The last of the sun
There has not been a huge amount of sleeping happening on Medallia in the past 24 hours. As we smoke along in front of our first Southern low pressure system my mind is doing cartwheels and my stomach is in knots thinking of all of the things that could go wrong on a boat hurtling through the darkness with waves crashing over the deck and one sole occupant left to clean up the mess.
I have always found that when it comes to the weather, theory and reality don't often meet in the same place. When we first learn about our north Atlantic low pressure systems we get given a neat little drawing of a circular low pressure with a neat warm front and a neat cold front following each other at a respectable distance. We learn about the clouds, the wind directions, the weather phenomena that we might meet at any point on that low pressure system. But when confronted with a real forecast this classroom low is nowhere to be seen. Instead we have amorphous blob shapes, random fronts that don't seem to be connected to anything, occlusions stretching between systems and it's all a big mess.
I sat down in September to learn about the weather in the south, it was the first time I'd actually had the capacity to look at meteorology. It felt like too little too late, like I was cramming for an exam so I booked a day in with ocean navigator Wouter Verbraak and all of the notes we made during the day I laminated and bought with me on this race. We talked about what a southern low looked like, and drew it on a piece of paper, it's similar to it's northern counterpart except the wind rotates around it in the opposite direction and it normally has one pronounced front which orientates itself NW to SE. Wouter talked about how I should tackle this low, how a succession of them would drive me through the Southern Ocean and I would employ the same strategy with each one to stay fast and stay safe. Ah yes I thought this is theory to adapt to the mess of reality - but sure enough yesterday a neat little low pressure system came trucking along to my part of the chart looking almost exactly like the picture we drew out some three months ago. So I had my instructions, 'sail hard to stay ahead of the front for as long as you can' and this is what I have set out to do.
Yesterday morning the wind started to build, so in the last of the sunshine I prepared the boat for some hard sailing. It was beautiful, flat seas, blue skies, building breeze. I was busy working but took every moment I could to sit and enjoy what I now think was the last of the sun. By mid afternoon the wind was mid twenties and Medallia was starting to move with some pace. Late afternoon we hit 30 knots of wind speed and I changed down from my code zero to the J2, still flying, now getting very wet. As the night fell Medallia was at full throttle. Averaging 17 knots, regularly surfing at 21 or 22. It's a bouncy ride though the sea is still relatively flat, there is a constant roar of water past the hull and in the rigging. The cockpit is permanently full of water as waves crash over the bow and surge down the deck. Now I am fully jealous of the covered cockpits of my competitors, when I go on deck to check trim or do a job, it is in a dry suit and I am in the thick of every one of those waves.
I have been happy with the progress we have made. We are catching back up with our little peloton and Medallia is feeling strong and solid, but when it came to trying to get some rest last night I found sleeping to be the last thing my mind wanted to do. My anxiety levels are somewhat high. It's not that I haven't sailed Medallia this hard before and to be honest there is not that much wind, the average is less than 30 knots. I guess I am still shaken by the events of this week but there is a background discomfort lurking in my mind and I am hyper aware of all the things that could go wrong. I'm not scared at least I don't think I am. I am just anxious. I've addressed everyone of my concerns - rationalised them - and am logically happy that the boat is strong, well prepared and doing what it was designed for but my mind is still having trouble accepting this rate of travel and this level of pressure as the norm.
At one this morning, I eventually put the bow down a couple of degrees, it's not optimum course but it made the ride a little less hectic and I managed a couple of intermittent hours of sleep. I knew it would be like this. I had already imagined how I might feel during these first few days of hard sailing in the south. It's a lot about trust. Right now it feels tough and crazy, like the boat is on the edge but I know it is not. I am also acutely aware of how difficult things are for me on deck. This boat is totally exposed, the sails which are stacked on the side deck are now soaked through and will be double the weight when I come to move them, just moving around in the cockpit I am fighting constant walls of water. This is the start of 6 or 7 weeks of the toughest sailing I will ever have done in my life. Of course I should be and will be anxious but I hope it won't last too long. I need to give myself time to be reassured that me and Medallia are up to this. We will get things wrong but we can cope with those moments and those challenges. I'm going to accept my anxiety for now, park it, get on with life and then review how I feel in a weeks time.
We are here, this is the unknown and I have taken a huge leap into it.