Day 9: Little sailing excitement as we westward slowly in light winds,the "trades" not fully established at present. We fly our parasailor spinnaker during the day and twin headsails at night - though resorted to a few hours motoring when last night's wind deserted us.
It seems the bigger, faster, westward boats are experiencing a weather system which may be a mixed blessing: more wind but occasionally a surfeit. We heard one completely lost his parasailor in 27 knots of wind whilst one of the racing division (sailing across further north) lost his mast and is motoring/limp-sailing under jury rig to the azores. Another yacht's lower shrouds parted a few days ago, obliging them to lash up supports and motor to Cape Verdes for repairs. That crew have been blighted by bad luck: Their dinghy was washed off it's davits in a blow and a malfunctioning battery charger fried all their batteries and starter motor en passage to Las Palmas! I'm sure many others are suffering some tribulations. In contrast, the two 70 foot ex-Challenge steel boats have withdrawn from the rally. At least one of them is chartered by the "Tall Ships" sea training organisation (we know Bill, the ship's mate, from blind sailing week). Presumably they have a charter deadline and their light wind progress has obliged ducking out; such is sailing. Fortunately, all is well with Indian Summer and crew, so far, as the water temperature increases to 26 degrees and we wear shorts & T-shirts at last as we clock the first thousand miles.
In these conditions, we rely on distractions for excitement: in this regard, our angler (Glyn) has under-performed these last two days. His much heralded lethal bait of a flying fish - found in rigor mortis on the deck yesterday morning - didn't snare the expected half ton marlin. Retrieval of the line revealed, however, that some fish had enjoyed a tasty snack: the bait had been nibbled away with the exception of that portion concealing the hook. Perhaps these fish are not so stupid after all - or is it just that these things are relative!
We may have to give the fishing a break, anyway. Dusk yesterday found us fighting a large fish, thrashing wildly on the surface 50 metres away (the fish, not Glyn). These desperate manouvres succeeded as the fish broke free and we were left with a fully formed fish mouth (some 2 inches diameter) still attached to the three-barb hook. Glyn, whose frock was much appreciated by all at the fancy dress party in Las Palmas, was reaching for his lipstick and had to be restrained. I don't think the rest of us are especially squeamish but this isn't the sort of thing one sees every day back home and the cockpit was grim with grimaces. Bock to reading Edgar Alan Poe for light relief, then.