Rites of passage are

endured and enjoyed

PETE

GOSS

O

ur start from Guernsey was early

but quietly effi cient and professional

thanks to our preparations. We were

off in a romping northerly, helped

along by the cold wind we are trying

to escape. Pearl was loving it and we

couldn’t have been happier with her.

She could sense what was ahead,

eager with anticipation like us. The grey winter didn’t let us

out of its clutches without a fi ght, forcing us to reef well down

as we barreled along the Brittany coast. In came the rain –

a heavy clag reducing visibility – and a confused sea agitated

by spring tides, invisible in the black-hearted, moonless night.

Grim doesn’t cover it. Tracey went down with mal de mer.

Abject misery. It’s a crushing thing that robs you of your fi ght and

confi nes you to your protesting mind

and heaving body. Ushant was vile with

overfalls and at one point we were

reduced to 1 knot over the ground, despite

showing 8 knots on the log. It was a night

of attrition, and I took comfort only in the

law of change: no matter how bad it is, it

will always get better. In the meantime, I

just had to ‘eat my s**t sandwich’, as an

old sergeant used to say, and then things

started to get better.

Mid-Biscay, the false dawn greeted us in the east while a huge

moon set to the west. Before long, the sun rose in the east and the

moon was replaced by a huge rainbow. Dolphins appeared to the

north and sunnier climes beckoned to the south. The sun brought

enough warmth to eat breakfast wrapped up in the cockpit.

Suddenly it all seemed worthwhile; there was a reason for all

the work and sacrifi ce to get this trip off the ground. Tracey was

smiling and after some much-needed sustenance, her colour

returned. We held hands, drank steaming tea and chatted. I

wouldn’t do this with anyone else and to see her enjoying life

again was more warming than the sun.

Tracey is the brave one. She is the one taking the greater leap

and to see her ill and miserable off Ushant was terrible. There was

nothing I could do but nurse her and sail on. There is a defi nite

cycle to settling into life at sea and Tracey groped her way forward

blindly. While she focused on our destination, the time dragged.

As she adapted, the destination faded and living in the moment

came to the fore. I could see it, predict it even, as I have taken the

same road myself and have led many others down it. It is a rite of

passage and it’s only in reaching its conclusion that you

understand there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Below Finisterre, like thieves in the night, we motored through

the calm, sneaking onwards before the next storm caught us. A

red moon refl ected off the smooth sea, fragmented by the shape of

dolphins under our bow. Motoring is a welcome option that

cruising offers. The engine would get us below the storm brewing

in the Atlantic and, as Tracey says, ‘Life’s too short for wallowing’.

Tr a c e y fi nds the night a dark and threatening place, adrift in a

void. Anxieties of unseen threats resonate

with childhood fears, but now there could

be real danger. The night is an alien place. I

have become comfortable with the dark as

I build up a mental map. Anything that

shows its presence is a beacon of

information that offers further clarity.

Tracey will get there too, but in the

meantime I was happy to take the lion’s

share of the night as we settled into a

routine that made best use our strengths.

With time and experience, the night will become a time of

wonder, particularly in the tropics with the stars above and

phosphorescence below. A cool respite from the day, for

refl ection, a comfort.

Getting south, we stripped off thermals and continued building

ourselves up. The night before Lanzarote, fl ying along at 9 knots,

I worked the foredeck as we dropped the spinnaker and Tracey

worked the cockpit. It was fun; we were a team and it felt safe. Lots

of things came together in that moment, giving us an upsurge

of confi dence. The ocean had restored our depleted batteries.

I am proud of Tracey. Her rite of passage is done and we have

sailed to the Canaries. The wine tasted so much better having

earned it. Salud, ‘Deep Sea Tracey,’ salud.

‘IN TIME, THE

NIGHT WILL

BE A TIME OF

WON DER’

COLUMN