Tuesday, 17th October 2006 

“Burning Bridges” by The Mike Curb Congratulation was playing flat-out on the sound system as we set sail from Puerto de Mogán with full sails, blowing the fog horn loudly to say farewell to one magical place. The sun was out, and the warm northeasterly wind was giving us an exhilarating sail out into the sapphire ocean, which stretched out welcomingly in front of us. I was so excited, I didn’t even look back as we cleared Gran Canaria, only forward to the future and the adventures that awaited me.

I couldn’t believe I was here, and it was all because I had the audacity to answer Rory’s email, which came out of the blue last December...

 Good morning Wendy 

Trust all is well with you in Gib. Your company recently cleaned my yacht and the stainless-steel frame on the transom...sadly, a few small marks have reappeared (much to my amazement).

I ask the following questions: Do you have an agent/distributor in Las Palmas who could carry out this “Warranty” work?

If I supply a plane ticket would you personally rectify the situation? Well, that is all for now...at the very worst this should amuse you!

Regards, Rory 

What surprised me the most about the email was when I had flippantly commented one afternoon that I would crew for him, he totally ignored me. Now, he was offering an all-expenses-paid trip to the Canaries, and we had only met in passing a couple of times, and yes, the first did charm me...

It had been the end of a very long day. I had left home in Alhaurín El Grande at 6 a.m. in the pitch black to drive the 70 miles to Gibraltar. The reason for the early start was to try to beat the border queue between Spain and Gibraltar, which starts to build at 8 a.m., and it can then take anything up to 90 minutes to cross. Now, at 3 p.m., I desperately wanted to be homeward bound to avoid the long outward border queue, and I just needed a little water to finish. But in Queensway Quay style, all the water taps were locked. Totally exasperated, I hunched over the tap and went into meltdown, silently swearing to myself, when the South African appeared from nowhere. His mesmerising hazel eyes full of compassion for my plight as I explained, he quickly grabbed my bucket and went off, only to reappear a few minutes later and, with a roguish smile, hand me my water... But the subsequent meeting irritated me. Rory wanted Zingara, his yacht, cleaned but wouldn’t commit to a date. Infuriating, since I only travelled to Gibraltar a few days a week, scheduling my routine work around extra ordinaries like this. Eventually, in late November, the go-ahead was given to clean Zingara inside and out plus polish the stainless steel in readiness for the arrival of his new crew, a young French lady, and their imminent departure to the Canaries for fuel and then on to Brazil. 

I enlisted the help of my dynamite worker, tiny, vivacious Remy. She was 21 and taking a year out living with her parents on their 36’ Cabin Cruiser. We set about all the other work first so we could then concentrate on Zingara. However, when we arrived at 11:30 to set up, Rory bluntly declared, “I am off shopping, you’ll have to wait until I come back.” I was dumbfounded. All the other owners trust me with the keys to their yachts, including a spectacular 27-metre super yacht, and this one wouldn’t trust me for an hour.

Annoyed at having to waste time waiting, I declared an early lunch at my regular haunt, The Waterfront. Rory returned just as I was enjoying my habitual ham-and-cheese toasty and desperately needed refreshing lager, and was astounded that I was irresponsibly drinking before cleaning “His Yacht.” The funny thing was he was proved right. Remy set about sluicing down the decks with the hosepipe whilst I started on the inside. Neither of us noticed the open portholes in the stern cabins. The next thing we heard was Rory exploding, “You have flooded my yacht.” Too right; Remy had flooded the crew cabin bed. 

When I visited Queensway the following week, I was surprised to see Rory and his crew still there, so in my abrupt way I said, “You’re still here!” to which he took umbrage. The next morning, he set sail for the Canaries, unknowingly into all sorts of drama, including Hurricane Delta, the one and only hurricane off the Moroccan coast. 

Rory endured a pitch-black night on the wheel alone. The howling wind reached over 100 miles an hour and the seas were mountainous, petrifyingly knocking Zingara down three times (knock-down is when the yacht is pushed right over on her side and the mast goes into the water), during which time Rory swore that if he survived, he was going to contact that little blondie in Gibraltar, hence the email. 

My initial two-day visit to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, in December left me green with envy of Rory and his new sailing friends, who were all imminently planning to cross the Atlantic. Then I went back for two weeks of “sea trials” in February, when we sailed to all the islands bar two to prove we were compatible and trusted one and another on the open ocean. Since then, life had been like a whirlwind, with Rory patiently waiting for me to decide to crew for him, close down my business, and pack up and rent out my home. However, just as we thought everything was coming together, I discovered I needed an operation, delaying our departure even more. 

Hence, Rory’s patience has run out, and as I am still recovering, Mark, his friend from South Yorkshire, has come to help with the first thou- sand-mile passage to The Gambia, West Africa. The bad news is the winds have now picked up and it is raining. Frustratingly, Mark has not only gone down with seasickness, but he is also suffering from a severe case of sunstroke. We are annoyed because he just wouldn’t heed our warnings to cover up his lily-white British skin when he joined us in Puerto de Mogán a couple of days ago. Therefore, Rory and I are operating on a two-hour on and two-hour off watch system, rather than the far less demanding four hours on and eight off, as originally planned. Initially, when it was quiet it was ok, but now it is exhausting since we are caught up in the relentless shipping between Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, and Europe. 

This is my first real encounter with endless ships, and it is making me incredibly nervous. The ships average around 20 knots and us six, and the gap between us closes too quickly for my liking. Although the rule of the road in sailing is “power gives way to sail,” we always manoeuvre to avoid a collision, because we can’t guarantee the ship has seen us. Shockingly, it has been known for ships to turn up in port totally oblivious to the fact that there is a yacht’s rigging hanging on the bow. 

The manoeuvre often involves a tack, which alters our course by 100 degrees or more by changing which side the wind blows over Zingara. To tack, you have to turn the bow quickly through the wind whilst pulling both sails from one side of Zingara to the other. Unfortunately, tacking tempo- rarely stalls our speed, leaving us like a sitting duck whilst the enormous ship bears down on us. Eventually, Zingara will pick up speed and whisk us to safety. Luckily, all our tacks have been ok so far. A bad tack would stop Zingara completely, then we would have to quickly pull in the jib sail and start the engine to motor out of the way, all taking more precious time.

Wednesday, 18th October, 165 nautical miles

In the early hours, I was rudely woken up by an enormous crash and Rory rushing down through the companionway. I dived out of bed to see what was going on. To our utter disbelief, the two-burner gas cooker had jumped out of its gimbals and dropped to the floor. Cookers are gimbaled on yachts to accommodate the natural heeling of the yacht when sail- ing, thus ensuring the oven and hob are always horizontal. We ended up having to make do with propping the cooker up with my cookbooks. It is definitely going to make cooking more challenging and dangerous in these bumpy conditions.

The ships were even worse last night; at one point we had six ships coming at us from all angles. It made me feel like I was in a dodgem car, but this time it was imperative that we were not hit. We are now beyond exhausted, since every time a ship gets close by, each has to wake the other to help manoeuvre Zingara out of the way. I never vaguely contemplated that it would be like this. I don’t know how we are going to cope. If only Mark was well enough to hold a watch, it would give us some respite. 

At least Rory always ensures that Zingara has the best, and that includes all safety and electronic equipment. Thus, we have the latest AIS (Automatic Identification System). It is new technology to shipping. AIS relays information by VHF from the vessels around you, the most important being their speed, direction and how close they should get to you. The only downside to AIS is because it is so new, not all ships have it, so you still have to keep a good watch out. 

Once we establish which vessels on the AIS correspond to the ones on the radar and the ones we are looking at, we can calculate which is the nearest enemy and take the relative action to ensure we miss it. It is not an exact science, and you have to allow a margin for error. It is complicated further by the fact that the screen for the AIS is north up, and the screen for the radar is course up, and doing the mental gymnastics is not easy when your mind is so fuddled from tiredness. 

The last two nights have really given us an opportunity to learn the instruments together, and we have started to take more preventive action, which is helping enormously with sleeping. By reacting immediately on spotting a ship, we only need to change course by a few degrees to avoid a collision that doesn’t necessarily involve any major sail changes and allows the off-watch person to stay down.

  Zingara is loving the conditions, and she has made light work of the first 165 nautical miles. She is the last of nine yachts designed by Robin- son and Caine and built in Cape Town. The others were all kitted out for the Cape to Rio Ocean Race, whereas Zingara has been finished for cruising. She has sleek, low, beamy lines, with a 16-metre, three-spreader raked mast, and she is exceptionally fast. Quite opposite to my old trustee Nimbus, a Carib 45 bluewater cruiser built in 1980. Good lines, deep centre cockpit, low mast, long boom. Solid, safe, but slow. I spent 10 years dream- ing about sailing her around the world, but to no avail. Now Zingara, light and frisky, is giving me the opportunity at least to live part of my dream. 

It is now the end of Day 2, and our average speed has taken a dramatic drop. We have only managed 105 miles today. It is depressing to have made so little progress and to be so tired. The next 800 miles seem daunting. 

Thursday, 19th October, 175 nautical miles 

Today, we have transcended into a dreamland of hazy skies, with the gentlest of breeze kissing my skin, and the whirring of the turquoise ocean is as soft as a lullaby. We are becalmed. It is so desolate, we have decided to “hove to” and rest, rather than motor. Hove to is when you cross the sails in opposite directions, forcing the yacht to stop and face into the seas. Unfortunately, in Zingara’s case, the closest we can get her into the sea is about 30 degrees off.

Rory and Mark have made the most of it by doing some unsuccessful fishing and having a swim. I was insanely jealous watching them dive into the glistening water. After swimming for five minutes or so, Rory niftily pulled himself onto the bathing platform (a ledge at the back of Zingara at sea level) then Mark went to climb on, something we assumed he would take in his stride as he is a huge, strong, young man, but it wasn’t to be. After a few aborted attempts, we realised that Mark did not have the strength or skill to do it. Rory was left with no alternative than to single-handedly lift Mark out, which was no mean feat. 

This confirmed that I had been wise to abstain, since I know how difficult it is to pull myself back up onto the bathing platform. It was bad enough before the operation, but now that I am a shadow of my former shelf, it is just not worth taking the risk, especially after all I have just gone through.

My operation was meant to be a formality, one of the most common operations performed on women, a hysterectomy. However, it wasn’t to be in my case. My gynaecologist originally thought that I would only be in hospital a couple of days, since I was exceptionally fit and young. However, when I came around from the operation and tried to eat or drink, I vomited. The first night was horrendous with me throwing up all over myself in bed. The nurses had to remove my gown and replace the sheet underneath me as white-hot pain ripped through my body. 

The next day the doctors wanted me to get up, but the pain was too much. They organised a body X-ray to determine what was wrong. This was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, since when the attractive young Spanish porter walked into my room to collect me, I was performing in the bathroom, with the door wide open...diarrhoea, vomiting, and still wearing my sexy blue see-through hospital gown. But I was beyond caring. 

On the third day, I was determined to get up and at least put a nightie on and sit out for when Viv, my friend, came by. Viv encouraged me to eat a yogurt and drink a little. All seemed to go well until later that night...it all came up again! The specialists, two gynaecologists and two gastroenterol- ogists who visited me every day, started to get very concerned. The X-rays had found nothing out of place. My stomach had stopped working and had to start again on its own accord, which normally happens within 10 days. 

Meanwhile, I started to blow up like a balloon. By day eight, I was enormous. I felt and looked like I was nine months pregnant with twins. My specialists were now panicking and inserted a tube up my nose and down into my stomach to drain the fluids. Quite a daunting prospect, but in the end the installation of the tube was not too bad. They then ordered me to walk as much as possible. So off we went up and down the corridors, with one hand pushing my drips and the other trying to hide the ugly bag that was quickly filling up with bright orange stomach juices.

 Rory was with me the whole way. In Spanish hospitals it is expected to have a family member with you 24/7, and since all my family were in England, Rory took on the responsibility, sleeping on a sofa in my private room, using my bathroom to shower and wash and dry my nighties. (I had paid to go private because I wanted the operation over before sail- ing, something I couldn’t organise on the Spanish health system.) Rory only left me for his breakfast and lunch when he would go to the hospital restaurant, then afterwards to the garage across the road to buy his supper and beers for the evening. 

As I started to feel a little better on day nine, Rory decided to take some time out and go back to my house for the night to fetch some fresh clothes, etc. I was very surprised to see Rory a couple of hours later. His first love is sailing Zingara, closely followed by speed preferably, on a Ducati or in a Porsche, and he had used the meandering mountain road between Alhaurín el Grande and Marbella to take his Ducati 916 for a ride and dropped in to check on me.

That night was horrendous. The tube was irritating my throat, and I coughed my way through the whole night. At 3 a.m. I started to panic about my fate; reality was hitting. If I didn’t eat within the next day or two, it only left one outcome: I would die. The next morning the friend I had made whilst walking the corridors came to say goodbye, but the nurses wouldn’t let him in because I was so weak. Desperate for Rory to return, I sent him an abrupt text asking him where he was, something he has never forgiven me for, since he had only taken 24 hours for himself and had still come to see me. 

Thankfully, either from the panic attack in the early hours, the distance Reiki healing from my friend Simon, or just chance, on day 10 I started to feel a little better. The doctors tried me on food, and for the first time I managed to keep it down. I was sent for another X-ray, and the technician said, “Thank God you look better, the other day you were ‘fatal’!” The definition of fatal in Spanish is you are on your deathbed. I was shocked. At the time I hadn’t appreciated how bad I was. That afternoon I even joined Rory when he went to the restaurant. It was heaven sat outside on the terrace in my nightie, basking in the Marbella sunshine. I couldn’t believe it was my first time outdoors in 11 days, I hate being confined indoors, and it just proved how sick I had been not to be aware of the fact.

 The next day, with Rory’s encouragement, I promptly released myself from hospital on the strict provisos that I only ate vegetable soup for the next two weeks, strictly no protein or carbohydrates and return for a check-up. My friend Yvonne stepped up and kept me well supplied with cauldrons of fresh, healthy soup. A week later, I was shocked at how weak I had become. One quick trip to the farmacia exhausted me to the point that when Rory dropped me off at the front door to save walking, I was on the point of fainting by the time he reached me a few minutes later. That was only 10 weeks ago, and I am still the skinniest since my teens; consequently, I do not want to take any unnecessary risks until my 12-week recovery period is up. 

Hove to was an excellent decision. It has given Rory a well-needed opportunity to unwind a little as the long nights and sleep deprivation are making him irritable. Mark has appreciated the chance to refresh himself and is starting to look more like his old self again; he is feeling strong enough to stand a watch tonight. Consequently, I am ecstatic that Rory and I are finally getting a break. 

Friday, 20th October, 268 nautical miles 

Luckily, today the winds have picked up nicely, and we are on our way again. However, the ships are horrendous. In the night it ended up with all three of us on watch, me working the AIS and radar, Mark making the most of his youthful eyes and spotting the lights. A ship’s direction is calculated by a combination of lights, green starboard, red port, low white bow, high white stern and Rory combining the information we were giving him and navigating between them. After studying the charts, we decided to head farther out into the ocean and hopefully avoid the ships that appeared to be following a direct course around a cape off the northwest African coast. 

Our reward for our long night on watch was spectacular. The jet-black star-studded sky became alive with dazzling shooting stars, which left long, shimmering trails of silver fairy dust in their wake. We must have seen the best part of a dozen.

 Saturday, 21st October, 410 nautical miles 

We finally have had a beautiful full-day sailing, constant winds, broad reach, the most comfortable point of sail, sun and fishing. Life is starting to look up.

Mark and I were on watch late last night when it suddenly felt like we were sailing into a sci-fi movie set. A profusion of pearl mushrooms were scattered over the dark, eerily silent ocean. It felt like the Martians had landed. After a while of pondering, binoculars, radar and AIS, the only signal we could pick up was from one of the smaller vessels, which had a “not under command” signal. We were left with no alternative but to wake Rory, who was as confused as us. We decided it was either factory fishing or military and radically changed course. Whatever it was, we were getting out of there.

 We are only halfway, and Rory is exhausted from the continual pressure of skippering Zingara from one situation to another, along with the worry of sailing with a weak crew, which can be harder than sailing alone. Fortunately, Mark’s seasickness is alleviating, and he is now strong enough to hold all his watches, which will hopefully take some of the pressure off. 

Wednesday, 25th October, 980 nautical miles 

The conditions have continued to be excellent over the last four days, giving us some perfect downwind sailing. It is great when the wind comes from the back, since we’re living on an even keel and the wind feels like a light, refreshing breeze. We are starting to settle into a regular watch system, and life on board is becoming organised and peaceful.

 Our tactics with the ships have paid off, and on Saturday night Mark and I finally managed to let Rory have a straight eight hours of much- needed sleep. He was becoming quite cantankerous, since until then, he had only managed to catch the odd hour of sleep here and there. When he finally woke, he was shocked at how long he had been down, but at least refreshed. Consequently, Rory is back to his old exuberant self.

 Yesterday was awesome. I saw my first manta ray. Wow, he was magnificent, this enormous slate-grey shadow lurking in the distance, and as we drew closer, we got to enjoy him in all his glory. He must have been the best part of three metres wide and slightly shorter, his enlarged, fleshy fins looking like wings. He had a devilish appearance with his two horns sticking out either side of his wide, blunt mouth, and with his lethal, whip- like tail. 

I am really loving being back on the ocean now that things have calmed down. I am particularly enjoying the solitude of my night watches, lying in the cockpit gazing up at the brilliantly starlit skies, listening to my favourite tunes on my MP3 player. The number of shooting stars each night continues to astonish me. It is nothing to see three or four magnificent ones blazing through the sky. My only visitors are dolphins surfing alongside Zingara, and they appear to be swimming through an ocean of diamonds as the phosphorescence glistens in their wake. 

Space is extremely limited on a 42-foot yacht, and especially so in Zingara’s case because she is built for speed rather than comfort. Consequently, victualling is very well planned. No popping out to the corner shop if you do not have something you need. We have allowed ourselves a few luxury items to be carefully stretched out over the weeks. One is Aquarius, a Spanish sports hydrating drink developed for the 2000 Olympics. Unfortunately for us, this and oranges are the only things Mark can stomach without being sick. We are grudgingly watching our irreplaceable treat and the stocks of the only fresh food that stands a chance of lasting a few weeks at sea disappear whilst Mark watches his ample waistline shrink! 

The galley consists of a deep chest fridge, of which the tray-sized (24” x 18” [60 × 45 cm]) lid is the only worktop, alongside a two-burner gas stove, then the even smaller sink with a lid. Consequently, cooking is a choreographed event. It starts with obtaining what you need from the fridge and placing it either on the saloon table, seat or floor, wherever the conditions allow, and you can always guarantee whatever you need is always right at the bottom. So you have to empty the entire fridge and then carefully repack it, ensuring not to damage anything, or more importantly shake up the beers. Then it is a balancing act, trying to prepare the ingredients without them rolling away. Luckily, there is a ledge around the surfaces to help prevent this. It is a sure thing that as soon as you put something to one side on the sink, the next moment you need water and have to move it again. The fixed cooker hasn’t helped, since it has made the actual cooking dangerous because everything starts to spill out of the saucepan if Zingara leans over too far. Thus, when Rory woke me to take my late watch, I was really pleased to see how innovative he had been whilst I was sleeping. He had spent his time jury-rigging the stove on to a screw so that it is once again gimballed. 

Rory is feeling particularly chuffed with his resourcefulness; he is the Master of Delegation, having been brought up in South Africa with many hands to help. Then, at 32, he moved to the UK with his young family and set up his own business, Hydraulic Pumps (UK) Ltd. in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, supplying and servicing hydraulic pumps worldwide. Now, 18 years later, the business is thriving and his 20 exceptionally loyal staff are always more than willing to help out with his personal wants. But here in the middle of the ocean, it is totally down to us to sort all our issues. 

Thursday, 26th October, 1,020 nautical miles 

Mark woke us up last night because he could smell smoke. We instantly bailed out of bed, since fire is the most feared thing on a GRP yacht full of butane cooking gas. We quickly assessed the smell was from outside, but from where? Then Rory identified the aroma. We could smell the African Cooking Pots, even though we were 20 miles offshore. It was incredible that it had drifted so far. It was extra exciting because it was our first sign that “Land is ahoy.” 

When I came on watch at 5 a.m. I was delighted to see that we had reached 1,000 nautical miles, and, of course, we had a close encounter with yet another ship to celebrate the occasion. I had been allocated the dawn watch, since Rory insisted he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep if he did it. Luckily, I am able to sleep any time of the day or night. Plus I now have the added bonus of watching the sun rise. A magical time of day, to which I am becoming addicted. 

But today we were all up. We had our first glimpses of land through the dawn haze. The Gambia appeared to be as flat as a pancake. Then the melodious chants of the Muslim worshippers drifted across the water on the fresh breeze. The nervous anticipation of a new landfall made Rory and I jitter, whilst Mark was so eager, all thoughts of seasickness were forgotten. Arrival felt imminent, but both the wind and tide were against us, and we had to beat the last miles. 

Beating is when the wind is on the nose, and you have to tack to make way. We were determined to sail and persevered slowly zigzagging our way closer to the three-mile-wide river mouth, the brown, murky water spewing out to meet us. Four hours later, we did our final tack and pulled up in All Dead to anchor off Banjul. 

So far, the wide, desolate olive-green river is banked by low mangroves, and Banjul Port looks shabby and deserted. I have no idea what The Gambia has to offer, but I am obviously about to find out. Rory was talked into the idea of stopping over here by Matthias and Doreen, a young German couple we met in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. They sailed down here six weeks ago and are imminently planning to cross over to the Caribbean and then around the world.