Cleone - CLEONE Leg 22 Day 8 - Rapping in the South Atlantic

Sorry, folks, I've spelt it wrong - it should be "Wrapping" - there's no beat to pick up here

 

Yesterday's optimism and eulogising the spinnaker - pride coming before a fall - was totally misplaced.  Yesterday's Despatch (old fashioned term for "Blog", Will - Ed) having been put to bed along with another tranche of e-mails, the skipper was gently musing on all that was good in the world.  He had plenty of scope for his imagination, apart from the financial outcomes of the efforts of the Blair/Brown team.  The sun was shining, the sails full, the crew happy and Cleone bowling along nicely.  All of a sudden, the voice of doom came from the cockpit.  "Er, Skipper, could you come on deck, I think there's a problem with the spinnaker".  Think?  Think?  The blessed thing had wrapt itself more times round the forestay than any spinning rapper (help me out, chaps, don't I mean "Break Dancer" (or is it "Brake" - Ed)? ).  But the cockpit audience was enrapt no less.  The Skipper did not quite say "Oh dear", but no doubt that's what he meant.  Whatever he did say, it left the rest of the crew in no doubt as to his feelings.  Shayne, bolder than the rest, followed him onto the foredeck.  They looked aloft, each alone with his thoughts.  The Spinnaker was indeed a mess, and a brisk wind bound its wine-glass-shape ever tighter round the forestay.  But the sound of the spinnaker beating itself to death soon galvanised them into action.  "Unclip this, no unclip that.  Start the Engine.  Turn hard to starboard, no turn gently to port.  Pull the starboard side sheet.  Let go the port side guy.  Drive hard into the wind.  No, drive gently down-wind."  The confusion of order and counter order happily left Graham and Jenni, back in the cockpit, unpurturbed (and, for all I know, un-rapt as well), and soon they had Cleone pointing down-wind, easing the pressure on the sail.  Meanwhile Shanyne and the Skipper heaved and pulled, wrapping the spinnaker first this way then that way around the forestay and itself.  After forty five minutes (and I am not exaggerating) of pulling and heaving, coaxing and tweaking, the spinnaker finally flew free of the forestay, by some miracle undamaged.  By good fortune, Shayne still had hold of a sheet that was attached to one of the clews (a piece of rope attached to one of the three corners of the spinnaker), so with an audible sigh of relief from all the crew, the spinnaker was lowered safely from the mast and shoved down below through the hatch.  All that remained was to tidy up all the ropes, re-rig the genoa, and off we went again.  As Shayne did a celebratory hand-spin on the foredeck, almost propelling himself over the side as he did so, the Skipper reached for his prayer mat and the gin bottle.  Back in the cockpit, Graham and Jenni sighed once more and got on with the business of getting Cleone to St Helena as quickly as maybe.

 

We were lucky, but making mistakes is how we learn, and in this case no injury or damage resulted.  Apart from this near calamity, we have made steady rather than spectacular progress towards St Helana, and there are now less than six hundred and fifty miles to go.  All being well, we should arrive by Friday, but Bruce and the weather gods will actually dictate whether we achieve this or not.  Nearly at the back of the fleet (our normal position), we nevertheless maintain communication by radio with Cape Town in the early morning and with our fellow yachts at mid-day and in the evening.  It should be lonely out here, but it's not.  We enjoyed the company of a pod of fifty or so dolphins (correct collective noun or not? - Ed) playing in our wake and under the boat just after dawn, we have had spectacular sunrises and sunsets, we have had a continuous stream of e-mails (and keep them coming, please, they are very important to us) and our own congenial company.  Time passes all too quickly.

 

All well on board, and best wishes from