Crew's Views from
Andrew Jackson

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August 7, 2000

We have about five hundred miles to go to the finish line. For the last couple of days, we've been first in our class (the B boats) and fourth over all. But as Captain Miles reminds me, that doesn't really mean much. Right now, we're in a slow patch where there isn't much wind. Most of the other boats are behind us in the windy spot we were in a few days ago - catching up! There's more wind showing on our weather faxes up ahead (i.e. to the east), so maybe we'll pick up more speed in a day or two. But, of course, it would be awfully good luck if this wind were blowing just the way we want it to for our triumphal sprint down the homestretch to the English Channel. So will we want to go fast and a little out of our way, or slow and straight down the rhumline?

These oceanic sailboat races are iffy things, even without the Byzantine tangle of "corrected speeds" that make it possible for such disparate boats to compete together. The way it all works out, if somebody passes you, that doesn't necessarily put them ahead of you. It all depends on sail area and hull length and God knows what else. A feisty competitive captain will spend as much time on the computer and the radio as he will looking at his sail configuration. Especially since you hardly see anybody else on the broad expanse of the sea.

Our old neighbor, Eendracht, came over the horizon a day or two ago. The minute we saw each other, we both started frantically adjusting sail, galvanized by the unaccustomed proximity.

But as the Cook, I don't pay as much attention to the racing aspects of our voyage as I do the simple progress of day to day life. Half a head of cabbage and four pounds of carrots left. Then we degenerate to canned vegetables. The food won't be as delicious as heretofore, but it will be much easier to prepare. So I get a little more time on deck.

On deck, about the best place to sit is aft between the knees of the transom. The transom knees are six vanes of tropical hardwood called Santa Maria. The are part of the ultratough boat frame that stick up through the Douglas fir and yellow pine of the deck and topsides. Since the transom tilts back, you can recline there as if in a big easy chair, dozing in the sun, sheltered from the wind and spray. Usually.

From here I have a great view all the way down the deck to the headrig where Paul and Addison are tarring the rigging. And aft of that the storm trisail is drying on deck and aft of that SuperTuf is showing Jeremy how to make a monkey fist. Aft of that Jesse is blowtorching some pitch to patch the deck seams and aft of that Dayle is turning over the helm to Freeman.

"Zero nine zero," says Dayle.

"Zero nine zero, aye," drawls Freeman like a good sailor.

If I roust myself just a hair, I can read all the dials in front of Freeman. Wind 70 degrees off our starboard quarter, wind speed 12 knots. Our actual heading on the digital readout flickering from 88 to 90 or 91. Boat speed 8.4 to 8.6 knots (great speed for a sea this smooth). Over on the port quarter, I can see our dragline attached to a bunji cord. We haven't caught a fish this whole trip that I couldn't comfortably fit up my nose. Maybe today's the day.

But no. A school of porpoises has come charging up the side of the boat to play in our bow wave. When there are porpoises around, all the other fish forget about eating in their haste to avoid being eaten. Oh well.

That's it for now. Next week - race results! Maybe.

Andy the Cook

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