Ostar 2009,

Day 13

Ostar 2009, the Singlehanded Trans Atlantic race from Plymouth to Newport Rhode Island, USA.

With 2000 miles completed and 1000 to go, beating around the Tail of the Grand Banks off Newfoundland to avoid the icebergs, staying in deep water with a contrary Gulf Stream, fog, and wind on the nose, in 42.30 North, 50.00 west, sea temperature had risen from 8 to 14 degrees.

I had spent a windy night skulking down below with Nigel Kennedy, the north -west wind at the Tail of the Banks was very chilly and confused seas were breaking into the cockpit. Beating in these conditions was bad enough but the lack of progress, fog, and the nagging fear of ice bergs combined to reduce the morale of the crew to the lowest point of the race. Over the next three days I was to drop from 5th to 8th as reckless sailors took the risky short cut through the deadly ice area to my north with free winds.

Just before dawn the wind eased and waking from a deep sleep I crawled from my cosy pit to cast an unenthusiastic eye outside just in time to witness the lights of a biggish ship pass across the stern about a mile safe. ‘Not even a near miss’ my fuddled brain deduced, happy that the fog had gone. The wind had certainly dropped, we were almost wallowing in the left-over seas under three reefs in the main and a corner of the jib unrolled, my memory is of a big shiny sea with a strange greenish tinge under a clear sky. I was almost obliged to get dressed and go on deck as I followed the lights of the ship fast disappearing eastward. Then I saw it, a light astern on the horizon that could only be another racing yacht in this God forsaken place. My heart jumped and the brain started into race mode, adrenalin was ordered for immediate delivery as I hauled on the Mustos and boots and deck-vest. Action stations, all hands on deck.

Shaking out the reefs on QII is fairly straight forward business if a bit slow on account of the double purchase main halyard and the aged skipper’s puny biceps. In the dark you have to make sure the tails of the reef lines are all free to run and the lazy backstay is taken forward to the lee side shrouds to clear the big roach of the sail.
I clipped on to shuffle forward to the mast, the head torch reflecting on the wet decks as we rolled.  Taking the weight of the long boom on the topping lift I released  the third and second reef jammers and the kicker.

The tack of the main sail was released on snap shackles in the blink of an eye and I knelt beside the winch on the cabin top and started to the haul the big sail up at full speed. Blowing hard I paused and glimpsed astern at the pursuing yacht, the light was above the horizon and definitely gaining fast. Renewed efforts at the winch, heart pumping, arms aching with the big boom swinging dangerously near my bowed head. I tensioned the luff with the first reef in place and stumbled back into the cockpit to sheet on and get her going. With the jib unrolled we were at least moving and steady but not racing. I slumped in the watch seat, breathing hard and gazing aft to ponder this unwanted attack. The yacht’s light was well above the horizon and I could see a very poor cut off on the red sector, a function I deduced, of a cheap LED bulb in the tricolour lamp. Who could it be? No time to waste, we needed more sail fast. Topping lift on, main sheet off, kicker off, reef line off, back to the mast to grunt up the full main. The old arms were shot of course and it was not the slickest hoist,  it is  a good job you were not there to witness this pathetic scene.

In the only functioning corner of the brain I concluded that it must be Barry, a good friend from Dublin and a top sailor, chasing me down with relentless enthusiasm in his JOD 35 ‘Dinah’.  I trimmed on the main and collapsed again in the watch seat, shattered, gasping and sweating in full thermals, specs misted over with the exertion, to review progress. The mast head light was higher still, not surprising as we were barely up to speed. I could visualise Barry standing on the windward side deck, spinnaker sheet in one hand, ciggy in the other, trimming continually as the autopilot steered at eight knots.

I could almost see Barry grinning through his red beard in the glow of his instruments as I rehearsed the inevitable ribbing on the VHF radio that could not be far off. Should we have a wager on the result from here? A sort of informal restart? With almost one thousand miles to go it was still a serious race. I was certainly too knackered to set the spinnaker before daylight and I was resigned to being passed by Barry as his light now dead astern grew steadily closer.

Feeble gestures at trimming in the ugly sea were all I could offer in defence and I preferred not to watch the onslaught, a beaten man. I was having to look up to see the mast head light as he drew very close on the windward quarter, soon I would be able to see his spinnaker as the false dawn  lightened the horizon to the north east. In fact I could already see the horizon but I could not see the spinnaker, nor the mast, nor the shadow of the hull. There was nothing visible between his mast head light and the sea but I could definitely make out the full arc of the horizon beneath.  A ghost ship? Shallow fog? Who was it?

 I had raced the goddess of love, and lost.

“By the first week of June the planet Venus has become a morning star, rising a few minutes after twilight.”

Jerry Freeman