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Milanto - Nov 29th: Day 6....Or at least I think it is



All this unnatural getting up and crashing out every 3 or 4 hours has me a little confused. I know its Thursday, but I think we may have got a little out of sync with days and nights on this blog. So this one maybe a catch up, or it may simply be one too many, but which ever it will now bring us up to and including the nightshift of Thursday, which ends at 07.00.

Milanto has sort of started operating in a semblance of a rhythm. We sort of know the routine now, and Grave Yard shift aside, we have kind of worked it out. It helps that the weather system seems to have changed and today (Thursday) has been glorious. The wind remains strong and the sea still resembles the swimming pool after the fat flatulent guy has jumped in, but we are adapting and managing. I have become to really appreciate my bunk now, thankful for its security once the lea cloth is in place, knowing that the watch is at an end and you are to be undisturbed for 2.5 hours before the next watch starts. The gurgling and whooshing noises, which take place along the inner wall of the bunk, lets me know all is well and depending upon which of my new friends is driving, it is actually quite soporific and I seldom remember lying there for more than a few seconds.

Today it was revealed that Milanto has a surprise third sail (other than the spinnaker, which is too unpredictable to use in choppy conditions), so up the new canvas went this morning (it's all about the speed isn't it). The sail is known as the 'small beast' and it does seem to have added some grunt to the powerhouse that sits above deck; we have been pushing along through at a gratifying rate. We are in fact gaining around a day every three days on our schedule, which is good for our race, as well as for moral.

I share my cabin with sharp-witted Baldem, a 40 something very likeable guy from Munich. Being on opposite shifts we have not seen much of each other so far, when one of us is up top the other has been out for the count, but as we acclimatise to our new environment the watches are blurring and I hope to get to know the others more over the coming few days. Coincidentally, our other German crew member, Michael, is also from Munich. He is a quietly shy, sensible 31 year old, very good company and has a great, if dry, sense of humour, which is fortunate really given that he had the short straw when it comes to a berth.

Milanto has a total of nine berths on board, but three of them are in the central saloon area of the boat and to use all three would make eating and generally just being in the communal parts impossible. So Vale prefers to have just eight people on board at any one time. Some professionally run boats, such as this, use a hot bedding system, where two crew members share a berth, but occupy it at different times of the day; one in one out. This to my mind is pretty uncivilised and would just exacerbate any tension that may naturally arise on such a passage as this (not that any has so far here). We are grateful therefore that this is not the case on board our boat.

Now it is fair to say that our sleeping arrangements seem to have worked so far, and we all operate well with our invisible roommates. We are well fed by Chef Vale and his glamorous assistant Keith. A warm salad with parmesan, Spanish chicken, all served with Italian flair. Or this was the position until All is harmonious on board, or at least is was until an incident with the washing (or rather drying) of underwear and a simple but tragic case of under steering.

Marie had announcement that she was out for a good time the evening whilst we were still moored up at the weekend. It was a statement delivered as naturally as if she had said that she was a Frenchwoman who lived in Paris and liked garlic and croissant (although I suspect probably not at the same time). Aside from the fact that we had to wait for her to arrive back on the boat before we finally let go Sunday, she is simply one of the crew, and an able and very amiable one on at that.

Yesterday was washing day. Clothing was washed in various buckets and by the afternoon things were hanging everywhere, including several pairs of Marie's very small smalls. Or at least they were until, a gust of wind, a lurch of the boat to Port, green water and the sea took them into its cold embrace. A fleeting smirk across a young German's face, a heartfelt 'merde!' shrieked into the wind, and the pants were given to the deep. French knickers, a thing of the past. But like many French kitchen dramas, it was short lived. Marie put an end to the banter with a shrug of the shoulders, as only the French can deliver, and a pronouncement that she had been thinking of going commando anyway.

And our journey continues.


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