THE VOYAGE OF FLYING CLOUD
emotion and has the most expressive face. I savour her
vivid depictions of emotion: joy, surprise, lust, and
despair. She’s a sailor, too, and joins me on a nervous day
sail round to Marigot Bay, my last stop in the Caribbean.
I make the diffi cult decision to sail home before
anything becomes too serious. I’m now one of the last
boats to leave the Caribbean (it’s mid-June), and it’s been
a week since the fi rst named storm of the season tore its
way through western Cuba. As I leave the lagoon in
St Martin, I’m handed two gifts. From the girl, a
beautifully made hand-bound notebook – still one of
my most cherished possessions. And from the pirate,
two sticks of dynamite.
“If any f***ing Haitian tries to rob ya, light one
of these and throw it at their gas tank,” he whispers
into my ear, as he wedges two red quarter sticks into
my hand.SHE’S THE ONE
Unlike my fi rst crossing, the conditions change daily.
For the fi rst 800 miles, I close reach away from the
Caribbean. When sailing upwind, there’s a fi ne line
between heaven and hell. Force 4 and above is painfully
wet and slow; anything lighter is dreamy. Happily, the
wind remains between 10 and 15 knots, and the sea
is mostly fl at.
Crossing the Azores High proves diffi cult. The wind
comes in brief puffs, and I’m forced to make constant
changes to keep the boat moving. In moments of
complete stillness, I dive overboard to get a surreal view
of Flying Cloud from sea level. Rust oozes from her
chain plates, and fl akes of paint have fallen from her
topsides. I remember how tidy she looked after her fi rst
restoration, but for some reason I prefer her like this;
rough and unvarnished, showing every one of the
6,000 miles that we have covered so far.
One day, I hear the automatic bilge pump whirring
away more than usual. All the upwind sailing has caused
a scarf in the stem to open slightly. The gap is big enough
to let in a steady trickle, which I try to stop with
sawdust, play dough and epoxy putty. The leak persists;Below left: Flying
Cloud lifted in
after a three-week
stint in the yard
Below right:
Flying Cloud
makes landfallFLYING CLOUD
LOA
21ft 8in (6.6m)LW L
18ft (5.5m)
BEAM
6ft 6in (2m)DRAUGHT
3ft 3in (1m)
DISPLACEMENT
2 tonnesFlying Cloud as best I can before fl ying back to the UK
to fi gure out what to do next.
The sudden change in circumstances is staggering.
I battle with anxiety and depression, and for a couple
of months can’t even bear the thought of seeing my
closest friends. In my mind, I’ve failed to do what I had
planned. Suddenly, even stepping out of the house
requires more courage than the entire voyage did.
However, as time passes, my confi dence grows. At some
point, I realise that I can only overcome this feeling of
fear by fl ying back out to the Caribbean and picking
up where I left off. A year after saying goodbye to
Flying Cloud I see her again, swinging around behind
the mangroves, exactly where I left her.
A boatyard in the south of Grenada hauls her out for
me, and in doing so manages to spring two planks from
their frames. I tear the rusty stove from its mounts –
paraffi n cookers are archaic anyway. Alcohol is the way
forward. No fumbling around with fl aming meths, no
fl are-ups, no nauseating fumes – it’s a no-brainer.
It’s now mid-April and I’m sailing again, and I’ve
forgotten how much I enjoy it. It’s like I’ve been
delivered back to a dream-like existence. I remember
all the things I love about being alive: adventure,
friendship, hospitality, romance. I’m constantly met
with the same curious stare when I tell my story. It’s as
if my new friends are staring into the cage of some rare
animal at the zoo.
In the Grenadines, I swim with turtles; in Dominica,
I labour on a building site; in Antigua, I feel like a
scoundrel; and in St Martin, I fl irt with debauchery.
My money runs out, but then I make some again by
fashioning fi breglass repairs to hurricane-damaged
Lagoon catamarans. I spend my nights with a friend,
dressed completely in black, scavenging what we can
from the hundreds of stricken wrecks that lay scattered
around. My accomplice is wild – born and raised aboard
a cruising yacht. The closest thing to a real living pirate.
As the winter season begins to end, a strikingly exotic
girl enters my world, like a small creature suddenly
appearing with the coming of spring. She radiates