Midnight Watch Moments

As I've shared before, we have a watch system on the boat that is broken up in periods of four hours during the night and six hours during the day with two hours overlapping to share lunch and provide social time with the other watch. 

The worst watch is probably the 11pm to 3am one because it breaks your sleep pattern and has no significant highlights like a sunrise or sunset. It is quite surprising how, even though it is very difficult to get up at 3am for the early morning watch, the general mood on deck lifts significantly when the sun rises over the ocean. But the midnight watch doesn't have anything like that to look forward to. 

Staying awake or keeping your concentration sharp during these four hours is an absolute challenge, especially when there are sail changes or reefings to be done (we fold the bottom of the main sail up in heavy weather so that we are not over powered). Understanding all the ropes, sailing evolutions and connections between all the different parts of the boat is a challenge for my non-technical mind in itself, but trying to bring these all together in the middle of the night pushes my boundaries. It is surprisingly easy to see what needs to be done when the moon is out, but mostly we use our head torches on red light - that's if you still have one and haven't already lost three overboard, like I have! I have often smiled at the unusualness of the situation when Im carrying a heavy sail with other crew members to the bow of the boat, in stormy weather, in the middle of the ocean, in the pitch dark, frustratingly tethered to the Jackstay (a cord that runs from the foredeck to the aft on both sides of the boat for the crew to attach themselves to, but that severely impedes free and fast movement), because who else anywhere in the world would be doing this at two o'clock in the morning!

A working watch goes by fast, but it is the many, many hours not having to do anything sailing wise on the boat that are like empty vessels drifting around not needing to be filled with anything in particular. Those mindless hours are just there to linger in and I give in to the unique opportunity to enjoy the sound of the water as we gush through it, or watch the millions of stars, or moonlight on the moving waves. I'm never bored - never. 

Someone going below deck to make us a 'brew' or hot chocolate breaks up the empty hours, or we share our life stories, or start chatting about the most inane topics. We talk about when and where we lost our virginity, or about food and things we miss. The food conversations can become a bit ridiculous (hamburger milkshakes or gin and tonic ice cream), but we would often laugh so loud that we would wake the other watch. Typical jokes vary from primary school frivolous ones (Why is the sand wet? Because the seaweed!) to ones I dare not repeat. We often listen to our favourite playlists or we would sing our most liked songs from the musicals. Sometimes we play games - invented, or oldies like 'I Spy' all ending in giddy laughter or banter. 

The obvious pastime is to catch a nap and when the skipper ventures on deck he might find bodies strewn all over the cockpit. But these rather uncomfortable shut-eyes are often broken up by either a 'rude' call for a sail change or tack, or a big dump of water as a wave crashes over the deck. A few nights ago I was awakened by what felt like someone throwing a brick at me when a flying fish hit me on the head! A little scurry of everyone trying to get it back over board provided a bit of excitement, but the stench that lingered was not welcome.

A particularly powerful feeling is helming the 70 footer at night. I love how it responds to every little move on the wheel, and the game of dodging the waves keeps me on edge and provides an adrenalin rush. I haven't done this often enough yet, but the few times I've helmed at night were quite exciting.

There is one particularly calm night magic moment, on a midnight watch on leg three of the race that will stay with me forever. The Windseeker (our lightweight sail we use in very light conditions to literally find some breeze to move us forward) was up with the deck light shining on it and making it look like a big movie screen. The moonlight was dancing silvery on the waves and someone played the most beautiful opera music through their ipod. We shared one of the last apples we had on board and then the air holes of two dolphins beckoned us to watch them glide through the phosphorescence in the wash of the boat. These special moments bond you to crewmates in ways hard to explain to someone who has not lived it. 

It's not easy to get up, get into your sailing gear, and then move your tired body on deck when all the world is fast asleep. But there is a special kind of bewitchment and feeling of exclusiveness to these wee small hours of the morning on the boat, because you know that very few have encountered such enchanting experiences.