Friday 13^th March – Day 1 (Cape Town to St Helena)

(Position : 32°52’S 018°25’E)

Despite threatening to leave 4 pm Thursday, the day before, we didn’t actually get ourselves round to leaving till Friday morning. Woke at 6.00 ish – and up by 6.30 am. Sorted ourselves out with lines and wotnot, then set off for the fuel jetty. Only just out of our berth when starboard prop not happy at all – black smoke from exhaust. A bloody great plastic bag – heavy duty sack type – not there as we left, because I checked – now caught round prop. No wind, but still started to drift onto the corner cat. Anthony, brave soul, first dived into his swimming trunks and then into the filthy water. And it is filthy at Elliott Basin, pure cesspit time. A great start to a Friday 13^th. But then we’re breaking all the taboos by sailing on a Friday, anyway – and throw in it being the 13^th and we’re either fate-tempting fools or determinedly pragmatic. At the fuel jetty, things continued in the same vein. Trying to fill with diesel, found both tanks appearing to be full after a mere dribble. See the breather pipes with diesel sloshing around in them – some scratching of heads until the obvious dawned. The fuel nozzle too big to get far enough into inlet pipe, because of the diesel cap lid connection wotsit – so diesel is flowing into both pipe and breather. Doh! So it’s out with the funnel – which is far too small, really for efficient filling, but the nozzle of it goes beyond the cap attachment and is therefore better than nothing. Filling takes the best part of 90 minutes.

It’s been a shaky start and a nasty flat cap of clouds slap on the horizon doesn’t cheer much either. But we’re on our way, and oh, it’s just so good to be at sea once again.

From the get-go, we’re treated to regular sightings of whales and seals and penguins. arctic terns and flocks of cormorants – flying in synchronised formation swoop low across the sea – skimming then soaring. Where they’re busy heading to, no idea.

But the boat, alas, is absolutely filthy – every day in Elliott Basin the dirt descends in a thick gritty layer. So even as the V&A waterfront grows smaller in the distance, we’re scrubbing and throwing seawater around in earnest – not only at the decks but at the fenders, too, before stowing them away. Won’t be needing them for some time to come.

The wind is almost non-existent but as the day wears on it starts to back from northerly to westerly and little by little builds to a very gentle force 3-4. Another brief dunk for Anthony in the afternoon when a large chunk of kelp wraps itself lovingly around the starboard (again) prop. By 6.00 pm we give the engines a rest and it’s up with the main and out with the jib, the clouds gone, and a glorious sunny evening.

But the joy of watching the whales – humpbacks with huge white colonies of barnacles on the heads, so close with the help of bins I can see their eyes – turns a stuttery start into a great day. Not only the whales but the frolicking seals, diving and jumping and then lazing by on their backs, flippers and tail out of the water, head swiveling to nonchalantly eyeball us. Add to those pleasures, the grace and form of seabirds; the skill with which they play the wind and waves is pure aerial ballet. A dance of thrilling, dynamic elegance. We both revel in living aboard, but the wildlife at sea is perhaps the greatest bonus and attraction for me of cruising.

On a slightly less rapturous note, Dick and I both find we’re whacked come the evening; it’s been a full day and the race to get Butterfly ready for the transatlantic crossing got seriously hectic during these last few days at Elliott Basin. Now we’re on our way, it’s going to take another day or so to settle into the rhythm of life at sea.

Saturday 14^th March – Day 2

(Position: 32°03’S 016°40’E)

After a peaceful, glittery, moonlit first night’s sailing, the fun and games begin in earnest today. About 10.00 am Anthony is on watch and a ferocious banging starts up – intermittent style – astern on the starboard side. For all the world, it sounds as if King Neptune himself is hammering in fury at the underside of the boat. Our first thought is another something-or-other wrapped around the prop or rudder, slapping the underbelly of the hull. We’ve already had a huge bag, then a huge kelp, so now a huge – er, what? But Dick soon disproves this theory when he takes the plunge to look. Nada. Not a thing. Rudder, prop – all ticketty-boo, or so it appears. Hoisting the smallest asymmetric (75sq metres) again, off we fly, and to our delight, no banging. Enormous sigh of relief all round – must have been something that was caught, then fell away once we slowed the boat sufficiently to investigate. Three hours later, with the most perfect weather conditions we could ask for, spangling sunshine, a nice steady south-westerly, 18-20 knots true on the port quarter, King Neptune begins a-hammering harder than ever. This time, it was up and out with Anthony’s bedding, to check the engine and rudder compartment below – no point a second dunking without first eliminating the drier options first. But again, a big fat nothing. Engine sound, seems to be firmly bedded. The rudder giving no cause for concern from what we can see inside the boat. So nothing else for it – dunk time again. This time Anthony takes the plunge to see if he can find anything amiss under the water. While there he checks the prop again, and again, all looks and feels fine.

So it’s ‘what if’ time- like, what if it’s the rudder, and if something is loose, we have far too far to go to take the risk of leaving it in a compromised state. Yet how can we justify turning back if we can’t identify the source of the problem? To all intents and purposes, the hammering noise aside, everything is working perfectly – or so it seems. We plump to press on and resign ourselves to waiting for the hammering to begin again. So back up with the spinny it is. No hammering. Slowing the boat seems to stop the problem, starting it moving again is fine too. It’s only when we’ve been zipping along for some time and at speed that Neptune starts to hammer. A wild thought – perhaps it’s the swim-ladder? A retractable beastie in its own compartment in the lowest part of the sugar scoop. Yet wobble and shake as we try, we can’t get it to show any looseness of fitting. Prop not feathering properly? This is a far more likely possibility. But nothing of the prop and sail drive shows any sign of trouble.

The afternoon is fine sailing weather and we fly along, the boat positively purring. But just as I’m preparing the evening nosh, bang bang bang! And yes, it does seem to be the prop and the more we chew it over, the more it seems likely it’s not feathering properly or that there is a gear mesh fault perhaps. Already it’s too dark to go overboard again, and the evening is a chilly one. Besides, it seems the problem only happens when the boat is travelling fast. Lose the speed and the banging stops.

Sooooo – what we need is a plan, Stan – and a plan we devise over the meal. Tomorrow, once the sun is well and truly up, it’s dunk time once more, but with a series of specific tests to complete. The guys feel there is nothing there to render us unseaworthy, providing we are sensible and take things at an easy pace. With Butterfly so loaded down with fuel and provisions and all our liveaboard gear, it’s the best option anyway – no gain to be had in stressing her unnecessarily. But still there is the little niggle that with every hour we are getting further and further away from help – with no prospect of mechanical assistance at St Helena, our next port of call, and at least 8 days distant.

Boat buggeroos aside for a moment, today we have seen fewer birds – albatrosses and petrels and gannets and shearwaters mostly – but in far fewer numbers than yesterday. And not a whale or penguin or seal all day. The weather, though gloriously sunny with shimmering blue skies, is colder too. Chill enough to need fleeces and full oilies to sail tonight.

It’s 8.20 pm. as I type this: Dick’s on watch till 9.00 pm when I will take over till midnight. Checking the barometer, I see it’s still falling … but slowly.

Sunday 15^th March – Day 3

(Position: 29°54’S 014°41’E)

The barometer, bless it, has stabled at 1017. The weather is perfection itself. Last night was just as kind. The moon rose just as I started my watch at 9.00 pm, a kindly, quizzical companion to keep me company. At first it was nothing more than a burnished apricot egg that rose from the sea – as if the ocean itself had given birth to this strange, incandescent fruit of its watery womb. The speed with which it claimed the sky, shedding its orange armour for one of cool white silk was utterly bewitching. Up, up and up that weird lopsided egg soared till it took its rightful throne high in the heavens and threw down a shimmering path across the water directly to Butterfly’s stern. Odd how it didn’t matter which sugar scoop I stood at, this dancing path of moonlight led there and only there. Stand port and the path finished port, the starboard scoop now left in oily darkness; stand starboard, and the path is now there, lapping and twinkling just below my feet, the port banished to formless shadow and oily blackness. On a playful sea such as last night, this moonpath is beguiling and rather magical. How easily it frees the imagination – how tempting, were we stolidly fleshed humans made of more ethereal stuff, to leap lightly on its skittering light and caper across the waves. And what a caper, to have the silky sea beneath your feet; above your head, the arching, sparkling Milky Way. Last night, even Butterfly herself was kissed by magic – bathed in moon and star light, her decks shone ghostly bright as she slid down the waves and rose on the swell.

Must confess, I don’t particularly like sitting at the helm at night – the bimini and its supports, the winches and many ropes, the cockpit furniture and instruments, all conspire to shut out the glorious panorama of the night. So from time to time, I pick my way around the back and sides of the boat, still checking the horizon for lights – only one during my watch, a large trawler that after heading stealthily towards us, eventually turned to port and stole away into the night beyond – but mainly to feast, instead, on the thrall of stars and spangling sea and the boat’s roll and slide journey through the night. It’s a unique magic – that overused, but in this case, entirely accurate, word again – that banishes man’s commercial and capitalistic obsessions to their rightful place: out of mind. Who cares that this kettle boils three times faster, that this celebrity has gotten fat; that this politician has lied about his expenses? The flotsam and jetsam trivia of modern life – the wailings and finger-waggings and faux shock-horror screechings of the media; all the breathless, silkily-packaged hype of marketing men, and city types manipulating facts and figures to bag another deal, turn another dollar – none of that has any relevance somehow, not here, not out in the vast expanse of inky roiling sea, and even less so beneath a lopsided moon and an arch of winking stars.

This morning, Anthony carried out another inspection of the starboard rudder, prop and saildrive. Everything solid, looking good. Dick gave the starboard engine compartment another thorough check too – and – discovered one of the saildrive engine mount nuts now loose. Somehow, yesterday, it had been worked free. Here at last was the cause of King Neptune’s hammerings- or so we thought. So tighten the nut, and off we go again, flying the small (75 sq metre) asymmetric spinnaker. And for most of the day, Butterfly has winged along happily. That was until an hour ago – about 4.00 pm when, you’ve guessed it – Bang, Bang, Bang! Only a little more subdued this time. We check – the saildrive nut is in place and doing its thing. So, testing our theory that the prop is the root of our trouble, as the banging began, Dick flicked the starboard prop into gear. And hey, sure enough, the banging stops. It’s not an ideal solution, should the prop be hit by something, it can no longer turn to lessen the impact, but it’s better than nothing. Now at least we can sail without restricting our speed too much.

On a far happier note – all day, birds, birds and more birds. Little by little, with Anthony’s help and a wonderful book, Roberts Bird Guide, by Hugh Chittenden, I’m learning to identify them. Their entertainment value is top dollar as they wheel and swoop and spiral around us, playfully circling the boat, heads occasionally twisting to peer down at us. Shearwaters, petrels and albatrosses mainly, with a guest appearance from a troublesome Skua aggressively bullying one or other of our feathered companions late in the afternoon. But he redeems himself with some of the finest stealth flying I’ve ever seen. Long after the other birds have left, as the sun slides low towards the sea, he circles and circles our mast and shrouds, almost brushing the spreaders with his wing tips.

As usual, as the evening set in, the wind began to build a little – yet, not too much. Then just as we sit down to our evening meal, the autopilot flashes a ‘no-rudder’ message. Perfect timing, what?! It seems the end of the hydraulic ram has disconnected from the rudder quadrant. All sorted fairly quickly, thankfully, and Butterfly is soon back on track as the night closes in around her.

Monday 16^th March – Day 4

(Position: 28°16’S 013°06’E)

Last night was a long night for all of us – tiredness beginning to dig in deep. Yet it’s hard to sleep when you get this overtired. I cheated and took half a sleeping pill about 30 minutes before the end of my first night watch. The effect only kicks in after an hour, so sleep came only after I’ve handed over to Anthony. Besides, while on watch, I keep alert by doing some stretches and patrolling the back and sides of the boat. Movement helps hugely; it’s sitting still that encourages drowsiness. Thanks to a little help, even with just six hours before the next watch, I catch up sufficiently to banish that vacant starey look of he/she who has been a stranger to their bed for too long. I have to wake at 3.00 am for the second night shift, and find my get-up-and-go (which had all but gone), is back again. Dick, this morning, not so restored. But when his watch finishes at 2.00 this afternoon, he’ll no doubt crash out and catch up. Even Anthony, who is a stoic at this game, finished his early morning stint at 10.00 and then got his head down for some serious oblivion.

Today, the wind has freshened and is due to rise to about 30-35 knots later. We could sail far faster if we chose. Right now, with 20-25 knots of wind on the port quarter, even with just a jib, half-reefed at that – we’re skimmering along between 5-8 knots on a lively sea. But we’re all of the opinion that while the boat is so fully loaded, it’s kinder on Butterfly and ourselves to take things in more leisurely style. She is a fast boat – the slightest puff of wind and she wants to be off, but it makes sense to reign her in for a little while longer.

Last night the moon was blocked by a duvet of cumulus. Today, the sun doing its damnedest to break through the sullen cover. And hey, darn it, little by little, but it’s winning. No birds today or, rather, very few. What has chased them away is for them to know and us to guess. But the air is colder now, and sun or no sun, it’s thick fleeces or oilies on deck to banish the wind’s bite.

Back to the mysteries of the problemsome prop. Keeping it in gear when not in use continues to suit it. Later today, however, we will still check the nut on the sail drive to see if it’s held good. Dick would much prefer to secure it with Loctite but alas we have none.

I know it’s only been three and a half days at sea, but we have been eating well and yet still both fridges are chocka with food. I’m beginning to think if we had to row our way across the Atlantic, we’d still arrive with grub to spare. Anthony suggests using the last remaining chunk of tuna that we caught on our way to Capetown, for tonight’s evening meal. I have tried to ignore this reproachful lump of bruised-looking, ice-frosted flesh: a sorry reminder of its owner’s brutal demise. A crime I aided and abetted by taking mugshots of its execution – how could I? It’s no good, I’ll leave the guys to do what they will with it; I’ll stick to murdered rice and flailed veg instead. Some crimes are easier to stomach. (sorry).

Tuesday 17^th March – Day 5

(Position: 26°32’S 010°49’E)

Yesterday afternoon, the wind did freshen – to gale force. By five pm, the seas were froth-capped and choppy and dowsing us with great regularity. The wind blew hard – 35-45 knots, falling away from time to time only to return with renewed vigor. Thick cloud cover blew in and stayed in. Night sailing was a boisterous, wet, and noisy affair.

This morning the gale continued to rage on – but it’s surprising how quickly you adapt to it. Much staggering and lurching – the Boat Totter, I call it – for the next handhold, the next surface to prop yourself against. But no casualties apart from a pint of hot orange flung over the galley floor. But hey, it’s a good anti-slip when it dries!

Mostly the waves are slamming hard on the port side. A test for the portholes which three of the six that side have failed, albeit slightly. These are big waves we’re taking at times, so not surprising they’ve found some weaknesses. Of course, it’s not until a boat is thrown around on a lively sea in a determined gale that you discover where corners have been cut in material or sloppy workmanship. And these leaks have also highlighted where the wooden internal veneer has not been properly varnished – by staining it dark. For example – water flying in droplets through one porthole as a wave hit, has splashed the cupboard on the other side of the hull. This water has run down the cupboard door facia and seeped up the veneer from the underside of the cupboard door. Why? Because the bottom of the door wasn’t varnished. Hit and miss varnishing was something I kept complaining of to Steven who, in the end, took to rolling his eyes, as if it was an unreasonable request to ask for all surfaces to be properly sealed. But what he fails to understand is that boats are wet things inside and out, and unvarnished veneer – wherever it lurks – will stain. And it has, here on Butterfly – here and there and in a dozen places where stray water has sought it out. Luckily, the maple veneer we have dries out without staining, if not allowed to remain wet too long. Not so the other types of wood veneer apparently, which some AfricanCats’ buyers have ordered – so let’s hope there’s a little less eyeball rolling in future and a lesson learned. But it’s clear I have some serious varnishing touch up to do.

Another irritation today. One spectacularly large wave smashed into Butterfly and triggered the gas alarm which decided to remain permanently on. The noise is deafening. Sorting out the wiring needs time and patience, so a Blue Peter moment it was, with some spare Rand coins, a widget-wodget thingy (found in a drawer and of unknown origin!), and some electrical tape resulting in a make-shift pressure plug to depress the alarm switch and hold it in the off position – all of which sorted things out temporarily. Once the sea state and wind are calmer, we’ll go digging in the cockpit locker where the gas bottles are stored and try to find the sensor. All gas turned off, of course, but with not a whiff of the stuff, we’re pretty sure it’s just a failed sensor.

With the gale still raging, Butterfly winging along in a surge and roll sort of fashion under bare poles and doing anything between 5 and 9 knots. With even the merest scrap of sail, the violent gusts and big waves throw her around such that the autopilot has to work hard and the journey is too uncomfortable. Without sail or motor, she’s a happier lady … taking it all in her stride.

Downloading the lastest grib file, it seems we have another 24 hours of gale to weather.

Wednesday 18^th March – Day 6

(Position: 25°16’S 008°46’E)

The gale is due to blow itself out later today – hooray. But paradoxically, although not the weather we would choose, it’s been good for us. For example, last night, moon and stars were banished behind a barricade of sullen clouds; the walls of the night dense, muzzy and black. Only the ghostly tips of breaking waves visible, like tattered shrouds skittering, dissolving into threads and then no more. And the noise! The wind roaring and then suddenly falling silent, the hiss and cackle of surging water heckling the hull – as if the elements conspired in a deafening, frenzied urgency to hurry us through the night. But you know what? – it was all good! Perfectly fine, somehow. And where once I would have shuddered at the thought of being alone at the helm on a night like this, now, it’s not just okay – but enjoyable. The battery of noise, the pummeling of air and spray on skin, the urgent embrace of ocean, sky and night all around – all very exhilarating and strangely soothing. For after a while, you begin to recognize the chatter of the waves, to know when the next surge will come, the next mocking retreat. To feel when the boat will sashay on an extra-high wave and when it will pause and then swing off course as the wave lifts it, turns it, then leaves it behind; to gauge when the autopilot will struggle a little and a helping hand is called for. The Trade Winds might not be treating us gently at the moment, but they’re teaching us a lesson that’s very useful.

Well, writing this a little later at 4.20 pm, and at last the cloud cover is breaking up. As hoped, two days of gale coming to an end. Seas still choppy and the wind lively, and a series of squalls blowing in from the south west, but we’re flying the 75 sqm asymmetric again and zipping safely along. Butterfly is proving she’s well named – skimming high and light on the waves, not digging in. A jaunty, lively lady enjoying herself hugely. The gusts, however, are still a little too – well, gusty, for relaxed sailing, so soon it’s down with that spinny and back to the jib before the night settles in.

Titter ye not, but it seems to me sailing, while immensely enjoyable, is often a matter of hurtling from one minor (sometimes, major) fracas to another, with a brief spell of glorious fun in between. Yesterday, our fracas was the shrieking gas alarm; today, a terrific smell of hot veneer and plastic coming from the port hull. Dreadful visions of boiling engines (they weren’t even on), disintegrating water tanks and melted wiring turning the delight of sailing under blue skies once more to fears of imminent disaster. Then a rush of relief discovering it is simply the hot air heater blowing for all its worth in the port cabin, hidden behind some discarded foul weather gear. Someone had inadvertently knocked the heater switch on the nav station. Ah, sweet panic … all the sweeter for being fleeting and totally unnecessary!

Thursday 19^th March – Day 7

(Position: 23°56’S 006°24’E)

And it’s back to classic Trade Wind sailing. Blue skies, isolated puff-white clouds and a reliable SE blow, anything from 12-22 knots, but mostly hovering around the 20 knots mark. The day has been easy. Relax and potter time. Dick trying to get to grips with the AIS which isn’t playing ball as it should. Electronics are the bug bear – all the gadgets and data gizmos they support all very desirable in theory, but in practice, they seem to have too many layers of complication and too much scope for buggering up. But that’s me talking – shame on me, I need to spend more time doing battle with the bloody things. Being lazy, I was hoping to let Dick do the figuring and then piggy-back on his knowledge – but shhhhh – don’t tell him I said so.

While the weather is ace, there is now a rather disturbing lack of wildlife around us. Only one seabird today – a solitary petrel and he didn’t stay long, just a circuit of the boat and then back towards the south. A school of dolphins gave chase in the morning and that was it. But where are the birds? Anthony says every time he does this route, he sees less and less. Turn a full 360° circle and in all this vast expanse of sea and sky not a pair of wings in sight. Worrying. On a more cheerful note, however, we have proof there is at least some life in the deep blue. During the 3.00am-6.00am watch, sitting at the helm, a sudden zap, buzz, whoosh, plop! Something dark lands at my feet. Another flies past my head and two seconds later a third plops on the saloon roof just above the cockpit. Ah, thinks I, flying fish – now there’s another first for us. Er, wrong! Not fish, but squid – pop-eyed little squid – all three now lying flatly and forlornly in a puddle of indigo ink. Whatever terror was chasing them, the poor wee devils went from frying pan to fire. Looking at their soft little tubular bodies, the fringe of delicate translucent tendrils, how could something so pappy and small project itself so far? Fear-propelled, I guess. And yes, an hour later, Anthony was gifted with a genuine flying fish on his watch – which I’ve spent some time today trying to photograph. A little life so quickly spent, and all down to a rotten turn of luck: how could he know in mile upon mile of empty sea, the one and only boat around would interrupt his ill-timed trajectory? Taking shots of kaput fish, might seem a little cranky, but hey, I figure we owe him a little immortality!

Friday 20^th March – Day 8

(Position: 22°47’S 004°12’E)

It’s official – we love this life! When things are going smoothly (when they’re not is another matter entirely, of course) ocean-crossing is proving, as the expression goes, to be just what the doctor ordered. Neither of us were sure how we’d take to long sea passages with not just days, but weeks without sight of land. But this past week is proof enough that we’re in our element out here. Or, rather, we’re happy to be adrift in nothing but the elements.

Some yachties, I know, complain of the monotony or boredom of long passages, but it’s courses for horses and all that. The peace and rhythm of life at sea we’ve found to be both wonderful and endlessly fascinating. And over this week we’ve gradually adapted our lifestyle accordingly. Sleep is taken when and as watch duties and weariness dictate. And despite the frequent wakings for the night watches, how restorative those snatched naps now are. The constant tiredness of the first few days no longer a problem. Similarly, food is governed by appetite and energy needs. Apart from one main meal around 7 pm ish – no set meal times. Those small everyday rituals, shaving, showering, bed-making, washing up – also no longer shackled to certain hours as they are on land, but here on Butterfly done as and when it makes sense to do so. You have no idea how right this all seems, how gloriously liberating it is to cock a snoot at convention and live only according to your needs and the boat’s. The icing on the cake, of course, is that this Bohemian lifestyle change frees up so many extra hours for more pleasurable things. How much time we waste on land busying ourselves in doing stuff that’s not necessary or even particularly productive, let alone, enjoyable.

But perhaps the biggest thrill of all is the absence of concrete and plastic and shops and bureaucracy and cars and hype-gushy hordings and all of man’s unlovely, noisy, soulless busy-busy clutter. Here out at sea, it’s back to where it all began, and the unadulterated, boundless pleasures of nature, sun, sea, sky, the moon and stars and wind …. Life on the ocean wave? – Yay! And thrice Yay! Bring it on!

More prosaically, discovered today that storing vegetables in the lockers under the saloon table is not a good idea. Yes it’s cool and it’s watertight, but not enough air flow to stop the oranges and garlic stored there, gaining a fetching coat of green fuzzy mould. So much of this afternoon spent on the back of the boat, peeling those oranges and making a red wine, cinnamon and honey dressing for them to preserve them. The garlic similarly rescued by peeling and bottling in balsamic vinegar. The orange preserve I can strongly recommend – it’s fabulous. Now all we need is some home-made icecream to serve it with. Here’s hoping St Helena has the odd carton of cream to spare .

After bemoaning the lack of wildlife recently, today we’ve been inundated with shows of flying fish all day long. Good! Probably, because the water is getting decidedly warmer.

Saturday 21^st March – Day 9

(Position: 21°47’S 002°02’E)

Just hours away from crossing the Greenwich Meridian. Today’s weather absolutely perfick. Lightish winds, so 100 sqm aymmetric flying right now. We’re still taking things at a nice easy pace – enjoying the journey for all its worth. We lost a good deal of potential headway way back at the start of the week, having to go slowly to avoid the hammering coming from the starboard prop, which only kicked up a fuss when the speeds were higher. We’re still of the opinion it wasn’t feathering properly. Since keeping it in gear when not in use, no problem at all. An improper prop then! Then came those two days of gale forcing us to sail under bare poles. Throw in two or three days of very light winds and you can see why this isn’t going to be a record-breaker TA trip by any means. Poor Butterfly, her wings being severely clipped when she’d obviously far rather fly. That said, this is a very comfortable cruising pace.Today’s reliable, compliant winds are in sharp contrast to the fun and games we had last night. Deciding to fly the smallest spinny for the night, no sooner had the sun gone down then the wind began playing tricks. Up, up it rose and our speed also – so much so that playing safe, we swapped down for the jib. Immediately the wind died away. The pace a mere 4-5 knots per hour – at best. So up goes the little spinny again. Not to be outsmarted, the wind backs and keeps on backing – by 60°, and again, down the spinny came. Up went the main and jib which was fine while it lasted but not for the wind which then began swirling every few minutes, forcing us to either change the sails once more or settle for a course deviation . Tiredness won the night – sod the course, the sails were staying right where they were. Today, we’re back on track and wondering what larks await us tonight.

The excellent news is that since Day 2, we have used hardly any diesel at all – and that only to charge the batteries, partly because the Blue Sky unit is a devious awkward-minded little swine that keeps cutting out one of the solar panels, so we’re not getting as much solar power as we should; partly because we have a lot of nav instruments, two fridge/freezers, laptops, breadmachine, dishwasher and goodness knows what else that all need power. Reset the Blue Sky and all is well for a while – a day, an hour, a second – it likes to keep us on our toes. But go wrong it does sooner usually rather than later. Personally I’d like to use my toes to boot the bloody thing overboard, but it’s all we’ve got for now so I’ll resist the urge. Before we left there was much emailing and discussion with the Blue Sky agent, who is doing his best to help, but the short of it is nobody so far, seems to have a clue how to fix it. Having changed the control units, the suspicion is it’s been wired in wrongly. But do we let a silly thing like that upset our Shangrila out here at sea? Perish the thought!

On today’s agenda, such as it isn’t, am making a net laundry bag to tow behind the boat – an eco-washing machine, if you like. Not sure how well it will do on the squeaky clean stakes, but hey, it sounds like fun in a ‘I’m-doing-my-bit-for-the-environment’ sort of way. Anthony has settled for tying his shorts and shirts on the end of a spinny sheet and dragging them in the surf off the sugar scoop to wash them – and they come up fine, so I have big hopes for my wash bag, Fred Flintstone style as it is. I can sense your agog, feverish with curiosity – so will keep yers posted.

Monday 23^rd March – Day 11

(Position: 18°53’S 002°08’W)

We’re now about 200 miles from St Helena. For the past two days there has been little to see – not a single ship and only five birds in total – today, not one. Only flying fish put in an appearance from time to time – with long spells of absence in between. The barrenness of these seas feels so wrong – the impression being they’ve been fished to death. All that isn’t to deny the beauty of the ocean and sky which continue to enthrall, but it does highlight that man’s shortsighted greed is something that needs addressing – and fast. If you keep plundering the store cupboard without giving it time to replenish, it’s only a matter of time before that cupboard becomes bare. Out here, it seems that unhappy state is already nigh.

Well, I declare the eco-laundry bag a success. Not a new idea – I shamelessly nabbed it from someone else, can’t remember who – but it’s a neat efficient way of dealing with washing. Finished sewing it yesterday and christened it this morning. The Butterfly laundry method now consists of soaking dirty clothing in strong solution of washing powder overnight in a bucket tucked away in the cockpit. Come morning, hoi it into robust net bag and tow behind the boat for twenty minutes while sailing briskly along. Wring out well to minimize the amount of saltwater left in fabric, dunk in freshwater if you’re feeling particular, and then hang out to dry on guard rails. Sun willing (it has been so far) you have clean dry clothes by the afternoon. I know now I don’t want (or need) a washing machine, that’s for sure, not if we continue to sail in such sunny climes. Ask me again if we ever take Butterfly back to damp, cold England!

Tuesday 24^th March – Day 12

(Position: 17°25’S 004°24’W)

Last night we romped along in a series of squalls with 10-15 minutes of lull in between. No moon, no stars and little if any phosphorescence – it was a black, black night, but a warm one. Still flying the smallest (75sqm) asymmetric spinny – it’s a gem – sets beautifully well and gives an assured, comfortable ride. With 24 knots of wind – which is what we had at times last night, Butterfly was nicely stable and romping along. The 135sqm assy also very good for day sailing – again, setting well and an easy-to-please number, but not suitable for night winds which tend to get lively from time to time. The middle spinny – 100sqm – is our least favourite. This doesn’t set as well as the other two, and frankly, we seem to have little use for it.

Today, the wind has swung easterly and Dick and Anthony reset the asymmetric spinny off the port bow. The winds lightish with periods of zip now and then. Only hours now from St Helena. How strange the thought of not sailing! Having heard so much of St Helena, we’re keen to find out what it’s like for ourselves. Current thinking is a two day stopover which Anthony assures us should allow us enough time to see most of what the island has to offer.

Discovered the auxillary alternator on the starboard engine has shredded its fanbelt again. Buggeroo. A new one was fitted in Capetown, after the alternator was realigned. No obvious reason for the failure after such a short time – only 9 hours motoring – other than it is not strong enough for the job? Dick has fitted a new one, but how long this will hold is anybody’s guess. Apparently, Lombardini are aware there is a problem and there has been much talk of providing new, better fan belts. Ha – you can be sure we’ll be first in line to try one of these out! Also playing silly buggers is the starboard freshwater pump. There seems to be a small air leak which keeps the pump active when it shouldn’t be. A slow process of checking the plumbing at every juncture to find the cause of the leak. Also a large constant leak into the port cabin, floor level cupboard. Seems to be coming from the fridge in the galley – but impossible to diagnose with the boat rocking and rolling, so something to get to grips with in St Helena once we’re moored up. We’ve already replumbed the fridge to eliminate a previous leak, so not sure how this new one has started up.

After some further tinkering with the Blue Sky wiring, Dick’s at least got the solar panels to both play ball for several days at a time, rather than hours, before the old trouble recurs of one panel dropping out. Progress, we’re discovering, as far as wiring and plumbing goes, frequently comes in small lurches in the right direction, rather than an instant solution!

Delighted to report, however, the autopilot, since Jeremy’s interventions, has been ace. (Thank you Mr P.)

It’s odd, but now that we are reliant on the watermaker for our fresh H2O, we’re being much more sparing with the wet stuff. We weren’t exactly profligate before, but even though we can (if all stays well) make as much as we want, there’s a more acute sense of waste not want not. This is also governed by the knowledge that things fail – watermakers being no exception, also by a desire to do as little motoring as possible – the peace of sailing far too attractive to surrender for anything other than the shortest necessary periods.

Wednesday 25^th March – Day 13 (St Helena)

(Position: 15°55’S 005°43’W)

Sailing through the night but a first for two weeks – the smell of land in the air. We approached St Helena in the wee small hours, with no moon, no stars and the night about as black as it could be. Then suddenly, out of the velvet void, the distant glimmer of two – perhaps it was three – lights, faintly flickering at first, then as the distance narrowed, becoming brighter and constant. Drawing ever nearer, the dense outlines of cliffs loomed to port and all three of us stayed on deck, watching the coastline, looking for navigation lights. Eventually, the distinct 2 white flashes every ten seconds of Buttermilk Point. From there on we could grope our way along using the guiding lights and the chart.

The wind was fluky and keeping on course meant changing sails but we managed to sail all the way in – deliberately keeping things nice and easy trying to time our arrival with daybreak, the better to see the anchorage.

At 6.30 am, with dawn breaking, a wonderfully timely ferryman appeared out of James Bay and guided us to our spot. Anchor dropped like clockwork and took bite first time. And hey, there lay the volcanic craggy vertiginous peaks of St Helena only metres from our boat. The surface of those crags covered in what looked like old net curtains – wire netting swathed like skin – to stabilize the earth and rock slides they’re prone to here. For the first time in days, the welcome sight and cries of birds – fairy terns and sooty terns soaring and dipping between sky and sea. The bay itself with a gentle scattering of other boats – mostly monos bobbing gently in the morning breeze. To say the scene was quaint is truthful, but doesn’t do it sufficient justice. James Bay is a natural beauty spot, and one that is a joy to find – a true taster of the timeless charm and unspoiled ambience of the whole island itself. Tired and grubby, I still couldn’t wait to go explore St Helena ashore. But with next to no sleep through the night for any of us, we each schlumped off to our cabins to get a couple of hours nap before checking in. Here, at James Bay, you radio for the ferryman to take you ashore, a wiry fella with a gritty glint of eye and a magnificent set of bracingly white, astonishingly level teeth. Whether his own or the work of a dental technician with a meticulous eye and a love of straight lines, I couldn’t tell.

Once ashore, we couldn’t find our land legs. The hard earth rolling and dipping beneath every step. Weird, but the effect gives you a certain lightness of step – and comical unsteadiness of gait, of course. And that’s after a mere twelve days at sea. Strolling (rolling?) into the town, we went through the necessaries of checking in – only to find the powers that be now want proof of medical insurance as well as the usual passports and other documentation normally required.. We have medical insurance, it’s true, but no proof of it directly – no convenient bit of paper stamped and signed. So it was off to another part of town where they will conveniently sell you some – for a fee. At £1.30-something per person per day, with a £5.00 surcharge if the total bill for the crew didn’t amount to more than £25, it was not exactly daylight robbery, but a nice little earner for the St Helena tourist board all the same.

Wonderfully atmospheric in an of-times-gone-by way, the buildings and scenery of St Helena’s town are a delight. Sadly, this day we had no time to take many photos, nor to explore further – we had some serious boat repairs to effect and only the afternoon to do them in, so it was a quick snack at Ann’s, a brief look at the internet – too brief to update the blog, alas – and then back to the boat for some work. Tomorrow, we’re doing the complete tourist bit – tours, stately homes and ancient tortoises – the whole island works, so happily, playtime has only been postponed not cancelled.

Back at the boat, there are several issues that need fixing, but most pressing are the gas sensor and the substantial leak that fills the port cabin bilge as soon as we empty it – and a smaller leak in the cupboard above it. The gas sensor – as I mentioned earlier – after a spectacularly big wave, took to ringing deafeningly and no amount of coaxing could switch it off. We don’t think we actually have a leak, just a scuppered sensor, but we need to find out soon. Anthony decided to tackle this one. Climbing in the gas bottle locker in the cockpit, he had to cut away some rough fibre-glassing AfricanCats had done, in order to access the sensor stowed away in the bilge. Not a great place to site a sensor as bilges are prone to getting wet! Sure enough, the sensor was toast – wet toast – thanks to having been copiously dunked as we sailed and regularly took on some wave action. So, as hoped, no gas leak to worry about, just a soggy sensor that needs replacing – somewhere a little more sensible (and accessible). But with no sensor in action and no spare on board, we’ve decided to carry on turning the gas off in the locker after every use as a safety measure.

The port cabin bilge leak not quite so easily diagnosed and sorted. At first, it appeared the large quantities of water appearing in the bilge were coming from the cupboard above that drains into it – because that too was very wet. As to why this cupboard should be awash was a mystery. After various checks and sticking heads into all sorts of other cupboards and digging out appliances to get at pipe runs and plumbing joints, we finally discover the water in the bilge is mainly coming, not from the cupboard above, but from the big locker under the bed forward of the engine compartment. This is stuffed to the rafters with rope and a drogue and a calorifier water heater. Digging out the rope, we find beneath it a lake – and turning on the freshwater pump – the one that seems to have a permanent air leak in it – we immediately produce a fountain from one of the plumbing joints stowed in this compartment. Taking the joint to bits, Dick finds a plastic fitting that has sheared clean through. Why and how and when is another matter, but at least we have a spare fitting to put in its place. In effect, then, every time we’ve turned on the freshwater supply, we’ve been virtually throwing good drinking water – litres of it – straight into the bilge, which explains why no matter how much water we’ve made these past few days, we can’t seem to make much of an impression on filling the tanks. Thank heavens we found this now and not on our way to Brazil. So, after some remedial plumbing, we wait till tomorrow to see if the repair holds good. If not, then on to Plan B. Heigh ho!

The other leak – the one in the cupboard above the bilge – well, our hope is that this is merely splash back from the bilge below. With the extremely turbulent motion of the ocean at times, any water in the bilge (coming from the sheared plumbing joint) may well have found its way into this cupboard through a ragged hole that’s been cut or left in the cupboard floor. Presumably this is supposed to be a drainage hole, but its roughness and highly irregular shape suggests it may just be an oversight – a poorly constructed pipe run gap that nobody bothered to tidy up. At all events, given that today there has been no leak in this cupboard, the first in days, and that this is probably due to our now being more stable while at anchor so less swilling about from the bilge water below – bodes well. Because if swill back is the cause, then it’s easy enough to cure.

So, this evening spent putting the boat back together again and then a little later, a little breather before an early night – to catch up on some much needed shuteye. But before tucking in, looking out across James Bay as the sun begins to sink, must say how lovely it is to be here. More than anything, it is the reappearance of birds and the idyllic fishing harbour scene that make the heart quicken. St Helena, where television was only introduced in 1995 (alas that it found its way here at all); where the shops are few and must await fresh supplies to be boated in; where it’s that old British custom of yesteryear of half-day closing on Wednesdays; and where the pace of life is as gentle as the strange hybrid accent of its occupants – with its peculiar lilting drawl and surprising Irish ‘oi’ vowel – is, one senses, very, very special. Special enough that I can’t wait to explore it more fully tomorrow … with loaded camera of course.

Thursday 26^th March – Day 14 (St Helena To Forteleza)

(Position: 15°55’S 005°43’W)

Am writing this in retrospect – by one day (today is Friday). Too busy yesterday to pen down the day’s doings until it was too late and all of us too tired to do more than flop into cruising mode once we had weighed anchor. Already, the flavour of the day is becoming distant – now that we are at sea once more and launched on our third leg of the journey from Durban to St Lucia. But the memories of St Helena will always be happy ones – almost bittersweet for our having so little time to spend there. As it was, we anchored about 6.00 am Wednesday morning and weighed anchor at a little past 5.00 pm on Thursday. Not quite 36 hours to savour this glorious little gem set in isolation in the Southern Atlantic. Dick and I now both resolved not to rush any further stopovers that hold such promise and reward.

Back to Thursday: Anthony had kindly booked us all a taxi tour of the island the day before, so at 9.00 am the ferryman (of he of luminescent geometrically-correct toothsomeness) chugged us ashore and we sauntered up to the tourist office in the heart of town, a building that lies under the arching shade of a splendiferous ficus borne on a centuries old, wrought-muscled trunk. And lo, soon our chariot rolled up. A small bakkie with TAXI writ large in neon yellow and an open air roll bar cage. Robert, our driver, is a charmer. An islander all his life, he knows everyone and everywhere and made the leisurely tour a real treat. Lucky for us, the weather was fine and sunny so visibility was excellent – even as we shake-rattled-and-rolled our way to the highest spots. Robert’s carriage is a fine upstanding beastie, but has more of the mule about it than Arabian stallion pedigree. All of which merely added to the fun, of course.

Of huge tourist importance is the island’s proud boast of Napoleon Bonaparte history. Bonaparte being exiled there until the grim reaper came a-calling 6 years later. So a trip to The Briars was first stop – Napoleon’s temporary residence for two-three months before he was moved to more suitable quarters – Longwood House. At both places, there was another islander waiting to spill the spiel and escort us around, both with that same enviable charm and genuine love of their subject that Robert has for his homeland. Longwood House is odd. A labyrinth of rooms where you lose all sense of direction: the salon where Napoleon breathed his laboured last (of stomach or pancreatic cancer not arsenic poisoning being the latest verdict), the drawing room where he reclined and read (a lot, apparently, there being little else to do), the bathroom with the incredibly steep-sided tin bath where he – well, bathed (also a lot, this guy was seriously bored) and the pantry and dining room and library and oooh – lots of connecting rooms and servants quarters in between. But to avoid disappointment, don’t go expecting to find too much Bonaparte DNA hanging around. Many artifacts and furnishings are replicas or substitutes and even Old Boney’s death mask is an approximation, rather than a strict likeness. The French and the years have long since claimed the genuine articles for their own. But the charm of the place is none the worse for that, I guess. Longwood House is also worth visiting for the gorgeous gardens it nestles within. Immaculately kept in a kindly, natural way, they provide an easy-on-the-eye setting for the house, the paths between borders being of rough but tightly-strimmed grass that’s springy and verdant beneath the foot. A real picture book scene, so take your camera and have plenty of film spare, or ample room on your memory card.

Bouncing along in Robert’s bakkie, we were surrounded by steep hedgerows at times, sheer fall-away valleys at others. And everywhere flax – growing wild, the spent exotic stalks of its blooms lancing skywards. Robert used to work at the flax mill, as did his ‘daddy’ and he knows more about the process than anyone else, I would guess. But the flax is now left more or less to its own devices to give architectural interest to the abundant greenery that clothes the steeply-spined, deeply-pitted landscape. In its mountain peak plushness, St Helena is almost Madeira-like but with a peculiar appeal all of its own. It does quaint with a capital Q. To describe it as the island that time forgot isn’t quite as accurate as calling it the island where time has put its feet up. Certainly it’s a breath of fresh air to those tired of the modern obsession with slick technology and slicker-still marketing; but with so many of the island’s youth fleeing to more sophisticated lifestyles abroad, the fear among the remaining, ageing population is that life there will be unsustainable financially if things continue in this same vein. So, much talk and wrangle about the proposed airport that some welcome as a means to bring in more tourists and more cash (and to bring their children home quickly and efficiently), but which others see as a threat to the very charm of the place, its naivety and wholesomeness. With a global recession biting deep and showing signs of being long in the recovery, it’s unlikely, whatever the pro-airport lobby’s hopes, that such a thing will receive the financial backing of the UK for some time, if at all. Well, a new airport on a tiny outpost that many have never heard of, that has a population of less than four thousand, that has little to offer in the way of reciprocal reward, it isn’t hard to see that it’s unlikely to be a priority when times are hard.

But back to the tour – if you ever get the chance to visit St Helena, don’t miss this excursion. The island is too hilly to do on foot unless you’re there for a week or two, and then you had better be fit to even contemplate some of the walks. Land here goes up and down with a vengeance, and nothing much stays on the flat for long. But see it all you must – that old cliché of breathtaking views has never been more appropriate. And like us, you can revel in the friendliness of the islanders and the gentle ramshackle architecture. Even the car number plates are charming – three figures only – 163 or at the most, four – 2044 – so few of them are there! As an aside of pure whimsy, Robert told us that the island’s prison frequently only holds one or two prisoners, crime being something of a rarity in this gentle land. And we can believe it – everybody knows everybody and where to run if the devil does lead astray? But the genuine friendliness of the folk who live here speaks of a relaxed open society at one with itself.

The only concession to modern times is the recent appearance of cell phones and an internet café, Anne’s Place, where for £6.00 an hour you can broadband and surf, among the flag and shell and bric-a-brackerie terraces, nestling in the richly verdant borders of the Church gardens.

Also of huge delight – well, to me and Anthony, who is an ardent twitcher – are the fairy terns. These birds are well named. White feathered Tinkerbells that shimmer in the light of sunny or cloudy days, their dainty wings sharply angled to elegantly tapering points; their flight a darting, soaring, swooping dance usually done in synchronized pairs. One of these delicate, achingly beautiful little birds was agitatedly hovering in the town’s churchyard, its head sharply angled down. And peering in between the wrought iron railings, I could see its partner, fluttering helplessly on the ground, hemmed in by a tangle of shrubby weeds against the church wall. Again and again it tried to fly free but kept dropping in a heap of forlorn feathers to the ground. What ailed it is anybody’s guess, but the distress of both sufferer and partner hovering anxiously above was palpable. Horrible to see but unable to help, the frustration of seeing animals suffer so is wretched.

On a happier note, the freedom of cows left to graze the hillsides – they’ve given up dairy farming on St Helena – and with chickens free to scutter and cluck along the roadside, in gardens wherever they fancy, is a delight.

We shopped for fresh supplies of fruit and vegetables, and found a little to fit the bill, but the prices are steep and the choice very limited. So best not to rely on restocking in the way of food, or anything else much if you do call by.

All in all, a far too brief but hugely rewarding stopover. By 4.30 pm, we were back on the boat, making ready to set sail. And after a bit of a skirmish with an anchor that came up facing the wrong way, and a bridle attachment arrangement that is far from ideal – we’re still working on that one – and a chain that slipped at times (something we’ll definitely be raising with AfricanCats – but something we must address with speed) – we headed off on a course of 287° True. There behind us, the lights of St Helena flickering in the day’s dying light. It was a tugging moment, and felt almost as if we’d never been there – almost as if the island, like Brigadoon, was disappearing back into the mist of yesterdays, until, enveloped by the encroaching dusk, it ceased to exist at all. But life must go on. Even as the sky blackened with full-blown night and the stars shyly came a-peeping, so it was back to the routine of three-hourly watches at night; four-hourly by day.

So goodbye then, gentle, whimsical, fey and charming St Helena … we shall miss you more than you will know.

Friday 27^th March – Day 15

(Position: 15°18’S 007°34’W)

Day breaks and it’s back in the old routine. Throughout the night, a slightly skittish ESE- SE wind blows us smartly along. We’re still content to cruise comfortably rather than chase speed for speed’s sake. So it’s been up with the 75sq metre asymmetric and leave it there to do its very reliable thing. Mostly, during the night, we were making 7-9 knots. Today, with the arrival of the sun, that has fallen to 6-7. Good enough even so. Mixed blessings of cloud and sun today, but the air temperature is warming up noticeably. Soon we can abandon the duvets and go back to the damask sheet and light woollen throw. No need for oilies on night duty any more either – although that may change should things turn wet, which is likely further along our journey.

Dick’s repairs to the plumbing in the webasto compartment – the sheared joint thing – have been successful. No more slosh, slosh, slosh in the cabin bilge; no more pool of the wet stuff in the cabin’s lower cupboard. The only leak we now have to crack is the one that runs behind the stairs on the starboard side. This is a tiny one, but it’s staining the veneer at either end of the top step so something still isn’t watertight as it should be. This veneer problem of staining, as I’ve mentioned before is a curse, but also a blessing. Unsightly while it marks, it does disappear if dried up fairly swiftly, but it also serves as an early warning alarm that something isn’t right. Without these small stains either side of the stair, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong. Nothing is wet or dripping; nothing can be seen to even dribble. It’s only after the staining alerts, that upon closer inspection we find about a teaspoon of water lurking here and there at the very back of the watermaker cupboard almost behind the stairs where it’s impossible to reach much – above the watermaker itself. But we’re still baffled as to the origin. All joints seem sound. So, we’ll find it in time, I’ve no doubt, but it remains a source of mystery and a challenge even so.

Another mystery is the auxillary alternator shredding yet another fan belt. At least we think it has – the power output from this unit having dropped substantially again. If it has gone – and we’ll check later once the engine has cooled sufficiently (we’ve just been motoring for the past hour or so for breadmaking, watermaking and laptopping) this new one has lasted less than 4-5 hours. The realignment done in Capetown not accurate enough? Nothing rough to cause such friction can be found that’s sure. But again, the cause and solution will become apparent eventually – dig long enough and it usually does! Now we’re back on the high seas, it’s also back to no birds and no ships and not a single flying fish. Just sea and sky and sky and sea and then some more of same. And after one night’s unbroken sleep while moored up in James Bay, it’s back to grabbing naps and top-up forty-winkers when and as we can. No complaints – life aboard is soothing and relaxing at the moment. The rhythm of the sea is a hypnotic, lulling one, marked by the tipsy lilt of roll and sway and swoosh as Butterfly wings her way along.

And now, I must fly – the bread’s almost finished, the watermaker has done its thing and this old lady has rather a lot of photographs to process from yesterday’s whirlwind tour of St Helena which gave both cameras a full work out. The challenge being to work on photos in the evening when I can see what I’m doing, but when I’m either on watch or cooking, or napping before the wee small hours stint that is always an exercise in forced alertness. Working on photographs during the day is just impossible – too much light on the computer screen, too much reflection. Look at your work later when it’s dark, and you find everything too saturated, too contrasty and coarse – the trickery of bright light leading to heavy-handed processing, which looks fine in the day’s bleaching brightness, of course, but a travesty when viewed in the reality of gentler light levels.

Dick and Anthony are currently sorting out a twist at the top of the asymmetric sail – only a small one, but it needs sorting, and again, the AIS 12v alarm begins ringing loudly – as it does from time to time though we haven’t a clue why, since all seems sweet. Another mystery to add to the list, then!

So on we roll and on we fly and on and on go the sea and sky … and life aboard Butterfly is good albeit with a stop and start flow of puzzles to solve.

Sunday 29^th March – Day 17

(Position: 13°56’S 012°31’W)

Yesterday not a good day. If it could go wrong it did. I wrote a scathing blog piece about it all, threw every teddy out of the pram and cursed a lot – colourfully. But today has been better and so we’ll can yesterday’s rant and move on in more positive tone. Because whatever the trials of non-co-operative electronics (yes, those bloody bugbears again) it’s definitely back to revelling in life on the ocean wave - and blue skies and gentle clouds and a glorious butterball of a sun that seems to beam goodwill on all and sundry, especially us.

Besides, the problems of yesterday and last night are somewhat improved. The inverter (which turned itself off) was brought back to life through the highly technical means of – wait for it – turning it off and then turning it on again! Ever a Lazarus manoeuvre that one. The latest fan belt to be fitted has stayed intacta. Though this probably has much to do with Dick’s re-realignment of the auxillary alternator, implying the Capetown guy didn’t quite get it right. The starboard engine battery warning light has remained off (another delightful hiccough of yesterday) and the engine runs as sweetly as ever. We think we’ve sussed the business of the banging prop – after it started up again today. That this only happens when we’re motor sailing and the wind is strong, so we’re effectively being blown along faster than the motor is turning the prop, seems to be the key. Hard to explain, but if the engine speed isn’t as fast or faster than the wind then the prop seems to try to feather and open erratically. Increase the engine revs and all is well. Slow your sailing speed by reducing sail and all is well. We’re also taking great pains to feather it properly after turning it off. Anyhoo, all seems sweetness for the now, so hooray!

For the rest, the weather just gets better and better – and hotter and hotter as we press further and further towards the equator. We’re dancing along on a spangled sea with a fair ol’ breeze and only a scattering of fluff ball clouds in the blue above. The only discordant note being that despite the kindness of the wind, we must ruin the peace by firing the engine at least twice, sometimes three times, a day, for an hour or so to keep the batteries healthy. We’re being pretty sparing with electrical juice so it’s not wasteful wantonness on our part, honest guv.

A pleasant surprise is how well our fresh fruit and vegetable supplies are doing. We topped up with a very few extra greeneries in St Helena as there was little to buy anyway. But nonetheless, shall be sorry to be without melon and plums now – both of which lasted incredibly well. Part of that success comes from electing to use the chest freezer as a fridge – so effectively giving us two fridges to store fresh produce in. The chest freezer holds a handsome amount, too, so plenty of room for other supplies. The small freezer section of the galley fridge is deceptively large, so we still have plenty of chicken and other meats frozen in store. And when those stocks dwindle, well, then, time to fish again.

Something that fascinates are the boat voices. All three of us hear them. And it’s the suddenness of the conversation that stops you in your tracks – out of the blue, a muttered word, a clear order, an exclamation, a whispered aside, laughter – hearty but fleeting, the jovial burble of a cocktail party in full throw … it’s very weird and no matter how often it happens, it still stops you in your tracks and has you looking around for the source. In reality it’s just the conversation between boat and sea and wind, but darn it if it doesn’t sound human enough. I’d hate these voices to ever go, I know that! – it’s like traveling with a party of friends that are always just out of sight – good company, and quirkily entertaining.

No birds again today; no fish to see; no ships or signs of other life at all. But always the delightful company of the sea and waves and clouds and sun and – lucky for us – our faithful friend – Mr S.E. Trade Wind. He’s blown a little fierce at times, and he’s danced a whirling jig at others, but never for long; mostly he’s been faithfully urging us along. A voice that is rarely silent for long. Quixotic electronics aside – hey, this cruising milarky – it’s a darned good life!

Monday 30^th March – Day 18

(Position: 12°31S 014°27’W)

Business as usual but for one small event – the sighting of another ship! That such a little thing should be the cause of much excitement shows how our extended solitude upon the high seas these past days and in the days preceding our arrival in St Helena has turned the ordinary into the slightly extra-ordinary. A big ship, it was, too. Named rather less than nautically-convincing, Cosmic Jewel. Sounding more like a moniker for a crystal-ball gazing fortune teller. Belting along at 14 knots – oh, alright, stomping along, then – the tanker suddenly appeared on the horizon dead ahead late in the afternoon and then passed within 2 nm to port. The AIS picking her up and sounding the alarm but only when the safety zone of 2 nm had been breached. We need better warning far sooner of traffic at a greater distance, but alas, alack, we’re still stumped how to programme the bloody thing for this. None of the manuals cover this problem, nothing in the software deals with it either. All of which reinforces the need for constant vigil while on watch – eyes being more reliable than quirky gadgetry.

A gorgeous day weatherwise – wonderful for cloud-gazing. So many exotic shapes and wild-limbed beasties sailing across the canopy of gentlest blue, like a never-ending pageant of mythical creatures, engaged in pursuit, in terror, in larky gambol – all the while morphing into another entity altogether until thinned and indistinct they wisp out into blue yonder oblivion or bunch into formless mass. Ah, lucky swines we three that we should have time for such idle reverie!

Inverter not being quite as compliant again as we’d hoped. Seems turning it off at the nav station doesn’t turn it off at all. The control box for it hidden in the lockers behind the sofa is where it’s at. A nuisance having to get out the leather cushions and open the locker up each time we want to invert or not invert, but that it still works one way or another is a relief. Another addition to the To-Be-Fixed list then.

Washing day – sheets and pillowcases and duvet covers. Butterfly looking like a floating laundry by midday. But lovely to smell the freshness of those sheets now they’ve been rinsed and sun-dried and smoothed a little – Eau d’Ozone always a fragrance to relish! And last night a sudden downpour laundered Butterfly herself. A timely shower, just as the solar panels were beginning to salt up again and the deck in need of a rinse: for despite my swabbing it regularly with sea water and wielding a brisk brush, the free deluge from above has proved far more thorough.

Some time ago, Mr SE Trade Wind handed over to his brother, Mr ESE Trade Wind. A fine upstanding pair these hearty dudes, who are looking after us just dandy.

Tuesday 31^st March – Day 19

(Position: 11°25’S 016°23’W)

Lighter winds all day. Must be my mentioning Messrs SE and ESE so commendably yesterday – it’s gone to their heads. But a gentle day meant up with the largest of the asymmetrics – the135 sq metre jobbie. The one with a bright yellow butterfly emblazoned against the blue. Ideal conditions for this, since the wind varied between 8-15 knots most of the day and the sea was as smooth as a baby’s – well, a baby’s ripply bottom. Do baby’s have ripply ones? Ah, yes, but they do – chubby cheeked bairns have deliciously ripply botties – think Reubens cherubs and all that – so perhaps my dodgy analogy holds good then …ahem.

Now a third of the way to Forteleza. A third from St Helena that is. And still those unlovely diesel cans stowed under the cockpit table are as full as the day we left Capetown. Good news. Still only using the engines to charge the batteries.

The new moon of last night stayed through my shift, bless it, and then disappeared. But while it lasted, it again threw down a silky glittering moonpath to the bows of the boat this time. And the path it lit was precisely the course we had set – now what is that? Kismet or cosmic convenience? A ditzy romantic noodle like mine prefers to think the former. So for the full three hours of watch, that spangling, dancing moonway led Butterfly true with only a tweak from me to ensure she faithfully kept to its shimmering lead. Tonight, there is far more cloud, so I doubt I’ll be as lucky. Who knows though – since there is always a certain frisson of magic in the air when night sailing.

Just finished a wonderful book by Peter Nichols – Evolution’s Captain. The subtitle being, “The tragic fate of Robert Fitzroy, the man who sailed Charles Darwin around the world.” Most readable and absolutely fascinating. Here are we in glorious sunshine and the fairest of blows surrounded with all mod cons (when they’re working) enjoying the easiest sailing in the world; Fitzroy, by comparison, spent not weeks, but years slogging away around Cape Horn, the Magellan Strait, and the Beagle channel (he named it after the ship carrying him), trying to map that wretchedly hostile territory in the most appalling of conditions in a boat that had none of today’s navigational electronic wizardry and with no help from charts or weather forecasts at all. But then the weather didn’t need forecasting – it was almost always viciously galeforce and worse. Fitzroy, apart from being a splendidly gifted navigator and captain, was also responsible for establishing what we know today as the Met Office. A very gifted chap who could charm for England, and with a formidable understanding of science, but cursed with a fateful character flaw that cost him his happiness and ultimately robbed him of his rightful place as a nautical giant. If you enjoy sailing or, indeed, just a rollicking good yarn, then Peter Nichols is a writer to seek out anyway. This is the third book of his I’ve romped through and each one has been excellent. Especially good is A Voyage for Madmen, his wonderful account of the 1968-69 Golden Globe solo circumnavigation race which Sir Robin Knox Johnston ultimately won, thereby establishing his fame in the world of sailing. Nichols is a sailor himself, so writes with authority and a keen understanding of the trials and tribulations his protagonists encounter at sea. His research, which he wears skillfully lightly, seems to be impeccable and his prose has you turning the pages and fast. Highly recommended.

Wednesday 1^st April – Day 20

(Position: 09°28’S 018°08’W)

April Fool’s Day. And for a while, the wind making fools of us – by disappearing altogether. This was our first session, since leaving Capetown , of motoring for sheer lack of puff. But just as we were resigned to the iron sail’s thrum and throb, back came the prodigal wind, but with rain. Our first truly serious downpour of the whole trip. The seas were flattened, turning to blue velour dunes, silky smooth, not a frill nor swoosh of skittering foam anywhere. Almost as if the world had been Photoshopped with a soft filter blur. Consequently, the humidity levels have gone through the roof – and the air is beaded – melt-heavy with water. In the cabins, where nothing can be opened in the way of refreshing the atmosphere, it’s sauna time. The moment the sun appears and the rain faucet is shut, why, it’s fling open the hatches and belt out on deck – fast!

As we climb ever higher towards the equator, it’s likely we’ll have more of these rain squalls. Next time, I think a bucket under the gooseneck should be proffered to appease the weather gods, an appreciative gesture, if you like. For despite the luxuries of watermakers, there is still a certain apprehension that the bally thing might choose not to work. And although nothing is said to this effect, it’s telling that all three of us are still being rather parsimonious with the wet stuff. Seawater being used for all washing up, hair washing, and clothes washing. It may not be ideal – the cutlery and pans show little acne blooms of rust which need scouring off from time to time, but hey, it’s good enough and won’t hurt for another few weeks or so.

Again we must play with the clocks. Another fifteen degrees west now, so it’s back they go by an hour. The fun being that we can do this when we so elect – at 2pm seemed most convenient today, nobody wanting their night shift to be extended by a full 60 minutes. I mean, you can have too much of a good thing, can’t you!

A gannet, a solitary, neck-craning gannet flew three times around the boat today before winging its way eastwards and into the distance. And a sooty tern, or, as Dick called it – a fat swallow – kept us company on and off for an hour this afternoon. Well, Hooray for them. Glad sights both. We were probably the most appreciative audience they will ever charm.

Thursday 2^nd and Friday 3^rd April – Day 21 and 22

(Position: 08°57’S 020°18’W and 08°18’S 022°40’W)

For most of both days we’ve had to resort to motoring again. Our friend, Mr SE Trade Wind is tired, poor lamb, and is obviously having a much-needed vacation. Unfortunately, the locum sent in to replace him, is patently learning the ropes – which gave rise to a whole lot of fun (said with more than a tinge of irony). I mean fun if you don’t mind getting sodden while that novice blow plays silly buggers coming from any direction that takes its fancy – but never staying constant long enough to keep the sails filled. So all morning it was up with the spinny, down with the spinny, up with the main, down with the main, out with the jib, in with the jib – over and over, until, soaked through with squall after squall we gave the huff ‘n’ puff pretender the finger and discarded any ideas of sailing altogether. But my, those squalls were something else! Sudden fierce deluges of warm fine rain drumming a deafening tattoo on hatches and carriage roof alike. And honest to goodness, it was the wettest sort of rain imaginable. Hey, and, why is it that at the first show of rain, everything inside the boat gets wet and clammy too? No – no leaks, just wet bodies dashing in for a change of clothing, or a drink or bite to eat and soon the entire boat is steamy damp. Well, today, Friday, the sun has blazed, the rain is duly banished and it’s been fug-sweaty hot from sun up to sun down. So hot even the unshaded deck areas have scorched our poor feet. So hot that for a while or twenty, I sat on the bottom sugar scoop, feet and ankles dangling in the water, trying to cool what felt like boiling blood; so hot that we filled our empty pop bottles with fresh water then chilled them in the freezer; and so hot, hot, hot, that no matter how much of that iced water we drank, insatiable thirst levels demanded more. But no complaints will you hear, for what extraordinarily fine weather it was too – the sort that makes it impossible to be anything other than light-headedly, heart-bubblingly happy.

So, evening now and still no wind, but hooray, the cagoules are all dry again, so, too, the shorts and Ts and bed linen, towels and mopping rags are all washed and dried and sunned into neat folded piles ready for putting away. Even the sunscreens, scrubbed and double-scrubbed free of their Durban and Capetown grime, are now whitely and crisply poppered back into place, bleached once by Jik and again by the sun.

This morning, amid all this jolly Widow Twanky scrub session, I found a tiny feather. I mean absolutely minimalist miniscule miniature – as if from a fairy bird, a true Thumbelina of the bird world. Anthony and Dick had apparently discovered a nocturnal visitor to Butterfly last night during their watch switch-over. Not a tiny visitor, either, as my feather would suggest, but something sort of pigeon sized. So my dainty wispy quill, a token from its head, perhaps? Anyway, turning on the spreader lights to get a better look, they had only succeeded, alas, in startling it into flight. Well, tonight, our feathered friend is back once more. Perched chirpily on the port pulpit, busily preening itself; it’s obviously decided Butterfly is the nightly sea taxi to take the strain out of life. How long he’ll keep us company is anybody’s guess, but he must have been flying around us all day to have kept pace with us – yet we didn’t see him once. This evening, nervous of alarming it, Anthony and I, looking no doubt like prize eejits, have been peering at it through bins from the cockpit, through the gap between carriage roof and bimini. Like a couple of Chads. And there he is, our night-lodger, cool as mustard, taking the evening air, rocking on Butterfly’s prow while I type this, at eight forty-seven pm precisely.

Back to absent friends: when old Mr SE will return to his post is anybody’s guess – at least until we download the latest Grib files, and see what they foretell, but even in his absence, and even with the squall mayhem of his stand-in yesterday, these, my friends, are truly joyful days. But having to motor for many hours at a stretch, we finally needed to refill the starboard diesel tank. Alas, what confusion that brought – for it appears that despite the engine making noises as if running out of fuel, there was at least a guesstimated 70 odd litres still left. Guesstimated, because the fuel gauges don’t work properly – they packed up somewhere on the journey to Capetown. And we have no visual means of checking diesel levels either, which would be by far the best and most reliable option. Heigh ho. The good news is that calculating how much we have put in the tanks with how much we have stored in gerry cans, we calculate we have enough to make it to Brazil, even if we have to motor all the way from hereonin – heaven forbid! The semblance of an empty tank may just have been some crap that was temporarily lodged – then dislodged, perhaps, but it appears the engine is firing just fine now, the diesel is flowing and all is well.

We’ve also revised the cause of the leak in the port cabin cupboard. Not splash back as earlier thought from the bilge below, but possibly a leaky through-hull fitting – possibly from the fridge/freezer saltwater outlet. Since we get no leak when motoring on these recent still flat seas and none when moored up at St Helena, but plenty of leak when there is a swell and the sailing is boisterous, we can only assume the water ingress is from waves hitting the through-hull fitting which, when moored or on the flat, is above water level. This would also explain the level of seawater in the bilge below it. One thing is sure, until we get to Forteleza we won’t be able to investigate and correct this. The good news is that since Dick’s corrective plumbing, the webasto compartment is still as dry as a bone.

Anyhoo, that’s where it’s about at, here on Friday 3^rd April, about one week away from our second stop at Forteleza in Brazil, and just over half way of the bigger journey from Capetown to St Lucia. And you know what – hey, it’s goooood – especially tonight, mooching nicely along ’neath a sly crescent moon and an arch of twinkling stars. It almost couldn’t get any better …

Saturday 4^th April – Day 23

(Position: 07°41’S 024°51’W)

Still no wind. Still no sign of wind. Latest grib files suggest this is the pattern of things to come for a few more days – at least. And according to those inauspicious uncharitable gribs, when wind does arrive it should bring more squalls. Oh joy. But as yesterday, it’s hard to care very much, since today has been all glorious scorching sunshine, beautiful sky and sea and as carefree a way of life as you could wish for.

Last night, our feathered passenger stayed with us the whole night through. And he had company. About ten minutes into my watch which started at midnight, another bird joined the party, so now we had one bird a piece hunkered down on either pulpit. Matching figureheads for either bow. Neat, eh? And an hour or so after that, a third blew in – but trying to land too near the first bird, he was given a very unpleasant mouthful by the outraged reception committee – and found himself, for his pains, on the receiving end of loud squawking and much agitated beak jabbing, and a flurry of furious wing beating. But it was late, they were all tired and after a spell of further hostilities, number one accepted the intruder and peace reigned, all three periodically tucking their heads under their wing and zizzing awhile. By morning, there were still two – the original one still at the port pulpit, the other sitting aloft on the spreaders – a perch directly above our saloon hatch. This being open to help cool things, you can imagine what we found on the chest freezer seat which lies directly beneath that hatch. Well, some say it’s lucky, and some say it’s just a load of sh-you-know-what but either way, the pair of them finally took to the air about 7.30 am and we’ve seen nothing of them since. Ooooh – and for the record, I’ve got a few shots of our friends and checking with Anthony’s reference book, it seems they are called Brown Noddys for their sins. Yes, really. So, er … well, there you have it.

Sunday 5^th April- Day 24

(Position: 07°12’S 027°07’W)

Oh hide thy face in shame, thou erroneous Grib! Contrary to yesterday’s forecast, from about 3.00 am onwards, the wind rallied steadily and by 8.00 am, we had the smallest, then the largest asymmetric flying. And until a few minutes ago, at 5.00 pm, we’ve breezed along steadily, if not olympically, for most of the day. Not the becalmed state threatened by yesterday’s grib file at all. Okay, so not exactly a white-knuckle ride either, but a good easy day’s sailing and all free of charge. As for the squalls that were threatened with the return of the wind, well, ya-boo and sucks to that prediction too; today’s gentle reappearance from Mr SE Trade Wind (he’s obviously still in recovery, but improving nicely) brought just a few stray flashes of lightning before dawn broke, but it was all over and done with once the sun rose. Oh, but the joy of peaceful sailing once more! Dick and I loathe motoring with a vengeance. It’s a means to an end, but we’re enjoying the journey far too much to want to just belt on and chug.

Last night we saw our second ship since leaving St Helena. A large tanker-looking thingy (now there’s a seasoned nauticalism for you – ‘thingy’), but too distant (about 9nm) to make out more details – and still not picked up by the AIS, though I found it on the Radar easily enough. Later this morning, another ship too. Woo-hoo – seems we’re on a roll here! Sorry, but the sighting of anything – ship, bird or fish – is becoming a major event out here, so little life have we seen of late.

Not sure if this is good news or not, but so at one with the leisurely pace have we grown, that the term “laid back” could have been coined especially for us. We certainly do a lot more laying and sprawling now than we did at the start of this trip, I know that. And we’ll all three be boss-eyed well-read by the end of it – judging by the number of books we’ve romped through between us. But the work ethic occasionally nags so I spent this morning buried in Dick’s laptop (heck, doesn’t that sound filthy?) trying to find out how to change the default settings of our AIS system. As mentioned earlier, we seem to have a safety zone of only 2 nautical miles within which ships show up on our Raymarine screen and an alarm sounds. Outside that zone, nothing. Which is ridiculous, 2 nautical miles being far too close for comfort. But not nowhere can we find how to change that setting to something further afield. No doubt the internet would soon put us on the right track, but alas, alack, no broadband out here, of course – not without running up a sizeable Sat phone bill. So till we touch base in Brazil, will just have to make do with eyesight and vigilance and radar alone. Not a train smash exactly.

Now we have room in the freezer, Dick trawling again for fish. But in two days, not a tickle – which gets the thumbs down from sir and Anthony, but the thumbs up from me (on grounds we have sufficient meat anyway that we don’t need to put some poor little finned bugger through hell just yet).

One of my favourite times of day – scrub that ‘my’ – one of our favourite times of day is late afternoon. Sunsets out here are spectacular and as the day draws to a close the sky’s palette of delicate baby blues and pinks and cyans are so tenderly pretty, it’s impossible not to drop whatever you weren’t doing, and just stare. I’ve tried over and again to photograph some of these celestial masterpieces but they need to be seen in the round, in the full unabridged raw to appreciate their glory – and the breadth of horizon the eye can view is far greater than any camera can reasonably achieve on a rocking, rolling boat. But it’s not just the glorious colours of each evening’s onset that awe and delight, but the sometimes whimsical, sometimes dramatic cloud formations that accompany them too. Visual Prozac to restore the most jaded of eyes. Yesterday, one enormously blowsily-billowy cloud, caught by the dying sun’s rays, turned an outrageous shade of rich salmon pink. And the light from this reflected on the sea to starboard, turning it blood red blue – an ocean not of sea water but port wine. I’ve never seen anything quite as strange as this miracle of light cast by the heavens. A truly Red Sea!

Hey, they’re back! A flutter of black wings just above the trampoline and our friend the Brown Noddy has returned to her roost. This time, after a dodgy landing, on the pinnacle of the dolphin striker. It’s my watch again – 6.00-9.00 pm. and just after Dick and Anthony retired for some shuteye, she landed, and immediately began a diligent preening session, a necessary ritual apparently before turning in for the night. Ten minutes later or so, I pick my way to the pushpit seat and just as I get there, another rush of wings silhouettes blackly overhead. Brown Noddy number two flutters in to a stop on the corner of the bimini – just above me. Odd how bold and unafraid this one is, and for a while, bird and I sit in companionable silence, bird preening, me scouring the night’s fuzzy-felt horizon. Bird sometimes looking at me; me sometimes looking at bird. If I stand up and reach out I could touch him, he’s that close. But my shift has come to its end and as Anthony comes on deck to take over, the sudden movement and voices spook the poor thing and it scrambles its wings into flight and is off into the night. Its partner, however, safely removed at the front of the boat, partly shielded by the jib and forestay, is hunkered down for the night. She’s not followed us this far to give up her lift so easily. I have to admit, it’s ridiculously pleasing to have these creatures return to us. But where were they during the day? And all of yesterday, too? Some instinct or cannier sensibility has enabled them to track us down even after two days full sailing without them. We’re traveling slowly, sure, the wind too gentle for racy speeds – but all the same, it’s a fair few miles we’ve covered these past days, and how would they know in which direction? So you see, perhaps not so bird-brained after all, these new chums of ours!

Monday 6^th April – Day 25

(Position: 06°31’S 029°12’W)

Anxious to get some shuteye before the midnight watch starts- so very briefly then:

Not two Noddys but four – by the time I started my 3.00 am -6.00 am watch last night, two more had joined the party. Faces into the wind, hunkered down on lifebuoy, Danbuoy, bimini roof and saloon roof each. And there they stayed throughout the remainder of the night, only fluttering off and returning to a new perch when we disturbed them to raise the spinny.

Good wind it was last night, too – dying away only as the sun rose. So back to motoring and motoring it stayed for the rest of the day. Hugely humid and humungously hot now – 37° in the saloon during the afternoon. Hugely humungous clouds now, too, as the day draws to a close – bubbling fatter and ever higher into the stratosphere. Behind us, afar off on the horizon, rain is sheeting down to the sea. Odd rainbows form within the clouds themselves – no base on earth at all. And last night, Anthony swears one such rainbow haloed the moon; now there’s a sight I wish I’d seen first hand. Lots more birds around in general – gannets showing too much interest in our fishing line’s lure, so we decommissioned the line altogether till they were gone.But earlier today, a thick flock of them – about 50 – circled overhead, crying and bickering, and there amongst them a pesky skua bullying any victim he could trap into surrendering their fish dinner. The skua is a thug of extraordinary persistence and it’s hard not to loathe the unlovely buggers watching the misery they inflict. But no doubt they have some redeeming features – their acrobatic winging stunts if nothing else.

And with the return of birds, so the return, too, of other wildlife – a huge school of dolphins being the stars of today’s show. As usual, they appeared from nowhere, cavorted and escorted Butterfly through the surf and then just as suddenly, disappeared. Always a thrill these creatures, but I’ve never seen quite so many in one showing before.

Only four days or so till we make landfall at Forteleza. Funny, how mixed the emotions are about this. Looking forward to discovering a new place (well, new for us); not looking forward to being moored up – I’ve come to love this nomadic pelargic life even in the short time we’ve put to sea. The lack of wind these past few days cannot spoil the party either and if left to Dick and I, we would turn the motors off and idle along in peace, the breeze, such as it is, still coming from astern so pushing us in the right direction. Besides, it would give the wind that is reported some miles behind us, to catch us up. But Anthony has social arrangements back in Durban he’s anxious not to miss, and so we must press on with the diesel burning. Yet even with the wretched motor running hour after hour, there’s something very soothing out here in the big wide open spaces of sea and sky. I think it’s a pretty safe bet Butterfly, once we’ve unniggled the niggle list, will be seeing a lot more ocean crossing action in the months and years to come.

Tuesday 7^th April – Day 26

(Position: 05°52’S 031°25’W)

No noddys last night, but a swirl of gannets instead. For much of the night they whorled around Butterfly, ghost-white wings looming out of the gloom, disappearing as they flew low against the dark sea. Round and round and double about – whatever amused them, it kept them busy enough and kept company for us. The moon is almost full now, and that too joined the fun for most of the night. And yes, Anthony was right – for a while, it was haloed with not a rainbow, exactly, but a ring of orange glow shining warmly on the clouds that framed it. Moonpath magic guaranteed of course.

The night air is so warm now, no need for extra clothes at all. And even when an early morning squall found us and released a copious drenching, the water was tepid bath temperature.

Main highlight of today was again, the wildlife. Another (or the same?) school of dolphins again chose to play with us in late afternoon. They stayed longer this time and one, a boisterous daredevil with exuberance bursting from every slippery pore, performed a set of leaps alongside Butterfly that saw him a good few feet above the water. They’re small, these dolphins, with neat narrow noses and pale grey stripes along their underflanks, and when they swim, it’s in swerves and swoops and sashays, rarely in straight lines for long.

Earlier, a fluster of white spume and an agitation of seabirds in the distance told of a fish-feeding frenzy. Looking through binoculars, we saw what looked like small whales – a pair of them – also feeding. Then just as we were settled down to our evening meal, Dick’s fishing reel began to spin and whir and violently twitch. My heart sinks when I hear this, but not surprisingly, I’m on my own in feeling that way; Dick and Anthony eagerly leaping up to reel in their victim. It was a skipjack apparently (I couldn’t tell you, having sharply disappeared into the salon to avoid witnessing the bloody scene) – and in Anthony’s estimation, this is not great to eat. Well hooray for that. So he manhandles the hook from its mouth and casts it back. A lucky escape or a slow lingering death? If we were starving, I’d feel differently perhaps about this fishing lark, but we’re clearly not. The freezer still has ample supplies of meat in it, so I can’t see the justification in killing more than I need to eat.. I am clearly being a spoilsport here, and well I know it, but how to finish your own meal when you know some poor little bugger is at that very moment being wrenched along by a barb in his lip and undergoing the worst, most agonising moment of his short little life? Ah well, the misery of this fishing lark could be good for the waistline I guess …

Wednesday 8^th April – Day 27

(Position: 05°03’S 033°42’W)

Wow – worra lorra wevver! Squalls mainly. Lots and lots of ‘em – wet ones mostly. Much of the day spent opening hatches then frantically shutting them again; up with this sail, down with that one. On with motor and cagoules; off with the motor and a change of clothes. Anthony got it right – swimming trunks and oilie jacket was the best bet (well, for him) – the least amount of fuss whatever the bloody weather did. Not a lot else to say for all our dashings trying to outsmart the squalls, we failed miserably much of the time and got wet anyway. Besides no hiding place from such things out here, so you take what comes and enjoy the splash and dash.

Only one Noddy returned last night – but what a welcome sight she was. She (I have no way of verifying her she-ness – just pure gut instinct) is the original one that first chose Butterfly for her nightly chariot over the waves. She has a way of hunkering down, with a sort of startled twitch of the head now and then, and she always favours the port pulpit. Well, last night she kept me fine company till the wind at last rose in the hour before dawn and Anthony and I raised the spinny in celebration. Our activities took us too near her pulpit perch and with a very peeved set of squawks, she took to the skies and quickly disappeared in the murk of shadow and cloud and night. I have a feeling this is the last we shall see of her – a huge pity. Those black wings suddenly appearing in the night, the stalling frantic flutter as she tried to time her forward motion and landing with the boat’s speed, and the flash of white cap that adorns her head as she peered back at me, peering at her, were a welcome sight. Life comes, life goes …

Thursday 9^th April – Day 28

(Position: 04°17’S 036°13’W)

A weird one this. We’re so close to Forteleza now, there’s a sense of anticipation and slight unsettledness. We think tomorrow (Friday) is Good Friday – but we’re so out of sync with calendars and time – here out at sea, only the sun and moon mark any meaningful sense of time and the days are any day you would like them to be! – that we’re not 100 percent sure. If so, then we’re also not sure if the port officials and such will be open – it possibly being a religious holiday – which could make life – well, interesting!.Anyhoo, due to arrive in Brazil in the morning – anytime from 8.00 am onwards. (There again, we think we need to adjust our clocks yet again to keep in tune with Brazil’s time – and I don’t like to mention this, but again, we’re not entirely sure of that either). Er, see what life at sea does to you?

Better weather for most of the day – sunshine and blue skies and a fair wind that made for some easy but efficient sailing. Using the smallest asymmetric (75sq metre) with the main sail worked like a charm – they balance beautifully and allowed us to point as high as 60°. This smallest spinny is a firm favourite – a flat cut designed for reaching, yet very versatile.

Things got a little less sunny and a lot more threatening come late afternoon, when a huge wall of cloud, dense and low and rolling, fatly mushroomed on the sea itself and sucking in air as it advanced, swung the wind suddenly. The mushroom cloud grew, getting denser and darker and soon it was almost encircling us – rimming the horizon port, starboard and aft. Soon, thunder growlings rumbled the air. Yet as if to assure all was well, another school of dolphins suddenly appeared and began frolicking alongside and then led the boat through the water – and joy of joys, among their delightful cavortings, we see a baby dolphin keeping close to mum. As yesterday, they stayed a goodly while, too, until one by one they peeled away and were gone leaving us to ponder on the gathering gloom above. Ominously, the wind then died, the stillness quite extraordinary. You can hear a pin drop, despite the motion of the boat still gliding through the water – so still is the air. That was enough – in went the jib and down came the main to two reefs. And then we waited. And waited. And cooked supper and still waited. And … nothing! A few spit spots of rain, and all that ooh-er sinister stuff just gradually petered out and made monkeys of us all. But what’s the betting had we left the sails, all hell would have broken loose … well, that’s my (face-saving?) theory.

Last night we spotted three ships – large tankers – today, nothing so far. So close now to the mainland, surprised we haven’t seen more. See what tonight brings …

Friday 10^th April – Day 29 – Arrival Forteleza

(Position: 03°40’S 038°25’W)

All through the night the wind coming from the north east – so we’re beating with plenty of chop to make it an uncomfortable and noisy ride. Not much sleep for anyone. Squalls frequent and the sky sullen and waterlogged with low skulking cloud cover. Between squalls of rain that frequently pulses viciously down from the sky, very little wind, so we resign ourselves to chug-chug time.

At last, well after dawn, a pale grey apparition of high rise buildings emerges on the denser, darker grey skyline and Forteleza shyly creeps out of the murk. Progress slows as the wind freshens, but thankfully, nothing to make mooring too difficult. Butterfly is a (relatively!) light boat and has an enormous amount of windage, so gentle winds when anchoring are a blessing. But we’re well prepared for the stern-to Mediterranean style mooring arrangement at the Marina Park Marina (yes, that’s really its name). Very handily, a huge rusting old tanker wreck, most of it still above the water, marks the point to turn in towards the marina. Everything runs smooth, and we drop anchor and motor back towards the pontoon. Two guys, each from neighbouring boats, immediately appear to tie our lines – now that’s what I call a welcome welcome!

It’s now about 10.30 am Brazil time – we turn our clocks back two hours to suit. (This changing time as and when but fairly frequently as we cruise from zone to zone is rather lovely. Has an Alice in Wonderland feel to it, whereby you wonder if you might just as well call the hour that which you have a fancy for. Feel lazy in the morning? then stay in bed and swear it’s only 5.00 am, so time for another serious zizz before arising. (Oh yes, indeedy, think I could get used to this personalized flexitime, no sweat at all).

Tied off, we celebrate with a cuppa and chat with our neighbours. But there’s no rest for the wicked and ocean-crossing cruisers, so we’re soon in a taxi heading for the supermarket – the only one locally that’s open on this Good Friday. Our taxi driver is a joy – a music lover of the Beatles who insists on singing us snatches from their greatest hits – Yesterday, being his favourite. And a fine rich voice he has to. Some characters add to life, Mr Brazilian Taxi Driver is certainly high in their ranks.

The supermarket is excellent – overflowing with fresh produce and dry goods of every variety, and we shop till we drop, then fall back into our favourite Beatles fan’s taxi and head back to the boat. Next duty, restocking with diesel. This done  carting by hand our jolly yellow and very large gerry cans  to and from a local garage. A workout of heroic proportions for the guys. I stay behind tucking our provisions into available slots and tidying up.

And then unwind time with a bevy or – in Anthony’s case – a bevy of bevvies. All terribly well deserved and earned, of course.

For the record, the marina here is not what you’d call prepossessing and the hotel we gaze up at is more down-at-heel utilitarian than a thing of elegant luxury. The pontoon moorings are pilings with a floating jetty attached and there is a huge amount of swilling and lurching. Oh – and creaking … and groaning … and sighing … and chirping – yes a twittering sort of chirping, as if from an excitable or outraged bird. As the evening wears on, we sit outside in the enveloping darkness with a hotdog supper, too tired to cook anything more sophisticated, serenaded by the jetty’s percussive and conversational symphony.  But whatever its moaning song and chatter, there’s a peace and sense of achievement at making landfall once again, even if the landing scenery is somewhat less than Utopian and the fixings less than sophisticated.

Saturday 11^th April - Day 30

We must clear in and clear out before the authorities come a-knocking. Our neighbour warns us this is not to be done speedily. With the boat’s papers and our own personal docs and forewarned patience girded, come mid-morning, it’s another taxi ride, but to the port this time.

Brazil’s first language is Portuguese of which neither Dick nor I nor Anthony speak a single word. The Brazilians, by and large, appear to have just as little English. Ergo, life gets increasingly interesting as we try to work our way through the bureacracy required from each department to acquire all the right seals and stamps of approval. At last, police, customs and immigration under our belt, we draw a blank with the last of the necessary quartet of authorities we must placate. This turns out to be the Port Captain’s Office which is a short distance from the Port where the other three agencies departments are sited. But attempts to walk there are thwarted (a) due to lack of clear directions and (b) by warnings from those we accost as we stumble around trying to find someone with enough English to help, that we’re likely to get shot at worst, and mugged at best if we contine to walk anywhere in this area.. So into another taxi it is, but this driver is clearly not enjoying a good day and has no idea of where we need to go either. After he’s stopped to ask the way several times from people in the street, we realize we’re on a hiding to nothing and swap taxis and drivers, for one that can at least return us to the police department again, to seek fresh directions and further clues.

At last all comes good and we find, via yet another taxi driver, the office we seek. The official in charge, like most of the other officials we’ve dealt with so far is dressed in greasy shorts, tired slip-slops, and stained vest. The onerous duties of office whereby everything must be photocopied and pawed over in close and concerned scrutiny at odds with the laissez-faire attire of extreme casualness. Odd. But the friendliness we receive is beyond doubt and if everything seems to take forever, at least it takes forever very amicably.

At last legally approved in every which way, we head off to Forteleza’s seaside to find some lunch. Here, folk, locals and tourists alike, stroll leisurely along and all seems safe. The esplanade setting with fish restaurants on one side of the road, beach and fishing vessels on the other, is a photographer’s feast. And here and there a police presence reassures all is good for the tourist. Ah, if only …

Fascinated by the strange fishing craft out at sea and dotted on the beach like large dozing locusts, their masts swayed back like quivering antennae, I reach for the camera to capture the scene. Dick wanders on down to the water itself, leaving me busy framing one particular boat. Anthony has taken a beach side seat further back. Suddenly, there’s a tap on my shoulder, and spinning around, I’m facing a guy, faded red shorts and obligatory dirty vest who, face screwed into determined grimace, thrusts out his fist, grabs the chain around my neck and yanks hard. Then off he pelts with chain and the gold locket it held, away from the beach, over the road, and disappears up into the side streets with their high rise slum towers beyond. It’s all over in a matter of seconds. The thieving little git had chosen his time and target well. I’m shaken a little, but more angry with myself than him. His target eserves a thorough shake-up for being so dumb. Dumb for assuming the area was safe and therefore free to walk about doing her thing with jewellery on. Dumb for not being more aware of the close proximity of poverty and the temptations offered by those flaunting material wealth. Lesson learned – the hard way.

A group of women, witnessing the event, kindly offer condolences in Portuguese and walk some way along side us, till we meet two police on those strange motorised two-wheeled ramps that take those too lazy to walk. The women give what I presume is a brief description of the mugger and earnestly do their best urging for some action – pointing to the little bugger’s escape route. Their efforts are clearly wasted. The police nod a bit, but show little interest. No doubt this is such a common incident as to be expected and besides it’s hot and humid and lunchtime still. It’s the last I shall ever see of my locket and that’s that.

Not surprisingly, we’re not much inclined to saunter further and besides, there seems little to see by way of further interest. So into a taxi yet again, and a safe ride back to the marina and home – Butterfly.

Exploring the coastline of Brazil, and even venturing inland is something I’d still very much like to do, muggers or no muggers. But this is not the time as Anthony needs to be home, as mentioned, for his own social arrangements come end of April, and we are in the wrong area to start such an exploration. There is certainly nothing in Forteleza worth hanging around for, so tomorrow, we’ll do a last shop and then weather permitting, we’ll say farewell to our neighbours – they’re good people – and slip our creaky mooring to head for St Lucia.