Florianopolis to Rio Grande

The weather forecast, I am coming to learn, is not an exact science. Last night's 10/15 north easterly turned out to be a passing low that kicked up 30 knots for a 9 hour period with lightning and rain to boot! A night on full alert, mostly spent in the cockpit with occasional forays up on deck to handle sails and lines. Either side of us the phosphorus lingered in the surf and the heavily reefed mainsail sat ghost like image barely illuminated by the stern light on top of the mast. The wind whistled in the rigging, blowing like a train and warm to the skin. We went treble reefed with a dab of jib which came in when it got gusty, and still we made five knots and more. The usual pelting of warm water came up in the wind covering me every time. Something bad happens, in a lull, I let out the Genoa, then I find it's jammed and won't come back in. I study my options and it all depends upon the wind. If it stays as it does I can wait til it gets light to fix it, a matter of some hours. If the wind Increases to what it was before, i am facing a potentially very difficult situation which would entail bringing down the whole sail and lashing on the foredeck and perhaps employing the spare. All in a gale, in the dark and in a heaving sea, not especially enticing! My decision is made as a lull comes for a time. I crawl out to the bow in the pitch black, still plunging up and down, casting pearls of luminance thrown up into the air around me. I manage to un jam the line in the drum in situ, without having to bring down the sail, a close call. The horizon all around is lit by flashes of sheet lightning followed by the occasional rumble of thunder. I feel vulnerable, like a needle outside of the haystack, I don't want to be fried! After 6 hours, heavy rain, as often seems to happen when the violence is spent. And since then, wind changing direction every hour. I try to snatch some sleep only to find that our course has changed from south west to north, several times this happens, amidst becalmed periods where all I can to is laugh at the torturous sound of a boat that can't make up its mind where to go, because it's ally the wind is having a think about it. The dawn comes and I'm 60 miles from port. Frustratingly the wind is on the nose. The forecast looks bad, in 24 hours 35knot winds are predicted, who knows whether they'll come but I have an urgency to get to shelter. Three quarter revs and my little boat struggles to make two knots, I knew I should have cleaned the prop. We motor sail slightly off the wind to squeeze 4 knots, it'll take 13 hours, what more to be done? Rain on the coach roof, a soft patter, no other noise, no other movement. I sleep ten hours straight, like I was knocked out cold, and I awaken cosy, refreshed, reassured by the rain. South America is giving me a meal to get my teeth into. From Sagres in Portugal to the Canaries, to The Gambia then to Salvador, that was an easy run. Constant wind, the trades, sit back in the swelter and not touch the sails for days, my perfect introduction. The east coast of the Americas has slapped me about a bit, it's trying to make a sailor of me. Constant changes in wind direction and speed, constant changing sea state, these conditions test my mettle. And these things test my boat. How do I know what she'll take, how do I know her limits? I continue to err to caution at all times, I have a growing sense of what's safe and what can be irresponsible. If I look after my little boat in this mammothly challenging environment, she'll look after me, of that I have no doubt. So today it rains. I'm glad it's raining, it's new, it's different, it's in some way reassuring. I'm on the land, I'm grateful, and if I close my eyes I can almost imagine being back on the Tamar, deepest Devon, where this adventure gestated on that fast flowing river over the winter months.