What's Next?

This ends the telling of this tale and the end of this blog. Look here now and then to see what I might be up to.

=B^)

Epilogue

I spent the Christmas of 2005 in the Snowdonia region of Wales with Cyndi, staying at a the Betws Inn near Beddgelert. On Christmas Day we hiked to the top of Mount Snowden. At 1085m, it's the highest point in Wales. From there, looking to the west, we could get a narrow glimpse between the peaks of a patch of the Irish Sea.

How completely unaware I was that two and one half years later I would be sailing north through that very stretch of water, look back east onto this mountain range, being only hours away from finishing a circumnavigation of the globe.


Only a few days later, still in December of 2005, the sequence of events began that have led me to this moment now; sitting on my boat Uniquely Singapore where she gently rocks in her home port of Gosport's Royal Clarence Marina, finishing up the last details of my life towards and, eventually, on the sea.

Everyone's gone. The boat has been empty since Friday, the 11th, when we finished sailing it back here from the race finish in Liverpool. Repeatedly in these last few days I've been just short of being overcome with emotion at the sight of familiar sidewalks, familiar buildings, and familiar people behind the counters in restaurants, some of whom have become good friends.

I haven't been able to bring myself to turn one particular corner, however, one that would bring my old apartment's balcony into view. I so loved living there. I miss it like a friend.

I leave this boat and this town later today, flying out of nearby Southampton tomorrow for Nice, France, then on to Italy by train...and on to so many new adventures.

In that late December of 2005, once back in London after the weekend in Wales, I saw an ad in the Tube (London's subway) for the '07-'08 Clipper Ventures Race, a round the world yacht race for amateurs. Though it mentioned that further information would be available at the upcoming London Boat show just a week away, I think my fate was sealed in that moment alone.

I'd known of this concept: a circumnavigating race sailed by amateurs able to pay their own expenses. I'd heard of it through two sources. My brother had heard of it 16 years ago and half-jokingly suggested that he'd pay my way if I was interested. It was not the time, however. in 1992 I was a single father of a ten year old daughter.

I came across the concept again several years later in Pete Goss' book, "Against The Wind." He writes about his experiences in developing the training program for the BOC Challenge, the first amateur circumnavigating race founded by Chay Blyth (well known to any Brit but probably unheard of by any other nationality). Intrigued again, I thought that one day this would be something I'd want to do.

When I saw that ad in the London Tube for the Clipper Ventures race, the other amateur circumnavigating race (and now the only one, as Chay Blyth's company went bankrupt shortly after I signed up for the Clipper Ventures race), I knew that the time was right. I had the time, the means, and the desire.



* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After our slow and peaceful departure out of Nova Scotia, we ran into our first storm half way across the Grand Bank.

This imposed many cold and wet headsail changes in heaving seas during each of our four hour long watches. The fickle winds also required numerous calls for trim checks, which required at least four of the watch to leave the security of the cockpit and scramble onto the heaving, heeling and slippery deck, one of whom who will become entirely soaked at the bow.

In times like these, all anyone thinks of doing off-watch is seeking the comfort of one’s bunk, but they’re rarely the refuge we’d like it to be in these kinds of seas. Those in the forward bunks (such as myself) are repeatedly launched a few inches into the air as the bows flips up a wave crest before we slam back down, accompanied by a resounding “WHAM!” of the hull doing the same (followed by the nerve-wracking “boing a woing a woing” of the rigging absorbing the torsion loads).

For most of this voyage as I’d lay in my bunk hearing those sounds during passages through rough seas, I’d marvel at the strength of these boat and their rigging. After the two dismastings on the way to Hawaii, however, I'd thereafter lay in my bunk listening to those sounds, wondering if I’ll eventually hear, “boing a-woing a-woing a-wooooooing THWACK crunch ziiiiiiing yerrrrooowww ka-SPLOOOSH!”

Sleep, as one would normally think of it, isn’t to be found at such times. We would just try to get as much rest as we can in a few short hours before returning back into the storm we’d been enduring.

One evening as I laid awake in my bunk while the storm continued to build, I felt the boat “hove to,” the nautical term for setting the head sails and mainsail in opposition to each other to bring the boat to a complete halt in the water, something we normally only do to deal with overwhelming circumstances on deck.

When I came on watch 30 minutes later, I learned that we’d hove to in order to drop our Yankee 3 headsail, our smallest headsail used for the strongest of winds. The foredeck crew found it too difficult to control. The off-going crew had been too exhausted to finish the headsail change and we'd been sailing 'bare headed,' without our primary headsail for the last 15 minutes. We, the on-coming watch, were informed it was now our task to hank on and hoist the storm jib, our last resort headsail, heavily built and laughably small in size.

I followed Koh, our watch leader, and Michelle onto the foredeck. Michelle took up the forward position of standing on the pulpit, facing back to toward the boat to receive the hanks on the leading edge of the sail from Koh, ahead of me, while I assisted him in lifting sections of the sail off the deck. We were positioned as in the picture below, taken during a much calmer headsail change.

At the bow in this pounding storm, it was difficult to get anything accomplished at all. It was quickly obvious why the preceding crew was well content that the watch change brought new energy into the headsail change. Every minute the bow would crest and be flipped up violently by an oncoming wave, tossing us into the air a small distance above the deck. The motion reminded me of how my dog would flip a treat I'd place on her nose into the air to catch and eat it in one quick motion.

Though levitated to only perhaps a hand's width off the deck, we and the bow when then fall and accelerate together a vast distance down to the bottom off the wave's trough, so that we'd slam down much harder at the bottom than our distance elevated of the deck would imply.

Though our time of being airborne each time was perhaps only just over a full second, it seem to give one all the time one needed to check where each appendage was floating in space and to ensure that nothing unfriendly was immediately below them. There are so many 'ankle biters' on the foredeck; folded sails, spinnaker poles, spinnaker pole storage brackets, etc., that I'm amazed we survived the entire circumnavigation without a single sprained or, worse, broken ankle.

All this airborne time is manageable unless waves are also breaking across the deck.


If you are airborne and hit by one, you're set into a backward motion which leaves you unsure of just where you'll land.

Such was the case that evening. Repeatedly I'd be tossed up and washed back the full length of my tether, jerked to a halt and snapped back down on the deck at the same time, then crawl back up to my position only to have it happen again.

This late in the circumnavigation and only trying to improve our position from Eighth to Seventh, enduring conditions this harsh to do a racing headsail change seemed a useless exercise. I didn't think it worth the risk of injury to anyone. I turned back to the helm and improvised a hand signal suggesting that I thought we should hove to, just as the previous watch had done when dropping the headsail.

Angie on the helm understood and conveyed my request below to Skipper Mark. I knelt facing her, clinging to the inner forestay, and watched her body language in the ensuing conversation she had with those down below. In a moment she looked up and back at me, shook her head, then shrugged and tilted her head to one side. I knew what that meant; Sorry. Nothing I can do for you. I knew what the skipper had said; Carry on. It's a race. Hanking a sail on in high winds isn't near as difficult as bringing one down.

I accepted this indifferently. I did not feel all that threatened but it was in conditions similar to these that our race's single Man Overboard had taken place. It had occurred in the absolutely worse scenario: at night and in the Southern Ocean.

Someone on the deck, while airborne in the usual way, had been hit by a wave from the side, not the front, and had been high enough in the air that he'd cleared the guardrail and had come down on the other side, hanging on the side of the bow attached only by his safety tether. Those on deck spent unbearably long seconds struggling to haul him back on board but the snap buckle of the crotch strap on his PFD apparently had been damaged and gave way, allowing him to slip out the bottom of his harness and into the rolling waves in the dark without any floation or even the light all our PFD's have to help in a night retrieval.

He kicked off his boots and took off his jacket, which were pulling him down, and tread water in 15C (59F) water wearing nothing more than what you might wear on a brisk fall day, watching the lights of his boat struggle to come to a halt.

He was recovered in nine minutes, thanks to excellent seamanship, teamwork and perhaps mostly to the good fortune that there was a small strip of reflective material on the back collar of his light jacket. This was picked up by someone's flashlight. His chief complaint, aftwards, was that upon recover he wasn't deemed to have been hypothermic. He was not, as he'd anticipated, stripped naked and put into a sleeping back with another naked humang being who he'd presumed would be one of the many beautiful women on his crew.

He recovered fully from the incident. His watch leader did not fare as well, I've been told. A bear of a man capable of immense feats of strength, he'd had a deathgrip on the man's jacket as everyone available had worked to pull the victim back onboard. When the snap buckle failed, his grasp failed as well. For months afterwards he was emotionally haunted merely by the devastating possibilities of what might have happen that night, unable to accept the happy ending as the final act. Had the man not been found, he would have felt responsible.

Life on the water isn't just about the water. It's about the people and how you feel about them.

Michelle, Koh, and I worked as hard as we could to hank on the storm jib that evening, though I'm not particularly sure I made much of a contribution. I seemed to spend more time being washed back and crawling forward than I did actually applying any force to the sail itself. Michelle, standing precariously on the pulpit and clinging to the forestay with one hand while the other worked the sail, fought bravely against the wind and the boat's motion. I felt a sense of admiration for her tenacity. Every time we were launched into the air, she'd drop the sail and apply both hands to the forestay, waiting to land again before resuming her efforts.

It took us 30 minutes to accomplish what otherwise would have been done in five.

My PFD had auto-inflated from all the sea that had poured over me so, once we were all back in the cockpit, I continued down below to replace my CO2 cylinder and to repack my PFD. While I worked below, Michelle came down, too, and moved past me with movements heavier than would have been dictated by the motions the storm imposed on our boat. I thought to tell her how impressed I'd been by her effort but felt it might have been not the thing to say, so I was silent.

After I'd worked on my PFD for yet several more minutes, I looked back into the sleeping quarters and was surprised to see Michelle sitting on her heels on a sail, slumped against a bulkhead with her head down and against the bulkhead as well, her arms falling loosely over her bent legs. I went back and placed a hand on her lightly, asking if she was okay. Almost inaudibly she answered, "I've injured my shoulder. Just give me a minute. I'll be okay."

"You were amazing up there," I said and left her to recover at her own pace.

For two days she was unable to take the helm, so severely had her efforts at the bow sprained both shoulders.

Two weeks later, as we cruised into Liverpool on the morning of July 5th as a fleet, Michelle was at the helm. It hadn't been a conscious choice the crew had made but, as with my being on the helm while crossing the final finish line the night before, simply the random order of turns.

I stood by her, basking in the moment of the end of our adventure. "I can't believe I'm bringing our boat in on this river," she told me. "This is my town. This is my river. I was raised here. I can't believe I'm bringing us in on this river."

The more she spoke aloud, the more emotional she became. "This is my river. This is my river." Congratulations and hugs were being passed around by all and a few of us noticed the emotional depth of the moment for Michelle. We stood back by her, enjoying her emotions as much as our own.

Her eyes grew visibly moist and she was on the verge of tears of happiness as I took her picture, chronicling her great moment as well as all of our own.


I, too, got misty-eyed just taking the picture. It was over.

It Is Finished

We spent most of the race from Cork, Ireland to Liverpool, England hanging with the two leaders of not only that race, but the race over all: New York and Hull&Humber.

The conditions were beautiful and an absolutely fantastic way to finish this year at sea.


In the final night on the water we managed to pass Hull&Humber but couldn't pull in New York. We finished the final race Saturday morning, July 5th, at 1:38 a.m., crossing the line 2nd, only 300 yards behind New York and only 300 yards ahead of Hull & Humber. I was at the helm, for no other reason that it was my turn in our four hour watch from 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m.

The points we gained from that 2nd place finish moved us up from 8th to 7th overall, which suited us fine. We'd taking to calling ourselves Uniquely Seventh since it seemed to be our finishing position more often than chance (or skill) would dictate.

After milling about all night and the morning at the mouth of the Mersey River, waiting for the rest of the fleet to join up, we sailed as a group up stream, tacking back and forth between each other, giving the crowds lining the shore outside of Albert Dock in Liverpool a bit of a show.

By 2:00 p.m. we'd entered Albert Dock and were moored in the place we'd begun last September 16th.



It is done. I am content and happy. Best yet, I've still got all ten fingers and toes.

In perhaps a week's time I'll write a final entry to be posted here.

Views of Ireland/The Final Act

Having arrived on Saturday, the 28th, we spent Sunday deep-cleaning the boat. Normally the following day would be spent doing maintenance but all was well with Uniquely Singapore, so we then had Monday-Wednesday free to do as we pleased.

You'd think that being in the heart of Ireland in the summer would inspire one to break out a bit. That didn't seem to be the case among many. Docked in the small town of Crosshaven a bit down the road from Cork itself, some of us took the bus in yesterday for the day to explore the city a bit.

And that was it.

We're tired. We were content to enjoy Crosshaven...

...and it's delightful Rivers End Cafe.






Tonight, most of the various crews will gather at one more party (we've had four in five days here) sponsored by the Crosshaven Yacht Club (oldest yacht club in the world, we're told, founded in 1720).

The crew of Uniquely Singapore, however, will gather for a quieter evening at a local pub for a few drinks and dinner.


Tomorrow morning, Thursday, we sail for Liverpool. We should arrive fairly closely grouped together at the mouth of the Mersey River in the pre-dawn hours of Saturday to cross the finish line there for Race 14. At that point we'll break down to a skeletal crew on deck and mill about while most sleep until 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, July 5th. After one final fun race (no points toward the overall title) up the river to Albert Dock, we will cross the final final final finish line.

And then it will be done. Ten months, 35,000 miles, one world, many wonderful times (along with a few hard ones), and many many new friends.

All You Really Need In Life, Part 2

(All You Realy Need In Life, Part 1, can be found here).


Some have asked me what life is like on board below decks. For ten months now the full extent of my personal space as been one bunk.

Any headsail or spinnaker not in use is stored below decks in the sleeping quarters. With a complement of three headsails, three spinnakers, and three other sails to chose from, we rarely ever see the sole boards (floor).
My view whenever not on watch: two watches with three alarms each, set to the three times daily (every eight hours) I need to go on watch; pockets for various items I'd like to have handy (reading glasses, GPS, headlamps, camera accessories, etc.); a net hanging from the bunk above holding gloves, hats, reading material and other necessities.

Beside each bunk we all have three 'cubby holes' used for personal storage.

After a year of living this way, it has become quite acceptable. Living out of a space any larger space would seem luxurious.

Heroics, Part 2

It’s been almost ten months since we began this voyage around the world by crossing the Atlantic twice; first east-to-west to Brazil (to avoid the widest part of the doldrums off the western coast of Africa) and secondly west-to-east down to the southern tip of Africa. On this race, our 13th of 14, we crossed the Atlantic a third and last time. After a few frigid days of beating into the prevailing winds, we reached the area just off the southern tip of New Foundland known as the Grand Banks (site of “The Perfect Storm”).

We found no storm at all. We were essentially becalmed.


Normally, working at the bow equates to getting soaked in sea water. In those days of low winds, however, the bow remained completely dry. As we crept towards the southern tip of New Foundland, we had a new hazard to deal with: icebergs.

We established a 24 hour a day Iceberg Watch, requiring someone to be stationed at the bow 24 hours a day, scanning the horizon. At night or if fog was present (as it most often was), someone was also deployed down to the Nav Station to monitor the radar screen for any icebergs detectable.

Drifting along in the low winds, occasionally we’ve dropped to only a knot of speed, if that. Frustrating as that might have been in regards to reaching Cork, it nevertheless gave me many magical moments to savor, particularly during night Iceberg Watches. Sitting or even standing on the pulpit, leaning against the forestay, I would feel as if I was hovering a few meters above the glassy water. Before me I saw nothing but a horizonless curve of pearlescent dark gray sea water ghosting beneath my feet. Ahead, the sea merged seamlessly into a fuzzy dirty white overcast above.

Trusting in the security of my safety strap, I’d grasp the forestay with one hand and lean out over the water, feeling like a square rigger’s figurehead. At night it was easy to imagine being at the nose of a spaceship moving through the emptiness of space since there was the enjoyably disorienting lack of a clear horizon and no sound but the quietest of tinkling of the small bow wake below.


At that point we had only two weeks left in the entire circumnavigation, having spent 40 weeks in getting that far. It’s been great but I am ready to move on. Still, moments such as those iceberg watches on crisp nights under a featureless sky and above a whispering sea are some of the things I've treasured in this last year.




After being lulled into a frustrating boredom by the calm seas we initially found, we were to discover we still had two Atlantic storms with which to contend.

The first I’ll write about later, in whatever epilogue I compose once we finish in Liverpool. The second, the lessor of the two, came on slowly in the afternoon of June 25th, when the skies turned gray and the water a slate green color.


When I came on watch at 8:00 p.m. that night, the previous crew had just replaced the mid-weight spinnaker for the heavy weight. The winds were rising and a challenging night was anticipated. It wasn't long before the winds were 30kts or so with gusts up to 35kts, sometimes more. The waves were building and rocking the boat so drastically that it was hard to keep the spinnaker inflated. By the time 10:00 p.m. rolled around and it was approaching my turn to helm, I sat in the snakepit, holding the line controlling the vang with only three turns of it wrapped around the central halyard winch.

The main sheet controls the angle of the boom and, therefore, the angle of the sail (essentially a wing) in relation to the wind. The vang (sometimes called the kicker) is a block and tackle between the base of the mast and the bottom of the boom. When the wind pressure is high on the sail, it wants to pull the boom upwards and form the sail into half a funnel, allowing the wind to dump out of it's trailing edge. The vang resists this motion and keeps the sail shaped more like a wing.

When a boat is threatened with being unexpectedly overpowered by a gust, the quickest way to respond is to release the vang, allowing the sail to curl and loose all it’s power. The second but less effective response is to ease the main sheet, allowing the mainsail to swing out to a less aggressive angle to the wind. Returning to the wing analogy, easing the main would be a bird changing the angle of its wings. Easing the vang would be as if a bird folded its wings.

In certain circumstances (such as that Wednesday night) someone holds the line leading to the vang with only a few turns on the winch, creating just enough friction for a moderate grip to hold it fast. All it takes, then, to dump the vang is to release one’s grip. Someone also stands 'Shotgun,' i.e., by the mainsheet with it also down to three turns on a winch.

Sitting at the vang that night, awaiting my turn to helm, I looked back and was relieved to find Skipper Mark on the helm. Mark never takes the helm except when it’s absolutely necessary. Despite the level of confidence I’ve gained in helming over these last ten months at sea, I wasn’t too keen on taking the helm that night in those conditions.

My watch leader Koh Kok Siong had already spent quite some time on shotgun so I volunteered to relieve him. I moved into the central position in the photo below, poised to release the mainsheet at a moment’s notice.


We were doint 13-15kts in this wind and occasionally surfing down waves a 19 kts. It was exhilarating and we knew we were making great gains on other boats not in this storm, but the drain on the crew and, more importantly, Mark at the helm was severe.

Standing next to Mark with the mainsheet in my hands, I volunteered, “So basically we’re going to fly the kite until you need sleep, right?” He had a short moment to chuckle before muttering an expletive as a wave rolled us so hard to the left that the kite was back winded and began to collapse against the wrap net.

Still muttering obscenities under his breath, Mark fought to maneuver the boat so as to gently re-inflate the spinnaker. If it re-inflates too quickly, it will pop open like the apartment building-sized parachute that it truly is (see the photos in the previous blog entry) and impose huge forces on the lines, halyards, and shackles controlling it. Perhaps a month ago a sudden re-inflation of the kite in similar conditions snapped the metal shank of shackle as thick as my ring finger as easily as if it had been a piece of chalk, setting one corner of the spinnaker free and necessitating an immediate emergency drop of the spinnaker in the worst of conditions.

This is what we were trying to avoid that Wednesday night.

Finally at 11:00 p.m. Mark could take no more. “Prepare to drop the kite,” he shouted over the wind. “It’s too hard to control.” To me he volunteered in a lower voice, “My arms are about to fall off.”

To be safe, we woke the oncoming watch a bit early to have more manpower available. For 30 more minutes, then, Mark still had to fight to control the spinnaker while everyone set up for the what was anticipated to be a brutal effort. As we prepared for the drop, a gust came through and added extra pressure to the sails. The boat, already heeled at a 30 degree angle, leaned harder and harder to port.

Mark shouted, “VANG!!” but nothing happened. Whomever was on the vang (I’ve never learned who it was, it being too dark and I too busy in the aftermath of that moment to see) had somehow gotten the line tangled in something and the mainsail remained fully powered. At the same moment, the urgency of the need being obvious, I’d released the mainsheet fully and let the boom swing out completely towards the water, it almost striking the waves since we were heeled over so far at this point. This helped slow the increasing heel of the boat but it didn’t stop it.

Mark was screaming now in a high pitched voice, “DUMP THE VANG! GET THE FUCKING VANG OFF THE WINCH!”

We were being threatened with a broach; when the boat's heeling to one side becomes so severe that the rudder is pulled up out of the water on the other side and the helm loses all ability to control the boat. Once this happens, the spinnaker will first lay the boat flat onto the downwind side then, with no rudder or keel resisting it, spin the boat in a flash close to 180 degrees to the point upwind where the spinnaker will now completely re-inflate backwards, popping the boat violently upright with the spinnaker tangled in the shouds and spinnaker pole and, most likely, ripped to shreds.

In time (just in time) the vang was released and the boat eased up a bit. The gust died and the boat recovered a bit more. I started the process of grinding the mainsheet back in.

It was only a few minutes later that everyone one was in place for the spinnaker drop and we brought it down. I had moved into the cockpit to join the other three who were pulling it down into the companionway. After it was successfully below decks and no longer a threat to anyone or anything, I asked Mark if I should go back to shotgun, go forward and help with the tidy up of all the lines on the foredeck, or go below and help fold the kite.

“Actually,” he said, “take the helm.”

With no headsails up and nothing more than the main eased out to the shrouds, we were still doing 9 kts. When I took the wheel, Mark slumped down to take a seat by the mainsheet winch, too exhausted to move any further for the moment.

Ahead of us, in the dark under the dim glow of the deck light, the rest of the crew moved about the deck tidying up the spinnaker lines, guys, sheets, and halyards. We were setting up to hoist the Yankee 2 to be poled out "Wing and Wing" as a replacement for the dropped kite. In the heavy rain and air thick with mist, everyone's bright red foul weather gear with day-glo yellow hoods were only moving mounds of dull red with dim white tops to Mark and I back at the helm. Their muffled voices reached us over the wind noise, some rising with directions, some acknowledging, some offering requests, and some moving around silently getting done what needed to be done without any direction at all. No one voice dominated. The group worked fluidly as a team.

I pointed out that representation of teamwork to Mark, adding that witnessing those moments during such challenging times were the times I felt best about being on this boat.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said, heaving another exhausted sigh.

I wish I had a picture to offer of the moment, for my own memory's sake if nothing else, but in the rain at night in a heaving sea, none would have been possible. Those moments really aren’t about how they look, however. They’re about how they feel…how they feel to all of us.

Those kinds of moments, be they the thrill of dropping a spinnaker in a storm or quiet Iceberg Watches at night on the very tip of the pulpit on a calm sea...those kinds of moments are the things I’ll miss the most in the times that follow the end of this race.

Standing at the helm while the rest of the crew worked, as we closed in on Cork still three days away, I thought to myself that perhaps, after all, we did deserve to look a bit heroic in some video footage now and then.

A Perfect Birthday for Dennis

(Many of the images used in the story below were taken by the press boat as we flew across the finish line under full spinnaker)


Dennis O'Sullivan joined our boat for both legs 5 (Hawaii to Santa Cruz) and 7, this last one from Jamaica to Liverpool. Born in the harbor town of Cork, Ireland, he's always been fascinated by the sea and all the classical literature of the sea travel. As his 60th birthday approached, he wondered if he had it in him to endure some of the challenges he'd been reading about all his life.

Though Dennis now lives in England, he still considers Cork his home and spends a few months of each year there. This stopover in Cork, Ireland had not been even rumored until a few months before the race start and not an assured part of this race's schedule until the race had already been a full month underway. When Dennis signed up for the Clipper Ventures race two years ago, then, he could not have fathomed the perfect birthday he was setting up for himself.

Dennis' birthday is June 28. At the slow pace we started off out of Nova Scotia (more about that in a later blog), it seemed unlikely we'd be in Cork by July 3rd, to say nothing of any day in June. We caught the a tail end of a low pressure system 750 miles from the finish, however, and blew in under the heavyweight spinnaker, logging 250 miles a day.

We flew that heavyweight spinnaker right down to the finish line as we found the Clipper boat Jamaica on our tails when the sun rose on the 28th, only a few miles back and seemingly closing in. We were confident we could hold them off for the last 80 miles into Cork, but it wasn't certain.

With 20 miles to go and still every opportunity available to blow our slim lead over Jamaica, Skipper Mark shouted over the wind noise, "Dennis!" Up by the grinder, working the winch controlling the spinnaker sheet, Dennis turned around.

"Take the helm," Mark said.

A spontaneous cheer arose among those on deck for we all knew what was unfolding: Dennis, at the helm, on his 60th birthday, racing into the port of his birth, with his wife, family and friends waiting. I had nothing to do with anything about it all but even I was beside myself with excitement. I could only imagine what Dennis must have felt.

"Couldn't get any better," he muttered under his breath to me as the miles to the finish line wound down one by one. "Couldn't get any better."


The second we passed the lighthouse on one side of the narrow entrance to the harbour, a cannon fired from the other shore where the race committee sat at a pub (no doubt drinking pints of Murphy's stout).


One second later Mark shouted "SPIKE!"...

...and someone already hoisted up to the end of the spinnaker pole on a halyard jammed a thin spike into the releasing mechanism of the shackle holding the upwind corner of the spinnaker...

...allowing it to fly free like a flag behind the mainsail.


Four crew (two on the winches in the snake pit, two on the lines themselves in front of the mast) worked hurriedly to ease both of the two spinnaker halyards out as fast as possible and yet still under control. Four more crew gathered around the companionway to haul the spinnaker down below decks and out of the wind.



Being able to manuever the boat to use the mainsail to block any wind trying to re-inflate the spinnaker is a key aspect to dropping a spinnaker, a luxury we sacrificed inside this narrow harbor to ensure we held onto our narrow lead over Jamaica until the very last moment.

We got the spinnaker down safely and Mark took the helm so that Dennis was free to stand just ahead of the mast as we motored to our dock, waving to friends and family either in boats motoring beside us or gathered on the shore.

Couldn't get any better," he'd say from time to time.

Heroics

Position 46 08N, 58 01W. At the pre-race crew briefing before this final 2300 mile ocean crossing, we previewed the first installment of the ten segment TV production covering our race. In the US and Canada, it will eventually be shown on the Outdoor Life Network. Watching it, I was struck by how heroic our exploits look when shown in slow motion with dramatic background music.

Below decks during a passage through rough seas, feeling like you're being tossed around like a towel in a dryer just seems like a challenge to endure, nothing more. Seeing the helicopter footage of the same moment, however, with the bow piercing wave after wave and the foredeck crew awash in sea water while the music builds suitably...well, it was hard not to feel some tinge of pride in what we're doing.

That's an emotion I've fought hard to avoid, for all around me I see that each of us are little different than anyone you'd meet on the street, except that we're here, not there.

The people around the world that I've spent this time with have the most to do with what I've treasured in this voyage. The work of sailing is the vehicle, not the journey. One of the reasons I've chosen to take part in this circumnavigation was to confirm my belief that people all around the world are the same: they are good.

Such has been my experience...particularly so, it would seem, in Nova Scotia.

One last bit of Nova Scotian Hospitality

The local tourist board arranged for one last delight for our stay in Nova Scotia. Any member of my boat's crew willing to get up early and brave the cold was treated to a private lobster harvesting trip.

We all had the chance to handle the catch and band the claws. Most were one to two pounds but we did haul in a five pounder. The largest they'd ever caught in these waters, we were told, weighed 11 pounds.

After gathering enough for us all, we dropped them in a pot of boiling water setting on the ships heater down in the hold while we motored back to the dock. Once the lines were secure, we ate them as fresh as could possibly be.

I really am loving this place...but it is time to go. We're all eager to see this voyage to it's final end and get on with our lives afterwards.

Most of this last crossing of the Atlantic promises to consist of spinnaker work. I'd made two videos about spinnakers during the Santa Cruz to Panama trip but haven't had the chance to post them yet. I wanted to show how much work a spinnaker is, both flying off the mast and collapsed below decks. You'll find these videos below.

We leave for Cork, Ireland tomorrow at noon. It should take about two weeks.

Nova Scotia

Jamie left this morning at 6:00 a.m. We had so much fun here together, people think she's my girlfriend. Where to start...or, more accurately, could I ever finish describing the great time we've had in Nova Scotia. I'm definitely coming back.

It all began with meeting Michelle, a woman standing on the dock above our boat, looking so full of enthusiasm. I had the time so I stopped and asked if she'd like to have a tour of the boat. I'd just given one to a old, pot-bellied man only 15 minutes before so, even though Michelle was beautiful, I figured I'd pre-balanced the karma and wasn't playing favorites.

She was thrilled to have a chance to look the boat over and, more to the point, turned out to be as gracious a host to a traveler as could possibly be imagined. All the days I was in Halifax she was a fountain of advice on where to go, what to do, where to eat, and more. She also offered to take anyone I could gather along out on her friend's boat in a club race that Wednesday evening, two days away.

I knew Jamie, flying in that night, would be thrilled to actually get out on the water to view this beautiful landscape from a vantage point she wouldn't otherwise have, so I readily accepted for both of us.
The next morning I sent an e-mail to Michelle, beginning:

...you'll think me silly and absurd, I'm sure, but last night's sail with you and your friends and the evening as a whole was truly one of the highlights of this ten month voyage for me. It's all very natural that good human beings enjoy fellow good human beings but I still find it inspiring and uplifting whenever I experience it as I did last night.

Wouldn't you know, that was only the beginning.

The fleet was to spend Thursday and Friday moving the boats from Halifax to Syndey. It was billed as a race for the press but was actually just a delivery. No points would be awarded towards our round-the-world race. Knowing this, I left a message at my skipper's hotel room that I was jumping ship and that I'd met up with them in Sydney. When I saw him in Sydney, he'd thought I'd done the right thing.

This allowed me to spend those two days (the last Jamie had in Nova Scotia) driving across the country side with her. We also took along Vic, wife of the skipper of the Clipper boat Western Australia and the photojournalist who'd joined Uniquely Singapore for the Jamaica-New York run.

Among our adventures across Nova Scotia, we found a German ex-patriot who started a coffee roasting business in the middle of nowhere, and offered us free espressos to sample his beans (I had three espressos and bought four lbs. for our boat).
Friday morning we'd planned to kayak but the winds were too strong. Our kayak guide Angelo, however, invited us to hear him join two others musicians that evening for a performance at the Keltic Lodge in Ingonosh, an unbelievably spectacular coastal setting. After only a few minutes of conversation and a brief CD sampling of the artist he'd be joining, Jamie and I knew that whatever else we did that day, we were going to BE THERE that night.

Doing so involved quite a sacrifice on Jamie's part. As her flight left at 6:00 a.m. this morning and the performance began at 8:00 p.m. last night at a locale two hours from Sydney, we could only stay until 10:00 p.m. so she'd have two hours to drive me back to the boat in Sydney and still have enough time to drive all night to cover the four hours back to Halifax to turn in the rental car and make her 6:00 a.m. flight.

It was worth it. We got two hours of great music, personal dedications, and new friendships being formed.

I love this place.

Angelo, Jamie, Cyril, and Harold

Angelo even brought over his guitar during a break to let me indulge in a bit of playing. Jamie, a friend of six years, only learned at that moment that I played the guitar. It was only a few days before that we discovered both our degrees are in music.

These two key experiences made this stopover one of the most memorable I've had in this entire voyage. Add a few roadside bald eagles (look just off of Jamie's shoulder in the first photo) and you'd have to agree it's pretty hard to beat Nova Scotia.