Bad wind

The time for beaching and boozing was upon us already. After two weeks of seeing nothing but each other’s ugly mugs, the sky and the deep blue sea, the sudden apparition of a tropical island less than a mile away was a surreal and enticing prospect. We salivated at the thought of a cold beer and fresh fruit and tried hard not to orgasm at our impending refamiliarisation with that little marvel known as air conditioning. As the ship pulled in, we gawped at the sandy shore of Road Bay, our home for the next three days.

Within minutes of anchoring, the voyage’s first ever swim call was made. A swim call is, as it sounds, the all clear from the powers that be to jump ship and take a soak in the ocean. I excitedly await the first call to do this in the doldrums while underway and miles from anywhere at sea. The crew stripped down to their swim pants and abandoned ship as quickly as if gun toting pirates had started firing shots on board. As I savoured my first refreshing encounter with the water I had observed longingly for weeks, I suddenly thought back to the bay in Lunenburg. Any meeting with the waters there could only end promptly in hypothermia and death. We had come quite a distance. We climbed back aboard taking in our new surroundings and waved to local fisherman scrambling to get our attention as they motored out to sea. After loosing sail to allow it to dry in the lunchtime sun, our watch was given the first afternoon off to explore the island leaving another watch to stay behind and take care of the ship.

At a paltry thirty five square miles, Anguilla is so compact, it could quite easily be folded up and fitted into the boot of an average hatchback. Out of respect for its inhabitants, however, we decided to leave it where it was and explore on site. Having once been part of the British Empire way back in the day, it was originally wrapped up with Saint Kitts and Nevis to be granted independence. However, after getting a little sick and tired of being pushed around by its larger and more populated neighbours, the island staged a miniature counter revolution leading to a return to the UK as an overseas territory. After weeks of travelling, I couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that, technically speaking, I was already back in Britain. The island holds dear the fact that it remains relatively unscathed by tourism in comparison to most of its nearby peers. The reduction in flight numbers enforced by the government make it more of a haven for wealthy yachties than package holidaymakers. Most of the vendors in Sandy Ground were therefore pleased by the sudden arrival of the Picton Castle economic stimulus package in the form of fifty cash rich sailors ready to let their hair down with all the trimmings in port.

For its small size, Anguilla has more to offer than you might think. There are more beaches and beautiful stretches of serene coastline than you can wave a Caribbean rhythm stick at and enough booze, diversions and good times to fill a short visit to the brim. Ours was no exception. Our first afternoon on the island was spent constructively. Within five minutes of disembarking, we were at a beach bar with a beer in hand watching the locals sail around the bay. The beer tasted so good, I was forced to have several more. After an interlude for some dinner, I returned to the beach for more beer and after asking a couple of my fellow watchmates in the water whether they were skinny dipping, being met only with silhouettes of dangly bits, I felt it only fair to join in. After getting the last skiff back to the ship, I stumbled into my bunk and fell asleep – blissfully unaware owing to my drunken stupor of the obscene temperatures surrounding me, hot enough to roast a Christmas turkey.

The following day, we were on watch. This meant we would stay on board all day and participate in ship’s work before standing an anchor watch overnight. Thankfully, I was dangling off the ship’s headrig for most of the day and so was treated to a cool sea breeze in the otherwise stinking heat. Charged with the task of rustbusting for the first time, I was equipped with a mallet and proceeded to hammer the shit out of a metal panel that had corroded so heavily, no-one could ever have guessed what once lay underneath. To begin with, I applied myself to the task in hand admirably but I lost interest in direct proportion to the layers of skin I lost from my index and middle fingers that trickled off my hand from my strong grip on the mallet as readily as the sweat oozing along with it from my pores.

But we were rewarded for our efforts during the day with two swim calls to cool off and wipe away the sweat. We also dusted off the ship’s rope swing from the headrig and had a blast swinging into the ocean from a moderate height. One of my shipmates kicked things off by inadvertently belly flopping from the rope swing so loudly, the clapping noise of the impact echoed off the cliffs surrounding the island shortly before a communal wincing sound by everyone who witnessed it did the same. Saddened by missing my opportunity to have filmed the whole event and earned some cash by submitting it as a home video howler, I was also slightly perturbed by the scope for becoming a painfully loud human percussion instrument should my own rope swing attempt go just as horribly wrong. Luckily I held on long enough to jump acceptably into the water.

That night, unimpressed with the oven cum sauna we had to sleep in on the ship down below, I set up a bed on deck under the stars only to wake a few hours later under raindrops. Sleeping down below had become almost intolerable and although we were becoming more used to the heat of the Tropics, the stagnant unventilated air of the Bro Cave induced epic sweating fits amongst all occupants. Levels of discomfort increased while in port as the breeze while underway would at least give a modicum of respite to the soaring temperatures and humidity. I had no other choice in port but to sleep on deck.

The following day, we were able to return to the island leaving another watch to occupy themselves with the ship. Following a leisurely breakfast on the beach, we hired a car to broaden our horizons a little more. After purchasing some necessary provisions, we went to Shoal Bay where I tested out some snorkelling equipment I had purchased earlier that morning. Someone had told me that Shoal Bay regularly appeared in a certain travel publication’s top ten of the world’s most beautiful beaches. I could see why. The sand was so white, my embarrassingly pale torso felt camouflaged as I changed into my swimsuit, and the ocean so clean and transparent, anyone choosing to pee in it would surely be shadowed by an unmistakable and slightly awkward waist clinging golden cloud, much like the kid at your local pool with an overactive bladder. It was at this point, I looked around and realised that I was surrounded by couples. This beach was to honeymooners what horse crap is to bluebottles. All of a sudden, without having a pining spouse to ogle at my side, I felt exposed to the disapproving glances of those who did as I donned my outfit of fluorescent yellow snorkelling gear. As I tried vainly to put on my fins, the rubber snapped like a kinky whip and I spectacularly fell over in the sand as the forces involved in the tussle evened out. The newly wedded couples surrounding me in sun loungers took a moment from their pink cocktails and loving gawks and peered down their noses at the loveless idiot now stumbling into the ocean with a broken neon flipper dangling haphazardly from his foot.

What I’d failed to notice while purchasing my snorkelling gear was that it came in different sizes. In the heat of the moment, I grabbed the first set on the shelf in the store and now found myself trying to fit something to my foot that was four sizes too small. In the ensuing battle to attach the blasted things, I inadvertently split one open, but somehow managed to put on the other one without breaking it. Like a ring a few sizes too small that you knew you shouldn’t have tried to ram onto your middle finger, I wondered if this flipper would be attached to my foot for the rest of my life. I ventured deeper into the water with a sensation that my feet had been crushed into a couple of matchboxes. Just as I was in up to my shoulders, I noticed I had already lost my snorkel which had become detached from my mask. I returned to the beach to see where I had dropped it. Eventually, I found it in the sea. It didn’t float. Reattaching it to my mask, I soon realised I would have had more success keeping water out of my airway with a snorkel made from toilet tissue. Admitting defeat, and accepting the fact I had epicly wasted my money on a shoddy product that wasn’t even my size, I returned to the pub to find a more constructive use for what remained inside my wallet. Although my heart felt as crushed as my feet, solitude was found in several stiff rum punches safe in the knowledge I would have plenty of opportunities to snorkel again later on in the voyage. Little did I know at this point that my next chance would come so soon.

On our final day in Anguilla, I ventured into the capital, The Valley. With a population just shy of 2,000 people, it is the island’s metropolitan epicentre. Given the surprising absence of an underground railway or bus network we were forced to hitch hike to get around. Anguilla is probably the easiest place on earth to get a lift. Sticking my thumb out on the road, the first car pulled up and took us where we needed to go even agreeing to stop off and wait while we picked up a smoothie on the way. Now that’s what I call service. In town, we observed the island’s major architectural masterpiece – a post office, and treated ourselves to some local street food and ice cream.

Back on the beach, the Picton crew were working together to make a sail for an acquaintance of the Captain whom we would meet in Panama. The measurements and some initial sewing using a beast of a machine was made with everyone chipping in to hold the sail in place and run it through the device (literally five people either side running it along). A race against time was underway to have it ready in time for our departure a little later that day.

We picked up anchor and set sail again Thursday afternoon. We were well within the latitudes for easterly trade winds by now, but owing to an ongoing freak low pressure system hanging over Bermuda, said winds had actually gone into reverse and so were not conducive in getting us to Panama. We had no choice but to motor ahead with the sails unset in the coming days in the hope that a change in wind patterns back to normality would shortly be forthcoming.

That day, I noticed an increasing number of insect bites on my leg. The sweet sensation of scratching them to buggery came at a cost. Beastly puss and blood filled volcanoes rose on an otherwise unblemished canvas of white skin. Armageddon loomed on the horizon of my ankle. On previous excursions to the Tropics, I prided myself on my natural invisibility to the local blood sucking beasties. It seemed that they were now making up for lost time with a vengeance. I counted more than fifty bites on one leg alone. I had become an impromptu hub airport for the little bastards with every one of them leaving their mark on me as they stopped to refuel. I couldn’t help but admire the opportunism of one of them who had managed to bite me directly on the rear end. The only time my backside had been on show was during the previously mentioned skinny dipping session when I, as part of an agreement with several other shipmates, ran starkers onto the beach and back into the water baring all for a total of no more than five seconds. Within these five seconds, it seemed, one had swooped in and blood sucked my left buttock. At least now back at sea, I was safe.

After a couple of days, I managed to get back into the swing of standing night watches. Although I needn’t have bothered. The weather was still not cooperating. Since arriving in the Tropics, we had been blighted by squall after squall and the consistently wet and warm weather reminded me of an average summer back in London. More importantly, those faithful trade winds that would carry us to Panama were taking a long unscheduled holiday somewhere else. We would have to do the same until they came back. Having motored east a fair few miles, we found ourselves not too far away from a small island in the Netherlands Antilles called Bonaire. Here we would put in and, again, wait a while for the winds to change. The crew grinned from ear to ear at the second unscheduled stop we would put in at before our first official port of call. I was about to unexpectedly visit yet another island I’d never heard of hitherto. Sweet serendipity.

Before arriving on Bonaire, we stood a final night watch. An opportunity arose to go aloft in the dark. It was a beautifully still moonlit night and I felt the moment was right for me to make an attempt to reach the top yard – known as the royal. The royal is about 35m off the deck. It is the trickiest yard to reach and not only because it is the most elevated. The rigging used to climb the mast simply runs out before you reach the royal yard and you find yourself grabbing whatever you can grasp to haul yourself up onto the footropes.

Not realising an hour prior that I would be going aloft, I had plied myself with four or five strong coffees to wake my sorry ass up after a couple of hours’ slumber before midnight had left me with roughly a kilo of sleep crystallising inside my eyelids. Standing at the foot of the ratlines contemplating my first ascent to the highest point on the ship at the dead of night, my heart started to pound in my chest with a caffeinated vigour. In spite of my coffee induced anxiety, I reached the top without a hitch thanks to a little guidance from a shipmate, Meredith, on the intricacies of hauling oneself up to the royal yard. The footrope seemed to hang amply beneath the yard which took me by surprise after my previous unavoidable contortions on the topgallant yard on my ascent the week prior. Although I was shaking ever so slightly under a cocktail of adrenalin and caffeine, I marvelled at the breath taking view of the millpond still ocean under the moonlight. The silence and atmosphere was almost eerie and I felt so high up I could all but make out the curvature of the earth toward the horizon. This truly was a special place to be, and the most special of times to be there.

The following morning, land was once again visible off the port bow and before we knew it, a pilot ship was guiding us into Kralendijk harbour. Our watch would remain on ship that day and so we broke into ship’s work that afternoon as the other watches left to explore our latest stopover. I inherited the unenviable task of scraping the varnish off the ship’s pinrails as the mercury rose into the mid thirties. Humidity persisted in equal measure. After sweating it out all afternoon, the results of the hard work almost made it all worth it. That afternoon I also spent an hour aloft climbing the rigging and stowing every sail. After making it to the highest yards the previous night, and saying shortly afterwards I was in no hurry to head back up there again, I found myself high above the decks once more only hours later and ever so slightly loving the rush. Pulling a loose line mistaking it for a tight one and almost falling backwards off the yard did make my heart skip a good few beats and acted as a gentle reminder of my mortality. Care and heed would be duly paid.

The following morning, our watch was set loose onto the island. Bonaire is much larger than Anguilla, and the island is, technically speaking, an autonomous region of The Netherlands. The Dutch influence is unmistakable with a steady influx of new residents from Holland being able to relocate to the island seemingly without restriction. In spite of this, the population of the island remains remarkably low. Papiamentu is widely spoken amongst the island’s non Dutch descendent residents but English is actually the most universal language of all. In diving circles, Bonaire is renowned as one of the best scuba spots on the planet. Its entire coastal perimeter is awash with coral, tropical fish and plant life.

Our first activity that morning was to come face to face with Bonaire’s greatest natural assets. Although I had dived in confined water before, this would be my first dive in the ocean and there really was no better place for an orientation with the underwater world. Ecstatic to have an opportunity to put my camera and underwater housing to the test, I took a plethora of photos of everything I could see. The sensation of being underwater amongst the abundance of unique marine life was magnificent. Sadly an inability to equalise extensively enough prevented me from diving as deep as those who were with me, but the beauty of Bonaire is that this didn’t really matter. The diving site was accessible only metres from the beach and in shallow waters. Knowing the island was famous for parrot fish, I wanted to see at least one before I left only to encounter countless numbers of them amongst the hundreds of other fish. I would later learn that parrot fish are born male only to turn female later in life. A curious idiosyncrasy of nature indeed.

We left the dive site with a feeling of being on top of the world. Wondering how we could continue such an amazing day, we stumbled across a scooter rental shop. Initially I was a little hesitant about hiring a scooter for the day, but crumbling under peer pressure I decided to give it a go. As we all gingerly mounted our vehicles, Niko decided to be one of the first to ride off. Completely misjudging the critical acceleration required to pull away, Niko gave it far too much welly and made it three metres into the middle of the road before falling off the scooter in the way a four year old boy falls off his bike trying to ride it for the first time without stabilisers. The slapstick nature of the accelerator roaring, the scooter moving forward a few footsteps and Niko falling off almost immediately drew me into hysterics but a guilty sense of concern for his wellbeing curbed the laughter. Unknown to us at this point, Niko had sprained his ankle. Slightly embarrassed at the time, he guarded the pain and discomfort and somewhat ironically the scooter which caused his injury would also regrant him his mobility for the day.

Pulling away en masse, we left the capital and proceeded to explore the island on two wheels. Less than five minutes into the excursion, the straw hat I thought was reasonably well attached to my head blew off and dramatically flew back down the street whence I came requiring an emergency stop. Shortly afterwards my journey was once again ground to a screaming halt as a rogue donkey ran out in the road directly in front of me. Donkey and I came out of the encounter thankfully unscathed although both moderately shaken. In spite of these setbacks, I actually got into the swing of scooter riding more readily than I expected and another shipmate and I pulled ahead to give the engines a little testing. Mine got up to 60mph, before I swiftly applied the brakes realising my own mortal limitations and a growing fear that the whole thing would disintegrate beneath my fragile loins.

We eventually arrived at Bonaire’s national park famed for the fact that it is, somewhat bizarrely, full of flamingos. Sadly we had barely arrived at the park before one of our shipmate’s scooters broke down beyond repair. We would need to return to town to send out reinforcements. Stopping along the way to marvel at the intriguing pink flamingos skimming their beaks curiously across the water, we eventually made it back to Kralendijk to learn that another shipmate had raised the alarm and a rescue was underway. Within the hour, we were all back together in one piece ready to hit the bars.

Proof that days of the week become irrelevant on this ship was aplenty that evening. Being a Monday night, most people anticipated that the evening wouldn’t develop into anything too debaucherous. But at 3am, a group of around twenty of us were still going strong and after being kicked out of the bars at closing time, we decided to take a little night time swim before bed. As I edged ever closer to the water, I noticed a load of shipmates already in there naked. Egging us on to join them, I immediately dropped my kecks and dived in. Behind me remained some more cautious Picton revellers, but with a little coaxing all twenty or so of us were in the sea in our birthday suits in no time at all. Cackling and bobbing up and down, we engaged in a game of Marco Polo before a round or two of naked chicken fights. This, for me at least, was a first. After getting dressed, a few of us stayed up on the dock to chat and used some line to do communal skipping tricks until the sun poked its nose over the horizon reminding us of the need to recharge our batteries.

The following day we continued our exploration of the island by motoring in the opposite direction towards the island’s salt flats. A major source of industrial wealth for Bonaire, I was amazed at the scale of the operation given the island’s limited size. All of a sudden, the randomness of this whole place struck me. A small Caribbean island, encircled almost completely by some of the world’s finest dive sites, comprising a huge national park dedicated to flamingos, some equally large industrial salt flats and a population of Papiamentu speaking slave descendants amongst a burgeoning number of sun seeking migrants from Holland. You really couldn’t make this shit up.

After a slight detour, we eventually made it to a mangrove centre on the island where we signed up for a kayaking tour. The tour included exploring various tunnels cut out within the mangroves along with some snorkelling amongst the roots which are a haven for adolescent aquatic life seeking sanctuary from the dangers of the open ocean. The experience was amazing and I was happy to have finally been successful in both diving and snorkelling given my misfortune in Anguilla. The track leading to the mangrove centre was a couple of miles off the main road and was about as off road as it gets. Niko and Nadia, my shipmates accompanying me for the day, had rented themselves some all terrain quad bikes whereas I was still lumbered with my scooter. We had not reckoned on the need to go off road thinking the mangroves would be accessible from sealed tarmac streets. We were wrong. Niko and Nadia grinned broadly as they put pedal to the metal in the terrain their weapons of choice were designed for. I endeavoured my hardest not to crash the damned scooter I was lumbered with as it gyrated and vibrated over the mud tracks like a washing machine on a spin cycle. Thankfully, Niko was good enough to let me have full rip through the mud on his ATV for a mile or so. I could see why he was smiling so much as he rode it.

Before we knew it, we were once again heading back to sea. Leaving Bonaire, we sailed off the hook as locals both on land and in boats scrambled to wave and see us off. The feeling of pride and humility beneath the sails whilst leaving an eagerly watchful port really does raise the hairs on the back of your neck. For the first time, we had a steady wind blowing on our stern toward Panama. The easterly trades had finally returned.

Back on night watch early on Saturday, I took to the helm on what I thought would be an average night. The trade winds had picked up and were gusting to a force six with a reasonable 2-3m swell. The helm was a pain in the ass to control requiring several full turns continually each way to maintain our desired heading. Forty five minutes into my hour long session, a large gust of wind blew the ship off course to the left very quickly. In a moment of madness to respond promptly to being driven to one side, I accidentally turned the wheel to the left to compensate. I should have turned it to the right. All of a sudden the ship veered off very quickly to the left to the tune of about 30 degrees in a matter of seconds. Realising my mistake with a helping hand from the mate, I attempted to turn the wheel back to the right to bring her back on course, but in typical style, the helm jammed and refused to turn for a good few seconds allowing the ship to veer even further from our intended heading. Suddenly as the vessel turned into the wind, she started rocking and pitching frantically, throwing crap on the deck all over the show. The sails started to flap around as the wind missed hitting them directly under the unintentional new course I had set. For a couple of minutes, chaos ensued as the ship appeared to be whipped up into its own miniature storm. Suddenly as we brought her back on course, the madness ceased and all returned to normal. I breathed a short sigh of relief for what I thought was a minor averted mishap that took place at the dead of night while all were sleeping.

Sadly all down below was not well. In practically every sleeping quarter, something heavy was left unlashed and had fallen quite noisily in the folly. This woke almost everyone up. Even the Captain strayed from his compartment to deck asking what the hell was going on. Waking up in the midst of this unexpected storm, many shipmates were freaked out. In the Bro Cave, a full crate of sewing materials crashed onto the sea chests below. In the main sleeping cabin, home to eighteen people, a heavy wooden bench fell with a great crack onto its side rudely awakening all hands sleeping in the entire compartment. And in the forward quarters, a female shipmate was shaken out of her slumber by a projectile diary whacking her square in the face.

As I lay in my bunk the following morning drifting in and out of consciousness, I overheard confused conversations over the event the night before each time from different people. Any hopes for this little misfortune to quietly pass unnoticed were well and truly dashed. I decided to peel myself from my bunk and face the music. Apologising to those affected (i.e. everyone), I provided the premise that I had personally decided to change course towards Colombia and merely wanted to wake everyone up to let them know. Most people giggled at my bad stroke of luck although many remained uninformed that I was the culprit. The Picton grapevine was not quite as efficient as I had given it credit for. Others gave an acknowledging smirk without me even opening my mouth. Many had also fallen off course as much as I had before. They had just not done so into strong winds hitting the ship at the stern. I chuckled with my watch mate and was reassured in that she felt I remained one of the strongest helmsmen on the watch, but frustratingly this little calamity of conspiring circumstances would leave an unfortunate, but nonetheless amusing, black mark against my helming reputation amongst everyone on board. How frustrating to monumentally fuck up something you normally excel at, and for everyone around you to recognise the former in the absence of the latter. But sometimes it’s better to look dumber than you really are, I figured, and beyond philosophical rationalisation, I couldn’t help but acknowledge that the whole thing really was rather funny.

The following day was our final one at sea before we were to once again reach land. It was also the day of the hotly awaited Caribbean Seamanship Derby. The event, to take place at 3pm, would pit the three watches against each other and test their new maritime and tall ship sailing skills refined over the course of the previous month at sea. In the days prior, the watches had been working on these skills, memorising terminology and perfecting sail handling knowledge unsure exactly what the tournament had in store.

That afternoon, all hands mustered amidships for the competition suitably attired. My watch (12-4) took on a black clad warrior outfit, 4-8 came along as stoned hippies and 8-12 decided to compete in sarongs. The presentation of the watches ensued with a short skit by each on the hatch. Our watch kicked things off with a dedicated warrior’s chant accrediting ourselves and mocking the opposition. Then, the 4-8 watch prepared their own version of the “Because I got high” song. The parody was hilarious and even had a verse dedicated to me and my steering: “My shit’s all over the place and I know why. Yeah yeah. Because Jimmy got high, because Jimmy got high, because Jimmy got high”. Finally, the 8-12 watch prepared a more theatrical but no less entertaining piece on cleaning the ship along the lines of bored and desperate housewives. Bribes, including cakes and alcohol, were offered to and were readily accepted by the judges. It was evident the competition was very tongue in cheek and off to a great start. I was excited.

After all the formalities of the opening ceremony, we got down to business. The first event was a test of both terminology and dexterity. Names of mostly obscure parts of the ship were called out by the judges and a representative from each watch had to make their way promptly to said part of the vessel and touch it. The first team member to get there won that round for the watch. Confusion and madness proceeded as even the most experienced of crew stumbled to remember where certain specialist items resided on board. Many people, including myself, also slipped over en route.

The tournament events that followed included a test to see how quickly and neatly each watch could coil ropes and tie knots. Having spent many night watches learning more intricate and complex hitches and bends, I actually struggled a little more with the simple ones set in the competition through not having practiced them. But we pulled through in the end and our watch performed valiantly overall. The subsequent test was for the entire watch to box a compass. This effectively means that each member of the watch must take it in turns to recite the thirty two points of the maritime compass. This is trickier than it seems, and overall performances by everyone on board highlighted the fact that, basically, we all sucked.

The next event was indeed the topic of the moment. Steering. Each of the three watches had to choose their best helmsman to spend five minutes steering the ship. Within these five minutes, the helmsman had to maintain course as best as possible, losing points if they fell off course more than five degrees and suspending the task completely if they fell off by more than ten degrees. The pressure of doing this was compounded by the fact that everybody on the ship, a total of fifty people, were gathering round the helmsman and compass and watching them in anticipation.

8-12 watch were the first to put their expert helmsman, Dan, forward. Dan kept it steady, and managed to remain within the five degree limit for a full minute and a half before straying. Dan proceeded to pull her back on course, however, and stayed within the ten degree limit to last the full five minutes. A great start to the round and the bar was definitely set. Next up was 4-8 watch’s finest envoy, Julie. Julie remained as cool as a cucumber throughout her attempt and stayed within the five degree limitation for the duration after judges concluded that a minor deviation just after the third minute mark was permissible. The bar had been raised by a true champ.

Finally it was 12-4’s turn. The mate of our watch made the decision to put me forward to steer as I normally was a strong helmsman. It was also my opportunity to redeem myself. Seeing Jimmy stepping up to the helm to steer, all the crew laughed heartily and clapped and cheered as I coyly put my hands in the air grinning bashfully and inadvertently working the crowd. The steering reject was in the mix. As the unmistakable underdog, I sensed I had the support of most people surrounding me, even those in opposing watches. I was, after all, the hapless helmsman that had awoken the entire ship in the middle of the night ejecting them and their personal belongings all over the show only 36 hours earlier.

Stopping to ask everyone whether they were safely strapped in to something, I stepped up to the wheel. Deep down, I was really feeling quite nervous. Would I royally fuck up my big moment even more monumentally this time round under the watchful eyes of all the crew, and send hoards of people flying into the ocean in the process? At least by eliminating the competition, I could win the event by default, I thought. Even my fellow shipmates on my own watch didn’t know what to expect, many still thinking I was a complete fuck up on the helm.

Following an order from the Captain, I grasped the wheel from Julie repeating the heading and took what seemed like an eternity to get the damned thing back on course before the attempt could even begin. We were off to a shaky start. The tension built even more. The wheel started to veer left quicker than I’d have liked, but with everyone waiting I called time to start the clock. Confidence was waning.

Within seconds of the clock starting, I felt the helm veering left and right jerkily and I immediately struggled to keep it within the limits required. A few massive swells sent the ship rocking. Suddenly I realised in my rush to stay focussed, I had misread the compass. I actually had twice the leeway of error as I initially thought. I breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn’t going to be so hard after all. As time ticked on, I held her steady, sometimes veering close to the edges, but bringing her back in comfortably every time. I couldn’t help but grin with excitement and towards the end, was already performing my own little victory dance before a warning from the Captain to tone down the commotion to avoid penalty points was heeded.

I made the full five minutes comfortably within the limitation gaining extra points for style and winning the event. As I jumped for joy in what seemed like the ending to a really cheesy movie, almost the entire ship congratulated me. The underdog had come through in style. I truly went from being a helming zero to a helming hero in five minutes flat. Phew. The oddity of the situation then struck me. After spending an entire day embarrassingly appeasing the rest of the ship for my horrific steering having terrorised and awoken everybody including the Captain, an opportunity then presents itself the next day for total redemption as I win a contest in front of all on board for best helmsman. Hilarious.

That night would potentially be our last night sea watch before Panama and the anticipated splitting and rotation of the watch groups. A couple of shipmates decided to mark the sad occasion by bringing up a set of glow sticks for some late night entertainment. Reassured that the liquid inside was non-toxic and would simply disappear as it faded, a few were split open and spread over our entire bodies leaving us with a Dalmatian like speckled glow. In the application process, more of the fluorescent spunk had actually ended up spattered over the ship leaving it with a mottled glow as if a fantastically amorous neon elephant had jumped aboard and mated with the installations. We quickly wiped away the remnants of the luminescent discharge from the ship in spite of their alluring incandescence. Dancing around on the quarter deck, we wished farewell to our final night watch in style under the stars. Tomorrow we would experience a new continent in Panama, and along with it, an incredible passage across the world’s most spectacular ship canal.

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