Under her Spell
I am not the mistress of our yacht Gunvør. Yes, it is registered in my name and under my flag, but the boat and its crew are slaves to another force, and that is the damn spinnaker. Or rather spinnakers. I do not like flying a spinnaker, I suspect many women sailors would agree with me. The spinnaker sail is exactly like a high-maintenance mistress: wilful, tempestuous, demanding of constant attention, and of course, very costly.
All the (male) crew are beguiled by “her”, they can't take their eyes off of her, they coddle her, they sooth her tantrums, they suffer her melt-downs. When she falls apart, she is lovingly packed off for a rejuvenation cure. I am rather fed up with it. What about the good old genoa, always true. Or the new Code 2, which has proven delightfully lively? Well, these other foresails lack the right angle, and of course, that extra knot or two of speed that the crew craves.
For this Atlantic crossing we have 4 wily spinnakers, and they are monopolising the trip with their demands. First there was the Red-Hot Hibiscus, she took us gloriously over the start line and then lasted a day or so before blowing out - twice. Then there was the Cool Blue, she served us for two full days before bursting. Next was the Pink Lady, she has been up and down numerous times, but needs frequent surgery to keep her going. The most stalwart of the Gang of Four is the Viking Ship. Now, she has proven quite hard-working and even forgiving and so I have gained a grudging respect for her.
While I imagine most other white-sails-only ARC yachts are enjoying the benefits of an Autohelm, we are actually hand-steering all the way, as our spinnaker-mistress demands thus. I guess the competitive spirit has infected us. I really miss Mabel our trusty Autohelm, but dutifully fulfil my watch at the wheel. The nights are especially trying as there is really no moon to speak of and when the clouds cover the stars, you feel disembodied, steering into the dark void, with 20 knots of trade winds at your back, focussed only on the red glow of the instruments and the dimly seen edge of the Viking Ship spinnaker. You hope and pray that she will make it through another squally night without getting her knickers in a twist.
This is not quite the cosy crossing I was expecting, but I have to admit it can be very exhilarating to “drive the machine” down the big Atlantic Rollers and feel the surge of speed shudder through the boat, to the wheel, right to your very core. And so, you see, I have also fallen for the siren call of the sexy spinnaker…..
Sheila GUNVØR XL