Bacon sandwiches and chilli to celebrate Spirit's halfway point
I woke up earlier today to the unexpected smell of frying bacon. On our bland diet, this alone was a treat, but we actually got to eat it too! BLTs were on the menu for lunch. Well, actually they were just BTs, because without refrigeration our L didn’t last much passed the first two or three days. Anyway, they were absolutely delicious if not quite as enjoyable as the writing on the bread packaging promised. Bought in Gran Canaria, it was labelled ‘Bimbo sandwich’. Other packs say something like ‘familiar mould’ on them!
This evening (28 November) we celebrated passing an approximate half way mark. After a delicious NBFR chilli (Not Bad For Rehydrated) we broke out some choc chip biscuits. We’ve developed a real appreciation for the simple things. No doubt those other crews take their ice cold drinks and fresh baked bread completely for granted!
Just realised my focus is shifting to food again… OK, back to the sailing. After writing my report yesterday I rushed on deck as we recovered from a minor broach. We haven’t had many broaches, but Spirit is a seriously powerful boat and you’ve got to treat her enormous sailplan with respect. A little too slow easing the main and the deep but narrow spade rudder quickly loses its precarious hold on the water. We had to peel to a smaller kite in the darkness and in the process lost one of the zipped socks that we use for launching the kites. No major catastrophe, but irritating none the less.
Another peel a few hours ago went a lot better.
Several hours today were spent trouble shooting our B&G instrument system. It started displaying spurious wind info for no apparent reason late last night. We swapped the wand at the masthead for another one, reran a cable, changed several circuit boards and somewhere along the way managed to sort it out. Nice going John, Ollie and Hamish. Wearing a surf helmet for protection, and with the long carbon fibre wand stuck down the back of his jacket, the anemometer spinning above his head, Ollie looked a cross between a mad scientist and some futuristic sportsman as we hauled him up the rig.
We’ve just woken the next watch, and Martin (whose bunk is inches from the chart table) is lying there still half asleep trying his best to explain to me a peculiar dream he’s just woken from involving a ‘country club hospital’ where he was having tea on the lawn. That’s my watch almost over, so that’s it from me.