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.

We can been sailing quite happily under big spinnaker in 20 knots when a gust of 28 knots blows hard for a few seconds, just long enough to wipe the boat out before dropping away to 15kts instantly, with an innocent look on its cherubic face. As such, Sam and I have been kept on our toes changing between our big runner kite, to the reacher, down to the little reaching gennaker, back to the big runner and so on and so on. At least it serves to keep the blood flowing through digits that would die and fall off if left unattended.

That said, we should be thankful for our constant progress, as we send groans of sympathy towards our compatriots further west when we watch their tortured tracks crawl over the sea. The system that promises to wallop the fleet should present us with strong northerlies when we are reaching across the top of the next gate, but we need to get there before it strikes otherwise we’ll be in for a rough ride too.

Rest is short, and often not that sweet as every major lurch heralds a call from the cockpit and another sail change. We have just downloaded a long range GRIB file that forecasts a slow approach to the Tasman Sea and our arrival date being pushed ever backwards. Fresh food is, as always, a constant dream and topic of conversation and while Sam and I have well documented differences of opinions about whether one should pat sheep or eat them, he has admitted that a fresh salad would be his first pick come stepping onto the pontoon. Perhaps I’m rubbing off on him!