I braced all the muscles in my body, I held on with both hands as the yacht pitched and rolled in some of the biggest waves and swell we had seen in the last three weeks. The wind whistled in the mast and rigging, as crashing waves surged the boat forwards. There was no moon, so apart from an entire sky full of stars, it was pitch black. Some waves glowed from the phosphorescence and the occasional flash of a flying fish whizzed past.
I squinted at the radar screen and saw a large light patch straight behind, indicating big squall of wind and rain was approaching us fast – just a few minutes away.
I was on the midnight until 2am watch, all alone in the cockpit, as the skipper and three other crew caught some sleep below the deck. We were approaching the centre of the North Atlantic – over 1,000 miles to the nearest landmass in any direction – south to South America, east to Africa or west to our destination, the West Indies.
The boat rolled even more and it was definitely time to change our course slightly to avoid a crash gybe, and to reduce sail. The squall would arrive very soon. As I reached for the ropes the warm (we were below the tropic of cancer) rain lashed my back. I reduced the mainsail, thankful, as ever, for the
