wake on either side of the boat resembled solid walls of water. I thought it was a bit like the parting of the Red Sea, with the boat ploughing straight down the middle. One such surf got up to 23.6 knots, another to 24.5 knots, and the last good surf I had, I was too busy keeping the boat under control to check out the speed. It was incredibly thrilling, and after each of those three surfs I found my heart racing and my hands trembling. It’s a good thing I managed to sort out the CCTV just before this, so we’ve got some footage of the surfs as mementos of the great Pacific waves.

So yes, it’s been an exhausting 24 hours, and will continue to be so for the next 24-48 hours, but I’m still buzzing from the high of setting a new speed record. I know I’ve said this before in the Southern Ocean, but today has definitely been the best day of the entire Clipper Race for me so far.

After what must have been three full days of sailing in the same direction without a single sail evolution, we finally made some changes to our sail plan as the breeze began to ease off today. In the span of a few hours, we changed from the Yankee 3 to the Yankee 2, and then to the Numero Uno, shaking out a reef in between. The airing of our full sails was short-lived though, as barely 12 hours later we had to drop the 1 in favour of the 3 and put in two reefs for good measure, all while maintaining a course over ground (COG) of 85 degrees. We’ve probably made as much north in our course as we want to now, and it’s getting rather chilly on deck, so we’ve altered our target COG to due east, and are charging along with a good 10.5-11 knots of speed over ground.After spending most of the race up to Qingdao sailing upwind in the wrong direction, and having a miserable velocity made good (VMG) of about five knots, it’s very exciting to be able to sail in the right direction. This means that our boat speed equals our VMG, as every mile we sail is a mile towards our destination. As Will mentioned in the logbook, we are making easy miles, after the tiresome work of beating upwind. It was good to perform some sail evolutions though, to break up the monotony of the past few days.As Ben said, we were feeling a bit of “Groundhog Day Syndrome”, and not just because we had two 20ths of March. With any luck, the change in winds will see some shaking up of the leaderboard, because the boats may adopt different sail plans, as opposed to being identically matched in the drag race of the past few days. That would make a change to the rather uninteresting scheds we’ve had over the past few days where very few gains and losses were made.

After what must have been three full days of sailing in the same direction without a single sail evolution, we finally made some changes to our sail plan as the breeze began to ease off today. In the span of a few hours, we changed from the Yankee 3 to the Yankee 2, and then to the Numero Uno, shaking out a reef in between. The airing of our full sails was short-lived though, as barely 12 hours later we had to drop the 1 in favour of the 3 and put in two reefs for good measure, all while maintaining a course over ground (COG) of 85 degrees. We’ve probably made as much north in our course as we want to now, and it’s getting rather chilly on deck, so we’ve altered our target COG to due east, and are charging along with a good 10.5-11 knots of speed over ground.

After spending most of the race up to Qingdao sailing upwind in the wrong direction, and having a miserable velocity made good (VMG) of about five knots, it’s very exciting to be able to sail in the right direction. This means that our boat speed equals our VMG, as every mile we sail is a mile towards our destination. As Will mentioned in the logbook, we are making easy miles, after the tiresome work of beating upwind. It was good to perform some sail evolutions though, to break up the monotony of the past few days.

As Ben said, we were feeling a bit of “Groundhog Day Syndrome”, and not just because we had two 20ths of March. With any luck, the change in winds will see some shaking up of the leaderboard, because the boats may adopt different sail plans, as opposed to being identically matched in the drag race of the past few days. That would make a change to the rather uninteresting scheds we’ve had over the past few days where very few gains and losses were made.

We have now officially cracked the halfway mark in terms of miles to run, and probably in terms of days racing. Spirits are high as we can now look forward to the finish line, rather than constantly plodding uphill. As Ben puts it, we’ve metaphorically reached the crest and the remainder of the journey ought to feel a lot more downhill with the end in sight. Another upcoming milestone is the International Date Line which we’re expecting to cross sometime tomorrow, and which will mark our return to the western hemisphere. We will gain a day, and it’ll be interesting to see if we have a Groundhog Day, or vastly different conditions on the two 20ths of March.For the moment, though, conditions on board are still incredibly wet, and everyone is getting used to having saturated gloves and socks, and consequently perpetually wet hands and feet. Getting into soggy kit at the start of each watch is highly unpleasant, but at least with the weather being cold there are five layers between my wet foulies and my skin, so I don’t feel it too much.This is a tough old race, and several people have had little tumbles here and there. Aching backs, arms, pelvises and various other body parts is common, and hardly anyone has escaped completely unscathed. I’ve been very fortunate though, because when I fell straight down the companionway from the top step a couple of days ago, I landed squarely on my bum with my legs in the air, but with nothing but a bruised ego. It pays to have a bit of padding when you tend to get knocked around so much on the boat.We’re currently flying the storm jib (again), which James, Angelo and I hanked on in the wee hours of this morning. Angelo’s not usually very vocal, but even he was swearing colourfully in Italian, which gives you some idea of how bouncy it was up at the pointy end. Returning from the foredeck, James summed it up nicely by saying that we’d received “just a regular foredeck battering.” It was tough, definitely, but that was just another day in the office for us, really.Anyway, the most recent GRIB files show a nice high pressure system coming through, which will be a welcome change from all this low pressure, stormy weather.

We have now officially cracked the halfway mark in terms of miles to run, and probably in terms of days racing. Spirits are high as we can now look forward to the finish line, rather than constantly plodding uphill. As Ben puts it, we’ve metaphorically reached the crest and the remainder of the journey ought to feel a lot more downhill with the end in sight. Another upcoming milestone is the International Date Line which we’re expecting to cross sometime tomorrow, and which will mark our return to the western hemisphere. We will gain a day, and it’ll be interesting to see if we have a Groundhog Day, or vastly different conditions on the two 20ths of March.

For the moment, though, conditions on board are still incredibly wet, and everyone is getting used to having saturated gloves and socks, and consequently perpetually wet hands and feet. Getting into soggy kit at the start of each watch is highly unpleasant, but at least with the weather being cold there are five layers between my wet foulies and my skin, so I don’t feel it too much.

This is a tough old race, and several people have had little tumbles here and there. Aching backs, arms, pelvises and various other body parts is common, and hardly anyone has escaped completely unscathed. I’ve been very fortunate though, because when I fell straight down the companionway from the top step a couple of days ago, I landed squarely on my bum with my legs in the air, but with nothing but a bruised ego. It pays to have a bit of padding when you tend to get knocked around so much on the boat.

We’re currently flying the storm jib (again), which James, Angelo and I hanked on in the wee hours of this morning. Angelo’s not usually very vocal, but even he was swearing colourfully in Italian, which gives you some idea of how bouncy it was up at the pointy end. Returning from the foredeck, James summed it up nicely by saying that we’d received “just a regular foredeck battering.” It was tough, definitely, but that was just another day in the office for us, really.

Anyway, the most recent GRIB files show a nice high pressure system coming through, which will be a welcome change from all this low pressure, stormy weather.

Wet. Cold. Bumpy. These three words essentially sum up the entire experience of the last two days as we’ve beaten into the forecasted headwinds from the northeast. Having been on mother watch yesterday, I missed the transition from light to strong winds and the accompanying plethora of sail changes that every boat seems to have gone through. I was slightly apprehensive at midnight today, therefore, when I went up on deck for the first time since this depression struck.Helming in these conditions is fairly challenging, but consequently tremendously satisfying when you get it right. If helming in the light winds of 48 hours ago is akin to gently coaxing an elderly mare to trot slowly around the yard, helming in today’s conditions is like trying to tame a wild and skittish stallion. It rears up in fright at the oncoming waves, and bucks wildly when you attempt to rein it in, trying to throw you off your feet. A firm grasp is needed to yank it in the right direction when a wave threatens to sweep you off course, but head too close to the wind and the headsails shudder as if the stallion were tossing its mane in defiance. Now add to that the complication of it being a pitch black night, and you get a sense of the level of difficulty of helming our big red bus.The wet and windy conditions are too miserable to take in three- to four-hour long doses, so we’ve taken to rotating people above and below decks every 30-45 minutes or so. That at least gives us a breather before we head on deck for the next onslaught of waves.One of the things I dislike most about this upwind sailing is the piercing spray that assaults your face every time the boat slams off a wave. Ten knots might not be fantastically fast, but it sure is fast enough for the water droplets to form into miniature bullets. A few consecutive ones on the sensitive area around the eyes makes you feel like Mother Nature’s dartboard, with which she entertains herself. Bull’s eye if she gets you in the eyes. Even when helming, I unabashedly screw my eyes shut and duck whenever I see a cloud of spray headed straight for me. The boat’s not going anywhere in that one second, and I reckon it beats being blinded for a good five, ten seconds afterwards.Anyway, these conditions were forecasted to last five or six days. Barely two days in, and most of us are itching to see the other side already. The good news is, the wind is expected to free up a bit, so while it will still be windy, we’ll be doing more of a reach than close-hauled sailing. That ought to be faster, a tad drier, and more comfortable on the whole.

Wet. Cold. Bumpy. These three words essentially sum up the entire experience of the last two days as we’ve beaten into the forecasted headwinds from the northeast. Having been on mother watch yesterday, I missed the transition from light to strong winds and the accompanying plethora of sail changes that every boat seems to have gone through. I was slightly apprehensive at midnight today, therefore, when I went up on deck for the first time since this depression struck.

Helming in these conditions is fairly challenging, but consequently tremendously satisfying when you get it right. If helming in the light winds of 48 hours ago is akin to gently coaxing an elderly mare to trot slowly around the yard, helming in today’s conditions is like trying to tame a wild and skittish stallion. It rears up in fright at the oncoming waves, and bucks wildly when you attempt to rein it in, trying to throw you off your feet. A firm grasp is needed to yank it in the right direction when a wave threatens to sweep you off course, but head too close to the wind and the headsails shudder as if the stallion were tossing its mane in defiance. Now add to that the complication of it being a pitch black night, and you get a sense of the level of difficulty of helming our big red bus.

The wet and windy conditions are too miserable to take in three- to four-hour long doses, so we’ve taken to rotating people above and below decks every 30-45 minutes or so. That at least gives us a breather before we head on deck for the next onslaught of waves.

One of the things I dislike most about this upwind sailing is the piercing spray that assaults your face every time the boat slams off a wave. Ten knots might not be fantastically fast, but it sure is fast enough for the water droplets to form into miniature bullets. A few consecutive ones on the sensitive area around the eyes makes you feel like Mother Nature’s dartboard, with which she entertains herself. Bull’s eye if she gets you in the eyes. Even when helming, I unabashedly screw my eyes shut and duck whenever I see a cloud of spray headed straight for me. The boat’s not going anywhere in that one second, and I reckon it beats being blinded for a good five, ten seconds afterwards.

Anyway, these conditions were forecasted to last five or six days. Barely two days in, and most of us are itching to see the other side already. The good news is, the wind is expected to free up a bit, so while it will still be windy, we’ll be doing more of a reach than close-hauled sailing. That ought to be faster, a tad drier, and more comfortable on the whole.

Due to our reef 1 line snapping and our reef 2 line getting damaged in the last storm, we were getting slightly underpowered as the breeze eased off today, because the third reef was too deep but the full main was not yet an option. This cost us some miles, and was part of the reason New York overtook us at some point today, which was very frustrating. Once the sea state settled down a bit, therefore, it was all hands on deck to drop the mainsail, lower the boom and re-run the reefing lines.The easy part of the exercise was lopping off the damaged parts of the reefing lines and replacing the chafe protection. While whipping the Kevlar and spinnaker sheet braid that we use as additional cover onto the reefing pennants, I broke out into song, beginning with “Sew, a needle pulling thread”, and soon the rest of the crew joined in. Who would have thought that we’d be doing needlework and singing tunes from The Sound of Music in the middle of the mighty Pacific Ocean?The part that was fairly tricky was the actual re-running of the reefing lines, as the mound of sail on deck made it quite difficult to visualise which way the ropes had to be run, and whether they had to go round the boom in a clockwise or anti-clockwise direction. As is always the case, we got it wrong the first time round, and realised while hoisting the mainsail that we had reef 1 the wrong side of reef 3. Thankfully, it was easy enough to sort out without having to drop whatever we’d hoisted of the mainsail, and we didn’t let the sail flog for too long either.Once all that was sorted out, we changed our sail plan to the Yankee 2 and one reef, which was much better suited to the conditions that we had than the third reef, which really doesn’t leave a whole lot of canvas up. So, we’re back to racing proper, and here’s hoping we’ll regain our second place soon!

Due to our reef 1 line snapping and our reef 2 line getting damaged in the last storm, we were getting slightly underpowered as the breeze eased off today, because the third reef was too deep but the full main was not yet an option.

This cost us some miles, and was part of the reason New York overtook us at some point today, which was very frustrating. Once the sea state settled down a bit, therefore, it was all hands on deck to drop the mainsail, lower the boom and re-run the reefing lines.

The easy part of the exercise was lopping off the damaged parts of the reefing lines and replacing the chafe protection. While whipping the Kevlar and spinnaker sheet braid that we use as additional cover onto the reefing pennants, I broke out into song, beginning with “Sew, a needle pulling thread”, and soon the rest of the crew joined in. Who would have thought that we’d be doing needlework and singing tunes from The Sound of Music in the middle of the mighty Pacific Ocean?

The part that was fairly tricky was the actual re-running of the reefing lines, as the mound of sail on deck made it quite difficult to visualise which way the ropes had to be run, and whether they had to go round the boom in a clockwise or anti-clockwise direction. As is always the case, we got it wrong the first time round, and realised while hoisting the mainsail that we had reef 1 the wrong side of reef 3. Thankfully, it was easy enough to sort out without having to drop whatever we’d hoisted of the mainsail, and we didn’t let the sail flog for too long either.

Once all that was sorted out, we changed our sail plan to the Yankee 2 and one reef, which was much better suited to the conditions that we had than the third reef, which really doesn’t leave a whole lot of canvas up. So, we’re back to racing proper, and here’s hoping we’ll regain our second place soon!

The Pacific Ocean is many things, but from our experience of it so far, it is anything but pacific. Vast, raw, majestic, awesome - yes, but peaceful - not quite. Magellan got it wrong. How does one even begin to describe the stunning beauty of the Pacific Ocean? I’m no wordsmith, and my descriptions cannot possibly do it justice, but in a bid to share the wondrous seascape I have witnessed today, I feel I must try. Emerging on deck today, one of the first things that struck me was the sound of the wind. At 30 knots it is a mid-range roar that fades to a hum once you get used to it. At 40-50 knots the noise increases in both pitch and volume, and just by listening to the sound one can detect the change in wind speed even without the instruments. Looking around, there are 360 degrees of uninterrupted ocean. There is no real horizon where the sea meets the sky; rather, the division is a constantly shifting, breaking line of the tops of distant waves. When the boat is in a trough, all that can be seen is the crest of the nearest wave. When the boat is on a crest however, a magnificent view of the deep blue ocean for miles around is revealed. As far as the eye can see, the indigo canvas is speckled with white patches and streaks of surf, as random as the paint splatters on Jackson Pollock’s art. The slow, almost ponderous swell of the Pacific imparts a certain serenity to the scene that is seemingly incongruous to the ferocity of the wind. In the midst of the chaos of breaking waves, there is a certain order and rhythm as the mountainous masses of water undulate in the same general direction. The size of the waves is astounding, like nothing we have ever encountered before. Most are as high as two-storey buildings, and when the boat is right on top of one, it’s quite thrilling looking down the slope and anticipating surfing down at breakneck speeds. The thunderous whoosh of waves that break nearby is an indication of the energy contained in all that water, and often the wave passes under our boat completely undisturbed in its relentless trek across the ocean. It’s rather humbling realising just how small and insignificant we are - a mere speck on the surface of this vast, pulsating expanse of water. I find the waves mesmerising, and when not helming can get quite absorbed in watching them. Certain details fascinate me more than others. I particularly like the endless iteration of the wave pattern that is reminiscent of fractals. On the massive rollers there are smaller wavelets, on the wavelets tiny ripples, and on the ripples minute creases on the surface of the water. These fine lines run from the wind along the windward face of the wave, like mice scurrying away from a barn owl. And the motion of a wave as it builds up to a crescendo before breaking - there is almost a pregnant pause just before it lets loose a vast amount of white foamy water down its leeward face. Near the crests of the waves, the deep oceanic indigo gives way to a lighter cerulean, and when the sun is shining the entire spectrum of the rainbow can be glimpsed through the spray off the tops of the waves. I have to admit, standing on deck today taking in the sights and sounds of the Pacific Ocean, I felt more emotional than I did leaving home on the last race. It is such a privilege to be out here in the world’s largest body of water, experiencing the raw, untouched beauty of nature. Helming in the Pacific with frequent periods of more than fifty knots of wind, and enormous waves that allow you to surf on and on and on - nothing I have ever done can quite match up to this experience. Seven and a half months into this adventure, and already homeward bound, I have finally fallen in love with the ocean.

The Pacific Ocean is many things, but from our experience of it so far, it is anything but pacific. Vast, raw, majestic, awesome - yes, but peaceful - not quite. Magellan got it wrong. How does one even begin to describe the stunning beauty of the Pacific Ocean? I’m no wordsmith, and my descriptions cannot possibly do it justice, but in a bid to share the wondrous seascape I have witnessed today, I feel I must try.

Emerging on deck today, one of the first things that struck me was the sound of the wind. At 30 knots it is a mid-range roar that fades to a hum once you get used to it. At 40-50 knots the noise increases in both pitch and volume, and just by listening to the sound one can detect the change in wind speed even without the instruments.

Looking around, there are 360 degrees of uninterrupted ocean. There is no real horizon where the sea meets the sky; rather, the division is a constantly shifting, breaking line of the tops of distant waves. When the boat is in a trough, all that can be seen is the crest of the nearest wave. When the boat is on a crest however, a magnificent view of the deep blue ocean for miles around is revealed. As far as the eye can see, the indigo canvas is speckled with white patches and streaks of surf, as random as the paint splatters on Jackson Pollock’s art. The slow, almost ponderous swell of the Pacific imparts a certain serenity to the scene that is seemingly incongruous to the ferocity of the wind. In the midst of the chaos of breaking waves, there is a certain order and rhythm as the mountainous masses of water undulate in the same general direction.

The size of the waves is astounding, like nothing we have ever encountered before. Most are as high as two-storey buildings, and when the boat is right on top of one, it’s quite thrilling looking down the slope and anticipating surfing down at breakneck speeds. The thunderous whoosh of waves that break nearby is an indication of the energy contained in all that water, and often the wave passes under our boat completely undisturbed in its relentless trek across the ocean. It’s rather humbling realising just how small and insignificant we are - a mere speck on the surface of this vast, pulsating expanse of water.

I find the waves mesmerising, and when not helming can get quite absorbed in watching them. Certain details fascinate me more than others. I particularly like the endless iteration of the wave pattern that is reminiscent of fractals. On the massive rollers there are smaller wavelets, on the wavelets tiny ripples, and on the ripples minute creases on the surface of the water. These fine lines run from the wind along the windward face of the wave, like mice scurrying away from a barn owl. And the motion of a wave as it builds up to a crescendo before breaking - there is almost a pregnant pause just before it lets loose a vast amount of white foamy water down its leeward face. Near the crests of the waves, the deep oceanic indigo gives way to a lighter cerulean, and when the sun is shining the entire spectrum of the rainbow can be glimpsed through the spray off the tops of the waves.

I have to admit, standing on deck today taking in the sights and sounds of the Pacific Ocean, I felt more emotional than I did leaving home on the last race. It is such a privilege to be out here in the world’s largest body of water, experiencing the raw, untouched beauty of nature. Helming in the Pacific with frequent periods of more than fifty knots of wind, and enormous waves that allow you to surf on and on and on - nothing I have ever done can quite match up to this experience. Seven and a half months into this adventure, and already homeward bound, I have finally fallen in love with the ocean.

After the shock of Graeme going over the side early this morning, I was a tiny bit apprehensive at going up the foredeck to hank on the storm jib. It had to be done though, because we were slightly underpowered without a headsail up, so James and I jumped to it. Thankfully, the storm jib is a very small sail, and the two of us managed to wrestle control of it and hank it on while being bounced around on the foredeck and swamped by deluges of seawater. One of the things I’ve come to appreciate from working with older crew members is the benefit of being young - we get knocked around and bruised just like anyone else, but we recover and bounce back a lot quicker. On a side note, I just found out that James is about two months younger than me, so he’s the official Nipper on the boat. Ben assures me that I’m still the Nippette though, as Tim nicknamed me quite early on.With the low pressure system over us, we have been subjected to incessant rainfall, and it feels like it has been days since we last saw the sun. Everyone is sodden, and not only foulies, but also gloves, boots and thermals are soaked through. As a result the generator compartment has come back into use, after a couple of legs of being untouched. We fondly call it the “badger hole”, which is a fairly accurate term, because that’s what it smells like after everyone has been in there with their week-old wet socks and gloves. Regardless, it is fairly effective at drying out small items, as well as the odd jumper if one can find enough space for it.The wind over current situation brings back memories of the Taiwan Strait, except that it’s even windier this time round. Lying in my bunk, which is an upper bunk and happened to be on the high side, I actually felt concerned for my safety for one of the first times in the entire race.There have been some pretty hairy conditions on deck, but at least on deck one is conscious, and while not always in control of the situation, at least able to respond to the situation. Going to bed with my bunk jacked up as high as possible, I still felt insecure because the angle of heel was so great that I was just about horizontal, but every lurch of the boat threw me closer to the edge of my bunk. It was a long way down, and I had horrible visions of being thrown out of my bunk in my sleep and cracking ribs, or worse, my skull. I settled for sleeping with one arm in my cave locker so that I could clutch on to the locker every time the boat fell off a wave. Needless to say, it was a while before I managed to drift off to sleep.In summary, we are going through some trying conditions, both on deck and below decks. Ben has reminded us that this is the challenge we signed up for, however, and the fact that we are still in second place has made the hard work all worthwhile.

After the shock of Graeme going over the side early this morning, I was a tiny bit apprehensive at going up the foredeck to hank on the storm jib. It had to be done though, because we were slightly underpowered without a headsail up, so James and I jumped to it. Thankfully, the storm jib is a very small sail, and the two of us managed to wrestle control of it and hank it on while being bounced around on the foredeck and swamped by deluges of seawater.

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate from working with older crew members is the benefit of being young - we get knocked around and bruised just like anyone else, but we recover and bounce back a lot quicker. On a side note, I just found out that James is about two months younger than me, so he’s the official Nipper on the boat. Ben assures me that I’m still the Nippette though, as Tim nicknamed me quite early on.

With the low pressure system over us, we have been subjected to incessant rainfall, and it feels like it has been days since we last saw the sun. Everyone is sodden, and not only foulies, but also gloves, boots and thermals are soaked through. As a result the generator compartment has come back into use, after a couple of legs of being untouched. We fondly call it the “badger hole”, which is a fairly accurate term, because that’s what it smells like after everyone has been in there with their week-old wet socks and gloves. Regardless, it is fairly effective at drying out small items, as well as the odd jumper if one can find enough space for it.

The wind over current situation brings back memories of the Taiwan Strait, except that it’s even windier this time round. Lying in my bunk, which is an upper bunk and happened to be on the high side, I actually felt concerned for my safety for one of the first times in the entire race.

There have been some pretty hairy conditions on deck, but at least on deck one is conscious, and while not always in control of the situation, at least able to respond to the situation. Going to bed with my bunk jacked up as high as possible, I still felt insecure because the angle of heel was so great that I was just about horizontal, but every lurch of the boat threw me closer to the edge of my bunk. It was a long way down, and I had horrible visions of being thrown out of my bunk in my sleep and cracking ribs, or worse, my skull. I settled for sleeping with one arm in my cave locker so that I could clutch on to the locker every time the boat fell off a wave. Needless to say, it was a while before I managed to drift off to sleep.

In summary, we are going through some trying conditions, both on deck and below decks. Ben has reminded us that this is the challenge we signed up for, however, and the fact that we are still in second place has made the hard work all worthwhile.