Taking on the World

On 1st September 2013, Ruth Harvey will set off on the challenge of her life as she and her crewmates board a 70 foot racing yacht and set sail for one of the toughest challenges on the planet: the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race.

The Race

The Clipper Round the World Race truly is the challenge of a lifetime: a circumnavigation of the world, departing from the UK in September 2013 and returning around one year later. At 40,000 miles, it is the world’s longest ocean race.

The event was established by Sir Robin Knox-Johnston to give everyone, regardless of sailing experience, the opportunity to discover the exhilaration of ocean racing.

The sailors will cross the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean, as well as the infamous Southern and Pacific Oceans, with the race split into eight legs. Crewmembers are able to take part in individual legs, or – as in Ruth’s case – can choose to take on the entire circumnavigation.

The Crews

Each of the 12 yachts has a fully-qualified skipper, but the rest of the crewmembers come from all walks of life, and have varying levels of previous sailing experience.

Ruth, a lawyer, has previously taken part in the Tall Ships race and achieved her RYA Day Skipper. She’s under no illusion, though, about just how challenging this race will be. “It will be an amazing and terrifying experience, taking 11 months, and covering 40,000 nautical miles,” said Ruth.

The Clipper takes inexperienced amateurs and trains them to sail a 40 ton, 70 foot racing yacht around the world. But the sea makes no distinction between an Olympic sailor and a novice. If the Southern Ocean, Pacific or South Atlantic decides to throw down the gauntlet, the Clipper crews need to be ready to face exactly the same challenges as those experienced by the professional racer.

The Charity

Ruth has funded her trip herself, and has very kindly chosen Cornwall Air Ambulance to benefit from this incredible challenge. "I am really proud of my Cornish roots," said Ruth. "Because of that, I am trying to raise money for Cornwall Air Ambulance, a charity where strangers save the lives of strangers in a way that never fails to take my breath away."

If you are inspired by what Ruth is taking on, please donate at Ruth’s JustGiving page.

Thank you to Kingsley Village and Cornwall Council for supporting Ruth in her challenge with donated kit!

During the race, Ruth will be blogging using a satellite link from the boat. These blog posts will be uploaded below as we receive them. You will also be able to track Ruth’s progress using a GPS tracker from this website.

You can also Like Ruth’s Facebook Page for more updates and images as we receive them.

Post 12 - Another 24 hours in the ITC - 25/09/13

And so we press on in the Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, to give the doldrums their proper name...sea so calm that it looked like the surface texture had been rubbed out, but undulating nevertheless that we should not underestimate it.

A squall. 1134 yesterday. PM.

We were running a squall astern, 30 minutes from watch changeover. A big black storm that was coming our way. We thought we were OK, then the temperature dropped dramatically and immediatly. Oh dear.

Big drops of rain started, like pipette drops and we knew we weren't out-running it anymore. Wind freshened, and we were glad we reefed. Then a sheet of water and we were drenched all at once, and not for the first time did I bless Kingsley Village and the kit they gave me - my shorts and t-shirt would be dry before I was.

Then the lightening, a spark so bright and all-encompassing that it was as if some one had, momentarily, turned the sun back on. Instinctively I counted in childish elephants to see where the noise, and 20 seconds later the thunder growled around the sky, echoing and amplified from black cloud to black cloud.

We held on and checked we were clipped on. We bounced around and the rigging howled.

Then it ended, and the other watch were on deck, stepping in. Knowing we were keen to get dry. All over.

Next day.

Lolling around on cushions, playing cribbage, and listening to Bob Dylan in paradise regained. Ice in the squash. Chocolate treats. It doesn't get any better than this. Some had a fire hose shower (Oh, er missus), and we were SO cool.

And I have chafe. We were warned about it in training, and it is not nice. A result of repeated soakings, the heat and friction. So I go commando, and make friends with the communal talcum powder in the heads. I relish the bunk fan, but have so far declined to lie prostrate with my bum in the air to shoot the breeze.

On night watch, I have taken to unzipping my shorts, and rolling up my t-shirt under my life-jacket and thus bikinied, air my skin. Well - no-one can see. The symptoms are alleviated, thank you very much.

Still last. 12th.

But we are seemingly about to pick up the trades, and fly the 2,000 miles into Rio. We are still going south and some wag jokes that we are going to Cape Town for Leg 2. Pete stays cool. Respect.

Post 11 - 48 hours in the Doldrums.

Part 1 - We are in the doldrums…..official. And so are all the other boats. A 400 mile belt of flaky wind and squalls, that are so prosaic of the conditions they describe, that the word has slipped into common parlance.

We are 9th, but we have a cunning plan from Sneaky Pete, and I wanted to set it out here. We are likely to go into stealth mode shortly, which means that we go under cover. Like spies. It means that the only people that can see what we are doing are Clipper, so if we disappear, there is probably nothing wrong...

Skipp didn't set out with a plan - he wanted to read the wind, see what other boats did, and go from there. So we watched. And watched. And looked at the weather. And watched.

Eventually, we went via the Cape Verdes, and as we approached the doldrums, we watched some more. Of the various weather and wind information we have, the one that was the most striking for me was the blue/green/red flow maps.

Skipp patiently showed me where he planned to cross the doldrums and why - he showed me the point where the belt was most narrow, and that there were hints of green in the blue wind void suggesting air.

He then went explain the south-east trades - a reliable body of wind that blow beneath the doldrums and that give us a better point of sail into Rio. That is, a faster point of sail than the boats more to the west of us, who would need to beat into wind, tacking for all they were worth to get home. Every tack slows you down.

We are, it seems, sailing a big Pythagoras triangle across the Atlantic, with the long end up for grabs. So my maths teacher, Mr C at Treviglas was right after all - maths does prepare you for Real Life after school...

So we plan to win, moving east further away from Rio, sitting 9th, but calculating to go like the clappers once we reach the trades.

Will it work? Who knows? Sneaky Pete isn't really a fair name for Pete, as he is straight as a die, and simply takes risks to win. Off-piste Pete just might work, but Carefully Thought Out Strategic doesn't really have a ring to it.

To be continued...

Part 2 - So - the doldrums.

So hot. Hot, hot hot. K has dispensed rehydration tablets to all of us - and for the first time in many years of travels, I know that I really need to take them. When dehydrated, your urine turns Colman’s colour - and mine is Colonel Mustard.

And no air. Or air that turns on itself in the flurry - the tell-tails on the stays and sails whirling like stripper tassels (or more accurately, how I imagine stripper tassels whirl).

We are also introduced to squalls - dense and intense rain storms that circulate the doldrums, causing havoc with a wind seeker sail doing what it says on the tin. These sails are huge as a tennis court, and light as gossamer. They sail asymmetrically around the boat, continuously monitored, folding over themselves when they have no wind. We trim by helm in the first instance, bearing away, and then grinding in the sheet with gusto to bring it back, before easing to resume our course. This happens in 5 minute cycles. Over a 4 hour night watch.

Then a squall - black, dark, ugly clouds that we actually monitor on the radar at 20 minute intervals. It comes up yellow, but I would like it to come up purple - for obvious song lyric reasons. "Purple rain, Pur-er-ple ray-n" sounds very good at 2am at full voice.

When the squall hits, the temperature drops 10 degrees in a minute, and then the rain starts. Rain like I have never seen before with drops so large they spin like silver sixpences on the ocean. We are drenched in 30 seconds, relishing the cool that the squall brings, but knowing that we have to protect the wind seeker at all costs. So the sails go up and down like a whores drawers.

Squall approaching, wind seeker down, yankee and stay sails up. Reef in main sail. Squall passes, yankee and stay sails down, reef out, wind seeker goes up. Not every time, but mostly. And so it goes on.

Part 3 - The sunsets are incredible - slate grey with peach, turquoise with coral, and chinchilla with rose. Natural combinations.

But so are the moon rises: near the equator, sun and moon are often in the sky together. With a moon so bright that when it emerges from a cloud, you actually expect it to warm your skin. There are moon rivers, and moon spotlights, and moon chandeliers too, from halo clouds.

We marvel at the complex cloud formations, where we are able to imagine anything at all, and see everything everyone else sees, no imagination too odd or off-beat.

In fact, we are like a specimen in a petri dish in agar jelly, fixed with a beam so bright that we are boiled by it and Bunsen burners all around.

Hot, hot, hot. So hot.

Post 10 - Turn right when the butter melts........

...is an old adage to guide, I am guessing, slave traders to the Caribbean on the Trade Winds.

And here I am, sailing the Trades west of Senegal in Africa, and it is getting hotter. Much hotter. Sod the butter, we are melting too.

The sea has turned from rich French navy to bright azure-Ceylon-sapphire-cornflower blue. Small fluffy cotton wool clouds race across the sky, typical of the region. We are sweltering, and C says he can smell Africa, even though we are some way off shore.

And thoughts turn to water.

It will be difficult to convey how precious water is on an off-shore racing yacht.

In our 2 water tanks, we carry about 540 litres, enough for 21 people for about 5-6 days. On 2 litres consumption each a day.

We cannot drink sea water as it is poisonous to our system and we will die painfully of liver failure.

"Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink." per Coleridge's Ancient Mariner

Or for Costa, Louisa, and Tina D, "Nero, nero pandu, ke tipota ya pume". In Greek.

So we have a Water Maker, which uses a process of osmosis to separate the sodium from the H2O, and makes sea water potable: the nautical equivalent of water into wine. It produces about 30 litres an hour.

Drinks wise, we have powdered squash, orange, lemon and fruits. Three packets make 6 litres. I mix them for wild heady cocktails. Topped up 3-4 times a day, it makes the Water Maker water taste better, and dehydration is beastly. It is like a hangover, brain ache, with slight disorientation. You know when crew are dehydrated - no-one uses the heads, and there is a faint pong of concentrated urine in the air.

It is so hot below decks - about 35 degrees, but will rise to about 40 as we get the Equator - that we sit and sweat. When we are performing boat manoeuvres, I wasn't joking - we melt in the heat.

That said, Pete is enlightened. We are about the only boat to have individual fans fitted to bunks. Actually, he is a hero - he and Merlin (who will have his own column inches in due course)- have been fitting them all week, and it is a godsend for rest. We also have a freezer, and lolly moulds, which come out at lunchtime Happy Hour, and relish that we are truly blessed as the only boat with these. Made out of squash though...

And so we carry on, reminding ourselves and each other to drink plenty, and rest off-watch.

But there is a final twist. On sea survival training we learn that survival in a life raft with only sea water can be extended by using the natural desalination plants we have in our back passages. Insert tube, and fill with sea water.

Heaven forfend to be either Giver or Receiver. Water into wine indeed.

Post 9 - Living the Dream

We are going south. Due south.

One hundred and eighty degrees compass course exactly at one stage. Shouted out in mock darts commentator Geordie accent at regular intervals by the helm.

It was getting hotter, now hot.

We have long left the continental shelf and are surfing down the mid-Atlantic. The sea is a deep, rich navy , different to any colour I have seen before, and we have 4 kilometres beneath The sea is cresting with stylised Japanese tsunami shapes.

We have seen nothing for days, the last excitement being when there was a greater than 50m motorised vessel to a few nights ago, tanking it along. It gives a new sense of perspective, when we have been at sea for 10 days, and are still 1,500 miles to the Equator. We don't even see a plane.

Sea state is slight to moderate, and I am on deck, We have been champagne sailing for the last 72 hours, spinnaker out and although still 9th in the fleet, are positioning ourselves to maximise our options at the Doldrums.

The anxieties of a previous post are receding, and things are indeed settling down. E-mails from family mean the world, and make me cry.

It occurs to me that much that I am feeling relates not so much to Clipper, but more the enormity of the step I have taken.

I cannot believe that here I am, and I have deconstructed the last 30 years of my life. Career, home, no longer something available as a security fall-back position, but I realise that I, quite simply, have nothing to worry about, other than my next wash. Do I miss this? That we are defined by our sense of responsibility and accountability? Yes, and No.

Yes, in that I and everybody else knew who that Ruth was. No, in that I am sitting in the sun on deck, listening to The Boss on a beautiful 70' yacht, sailing for Rio. The most work I have to do is sitting on the high side. I am learning new skills, meeting new people. No more London Underground. Who will the new Ruth be?

I am already changing: you have to here. And I am dreaming heavy intense dreams of the past, old loves and offices, that suggest some sort of mourning is going on. And yet I did it. Stepped off, walked off, and sailed away. And it has happened so quickly, that I suspect the distress I am feeling is inextricably linked to such short-term wholesale dramatic change.

And so we gybe south west, two ten degrees, the same direction as Cornwall from London. The wind shifts, and a new course set for a different waypoint. Cheesy, I know, but right now it works for me. Let's just see how the Velocity Made Good to destination turns out?

Post 8 - 2 watches and 2 sleeps later and I feel differently.

Strong Anti-inflammatories from Medic settle the pain, and the sun is out in the Atlantic Ocean. I have talked to a couple of people, and agree we will suggest "Team Mate of the Day" award, at the next Happy Hour. Manager has made welcome and sincere overtures to put things right, and has. We have a good chat about the heat, and the abyss is avoided. Truce on Watch Wars as our speed is maintained over 24 hours, and there seems to be appeasement on complaints. Salt is a fact of life. I am not smelling.

I can get off at Rio to see family, but I will talk to them first.

There are solutions which you can't see when you are tired and scared. The wind was up, and we were going through 4m swells, where the wave behind us suddenly obliterates the seascape astern. Rogue waves were crashing the boat from the side, soaking us to the skin, and making her broach. I asked Skipp if this was all normal? And we are. I don't lack awareness that my balance is off, but don't have the resources to do anything about it.

3 weeks to go!!!

Post 7 - I will get off at Rio and go home!

We are 4 days in from Brest, and I hate it, hate it, hate it. I will get off at Rio and go home.

My Top 10 reasons are as follows:

1. I miss my family very, very much. I want to hug Mum and Livvie for ages, and curl up with them and Connie reading a story.
2. Every bone and muscle in my body is aching. Seriously painful to the point where my legs and arms will not carry me anymore. This is aside from the bruising. See 3 below.
3. The bruising. I am a Dalmatian. It is easier to see where I am not bruised than where I am. The boat does not stop moving: big lurches where you are catapaulted across fathoms as if by a big hand playing en passant chess. You are jerked, hurled and yanked, with all of the forces of wind and sea. You crash into a bulkhead, or a winch, or a grinder or a locker, or a bunk or a head, and if you are lucky, just about manage a hand hold to break your fall. I wish for the boat to stop moving just for a second so I can stop getting hurt.
4. I was told by someone to "get off my fat arse" and that the someone was "sick of my big mouth". Given that in Real Life I am neither loud nor lazy, the unfairness of this renders me incandescent with seething silent rage which can go nowhere. I have no best friend to talk to, and cannot call home. A row is inconceivable. And yet they may be right? I have no benchmark against which to measure my behaviour in this madness. I don't like this at all.
5. We have inaugurated, of all things, the daily "Hankers" awards, designed to highlight crew screw ups in a "light-hearted" way. My inner employment lawyer dies a little.
6. Watch ‎Wars - OK, no war as such, but daily sniping where actual or perceived greivances are amplified, and no quarter given. This is Live by the Sword and Die by the Sword stuff. Tit-for-tat jockeying for position between members of the same team, whereby healthy competition tumbles into gripe auction.
7. I can taste the salt water everywhere. In my coffee, to clean my teeth, on my clothes. Everywhere. The skin is peeling off my hands from the salt. We cook in salt water.
8. I have been so sea-sick, for the first time ever, that I cannot stop vomiting. I had to cook for 21 people like this.
9. I am paranoid about smelling. I have a full baby wipe wash every 2 days, and a quickie daily. I broker a deal with C and W that we will each tell each other if we pong. We agree coding of holding our nose and pointing to the offending area, armpits, crotch, feet as appropriate.
10. I feel cheated on time. If I have 5 sleeps, 5 days should have passed. Only 2 have. Sleep no longer punctuates time in a legitimate way. I want 2 weeks to have passed after 14 sleeps, but only 4 days have. God. I can go on, believe me, but have to go on Watch.

Life on board a 70' racing yacht revolves around watches: our 22 crew are divided between Port and Starboard Watch, each with Watch Leaders and Assistant Watch Leaders. When one watch is resting, the other is sailing the boat. When one watch ends, the crew swap into the still warm bunks. It is called hot-bunking, and believe me, it is not as interesting as it sounds.

The Watches alternate on 4 hour intervals, midnight to 0400, then the worst - the dreaded dog watch - at 0400 to 0800, then 2 x 6 hour stints from 0800 to 1400, 1400 to 2000, and the final 4 hour session to midnight before it all starts again.

We have a Happy Hour for "chats" (for which read grips and grumbles) between 1330 and 1430, so both watches lose down time.

They say you settle into this routine, and your body gets used to it. They say that you get more sleep than in civvy street. Don't think myself. Not yet anyway.

You very quickly lose any sense of time. Days merge together punctuated only by 4 hourly, not 24 hourly cycles. You live by reference to the end of your watch. Day and night don't mean much at all.

On a bad, cold, wet, bouncy day, you still only have 4, or worst, 6 hours maximum to go. There is not another job like it. Then you sleep. Sometimes, without even taking off your boots.

There is a school of thought that you should teeth and toilet in the last 30 minutes of your watch, so you can go straight to bed, avoiding the queues so to speak. However, this does not feel in keeping with team ethos, and I have not adopted that practice.

You have to be on deck 10 minutes before time, or the other watch will get very annoyed. If they do, not only is there nowhere to go, they will be in your bed whilst they are annoyed.

On a good day, bright, shiny, windy, you STILL only have a maximum 4 or 6 hours. Then you go to bed. You get 3 hours, as you will lose 30 minutes in each 4 hour period. You tend also to only sleep in the 4 hour pattern even in the 6 hour sessions, which means, hey, I have a life!

Yep. For 2 hours a day. Every day. For 3 weeks to Rio. Sleep, and sail the boat, the capacity for a good or bad watch entirely arbitary according to weather and wind.

You may have 3 Sail changes an hour to keep you busy. You may be on the same sail plan for days in the doldrums. It actually doesn't matter anyway. It will all be over in 4 hours no matter what. The others will take over until the next time.

Endless relentless Ground Hog Day.

Apart from the sailing. And the people.

Especially the sailing and the people.

Corporate Day

Schools raise money from sponsored spelling bee, and it is no different in the lofty (or should I say masty?) world that Clipper operates in.

Sponsorship is the lifeblood of Clipper, and organisations like it, charitable or otherwise. Without it, we would not have access to the awesome adventure of circumnavigation. It would be far, far away too expensive. Not commercially viable.

Moreover, without it I would not have had my thermal underwear and quick dry trousers supplied by Kingsley Village; and they and I would not be raising money for Air Ambulance.

A virtuous circle then.

But in my old life, corporate hospitality meant many things: Chelsea Flower Show, a Night at the Opera (no, no, not the Queen album...), Ascot, heady dinners, and of course, sailing! (although all in the PRA (Pre-Recession Era).

Ironically, for various reasons, I was never able to make corporate sailing events, and until today, I still don't really know why I didn't go; much of the time it must have been work, but if I really liked sailing, as I then imagined I did - would I not have turned up just once?

Anyway, we are where we are, and where I am is no longer corporate, but, (drum roll, banging of saucepans, another but...) CREW!!!!!!

One of the Clipper sponsors had arranged for some staff to have a short race sail on Jamaica, along with some of the other Clippers.

Four of Pete's team were picked out (capable one's only, hurrah!) and I was one of them! Double Hurrah.

It was a brilliant day.

We meeted and greeted, gave a safety briefing and told our stories, and they told us theirs. But when the race started I was so very proud of my boat and my colleagues and my winches and my life jacket and...well, you get the picture that I was proud as punch!

We sailed well, and Jamaica won the first race, and the high rollers loved it, many even wanting to get involved in Boat manoeuvres.

But one thing that stood out was that Pete's normally softly spoken voice was way louder than anything they had heard in the normal commercial world. I was an old hand at Dignity at Work issues, and Pete's shouting hadn't bothered me. But I saw our guests looking at us crew quizzically, to see how we took to being blasted at.

We didn't and don't bat an eyelid. Water off a duck's back. A no-brainier.

You see big boats can kill or maim. Quickly. Fast, and without warning. The weather can change in a millibar, and the sea is an unforgiving friend. If Pete doesn't shout, he may not be heard, and if he isn't heard, we may not stand a chance. Safety on a boat means shouting, even though it has no place in an office. Environment is everything.

So another change I recognise: no more Mr Nice Guy in a skipper, is Mr Very Nice Guy Indeed when we need to safely circumnavigate.

Meaning, I am not just logging into my new life, I am living it! Job done. Literally.

What could possibly follow that?

Leaving London with all that goodwill and wishes was, oh, so emotional.

Seeing my family and friends following us down the Thames in spectator boat meant the world. We were blowing kisses and making hearts and doing the Bolt for ever. Never enough of those last gestures of love and support, and as distance increased as the Clipper fleet sped away, I have never felt so close to them.

By the time we reached Queenborough, our estuary mooring for the night, we were in subdued mood.

The last and next 24 hours having taken us from known into unknown territory, we were tired and hungary, and having eaten pasta with scrummy tomato sauce, we all went to bed.

0530 next morning a myriad of alarms went off, the extent of our team building not yet having extended to collective waking up.

We dressed for race start, and prepared the boat: lines, pulleys, and squash bottles - dehydration can be serious on a race boat.

Skipp gave us a team talk, and lots of "yeah man's" later, we were (one) luffed up. Ready.

Raising the main sail as we went into the 10 minute gun, we couldn't get it up. The halyard had snared around the mast spreaders. Frantic sorting out later (and we crew were NOT cool during this, Pete was ever so) the sail clicked into wind, and were off down the English channel for Brittany piers.

But, the wind had other ideas. Itsy bitsy wind that was lolling along, with no regards for racers. So annoying.

A darlink friend sent a link to the Metro's coverage of leaving London: I was on Page 3! The headline was "Bolting for Rio", and our Bolt pose was pictured alongside Team GB. Pete was quoted on his "marathon not sprint" philosophy, and we quickly sent this around our Jamaica world.

We already knew we were brilliant. This confirmed it.

Hmmmmm. Pride.

The fall came when we raised the Spinney in the light wind, and needed to do an Inside Gybe (and yes, I do know what that is - it is where the clew of the sail goes behind the sail when we turn the boat in front of the wind - so there). We were hour glass-ed, and the whole, light-as-a-feather-if-you-please sail twisted on itself like a kitchen rag being wrung out in the rain.

It cost us miles to sort out, but Pete just seemed to know that less was more. We teased the hour glass out in about an hour and avoided the dreaded forestay-spinnaker wrap around rap.

Onwards.

Then, around Dover, suddenly force 5-6. Tide running agin us, 6' waves breaking over the bow, and we were soaked. Wet t-shirts all round. Out in the foredeck changing the sails, I was looking near vertically down into the sea as Jamaica heeled over. "Clip on" we chimed. I was swearing a lot.

But, we got the boat back from the broach and I caught myself grinning like a Cheshire. It was exhilarating. I loved it. Here I was, on the foredeck, doing sailing, never Olga Korbett, but no longer a slug. More catapiller?

Then, C, Watch-leader and all round good egg, said something I never, ever want to hear again.

"The mast is moving"

What the...?

The wooden chocks around the base of the mast had fallen out. Dangerous indeed. Headsails down, our brilliant engineers found a fix, but by then we were nearly 10 miles behind the pack.

Last. Twelfth out of twelve.

Anger and disbelief. What the...?

Team talk, and Pete, ever calm, gave perspective, and that everything was still doable. He had a plan. Sneaky Pete.

Business as usual, he said. Trim, trim, trim.

He spent a long time at the Nav table that night, and next day, he said, like it surprised us, we would not be following the pack (he is not, for the record, a pack follower, and we love him for it).

He reckoned that staying north down the channel and catching the next tide would accelerate us over to France, and veering winds would give us extra ommph as we made for Brest. In the South of the channel, none of the other boats had wind.

And so it went for the next 24 hours. Still at the back, but with a plan that we knew depended on timing and tide and weather systems. Clever tactical stuff. We literally hovered under the Isle of Wight, waiting for our moment.

Then, and I still cannot believe it, 3 hours notice was given by Clipper for the end of the race. Pete's cunning plan needed 24. We were miles away from the new finish point, and no chance of making it.

I said it was not fair. I was told that life isn't. I said I know, but that I didn't expect aspiring international sporting organisations to behave in capricious manner. They rolled their eyes and said they thought I was now an ex-lawyer. Whatever.

We were (very bad swear word ending in -ed).

We ended up coming 10th: two other boats had strayed into forbidden territory (shipping lane stuff), and had time penalties putting them behind us.

Pete fought our corner, asking for a line of longitude (established Clipper precedent rather than random lighthouse) as a finish line, and that the mast problem had cost us dearly. To no avail.

We turned up the music, and reggaed into a better mood. It is difficult not to smile to Jimmy Cliff.

But not a great start for Jamaica.

Harder to pull back from only 3 points, and Pete had genuinely thought we could win the race. We were gutted and angry.

But as I reflected on this first leg of the race, there had actually been real and meaningful changes taking place within Team Pete.

From the individuality encapsulated in the cacophony of alarms on Monday morning, we were seeing real kindnesses between us all on board Jamaica.

Checking each others harnesses when the weather was up; noticing when someone was making light of a fall; being green with sea-sickness; making your bunk buddies bed for them to get into at the end of their watch; looking for the porridge on a foggy wet morning.

All of these were signs that in these very few first days, we were still Team Pete, but we were morphing into Team Jamaica. Positive Mental Aptitude was trumping unhappy outcome of first leg.

So, we now get each other up, at any time, day or night, on watch.

No alarm clocks at all.

Post 6 - 2nd September 2013: The Start

I don't usually like pomp and circumstance, but today's send-off was amazing. The hair was going up on the back of my neck all day and I was prickling with the sense of occasion and emotion.

Hundreds of people have turned up at St Katherine's this week to wish us well and see us off, and it seemed at times that lots of them were for me!

The last 24 hours before joining were so hard; I didn't know what to do with myself, but like I was told, it would be different on Jamaica. It so was! Just joining my team was fantastic, with Pete safely in post as skipper. I arrived about 10.30 on Thursday, my birthday no less, totally eclipsed by Clipper Day.

Gave in passports, got kit, and in-between doing jobs above and below decks, welcomed friends onto Jamaica to show them my new home.

Without exception, the stripped down nature of my new quarters for the next year surprised if not appalled them. Naked sailing if you like? Cramped spaces, hot-bunking (where I sleep in a bunk while my bunk buddy is on watch, and vice versa), lack of storage, sea water taps and food kept in (very) hygienic dry bags under floors. The only hanging rails are for oil skins: huge oversized rhino-hide space suits that are red for danger when you need to wear them. The shower is in the head, and I get one every 10 days. The thing is, even though I hated the training, it obviously works as I am almost proud of my ability to live on board now: easy peasy! Will report back on that later....!

The naming ceremony took place on Thursday evening, when the great and the good came from the High Commission to name her and bless all who sail in her. Except we had the Jamaican version: Glorious amber 21 year old Appleby Estate Rum, sparingly sprinkled on deck (no bottle smashing here, we showed Respec'), and we were told to "sail good, and have the Dopie follow you.” The Dopie are your spirit ancestors, who will track our journey, and I hope blow at us, (and obviously JUST us) like table tennis balls though straws, at an angle of about 100 degrees true, 90 degrees apparent from the direction we need to go in, at about a steady force 4-6. A perfect Beam Reach. The best and fastest point of sail.

(At the time of writing this I have just double checked with Skipp that this was correct. Pete reminded me that gaining outside information about weather was strictly forbidden under Clipper rules. We discussed if asking the Dopie counted, and agreed that it didn't...)

Another wind by-the-by is that you are "in irons" if you go head to wind, you are goose-winging if you have the wind behind you, and, a personal favourite, you are " luffing up" if you take her closer to the wind. The lovely language of sailing!

Sir Robin Knox-Johnston, the first solo non-stop circumnavigator in the days before TomTom, and founder of the Clipper Race, was also there. He was quoted recently as saying that fewer people have sailed round the world than have climbed Everest. I really, really like that quote. He also showed his impish sense of fun, when, being a cheeky monkey, I asked him if he had ever been mistaken for Sir Alan (there actually is some little resemblance) and I asked him if he would fire me. Not for real you understand, but for my charity. He did, and you can watch the video here. I was nearly crying with laughter, so please, please donate for that.

Then a steel band struck up Happy Birthday, and everyone sang. I was presented with cake, and touched beyond measure that my new friends would go to such trouble, card and all. We then went to the lovely Dickens Inn for rum shots.

Back to today. Family and friends to see me out on spectator boats on the Thames, proudly following the entire Clipper flotilla, but more proudly following us: Jamaica. Big emotions today, logging out of old life and logging into new. Jobless, house less and free as a bird.

The atmosphere at the awesome crew party on Friday ballooned over the weekend, until it became actual pure joy amongst me and my new crew. Everyone felt it: an atheist friend who presented me with a St Christopher "to keep me safe", and a normally stoic former colleague who made us both cry at the long separation ahead. Excitement and the knowledge that we are the best boat, eternally jammin' for that new riff that will take us first over the finish line. Waving the Jamaican Flag so much Clipper may face RSI claims. Listening To Bob Marley, another Dopie, with our families and friends right behind us, Dopie or not.

Next blog at the end of first race leg in Brest.

Post 5

So, here I am: 3am, a near empty house, cavernous and still without my "personal effects", which went off to storage today.

11 days before the race, and my body is jangling with the anxiety of it. Every muscle taut and vibrating. I have got up to make a cup of tea, a family stalwart remedy to break the hot pillow/cold pillow cycle that presents with insomnia so bad that all best (and legal!) pharmaceutical efforts fail.

I have work tomorrow, and I dryly recall an e-mail exchange yesterday with one of my kind crew mates on Jamaica Yacht when we both acknowledged we were scared, and that anyone who said otherwise was a liar or a fool. We joked that we were neither. Ha, ha ha. Not so funny now.

What On Earth Am I Doing? Going around it, that's what.

If I knew then when I signed up what I know now, I would never have done it. Material non-disclosure of the reality of the race, I had joked with my favourite Clipper staff. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture outlawed by the Convention on Human Rights I had quipped. Again, not so funny now.

The only person keeping me wake now was me. I had just finished my 3 weeks training, and had been told that I would be an asset on the race by all 3 of my training skippers, including the amazing Pete Stirling, my Jamaica Skip, who had been so encouraging. I was struggling to hear his words now, or any of the numerous other supportive voices I had heard during my training, despite the eerie quiet of my now empty home of the last 12 years.

So I do what I always do in these situations. I rarely get anxious, and when I do, I rationalise. I reminded myself of the fantastic support I had from family and friends. I reminded myself of the reasons I wanted to go: a love of sailing that had been neglected as relationships and career got in the way over the years; that I was over weight and unfit and my lifestyle was killing me however much I loved my work as an employment lawyer; that my friend A, the same age as I was, newly diagnosed with aggressive Parkinson's had been told by his Consultant to do what he'd always wanted to do before it was too late; that my other friend C had died too early and his wife and sons were still struggling, years later, with his loss

You get One Life. Count your blessings I told myself. Remember the good points. Positive Mental Attitude.

Nothing. Nada. Tipota. Rien. Still the jangling.

And I think again of the dangers of the Southern Ocean, and the treacherous North Pacific that has caused so much trouble in previous Clipper races, and my insides once again tumble over themselves with fear. Newly elevated from simple anxiety.

Then there's the Air Ambulance. Can't pull out because of them. Wholesale charitable committed bravery, where strangers save the life of other strangers: a division of labour arrangement that never fails to catch my breath.

So I drink my tea, resolve to at least rest my eyes and bones, and get to bed.

POST 4

Home, after training. I turned the key in the lock, and reckoned I'd be showering in less than minute.But the house was empty, really empty. My pal who said she would kindly help pack whilst I was away, had done a great job. Too good in fact and I didn't like it. Most of the rooms were bare, and my life packed up in Bankers bags and moved to the front room, ready for storage.

In the end, I shrugged, and got on with my showering, but it did make me reflect on how much I had needed to do to prepare for this trip in about 3 months.

A sample list is as follows:

- check who will look after Connie, my darling cat
- tell friends and meet up with them for a drink (this needs to happen several times)
- get medical and check prescriptions for A Year
- enrol on Boots nicotine Quit package; I didn't really smoke, but wanted to be completely clear by the time I joined the boat
- lose 2 stone
- check all jabs up to date
- sell Turkey house to pay for trip (Loads under this one, truly)
- prepare new Will and appoint Power of Attorney for period of absence
- check credit cards don't expire whilst on trip, and order new ones
- buy trip insurance
- consent to let from Bank
- appoint managing agents and let house (this was easy, Val and John at Petty's are stars)
- tidy house for letting photographs

- let house
- get Oz and US visas. For the latter you have to go to the Embassy and have TWO interviews!
- prepare detailed cash flow projections
- work out who owes you money, and if they are good for it (they were)
- get quotes for storage and removals and book them in
- do necessary work in house for tenants (tidy garden (the wonderful Joe), fix and paint damp patch, new back door step, and loads more (the also wonderful Matt))
- cancel magazine subscriptions
- get 6 pairs new glasses and sunglasses, Boots finest at £25 a pair. Thank you Quigs. Buy cheap sunglasses on e-bay and get checked for contacts
- buy sea boots, Merino thermals, red night vision head lamp, dry bags multi tool and various other kit
- notify solicitors professional body (SRA) that taking year out and that will not be renewing Practising Certificate
- work out what you can sell to raise money, sell it

- dentist check-up
- get all house keys back
- cancel Telecomms services. Well done Virgin, not so good Vodaphone
- cancel utilities, TV licence and Council tax
- deregister for VAT and close business account
- try to raise sponsorship funds (thank you Cornwall Council for t-shirts, and Kingsley Village for other kit)
- pack for 11m in < 20kg
- card and fizz for tenants
- get as much music as you can on your I-pod (cheers Si) and use I-pad as kindle
- set up on board e-mail account and phone card
- list birthdays you will miss, and decide what you will do about Xmas (nothing)

- Sort out and pack house contents accumulated over 30 years

- Negotiate and arrange landlords insurance cover

Oh, and work full time too. It is exhausting. I am sorry if a list makes boring reading, but lists have been my life for the last 3 months.

And so we are now a week before race start. Everyone is jittery, as the crew share in texts and e-mails. The temperature is rising in St Katherine's, especially once the boats arrive. A back and leg massage with the obscene G5 head from the lovely Pauline in St Columb helps.

Facebook activity increases dramatically. Everyone likes everything on their own team page, as we all share the boat coming together.

Tearful long good byes are said to family that can't make race start, and lack of sleep causes tempers to fray. Lists get written and rewritten.

I finish at the Bank on Friday, and crew party is Friday night. Clipper crew parties are by all accounts legend.

We are getting close to the point of no return, and I have no clue how this trip will affect me, and I can taste the fear.

A couple of last minute hiccups (huge understatement) about who will care for Connie, and removers not turning up get solved, and you have no choice but to rapidly adapt. The sense of running out of time, and that you are literally disappearing from your normal life for a year looms large.

You are only trying to escape I am told, and I look at them astonished that they have only just worked that out. But I do know from my other travels that you take yourself with you wherever you go. Your very own baggage never gets lost.

So, with nowhere to hide on a boat, how will I fare? Will they like me? What if I am an unfit dead weight? Will I lose fingers in a winch? Will we be dismasted in the Northern Pacific in Winter as in previous races? Will I stink more than other people and snore worse? Will I ever make it up the mast? What if someone very close dies? I will miss a year in my gorgeous nieces life?

A list of thing to do, and a list of questions. That is what you are reduced to. If I get any answers, I will blog them here, albeit it in shorter off-watch sized pieces.

But one answer I have got already is whether or not Clipper is going to be good for me health wise? A resounding yes. I had to have new blood tests done last week just before I go: blood sugars, previously borderline, were now normal, and triglycerides nearly so. After just 3 weeks training. So when Drs tell you exercise and diet, it's true. Really.

POST 3

The message from Clipper over and over again, is that a large racing boat can be deadly or maiming.

Take winch handling, for example, which I found especially scary. The load that the coffee grinder winches carry is enormous, tons and tons, even in light winds. You are trained to hold the rope like a dagger, little fingers towards the barrel. The reason being that if the winch gives, or, much more likely you wrongly release a load, it is better for you to lose your pinky, and not your thumb and forefinger, the prehensiles that helped us build boats in the first place. Winch technique is drilled into you over, and over again, until I was sick of the sound of H's antipodean sneering drawl, criticising my rope work yet again.

But it worked. By the end of training, it was becoming second nature to use the winch right, and that applied across the board.

By the end of my time on the new 70', we had learned to Tack and Gybe like a slick machine, to do racing headsail changes in gale gusting winds, and to perform Le Mons racing starts in less than 3 minutes. We could recover a Man Over Board in 12 minutes. At night. In the middle of the English Channel. Clipper knows what it's doing. We graduated.

However, my biggest issue was my fitness. I had erroneously believed that my ballast would be an advantage on a moving deck.

Third big mistake.

I was like a sea slug, crawling up the deck on all fours; wobbling like a Weeble, but falling down nonetheless. Over and over and over again. I had bruises everywhere, including a nameless hand shaped one on my arse from being loaded into the life raft during sea survival training. On another occasion, I slid the full length of the cockpit on my behind during night watch, and even though it hurt like hell, I knew it was hilarious to watch.

The truth is I was mortified. In my head I am a 7' athletic Glamazon, and that self-image was being shot to pieces by Clipper. I didn't lack confidence or self-esteem, but was grossly embarrassed much of the time. My face burned. I was standing back and becoming increasingly withdrawn, as my inability to keep up physically became ever more apparent as the training progressed. I so wanted to leave, and never set eyes on Clipper again. I hurt everywhere.

Then, during the end of Level 2 it turned out I could helm, that is, steer the boat on a straight course even in some strong seas. Who knew? In Level 3 I also joined members of my own Jamaica crew, and our own Skipper, Pete, immediately hailed, lauded and generally venerated. The tide turned.

If there had been a mirror available, I would have had a long hard look in it. Failing that, I took myself in hand and got over it. Oh, and went night-clubbing for the first time in years and had a ball.

Clipper People, both staff and crew are kind not patronising, honest not judgemental, and crucially, said that I was doing all the right things to change. We had all known it would be hard: I had been very up front about my poor fitness from the outset, but was by no means the first or the worst to go through this. Everyone wanted me to stay. They underlined that I could offer brains and heart if not brawn (yet) and grinned when I said I hate offal. They hinted that one day I might, just might, be a good sailor.

In the meantime, I would have to settle on being the Incredible Shrinking Woman, as the weight was falling off me already, and my balance and agility was improving as well.

So, Don't Pay The Ferry Man. I was in.

POST 2

The ferry across the water from Portsmouth Harbour railway station to Gosport, where the Clipper fleet is based, takes only a few minutes, and costs only £2.90. It takes you to another world.

Having got through my interview, medical and other bits, I had left Waterloo at the end of July with my City Slicker head on, and arrived a newbie for my Level 1 Clipper training. The sea air was fresh compared to Waterloo and I could taste the salt.

Offshore ocean yacht racing is dangerous, make no mistake (the insurance premium for RTW is well into four figures), and Clipper takes safety seriously, very, very seriously. It makes no bones that it takes inexperienced amateurs, and trains them to sail a 40 ton vessel around the world in heavy weathers. Ready to go after completing 3 levels of training. The 12 skippers leading the crew are the best in the world, and the training reflects that. It is tough. Very tough. And relentless. We would be responsible for sailing the yacht 24/7 as fast as she could go in the prevailing conditions.

I had done the Tall Ships when I was 17, sponsored by Restormal Council (for the record, long before my Mum was involved in local government) and had sailed quite a bit in my 20's. I had done my Competent Crew and Day Skipper RYA training, and was quite relaxed.

First big mistake.

The difference between cruise sailing and racing is like the difference between Marmalade and Marmite: most people will enjoy one, but hate the other. I had no idea what was coming, and was not alone in that.

Anyway, we on Level 1 felt like first years at secondary school, gazing at the sixth formers on Level 3 with a mixture of awe and fear, knowing it to be impossible that we could ever be like them.

The training started iniquitously enough: 8 of us, plus N the skipper, and H, his first mate. Blackadder (I know, but actually the name of one of the original tea-clippers) was a 60' baby compared with the new fleet.

We start with parts of the boat: mast, bow and stern, sails (main, plus the 2 principal head sails, (staysail and yankee)), and the steering wheel (helm) ). We also do ropes, and learn that there are no ropes on a boat, only halyards, springs, sheets and guys. And they all do different things in the same way in different dimensions.

We do a thorough safety briefing on how the boat works, engine checks (water, oil, belts), gas safety, fire procedures and getting up and down on deck (backwards, like a ladder). We fit our life jackets and blow them up to test for holes, blow the whistle and test the light. We are shown how to pull our crotch strap tight, and how to attach ourselves to the boat via harnesses that clip onto Jack Stays. To help Jill stay on board.

We are told how to adjust our lee cloths to make sure we didn't fall out of our bunks and run through a few knots ("of course I can tie a Bowline..."). We do the Rules of the Road at sea, rowing, heads cleaning, weather and bout age. We also pop into Cowes for a few beers in glorious kodachrome sunshine pre-race week.

This is a breeze, I thought. I can do this, I thought.

Second big mistake.

When we actually started sailing I was pants at it. Really bad pants. And I hated it. I was used to being very good at what I did, and after nearly 30 years in the Law, so I should be. I couldn't fathom how I wasn’t instantly able to master how the boat worked; how the sails worked together and where and how the ropes joined up. I understood what was going on in my head, but when it came to execution I froze. I took to watching everything intensely, but too scared to move. A big lesson.

POST 1 - The Start!

I hadn't seen much daylight last winter. And none at all the winter before. My work as a free-lance employment consultant had won me some amazing contracts, and of course latterly I had been working in Laiki, the Greek-Cypriot Bank that had been a client of mine for so many years; now in difficulties with the EuroGroup.

The evidence was clear: my vitamin D levels had gone down to 16%, I was TATT (medical speak for Tired All The Time) and my body shape would suggest I was a couch potato. Not so. I have never (really) been lazy, and here I was with borderline blood sugars, and elevated Tryglycerides. Far from it, I work hard, too, too hard, voluntarily so and with gusto. But with a hard market, and the City still a very unhappy place, it was becoming increasingly difficult to secure work. I was a senior, well-respected employment lawyer, well paid, but expensive for any client, and with an albatross of a house to maintain. I had savings, but they would not last long over this coming winter if I had no work. In the dark.

I had had a vague awareness for some time that I needed things to change. I had bought a house in Turkey a few years ago, with an eye on retirement, that had looked attractive, too attractive, after I was made redundant 2 years ago. For numerous reasons I needed to turn my tanker around on that, and was selling up. But what to do? I had already done lots of travelling: Nicaragua, Uzbekistan, Algeria and other amazing places made up my tally of nearly 70 countries.

And anyway, it wasn't just about that. I needed to get out of this circle of late night working for international law firms, one based on the West Coast of the US, who a couple of years ago had made me take a call from the department head at 0300 on a Saturday night! I had been out with friends and we were still up, and I silently thanked God that I hadn't got trollied. The arrival of the ubiquitous Blackberry means that international time zones stand for little when clients need advice, urgent or otherwise, as law firms compete for business with draconian (for the staff) promised response times.

So, what to do?

The Clipper Race goes every 2 years, and it has a striking advertising campaign: a human face split between ordinary gear, and Clipper racing oilskins, and time after time I had looked at these ads with a rush. They are brilliant, and brilliantly placed on the Tube and at bus-stops', just when people might be contemplating the meaning of life.

One Friday night early in May 2013, I was coming home on the Tube after a few drinks, not away with the fairies completely, but in a warm place so to speak, and I came across such an ad. I just stood there and looked at it, no doubt to the annoyance of other commuters on what I remember to have been a wet and grisly evening. I just stood there, and remembered all the other times I'd seen it. I think I even rang up for details one year, but took it no further.

Having made it home, out came the iPad, and searched for Clipper. Effects of alcohol had not fully worn off, and my attempts to complete the on-line enquiry form were comical (although to be fair the site was down as I found out the following week :-))

I especially recall trying to answer "where you heard about us?", and in that moment, London Underground seemed very difficult to spell. Some tries later, I decided to leave a note to myself to follow up next morning, and scrawled "Clipper" on my note pad in spidery writing, furiously concentrating on getting the letters both right and joined up. I fell into my duvet, to wake up to a thick head.

Amazingly, the note was still there, and readable so, coffeed up, I tackled the application form again. The site was still down, but I had a feeling that I had found what I wanted to do. I made the call first thing on the Monday morning, and got an interview and assessment day for the 17 May, a couple of weeks later.

I was off.