Twenty-four hours, and almost nothing new to report. We’re 301 miles from Stanley, and the skipper’s estimate is that it will take us another 40 hours to cover the distance. There’s a sweepstake running on the actual time of arrival on Thursday morning at the dock, with two lines ashore. My money’s on 9.12 am boat time.
We’re still beating, but the headwinds aren’t as strong right now and the terrible, boneshaking slamming has stopped except for the odd rogue wave. On this starboard tack we’re heading somewhere north of Falkland, which on the plotter looks considerably more encouraging than the port tack which had us pointed straight at Buenos Aires. Strong north-westerlies are forecast for tonight, which will drive us south again to hit our objective. Subtle business, this sailing.
Otherwise it’s just on watch, off watch to sleep if possible, eat and read if not too queasy. My Kindle has broken, so I’m cut off from my supply of interesting and insightful new novels. I have listened to all my podcasts at least twice, and my appetite for a third run-through of In our Time on the Etruscans is quite limited. I shall have to resort to the boat’s library, which is well-stocked with briny sailing and mountaineering books and a slightly worrying sprinkling of Henry Miller, but has fewer interesting and insightful ones to choose from.
We are so cut off from the world, in our spell of wind and waves. We’ve had no real news of outside events for a month now; nothing about the Greek euro default, politics and politicians, Life&Style, Hallowe’en, Libya, nothing. (‘When did the war end?’)
Apart from the obvious cravings – for a rocket salad, a stationary bed with sheets, clean clothes and hair – what I am longing for most of all is a fresh newspaper.
Santiago will be the first chance. In Stanley, there is the local Penguin News, £1.50 weekly, and I saw that the supermarket had a two-month old copy of Hello!
Fingers crossed for the blessed north-westerlies to blow us to shore…