A momentary vista of blue sky

Open 40 sailor/artist Lia Ditton writes from the Atlantic

My first glimpse of sunshine arrived this morning with a momentary vista of blue sky. A sea of pastel shades wallowed benignly underneath it. Low grey rain clouds loomed off to the west. I could have sat helming, basking in the warm sun rays, observing the trim of the boat and taking pleasure in being out here, but unlike the solar panels, for the first time all week enjoying a power drink, I felt weary. My night had been severely punctuated by the wind shift alarm, the deck and cabin instruments chiming in chorus and the subsequent need to be on deck.

As twilight crept in, I had met a horizon line of clouds with the "medium" weight spinnaker up, which I socked before a 180 degree wind shift took effect and a light rain kissed the deck. Then the boat rocked and yawed for a time, the sails thrashing their lines in desperation. The Code O replaced the chute in a light aired breeze forward of the beam, but as the breeze strengthened and we began to beat to windward, I furled her away and stashed both kites down below. Tidying up the halyards and sheets in the early hours, the wind was to peter out once again. An airless void had opened up beneath the line of latitude 42 degrees north, grinding the race track in its vicinity to a painful claw for a mile's progress.

Visiting the line and then flopping over onto the opposing tack; the morning's dance of port to starboard to port to starboard tack repeated itself into this afternoon. By 1600 I could neither think straight to write this update nor entertain the idea of yet another tack, as the wind had its way with us once again, shunting our heading anywhere but in the direction west. I simply had to sleep. Yet there are miles to go before we sleep,
miles to go before we sleep.