The sun is going down, and Alan Carter is just enjoying a post dinner cup of tea on Spirit of Cardiff's aft deck, when all of a sudden he lets out a strangled cry. For a second, one of us inside thinks he's gone overboard, or at least something of his has. Quite the reverse, in fact.

There on the deck lies a flying fish, no longer flying, crash-landed and flapping about weakly. These evolutionary oddities jump out of the water, but instead of plopping straight back in, fly considerable distances, skimming just above the waves using wing-sized fins to keep them airborne. This one hadn't banked on Spirit of Cardiff being in its flight-path.

"Well, chuck it back," says Alan Priddy from inside the cabin. But Alan Carter and I are transfixed in squeamish recoil at the thought of handling a slippery fish. Clearly no anglers. Those that want a job done well know they have to do it themselves, but as Alan dashes back on this important mercy mission, Steve warns him of the danger of possible poisonous spines. "OK, I'll use a cloth, then." He grabs the stranded fish and returns it to its natural habitat without any further ado. Panic over.

We're now roughly halfway across the Indian Ocean, running at around 15 knots to conserve fuel, with speed expected to increase as we get into the final 24 hours of the crossing.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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