La Palma to The Gambia 1

Dawn. Like a glowing coal under the clouds on the far horizon. A sliver of white moon sits under its milky sphere. My boat lists and yaws with the waves coming just off the port stern.

The moon vanishes now, while I was writing, she hid behind a dark cloud but Venus still shows her face, a bright spot of light in a hue of pale blue. The clouds are layered, like a soft blanket that somebody offered to the dawn. And there the moon peeks again, higher up from beneath a dark dusty cloud, just for a moment before she retreats.

I think this is the fourth day at sea and I'm about 350 miles south of the Canaries and about 100 miles or so west of the African coast. I've had a fair easterly/north easterly which makes for a fairly rough passage with water breaking over into the cockpit at random intervals.

Today has felt a little strange. This morning a large fishing type vessel came from the west at high speed, seemingly heading straight for me. It was old looking, bulky and brutish, it's faded red hull below the waterline churning a white froth as it plunged into the waves. In a vast expanse of ocean it's a bit unnerving when this happens. The boat stopped about half a mile off and sat for a few minutes. Half a mile away at sea feels close! At which point I was starting to feel quite nervous. I am acutely aware now that I have left Europe and what feels like an umbrella of safety and am venturing into a world where in some parts, anything goes. After about 5 minutes the vessel got moving and headed east with a roar of powerful engines. To my relief!

This episode set in motion a train of thoughts and scenarios that left me feeling quite insecure. The sea has been rough, the wind strong and the motion uncomfortable. It doesn't take much to start negatively projecting about getting hit by a rogue wave or the engine becoming dismounted and I am left feeling distinctly ill at ease for a while.

Thankfully this episode has passed and I'm left feeling slightly contemplative about the daily rhythm that is emerging of, well, not really doing a lot! It's a unique experience to be in this space, alone, sometimes with a sense of hostile elements at play. I understand very well why I may feel a little out of sorts. Alchemy and transformation only generally work when I'm least aware!

On a brighter note, I have been making successful inroads on my celestial navigation, using a sextant and tables. I am now able to take my noon sight and get my latitude within 5 to 10 miles. The time of day gives me a rough idea of my longitude but that's the next step, to work both plots precisely.

The days cycle is coming to a close. Pink strokes brushed across the sky, the orange disk of the sun is now some degrees below the far western watery horizon. Soon the night sky will gently appear, my friends Polaris, Ursa Major and Cassiopeia pointing me in the right direction, south, always south. The nights are long here, 12 hours of darkness. I sleep three hours at a time, always with half and ear open for anything untoward. Sometimes I sense we are bombing along, the rush of water on the hull, the rapid movement of motion. I go on deck, maybe I have to alter course, or maybe up on the foredeck to put in a reef. Or the dreaded slapping of sails and crashing of the boom and the sheets. Then sitting, babysitting a sickly child into the windless night, when all I want to do is sleep.

Days blend into nights, a clock is of little use here apart from keeping a log and taking a celestial sight. The sea keeps her steady way and the wind fills my sails as we go into another night.

(Posted by Nick. Whilst at sea Dan has a text-only email facility on his sat phone which he's used to email me this blog and his position.)