Cleone - CLEONE Leg 8 Day 3 - No Wind, no Gas

 

The unsettled weather continues.  Last night the threat of squalls was ever present, and we could see lightning to the south of us, both to east and west.  As ever, Harmonie was there to advise - she picked out the worst of the squalls on her radar, and was able to direct us around it.  And so we avoided the rain, but motor-sailing was very uncomfortable.  The confused sea, with swells coming in from at least two directions, gave steep waves of eight feet or so, and worse has been a persistent counter-current (it should have been helping us at half a knot or so) that has been driving against us at one-and-a-half to two knots. Progress has been slow, and we are faced with the possibility of another two nights at sea.  Imagine our consternation, therefore, when, just as he was heating the tinned beans for supper (we have long run out of fresh vegetables, except for garlic and onions), Will reported that the gas had died.  Well, by now it was pitch dark, and anyway we were on our last gas cylinder.  Was it a fautly regulator or had we run out of gas?  Either way, we faced the prospect of cold food and no tea with particular lack of relish.  The Skipper tried to pursuade the crew that conditions had been worse on the Russian Front during the winter of 1943, but they were not having any of it.  The night watches dragged by, gloomy thoughts were shared: no tea at watch-change, nothing but cold stuff for lunch (but we always have cold stuff for lunch, Ed) and the faint possibility of tinned potatoes turned into a nasty potato salad accompanied by cold god-knows what for supper.  Times two.  Yuk.  But the Skipper stuck to his guns, and swore there was plenty of gas and that it must be the regulator.  The Johnas, all three of them, firmly believed that our goose was cooked (so as to speak, of course it could not have been) and we'd run out of gas.

 

So at first light, the Skipper was deep into the gas locker, complete with screw-driver and head-torch and a lot of muttering under his breath.  First a loud hissing noise followed by the characteristic smell of butane proved that the cylinder was indeed not yet empty.  And since he was not trying to see by the light of a spluttering match, there was no accompanying explosion.  A bit later, lo and behold, after a delicate key-hole operation with a small, thin screwdriver, there was a murmer of triumph.  Next thing, the Skipper once again held a steaming mug of Earl Grey in his hand, and we knew that all was not lost, and the threat of mutiny would die with the on-coming watch.

 

 

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James, Chris, Elizabeth and Will

Yacht Cleone

At Sea
17.12S 167.45W