I am not convinced we are going to make the party.
No wonder the Skipper's a bit tense today. Bruce, bless him, has sent
out the crappiest forecast yet: not much wind and yet more not much wind.
This makes only the Yanmar happy. It's thrumming away at its best,
slightly warm salt water being expelled from the smokeless (yah yah yah all you
Volvo owners, what's your contribution to a cleaner environment then?)
exhaust, revs steady on 1900rpm, temperature at 78o, oil pressure at
7.8 Bar. The speed through the water hovers above 5 knots, that over the
ground at about the magic 6. There's around 200 miles to go, and the party
starts at 2000 tomorrow, Brazil Time, umpty ump hours plus or minus of
GMT. Well given all that data, you can do the maths yourself (I cant,
which is why I haven't - Ed), it's going to be terribly close. All
it needs is a slight counter-current or an awkward immigration official (and
they do exist, believe me) and we are toast, well the Skipper will be when the
crew find out. No showers, no decent (no, not that word - Ed),
no cold beers, no sizzling steaks fresh from the Barbie (Braai, to my South
African readers) sprinkled with fresh salad and accompanied by crispy chips with
a saussage and a burger on the side (and mustard and tomato sauce - Ed), no
slapping on the shoulder, no where you bin mates, no har har hard luck let
me see your spinnakers no nothing. Just scratching around in the bilges
for yet another tired old tinned meal at sea and the last bottle of tepid
stale water whilst the rest of the fleet stagger past hoping not to fall into
the dock as they fumble their way back on board their yachts laden with
silverware and beer after a real screamer of a party.
You praying types get your mats out; there's a serious crisis out
here.
Meanwhile, all is well with us, and very best wishes to all of you.
James, Graham, Jenni, Shayne and Mandy
Yacht Cleone
13o36'S 35o13'W