1,000 mile club

Lia Ditton updates us from the Faraday Mill OSTAR race course

Finishers:

1. Cotonella (T) - Franco Manzoli (ITA) - 17d 21h 41m
2. Branec IV (T) - Roger Langevin (FRA) - 18d 7h 7m
3. Spirit (T) - Pierre Antoine (FRA) - 18d 9h 43m
4. Olympian Challenge (M) - Steve White (GBR) - 20d 5h 24min

Ask any Volvo Ocean Racing sailor what the Thousand Mile Club is and he will chuckle. If he is Kiwi in origin, he might respond something like, 'Arh mate, its whair ya cahnt gow, fah a thasan miles,' and then make an expression of pained disgust. For those new comers to the VOR, who join the Thousand Mile Club, no amount of Chilli con carne or sausage and baked beans in a bag brings any relief. 'Start your day with fruit anf fibre,' reads the package front of my daily cereal [Granola with Milk and blueberries] and any concerns you might have had for my physiological well-being are quickly quashed. French Connection UK offer another slant on the club with their T-shirts sporting 'FCUK MILE HIGH,'  and 'MILE HIGH CLUB FCUK.' [I might at this point draw attention to the fact that this is a single-handed race] so for me, it is simply a mile stone that marks a thousand miles to the finish line of the Faraday Mill OSTAR 2005, where over half of the fleet have been forced to retire.
 
If you had happened to be passing earlier this afternoon [and you really could have done, I was drifting in a zone that shipping forecasters love to coin 'Light and variable'] you might have thought- 'Ah a chemistry lesson is going on down below!' You might even have had the delight of watching me throw a one and half inch firework over the side. Waterproof army surplus matches cannot be described in any other way. Once you have got the stick lit and it lights with a surprising ferocity, you have about 5 and half seconds of play. Should you wish to terminate the firework, you may not, and no amount of blowing, puffing or panting will have an effect to the contrary; they are as resiliant as self-relighting birthday candles, that you have to permanently extinguish with a cloth; that catch unawares, the five-year old every time. The irony of course is that I have managed successfully to keep all the waterproof army surplus matches dry, whereas my entire collection of lighters have each had at least one trip round the bilge. As to whether they actually are waterproof, I obviously cannot testify, but I will remark that the brand of cigarette lighter I had certainly was not. Now the reason I was messing about with matches, was in order to light the stove to heat lunch. Comically branded 'The Bright Spark,' and especially sought after in Stainless Steel, it was showing no such signs of life. The cause as usual is not complex. Both the stove and the Seatalk wiring [for the ST60 instrument displays] are in the line of direct fire from a slight overflow trickle that slips round the rim of the godpod and sneaks its way down inside the hatch. When the stove wouldn't light the first time, I cockily thought, 'Not to worry I have a spare.' Alas the spare, along with its small flock of baby gas cylinders [its one of those niffty Jetboil gizmos where the pot is the mug] went for a swim too, quite a long one infact, when the cabin was immersed in water. Of course the 'Jetboil', being the crafty invention that it is, caters for every eventuality, with a 'Service
Kit,' for £9.99. [I'm at 43 55' N and 47 10' W if Parcel Force would like to live up to their next day service, 'Special Delivery.' ] Exasperated that chicken casserole for lunch was going to be cold chicken casserole for lunch [and chicken casserole is one of the more prefered choice of menu], my next step was the fire-starter approach. Rooting around the cabin, my first find was the Team McLube, Harken spray 'Sail Kote,' which sadly is an oil but did burn dramatically for a while, followed by acetone [a spot of salt-absorbing cleansing?] which burnt itself out pretty fast. After 45 minutes of nozzle needle-poking I was now sufficiently hungry to eat the damn chicken casserole cold. Lunch was consumed with thoughts on how to build a petrol stove [I have plenty around for the generator] which might be tomorrow afternoon's 'Blue Peter' activity if there's little success again tonight.
 
There is a reason why Ellen Macarthur has short hair. You might have noticed that before long record-breaking endeavours, she even starts with no hair. I personally have always enjoyed the free protective ear-muffs, sun awning and neck screen that comes with having long hair. Admittedly, the dry suit rubber neck seal is distinctly hair-unfriendly, but if you cloak the whole head in a balaclava for the through-hole procedure [of dressing] there really isn't a problem. Ask any dreadlocked teenager whether they wash their hair and they will likely respond that 'It washes itself.' [I did meet a girl once who was allergic to water. Her natural shampoo and blow dry after twenty two years had yet to kick in.] While this is guaranteed to raise most parents' eyebrows [except for the very 'new-age'] the salt after 19 days at sea does seem to be preserving my hair condition nicely. It has even got added 'body' [That would be the salt then?!]. On the other hand, short of breaking out the radar reflector or the signal mirror from the grab bag, I actually have no idea how I look right now. I catch the odd glimpse in the interior light and thats about it. Before the pages were confetti'd beyond redemption, I was reading in 'Eve,' [the illicitly-stowed women's magazine,] that wrapping one's head in a towel full of mayonnaise was the best kept secret to a moisture-restoring conditioner. I am therefore left wondering what a handful of Heinz Ketchup sachets from Plymouth's 'Borrington Arms,' [no doubt put aboard as a condiment to accompany the fish that I would be catching?] might do for me now!
 
On the home-comforts front, I must thank James' mum for the loan of the turquoise fleece-covered hot water bottle. Which coincidentally is of a similar shade to my last batch of Under Water Epoxy. Sadly in the short term, it wont be getting filled with hot water as such and I didn't wish to add further weight to the boat so have filled it with fresh, but I have found a super use for it as a pillow. [Slight oversight on the packing front there] Despite my best efforts to layer the Ocean Sleepwear Drybag at the head, there was no getting round the edge-in-the-neck of the companion way step. While living in pond-like conditions, a waterbed seems only fitting! Also under the category of home furnishings, I found a practical use for one of the fluffy die, which was discovered in the 2500-mile treasure hunt series and labelled, 'Every boat should have one of these!' Indeed they should, since it fitted perfectly over the top of the daggerboard down-pole and serves nicely as a quirky alternative to the missing 'Dunlop.' [Tennis ball that went over the side yesterday].  
 
Sailing a boat by oneself, is like living in a glass jar. Tonight there is barely a foot of surface chop. 'Shockwave' is gently gliding along with a SOG [Speed Over Ground] of 9.5kts. The ST60 wind instrument has settled itself on a reach; no longer doing 180 Wheelies from Ship drawing bow to ship drawing stern as it was this afternoon. The sky, growing richer in tone, is swept with frontal clouds that span greater arcs than of my vision. 'Oh Baby, Baby its a wide world,' by Cat Stevens revolves in my head and I recall an art work by 'Yoko Ono.' [She placed a real time camera on the gallery roof.] 'Have you seen the Horizon lately?' It was called with a TV screen relaying the clouds floating by. But there is a crack in the snow-storm bubble off to the NW. Squeezed between the clouds is a snap-shot of a sunset on panorama mode. Sitting in this picture, my temperment is one of serenity. There is nothing I can physically do, at this point in time, to erase or prevent from exacerbating, the stress crack that I found this afternoon. The crack lies fore and aft where the mast base meets the deck on the Starboard side. The carbon foot brace has also separated from the carbon of the mast. Suddenly the glass jar shattered and the snow is whirling around, and I am stunned like the protagonist in the film American Beauty, who is captivated by a plastic bag dancing in the wind.

Security has been breached and Shockwave, my home, my shell, my fortress against the world seems suddenly fragile and with that comes a sense of vulnerability few of us like to confess. With luck I won't be calling, 'Tow Boat US, Tow Boat US, this is Shockwave the mast should survive [more reefs in the main from now on...] but the project has alas no further funding...