Night Watches

Once out of the Strait of Gibraltar, we noticed that the fridge definitely wasn’t working – not at all now. I had bought piles of fresh meat for the beginning of this trip, some of which I had already prepared as meat sauce and curry, but was now obliged to cook the whole lot and keep cooking everything up for a couple of minutes every day – an extremely tiresome business on a rocking boat. Fortunately the weather had cooled off a bit by then; unfortunately neither of us was particularly hungry to begin with - we never were at the beginning of a trip whilst our stomachs settled. The sea was in its usual lumpy, uncomfortable mode and I suffered my usual day or two of seasickness. Mike loved to trail his fishing line and a couple of days out he caught a mackerel, which annoyed me considering how much fresh meat we had on board, so I refused to eat it.

Amazingly, most of the food lasted fine and we were still eating the last of the chicken curry the second night into port – seven days later! I learned that it was the vegetables that went off and made food go sour so for future excursions I cooked only meat and added any veggies later. Our storage methods would have given the ‘Elf and Safety folk the heebies. We bought cheap eggs and kept them, unrefrigerated, for months and ate the yolks raw in home-made mayonnaise. Bottles of sauce, mayonnaise, mustard, etc. were also kept unrefrigerated, sometimes for years, with no ill effects.

We also discovered along the way, that the new solar panel had not been correctly connected so no power was going to the batteries, which quickly went flat as we were using the autopilot, George, most of the time. We didn’t have a self steering system (wind vane) so always had to use the autopilot. Amazingly, and wonderfully, it was working well at that time and was our biggest power drain. This whole 12 volt power system still remained a real mystery to both of us (actually all electricity is still a mystery to me), but it needed to be sorted out if we were to have a proper life on board. Then there was the fridge - ha ha, good thing that didn’t work actually - the computer charts, the lights, GPS, etc.

I slowly got used to the night sailing, which was so different from day sailing. The first hour usually passed pleasantly enough. If there were no moon it would be absolutely, densely, black all around the boat, the sky inky, studded with a zillion stars. We had a small tricolour light at the top of the mast, which didn’t illuminate anything - it was just there to let other ships know we were there and the direction we were taking. Forever heaved along merrily at a good five knots in that lively sea which sent one-to-two meter waves snickering up from slightly aft. Sometimes they would break just as they reached the boat, sending a frothy dollop onto the deck, even reaching the cockpit. I put all the cushions and sundry lose items that tended to gather in the cockpit out of harm’s way down below.

There’s more noise than one would expect on a boat under sail. The waves spit, hiss, roar, growl and splat; the wind rustles, whines, whistles and shrieks; the boat groans and creaks; the sails snap, flap and crackle; the rigging clanks, hums and twangs. Your ears get used to it and take it all in as background hum just as city dwellers don’t ‘hear’ traffic.

So, when there’s a sudden quiet, wet gasp in the water to my left, I know immediately it’s a dolphin. There are dozens of them, in exhilarated mood. Because of the dark night, the phosphorescence is pronounced and their graceful bodies leave long trails of sparkling, silver ‘fairy dust’ – just like Tinkerbelle. They twist and twirl around and under the boat, sweeping in large oval circuits way behind the boat, then surf just under the surface on a long wave up to and alongside the boat. We never go fast enough for them, so they then dive down, turn under the hull and streak off back again to do another torpedo-like approach. Though they pop up for quick breaths of air, they mainly remain underwater, as if they know how beautiful they look. I can watch this amazing unchoreographed ballet for ages, as long as they stay with the boat in fact, charmed beyond words to be the sole spectator. The unstructured form of this magical display is both elating and soothing.

However, a night watch lasted four hours and by the end of the third, I would be dead beat and struggling to keep awake. I’d listen to a tape of Teach yourself Spanish, listen to music, sing along loudly, dance about in the cockpit and study the stars. Anything to keep lively. But, always, the final hour was absolute torture. I would watch the clock every two minutes until the four hours were up and the relief when I went and woke Mike would be immense. I’d make him a cup of coffee, write up the log, brush my teeth, fall into my bunk.... and lie there wide awake and rolling about for the next two and a half to three hours!

Part of it was worry – Mike would scramble about on the foredeck in heavy weather in the middle of the night, changing or tweaking the sails to go a little faster. He would never wear a safety line or even a life jacket and I’d lie below wretchedly, imagining him going overboard. Then me, some hours later, getting up and going on deck to find myself all alone in the middle of the ocean. The odds of finding someone in the water at night, hours after they have gone overboard, are almost nil, I had been needlessly but reliably informed. I begged him constantly to wear a safety line, and to wake me to do sail changes, but he wouldn’t. During my watches, I’d sit tight and do nothing to alter the rhythm of the boat unless absolutely necessary and then I’d call him and get him to help me. Mike could never understand my complaints, as he positively enjoyed the night watches and when over he slept like a baby. He never offered to do more than his fair share, however.