Diary of a world record

Wednesday 23 May
As it gets lighter, there are times when I think the sea has flattened off, but then suddenly a wave rears up beneath us, and once again we start off on what feels like a runaway train ride down the next big swell. The chances of our making the average speed required to beat the Cable and Wireless Adventurer's record seem to be receding. If this weather let up, we could crack on.

        Later in the morning, and the direction of the sea appears to be changing from following to head. Then we experience the first of several moments where we've been bashing through short choppy waves coming at us, and then suddenly we're clawing our way to the top of a following wave. Having been reading all about confused seas in Sebastian Junger's excellent book "The Perfect Storm", I now find I'm experiencing them first hand.

        Alan wakes for a moment to assess the situation. "We know we won't get the record now," he says. "The main thing is to guarantee our arrival. Let's keep the fuel consumption down to within 25 litres per hour." So we reduce our speed from around 19 knots to 12. Even Friday lunchtime in Horta seems rather distant. Somehow I suspect Saturday to be closer to the mark. Alan phones weatherman Bertie, and it transpires that what we're heading into is a double low - two depressions which are converging dead ahead of us.

        By mid afternoon, we decide we're flogging a dead horse, and sit it out with the engine off for an hour, during which time we drift south-west around a mile. We're still 500 miles out of Horta, and suddenly it's all looking depressingly distant. We could be out here for days.

        Under way again, and for a while, we're chased by dolphins. They come really close to the sides of the boat, and occasionally make some spectacular leaps right out of the water. In less trying conditions I would have been out there videoing them.

        During the early evening, we have a bit of excitement when suddenly a cargo ship comes up from behind us. We loop around behind it, hoping to gain some shelter. The ship calls us up on the radio. "Anything we can do for you?" I guess it's not every day a ship crossing the Atlantic comes across a 33ft boat several hundred miles from shore.

"What is your destination?" asks Jan.

"We are heading for Bilbao, Spain."

"We're making for the Azores, and were hoping we might be able to follow you. Thanks anyway."

Our progress is now painfully slow - 6 knots. At this rate, if it doesn't let up at all, it will take over two days just to get to Flores, on the edge of the Azores, and over three days to get to Horta. Suddenly it's looking a good deal grimmer. We can't increase the speed, though, because fuel consumption is now the critical factor.

[ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 ]