"4ft of very fast moving mast pierced the deckhead"

Curses. Gartmore's dismasting upset Ollie Dewar's plans for luncheon

Gartmore's 4,000 mile transatlantic crossing was, initially, remarkably benign with light airs and a greasy, lava lamp swell. We picked up a high-pressure system south east of Bermuda and rode it northeast, hoping to link with the Azores High and slingshot round into The Channel Approaches.

Other than some very un-Atlantic weather I noticed an almost total absence of wildlife. One inquisitive whale shadowed us for forty-five minutes and drew so close to our starboard quarter that I could have leapt from the deck onto its back.

This said, just WSW of The Azores we had a night collision with something sentient; happily not a lost container, oil drum or fishing net. We took the impact low on the keel-fin, a sensation similar to running aground in soft mud. It is likely to have been a large shark rather than a small whale: whales sleep on the surface and a collision would have caused some serious waterline damage. Our victim freed itself from the keel, missed hitting either of the twin rudders and drifted unseen astern.

This high seas homicide heralded our entering a truly 'grand cru' gale that was to last for three days. We were warmed up by headwinds of between 35-50 knots (Force 8-10) forcing us to crack-off to an apparent wind angle of 55 degrees. By the second day (my birthday, damn it!) it had reached 65+ knots (Force 12).

During all this the wind instruments measured a squall of 70 knots. Fortunately, at the time I couldn't read the instruments as I was up at the pointy end of the boat concentrating on reducing the mainsail's area. At the time had someone shouted, "Hey, you! The one lying face down on the foredeck in the three layer, breathable Gore-Tex system, it's blowing 70 knots!" I would probably have retired to the darkest corner of the boat and refused to come out again.

The following day the wind dropped to what now seemed a relatively civilized Force 10. By this stage our internal gyroscopes were so highly tuned most of us could manage to hold a mug of coffee in one hand and light a cigarette with the other without ending up in a Nescafe/Camel Filter splattered heap down to leeward.

The storm left the boat with minor damage but in a hell of a mess and smelling disgusting. Fifteen days of accumulated garbage had begun to ferment and this aroma mingled horribly with wet, dirty clothes and unwashed humanity. Hanging inside the boat from every point were soaking wet thermals, boots, yellow oilskins, lifejackets and safety harnesses. The overall impression was a combination of pikey campsite and an emergency services changing room after a severe chemical accident.

We were lucky to survive a storm during which gusts of 75 knots were measured with no serious injuries. I will, however, never forget the utter blackness and the sound of the gale shrieking through the rigging, antennas and guard- rails and slamming across the deck. A noise so bestial, primal and malevolent that I found myself incanting "Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower".

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Gartmore in better times...