Erma, at the helm here a few days out of Singapore when things started getting rough, was barely big enough to see over the wheel and completely unexperienced in sailing before this race, yet she was surprisingly one of our better helms. Witnessing those kinds of personal triumphs in others makes this race such a pleasure to me.
Leaving Singapore, I'd been concerned that those crew members who only joined us for Leg 4 might never truly feel what it's like to be fully challenged out in the open ocean on a racing yacht. From Fremantle to Singapore, we never even took our foul weather gear out of the wet locker. That first half of Leg 4 was all down wind in an unheeling boat, much of the time spent with bare limbs in bare feet. The most clothing we ever needed was a thin breeze jacket on a few of the night watches.
Only a few days out of Singapore, I realized that those doing only this leg weren't missing anything at all. Even before the temperatures dropped, the seas grew quite heavy as we sailed over areas where the wind opposed the current (photo above), a formula for the roughest seas possible. In the photo below we've got the third of the three reefs available lashed down on the boom and the staysail dropped and tied to the deck. Even the Yankee 3 headsail (the smallest of the three we use) was too big for the conditions so it was off the forestay and stored below decks with our hankerchief of a storm jib taking it's place. And yet at times we were still shooting along at 11kts through the waves, launching the front half of it into the air only to land with a thud over and over again.
This last half of Leg 4 has been the roughest section of the entire voyage, far worse than anything the southern ocean had to show us. Every four hours saw one group of crew members wrapping up, zipping up, and pulling up hoods to go on deck while another group, exhausted and dripping of sea water, struggled simply to get down the companionway ladder without being tossed off it mid way by an unexpectedly heavy roll one way or another.
Every time this boat heels hard in the wind, though I know it feels like 45 degrees much of the time, I know it's actually only 30 degrees or so. However while on the helm in one day in these Force 8-9 (40-50mph) winds, I know that several times I saw the mast lay over momentarily at least 50 degrees and could hear the noise below of the shifting pans, flying books, and unattended personal items changing sides of the boats.
Everyone, night or day, wore two safety lines, so that if we needed to reattach to a different hard point while working on the bow, we could attach the second before releasing the first. Safety is always first.
We were challenged, but no one felt threatened. It's amazing what these boats can take, for we've certainly put this one through its paces.
And if that wasn't enough, we also had the heavy commercial traffic of the China Sea to contend with.
I think it was on February 6th that I came on watch at 4:00 am to the beautiful sight of Venus, Jupiter, and the moon all clustered together. Below the equator, it was an oddly pleasing feeling to look up and know absolutely nothing about what I saw, as if I was in a distant galaxy. On that day we were at least 15 degrees north of the equator, so I had come back into the star fields that I know.
I went on the helm at 6:00, using one hand to wipe away the salt encrusted around my face and ears from the soaking we all took during a headsail change one hour before. Only minutes later a squall formed around us and the winds picked up as a light rain began to fall. This will take care of the salt on my face, I thought, content to be cleaned in rainwater.
We knew, however, that any rain in that area of the world is bound to turn into a squall. While I remained at the helm, squinting in the increasingly heavy downfall, the others scurried to put in the 1st reef. They hadn't finished by the time the rain fell hard, so hard that even though I had my hood up, I couldn't keep it from drizzling down my coat into my chest.
I felt cold for the first time in six weeks, but it felt good. With my hands fully occupied on the wheel in this squall, I could only bite the top of my foul weather jacket's collar to stop as much of the rain going down my chest as I could.
The boat heeled steeply as we pounded through the agitated waves, the deck a blur of bouncing raindrops. Ignoring our course, I concentrated on pinching enough into our close-hauled point of sail to keep the heel of the boat under control. Most times it was around 40 degrees. Now and this, it would roll over to 50 or more, so I'd pinch a bit further into the wind. I'd done this before with my 19ft catamaran with its 30 foot mast (that I could lift with two hands) when I was once caught in a storm on the Potomac River near my home in Virginia. Feeling the power of the squall that I was wrestling with and its affect on this huge boat's 80 ft mast (which takes an immense crane to lift) seemed a bit more signficant.
Just as we finished putting in the reef, the rain and wind suddenly stopped altogether and we found ourselves in an utterly quiet and windless sea, wind indicator spinning erratically at the top of the mast and absolutely zero boat speed. We were in third in the race at that point. A few miles behind us, the boat in fourth saw our plight and steered around the wind hole we'd stumbled into. They passed us and accomplished in a matter of minutes what they'd been unable do to for several days. By the time the wind came back, the boat that had been well back in fifth was now right on our tail.
Later in the day, that boat, New York, tacked away. About an hour later we both tacked towards each other and New York, on the starboard tack, had the right of way. Who would ever have believed that, 2000 miles into an ocean crossing yacht race, right of way rules would come into play? We were forced to give way and ducked behind New York's transom. We spent the morning dueling with them gaining a slightly higher line, then losing it, then gaining it again. In the end, they bore off once more and somehow lost miles to us before the day was out, giving us fourth once more.
Sometimes this race is about solitude and competitors we can only imagine somewhere over the horizon. And sometimes you could hit them with some of the eggs we had left in the galley. We considered it but used them for one last serving and scrambled eggs the next morning.
The closer we drew to China, the fiercer the winds grew and the heavier the seas churned. The howling winds, confused seas, and dropping temperatures we battled off the coast of and north of Taiwan had provided such harsh conditions that we started taking only ten minute rotations above decks for only two people at a time (one on the helm, and one beside them in case a wave should knock the person on the helm off the wheel). Once done, we bring them down to warm up and be replaced by a fresh pair. This gave the rest of the crew around 20-30 minutes below to try to bring back feeling to one's fingers, toes, and face. Here in Qindao, I've heard of at least one person who got frostbite in their toes.
Though we kept the above deck crew down to two, when an evolution (any type of sail change or modification) is called for, everyone comes on deck and deals with the tack, headsail change, or putting in/taking out a reef. This happened to me one night just as I was finishing my ten minutes at the helm and, as I was already frozen and pretty much useless for practical work, I was left on the helm while the crew fresh from below took on the work at hand.
Tacking a boat (turning to take the wind from one side of the boat to the other) may seem a simple procedure but the necessity of bare hands for much of the line handling reduces everyone's efficiency to appalling levels. It took six people fifteen minutes to prepare, execute, and tidy up from the tack, during which I was treated so some amazing sights of teamwork and tenacity from my vantage point behind the wheel.
One of the most gruelling tasks in this kind of weather is the release of the lazy (not in use) running backstay from the strop we use to hold it forward and out of the way by the mast's shrouds. The lazy runner is always on the leeward side of the boat, which means that the rail it's attached to is right down on the water, if not occasionally below it from time to time. Having one's feet, calves and even knees pummelled by flowing water while you struggle to unclip the restraining strop isn't unusual. Last night, as I watch Graham (our best sailor by a wide margin) take on this job, he not only endured this but additionally would disappear every few seconds when a wave would slap the side of the boat and cover him in a ten foot high arc of white spray lit up by the masthead light (turned on for safety during any significant sail changes at night at that point), only to re-emerge a half second later, dripping buckets but still at work.
All these images and visions appeared before me in a completely jet-black environment for anything beyond the white paint of the boat, up or down. For all we knew, we could have been sailing through space between Jupiter and Mars.
I so wished a camera could capture those night images as I watched Graham and everyone else endure these mountains of spray and reappear still at work on their task, dripping with frigid sea water, oblivious to the obstacles of cold wind, wet spray, heeling boat, cramped hands, exhausted body and, I wondered, perhaps even an overwhelmed soul? If the latter applied to anyone, I could never tell. The next morning I mentioned to our skipper that I'd yet to see a glum face despite what we had endured for the previous five days. He replied that he'd noticed the same and was quite impressed and pleased.
We all chose to be there. We all embraced the moment.
Two days later, due to how slow the fleet as a whole was progressing through the storm, we received an e-mail from the race office that the race would end at 12:00 UTC the next day. Each boat's place in the race would be determined by whatever one's position was in the race at that point in time. After that, we were to motor to Qindao as soon as possible (two days for us in Seventh place, three days for the boat in last place). Media and sponsor deadlines had to be accommodated.
That was fine with us. We were cold and tired.
Qindao will be the site of the Olympic sailing during the Beijing Olympics. Our arrival was being used as one of the warm up acts for the Olympics and all the attendant festivities.
Two days later, we arrived in Qindao, entering the harbour at sunrise in a fog with two other Clipper boats that had joined up with us during the night. The two of them went in first at half hour intervals to receive their official welcome. We drifted in peace some distance out and awaited our turn.
When it finally came and we approached the Olympic marina's breakwater, we heard drummers pounding on the end of the jetty
As we passed, they launched fireworks for us as we had seen them do for the previous two boats.
As we neared the docks, more fireworks shot up with colored smoke and more drummers pounded away
While no alcohol whatsoever is carried on the boats during a race, tradition in Clipper races is to be handed a beer upon docking, no matter the hour. Even though it was only 9:00 a.m., I was surprised I actually wanted it and even more surprised that it actually tasted good.
We were then lead up the dock and up a ramp to the welcoming ceremony, which is normally animated but rather low key. This was anything but.
We had drummers in yellow, ladies with paddles in red, fan dancers in white, and banks of photographers.
It was great but hard to take in when you're dog tired and still cold from the sea.
From the cameras of others (whose files we've collected into one data base for this leg), I've been able to add a few pictures here that include me.
After numerous speeches from race officials and local dignitaries in both English and Chinese, amidst a shower of glittering confetti, Skipper Mark was awarded a cape with his name embroidered on it.
The ceremonies ended but all the participants wanted pictures with us.
Though I was cold enough to keep my foul weather jacket turned up, the women kept turning it down and rubbing my stubble, showing me they wanted it in their pictures.
Finally it was all over and I was left with the freedom to find my hotel.
I'd been content and even preferred staying on the boat until this point but, knowing how cold it would be and how sparse the Olympic Marina facilities would be, I'd signed up to share a room with a crew mate Ian even before I left Singapore. Ian and I took a cab there with just one change of clothes in our hands. We were happy to learn our two room suite actually had two separate baths. I don't know what Ian did on his side of the suite but, in the absence of a tub, I stripped (discovering huge bruises I'd never had the chance to observe before) and slumped on the shower floor with my head and torso supported in a corner, letting hot water run over me for 40 minutes before I stirred, allowing my mind wander through the mental image of an aromatic bath and a massage table layered with soft, warm blankets.
I fell asleep, slumbering through lunch, got up just in time to eat a light dinner, then returned to my room to collapse into the bed again.
I slept the sleep of a child that night.
