On the line

Any voyage which entails a traverse of the equator contains a modicum of excitement no matter which hemisphere you might call home. Crossing the line by ship often celebrates this achievement with a ritual of initiation. On the Picton Castle, long infamous for its pomp and ceremony on prior such occasions, rumours were already running rife about the punishments equator virgins, known as Pollywogs, would soon be served by the more hardened crossers of the line, known as Shellbacks.

As we persevered closer and closer to the boundary, tension and suspense continued to mount. With less than a degree remaining and the ship cruising steadily south towards our date with Neptune, our course was adjusted westward and instead of a direct interception, we painstakingly remained in suspended animation kissing along the closest latitudes parallel to the equator without actually crossing it. The new evasive course persisted for days and it was anyone’s guess when we would finally travel the remaining miles to confront our fate. The Shellbacks evidently were keen to avoid making our experience in any way predictable.

Eventually on an average sunny Wednesday afternoon, the slightly southerly tangent into which our route had gradually meandered became abruptly steeper bringing us to the convergence of the Tropics and with but a minute of latitude remaining, or a mere mile to the equator, we peered over the port side to see if we could make out the much famed green dotted line circling the globe. Sure enough she sparkled in radiant glory as we admired her glistening in and out of the swell. Beyond these bounds lay the true depths of the South Pacific.

No sooner had we spotted the line than a bell resounded on the fo’c’s’le head as the lookout reported the arrival of a spiritual entity from the deep now boarding the ship. None other than Davey Jones presided before us dragging his mangled and rotten corpse aft and amidships where he was greeted warmly by the Captain. All hands mustered to hear his tale before a terrible admission was made by the Shellbacks. An unfathomable stench emanating from certain quarters on board was actually that of an abominable number of remorseless Pollywogs entering Neptune’s hallowed kingdom in a contemptuous attempt to cross the line without his blessing. It was soon clear that King Neptune himself would arrive shortly to deal with them.

Without further ado, the Pollywogs, thirty or so in number including myself, were rounded up and locked below decks in the dark pending the arrival of judgment from the deep. Remorseless for our sins, our Pollywog brethren proceeded to raid the ample stashes we had diligently prepared earlier in contemplation of such incarceration, including rum, snacks and the loudest battery operated speakers we had in our power and possession. Our music pumped out unremittingly and dancing and jumping rocked the ship as abusive taunts from the Shellbacks through the vents and portholes above were met with unperturbed screams of excitement and delight from the Pollywogs below.

As Neptune and his cronies prepared his court above decks, the shenanigans and partying of the condemned continued vivaciously down below and by the time the first were called to hear their sentence, many of us were well on our way to a superior level of inebriation from which we could look down upon proceedings. The first to be called up were three of the professional sailing crew who themselves were yet to cross the line by ship. Their fate was dealt away from the prying eyes of the other Pollywogs. Shortly after, all remaining Pollywog hands were spitefully dragged above decks to the open air courtroom of the deep.

The workings of Neptune’s court are, in theory, enshrouded with a measure of secrecy so I dispense tales from this event without undue reserve. It has to be noted, however, that prior proceedings of Neptune’s court have been televised and indeed this voyage’s events were recorded as they unfolded by Ollie, our on board documentary maker. It would appear that in this modern age, Neptune is as media savvy and publicity loving as the rest of us. Reality television, while a blight of modern society, would certainly raise his standing amongst unassuming landlubbers the world over.

One by one or in small groups of no more than three, the Pollywogs were called up to Neptune to hear sentence. Only after serving this sentence could Neptune, who looked strangely similar to the Captain dressed in a sarong, then decide whether to welcome them into the brotherhood of the Shellback. Neptune was joined by Aphrodite, who dazzled the crowd with her radiant blond hair and hairy sailor’s beard. She was wearing perhaps the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. Neptune was indeed a very lucky mythical being. Neptune’s servants were dressed in a variety of costumes, including a nurse and a pastor. Many mingled actively in the crowd and force fed delicious treats to the Pollywogs in waiting, including garlic jelly, chocolate and marmite soufflé surprise and some kind of putrid blue mashed potato. Foolish diners wretched over the side of the ship as the sumptuous and lovingly prepared canapés were shovelled down their throats generously by the court’s attendants.

Shipmates were called to account for crimes noted and committed on board since departure. A temporary hair salon was established next to the court at which a reasonable number of Pollywogs would be served an appointment. This hair salon offered one style only, known as the “I’ve just been attacked by a lawn mower” cut, which ladies and gents alike would receive efficiently and skilfully from Neptune’s in house coiffeur. Indeed, one of the professional crew removed from the pack before we headed above decks could now be seen sans cheveux sporting the highly sought after look behind the court in newbie Shellback attire.

Some of the more interesting crimes and sentences brought to justice by the court included a shipmate found guilty of adding too much cinnamon during coffee making for which the punishment comprised several litres of cold coffee slops and grinds being poured directly over her head. Another shipmate held to account for canoodling in the sunset with a certain female accomplice was sentenced to dance and make out with a large inflatable dolphin toy for all to enjoy. And two male shipmates, accused of being “too sexy”, were condemned to dress up as girlfriend and boyfriend and have a racy date together before the whole ship.

My own heinous crime had been largely unknown to me until that day. I had thought that perhaps I would be held to account for my prior steering mishap or indeed any other number of minor oversights in my hitherto day to day endeavours. Instead my crime related to the intricacies of the time I spent in the head (otherwise known as the toilet to those back on land). Kicking back after a long day’s watch on the crapper with a copy of the Economist, which someone had kindly donated as in poop reading, was a pleasure I held dear, and with there being four heads on board, I didn’t think it too presumptuous to permit myself the simple luxury. However my dumping downtime had not gone unnoticed by shipmates too lazy to go to another head. Instead they would wait frustratedly in the wings for extended periods of time as I finished doing my business enveloped in an article on some random developing nation’s GDP outlook.

Although I admit I may spend a little more time in the bog than the average guy dropping the kids off at the pool, I am otherwise courteous in my lavatory dealings including ensuring I execute a courtesy flush within seconds of impact to minimise foul aromas as well as a good scrub and if necessary a squirt of bleach to guarantee that the toilet is without residue before I leave. Leaving a floater in the toilet bowl akin to a Mars bar in a teacup would be something I wouldn’t dream of doing, although I could count the number of times on more than one hand I had encountered one before courtesy of the previous discerning toilet user.

Alas such mitigating factors weren’t going to save me from my fate. My sentence had been predetermined and a toilet smeared with peanut butter was brought out on deck and paraded before me. I looked around and wondered whose ass might have been sitting on it last as I came to terms with the notion that I would shortly be licking and swallowing the butter spread over its porcelain. Thankfully, my nightmarish thoughts were not to be realised. I kept my mouth shut just in case. The head was the ship’s spare and so remained unchristened and hence glisteningly white and clean. This news was confirmed by Neptune who started picking off and eating the peanut butter with his fingers. After attempting to steal away a snack for myself from the toilet rim, my wrists were slapped by Neptune and my insolence loudly bemoaned.

Instead, my sentence would be to sit on the toilet and act out a typical crapping scenario. Still too sober to make the simulation as accurate as possible by pulling my kecks down completely, I sat fully clothed on the toilet, smearing peanut butter into my shorts. A copy of Cosmo was handed to me to make my public toiletry experience as realistic as possible. I did my best to mimic wiping up while tactfully reading my magazine and once all was done to the satisfaction of the court, sentence was deemed served and I could proceed to the next step in Neptune’s retribution.

After serving sentence, each Pollywog was finally baptised in a bath of food slops mixed with water. Thankfully and in contrast to expectations, the slops appeared to be maggot free. For some, ironically, this would probably be a bath that would actually leave them cleaner than they were before. Once cleansed, the Pollywogs could then proceed to be officially welcomed as a Shellback with a title by Neptune. Once done, the Pollywog immediately became a Shellback and could commence forthwith in condemning and taunting those remaining to face sentence.

After proceedings had come to a close and Neptune and his henchmen had returned to the deep, the astronomical mess we had made was promptly cleared up and the ship restored to its normal clockwork self. We then reflected on the day’s events with the Captain on the quarterdeck. Although the day was perhaps a little silly and slightly over the top, it was still a tremendous amount of fun. And not without meaning. The Captain had received his equator initiation on another vessel some years prior and in turn his predecessor and so forth going back many many years. The baton had in fact been passed through the ages and we were continuing and passing on a tradition continued for centuries. We were the next generation of Shellbacks and indeed one day perhaps it would be our turn to pass on the tirade of love and abuse. The ship, after all, would be returning to the equator with a new host of Pollywogs on its trip back to Canada.

The following day we reached the world renowned Galapagos Islands putting in at the harbour in the island group’s capital, Puerto Baquerizo Moreno on San Cristobal. Although it contains the official capital of the Galapagos, San Cristobal is not quite as touristy as the neighbouring island of Santa Cruz but nonetheless has a population of 13,000 out of roughly 28,000 living on the entire island chain. The inspiration behind Darwin’s theory of natural selection and evolution along his monumental five year voyage around the world on Beagle, I was excited to be setting foot on the islands, and to be arriving on a similar mode of transport to which he did all those years ago. The fact that the revelations of these islands helped to unlock the very secret to life today on earth was for me a very powerful notion.

Our first evening on the island was spent in the capital familiarising ourselves with its activities and sights, and participating in that most hallowed of in port sailing activities, drinking. With two thirds of the ship invited to a meal al fresco on the seafront, local Ecuadorian live music was laid on to welcome us and whole swathes of crew took to the streets to dance (very badly) in their own strange form of Latino style. Having missed the last skiff back to the ship, a relatively large group of us wandered aimlessly around town and decided to put our heads down for the night in what looked like an overblown bandstand close to the jetty. No sooner had we got comfortable than we were helpfully advised that we could not stay there by an obliging local who swam out and nicked a water taxi to take us back to the ship.

One of the more remarkable things about San Cristobal is the sheer presence and number of sea lions roaming the streets and beaches all over the island. Although they are not so keen on visitors touching them, or for that matter slapping their curved, flabby backsides as indeed can be a delicious temptation sometimes, the sealions are stupidly tame and sleep in packs on pavements and jetties, climbing into virtually any boat anchored in the harbour for a siesta in the sun. When you approach them, they simply do not bother themselves with moving and require a gentle nudge to get them going, after which a grumpy retort is usually sounded before they waddle away slowly. Unless you really piss off one of the larger males, or threaten the young of a mother in some way, they are generally harmless and indeed often only too friendly.

The following night on anchor watch, one of the beasts had taken it upon himself to attempt to board the skiff which was moored alongside the Picton to do runs into the island. The previous night, a sealion had made a successful attempt to clamber into the skiff and it was only after a rope was thrown at it by a watch mate too sheepish to confront it head on, that it jumped back in the sea and swam away. Wishing to avoid a similar confrontation, I felt it better to nip the problem in the bud before it developed into an ugly wrestling match between the sealion and me and so jumping up and down frantically waving my arms in the air like a demented morning television aerobics instructor (but quietly enough to avoid waking the entire ship) I eventually managed to scare the intruder off.

Something of a pest to anchored marine vessels, I couldn’t help but think that, purely as a deterrent, sealions would make great ammunition for a catapult. Attaching strops around the intruding animal before it went on the rampage aboard, a catapult could be rigged up between the two masts of the ship with a giant elastic band being tightened around the capstan steadily until its final release would come with a swing of one of the ship’s fire axes, sending the wailing beast into the air with a resonating sonic boom until it was but a speck on the horizon. A spot of topspin could garnish an aesthetically pleasing forward rotary motion of the projectile creature around the central pivot of its body before it left the earth’s atmosphere entirely on a collision course with the sun. Alas slingshooting the entire Galapagos population of sealions to the other side of the solar system for trespassing on the ship’s boats would likely contravene one or two of the islands’ conservation laws, so gentle coercion of the creatures back into the water would be our only option at least for now.

The following day, a shipmate and I took it upon ourselves to tour the island. With only a few easily accessible sights, San Cristobal would be easy to become acquainted with, but with each of its attractions being pretty unique, many would need a little more than just a passing glance on a tour. Using stunted Spanish, I managed to get a taxi driver to take us on a tour. Speaking foreign languages, I found, it was generally better to not outdo yourself. Coming across stupider than one really is is a talent not completely foreign to me, and so I was able to pull it off admirably with my finest thick English accent and total disregard for pronunciation and grammar. When you don’t know a language, doing your best to ask a set phrase in a perfect accent will only be followed by a long tirade of incomprehensible speech by a counterpart mistaken in their thinking that your language skills are far beyond what they really are, whereas playing it dumb would lead to life being a lot simpler and less stressful by keeping the details and pointless attempts at conversation to a bare minimum. Having said that, I did somehow get the feeling I managed to convey, perhaps through the power of dance, how long we had been in the Galapagos and which ship we had sailed in on. Although in reality, the taxi driver was probably just smiling and nodding as his ears were unceremoniously attacked by a monologue of unintelligible babble.

The terrain on the island was delightfully varied, with sandy beaches surrounded by seemingly desolate plains beyond which lay lush swathes of jungle. The hillier landscapes were more often than not enveloped in mist while the rest of the island basked in warm sunshine. This melange of traits was truly unique. Our first stop was at the crater of a volcano which had long vegetated over and become a lagoon. The lagoon was paraded by scores of frigate birds circling the air above while the views down to the ocean and cliff islands below were breath taking.

We continued our tour with a visit to the island’s giant tortoise sanctuary. Having survived and evolved for millennia without new entrants to the island’s ecological systems, given the geographic isolation of the Galapagos, the giant tortoises now face new threats in the form of externally introduced wildlife both wilfully and accidentally through human activity since the islands’ discovery by the Spanish in the 16th century. It is as if the tortoise, buoyed by its success in the great race against the hare, had started to become complacent about its own evolution. In reality, slow and steady more often than not does not win the race. Until now the tortoise has been lucky to survive the adversity, but with the age of conservation comes new hope that the protection and nurturing these animals need to go on will prevail. The creatures are intriguing and indeed rather big. They move as robotically as they do gradually. On display was a crèche and juvenile enclosure where the young could be observed.

The tour concluded with a final stop at Porto Chino. A small beach to the south west of the island, we wandered through a plantation of cacti to reach its sandy shores where a pelican fished from rocks against which Pacific waves crashed vigorously and continuously. Having the beach to ourselves in the sun, we couldn’t help but kick back for a while leaving the taxi driver to stew waiting in the car park.

The following day in Galapagos didn’t quite exactly start as I might have hoped. A day of scuba diving we had planned off the coast of an islet beside San Cristobal had to be cancelled as I awoke with the cold of the century. You should never dive if you have a cold and your airways are congested. Then, as the heavens opened and rain came down, I wandered into a bar to catch the England v Germany match to be sorely disappointed by a result I know you are all only too familiar with. Part of me wasn’t overly sad England were knocked out as it would have royally sucked to miss out on the (very, very, very outside) chance of England taking the cup as I would be at sea for the final, but an ass whooping of such epic proportions against Germany in the World Cup second round was just plain nasty to behold.

Thankfully things looked up by lunchtime. A group of us returned to Porto Chino beach with surf equipment we had rented out to try our hand at riding the waves. Having only surfed once before in Australia using a professional board upon which I spent maybe a fraction of a second all up, things could only look up for me second time round. Although I hardly came close to standing up, I managed to catch a few waves head on before being thrown off the board within seconds and pinned underneath the crashing waves for an admittedly surprising amount of time. This was masochistic fun at its best, and I think I’ll be surfing a lot more before I part company with the ship. By the time I reach Sydney, I will certainly be in a position to go professional.

Back on anchor watch on board the ship, the following day wasn’t completely uneventful. Ascending to the top yard to stow sail was a great start to the day. That afternoon, someone had involuntarily knocked the stove’s extractor fan off in the galley. The fumes from the diesel powered oven were not being drawn out as should be the case, and as the galley door was subsequently opened, thick smoke billowed out. Although not quite a fire, the situation worsened quite quickly. With a single watch on board the ship, the full complement of crew operating all fire positions was simply not available. Thankfully, the predicament was promptly brought under control by the ship’s engineer, but the experience was a lesson that fires do happen and contingency arrangements needed to be considered for an event in port with a greatly reduced crew. Going forward, we would have to think on our feet to have all critical positions covered. More broadly in the ship’s history, fires have taken place from time to time, and remain a major threat to any ship at sea. Even while asleep, one must always be prepared to be awoken and to move extremely quickly to deal with an emergency. Indeed fires had been fought on board by crew in their underwear after having arisen from their slumber without any time to get dressed. This is why it’s probably for the best that one doesn’t sleep in the nude. Those around you would sooner not have any dangly distractions in the event of an emergency.

As news spread that we would be spending a full six days in the Galapagos, I planned out my final couple of days to ensure I wouldn’t miss out on anything. The first morning was spent horse riding in the hills of the island. This culminated in a breathtaking lookout to sea. The horses themselves couldn’t really be described as thoroughbreds. They were about three quarters the size of a normal horse (a little bit like the locals), seemingly rabid at first and their coat reminded me of a sofa way past its sell by date from which the threads had all but worn away on the corners and edges. The stirrups felt like they had jagged rusty nails on the inside around which I had to contort my feet to avoid puncturing the skin and for the most part my horse had a mind of its own which only converged with mine intermittently. The experience was still pretty special. I galloped for the first time which felt exhilarating although I remained a little disconcerted that I would be duly acquainted at any moment with the gravel in the ditch running alongside us. I later learnt that the sound of my laughing encouraged the horse to move more quickly, so every time it took off, my nervous sniggering only incited it to continue accelerating. The return journey wasn’t without discomfort, chafing around the thighs left me bow legged for a good few hours and a need to go to the toilet was magnified a hundred fold by the horse’s indefatigable desire to canter and bounce me around in the saddle as much as it possibly could. I couldn’t hold it entirely at fault though. If I were a horse, I’d likely do the same thing.

That afternoon we visited perhaps my favourite place on the trip so far, a little beach, known as “La Loberia”. A famed snorkelling spot where sea turtles, tropical fish and sealions could be observed and admired in abundance, we brought along some equipment and were not disappointed. Spotting a marine iguana basking on the path toward the beach, we continued and recognised a blue footed boobie (a type of bird as opposed to a mutant human appendage) diving into the ocean. On the beach swathes of sea lions lay sleeping and grunting. As we stripped down to our swim shorts, we noticed everyone else snorkelling in wetsuits. The water was freezing at first, but we persevered and were rewarded for our efforts. At one point, three sea turtles swam alongside, apparently unperturbed by me, not even flinching when a massive wave washed me into their path. Certain people were even hitching a ride off them – an activity I hasten to add is deeply frowned upon by the island’s authorities. Prior to this, three playful sea lions surrounded me as they swam in circles only inches before my face. Some video footage of them I captured is below for your delectation. It was a pretty special experience to be up close and personal with such tame, friendly and playful wildlife.

Before long it was time to leave Galapagos and continue on our voyage across the Pacific. The following passage, spanning almost 3,000 nautical miles, would be the longest in which I would participate, and could take anything up to five weeks to complete depending on conditions. Our destination would be the most unique on the entire trip. One of the most isolated islands on the planet, the world’s least populated jurisdiction founded in the aftermath of a famed mutiny over 200 years ago, Pitcairn was the place on everyone’s lips. Little did we know, however, that within five days of the Galapagos disappearing over the horizon, we would be right back where we started, only this time in the midst of an emergency.


Created with flickr slideshow from softsea.

Panamania

The lush, rugged coast of Panama etched a mounting presence onto our horizon like a scalpel perforating the ocean and mist. A sight almost for sore eyes, we were now beside our first official port of call and the convergence of two great continents. With a coastline long enough to occupy my full field of vision, Panama would be my last encounter with any kind of mainland until my parting of company with the ship in November. As we drew nearer the canal zone, rain began to fall heavily like daggers and enshrouded us in an almost opaque fog of falling water. The vast scale of the canal transit operation was instead muffled into a grave yard like assemblage of ships in their hundreds all anchored in waiting and each appearing to us individually like ghostly silhouettes in the rain nearby and vanishing as we passed only moments later. As we arrived at our anchorage in the small ships holding area near the town of Colon, the cloak of mist lifted and enabled us to take in the industrial magnitude and folly that was the Panama Ship Canal.

Colon, as the name most helpfully implies, is the asshole of Panama. This is not purely because it finds itself at the end of a rather intricate system of canals and passage ways spewing out water born floaters all hours of the day. Gracing its shores and streets is not wholly unlikely to involve a relatively sudden encounter with a switchblade and an immediate and unanticipated tap on one’s personal resources. One would be well advised to avoid walking around this charming city at night and even alone during the day. Safe in the knowledge of our lack of safety, it was concluded that we would not go ashore to the city while awaiting transit of the canal, although the sanctuary of a cold beer at a yacht club across the bay from the city was eventually granted.

Meanwhile, we would engage ourselves in preparations for canal transit. Contrary to somewhat simplistic expectations, it really wasn’t the case that we would purely rock up at the entrance, take a number and wait our turn to go through. For starters, any fixtures or objects lying outboard of the ship would need to be brought inboard so that nothing extended beyond the hull. This would ensure that debris and damage would be minimised in the unlikely event of a skirmish with the sides of the canal but would also prevent any obstruction to lines being attached to the ship. Given furthermore that we would be inspected by the authorities and watched live on webcam passing through the canal by friends and loved ones, quick fire touching up and buffing of the ships installations would also be required – known endearingly as “monkey shining” given the lack of proper stripping, rust busting and surface preparation prior to these touch ups.

All hands worked solidly together for two days as we waited for our delayed transit date. It turned out that these were a little more flexible than I initially considered, and not only from our side. The ship’s boats were hauled inboard onto the hatch and galley house respectively and duly lashed down to ensure they didn’t go walkabouts in the swell. All other outward reaching fixtures were loosened, turned, dragged and hauled into the ship. A squadron armed with enough white paint to blandly decorate the living rooms of an average street was simultaneously set upon the ship’s hull to quickly and systematically cover up all rusty patches, much like one might sweep all the dust under a rug when sidled without the time to remove it properly. I won’t crap on too much about how hot and humid the days were. All I will say is that all day, every day we sweated more water out of our little fingers than I once thought possible out of one’s entire body. Anti-perspirant, while futile in preventing sweat, did at least eradicate the ensuing odours and I have been regularly tempted to wander through the ship with a can removing said odours from shipmates on a monkey shining mission of my very own.

Alas BO, sweat and no showers are all part of the woodwork. It is, after all, what they did in the olden days. And to be fair, monkey shiningesque personal hygiene is something I have adapted to reasonably well thus far on the voyage. My own, quite literally, dirty little secret is that I went for three weeks without a shower on the passage from Lunenburg. I would often wear the same pair of underpants several days at a time. I know. You probably didn’t need to know that. I guess you might want to put that sandwich down for a second. I would often shower twice a day back in London but water on the ship is sparse and frequent showering is very much frowned upon and in any case pointless. Keeping clean is like standing outside trying to keep the ground dry during a rain storm armed with nothing more than a scrap of kitchen towel. The ground really ain’t gonna stay dry for long. Stepping out the shower, I already found myself dowsed in a thick layer of sweat, and dirt and grime from ship’s work would be sure to cover me from head to toe once again only moments later on my next watch. At sea, I found, the best policy was to wash as need be, and deodorise. Armed with my trusty anti perspirant and a bottle of Febreeze, I would be sure to remain beautifully smelling and at least superficially clean. These days, salt water power showers using the fire hose on deck ensure that everyone gets a wash without waiting too long. So I’m not in any hurry to wait quite as long as three weeks again now we are in warmer climes.

No sooner were we prepared to leave than it was our turn to continue our voyage to the Pacific across Panama’s famed internal waterway. To this day the canal remains, only a few years off its one hundredth birthday, a marvel of engineering of which the Panamanians are staunchly proud. However, design and construction of the canal was orchestrated by American hands and continued to be operated by them until 1999. In the ten years since operations were transferred to the locals, Panama has done a great job in maintaining and running the canal and plans are well underway for its extension and expansion to roughly twice current capacity within the next five years.

Buoyed by their success with the Suez Canal, a doomed attempt by the French to dig a single sea level trench through Panama in the 1880s was later surpassed by the Americans who, achieving success, opened today’s bustling waterway two years early in 1914. Rather than continuing to invest vast amounts of time and money in digging a single level canal as the French had done, the Americans instead championed the idea of using locks supplied by a large system of artificial lakes. The lakes were created using dams and are roughly 30m above sea level. Three locks at the entrance of the canal are used to raise transiting vessels to the interior raised lake. The vessels then continue across the lake and reach a canal before the descending locks at the other side. The American endeavour was, however, not without its controversies. Over 5,000 men died during construction of the engineering feat, and after a done deal for the land in Panama was revoked by the Colombian government, direct military intervention by the USA led to the creation of a Panamanian breakaway state and with it the availability of the land the Americans needed so badly to construct their prized new seaway. This inevitably caused some friction with their counterparts in Bogota which was only remedied with the passing of a substantially large cheque some years later.

On the day of the transit, all hands awoke and mustered before first light. Although I was excited about the upcoming crossing, I hadn’t yet realised just how interesting and stimulating the forthcoming day would be. The Panama Ship Canal is unique in that control of the vessel is ceded from the Captain to a pilot throughout the passage and handlers also board the ship to attach thick supporting lines to the sides of the vessel at both the fore and aft. These lines in turn are attached to four trains running alongside the ship as it enters the canal and locks. These trains do not pull the ship along the canal, but instead provide lateral support to prevent a craft veering or listing beyond its required path. The engines on all transiting vessels run as normal and the ship is driven forward and steered through the canal by its crew.

At 5am, the ship was boarded by the pilot and line handling crew and as the sun poked its nose over the horizon we sailed towards the first lock with another larger cargo ship ahead of us. This larger vessel would keep us company throughout the trip. The whole operation ran like clockwork and I suddenly felt as if we were entering some kind of gargantuan log flume. I couldn’t help but smile as I tried to imagine the world’s largest water slide just around the corner down which tankers would fly with a tidal wave splash into the Pacific Ocean.

The handlers attached the metallic lines to the bits at the fore and aft of the ship which were duly tightened onto our accompanying trains. The completion of every key step in the process was marked by the ding dong of a bell. Immediately after, the next phase would begin. The trains ticked alongside as we steadily edged ever closer into the first lock. The enormous watertight doors closed smartly behind us and within seconds the water gushed into the lock raising the two ships steadily in minutes. Two more locks followed speedily but without haste. As all this went on, line handlers and canal workers gawped at the Picton, seemingly a tall ship diamond in the usual mundane rough of cargo vessels. Cameras flashed and snapped and the uniqueness of the transit was only intensified for us by the fact that we were also special to those who worked there.

During the trip through the three locks to the artificial lake, most crew were restricted to standing by amidships and away from the thick lines, the tension of which visibly constricted the metal bits to which they were attached on board. The line handlers couldn’t stress enough the dangers of being too close to these lines in the unlikely event that they or the bit were to rupture. Two years prior, a Panamanian had lost both his legs in one fell swoop as a line snapped and sliced straight through him like a hot knife through butter. And only two weeks before our transit date, another line handler lost three fingers on one hand in a similar ill-fated event. I took a long stare at my own limbs, and loving each and every one of them in equal measure, I stepped back to the safe zone and allowed only those mad enough to stand next to the pulsating lines.

Shortly after breakfast, we had made it through the last of the three locks and suddenly we were motoring across a lush freshwater lake within thick jungle. The presence of large industrial sailing vessels against this rainforest backdrop was an intriguing contrast. As we picked up speed and headed through the system of lakes, a power shower was announced. This was the first and only fresh water power shower we would have on the entire voyage, given this would be our only passage outside of the ocean and so all on board rushed to savour a shower that would not leave the token sodium chloride residue. The line handlers from the first locks were picked up and left us with the pilot to make our way to the other side and the locks down to the Pacific.

Enjoying the sunshine, we ate a spot of lunch and motored through the jungle waving to people as we passed. Before long, the second set of line handlers were boarding the ship and we were entering the first descending lock. Once more like clockwork the lines were attached to the trains which ticked alongside us. The lock gates closed and with a ding of a bell the lock steadily emptied out lowering us down a tier. Two more locks and barely eight hours since we had started our day, we had cleared the 48 mile passage and sailing beneath the Bridge of the Americas, we took in our first view of the high rise dominated skyline of Panama City. Beyond, lay the boundless swells of the Pacific, our home for the next six months. The Captain walked through the ship to individually welcome the crew to the world’s vastest ocean. The moment for me marked the end of the opening chapter of our voyage. The Atlantic and Caribbean were now behind us, and ahead lay a new South Pacific world for us to discover.

After waiting imposingly at a marina to the west of Panama City for a broken down fishing boat to clear off and free up our berth, the Picton eventually put in on Isla Flamenco, an island joined to the Panamanian mainland by a paved causeway. Looking at some of the yachts pulled in, I could tell we were on the wealthier side of town. That evening, 12-4 had the watch, and so we stayed aboard tending to the ship while the other watches took to painting Panama City red, quite valiantly given they had been awake since 3.30am that morning. Taking the deck for my hour of night dock watch between 1 and 2am, I accumulated enough gossip keeping a watchful eye on drunken amorous shipmates stumbling back on deck to sell my story to the tabloids and buy a yacht of my very own. Something, quite evidently, was in the Panamanian air.

Panama City is larger and more developed than I had given it credit for. Its skyline throngs with newly built skyscrapers filled with condos for North America and Europe’s cash rich elderly. With its amiable tax laws, tropical climate, respectable cost of living and faint smell of urine, it’s no real surprise that Panama’s capital now aspires to become the world’s largest retirement home. Beneath the glimmering tower blocks, however, poverty and grime is evident amongst the local populace on the streets. As I took a taxi into the city, a driver informed us that the areas we were passing were no go zones even to many locals. Some blocks had had free electricity for months as even local utility firms refused to visit certain quarters to check meters.

As we all needed provisions for the upcoming weeks at sea, our first priority, sadly, was shopping. Expecting a quaint Panamanian market or small parade of local stores, our taxi driver instead excitedly took us to the city’s Albrook Mall. This was quite possibly the largest shopping mall I had ever come across and the thought of spending the afternoon in there hunting down what I needed through endless retail shite made me sick up ever so slightly in my own mouth. I couldn’t help but feel that shopping malls summed up just about everything that was wrong in the world. In my lifetime, I feared, the world would become nothing more than one big retail park starved of diversity and culture and we would all do nothing but get morbidly obese and spend our days waddling around these malls buying overpriced shit on credit that we didn’t need. Panama had certainly caught onto the Western disease.

Lasting roughly an hour in the mall, all I had managed to do was wander around aimlessly finding everything but what I wanted. Evidently feeling light headed from the need to have something to show for the previous wasted hour, I proceeded to spunk way too much cash up the wall unnecessarily on a somewhat mediocre Panama hat. Feeling like a well and truly shafted tourist, I soon realised that someone had to pay for the mammoth air conditioning bill this place must rack up. Somewhat paradoxically, salvation from the globalised madness was taken in a McDonalds lunch comprising two burgers. Even I have my weakness. Morbid obesity and a life sentence of mind numbing meanderings through shopping malls may be my fate after all.

Heading back into the city, I decided to treat myself to a serious dose of modern conveniences. Such luxuries were sparse at sea, and although I was trying to avoid extravagant splurges, it had been almost two months without any kind of personal space and so a night to myself at a hotel didn’t seem totally contemptible. It really wasn’t. Sitting in my underpants with the air con roaring while stuffing my face with chips in front of some trashy movie on the one-eyed god, I wouldn’t have been completely misplaced in thinking that the tedium of the shopping mall had finally finished me off and I now found myself gorging out in heaven. I took two showers one after another simply because I could. All plans to go out that night were postponed as I joyfully got back in touch with the small things in life wearing little else than a self-satisfied smile.

Sadly my Spanish skills are, at best, limited and of what I do know, my useful vocabulary is dwarfed by the number of foul words and rude phrases taught to me by Spanish acquaintances I have accumulated over the years. Encounters with the locals therefore usually involved a nonchalant shrug after my asking if they spoke English before I engaged in a bizarre game of charades where, almost never, my counterpart came close to understanding what I was trying to communicate. That morning at the hotel, the maid at breakfast spoke Spanish to me painstakingly slowly and pronouncedly as if I were something between a petulant toddler refusing to be civil and an imbecile with severe learning difficulties. Somewhat memorably, I hobbled together what ended up being a reply in perfect Spanish (if only to spite her) before smiling smugly as she went off to fetch me my coffee with milk and sugar. Although I didn’t really learn much more Spanish during my time in Panama, I became a lot more apt at using the six words that I do know.

In the days that followed, I came to know Panama City quite well. The old town, known as Casco Viejo, is a World Heritage site and has all the allure and old world Hispanic charm you might expect in Old Havana. It truly is a stunning part of town. The ruins of the first settlement in Panama City were also paid a visit. The city was originally built east of the old town and after it was destroyed during pillaging in the 16th century, reconstruction amounting to today’s old town simply took place a few miles down the road. The remnants of the original settlement remain to this day as they were within the city limits of the modern metropolis and make for a great leisurely afternoon stroll.

Also within the city limits is Parque Metropolitana, a tended section of rainforest open to the public with a selection of trails to follow. At times, you do feel somewhat like being in the jungle – similar to the way that by standing on one leg, putting your fingers in your ears, closing one eye and squinting, you might feel as if you had escaped to the English countryside on a wander through Hyde Park in London. A variety of frogs, reptiles and insects were on show as was a host of tropical plant life. As we excitedly headed toward the park’s self-labelled “lagoon” wondering what exotic creatures of the deep may lie in waiting for us, we were a little disappointed to realise that the overegged pond we came across wouldn’t have looked too out of place in the back yard of my old house in South London. Particularly given the number of beer bottles surrounding it ornamentally.

But my encounters with the local wildlife weren’t to end there. Little did I know, but I would actually soon suffer the wrath of an angered and notorious Central American beast. Two days later, in a great example of the curse of being in the wrong place at the wrong time (for both myself and said beast), I inadvertently squashed a wasp into the side of my head while attempting to scratch an itch during lunch. The sting wasn’t nearly as painful as I anticipated but nonetheless joins a growing line of insect incidents I have racked up in the course of my life including the time a wasp lay in waiting underneath my bedsheets to sting me on my inside thigh as I tenderly settled down for the night, and the time I squished a bumblebee into my buttock by sitting on it.

Not wanting to disappoint you, I did spend some of my time in Panama enjoying the local ale. I am a sailor after all. The World Cup kicked off shortly after my arrival there, and a few days after watching an excruciatingly annoying England-USA draw, I found myself in the company of a whole swathe of Brazilians in a local bar for their winning match against North Korea (of all countries). Not quite Panamanian, but I definitely felt like I was in Latin America. Although I couldn’t understand the commentators, the animation and excitement within their voice at every minor and major event in the match was pure entertainment in its own right.

On the Saturday night before I was due back on the ship for dock watch the following morning, I decided to go out for a few quiet drinks and dinner. After a shipmate from another watch who was off the following day asked if he could swap his shift with me, I agreed and under the pretext that I would now be off the following day, I proceeded to raise the drinking stakes just a little tiny bit. We ended up staggering onto a purpose built random strip of bars and clubs around midnight which formed a curious complex of drinking establishments in an apparently residential area outside the city centre. I would never have guessed in a million years that it existed. After having mingled, drunk and danced with locals and visitors mostly from Latin America, I stumbled back to the ship around 4am and slept where I fell on deck.

The following morning (i.e. two hours later) at 6am, I awoke with the hangover of the century. Initially relieved at the fact I was now off watch and could go back to sleep, my swap partner was also laying in bed with equally severe alcohol induced poisoning and now rescinded his generous offer via his refusal to peel himself from his bunk to muster with the other 12-4ers at 8 o’clock. Unknown to me at this point, the possibility to swap had not received official sanctioning, and so pursuing the whole thing was futile. I had no choice but to retake my place. Inside I felt horrific, my grip on reality teetering over a knife edge, and parts of the ensuing day proved to be about as much fun as being in a car accident. By lunchtime, the burden of existence had started to become almost tolerable and I was relieved to have been granted the menial task all afternoon of scraping, sanding and varnishing the inside door face of the forward head (toilet). The booze had long perspired out of my pores by then, no doubt leaving me with the faint aroma of an alcoholic tramp. The hallowed five o’clock hour was frustratingly nowhere to be seen all day no matter how frequently I checked my watch. And when it eventually got there, the nagging cries of the eternal hangover had ceased in the final twist of a crude punishment inflicted upon me by nature and circumstance. My only solitude was the newly varnished door which gleaned before me with a shine founded on blood, sweat and tears. Every day as I sat down to do my business, I could admire my work, remembering that just like enduring the meaningless babble of a brainless bimbo or the tortuous slicing of a plastic surgeon, sometimes, with pain comes beauty.

In accordance with hitherto growing hearsay and gossip, on the day of our departure from Panama, the watch groups were reshuffled. All of the 4-8 watch were split between the other two watches, all but two from the 8-12 watch were reassigned and all but one from my watch, the 12-4, were moved away. The one remaining opening member of the 12-4 watch carried forward into the next session was, of course, me. It was like being in a parallel dimension staying on the same watch, doing exactly the same things, but with a completely different set of shipmates for company. Although I was pleased to stay on 12-4 given my love of the night watch, I couldn’t help but feel a little saddened that all my old watchmates were moving on to other watches to try something different and learn something new. 12-4 is notorious for having less sail handling as, owing to the idiosyncrasies of wind and light, major sail handling normally takes place outside of these hours. After hearing certain professional crew members moan about having to mould ex 12-4ers into decent sail handlers, part of me was concerned that I would be the lone 12-4 dud when it came to the fast paced setting of sails in the future as all those around me gained the benefit of experience while I was kept behind. But I am not overly worried. I still have plenty of time before I leave in November to stand other watches as we will be reshuffling about once a month from now on.

The saying goes that ports rot ships and men and it’s not far from the truth. Back at sea, I scrambled to revise what I had learnt as if some kind of vacuum cleaner had sucked the knowledge straight out of my mind. Repetition would bring it back. I went over lines and sail scenarios until I felt informed once again. “Fake” sail setting in my head would be an activity I engaged myself in almost constantly to compensate for my lacking experience on watch.

As we left Panama, the new swell of the Pacific etched its presence into our days. Its swell felt different to that of the other waters we had crossed. These waves had travelled uninterrupted for thousands of miles. Land disappeared from the horizon and the next major milestone of the trip started to occupy the minds of those on board. We were roughly five hundred miles north of the equator. Crossing this imaginary line by ship for the first time is an initiation of thrills and punishment for many a sailor. Those who have done it before, known as Shellbacks, inflict their wrath and force repentance on those who have not yet crossed, known as Pollywogs. We were entering the realm of the Kingdom of Neptune. Our fate was not yet known, but maggot filled food slops were already being accumulated and many of us, including the girls, would be offered the chance to shave our heads or accept a fate much worse. Our sentence would be cast in the Court of Neptune, on or about the line, by Neptune himself and only through serving this sentence could we be sure of entry into the hallowed fraternity of the Shellback.

As the week passed, increasing taunts from the Shellbacks (accounting for less than a third of the ship’s crew) were tossed at the Pollywogs including disconcerting messages written on the ship’s mirrors and daily reminders of our foul Pollywog stench. The Shellbacks adorned themselves with surgical face masks out of their increasing concern at the hygiene of Pollywogs. Neptune, liking to keep up to date with the latest technologies, corresponded initially by email with the Picton Castle to convey heartfelt greetings to the Shellbacks and unfettered repulsion at the Pollywogs. A few days later, a mysterious sand filled bag made of canvas became hooked on one of the fishing lines. The curious package was finally opened to reveal a message from the deep. The text read:

“Be ye warned. His holiness, King Neptune is detecting an abhorrent number of wretched, unworthy, vile, disgusting Pollywogs approaching his Kingdom without the slightest morsel of respect or repentance. Beware ye Pollywogs for Judgement Day soon cometh. Repent your lubberly sins at once.”

It was official. Our date with Neptune (and his maggoty food slops) awaited.


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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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Atlantic

The North Atlantic is a cantankerous old bastard. Its predisposition to defy most meteorological norms earns it the respect of many a seafarer and its behaviour is a contrast to the gentler conditions we will become used to during our time in the Tropics. Our voyage began with a traverse of its shores from Nova Scotia to the Caribbean and although our initiation into the ways of the open ocean was by no means thwart with life threatening dangers, this vast stretch of water certainly had a few tricks up its sleeve to put our hitherto flourishing sailor’s nerve to the test.

Our final days in Lunenburg were spent readying the ship for departure and getting those last minute must have items that would serve us well during the impending weeks away from civilisation. The weekly lottery draw for the ship’s galley duties led to yours truly, along with a couple of other shipmates, Georgie and Alex, being rostered for the Sunday before our scheduled departure. Usually, galley duties involve helping out the cook with the preparation of food as well as cleaning up after each meal. However, Sunday is the cook’s one day off each week. This means that those unlucky enough to be on galley duty on Sundays have the mammoth task of cooking all meals for the entire ship on their own.

Not one of us on duty could cook for one person, let alone fifty one. To remedy our feeling of helplessness, we devised a strategy for the day and got up early on Sunday morning to implement it. Breakfast started with a quiet confidence and a glimmer of hope on the horizon, but it was clear after a short period of time that we were way out of our depth. Georgie burnt the porridge and in the ensuing excitement managed to burn her hand by grabbing hold of the hot pan at the base. Shortly after, I contributed to the great breakfast fuck up by slopping eggs all over the floor. The unfortunate chain of events continued when an extremely hung over Alex, in a moment of madness, woke the entire ship up half an hour early, omitting to give the correct time as she did so. As we giggled at our own pathetic demise before the day had even begun, another shipmate, Leonard, recognising our muffled calls of distress, came to the rescue and saved breakfast. Thankfully, lunch and dinner followed a little more smoothly. Alex’s mum prepared lunch and the frozen pizzas we were given to reheat for dinner proved not too far beyond our own abilities.

The following day was our official day of departure from Lunenburg. Finally, the moment had arrived. We were going to sea. Passing tourists, residents of Lunenburg, local dignitaries and friends and loved ones of the crew gathered on the dockside to bid us farewell. Many tears were shed and in the surrounding hubbub I felt a little more emotional than I imagined I might. It was our big day. The dock lines were cast off and we motored away from the harbour shortly after 9am waving goodbye to wellwishers, land and civilisation for the next twenty days.

Sadly, about three miles into a voyage of thirty thousand, our great maritime adventure was cut short. The ship’s two radar systems were both curiously not responding in spite of having been fully functional the night prior. We had no choice but to turn back. Many of Lunenburg’s residents were somewhat confused to see the ship once again anchored in the harbour barely an hour after saying goodbye for what they thought would be fourteen months. The radars were eventually repaired that day but due to the fact we had been cleared out of the country by Canadian customs, we were unable to return to dry land.

We finally left Lunenburg successfully on the second attempt the following morning. In contrast to our first departure, we would execute the second by sailing off the hook. This meant we would turn the ship around and manoeuvre her out of the harbour under sail only. Such an exercise had never been conducted with a completely fresh crew before on the Picton, and although many of us felt as at ease applying ourselves to the task in hand as we would applying grandpa’s haemorrhoid cream, as orders were spouted out to ease, haul and tend lines, in the end, we pulled it off. The ship sailed majestically out to sea and the call for all hands on deck was withdrawn at midday in time for the 12-4 watch to take to the helm. The honour of standing the fifth world voyage’s first ever sea watch was in our hands.

Standing watches is at the heart of the ship’s 24 hour routine but at odds with any schedule I have hitherto encountered. The nature of the 12-4 watch (to which I belong) is a four hour afternoon watch during which ship’s work such as painting and rustbusting takes place and a 12-4 night watch where crew stand by on deck for commands to manage the sails. There are two other watches stood by the other two thirds of the ship’s crew, namely the 4-8 and the 8-12. At all times, a member of crew must take the helm and another must keep a lookout for other vessels and potential hazards. Between 12-4 day and night, a member of our own watch is assigned to each of these two tasks for one hour at a time on a rotational basis.

Getting acquainted with standing night watches was a pretty awesome experience. Stepping out on deck with the ship minimally lit was like stepping into a different world. We would learn that artificial light would be kept to a minimum in order that our night vision be optimised to move around the ship without our eyes continually having to readjust. Although foreign at first, I felt at ease with the ship in the dark in no time at all. The stars were brighter and more profound than I had ever known before and the sweeping silhouette of the square sails against this starry backdrop almost made it worth me dragging myself out of my bunk into the bitterly cold temperatures each night. I started to learn the ship’s lines by touch for we would shortly be setting sails without the benefit of sight. Indeed, the dark would also mean no exception to performing certain tasks aloft. I am very much looking forward to unfurling sail up in the starlight, but one step at a time for now.

On our second night watch, the ship had temporarily stopped pending more amiable winds to progress on our set course. Bobbing up and down in a gentle and almost silent Atlantic swell, a pod of dolphins surrounded the ship from varying distances. Their calls to each other echoed and radiated through the air as if they were calling to and teasing us back on deck. As I looked overboard, blue fluorescent sea creatures lit up brightly as they washed up against the ship’s bow. It felt almost ridiculous to be in the midst of this strange new world.

The phosphorescence in the ship’s wake while she is underway is almost hypnotic. On one night watch a wave of water washed a bright blue glowing jellyfish onto the deck. As a shipmate darted over to remove the hazard by kicking it back overboard, the entire creature exploded on impact and sent a magnificent bright azure ripple across the deck like the defiant dying salute of a hell bent kamikaze. There may be many wonders of nature, but exploding fluorescent blue jellyfish are surely up there with Siberian tigers and Rwandan mountain gorillas. I often find myself lurking near the scuppers on deck in the middle of the night in the hope that I too may sample the immeasurable pleasure of bursting the next luminescent blighter to wash aboard. Cruel, perhaps, but I figure anyone who has been stung by one of these little bastards would be by my side doing it with me in spirit.

Somewhat averse to anything I might previously have conceived, I recently noticed that, in some respects, sailing can be a lot like sex. Doing it rough, while disconcerting at first, had the potential to be a lot of fun. You just had to explore your boundaries, be at ease with it and, perhaps most importantly, hold on like hell for leather and enjoy the ride.

Our first night of rough sailing took me somewhat by surprise. Although a prior warning that we were heading for a storm was dispensed to the crew the day earlier, subsequent gossip and hearsay led to a common belief that the storm had passed in front of us and we were out of harm’s way. In reality, this insider info proved to be about as reliable as a British railway line with a snowflake on it.

I received my usual wake-up for the 12-4am night watch later that evening at 11.30pm by a shipmate on the previous watch. “It’s cold, it’s wet and it’s rough out there” he boomed at me as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and savoured the dying moments in the warmth of my bunk. “Put your foulies on. You’ll need them.” Expecting another fiendishly cold night, I put on four layers of clothing with my waterproofs on top. I stumbled up to the deck as the ship listed jerkily from side to side with intermittent explosions from waves crashing against the starboard bow.

It turned out that we hadn’t missed the storm after all. The next 24 hours would be spent enduring its wrath of Force 8 gusts and six to seven metre waves. On a brighter note, however, the bitterly cold sea temperatures I had begrudgingly become accustomed to had dissipated in spite of the wind and rain now being lashed upon us by the storm. Shortly after 11.30pm, the ship had passed into the Gulf Stream. A vast oceanic conveyor of warmth and nutrients from the Caribbean which Western Europe has to thank for its mild climate, our embracing of its boundaries led to an increase in water temperature from a chilly 11c to a positively balmy 23c in a matter of minutes. Any concern at the brewing storm and accompanying choppiness out in the abyss was tempered by elation at the sudden warm temperatures outside. We started to boil under all the layers we had just donned.

As the night elapsed, so the wind and surge from the storm intensified. The first seasickness casualty in our watch heaved his dinner up over the port side of the ship not long into the session. Another shipmate was not looking too good. We stumbled across the ship and waded through the waters that washed over her lower decks as if we were on some crude cocktail of tranquilisers and alcohol. Although I would be lying if I said my stomach didn’t occasionally put my own knot tying expertise to shame, I was mercifully unafflicted by strong feelings of nausea. I felt slightly guilty for getting a masochistic kick and sniggering to myself as I was tossed around the ship in the swell like a silver bearing in a pinball machine. I was having the time of my life while others around me painstakingly revisited what they had eaten for breakfast.

At 2am I was put on helm. At this point, the storm really did start to kick in. The helm is positioned to the aft of the ship on the upper deck where the pitch and roll are at their most prominent and the open deck is most exposed to the wind. I found myself frantically turning the wheel to maintain our course and holding on for dear life as the ocean threw the ship around like a child’s bath toy. I wrapped myself around the helm and gripped the wheel pins tightly as the ship listed and pitched like an out of control fairground ride. At times, I wanted to scream in exaltation at the feeling of guiding her carefully through the madness of the crashing waves and swell. It truly was an unforgettable hour of fun. I loved every minute.

After being relieved from the helm, I joined Niko and Nadia, two of my watchmates, in the galley. They were in the midst of preparing hot water and coffee for the next watch by boiling kettles on a propane heater. Both had resigned themselves to the relative safety of the galley entrance coamings upon which they could perch while securing themselves against any fixture they could grasp. We grinned and chuckled exchanging anecdotes of the ongoing storm. As we plucked up the courage to get up and fetch the hot water from the stove, a sudden jerk threw Niko comically to the ground. Nadia and I couldn’t help but giggle at Niko’s impromptu gymnastics, but in doing so we were left temporarily off our guard and another jolt dealt us a similar (and admittedly deserved) fate. Reattempting the failed mission a few moments later, I ended up square on my ass once again while Niko held onto a kettle of hot water for dear life as the ship jigged around like a hyperactive child. We stood for a minute and reconsidered the tricky and hazardous task. “Fuck the coffee” we concluded leaving the galley while we were still scald free.

Overall, the first week of sailing was a mixed bag of scenarios. We had made good headway both under sail and by engine when the winds were not cooperating. At times the ship was reaching speeds of up to 9 knots under sail. Even at the height of the storm, we were pulling upwards of 6 knots under the engine and storm sails combined. By the second week, it was a different world. The Sunday after the storm was heralded by rich blue skies and warm sunshine. Our arrival in warmer climes was compounded as a whole family of sea turtles swam gracefully alongside the ship.

Monday was Norway’s national day. With two Norwegians on board, the Captain felt it appropriate that the entire ship celebrate the event together as a whole and the crew in its entirety were advised to muster amidships without exception at 5pm in suitable Norwegian attire. Having only a couple of days to conceive an outfit, the 12-4 watch clubbed together to present an array of things all Norwegian. Grabbing my red foulie pants, a white T-shirt and a blue sheet to use as a cape (the colours of the Norwegian flag), my pitiful King of Norway costume was set off with a broom I picked up and used as a sceptre and some beer glass themed shades, similar to those worn by any self-respecting Norwegian monarch. Other costumes included a Neutrogina girl, Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” painting and a Norwegian man with a noose around his neck labelled “so dark and cold I feel like dying” in celebration of Norway’s suicide rate as being the highest in the world (a fact proudly brought to my attention by a Norwegian shipmate). Nordic celebrations commenced with a potato and spoon race and culminated in a tense tug of war finale. It was definitely the most random and intimate of events for an average day in the Atlantic Ocean and we certainly did Norway proud.

As the second week progressed, the weather remained hot and humid but turned squallier. Having never experienced squalls at sea, I was served a true education into their ways as one after another struck the ship during my watches. On lookout, I was treated to the sight of an ever increasing number of flying fish buzzing along the top of the ocean like dragon flies, sometimes for twenty metres at a time or more. One even flew aboard the ship both captivating and scaring the living crap out of a few trainees on deck not otherwise anticipating its arrival.

Towards the end of the week in yet another squall filled watch, I decided to bite the bullet when the opportunity arose and climbed aloft as far as the topgallant yard. Until now I had worked aloft in the relative sanctuary of the lowest three yards out of the five which span the length of the masts. The highest of the lower three is roughly 15m off the ground and all of the lower yards are quite bulky with a lot to grab onto. The footropes also hang low enough to support and balance one’s weight easily.

The topgallant yard, on the other hand, is much higher up at around 30m off the deck. It’s a smaller yard with closely trimmed rigging. When laying out for the first time, I suddenly found myself standing on a footrope with only my shins resting against the yard for support and, most scarily, absolutely nothing above to hold onto. Yet again I began to curse myself for not being 3ft tall. Almost instinctively to bring myself back to the level of the yard, I spread my legs and contorted my body so broadly along the footrope, I was practically wearing my testicles as earrings and by bending my head down just a little, I could see the sun shine out of my own ass.

Needless to say, dangling and contorting off a footrope thirty metres in the air is not for the faint hearted. I shat myself at least seven times on the way up alone. Getting this high involves following ever narrowing shrouds which sway increasingly due to the ship’s broad roll the higher you climb. The roll wasn’t all bad. On the route up there are two sections of rigging which actually jut back out in an overhang, known as the futtocks, before returning to relative normality. I often wondered whether these buttock clenching overhangs were actually placed in there deliberately as part of some kind of elaborate practical joke to fuck with our minds. In any case, if you time your passing of these overhangs correctly, you can climb them relatively smoothly and horizontally while the ship lists in your favour. Time it wrong and you feel like you are hanging off them almost upside down.

Perhaps the greatest surprise of all on the voyage so far is the lack of seasickness amongst the crew. Only one crew member has suffered with continuous bouts of the affliction and even at the height of the storm only a handful of people were struck down. Dubbed “Atlantic Bulimia” due to the victim’s inability to keep any meal down for more than a few minutes, it does wonders for the waistline but any sufferers planning a night out on the town would be well advised to avoid wearing green to prevent any embarrassing clash with the face. Indeed, some very fetching avocado cheek hues have been on display intermittently amongst certain shipmates. For those of you looking forward to hearing colourful stories of relentless suffering and spewing on my part, however, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I remain a regurgitant free zone. A small part of me feels a little sad that there will be no opportunity for me to develop a kindred camaraderie with fellow newbie sailors hanging their heads over the side of the ship and retching for hours on end. I thought that perhaps being prone to emptying the contents of my stomach at sea might actually mean membership of a rather exclusive club. I mean, what better way to consolidate a new friendship than to pat each other’s backs empathetically during a harmonious session of mutual vomiting into the ocean? Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for.

Life at sea has already given me a new perspective on the world. As we received steady updates of our exact location from the Captain, heading south from Lunenburg and in turn a few hundred miles due east of Portland, Boston and then New York City, I found it difficult to imagine bustling cities going about their day to day business beyond the horizon. Before me I saw just an endless ocean, swelling and pulsating, so vast and consuming it was above and beyond any of man’s activities. I felt isolated and disconnected from civilisation and yet completely at peace in being so. I had not foreseen such enrapturement until now.

As time goes on, so we edge ever southward and the temperature and humidity steadily rise with it. Only 10 days ago, I shivered profusely in my bunk and now I lie wearing nothing but a thick layer of sweat as I fruitlessly try to nod off in the heavy heat of the forepeak. I trust the human body is an adaptable beast and I will be a seasoned man of the Tropics soon enough. I fear, however, that pale skin and red hair are not really designed for temperatures above 10c and anything more than an overcast wet day.

But I should not complain. I am sailing an amazing ship through the Tropics and it feels great. I feel I know what I am doing more and more each day. Lessons in celestial navigation, sail theory, rigging maintenance, chart reading, sail making and much more will all be forthcoming in due course. I can already tie over ten knots with my eyes closed. A month ago, I could barely tie my shoelaces. The notion that I will be an accomplished sailor six months from now seems only too achievable.

I was somewhat disappointed to be missing out on spending time in the Caribbean during the first leg of the voyage. Our schedule, and the fact that the ship would spend ample time in the area on the fourth and final returning leg, meant that we would head due south from Canada and bypass the Caribbean completely by heading directly to Panama. Despite being a mere whisker from its sandy shores, I would sadly not set foot on a Caribbean island on this occasion. But evidently all was not set in stone. On Saturday morning some unexpected news was relayed.

After an excellent but strenuous passage across the Atlantic, the ship would put in at Anguilla for a few days. We would, after all, feel Caribbean sand between our toes and have some time to sample the famed local tipple. The winds between Anguilla and Panama would not be favourable in the coming days so waiting a while on the picturesque island was deemed the best plan.
So this message of news from the high seas wings its way to you, somewhat unexpectedly, from the banks of a palm tree encrusted islet in the heart of the Caribbean archipelago. After two weeks of being surrounded by nothing but ocean (and the occasional marine critter), a tropical paradise had finally edged its way onto our horizon. “Land two points off the port bow!” came the exclamation. Oh happy day. Our first stop, after almost two thousand deep blue open ocean miles, was in sight.


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