Final tidy up, quick coffee in the pub while we get our last caffeine and wifi hit then catch the 1pm bridge opening.

The owners of the dock we've been on for the last month turned out on their balcony to wave us off.

However, we weren't going far. As forecast, the wind was on the nose. Due to veer north between 4pm and 8pm we picked up a mooring just the other side of the bridge them hopped into bed to bank some sleep.

After 90 minutes kip, we came to and got the show on the road dropping the mooring and heading out for 380 miles of chilly sailing south to Norfolk.

The good news was the wind had moved while we snoozed so the engine was killed and we sailed off out onto Long Island Sound and beyond into the wild and grey Atlantic.

A grey day gave way to a light grey night lit from dusk till dawn by the full moon arcing overhead, overnight.

I took the first watch going below about 11pm. We were storming along in 20-22 knots on the beam, one reef, full Genoa and staysail.

When I got up a couple of hours later, when I rolled my leaden legs off the port sea berth, mid saloon I thought, "Oh oh. That squelch was either because I've got leprosy or we're sinking".

Don't panic. Don't panic.

We've had an occasional small leak in the hatch but drips. Not bucket loads which I next discovered had soaked the starboard cushions. Getting closer to the source I opened the gas locker where I'd asked the yard to renew and re-route the gas pipe. Sure enough, water was dripping from the mostly sealed holes where the electrics and pipe exited. But just dripping.

Underneath however was a different story. It was like a tap running.

Island Packet build some nice boats but, like their chainplate design, the gas bottle locker ideas are totally crackers. The designer, for reasons that elude frustrated owners, built the locker as a large two bottle locker on the side deck.

While it's a good use of space he chose to allow this locker to also act as a scupper. Consequently, when the spray is flying and green water is coming down the deck half the ocean empties off the deck through the locker usually running over the solenoid, which is why I had it moved and out the exit pipe.

The yard had told us they had replaced the drain pipe (if it ain't broke, don't fix it?) so my first thought was that they hadn't opened the sea cock.

Dash on deck, open the locker lid and empty the contents onto the cockpit floor. Big locker. Loads of crap including two empty gas bottles. Finally reaching the sea cocks buried under all this gear I realise I'm looking in the wrong place. Aaaaaarrgh.

Down below at the right place I realise this through hull pipe doesn't have a sea cock.

Meanwhile, gas bottle jams under wheel and we crash gybe.

"Oh darn" I said, or something like that.

Anne reloads, well, just chucked back in all the crap while I head onto the wildly rolling deck to have a look to see what's stopping the water running away.

I open the locker lid and nearly get my forehead clunked by two gas cylinders shooting to the surface like the barrels in Jaws.

Looking down, I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. The locker is full and overflowing. The electrics and solenoid are under water and the tanks are bobbing about like ducks in a pond.

Something has obviously blocked the outlet pipe. What I need is my wire drain unblocker which I last saw as we loaded the boat contents into the U-haul.

Repeating, several times, the empty the saloon lockers routine while kneeling on the soaking carpet yielded no reamer. Again and again I emptied and filled the damn lockers, each time the locker getting mysteriously smaller as again and again, another box failed to fit.

Giving up the search it was the stuff a wire coat hanger down the hole routine. All, while hove to, post crash gybe in the dark with waves trying to get down my neck.

Whatever the blockage was (is) it wasn't for taking a swim. No amount of prodding, twisting or cursing would clear it. In the end I just baled it out with a cup, tidied up what we could, towels spread around to soak up the flood, three dozen, round the world packs of foods, cereals, rice, pasta etc... now rendered anonymous generic grey plastic bags of, "Oo Wonder what we'll get for dinner tonight". Tubs of porridge turned into small melodians. So finally, after about an hour and a half we gybed back and off we went.

Next day's trauma? The genoa halyard I'd spent an hour freezing and cramping while up the mast trying to re-run it, obviously incorrectly, parted, chafed through st the masthead sheave. Fortunately, I heard it go and got the sail furled before the it hit the drink. Which is what I may well do!