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So I bound up the steps into the cockpit, and raise a laugh a few
minutes later by complaining bitterly that they've tacked the boat
again, and the peeing side is not the side it was previously. I bet
even the mighty Shackleton cheered his stranded crew up by peeing on
his own leg occasionally. And, in fairly high spirits, I sit back on
the rail - first in line to shelter everyone else, as is expected of
the foredeck crew.
Night wears on, as we push northwards along a coast without any signs
of human habitation. The fleet spreads out and we lose sight of most of
the other boats. It blows, but not as badly as we had anticipated, and
rains. But we're used to that, and fumbling for something in my pocket
I find some hitherto undiscovered slots lined with fur. I told you the
Kiwis knew how to make foul weather gear! And so, with warm hands, I
mumble silent hosannas in praise of the gods of furry pockets and the
sky turns from dark grey to light grey, which looks like as good as
it's going to get, and we forge steadily onwards on wings of white
Dacron and gold Kevlar.
Coming up from my mid-morning nap the scene is transformed. The wind is
howling in the rigging and we're heeled over excitingly on a sparkling
blue sea sprinkled with white caps. Waves gather themselves behind us
and then, with a leisurely explosion, lift the stern and rocket us
forward so that we're momentarily surfing in brilliant sunshine. The
sky is dotted with fantastic cloudscapes and, to the west, New Zealand
is as uninhabited and majestic as it was when Kupe came here a thousand
years ago.
And so I barf.
I'm hungry, making soup and sandwiches below the deck of a small boat
in a big sea. Anybody would get queasy under those circumstances and
I'm glad to hand out the food I've prepared for those that want it.
With empty hands I can haul myself into the cockpit safely, only to
watch MY sandwich and soup being consumed by someone that didn't want
anything five minutes ago. Aaargghh! My stomach is screaming as I
plunge below again, grab a couple of slices of bread, the last of the
hot water, and a tea bag.
I curl up at the back of the boat, but halfway into my feast something
rebels and it all comes back up, dripping sadly off the fittings at the
stern. I feel instantly better, breathe deep of the fresh breeze,
devour the other piece of bread, savour the shimmering horizon, swig my
tea, dip the empty mug into the foam to wash off my mess, and dive
below to make another breakfast. Sniffy is oblivious, a big happy man
in his element, succoured by my soup and sandwich.
B*****d!
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