Today's journal is being written by me, Alan, because I have given Clive and Steve the day off to celebrate the Queen's Jubilee, but only the day. They have to be back on duty tomorrow!

The truth is we are all nearing exhaustion, physically, mentally and emotionally. The last 4,000 miles in the North Pacific have taken their toll on the crew and the boat. Having to run the boat with a crew of three instead of four, and because of the severity of the seas, it is difficult to catch up with sleep. Both Steve and I have thousands of sea miles to our credit, but we have never been in such inhospitable conditions in our lives.

The mountainous seas go on and on, and it is a constant battle keeping the boat going in the right direction. It would be easy to follow the sea pattern for an easier ride, but 50 percent of the time that would take us back to where we have just come from. With each hour and every mile travelled, at least we are on our way home, which has its own problems. When Alan Carter jumped ship in Singapore, everyone rallied round and came up with the shortfall of the money he took with him. Yamaha, ABP, Hogg Robinson Bti, and a mystery supporter whose only reward for his generous donation was for him to be an imaginary crew man from Russia to Telegraph Cove. I have to say he is doing a sterling job, and fitting in well with the rest of the crew, not like the last one! Not to mention the wonderful support from many members of the public.

Because of the extra time and unexpected "extra charges" we have had to pay we will now run out of money in Fort Lauderdale. I have the difficult decision to make as to where I will have to stop the attempt if the final $10,000 is not found within the next 10 days.

The only thing that can stop this project from a successful result is lack of funds. I get very bitter when I am reminded of all the companies and other bodies that promised to support us and then cast us adrift, never to be seen again!

If you know anyone or any company that wants a VERY HIGH PROFILE advertising or promotion over the next few weeks please, please contact either Sophie or Nadia.

All the crew are determined that this world attempt will succeed. Even if we do not beat the Cable & Wireless record, we are guaranteed the world record for the smallest fastest boat around the world, the UIM under 50 ft record for circumnavigating the world, and 31 other world records for separate port to port times.

The aim of the project was to take as many people as possible around the world with us, and in that we have definitely succeeded. We are being followed by hundreds of thousands of supporters from all over the world.

A few questions:

Was Captain Scott's expedition (the last major maritime adventure to set off from Cardiff) a failure?

Was Tracy Edwards' attempt at around the world a failure?

Is Ellen MacArthur a failure for coming second in the Vendee Globe?

The answer is NO, because they tried their hardest to succeed, and that is what we are doing. Whatever happens, the Spirit of Cardiff and its crew will go down in the history books for completing an amazing feat of seamanship. Three men, supported by a multinational team of volunteers in Cardiff will be triumphant. We just need that extra bit of help. But we need it urgently.

Alan Priddy

Clive Tully is on holiday. He will return tomorrow.

Copyright Alan Priddy ©2002
Report transmitted by Iridium satellite network

For ages they've been invisible to us. Then as the sun slips lower and lower, piercing through the layers of dark clouds, suddenly a silhouette of the mountains of the Fox Islands appears, a warm water-colour glow in the gaps between the mountains and the clouds. But it's there for just a fleeting moment, lost as the sun sinks further.

Somewhere over in that direction is Dutch Harbor, the next main settlement along the Aleutian Islands from Adak. This was our "Plan B" stop. There was a moment when we thought that we'd burned off so much fuel in the heavy seas out of Adak that we might not have enough to make it all the way to Kodiak. Fortunately the calculations work out (only just).

Whilst it might have been nice to see Dutch Harbor, as well as the US Customs Official who would have been delighted to present us with a copy of our cruising permit for the United States, we opt to bash on to Kodiak. The next opportunity to pick it up will be Eureka in California.

We've seen some monster waves out of Adak, and the point where we cross from the Bering Sea back into the North Pacific - Atka Pass - has seas unlike anything I've ever seen before. The waves seethe and boil like wild rapids in a fast flowing mountain river. No wonder it has a fearsome reputation amongst local fishermen.

Fortunately, as Friday wears on, the winds abate and the sea flattens off somewhat. The barometer has risen, which is a good sign. We still have a following sea, and at times we're surfing at over 20 knots. For the first time in days we can feel the heat of the sun as it warms the cabin, and we marvel at the grace of an albatross as it wheels just above the waves.

Despite our welcome stop in Adak, we're all feeling quite weary. It's a cumulative effect - weeks of disturbed sleep, no sleep, being battered by the elements, not eating regularly. But we do know one thing. However badly the weather decides to treat us during our run down the west coast of America, it can't be any worse than what we've already endured. The point, of course, where someone mutters "famous last words..."

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Report transmitted by Iridium satellite network

Sunday is easily the most uncomfortable day of the lot. We may have seen bigger, more dangerous seas off Japan, but these ones take the biscuit for sheer pain and discomfort. The motion goes in several planes, the bow pitching up and down, but with rolling from side to side as well. So as we forge ahead, the bow pitches upward. Everybody leaves their seat or bunk.

The bow pitches downward, leaving us weightless for half a second before we fall back down. By then the boat has pancaked into the sea with a sickening crunch, and we crash land back into our respective seats and bunks, our spines compressed that bit more.

But there's a rolling motion as well, so the whole catalogue of movements goes something like: up, weightless, down, ouch, roll left, ricochet off a wave, ouch, roll right, ricochet off another wave, ouch, up, down, ouch. It goes on, and on, and on.

Our shortest route to Kodiak is around the south of the island, but that takes us straight into the wind. So Alan opts for a somewhat longer route along the Shelikof Strait, between Kodiak and mainland Alaska. In theory, we should gain some shelter. Strangely, the wind is blowing in a different direction along here, so we still end up taking it on the nose.

The final respite comes as we round the northern end of Kodiak. It's beautiful, the mountains, some snow-clad, others green and tree-covered, glow in the late afternoon sun. In fact it's the first time we've seen substantial numbers of trees since Japan, and that cheers me up enormously.

We turn into Kupreanof Strait, with Raspberry Island to our left, heading for Whale Passage. We scan the hillsides for any possible sightings of Kodiak's famous bears, but all we manage to see is lots of seals in the water, a couple of humpback whales, and a few eagles. Closer to the town of Kodiak, we enter a bank of fog, ending up making a blind approach into the harbour, made infinitely more easy by our Raymarine radar and chart plotter.

As we tie up, we're met by Kyle Crow - he'd read about us in the local newspaper, and was just passing as we came in. Before we know it, we're being whisked off to experience a traditional banya, what they call a sauna here. Our aches and pains quickly melt away, but it doesn't do much for the way the ground seems to keep moving about!

Kodiak is a fascinating place. The town has a population of around 15,000, and it seems as though the popular way to get around is by float plane. Just along the dock from where we're berthed is a ship called the Star of Kodiak. It was lifted up onto the dockside by the earthquake of 1964, and instead of scrapping her afterwards, they converted her into a canning plant.

We spend the evening with Kyle and his wife Leona, dining on what they call scraps. Some scraps - more like a feast, we'd say. It's a great meal, and we get a chance to catch up on what's been going on with our website.

The next day we call in at the US immigration office to collect our cruising permit and visas. There's a glimmer of hope when we're told the visa charges might be waived on account of our financial plight, but the officer needs to make a phone call after lunch. We return an hour later, but it's bad news. We have to pay - 195 dollars each. Fortunately we haven't quite got as far as putting a sticker on the boat saying "sponsored by the US Government". Up until now the Philippines has been the most expensive stop for official charges. Now the USA has stormed into the lead.

We set off from Kodiak with British Columbia in our sights. Everyone we've spoken to reckons we've had the worst of the bad weather. The next thousand miles might have its uncertainties, but hopefully without so much of the extreme pain factor.

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Adak Island - Kodiak
Time of leg: 3 days 6 hours 49 minutes
Length of leg: 1,057 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 14,314 nautical miles
Distance to go: 10,770 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 13.42 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 56 days 19 hours 29 minutes
Fuel consumed: 2,365 litres
Average fuel consumption: 2.24 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Telegraph Cove, British Columbia, Canada
ETA: Thursday / Friday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

As nights go, it's one of our best for a long time. Not that there's much of it. Kodiak, our furthest stop north of the entire circumnavigation, is on about the same latitude as Aberdeen. In fact, it doesn't really get pitch dark at all.

We're running into a slight head sea, which, with our heavy fuel load, means it's comfortable at only around 8 knots. In fact, we've managed to address one or two comfort issues. The cushions which form the two rear seats / bunks have flattened as a result of the extensive pounding throughout the voyage. What we've done is augment them with the two Thermarest inflatable foam sleeping mats normally used when everybody is sleeping - when the boat's in port. It makes a terrific difference, taking the hard shocks out of all the bumps.

We also have something on which to play our music cassettes at last. There, in Kodiak, was a box waiting for us, containing a smart portable music centre and 12 volt inverter. We're very grateful to Dominic Palmeri from Guernsey for buying and shipping this. Our spirits were raised even before we switched it on!

That's not to say I've become entirely redundant as onboard entertainments officer. Over the last few days I've been reading out loud Michael Crichton's "Airframe" to Alan and Steve, one of the pile of books kindly given to us by Marina from Pacific Network in P-K. We finish that one off, and start on one of Crichton's earlier novels - "Sphere".

And we've also been mindful of our special fourth crew member. He's with us from P-K to Telegraph Cove - an imaginary journey for him, and for which he wants no public recognition. It was the only condition for a remarkably generous donation to our "bring the Spirit home" campaign. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts, and we've been delighted to have you aboard, even if only in spirit.

As the sun comes up on Tuesday morning - yes, sunshine - the conditions have improved, and our speed has doubled to 16 knots. We'd toyed with the idea of following the Alaskan coastline around from Kodiak to British Columbia. It would give us more bad weather options, but would have added to the overall mileage, already a fair stretch for one leg at very nearly a thousand miles. But the one phrase we heard again and again, talking to different people in Kodiak, was "you're through the worst of it now".

So we're on our prime route - straight across the Gulf of Alaska to the northern tip of Vancouver Island, and our next stop, Telegraph Cove. Here we reach another milestone of sorts. The mileage remaining drops from a five-digit figure to four. We really are on our way home.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

We're halfway across the Gulf of Alaska, and it's some time just after midnight Wednesday that I spot a contact on the radar. It's almost directly ahead, just under four miles. Definitely a solid contact, not the scatter you can get when the radar bounces off waves.

I adjust the scale on the radar screen from twelve to six miles to double check his distance from us. Yes, it's still there. Over the next ten minutes it moves away from a collision course. Then suddenly, nothing. It vanishes from the screen.

Did I just watch a ship sink? Alien spacecraft? Having seen evidence of a submarine a day or so ago, I'm more tempted to think it's that - a submarine on the surface, then diving.

As we approach the coast of British Columbia, we're pondering over the enormity of what we've done in the last three weeks. We've taken on the North Pacific, and some of the worst sea conditions on the planet.

We've taken around ten days longer to complete the crossing than we'd expected. But then we could never have contemplated the extreme conditions which forced us to run for cover and sit out the worst of the weather. Unlike a sailing boat, powerboats can't just blast through regardless. Fuel consumption increases dramatically when you're punching heavy seas, and even though Spirit of Cardiff has a larger fuel capacity for its size than any other boat in the world, we still have to be careful. And of course, there comes a point when fighting head seas becomes painful to the point of injury.

In the light of experiece, we've calculated that our original plan to tow a ton of spare fuel from Yokhama straight across the Pacific to Midway, Honolulu and San Diego at 10 knots would have worked out quicker after all. But then we didn't have the funds to develop the special wave-piercing fuel drogue that we'd need.

We would have missed out on some unique encounters, too. We've seen arguably the most spectacular scenery in the North Pacific, and we've met some incredibly friendly people. If that ten days of bad weather delay costs us the Cable and Wireless record, I don't think any of us will feel cheated. The experience of a lifetime comes a pretty good second.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Report transmitted by Iridium satellite network

It should have been a sign, really. Wednesday night saw a magnificent sunset, the kind you want to just stand and look at open-mouthed until the last fleeting seconds of colour drain from the sky.

The night sees us picking up speed almost alarmingly. The sea is following, and at times we're zipping along at over twenty knots. When the sun rises on Thursday morning, the cabin quickly warms up, even though the air temperature outside is still quite brisk.

As for me, I'm feeling a little fragile. The thousand miles from Adak to Kodiak did more to me than leave me exhausted. My insides have taken a battering, and without going into all the gory detail with the symptoms, I'm suffering from bruised kidneys.

But now we're approaching the top end of Vancouver Island. Once again we're delighting in being close to land. We know our little spaceship will protect us even when we're hundreds of miles from land, but the feeling of comfort when you're close enough to touch it, to smell it, is incalculable.

We very nearly take a wrong turning for Telegraph Cove, ending up at the bottom end of a bay and a large logging camp. Our destination is in a tiny inlet near the entrance to the bay, an old salmon saltery and sawmill which has been lovingly restored into a holiday resort with a real difference - timber cabins and houses all joined by a boardwalk which skirts the cove.

It's a prime spot for anglers, whale watchers and anyone who just wants to get away from it all. It's here that we meet ex-pat Welshman Ray Jones and friend Bob with respective wives, all sporting Cardiff Arms Park T-shirts. They've been following us on the website, and they've driven here to meet us. We enjoy the most fantastic barbecued salmon meal in the Old Saltery Pub, courtesy of Telegraph Cove owner Gordie Graham.

We're stopping here overnight, not least because we don't dare travel down the channel between Vancouver Island and the mainland at night. We've seen a lot of massive logs floating in the water during our approach, and we wouldn't stand much of a chance if we ran into one in the dark. But we also have to time our short run to Eureka right so as not to spend time drifting offshore until the marina opens.

One thing we have been told is that we should be back in shorts and T-shirts by the time we arrive. We certainly hope so.

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Kodiak - Telegraph Cove
Time of leg: 2 days 23 hours 42 minutes
Length of leg: 1,057 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 15,371 nautical miles
Distance to go: 9,770 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 14.73 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 60 days 13 hours 42 minutes
Fuel consumed: 2,119 litres
Average fuel consumption: 2.0 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Eureka, California, USA
ETA: Sunday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

Telegraph Cove is definitely one of those places we feel we'd like to spend a bit more time. The setting is charming, and it has a lot to offer. If you're into angling, you can go salmon or halibut fishing, but if all you want to do is wildlife watching, it's one of the best places anywhere to see killer whales - just a short trip out into the Inside Passage on a whale watch boat. Or you can watch grizzly bears feasting on spawning salmon. There's also something to be said for just taking it easy. It's the right kind of place to do that.

As for us, we're heading south for the sun, down the Inside Passage between Vancouver Island and mainland Canada. It gives us some spectacular scenery to look at, as well as the opportunity to make better speed than we would in open sea. For a while, the passage is quite narrow, and it's here we have a rather too close encounter with a flotilla of drifting logs. Exactly the kind of thing we wanted to avoid. Then where it opens out, we run into some fierce currents, and even whirlpools.

We're also heading for an interesting rendezvous, which should take place within the next week. At the end of last year, a trawler cruiser called the Nordhavn set off to circumnavigate the world, and establish a Gunness World Record for a circumnavigation by the smallest powerboat (they're 40 feet long). We first read about them in a Raffles Marina magazine in Singapore, and since then we've checked out their website - www.nordhavn.com, and we've been in touch with the boat's skippers - Jim and Jeff Leishman.

But their circumnavigation is very different in character to ours. Their average speed is around 7 knots, and they've been changing crews. They're on the last leg of their trip now, heading up the west coast from Mexico to their base at Dana Point, California, arriving later this month. So they'll have few days of glory with their record before we take it from them...

We'll be looking to meet up with them when our paths cross, and it's going to be an interesting meeting - a coming together of two very different types of boat and expedition. Like us, they've been posting updates to their website via Iridium satellite phones, but there the similarity probably ends. We suspect with just a hint of jealousy that they have rather more in the way of creature comforts on the Nordhavn. We're looking forward to seeing the boat, and meeting the crew.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

The Inside Passage proves every bit as spectacular as we expected, with pristine mountains and forests, and small settlements on the shore gradually giving way to built-up areas as we approach Vancouver. Just as we're enjoying an evening cup of tea, we're passed by a beautiful cruise ship. It's Royal Caribbean's brand new "Radiance of the Seas". Based in Vancouver for the summer season, it does cruises to Alaska and back. A little more upmarket than our Alaskan cruise, for sure.

It's about one o'clock in the morning. We've been through some painfully bumpy conditions at the southern end of the Inside Passage. On our right is Victoria, in Canada, to our left the San Juan Islands, belonging to the USA. Steve is on watch and shakes Alan awake urgently.

"I don't know what this boat is up to," he says. Every time I get out of his way he comes round again. He won't get out of my way." The mystery is quickly solved as two blue flashing lights come on, and we're illuminated by a powerful searchlight. But we're not sure which side of the border we're on - it turns out to be a big 18 metre catamaran called "Nadon", a Royal Canadian Mounted Police / Gendarmarie Royale du Canada West Coast Marine Detachment patrol vessel.

We pull alongside him and tie up. The mounties on board are somewhat bemused to find three Englishmen on a round the world expedition. They'd actually pulled us up because our mast light wasn't working. "Sorry officer, we'll get it fixed..."

It's at this point that we come clean in a sudden burst of guilt, admitting we'd been asked to divert to Prince Rupert on our way to Telegraph Cove in order to clear Canadian Customs. We didn't because we weren't keen on going out of our way, and besides, we didn't have detailed charts for the area. But they seem perfectly relaxed about it all - they even laugh when we wonder where the stables are on board.

In fact, whilst we expect them to board us, we end up boarding them. The boat's master Jim Vardy explains to us that while they're normally on the lookout for drug runners, they're on heightened alert because of the impending G8 summit in Kananaskis, near Calgary. The Canadian land borders are so well stitched up that the loony protesters who are a feature of every G8 summit are trying to gain illegal entry by sea.

We're invited onto the bridge, where Jim shows us some of the impressive equipment on board - sophisticated radar, charting, image intensifiers. The catamaran, powered by twin 830hp diesel engines, did the whole of the North-West passage in 2000, taking 169 days to complete the journey.

He warns us there's a gale blowing up from the west. "Why don't you let us clear you for immigration so you can land in Victoria?" he says. "Lots of nice English-style pubs there."

But no, we have to keep going, even though we're going to have a fair-sized wind coming at us as we head down the coast. It seems we've alleviated the boredom for a moment during their seven-day patrol, and it's been an interesting experience for us, too. OK officer, I'll come quietly. But society is to blame...

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

On Saturday we make an unscheduled stop in Westport, near Aberdeen, Washington. Alan has decided to take on a little extra fuel, and to replace a fuel pump which conked out amid odd burning smells during the night.

While there, we take the opportunity to have a bite to eat at a nearby diner. Given our long journey, the slogan "may the Lord bring you safely home" seems quite fitting. Except for the fact that it's been carved with a knife into the wall of the men's room!

We've been playing cat and mouse again with the weather. We're in big following seas, at times racing along at 24 knots. There's bad weather behind us, but as it's unlikely to change much over the next few days, we've opted to press on and make the best of it. We had been worried about tropical storm Boris in Mexico, just off Acapulco. We might have been forced to sit that one out for several days. Fortunately the good news is that it's dying down, and no longer a threat.

The irony is that every time someone tells me we're through the worst of the weather, something else happens, and that's exactly what Sunday brings us. The following seas we're in are massive, driven along by 35 knot winds. And whilst I'm blissfully ignorant of just how dodgy it all is, perched in my bunk in the back of the cabin, Alan and Steve confess that they're seriously worried about the situation. It's hammered home, literally, when we're catapulted into a wave and the starboard windscreen shatters. Fortunately we're just a couple of hours outside Eureka in Northern California, but the entry into the harbour is extremely dicey. Huge waves are rolling straight in, whipped up over a sand bar.

The first call we get on the radio is from the coastguard, congratulating us on our excellent seamanship in bring the boat into the harbour in such conditions. Apparently the sand bar is notorious, and has claimed four boats in the last year.

From what you might call the ridiculous, we go to the sublime. We're met in Eureka by Fred Deo, whom I'm sure wouldn't mind being described as a colourful character. He'd read about us in the local newspaper, primed by information from back at base (thanks, Nadia), and decided we couldn't spend some time here without showing us some hospitality. He whisks us off in a stretched limo and checks us into a local hotel, then off to enjoy a fine meal at his restaurant, the Angelina Inn.

On Monday morning we're up bright and early, Alan and Steve get the broken screen out, and set to cleaning the cabin. You wouldn't believe the muck that's accumulated over the last two months - I'd swear things are moving down there in the carpet. Since we're here slightly longer than expected, we've taken the opportunity to do some of the servicing originally scheduled for San Diego. The boat will still come out of the water for a gearbox oil change, but the rest of the stop will be a bit shorter.

And if anyone else says we're through the worst of the weather, we may just take it with a little pinch of salt...

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Telegraph Cove - Eureka
Time of leg: 2 days 6 hours 7 minutes
Length of leg: 780 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 16,151 nautical miles
Distance to go: 9,120 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 14.4 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 63 days 12 hours 37 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,601 litres
Average fuel consumption: 2.05 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: San Diego
ETA: Thursday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

Monday is definitely not a day to go to sea. From our mooring in Eureka's public marina, we can see the smoke from a factory chimney on the other side of Humboldt Bay. It's horizontal. Everyone we've spoken to has said that while the northern California coast is often windy, the weather we experienced on Sunday was exceptional. Funny how that happens everywhere we go.

The boat is repaired and serviced now, with a new radio antenna, bilge pump and windscreen. The carpet is clean, and the upholstery smells almost fresh. While all the repairs are going on, there's a constant trickle of people visiting us, interested to see what it is that makes such a small boat capable of circumnavigating the world. The local newspaper has a reporter and photographer here to do another story, while fishermen and other boat owners are ready with lots of useful advice for making the best of the run down California and Mexico.

On Monday afternoon Fred Deo insists on taking us for a short sightseeing tour in the Angelina Inn stretch limo, despite the fact that he has just had surgery on one eye. Fifty miles south of Eureka is the Avenue of the Giants, a scenic drive through California's famous redwood trees. We go to Humboldt Redwoods State Park, home of the largest remaining stand of virgin redwoods in the world, and gape in awe at the Founders Tree, not much shorter than the spire of Norwich Cathedral. These trees can grow for thousands of years, a point hammered home as we see one sawn-off section of tree trunk, the rings marked at various points with great milestones in history - including the Magna Carta and Charlemagne. And we take our stretch Lincoln through the famous drive-through Shrine Tree, a huge hollow redwood with a natural opening large enough to drive through. The car makes it, but only just.

Now we're under way for San Diego, at the southern end of California. The seas are still big - at times we're doing 15 knots down waves with virtually no throttle, and we accelerate down one wave so fast, Alan has the boat in neutral.

"I was thinking about putting her into reverse," he admits as we pile into the preceding wave with a huge cascade of spray. Even so, it's not as bad as it was Sunday, and we're taking the big waves a little more gingerly to avoid a repeat performance with the windscreen.

Once again we've been bowled over by the warm welcome and the wonderful hospitality we've been shown. And once again we've found somewhere that definitely warrants a more leisurely return visit. Meantime there's just the tiny matter of eating up our last 10,000 miles or so in a little yellow boat.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

Tuesday afternoon, and the waves coming up behind us are lifting the back of the boat up. It's an odd sensation, being propelled horizontally, but nose down and tail up. It feels just as though we're rushing downhill on a roller-coaster. There are even times when the horizon comes into view. Not so unusual you might think, but from the bunk / seats at the rear of the cabin, a good foot lower than the front seats, all you would normally see is sky when looking forward through the front windscreen.

Fortunately as the afternoon wanes into evening, the seas calm down somewhat. It's just after midnight, and I'm on my first watch while Alan and Steve sleep. We're heading south-east, and about twenty five miles offshore from San Francisco.

Once again I'm marvelling at the phosphorescent plankton glowing in our wake, but now I can see something different. Normally it's only where the water is stirred up that you see the pinprick glows, but in the dark water beyond the wake on either side of the boat, there's something else. It's not just the usual mass of green fairy lights but large clumps of the stuff about a foot below the surface.

Every few seconds I see what looks like the mysterious lights of an underwater landing strip. Shades of Thunderball. Or, since we're reading our way swiftly towards the denouement of Michael Crichton's "Sphere", perhaps what I'm looking at is something more sinister.

Four hours after my first watch ends, and I'm stirred from a drugged sleep to begin my second. "Clive, it's time." Steve's words are delivered with the solemnity of the padre arriving at my cell door to escort me to the hangman. Doing a two-hour watch isn't that bad, really.

Now we're passing Monterey, and Carmel (morning, Clint). The sea has flattened off completely, and we're making 18 knots with no bumps. It feels great. It's also the first time in about a month that the luxury toilet (dive platform) at the back of the boat has come back into play, along with the shower hose. For the last month, we've lived in a 6ft by 8ft cabin. The air temperature's still not that high, but at least we can see it won't be long before we can start to enjoy being outside once more.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

It's funny. We'd said to people up north that we hadn't seen much in the way of whales. Just a brief and rather distant sighting of a couple of humpbacks in one of the passages between the islands of Kodiak. "It's too early in the season," they'd told us. "You'll see plenty further south."

But now, heading along the California coast around 150 miles north of San Diego, our luck is about to change. The sea is perfectly flat now, for the first time for ages, and while the air is cool, the sun is out and pleasantly warm.

"There, dead ahead." As usual, its sharp-eyed Steve who spots the wildlife first. He's seen the distinctive blows of a small pod of humpback whales moving across our bow two or three hundred yards ahead of us. We stop the boat so as not to stress the whales, and marvel as they move around to our port beam, their distinctive dorsal fins rising and falling from the surface.

Every so often we get a tail, or fluke, come up in the air, and even over the sound of Spirit's engine ticking over, we can hear a magical trumpeting squeal - something I've only ever heard before on TV programmes. The sound of their breathing carries across the water, too - great puffs like the blast of a hot air balloon burner. The encounter lasts for several minutes, and we're all left breathless at having been so close to these beautiful giants of the deep.

No sooner are we over that wildlife encounter than we get another. A school of porpoises (or at least we think they're porpoises - we lost our identification chart) comes up to the boat. They spend ages swimming under the bow, then jumping up just in front.

Steve and I are up front leaning over the tube and getting close enough almost to touch them. There are a couple of times when they blow out as they clear the surface, splashing the lens of my camera. It's the sort of time when you feel you want to jump in the water and swim with them. Except we've already seen a shark.

Then as suddenly as they came, they're gone. The sun turns from yellow to cherry red in bands across its face, sinking below the horizon. Once again we have the ocean to ourselves.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

We're on the last stretch of coast before turning the corner into San Diego Bay. Suddenly there are strange noises coming from the back of the boat. The propeller is fouled. All around us is a thick carpet of kelp. There's so much attached to us we're trailing about 25 or 30 feet of the stuff behind the boat. Alan puts the prop into reverse to disentangle it - it works, but not for long. We make our way to the edge of the seaweed, and cut off the remaining strands.

Finally we enter the harbour, keeping pace with a US Navy warship. There's a big naval base here with both ships and aircraft, and the air is constantly abuzz with the sounds of helicopters and F14 Tomcats taking off.

Meeting us in San Diego are Dennis and Wendy Cullum. Originally from Britain (Wendy actually played lacrosse for Wales), they'd become involved after coming into the Spirit of Cardiff visitor centre a year or so ago. They saw that our route took us to their home town, and offered to help.

Apart from taking delivery of our crate of spares and supplies, they also kindly offer to put up three very tired mariners in their home on Thursday night. We're dropped off back at the boat early the next morning so Alan and Steve can complete servicing the engine.

Then we're joined by Elizabeth Fitzsimons, staff writer for the San Diego Union Tribune. She's doing a story about us - but we manage to surprise her by making her newspaper the recipient of our Cardiff plaque and letter of greeting from the mayor.

Our other San Diego supporter arrives - New Zealander Kristen Greenaway. We met six years ago when I was leading a trek in Nepal for Doug Scott. How time flies, and whilst Kristen doesn't appear to have changed a bit, I'm fairly certain that it's not the years that have driven me to my current haggard state, but the mileage - a mere 18,000 from Cardiff.

We are of course mindful now that we have no hope of breaking Cable and Wireless Adventurer's round the world record. In fact we've watched it slipping out of our grasp with every passing storm-dogged day up the coast of Japan, but were always hopeful that if better conditions prevailed we'd make up the time. Of course, they didn't. Instead we were beaten to a pulp by them, and even though we're now relishing calmer waters on our way to Mexico, we're still hurting from the punishment inflicted by the North Pacific.

But we will still come back with the UIM (Union Internationale Motonautique) record for the fastest (and only) circumnavigation for a powerboat under 50 feet, which in many ways will prove more difficult to beat than Cable & Wireless's overall record. Not to mention 31 port-to-port records - more world records in one go than any other boating expedition in history.

Even so, the trip has inevitably taken on a different slant for us. It's now simply a question of bringing boat and crew back home as quickly as possible. We're tired, physically and mentally drained, but we're two thirds of the way around the world, and funds permitting, we're absolutely determined to carry it through.

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Eureka - San Diego
Time of leg: 2 days 10 hours 29 minutes
Length of leg: 760 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 16,911 nautical miles
Distance to go: 8,470 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 12.99 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 67 days 15 hours 59 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,987.9 litres
Average fuel consumption: 2.61 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Cabo san Lucas, Mexico
ETA: Sunday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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As we leave San Diego, the sun's out and it's pleasantly warm. There's a small price to pay though - the wind has come up, and once again we're in following seas. So we're clawing our way up the waves, and careering down them. At least it's less painful than battering slowly through head seas, and we're still making good speed. And Alan is now feeling a little better after intense stomach cramps yesterday.

As we follow the coast of Baja California, we're looking forward to our two Mexican stops, but for us, the next major milestone without doubt is the Panama Canal, probably about a week away. We've been wondering how we're going to tackle it. The locks are 110 feet wide, and we're required to have four 125ft long inch-thick ropes with which to tie up. Funnily enough we don't have stuff like that on board, so we'll be paying a visit to Rent-a-rope rather than Ropes 'R Us. Lines that size aren't cheap, not even to hire.

We'll be sharing the locks with ships which are going to positively dwarf us, and we're bearing in mind the fact that an American round the world powerboat record attempt four years ago came a cropper in the Panama. "Revolution '98" was caught in the wash of a large cargo ship in one of the locks, and one of its outer trimaran hulls damaged. One good thing about a RIB is that the boat is surrounded by an enormous fender. It's times like this where it could prove extra useful!

In the meantime, something else which we've been looking forward to for many weeks is about to happen. Our rendezvous with the round the world trawler cruiser "Nordhavn" will take place in the next twenty four hours. We've been in touch with each other, swapping positions, headings and speeds. It'll be a meeting at sea, so we're keeping our fingers crossed the weather is fine.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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The sun has gone in, and a thin mist has turned the light grey. It's early Saturday evening, and we've just received the round the world trawler/yacht Nordhavn's latest position update by email. It was taken six hours ago, so Alan does a calculation to take into account how far and in which direction they've travelled since. "We're virtually on top of them," he announces.

Eyes strain to pierce the mist, and Steve scans the radar screen. We manage one false alarm, seeing what looks like Nordhavn off our starboard bow. We race over to it, full of excitement. It's an American registered boat, and although vaguely similar, not what we're looking for. Disturbingly there's no one on the bridge, which is probably just as well. They might have been a bit concerned to see a bright yellow RIB circling them at speed.

Shortly afterwards, we pick up another blip on the radar. "It's a mile and a half ahead," says Steve. "It must be them. There isn't anything else out here." As we get closer, we can see it's definitely Nordhavn, but they haven't spotted us either. Alan brings us alongside and suddenly someone is waving to us. We tie up and jump aboard.

Joe Meglen, along with Dennis and Gary, have taken over sailing the 40ft long Nordhavn from Acapulco in Mexico to Dana Point in California, where she completes her eight-month circumnavigation, possibly also becoming the smallest powerboat to have circumnavigated the world (so far).

The contrast between Nordhavn and Spirit of Cardiff couldn't be more marked. Nordhavn is fitted out with everything you could wish for. It's just seven feet longer than Spirit of Cardiff, but it has cabins with beds long enough for tall people, a toilet, shower, kitchen, TV and sumptuously furnished lounge area. It's tempting to cut the line attached to Spirit, her engine still ticking over, wallowing forlornly behind as Nordhavn gradually tows her back up the Baja coast towards Dana.

For the Nordhavn crew, the biggest concern for their three crazy Brit visitors (their words, not mine) is whether they've chilled the beer enough! It goes down a treat, as do their hot dogs. It all definitely makes our facilities look a trifle Spartan. We on the other hand can go three to four times as fast as them, and to prove the point, there's a brief moment later during my first watch when we nearly hit 30 knots. Shame that doesn't happen more often!

We spend about an hour and a half on board the Nordhavn, but sadly all too soon it's time to go our separate ways. We reel in our trusty Spirit and clamber aboard. It's a unique moment in powerboating history. Two completely different powerboats circumnavigating the world in opposite directions, two entirely different types of expedition, meeting up mid-ocean. A dream, no doubt, but it would be great to see both vessels side by side at the next London Boat Show.

Our refuelling stop at Cabo san Lucas at the sandy southern tip of Baja California in Mexico comes hard on the heels of our meeting with Nordhavn. The end of the Baja peninsula is spectacular, sand dunes and hills, and the town itself is very much a holiday resort. It's just a short stay here to refuel the boat and shop for a few vital provisions. Next stop Acapulco.

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
San Diego - Cabo san Lucas
Time of leg: 1 day 23 hours 00 minutes
Length of leg: 760 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 17,671 nautical miles
Distance to go: 7,720 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 16.17 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 70 days 7 hours 30 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,315 litres
Average fuel consumption: 1.73 litres / nautical miles
Next stop: Acapulco, Mexico
ETA: Tuesday
Nordhavn website: www.nordhavn.com

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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Now we're south of the Tropic of Cancer once more, we're basking in warm Mexican sunshine. Once again the shower at the back of the boat is being kept busy. I road-tested it on Sunday and found the water a trifle bracing, but the distance covered overnight has been enough to see it improved by a few degrees. And the sleeping bags have been put away for a week or so. Last night was really hot, so we're back to sprawling on the bunks with just a towel if anything to cover us.

Of course it's not all good news. We've failed to scoff all the bars of comforting chocolate bought in a supermarket in San Diego before the sudden change in climate. Yesterday's was like tearing off lumps of Plasticine. Today's will probably be dribbling out of the wrapper.

One thing which has become apparent as rising temperatures dictate we have a little more regard to things like washing and shaving, and taking it in turns to peer into my plastic mirror, is that we're all a good deal greyer than when we started out on this little epic. Two and a half months of stress, illness and injury do take their toll!

On a lighter note, the flying fish are back with us again - and these Pacific ones are absolute monsters compared with their Indian Ocean counterparts. We had one slam into the cabin last night, and quite a few sailed over the top!

As far as things cultural are concerned, I regret to report that Robin Cook's "Brain" has been ditched in favour of something else. Whilst on the Nordhavn, we compared notes about our respective types of onboard entertainment, and we mentioned our penchant for Michael Crichton novels. The upshot is that we have another, "Timeline", which we've started on. If nothing else at the end of this trip, I could always get a job doing talking book recordings . . .

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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We arrive in Acapulco early morning. The difference in climate between here and Cabo san Lucas is immediately discernible. In Baja it was warm and dry - here it's hot and humid. We also discover later that it's another place where we've been caught out by the time. It's another hour ahead.

Acapulco itself seems to be the last haven on earth for original VW Beetles. The taxis are all metallic blue and white Herbies, festooned with stickers and aerials. A Herbie seems an unlikely choice for a taxi, but no less spacious, I guess, than sitting with your knees under your chin in the back of a much larger New York yellow cab.

The larger versions of public transport are equally bizarre. The buses all sport custom paint jobs, including fine works of air-brushed art finished off with clear lacquer. But what does one make of a bus with a cartoon mouse on one side of the bonnet, and Christ's passion on the other, with unbelievably loud disco music booming from within?

Fueling up doesn't take too long. But we're stung for it. Apart from the cost of the fuel itself, we have to pay an 8 percent visitor fee, plus a surcharge of 5 percent for paying by credit card.

Having not had to wait too long to refuel, our subsequent problem with Acapulco is clearing Mexican customs and immigration. We didn't do it in Cabo san Lucas because there was no one to check us in (it was a Sunday). So now we have to sit in the baking heat waiting for officials. And this of course, is the country where manana was invented.

By mid afternoon, we tire of waiting around the marina, and we wander off in search of something to eat. We're clearly here for the long haul. If they hadn't taken our passports, we might have been tempted to just go. I'm told Acapulco is a desirable place to take a holiday. But we've come into the downmarket end of town. Whatever it has going for it, we haven't seen it.

It's rather confirmed when eventually by late afternoon we get all our documentation back. Once again we've been royally ripped off to the tune of 350 dollars, just for the privilege of waiting all day to have our passports and port clearance stamped. And people wonder why we're over budget and begging for funds to get home. Acapulco? There are better places to go on holiday.

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Cabo san Lucas - Acapulco
Time of leg: 1 day 16 hours 14 minutes
Length of leg: 752 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 18,423 nautical miles
Distance to go: 7,020 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 18.45 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 72 days 1 hour 44 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,266 litres
Average fuel consumption: 1.68 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Quetzal, Guatemala
ETA: Thursday / Friday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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There are times when words simply aren't necessary. We're sitting outside on the aft deck with our evening cup of tea, just soaking up the atmosphere - alone in our thoughts, but together in our silent appreciation of a moment of beauty. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, trailing thin wisps of pink cloud in its wake, and the first star is twinkling brightly above us. Moments like this make up for an awful lot of the less than delightful aspects of circumnavigating the world.

We're glad to be on our way after the pointless and expensive delay in Acapulco, but I'm suffering from a pounding headache (just a little too much sun), and Alan's insides are still not quite right, although on the mend. At least there's a respite from the direct heat of the sun, even though it's still hot and sticky.

We've been warned to watch out for mini tropical storms - we could get several on our way to Guatemala. It's about eight o'clock Wednesday morning when we hit the first. We're crossing the Golfo de Tehuantepec at the southern end of Mexico, and I'm on watch. We've been in a following sea, but now a wind springs up from the south-east.

Alan staggers out of his bunk to cut the throttle a bit, then collapses back into a deep sleep. The transition from doing 17 knots and a gentle rising and falling in a moderate following sea to the rhythmic thumping up and down of a head sea and just 10 knots is pretty rapid. I can see the dark shape of a rain storm passing on our port beam, about five miles off.

But within ten minutes, it's passed, the wind has dropped, and the sea has calmed down again. It stays like this for about half an hour before the next storm hits. This one stays with us a lot longer. According to our weather fax, it's tropical storm 13, the previous was 14. The whole front is about 150 miles long, and we seem to be taking the storms in descending order.

Needless to say it's not pleasant. The swell is coming from one direction, the wind from the other. Result - pain, and the boat's speed reduced even further to 7 knots.

But as always, there's an upside. Tomorrow will see another leg finished, and a refuelling stop in Guatemala. That's twenty-three down, and just seven more stops before we're back in Gibraltar!

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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The sky lights up in a brilliant flash, so intense I'm temporarily blinded. The lightning strikes the water no more than a mile away, the crackling bolt of electricity angry and orange. It's been zapping us all around accompanied by an ominous booming that sounds more like artillery than thunder. I'm amazed we haven't actually been hit by it. The rain is utterly torrential - our radar screen looks more like a Rorschach ink blot test - and once again our supposedly watertight cabin hatches are leaking.

The tropical storm has been with us all day, and our speed has come down more and more. We have a 1 knot current with us, which is a good thing. But we have a 35 knot wind against us, which is bad. As night falls, we come to the conclusion we're getting absolutely nowhere, and the boat is put into neutral so we can just sit out the worst of the storm. The only plus side is that we manage to get a reasonable sleep.

By early morning, we've managed to get under way again, at a mere 4 knots. We learn that the storm is a borderline case to be upgraded to a hurricane. Great! We're still over a hundred miles from Quetzal, with the prospect of not arriving for at least another 24 hours. And there's yet another big storm between Guatemala and Panama. So our hopes of arriving there by the weekend have receded somewhat.

I just happen to be sitting in the wrong position when the boat comes down with a particularly hard landing. The result is that I'm now nursing a very sore back, able to move only slowly and painfully, and wondering what standard of osteopathy I can expect in Guatemala.

But with all that, we shouldn't forget that today is a significant day. The 20th June was the last full day we could have returned to Gibraltar and still have broken Cable & Wireless Adventurer's round the world record. In fact, three minutes before seven GMT tomorrow morning would have done us just fine, but of course it's all a trifle academic now.

Even so, we're three quarters of the way around the world, and the last quarter has been completed a good week faster than the previous one. But the Pacific Ocean is unrelenting in its brutal punishment. There won't be any fond farewells from me to the Pacific as the first lock gates of the Panama Canal close behind us. I shall be heartily glad to see the back of it.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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It's a big storm, and it lasts a long while, but as quickly as it started, it's over. Mid-afternoon Thursday, and suddenly the wind has dropped and the sea has flattened off.

We manage to increase our speed dramatically, virtually fourfold. Suddenly the prospect of our arrival in Guatemala leaps forward from Friday "some time" to Thursday night. We've passed through the Golfo de Tehuantepec, the birthplace of many tropical storms and hurricanes, and which is renowned for its rough seas even in good weather.

"Always a good sign when you see fishing boats out," says Alan as we approach the Guatemalan coastline. "Means they're either starving hungry or the weather's good." Whatever it is they're fishing for, the spoils must be excellent. We see masses of shoals of fish - and at times the surface of the water is positively seething with them.

By the time we arrive in Quetzal, it's well and truly dark. We motor tentatively into the large harbour, looking for signs of a marina. It's not where we think it's supposed to be. We tie up for a while next to one of the harbour tugboats while Alan makes contact with Quetzal's Port Captain. Unfortunately, Lionel, our agent, isn't contactable. He'd be able to tell us where we should go.

Suddenly we think everything is solved. A pilot boat beckons us to follow, and we steam across the harbour. He takes us around to the naval base. Whilst here, we're invited to spend the night tied up for a mere hundred dollars. We try to explain we have a berth booked at the marina, but no one seems too sure where it is. We discover subsequently the reason for that is because it's so new, still under construction.

We untie and set out to try and find it ourselves, scanning the dark shadows at the edge of the water with a high-powered spotlight. Eventually we find what looks like a marina - but we assume it may be somewhere for small fishing boats. It's difficult to see in the dark. Somebody even hops aboard and points on our chart plotter to what we assume he means the marina. In fact, he's telling us to go to an anchorage in the main harbour.

So we consider mooring up to a buoy, increasingly frustrated that we don't seem to be getting anywhere, when suddenly a pilot boat comes along, and we follow it round to the marina - the place we'd just been sent away from!

We can't refuel until the morning, so we tie up here, quickly noting the presence of a security guard dressed up in pseudo-SWAT gear with baseball cap, flak jacket, and a mean-looking Arnie Schwarzenegger style short-handled double-barrelled shotgun slung over his back.

We're not sure first of all whether we're confined to our boat, but after we break the ice with the security man and others loafing on the jetty, we find we can at least use the toilet block. Next day we're told that Quetzal by night is a pleasure best enjoyed only if you have a gun bigger than everyone else's, so in retrospect a quiet evening in doesn't seem such a bad idea.

Steve cooks up our evening meal, which we enjoy with one of Choy's bottles of Chardonnay - all the way from Singapore. It certainly seems to have travelled well, especially when you consider the state of what it's been travelling in!

Friday morning, our agent Lionel arrives, and the formalities are completed with stunning speed and efficiency - no forms at all to fill in. So quick, Alan finds himself asking "is that it?" Lionel takes him off shopping for provisions, while Steve refuels the boat.

"It's a poor place, without a doubt," says Alan on his return. "But you can't help noticing the way everybody smiles. They're not unhappy people." Ultimately we're struck with the friendly efficiency of the people we've dealt with in Guatemala, even charmed by the way Lionel almost apologises for some of the port charges - "it's not too much, is it?"

So now we're making good progress to Panama. We may have one or two odd spots of bad weather along the way, but nothing as bad as the previous storm, so we're hopeful we can arrive in Panama Sunday night or early Monday morning. The plan here is to perform some essential maintenance to the boat on Monday, slotting in with the next northbound transit through the canal on Tuesday morning.

If you happen to be at your PC's on Tuesday afternoon BST, check out www.pancanal.com and click on 'live camera' among the buttons on the left. The camera is of the Miraflores locks, the first ones we go through, and with a refresh rate of every ten seconds, you should see us just about live - at least once we're in the lock and the water level rises. We'll probably be too low in the lock to be visible to start with.

Your browser does need to be up to date, and Java-enabled, so check beforehand and give yourself time to download any updates you may need. We won't see you on Tuesday, but you just may see us!

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Acapulco - Quetzal
Time of leg: 2 days 4 hours 5 minutes
Length of leg: 555 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 18,978 nautical miles
Distance to go: 6,470 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 10.67 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 74 days 15 hours 50 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,045 litres
Average fuel consumption: 1.88 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Panama Balboa
ETA: Sunday / Monday
Website: www.pancanal.com

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

Every time I open my big mouth about the weather, it all goes horribly wrong. The "odd spots of bad weather" we'd been told to expect along the way from Quetzal to Panama appear to have ganged up on us. We go into yet another fierce tropical storm, with head seas bumping us about, and our speed reduced to three knots. It's miserable, painful, and demoralising - suddenly we're not sure any more when we're likely to arrive in Panama, although we have heard that a ship 70 miles ahead of us has reported no wind, so we know we're working our way through it, albeit slowly.

Of course, we cursed the bad weather when it was cold, but it has its problems when it's hot, too. Our top hatches are open to provide some much-needed ventilation. Steve and I turn in quite early (it's dark by 7pm). I'm half asleep as the conditions get a bit more violent, and we take our first wave over the top. Suddenly I have a lapful of sea water. I register my surprise with a single word of Anglo-Saxon, and stagger up to close the hatch. I'm all fingers and thumbs, and Alan gets it down before the next deluge goes over the roof.

It's the next morning when the rest of the story comes out. Steve, lying in the opposite bunk, suffers a similar soaking from above, and feels something slimy land on his bare chest. He flicks it off. When he gets up later, he sees something glowing on the cabin floor. It's a squid, about six inches long.

It is of course a sign. We've recently finished Michael Crichton's "Sphere", which features, amongst other things, a giant malevolent luminous squid. Now that we're eagerly immersed into Crichton's "Timeline", we're fully expecting quantum mechanics (specialists in fixing quantums) to transport us to another universe and another time. In fact, anywhere except here would do very nicely, thankyou . . .

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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It's a relief to clear Saturday's storm and get some speed up again. We manage to bring the average up to around 14 knots, and by Sunday morning we're up to 19. But there are a few moments of concern during the night, with a few distant flashes of lightning, and Sunday sees a largely overcast sky, even though it's still very hot and close.

We learn that the storm we passed through on the way to Quetzal has been officially upgraded to hurricane status. So we've experienced just about every level of bad weather. Several more permutations of good wouldn't be a bad thing, either, although we're certainly not complaining about the conditions on Sunday afternoon.

There's a brief moment of excitement when we're bombarded by dolphins - or at least that's what it seems like. Not just coming up to the surface and diving down again, these ones are doing the full aerobatics - somersaulting up to six feet out of the water, sometimes in pairs. Of course, Murphy dictates that by the time you get your camera out, the fun is over, but it's a sight to file away in the old grey cells.

We've passed a whole string of Central American countries since leaving Guatemala - El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. It'll be some time Monday when we turn north into the Gulf of Panama, and head for our next stopover. The boat is coming out of the water for a gearbox oil change - the one piece of maintenance which can't be done with her still afloat - and a few other repairs. You'd be surprised how much wear and tear you get on a boat that's been lived in virtually continuously for the last three months, not to mention the rather high mileage.

We're all suffering from rather a lot of wear and tear ourselves, so I'm sure the stop will give us a welcome breather before the final few legs. The weather in the Caribbean should be reasonably OK for the crossing to Jamaica, but the east coast of the US is looking a little more uncertain.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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Whoever it was that named the Pacific Ocean must have had a very wry sense of humour. We've skirted all the way round the North Pacific from north of the Philippines, past Japan, to Russia, across the Aleutian Islands, down the west coast of Canada and the United States, past Mexico and a handful of Central American countries over the last month and a half, and it's fought us virtually every inch of the way. Even the last few miles northwards into the Gulf of Panama, normally regarded as relatively placid, today is like driving along the sleepers of a railway track.

The approach to Panama Balboa is rather like Port Said - lots of ships at anchor, waiting their turn to go through. But the surrounding countryside is rather more lush, covered with dense trees and vegetation. Our marina is actually on tiny Flamenco Island, connected to the mainland by a causeway. The sky is heavily overcast, but bright, hot and humid none the less.

Having arrived just before mid-day, the rest of the day is given over to boat maintenance, but we have to wait until high tide before Spirit can be lifted out of the water. That's later on this afternoon. Then we're off to our accommodation in Panama City, the Caesar Park Hotel. Yes, a hotel. We're suffering from Pacific-itis and in serious need of a break.

In the meantime, we have a lot of formalities to complete, including immigration for Panama, and having the boat fumigated. This may seem extreme given that we have actually been taking a sea water shower every day, but the true purpose is to kill off any imported mosquitoes.

We also have a lot to get ready for our transit of the canal on Wednesday morning - it's not just a question of turning up and going through. The boat will be inspected tomorrow to ensure we have our ropes, extra fenders, toilet facilities for the pilot (tricky one, this), and a means of signalling (Alan has bought one of those impressively loud aerosol horns). Tomorrow also promises to be a bit special, with a visit to the boat from the British Ambassador. All in all a little bit busy!

Clive Tully

FACTBOX
Quetzal - Panama Balboa
Time of leg: 2 days 23 hours 37 minutes
Length of leg: 857 nautical miles
Total distance covered: 19,835 nautical miles
Distance to go: 5,620 nautical miles
Average speed over leg: 11.97 knots
Time from Gibraltar: 78 days 6 hours 8 minutes
Fuel consumed: 1,829.2 litres
Average fuel consumption: 2.13 litres / nautical mile
Next stop: Port Antonio, Jamaica
ETA: Friday

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
Picture and text transmitted by Iridium satellite network

On Tuesday we spend the day fuelling up, speaking to the media, and welcoming British Ambassador Jim Malcolm aboard. He's with Ambassador Flavio Mendez from Panama's Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Mort Deas from Halcrow, the Swindon-based company which advises on the development of the Panama Canal ports of Balboa and Cristobal. The whole stop was originally set up at the instigation of Julian Johanson-Brown at Halcrow in Swindon, to whom we're deeply grateful.

After they've had a good look at the boat, we're whisked over to the Balboa Yacht Club, where a reception has been arranged for us. Even there it's pretty hectic, with more press and TV interviews. We eventually get our breakfast at about 10.30pm.

Wednesday morning, and we're up bright and early to get the boat ready for our special passengers. British Ambassador Jim Malcolm and Mort Deas are doing part of the journey with us. The boat is loaded down with food for the passage to Jamaica, massive ropes and fenders for use in the locks, and we'll also have a pilot and two line handlers aboard.

It's just after 9.00am, and the first highlight of the day is passing under the Bridge of the Americas, a Tyne Bridge look-alike which spans the entrance to the canal, overlooked by Ancon Hill, with its massive Panamanian flag flying proudly in the breeze.

We're going through with two other vessels, the Marion Dufresne, a large French polar research ship, and the Falkor, a plush motor yacht which is going to take out a lot of the stress of the locks. Although we have a pilot, two line handlers and positively yards of thick blue polypropylene rope, we're going to tie up to the larger Falkor, and let their line handlers do all the work.

Despite our assurances that Spirit of Cardiff is surrounded by one large fender, they decide to lower their fenders - smart rental jobs made of car tyres wrapped in bin liners and parcel tape.

Just past 10.00am, and the French ship has entered the first chamber of the Miraflores Locks, and fifteen minutes later Falkor and Spirit are in the chamber behind it, along with a couple of tug boats. The lock workers throw thin lines with weights at the end called monkeys. The handlers on the boat catch them, slip the monkey through the loops in their heavy duty ropes, and then allow the guys ashore to drag them up to make fast at the top of the lock. The guys ashore obviously have to practice twirlig these things to get their aim good, and it helps if the line handlers on the boat are good at catching. Fortunately I'm out of a job on that front.

Five minutes later, the gates have shut behind us, and the water level is rising rapidly. Ten minutes after that, and we've risen to the top of the lock, with Marion Dufresne moving out ahead of us into the next chamber. Knowing where the webcam is situated, we've been waving at it, in the knowledge that a request had been put in specifically to have it pointing at us. Unfortunately it was struck by lightning in a storm over the weekend, and they couldn't zoom it in on us, hence the rather distant speck of yellow just about visible on the PC screens of anyone trying to follow our progress through the lock.

Whilst we motor through the locks under slow power, larger ships are towed through by amazing locomotives - each of which I'm told cost a million dollars - on rack and pinion railways. Really big ships may have four locomotives on each side.

At 10.40, we're making our way into the second chamber of the Miraflores Locks. Just ten minutes later, and we're approaching the top of the lock, where we see a public viewing platform bustling with people, including a few of our supporters from Tuesday night.

Out of that chamber, and then we head along under our own steam, still tied to Falkor, arriving at the next locks, the Pedro Miguel Locks, at 11.30. Fifteen minutes later, the heavens open. Suddenly the lock workers are running for cover. This isn't what I'd expect of people who ought to be used to tropical rainfall. It's short lived, though. By midday we're out the other side, and we cast off from the Falkor, so we can drop off our two passengers. Ambassador Jim Malcolm and Mort Deas have been really helpful to us, and great company - we're sorry to see them go.

The next section is known as the Culebra Cut. This is the narrowest part, crossing the Continental Divide. They're in the process of widening this bit, and when it's finished, the whole canal will be capable of taking two-way traffic - at the moment, northbound transits start in the morning, southbounds in the afternoon.

At Gamboa, we pass an interesting piece of working industrial heritage, the Titan. Painted a mean and moody black, it's the largest floating crane in the world, built in Nazi Germany. We didn't get the chance to go ashore and see, but apparently many of the components still have swastikas moulded in them.

From here the cut opens out into the Gatun Lake, which actually supplies Panama City with all its fresh water. There's a fair breeze blowing across here, so it's quite bumpy. It's fringed with dense forest, and once again it's wildlife spotter Steve who's first to spot a Cancun Alligator on one of the banks.

By 2.15pm, we've arrived at the entrance to the final set of locks. Only problem is we're an hour ahead of schedule, so we moor up to a buoy, get the kettle out, and have a brew up.

Just after 3.00pm, and we're rafted up once again to the Falkor, following Mario Dufresne into Gatun Locks. Once inside I hop on board Falkor to take advantage of her extra height to look out over the top of the lock gates, the chamber below, and beyond that, the Port of Cristobal and the Caribbean.

We finish our transit of the Panama Canal within eight hours, and without doubt it's been one of the highlights of the trip - from soaking up the wonderful scenery along the way, to marvelling at the fantastic feat of engineering of the canal locks.

A lot of people worked hard to make our stop in Panama something special and very memorable, and we'll be publishing a full thankyou list in due course. In the meantime, a very big thanks to everyone who made us so welcome.

And if nothing else, I've had one illusion shattered. You can't buy a decent Panama hat in Panama. The good ones are all made in Ecuador, and exported to the posh shops in Britain!

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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After a great day passing through the Panama Canal, we arrive in Cristobal at around five on Wednesday afternoon. The plan was to carry straight on out into the Caribbean, but the grotty weather can't wait to get its nasty little hands on us again. The wind is blowing at 30 knots from the east, so we decide to stay put overnight, and wait for it to drop.

But when we set out at first light on Thursday morning, it's not that much better. The wind hasn't dropped much, if at all, and it's coming at as from the front and side. We're going into huge waves, riding up them and then slamming down the other side. It's extremely uncomfortable.

We had hoped that, weather permitting, we could at least have taken on one of Cable and Wireless Adventurer's round the world legs, as this is the first point where our routes pretty much coincide. It would be unofficial, because they went from Panama Colon to Kingston, whereas we're going slightly further, to Port Antonio. But they obviously had much better conditions. They did their 546 mile journey averaging nearly 19 knots. At the moment, we're lucky to average 10.

By midday, we've passed lots of pieces of flotsam and jetsam. I spot what looks like a broken piece of a varnished wooden oar floating in the water. Later we see a broken wooden spar, possibly the remains of a mast, this time upright in the water. Could there be a submerged boat beneath it? We've not heard any coastguard report of a vessel in trouble, but naturally we're keeping our eyes skinned.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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We've been going well over 24 hours from Cristobal, and since before dark last night, we've been reduced to a painfully slow four knots. Alan estimates the wind speed at 35 knots. It's as rough as we've had it anywhere. Certainly you can see white foam breaking loose from the crests, and rolling down the waves, which is an indication that what's blowing out there is no light breeze.

As the wind strength increases on Thursday, the character of the waves changes. We've probably been in bigger seas - these waves are mere twenty footers - but they're angry. The first really big breaking wave is quite beautiful, awesome. I see what I think to be a white cloud coming into view at the windscreen. It's the breaking crest of the wave, and just underneath it is enough translucence in the water to see a spectacular deep blue. Terrifying power and awesome beauty all in one.

But as we ride up this, and the thousands that follow, lurching painfully from side to side, we realise that this is no twelve hour tropical storm. This is the big depression we've been following - albeit third hand - which started in Newfoundland and which has now arrived in the Caribbean. Whilst we'd hoped to arrive in Jamaica today, it seems the best we can hope for at the moment is Monday.

We ride up most of the waves, but every so often we pound straight into one, either head on, or taking it on the beam. The tube around the bow quivers up and down like an enormous jelly, sending huge vibrations pulsating right through the boat. The wind is coming at us from the east, and it's pushing us sideways at two and a half knots. So at the moment, it looks as though it will be easier to let it take us to the west end of Jamaica, and then pass along the north coast to our refuelling stop at Port Antonio.

What's most depressing is that we set off on a relatively short hop, one that should be completed in under two days, and we could end up taking five. There's nothing we can do except plod on slowly at this pitiful speed. Morale has hit rock bottom once again, as we realise that our plans to get back across the Atlantic in the next couple of weeks have once more been set back.

The consolation, so we're told, is that the passage between Jamaica and Florida should be clear. But I think I'll believe that one when I see it.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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Saturday is our third day in a storm which shows no signs of letting up. In 24 hours we've travelled just 50 miles. That's how bad it is. Jamaica is still 350 miles away, and if the weather doesn't calm down, we can see a time in the not too distant future when the water will have to be rationed. Although we're burning it even without moving, at the moment fuel isn't a major concern, as we took on quite a bit more than we needed in Panama.

Carpets, cushions and food items in the boat are wet. The hatches - two in the cabin roof, and one in the forward compartment - have been leaking. And although the sun's out and it's hot, we can't put anything outside to dry, because the water which goes over the roof and comes through the dodgy hatches also lands on the aft deck.

Despite all of this, we're in pretty good spirits. We know we can't change the weather, only go with it. So we occupy our time listening to music, reading and (some of us) writing. We can't wait to try out Steve's latest culinary creation. It's a variation on his very popular Spam, Spam, beans and Spam, but this one tantalisingly with just a little less Spam.

For me there's a little pause for reflection Friday on hearing the sad news that John Entwistle (bass player with the Who) has died. Not everyone that knows me as journalist / adventurer also knows I once played bass in a rock band which nearly, very nearly, hit the big time. Entwistle's unique style certainly influenced the way I played, and, I guess still does on the odd occasions now when my trusty Gibson Thunderbird comes out of its flight case.

Standing outside, the wind tears at our T-shirts, filling them with air and causing them to balloon comically. Even knowing just how much it's impeding our progress, you can't help but look at the sea with a sense of wonder. Every so often there's a rushing sound like a jet as a breaking wave comes past us. It's incredible to think that wind can turn a normally flat sea into these agitated, angry waves.

Under consideration at the moment is Plan B, which is basically to go with the wind to the Cayman Islands, and not attempt to get to Jamaica at all. It would mean a longer passage round the western end of Cuba rather than the east, but at least it would keep us moving, and hopefully get us to the north of this big depression. But at the moment, we're just keeping that as an option, and continuing to make our way north. The ultimate frustration with all this is knowing that a hundred miles ahead of us the wind is just eight knots, and in Florida, there's absolutely none at all.

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully 2002

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The past 24 hours have seen the boat cover about 80 miles, and so far the high winds (which Bertie our weatherman tells us are blowing at 29 to 32 knots) aren't abating in the slightest. Maybe we're destined to cover the entire 600 mile passage from Panama to Jamaica at not much more than walking pace.

Anyone who's read Sebastian Junger's excellent book "The Perfect Storm" will know that when it comes to waves, breaking ones are the most dangerous, and what do the most damage. We saw a lot in the North Pacific, but not so many as we're seeing now in the Caribbean. When you see a 20ft wall of water coming at you, you're confident the boat will simply ride up it and slam down the other side. When you see a great white foaming crest on top of it, you know it's going to hit the boat hard.

The wave hits the bow first. The big tube at the front quivers with the impact, and for a second it feels as though the boat has come to a dead stop. Everything inside that isn't anchored in some way or braced for it lurches forwards. The fact that the tube buckles inward reduces some of the energy of the impact, but in the next instance, the well in the bow between the forward cabin and the tube is full of water. Less than a second later, and the wave collides with the windscreen. Suddenly everything looks green.

We've had sufficient big bangs to bend one of the windscreen wipers. As the water hits the windscreen, it carries on over the roof, cascading in a deluge on the aft deck. Were it not for the fact that we're also enduring extreme heat, we'd have the door on, which would keep the inevitable splatters of water from outside at bay. As it is, the hatches are closed (although they still leak badly) and the cabin feels like a sauna. So the water from outside splashes through the open doorway onto the carpet inside, and the wetness migrates to everything else.

We've actually become used to sleeping on damp cushions, with wet towels pulled over us to lessen the shock of the drips from above. But nothing can lessen the amount of damage this storm is doing to us. Alan has hurt ribs and collar bone from colliding with the grab rails in the cabin. I've been revisited by the lower abdominal and back pains I've been suffering on and off since the passage to Kodiak. Steve says he's OK. In truth, we're all battered, bruised, and wishing we were somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Clive Tully

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