On my way home… but when?

What a week of contrasts… Going from resetting the GOR speed record to drifting aimlessly in the fog on a mill pond ocean. Musically we’ve gone from intensity of the “Flight of the Bumble Bee” to “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic” played on a bass tuba, by a valium addict. Not the most inspiring stuff.

The Flying Boat

For days now we’ve been stalked by a monster of a front that has been whirling through the GOR fleet as a ball of spiky red wind barbs. With the system on final approach, Sam and I decided to go for broke to consolidate our lead over the Fields. We ran deep through puffy 45+ knot squalls and positioned ourselves in the path of the beast.

Seasick pills are on us!

Its insanely bouncy on board at the moment, excuse me as the keyboard clatters away on its own!

Unlike our mystery mark rounding at the eastern end of the previous gate when we had calm seas and bucolic sunshine, this time it was all action. After days of very shifty conditions after our gybe at 48 south, we had finally settled into relatively stable tight reaching conditions, switching between solent and staysail jibs with reefs to match.

A Lack of Colors

Blue fingers, grey sea, grey skies, a flash of light every 3 hours. Such is our routine for the moment.
We gybed within the same 3 hour sched as the Fields and have now been drag racing north east towards the western corner of the Australian security gate. The uninspiring colour scheme of our lives has been livened up by the psychotic wind that is as fickle as a teething baby.

Speedy!

A few days ago Sam and I were a little underwhemled by the beginnings of our dive into the southern ocean. We had flat seas, crisp clear air and warm sunshine. Well now we’ve got the good stuff, Grade A Southern Comfort. Since chafing through our fractional halyard we had been sailing under solent and main for 36 hours or so but still putting in good miles from the comfort of the interior with just Knut the autopilot stoically standing watch.