Rhinestone Cowboy

With a northerly breeze along the coast, coming up to Casablanca, the whole gang is in the midst of a manoeuvre to setup a goosewing.  Valentina's vast non-furling genoa is out, and the jib sheet from it is fed through the twelve foot spinnaker pole, suspended off (from the mast) over to port - which serves to hold the sail out and in place, as opposed to the main sail, which is held out and in place by the boom. The jib sheet - the rope that controls the genoa - continues from the tip of the spinnaker pole back toward the cockpit with a few turns around the port quarter winch. Of course, this winch is broken, so rather than the sheet being steadfastly and safely held, the sheet continues into the cockpit and into my hands.

That would all be very well, but, as best I can tell, we're doing the manoeuvre in the wind. Each time a gust hits the enormous genoa, the sheet in my hands it's jerked forwards into the winch. On the Dayskipper practical course, when working with a sheet feeding into a winch, you're taught to position your hand a distance from the winch, with your pinky finger closest to the winch. It's explained, in no uncertain terms, that winches eat fingers, and that thumbs outrank pinkies. The depth of appreciation I had for that lesson is rapidly elevating.

My former skipper, Chris Harris, who had previously served with the Falkland Islands Defence Force, ran Pelagic like a military operation. Everything was controlled, precise and thorough. There was zero fucking around. This operation is starting to feel more like some kind of cowboy circus.

I've put as much distance between my hands and what I've recently been referring to as "the death winch." I don't what the fuck I'm still doing on this death boat. I don't know why I didn't go with Roland. And I don't know what the fuck is happening at the front of that boat, but I'm irate back here, performing a overtly, dangerously retarded action.

Soon enough, David comes to the rescue and puts the sheet through the opposite winch whilst I hold the strain. I cool down and hold back remarking at how bad that manoeuvre was, but I've quietly come to the conclusion that this whole trip is exorbitantly reckless. I should have gotten off back in Asilah.

In spite of all that, the rest of our day is more good sailing and great weather, even though half of our goosewing is a napkin.

Photo: David Lustenberger