M
y vulnerability brings me both joy and
fear. The uncontrollable, unpredictable
environment that surrounds me forces
my focus into the present. This is how
it feels to truly be alive. At the age of 21, I’m alone with
Flying Cloud, my 22ft carvel sloop, somewhere along
the trade wind conveyor belt between Africa and the
Caribbean. Mismatched sails and spinnaker poles form
my makeshift trade wind rig, and a home-made wind
vane does the hard work for me. The trades are steady,
the fish are biting – and the busy human world is an
obscure memory to me.
Within 200 miles of the Caribbean, I set myself
on fire. Half a litre of meths explodes in my hand as
I attempt to light my paraffin stove. Within a second,
my half-naked body is completely engulfed in flames.
Holding on to a stanchion with one hand, I manage
to douse the fire by trailing my body in the water behind
the boat. After two days of complete hell, I stagger into
a West Indian hospital. For a week I’m bedridden, with
a machete victim to my right and a Rasta who has
slipped from a mango tree to my left. The hospital
discharges me with a year-long ban from sunshine,
and basically no chance of carrying on my West Indian
adventure anytime soon. With two anchors I secure