DateSaturday 3 December

Log One

“A Ship with no sails, crewed by the damned, and with a skipper so evil,
Hell itself spat him out”.

For political correctness and in the interest of ensuring I continue to be fed, I would say the skipper is morally challenged, we are crewed by the dim and we have fewer sails than we would like.

Mishaps happen. Even to the well drilled BLESMA boys. Yesterday, we were bowling along under heavyweight spinnaker at the limit due to frequent squalls. A course and sail change was called.

Up to the mast, sweat the no. 1 inside the spinnaker. We are ready to drop. Everyone in position for the spinnaker to come down below, under the main.
As we drop, a large gust of wind catches it and it ends up flying 40 feet behind Juno. Not good. Skipper Colin, cool as a cucumber brings the situation under control. Within seconds we are winching the clew in and bring Juno round to shelter the spinnaker from the wind. When recovered, we get under way and inspect it for damage and re-pack.

Baby Bears’ foot was burnt on the spinnaker halyard and was promptly treated by the duty nurse Paul Burns, (he likes the uniform but it chafes a bit).

Good progress for several hours, then we hit light winds this morning. So, main halfway down to repair the troublesome batten that keeps coming adrift.

What did skipper say about these incidents ……. “Keep to the Code” came the reply.

DateSaturday 3 December

Log Two

At 40° West, I scattered my mum’s ashes into the Atlantic in a small ceremony attended by the crew.

I said a few words and read the poem below.

After scattering the ashes, the poem was sealed into a waterproof container and cast overboard.

Rob Copsey then produced miniature bottles of port and rum to toast the Life of Mrs Jean West.

A moving occasion for all the BLESMA crew.

I AM NOT THERE

Do not stand by my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the thousand glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand by my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.