Discovered a large (1,50m long) piece of Tristan seaweed on "Penelope's" fore deck at day-break. Caught in the halyards, having been thrown up by the sea.
Last night was bedlam let loose. We reefed the mainsail at 01,00h and ran on our course, at a good speed, averaging 6 knots through the night.
In addition to the fresh breeze we ran into a succession of squalls of gale force and some downpours of rain. "Penelope", as a boat, behaved splendidly, but what a motion!
In the past I have sympathized with, from the broad deck of a steamer, the dogger-bank fishermen working in their drifters in the shallow, steep, north sea, and wondered how they could possibly work, or even think, in all that tossing. Last night we had some of it ourselves. Normally running with lee gunwales awash "Penelope" rode majestically over each successive swell, only to roll steeply over to the other side on the downward plunge into the trough. From crest to trough was about the height of our masts. Losing part of the wind, in the trough, she would right herself with a vicious jerk and then roll again to leeward as she picked up the wind again. Then, approaching the crest again she would give a corkscrew motion apparently in defiance of the treatment, and resume her downward plunge. In addition to this, at the end of each sudden gust she would go into a quick see-saw motion, one moment with the bowsprit buried in the sea and the next with it rearing drunkenly up in the air. It was terrific. No stomach could resist such motion.
My watches were 19.00-22.00h and 04.00-07.00h but I was called out in addition at 01.00h to take the wheel whilst the skipper and Juan reefed the mainsail.
Around midnight I was lying in the cabin, fully clothed and sea-booted waiting for the emergency and listening to the deafening cacophony of the wind howling and the rigging, the straining of halyards, topping lifts, sheets, guys and lashings, the pounding of the sea on "Penelope's" foredeck and the constant wash of water over the port holes when, half dreaming I thought I heard the staysail being lowered.
The skipper was on watch at the time and I thought to myself "That crazy man has left the wheel to lower the staysail by himself, in order not to disturb (!) the crew" - he is most considerate always in that respect. Shortly afterwards "Penelope" started her see-saw motion and quietened down a trifle. I had the impression that we had hove-to. Everything was suddenly so quiet, relatively, that I had the feeling he had gone overboard - a very easy thing to do on a night like this. I leaped up the deck ladder and happily was most relieved and reassured to see his familiar outline in the faint glare of the binnacle lamp, crouched over the wheel in a cloud of flying spindrift. I gave him a cheery hail and went below again.
The sun rose like a big red ball, during my morning watch, and plunged immediately into a dense black cloud bringing a further heavy rain squall to wash off the salt caked on my oilskins!
Oliver relieved me at 07.00h, pausing to vomit over the side before grabbing the wheel manfully, with a wan smile. He looked rather pathetic with his little red beard and sou'wester rammed down his ears. Bully for 01.
Yesterday the skipper spontaneously voiced my sentiments, as he said to me "I am profoundly grateful to Oliver for having, in spite of his continued sea-sickness, maintained his day watches all through this voyage, thus relieving us to get some sleep during the day and maintain the routine running of the ship. I don't know how we could have managed, without his help".
All day long we ploughed through the heavy seas, fighting our way eastwards in a running battle against the equinox.
130 miles made good from noon to noon.
Trolling for fish. No catch.
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