06/10/2007, Atlantic Ocean, East of Georgia and Carolina
It's the middle of our second night crossing the Atlantic sea towards Cape Fear. I'm on watch with R B-J. Much to my disappointment, hardcore drinking is banned on these shifts - which is a little strange for me as, I'm used to staying up all night, but normally I have a least two drinks on the go at any one time!
The sky is inky black, pierced by the billions of stars. The moon has not yet risen, but I'm expecting to see it immerge, bright crescent orange, from beyond the starboard beam in an hour or so, as it had done last night. Of all the varying pinholes above, I keep wondering which one might be that rocket that, yesterday, so majestically exited this no longer inescapable, earthly realm.
They call this kind of sailing 'blue water' because the sea is so deep and clear that the sun light falls into it, never to return, turning it into a dark navy blue dye. Unfortunately, we have been motoring most of the way as there is no wind - I'm now beginning to question the one merit sailing seemed to have going for it; diesel combustion is not very sustainable.
Most of the time there is still nothing happening; just lots of sky and a 360 degree horizon. When the engine is killed, you could almost feel like you are actually lost at sea, bobbing about in the middle of nothing. Fortunately, we are not entirely alone, and the boredom is broken by the thrill of spotting the occasional wildlife. The most common sightings are flying fish that leap out of the water ahead of the bow and fly like little sparrows for up to 50 meters... Wait! - stop the press - that is unbelievable! Just as I wrote those last words a flying fish landed on board, giving me the opportunity to examine these fascinating little creatures. Their pectoral fins are approximately 2/3 their length, that open into a fluttering wing, while their eyes are big and bulging. It's funny how things like that happen.
On the first day we spotted a large orange sea turtle, about a meter in length. Today we caught a Mahi Mahi (otherwise known as Dorado) which was beautiful to look at, flashing blue and yellow, and delicious to eat. We've also seen the occasional glimpse of a dolphin fin, but today took the biscuit.
As the sun was setting, we were taking down the whisker pole that supports the light air sail, and I spotted a fin, and another, and then before we knew it we were surrounded by a school of playful spotted dolphins, not too dissimilar in character to a pack of excited puppies, playing in the park. Big ones, little ones, chasing, dodging, synchronising manoeuvres, showing off to their admiring spectators, confidently starring in their own show; their excited puppy panting signified by the constant wheeze from their blow holes; bright, intelligent faces appearing genuinely happy to see you, radiating a fun and joyful atmosphere, always in high spirits.
They hung around as long as we watched them, then, when we left to finish cooking the Mahi Mahi, they left too, like any proud entertainer would. I felt a little rude; as though I had just shunned some great performers; walked out of Le Cirque du Soleil at the Albert Hall, or turned my back on an exotic visiting royal family.
I promise you this; it was one of the most magical, and elating things to have seen - there in the middle of nowhere; a privileged, private performance, from the crème de la crème of the entertaining natural world. And it could only have been experienced by being on this boat. I took some video footage; you can see it in the Gallery.
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06/08/2007, Atlantic Ocean, weast of Cape Canaveral, Fl.
"Oh my God, look, LOOK" screamed my mother, jumping to her feet, pointing west towards the cape.
My heart is still pounding, hands are still shaky, and palms are still sweaty. There it was, a space rocket shooting up from the horizon, tailed by a fierce orange glow, and an opaque white streamer, flanking the big, low, orange sun.
My hands trembling with sweet excitement, but my palate turned bitter with a feeling of impending doom, I fumbled for my camera to catch this spectacle before it was over.
"What if the boosters land on us, what will we do", she shrieked.
A few clicks on the camera was all the time there was, and then... my heart sank with sickening destiny, as the rocket arced directly over us, seeking out its involuntary trajectory - and there - clear as daylight, the two side boosters departed from the rocket, right over our heads.
Please don't land on us, please don't land on us, please don't land on us, repeated the beseeching mantra in my mind. All eyes were firmly pinned to the heavens, and then, my heart literally stopped. My left hand grabbed hold of my father's arm, with eyes still fixed but now bulging wide with startled fear, and my right hand pointing to a long black object falling directly above us, out of the deep blue.
"Oh - God - no", I said to him under my breath, disbelievingly, restraining the spread of fear by silencing my alarm; the object appearing to break through from the infinity beyond, growing in size as it headed a catastrophic course for our insignificant, lonesome vessel.
Then the relief, as my heart leaped back in to its comforting rhythm. It was a frigate bird, soaring high, mischievous eyes tricking my over sensitised mind, not a rocket booster at all. However, my eyes stayed fixed to the azure blue of the darkening sky for some time, long after the bright orange flare had disappeared in to its dark and distant orbit.
BOOOOOOOOM
A deep guttural explosion was heard, that denoted such inconceivable power. "What the hell was that?!" At first I assumed it was the sound reaching us from the point of launch, but then I realised; it was the sonic boom created as this phenomenal machine smashed through the sound barrier, streaking across the sky at implausible speeds. I kept watching the sky, but we saw no trace of the falling rocket casings.
Finally, as the sun dropped behind the sea to convene with its new orbiting companion, we were left with the rocket's trace, that had now been wisped by the wind into something like a tangled superman calling sign, illuminated by the sunken, retired resident star.
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Thanks for your generous comments, they are much appreciated The launch was spectacular, and at the time we did not even realise it was a shuttle launch, thinking it was probably just a satelite launch and saying, 'imagine if people were on board that thing!'
06/08/2007, Atlantic Ocean, east of Florida
This morning, peering through the rain, the dark clouds seemed a little brighter around their edges, backlighting flashes of lightening, confirmed it; Yes, these clouds really do have a silver lining.
Last night, moored in Fort Pierce, at half a gallon of wine past gin o'clock, I expressed my unhappiness to the crew. This sparked some frank talking from all, with some, shall we say, tense dialogue. At one point it became too much and I drunkenly decided I should buy a pack of fags and smoke some of them.
I ran half a mile to a 24 hour 'gas' station, shoeless and legless, loving the sensation of solid ground beneath my bare feet. At the gas station there were some very colourful black guys buying bits and pieces. One put a dollar note down and asked for a cigar. Just as the attendant put the cigar down, the guy took the dollar note back and said he had change in the car. Cheeky, I thought, he had no intention of getting the change, and the attendant had no intention of doing anything about it. They were big, and it was not worth the trouble.
Running back, feet padding on tarmac, I thought; are experiences and observations like that not what travel is all about? To feel and see the country, experience the people, encounter the foreign folk. Sailing seems to be an escape from the realities of the world, where you can hide away from the rich and complex fabric of this social species - Isolation; voluntary, solitary confinement; escapism; reality avoidance - populace dodgers.
With the dark clouds now zinc coated in fresh, intoxicating optimism; galvanised by the heady alcoholic breeze that shifted the thick and fractious air to sea during the nocturnal tête-à-tête, I now felt good about the day and the new plans. To make some ground up, we have headed out to sea to catch the north bound gulf stream and will be sailing (or motoring) continuously for the next two and a half days, straight across the concave bit of the coast, north of Cape Canaveral, to hit land again at Cape Fear (ooh, scary!). We should make it, as long as we are not sunk by fifty tonnes of falling steal. The US Coastguard has put out a warning to stay out of the Cape Canaveral fall out zone, due to plummeting booster rockets, as they are launching spaceships today. We are at present bang in the middle of that zone! My eyes are turned upwards.
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Read your blog for the first time. It sounds just fab. Can't wait to go sailing again! Give my love to all on board. Gel xxx
