Hi from Stromboli

Stromboli comes home
John and Sue Chadwick
Mon 18 Jun 2007 15:04
We're at 49:03.31N 007:57.21W (SW of the Scillies). Took bit of a pasting yesterday. Having motored across a sea that was flatter than Peatling Magna duck pond on a quiet day, the wind (what little there was of it) went bloody NE. Now, anyone looking at a chart will see that NE is the last direction we want for wind - its where we're trying to go - and during Saturday night the wind gradually increased (nothing stupendous at first - from enough to blow cigarette smoke into your eyes becoming enough, maybe, to slightly swing a well-oiled pub sign). But heading dead into it, under engine, it slowed our progress from 5 knots (jogging) to 3.5 knots (brisk walk down to the pub) to 2.5 knots (careful meander back from the pub). Then it happened. Clearly my earlier remarks re the Weather Gods and in particular the Wind God (Pharticus) had rankled somewhat. Together with the Rain God (Pysindon) they cooked up something good: All morning we had this solid NE F7 - right in the chops. In the natural course of things a fairly significant sea developed and we were smashing into it under deep-reefed main, stays'l and jib. Solid green water was cascading along the decks (and into my seaboots - damn it) Everywhere on the ship can now be catagorised as either DAMP, WET, or VERY WET and there is salt at least halfway up the mast.

In these conditions, there are analogies between using the loo and trying to have sex - both operations are potentially feasible but each carry their own and distinct hazards and challenges. In the height of the rough stuff, of course, it was more or less imperative that I used the loo. Just about to close the door - lifeline unclipped, lifejacket off, gloves off, waterproof top-half off, waterproof trousers and under-layer 'snuggs' lowered appropriately - when a bigger-than-normal wave hit us. Stromboli dived down a hole the other side and the heads floor ('heads' = loo compartment) became more or less vertical. I flew back out of the heads - in the manner of a rancher flying out of a bar during a brawl - landing, with force, on a hanging locker opposite. The door is now dented to the extent that is seemingly, forever jammed and thus excluding us from our 'decent' shore-going rigs.

Anyway, having had their initial fun the Gods turned the wind down to 'Hardly Anything, Really' and had a good laugh watching us rolling ourselves stupid in a big left-over sea. Oh yeah, and in the rain.

Last night, though, with assurances from Stokey (our router) and some excellent shore-side assistance via Sat phone from Rob and Jules (thanks guys) we grabbed a handy S-SW 6-7 and Stromboli took off like the Ocean Greyhound she really is (OK, I'll grant, perhaps a rather well-disguised Ocean Greyhound) and roared across the edge of the continental shelf, dead along our rhum line for home at 7 - 9.4 (yes, 9.4 hubba-hubba) knots. According to our weather guru we'll now have S'lies or SW'lies all the way to Plymouth. He's calling it our 'Steak Wind' and advises us to keep the pedal down as strong winds - perhaps a gale - are expected off Plymouth early on Wednesday.

Today my legs are seeing their first daylight since Horta. So, there's a short cease fire in the battle of the fronts - surrounded as we are by Lows - and we have a decent enough day for the Mate to prepare Salad Nicosse for lunch. There's 175 miles to go and according to the GPS we'll arrive off Plymouth between at 2300 tomorrow (Tuesday) and 0400 Wednesday morning (but that might change as the wind comes and goes).
More Soon. Love Skipper, Scotty, Mate

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