Chapter 3: The Bitter End

Hello,

So, this is it; the last blog entry. Evidently, things did not go to plan. If things had run as was intended then I would be somewhere close to the Panama Canal by now. Unfortunately, as you will learn, due to circumstances outside of my control I am in fact in Manchester. The purpose of this entry is to inform you of how and why it all went Pete Tong.

We left the story in Peurto Vallarta (PV). As you know, we were working on the boat, trying to get things done as quickly as possible so that we could carry on with the adventure. However, the more work we did, the more we became aware of the sheer volume of labour that was needed. James’ initial idea had been to take the boat out of the water in PV and spend a couple of weeks painting the hull. However, the weeks at sea had taken their toll on the old tub. By the time we reached PV there were some crucial repairs that needed doing. For example, the immense strain generated by the Genoa* had begun to pull the starboard winch, and the side of the cockpit upon which it was fastened, away from the side of the cockpit. For weeks, every time we needed to set the Genoa on the starboard side, we had been forced to lash the starboard winch to the port winch, using a length of thick rope, so as to prevent the side of the cockpit being ripped from the superstructure. Also, high winds had put a lot of tension on one of the blocks, situated on the cabin top, holding the Staysail in place. This pressure had caused the roof of the cabin to cave in where the block sat. There were many other structural problems that needed addressing, many too technical to describe. Thus, with the boat in such a state, we could not consider venturing further south, where the availability of resources would lessen, without first doing a considerable level of repair. On a daily basis we were approached by local Mexican tradesmen offering to work on the boat. Interested in the prospective cost, we had Douglas, who had been sniffing around all week, evaluate the boat. His eyes blazed green as he walked around the damage, muttering to himself in hurried Spanish whilst writing scratchy notes on a scrap of paper. He then proceeded to explain to me, in Spanish, that the work would take him and his four employees two months to complete and would set us back roughly $12,000. At first, I thought I had misunderstood him and was horrified to learn that I had not. The crushing realisation that we were going to have to spend two months in PV fixing up the boat took a while to sink in, bringing with it a bucket full of despair and a sprinkling of nausea. The trip had irreversibly changed. Two of my friends had already left and now  it seemed that if I was to continue I would have to get my head around the concept of still being in Mexico in March, the month that we had originally intended to reach the Caribbean by. Doubt flooded my mind as I did not want to spend the next two months slaving away on the boat. That was not what I had gone on the trip to do. I spoke to James and expressed my concern and discussed the possibility of going home. The main issue was monetary. Chris and I had very little money and were determined to make our own way home without having to make the soul destroying ‘I need help’ call to our parents. Thus, begrudgingly, we came to the conclusion that we would work on the boat for an agreed wage until we had earned enough money to get home. It was not ideal, but I was attracted to the idea of earning my own way home. I was determined not to ask for help; I saw it as a mark of my independence. With hindsight, I can now see that I was blinded by needless pride, but that is by the by.

What I did not mention in the last entry was the arrival of Frank. Frank, a retired Attorney from Dallas, had flown to Puerto Vallarta to meet us with the intention of spending a year on the boat. Thus, from the outset, his commitment to the cause was obvious. Now, it was his contribution that really confused things and cemented my early retirement. In the week that we spent in PV, Frank and James got to talking and somehow came to an investment agreement. Frank agreed to invest a substantial sum so as to become a partner in the chartering business that was going to be set up once the boat reached the Caribbean. I was flabbergasted; in the space of a few days, Frank had gone from being an impartial guest to a part owner of the boat. It happened with absurd speed. It must have been all that sun affecting his better judgement as The Black Wind is probably the last boat that I would ever invest in. But, crazy Frank seemed game.  James sat us all down and told us of the deal, the relief evident on his face as he had now secured the money needed to tart up his boat. I couldn’t blame him; the boat needed work and it was going to be expensive. Frank was James’ beacon of hope. It was what we were told next that was, quite ‘Frank’ly unbelievable. It transpired that the two of them had decided that it was going to be too expensive to carry out the work in PV and that it would probably be cheaper to do so in Ensenada. Thus, in all their wisdom, and without consulting any of us, they had made the decision to sail 1,300 miles back in the direction we had just come. When James broke the news, I thought he was joking. The concept of retracing our footsteps and going back through everything we had just come through was insane. I looked at Chris’ and Blair’s stunned faces, desperate for one of them to call James’ bluff. But, no one broke the deafening silence. We all just sat there, stunned mutes. We were effectively powerless because, at the end of the day, it was James’ boat and so ultimately his decision. So that was it, the next day we set sail for Cabo.

At this point in time, I was still of the mindset that I was going to stick it out and earn my way home from Ensenada. However, sailing north had been harder than I had anticipated. Firstly, the whole time that we had been sailing south, we had been going with the wind and swell. Of course, when we turned around, we were up against both elements. This meant that even in strong winds we were still hardly moving because we had to sail so close to the wind that the cumbersome boat would often stall. Not only this, but the ten foot swell presented what was essentially a wall of water that the boat had to constantly smash through. Thus, the 300 mile crossing that had taken us three days heading south, took us a week in the other direction. And what an arduous week it was. The mental challenges that we now faced were far graver. Before, I could handle spending a week in watery prison because I knew that we were making progress, slow as it was, towards unknown pastures. It was a whole different ball game in reverse. Believe me; it is depressing to be 150 miles from land in any direction, knowing that it is going to take you at least another four days to get to somewhere that you have already been. Because of this, Chris and I were very quiet for that week. I would just sit there, looking out at the bleak horizon whilst the same eight or nine thoughts filled my mind. It got to the point that I began to hate my own mind. The fundamental problem was that because I had decided that I never wanted to get into a situation like that again, I began to plan out what I was going to do once I got home. This was all well and good on the first day when I thought of everything I was going to do; it gave me hope and purpose. However, by day six, I could not bear to think about it anymore but I could not help myself. It was a disparaging state of affairs. To make matters worse, once we finally stepped foot on dry land in Cabo, we could not enjoy it because we were skint. Chris and I walked through the manicured streets, unable to relax or take in our scenic environment because we were too busy moaning. It was awful.

And so, the decision was made to return home. Chris and I went and spoke to Frank and explained our situation. He was incredible. He completely understood our desire to leave and he was committed to helping us get back to the UK. No sooner than we had discussed it, he had booked our flights to Los Angeles. It all happened so quickly and smoothly; a welcome surprise after two months of hardship.  All that was left to do was tell James, who took it very well, and pack our stuff. And that was it; we rowed ashore for the last time. We spent the night in a cheap motel and basked in our new found freedom. Relief cascaded over me as I danced around the room, overcome by the notion that I wasn’t going to have to spend another two months in Mexico scraping paint. Luckily, the day that we decided to leave just so happened to be the day that I received an e-mail from a friend of ours, Janet. We had met her in LA in December and she had been keeping track of our progress. Hearing that we had turned north, she had sent me a message offering me a place to stay if I ever made my way back to LA. Everything was just falling into place.

Before I knew it, we were sat in Janet’s swanky apartment in Long Beach, eating pizza and planning a day out.  We had booked our flights home for Sunday and so decided that we wanted to see LA properly on the Saturday. We had a great time with Janet. She took us to see all the sights and really looked after us. We went everywhere; from Hollywood Blvd, where I got suckered into buying the worst rap CD I have ever heard from some guy on the street, through Beverley Hills to Venice Beach. It was the perfect end to the trip. In fact, it was a little too good because Chris and I went from not being able to wait to get home to dreading it. I remember cycling from Venice Beach to Santa Monica, taking in the weird and wonderful sights that LA’s most vibrant district had to offer, and thinking,  ‘shit, back to London tomorrow.’ Venice is probably the coolest place I have ever been. The beachfront was heaving; packed with an eclectic mix of the most interesting people. Everyone was very quirky and alternative down there, so I fitted in.....  I have genuinely never seen so many people on skateboards in my life; even beautiful girls were getting involved. We spent the afternoon strolling amongst the dudes, taking in the peculiar sights and the smell of weed. Every second shop was a medical marijuana facility offering an evaluation for $40. The pavement outside these ‘hospitals’ was populated by musicians, artists, street performers, and people who looked a bit out of it. They had all clearly paid their $40. There was one guy, however, who had obviously been denied his medicine as he was stood in the middle of the boardwalk, swaying from side to side, holding a sign that read ‘I need weed.’ As I walked past him, he roused from his stoned stupor to promptly demand that I give him my parent’s money. It was a little unsettling. Apart from him, everyone else seemed to be in their own world. Whether they were pumping iron on muscle beach, performing interpretive dance on roller skates or swinging from rings akin to the ones in Gladiators, everyone was doing their own thing free from the shackles of self conscience. It was a refreshing experience. No matter how much of a weirdo you are, there is a place for you in Venice. There was one woman who just spent the whole afternoon doing handstands, one after the other. She wasn’t even particularly good at them; she obviously just loved the head rush!

 When I look back it is absurd to think that in the space of 48 hours I went from sitting on a boat on the verge of a breakdown, to sipping cocktails in the Beverley Hills Hotel.  Unbelievable.

So, the adventure is over. As I take myself back, I can’t help but smile when I think of everything I endured. I sailed 1,500 miles and I had to earn every mile. I have lived with next to no electricity; pooed off the back of a boat; slept on a bench; gone for weeks without a shower; eaten powdered mash and spam regularly; fished for my dinner; and just generally been removed from my comfort zone. It was an eye opening experience and one that will stay with me forever. It is now time for me to get my head down and earn some money so that I can go on my next adventure.

Thank you so much for reading. I hope that it has been as much of a pleasure to read as it has been to write. It means a lot to me that you have stuck it out with me. So, until my next stupid outing, find something else to read I suppose.

Much love,

Kris.

*The Genoa is the name given to the headsail; that is the sail at the front of the boat. It is this sail that effectively pulls the boat along.

Chapter 2, Part 3: The Last of the Good Times

Hi all,

I realise that it has been a while since I have written and there is good reason for that; the fact that I am currently sat in a London apartment says it all. But, before I get into all that, let me tell you of the good times.

Last time you heard from me was prior to New Year's Eve and the crew of the Black Wind were giddy with excitement in anticipation of the celebrations. Our New Year's Eve began as any other; by being boarded by Mexican Federales. In retrospect, I am surprised that we had lasted that long without being boarded; our vessel looked like we had just broken it out of a impound yard and it didn't even have a name on the back; just a skull and cross bones. So, I had to sit there whilst two men with M16's clambered aboard and started rooting around. I experienced that strange sensation when you know that you have nothing to hide but you suddenly have the irrational fear that you have something that you shouldn't. I found myself wondering whether they would suspect my Vitamin C tablets for some form of Ecstasy or something. Luckily, one of them spoke broken English as unfortunately AS level Spanish does not prepare you for such a situation. Once they had ascertained that everything was in order and there was no way that they were going to be able to get us to bribe them, they left. I kind of  missed them after that because no sooner had they left the boat than it was back to work for us. We sat there working our socks off to try and make the boat look less of a shambles. I was given the thrilling job of stripping the plastic coating off the guard rails. I sat there in a foul mood, goaded by the beautiful people as they encircled us on Jet Skis. I hated everyone. The only thing that managed to turn my frown upside down was the promise of the evening that lay ahead. Rumour had it that there was going to be a fireworks display on the beach to rival the Fourth of July. Not only this, but I could see that all of the bars lining the shore were setting up for a big night. As the sun went down, meaning that it was too dark to work, we made ourselves look presentable and got merry on the boat. Unfortunately, true to form, we got a little too merry. So drunk in fact, that once we had managed to row our favourite dingy ashore, we swiftly lost each other. All I remember is stumbling around the beach waiting  for the incredible display to commence. I looked at my watch and it read 11.55. 'Awesome' I thought to myself as I turned to the girl next to me and told her to get ready for an incredible show. She gave me a confused look before telling me that the fireworks had gone off an hour before as it was now 12.55. It turns out that the time had gone forward an hour between Ensenada and Cabo and none of us had realised. Thus, in short, I actually missed New Years. Despite this, we all had incredible nights.  I ended up at the most incredible hotel I have ever seen with an American girl and all her douchebag friends. Chris fell asleep next to the dingy at about 11.00 and would have missed the whole night had James not tripped over him. He then met these two Mexican girls who drove him round town for a while before dropping him off miles away from the boat. Heaven knows what happened to Blair; he just had a crazy night. So, all in all, a good evening.

Unfortunately, James had had the brilliant idea of leaving port on New Year's Day as early as possible. I had woken at about seven o'clock, gone for breakfast in the scenic restaurant of the hotel and then taken a taxi back to the boat. I found a dishevelled crew nursing their hangovers wearing expressions that said 'please don't make us sail today.' But, of course, sail we did. Due to various reasons that I won't go into, Jack and Sam had decided to leave the boat in Cabo. This meant that we were two crew down for the three hundred mile voyage that lay ahead of us. Sailing the Black Wind is a challenge at the best of times; it is a heavy boat and everything from raising the sails to steering is labour intensive. Nothing more so, however, than raising the anchor by hand. There I was at eleven o'clock on New Years Day hauling a flipping great anchor off the seabed whilst my tired brain pulsed against my skull and my stomach churned. Happy New Year Kris. Things only got worse from there. In order to reach our next destination of Puerto Vallarta, we had to cross the mouth of the Sea of Cortez, where it meets the Pacific Ocean. When two seas meet like that, they kick up a nice swell and current. So there we were, five men feeling sorry for ourselves as we returned to the relentless motion, but this time with the added pleasure of a torturous hangover. To make matters worse, because we were two men short, the shift rota was amended. We now had to do two hours on, three hours off. It was horrific. No sooner had you fallen asleep than some bastard was waking you up telling you it was your turn to go on watch. It was a nice little taster of sleep deprivation. How we did not kill each other I will never know.

Three days of harrowing sailing later and we had reached Puerto Vallarta, a town lying in a sheltered bay just south of the Tropic of Cancer. Surrounded by jungle-laden mountains as far as the eye could see and home to hundreds of palm trees, it was a real tropical paradise. It was the biggest of the towns we had seen, with the marina sitting a fifteen minute bus journey from the town centre. As soon as we had tied the boat up, we ran away, desperate to get away from the boat before we got roped into cleaning the deck or some other pointless task. The marina was much the same as the others that we had seen, polished and swanky. It was surrounded by plush hotels and expensive restaurants. Hungry and poor, we enquired as to how to get to the main part of town where food would be cheaper. We were told to stand at a random point on the pavement, there was no bus stop, and wait for the bus there. Sceptical, we stood and waited next to a parked Jeep as instructed. But, sure enough, twenty minutes later something resembling a bus stopped right in front of us. The buses in Mexico are hilarious. It had no glass in the windows or doors; it was just a  mistreated metal shell, with no suspension, full of plastic bucket seats. It's destinations were written on the windscreen in marker pen. I did not stop laughing for the whole fifteen minutes. I was sat next to the 'window' which had once been fitted with glass but had obviously been smashed through. The remaining glass wobbled worryingly as the driver careered down the cobbled streets with no regard for other road users. Every time he decided to stop to pick people up, a decision which seemed to be based on whether he liked the look of them or not, the breaks reverberated through your very core and made a sound akin to the decibel of a fog horn. Absolutely brilliant. Not bad for 35p. Once in town we realised that it was once again quite Americanised but more tastefully so than Cabo. Starbucks and McDonald's were now interspersed amongst the beautiful architecture and the ornate Mexican boutiques. The beach front was lined with extravagant open-fronted clubs that appeared to have all bought the same 'Now 77' CD. We had some good nights out, although you would find yourself dancing to the same four 'tunes' no matter which club you went to. Our favourite club was called 'The Little Cow.' It was evidently the local choice seeing as we were the only westerners in there. I saw this as my chance to try my hand at chatting to the fair chicas in Spanish. I failed miserably; trying to be funny in Spanish whilst the Black Eyed Peas persistently told me to 'party 'n' party, 'n' p 'n' p  'n' party' was quite a challenge. It must have been funny for the guys to watch me struggle though.

Of course our time in Puerto Vallarta was not all spent having fun; there was work to be done. We obviously looked bored or something so James was kind enough to fill our days by asking us to remove all of the paint from the deck. 'That's easy' you might think, 'just throw some paint stripper on there and Bob's your uncle,' you might say. Well, unfortunately, the paint was so old that it had bonded to the concrete super structure. Thus, I spent three days with a heat gun in one hand and a tiny scraper in the other, making painfully slow progress across the back of the boat. Fun. To put things into perspective, one Saturday whilst we were slaving away, all of the Mexican lads that worked on the beautiful boats around us looked upon us with pitying eyes as they had a little party on the dockside. That is when you know things are bad; when you are working harder than Mexicans, one of the most notoriously industrious peoples, and you are being paid less than them. It was a humbling experience. After a while, they began to feel so sorry for us that they invited us over to join them. It was one of their birthday's and so they had put on a bit of a spread. I had watched as one man skilfully prepared a gourmet shrimp and muscle salsa whilst sat astride a cool box. Quite a sight I can assure you. The food was incredible; so fresh and flavoursome. Supping my Corona, I felt like one of the guys. That was until they told me to put a suspicious home-made red sauce on my next tostado. I should have known better but I did not want to seem rude. All conversations stopped as the group of ten men watched me  with baited breath as I applied the devil juice. At first I didn't think it was too bad but what a fool I was. Within twenty seconds my eyes were streaming, I was sweating and I couldn't touch my lips. It was as if someone had taken a blow-torch to the lower portion of my face. As I coughed and spluttered, trying my best to restrain my natural reaction to the fire that I had just ingested, the ten-strong group of men were bent over double in laughter. They could not get enough of it. Tears were streaming down their faces as they conversed quickly in Spanish before erupting into fresh bouts of laughter. Bastards. All in all, I think that I did us Brits proud....

Even though we worked quite hard during the week that we spent in Puerto Vallarta, we did have a good time and it was good fun getting to know the guys that worked in the marina. We even started to get worker's prices in the local taverna. It must have been such a strange concept to those guys as every other westerner in that place was rich and there we were, scraping paint of a fucking deck for $50. Good times.

Chapter 2, Part 2: Back to Basics.

Hello again,

I am now writing from Cabo, San Lucas. It took us fourteen days to sail here from Ensenada, a stint that was broken up by a whole two hours on land in Bahia de Tortugas. As I'm sure you can imagine, it has been a challenging two weeks, both physically and mentally. The main source of hardship stemmed from the fact that because we were at sea for much longer than expected we were forced to revert to a primitive way of life in order to preserve fuel, supplies and electricity. For example, we could no longer wash the dishes using tap water as this would eat into the water supply that we were dependant on for cooking and, more importantly, cups of tea. Thus, the process of washing up became a physical battle with the elements as you had to throw a bucket over the side, haul it up without being dragged overboard, and then sit with the wind battering you with Pacific spray whilst you scrubbed the pots. All of this was going on whilst the boat was chomping its way through the six foot swell at a rate of five knots. Pretty extreme stuff. In fact, I soon learned that everything becomes extreme whilst you are at sea; even something as mundane as making a cup of tea. When you are under way, the boat keels over, forcing you to live your life at a twenty-five degree angle. Thus, watching Blair try to make a cup of tea whilst being thrown all over the cabin, his foot against the wall for support as he held onto the kettle as if his life depended on it, boiling water going everywhere, was a spectacle. Don't even get me started on what it is like to have a wee whilst the boat is cutting through the waves at six knots. It all makes for funny viewing though. At five o'clock, as the sunsets, we are then faced with a new challenge; darkness. After a week at sea the batteries had taken a serious beating and so we had to reserve all the energy we could for the really important things, such as navigation lights and starting the engine. Thus, as darkness engulfed us, it was time to fish out the thermals and the all important head-torch. It was like living in a mining colony with some sat there reading, others cooking and others trying to steer us through the gloom, all of us with fluorescent beams of light protruding from our foreheads. What a sight we must have been.

In the last instalment I spoke of us sat stationary, praying for wind and excitement. Well, our prayers were answered many fold. Perhaps the most epic occurrence was the successful catch of not one, but two sharks. The first time was electric. I remember being woken by the sound of Barry's excited voice shouting 'we got a fish on!' We all rushed to the stern of the boat to form an excited crowd. It was only once Barry had hauled in half the line that we realised that we had snagged a three foot blue shark. We couldn't believe it. We toyed with the idea of cutting the line loose because of the inherent danger of dragging a shark aboard. We then realised that we were running low on food and so it was either shark or yet another serving of Mac and Cheese. The unanimous decision was the shark. Jack and Barry battled with the evil looking thing for about fifteen minutes before they finally managed to kill it. We were having lightly battered shark fillet twenty minutes later. Now that's fresher than Morrisons. You can imagine our surprise when it happened again two days later. Before catching the sharks, I had been washing myself by lathering up on-deck and then jumping over the side to allow Mother Nature to do her thing. Safe to say, after the second shark, I started to use wet wipes. 

We have had our fair share of wind as well. Thick, ominous clouds, the sort you would expect to find off the coast of Scotland rather than Mexico, brought with them good gusts of wind. It made for pretty exhilarating sailing. One instance particularly sticks in my mind. We had been at sea for five days and had been making good progress due to the persistent thirty-mile-an-hour winds. It was a real buzz guiding the Black Wind through the rough seas, watching water cascade over her bow as she marched her way forwards. We all clung to her for dear life, the wind and raining lashing our faces, adding to the suspense of it all. Then, out of nowhere, a forty-mile-an-hour gust hit us from the left and knocked the boat over. I was down below as I watched the sea come hurtling towards us through the portholes, eventually submerging them. Without hesitation Blair ordered us up from below in order to put a reef in the main sail*. We all scrambled to get our wet weather gear and life jackets, the loss of steering throwing us all over the cabin. We eventually stumbled onto the wind battered deck and managed to do the job at hand without losing anyone over the side. I was pretty impressed due to the harrowing conditions. The adrenaline rush was incredible; we had survived an attack of the elements.

Fourteen days is a long time to spend at sea and so obviously it is not always so adrenaline inducing. We suffered long periods of stills and fell victim to boredom. Due to the lack of power we were forced to ignore the plasma screen TV and the adjacent stereo that sat teasing us from their perch on the wall. Instead, we had to become quite inventive with ways of entertaining ourselves. We have played countless games of Categories, covering everything from trainers to dinosaurs. I have also read more than at any other time in my life. I now realise that it would be quite easy to lose your sanity at sea. In fact, most of the sailors that we have met so far have been off their rockers. Ensenada was full of mentalists; I rememmber walking down the jetty one night and seeing this hideous woman, with the face of a catfish, clad in a Juicy tracksuit and imitation Uggs. She was  talking loudly on the phone at the back of her boat. As I passed her, she shouted across to me, 'Hey, y'all wanna speak to Bill?' Having never seen this woman before, or indeed met Bill, I was forced to respond, 'Um, no thank you.' As if that wasn't crazy enough, the next morning I was shook awake by Blair as some guy called Marcus, again who I had never met, wanted a picture of us all for his scrapbook. I stood there, bleary eyed, being positioned by this strange man for his photo, just thinking to myself  'what on earth goes on at sea to make people this way?' After the past two weeks I am beginning to understand. Although, Jack, in an effort to hold insanity at bay, has fashioned a make shift TRX band. This allowed us to have a work out everyday. Thus, if by the time we reach the Caribbean  I am a raving loony, at least I will be in shape. 

Luckily, just as I was on the verge of starting up my own scrapbook, we had a brief respite from the sea. We pulled into Bahia de Tortugas, a tiny fishing village that lies at the halfway point between Ensenada and Cabo. It was a taste of real Mexico and served as a complete contrast to Ensenada, a port equipped to accommodate American cruise liners where the lamp post were wrapped in Christmas paper. Bahia de Tortugas did not even have lamp posts. It was comprised of a small cluster of brightly coloured houses, interlinked by a series of mud roads. We set about pumping up the ten-man dinghy with a foot pump that you would normally use to inflate an air bed so that we could then row ashore. Once there it became apparent, as you might expect, that no one spoke any English. We had to rely on a blend of mine and Sam's Spanish to acquire the supplies that we so desperately needed. It was an incredible feeling to have the safety net of English whipped out from under us. It was the real experience we had been craving as we had become bored of the Americanised Ensenada. Upon asking the girl in the basic food store where we could get a burritto, Jack and I were escorted through the maze of dirt tracks by two young boys on bikes. Also, we were later given a lift in the back of a pick up truck by a boy who could not have been older than thirteen. It was little things like that that made the place so enchanting. A very cool experience.

We took the decision to leave Bahia de Tortugas swiftly in an attempt to get to Cabo for New Years Eve. This meant that we spent Christmas Day at sea. And what a surreal Christmas it was. It got off to a good start on Christmas Eve. We had had a really chilled evening, talking about future plans by candle-light and marvelling at the Planetarium of stars above us. I was snuggled up on my bench by eight o'clock, happy and content. However, after only an hour and a half, I awoke to a boat in chaos. It was James' bellowing voice shouting, 'oh fuck, I need power to start the engine. Someone switch the batteries now for fuck's sake,' that woke me from my slumber. As I came to my senses I heard Jack fire off three flares and Blair ask as to whether we should issue a May Day. 'Oh shit' I thought as I joined Chris and Sam in scrambling to get dressed in the dark. My initial thought was of pirates. As I emerged from the hatch I was fully expecting to come under fire. I would have been terrified if I had time to process it all but it was all happening too fast. Before I knew it I was stood on the floodlit deck, scanning around to try to derive the reason for the panic. As it transpires, we had been running on a collision course with a cruise ship and it had been getting a bit close. By the time that I got up on deck, ready to fend off banditos, the danger had passed and all that remained was a stationary cruise ship to our stern. Thus, to me, it all seemed a bit melodramatic. I bet the crew of that ship had had a right laugh. They were probably fully aware of our position and so it must have come as a shock when we started firing flares at them and six sleepy crew toppled onto the deck. We must have looked really composed and professional. After all that excitement, the rest of Christmas was a breeze. We spent the day reading in the sun. I think that this was the first time that I have ever been sunburnt on Christmas Day.

So, all in all, a pretty hectic couple of weeks. We arrived in Cabo yesterday and we could not be happier. It is a real party town here; it is the playground of the rich American. The wealth that is walking the street is unbelievable; you should see the pristine super-yachts that are moored up next to us. The marina is a sea of polished white fibreglass. We look a right bunch of sea gypsies in comparison. To give a picture of what its like here, I am currently sitting in Starbucks, having walked passed The Hard Rock Cafe, McDonalds, a Rolex dealership and an Istore. In short, its like a little chunk of America that has wondered astray. Despite that it has the cultural integrity of a doorstop, it is a fun town with lots going on. Based on the fun that we had last night, we have now decided to definitely stay for New Years Eve. It should be an incredible night; expensive, but I think we have earned it.

So, until the next time. I hope you all have a brilliant New Year. Look forward to the first instalment of 2011.

Good Bye. 

*Reefing the main sail is when you take a portion of it down so as to reduce the sail surface area. You normally do this in high winds in order to give the helmsman more control over the boat.

Chapter 2, Part 1: The Life Aquatic

It has been a rocky start to the adventure to say the least. We set off from LA six days ago to sail one hundred and fifty miles to Ensenada, North Mexico, from where I write. Skipper James had calculated that it would take us a maximum of forty-eight hours to complete this stretch, working on the premise that we could comfortably cover one hundred nautical miles in twenty-four hours. It sounded all very planned and researched. The only problem was that James has this profound philosophy that he wants to use only the wind to get to places, following in the footsteps of our maritime forefathers. This is all well and good providing that there is actually enough wind to move the boat. Of course, the West Coast of America between LA and the Mexican border is notoriously absent of wind. Thus, there we were, sat stationary in the Pacific ocean, falling victim to the six foot swell for, for four solid days. It was an absolute nightmare. I felt as though I was trapped on one of those pirate ships you find at theme park, bobbing violently up and down for what felt like forever. James tried to raise morale by reading us his favourite quotes about riding the wind to exotic destinations and about making the most of what Mother Nature gives you. It fell on deaf ears as we sat there feeling sick, having to dodge things as they fell off the shelves, whilst watching the sea appear and then disappear through the port holes. As if that was not bad enough, were also enveloped in a dense fog bank for about three days. This meant that we could not see more than twenty metres from the boat. This made sailing at night a hoot, as I'm sure you can imagine. The way we have worked it is that there are three night shifts of four hours between eight in the evening and eight in the morning. These shifts are called watches. We are split into twos and threes in order to conduct these watches, the idea being to keep the boat sailing, or drifting helplessly in our case, throughout the night. So, we would be sat there for four hours every night in the freezing fog, trying to determine how far away the ship was whose fog horn was getting ever louder. Pretty scary stuff. Having survived your watch, you would then have to go and wake up the next people so that they could continue this terrifying endeavour. Safe in the knowledge that you were no longer responsible for the boat, you then crawled into bed, which in my case is a bench in the communal area, with Chris sleeping in what can only be described as a big book shelf slightly above me, to then be rocked to sleep. So, all in all, sailing is not quite what its cracked up to be.

However, it was a completely different story once we crossed the border into Mexico. Literally as soon as we entered Mexico, the fog receded, basking the boat in glorious sunshine, and the wind picked up. As a result of this, we had an incredible days sailing with the boat doing a constant six knots whilst we sat and read in the sunshine, occasionally looking up from the page to see a whale breach. Now, that is the kind of sailing I can get on board with. This meant that we arrived in Ensenada in high spirits, whereas just a few days before we had been on the verge of mental breakdown; we actually found ourselves going a bit mad, with us bursting into fits of laughter over nothing. Slightly concerning. What a sight we must have been, a boat full of dishevelled men who had not showered for five days and whose last meal had been a plate of plain, powdered mash potato. Look out ladies, here we come! But, having paid thirty pasos for a shower in an alley way and with our bellies full of burritto, we set out to explore what Ensenada had to offer. I have got to say, Mexico is incredible. It is completely different from what we were expecting given the horror stories that we had heard in LA that depicted Mexico as some sort of backwards drug fuelled gang land. This could not be further from the truth We have found everyone to be really friendly and helpful and there is everything you could possibly want here. A case in point would be last night. We all went out to blow off some steam after our arduous trip. We hit a few bars, which all turned out to be strip clubs; it transpires that you can get anything you want here apart from a conversation with a girl that you don't have to pay for. Happy to be alive and on dry land, and to make it less awkward as you tried to have a conversation with one of the boys whilst some Mexican stripper was straddling you, we all got pretty drunk. Sam wondered off on his own and disappeared. We all feared the worst as we scoured the town in search of him. Eventually we found him and frantically asked if he was O.K. It turns out that he was absolutely fine. He had gone to a bank and been approached by a homeless man. Rather than being mugged and killed, Sam sat with the man whilst he fixed his flip flops, giving them a Christmasy flair as he held them together with tinsel. Absolutely brilliant. Bearing all of  this in mind, Mexico has so far found a place in our hearts. I am sincerely looking forward to seeing more of this country as we sail further down its coast.

We set sail again tomorrow for Bahia de Tortugas, a port that lies three hundred miles south of here. James has predicted it will take four days, so it will probably take two weeks. At least now we are prepared for what could happen; we have a ridiculous amount of food and we have fixed all of the problems that the boat incurred whilst at sea. So, hopefully I will write again soon!

Hasta luego.

Chapter 1: Wilmington, Los Angeles.

So, I have been in America for five days now, and what a five days it's been. First of all, I must set the scene for you all. The boat is moored in the Island Yacht Anchorage, situated in the heart of Wilmington. Sounds nice doesn't it? Well, it's not. Wilmington is affectionately referred to by the locals as the 'arsehole of LA' and there is good reason for this. I find myself deep within LA's industrial port, with our marina, if it can be called that, bobbing precariously at the mouth of the river that allows the container ships into the loading bays. It is a scenic little spot, with uninterrupted views of the industrial cranes and the oil diggers. I feel so dwarfed by the sheer size of the machinery that surrounds us. I should have expected such a spot when James' directions to the boat read 'you may feel like you have entered an industrial wasteland, but just keep going. Don't worry, you'll be fine.' Wilmington is not exactly the most accessible of areas either; even the taxi's sat-nav did not have a clue when I got picked up from the airport. Perhaps the best way to illustrate the desperate nature of our surroundings is to tell you that in order to get to the 'Chowder Barge,' a floating American diner from which I write, I had to scale a fence, walk through scrub land, before darting across a railway bridge, making sure to dodge the mile long freight trains that pass through. In short, it is a hilarious setting for the start of our adventure.

The primary focus of this week has been to spruce the boat up. Structurally, she is sound, but she was in need of a makeover. Thus, this week has consisted of waking up at eight in order to sand, paint, and varnish the boat. Because I was the last to arrive in LA, I was lucky enough to spend my first two days in a tiny cubbie hole, scraping sludge out of the diesel tanks. Not exactly the glamorous job I expected when I thought of yachting. However, now that we have been working on her for a week, the Black Wind is looking pretty sexy. More than this, we all feel like proper men, which made my diesel adventure worth while.

It has not been all work no play this week though. On Saturday night, we went along to a Christmas parade on Belshore Avenue, in Long Beach. In order to get there, we got a lift from Gary, an old timer who is working on the boat akin to ours. Jack and I had to lie down in the back of his pick up truck and then be hidden by blankets. I felt like a Mexican trying to make it across the border. Oddly enough, whilst lying under the dusty sheets, being whisked through the streets of LA, Jack and I had a conversation about the strength of the Euro, Britain's immigration policies and the strengths and weaknesses of the NHS. It is the most normal conversation that I have ever had with him; he normally just tells me crazy stories about his mates from the army. After what felt like a lifetime, we finally made it to the parade; and what a spectacle it was. The whole community lined the street in order to watch the countless floats, marching bands and cheer-leading squads trundle by. It was Americana at its best. You would never see anything like it in the UK because it would cause too much of an inconvenience. As Jack lamented, 'if that happened down ma street, people would start throwing bricks.' After the festivities of the parade Chris, Jack and I went to a club called 'The shore,' leaving Blair and James to go to a gay bar.The club was surreal. First of all, we were greeted by the nicest bouncer in the world; he must have apologised about five times for  our wait and we must have only been in the queue for five minutes. Once inside we were challenged to a drinking competition by the barman. This resulted in him winning and then crowing like a rooster for the whole bar to hear. Embarrassing. To further our humiliation, he told us to go and get some girls and he would give us all free shots. We failed, meaning that I could no longer look him in the eye. We left shortly afterwards.

Yesterday was our day off and so Chris, Blair, Jack and I went to see a bit of LA. We took the metro to Downtown, which was quite literally mental. Our carriage was like an episode of Jerry Springer. One of the more memorable characters was a morbidly obese black woman, who was slumped in her mobility scooter, with her phone wedged into her neck and shoulder fat, leaving her hands free to pile greasy chicken into her mouth. As if that wasn't enough, there were also a lot of mumbling crack heads; one guy was stood by the door whispering 'I need to get off this motherfucker' over and over. I tried looking out of the window, only to see someone beating a kid with a stick in Compton. It was a nervy hour and a half. The people did not get much better once we got to Downtown. As soon as we got out of the metro station we were met by a gangster singing Backstreet Boys at the top of his lungs, whilst banging randomly on a metal electrical box. Safe to say, we did not spend much time Downtown. Things got better once we got to Venice Beach, although we enjoyed ourselves too much and before we knew it, it was eleven o'clock. This threw a spanner in the works for our plans to get back to the boat. We ended up having to walk seven blocks in the pissing rain, before waiting for the bus on the wrong side of the road for a good half an hour. It was a long and wet journey home.

We are pretty much ready to set sail now. Our two guests have arrived today; Barry and Dominic. They seem like nice guys - Barry got stuck right in with helping us with the varnishing. He is also going to teach us to fish which should be pretty cool. Another manly trait. All I need to do now is build fire and I should be all set. We leave for Mexico at the crack of dawn on Wednesday. I have really enjoyed my time in LA but I will be glad to see the back of Wilmington. The next time you hear from us, we will be in 'Mejico!' Wish us luck.

In a bit England.

So, here I am on the eve of the voyage. I am a complex combination of nerves and excitement. Everything is in order; I have all the necessary gear. In fact, I think that I have too much equipment for my level of experience - turning up in a brand new sailing jacket, brandishing my Leatherman, with my head torch set to 'blink' might be a bit much. The phrase 'all the gear, no idea' springs to mind. I'm just glad that I managed to talk my Dad out of buying me a spork - I would have looked like a right prick sat there eating with a plastic spoon-fork hybrid whilst the others ate with cutlery.

I hope that I enjoy my travels half as much as I have enjoyed talking about them. No one has been spared a casual reference to the trip. I even told the attractive shop assistant in the sailing shop just because she asked me what type of sailing it was that I would be doing. She was momentarily impressed, that is until my mum unleashed a barrage of questions about the different levels of waterproofing. There is a lesson to be learned here; don't go shopping for cool shit with your mum, it doesn't work. I have to admit though, I have taken great pleasure in peoples' reactions, the only problem is that I have spent so long talking about the bloody thing, I now have to go and do it!

All the other lads are out there already. James and Jack have been there for a week so I am just hoping that there is still a boat to board when I arrive. I'm almost positive that Jack won't have got himself arrested in the space of a week, although you can never be sure with him. Blair, Sam and Chris flew out over the weekend, so that just leaves me. I am actually quite looking forward to the flight; I'm flying BA so I'm expecting good things. Although, no matter who you fly with these days, you are guaranteed at least one child aged six months or less within earshot. There is nothing quite like the screech of a child whose ears have not equalised to help you relax into your eleven hour flight. But, then again, why shouldn't a child who is too young to form memories see a bit of the world? I also cannot wait for the possible humiliation of the full body scan at Heathrow; a room full of strangers analysing your naked profile is bound to ease you into your flight. As if that was not enough, once I have sat in what can only be described as the stress position,with my knees in constant contact with the chair in front, I then have the pleasure of being interrogated by US immigration. So, actually, on reflection, I am not looking forward to my flight. On paper, it bares striking resemblance to torture. I am more of a Business Class kind of guy. I am hoping that this is obvious to the person checking me in so that they can give me the upgrade I deserve.

Well, the next time you guys hear from me, I will be in the City of Angels. Until then, pray for me.

Hello.

In two weeks time I, as a broke History graduate, fresh from university and with minimal sailing experience will be setting off to meet five mates to crew the Black Wind, a 55 foot sailing yacht, 3000 miles from the West Coast of America, through the Panama Canal and across the Atlantic Ocean to the UK. 

This trip will be a true adventure as we leave behind convention and the well trodden path, in order to do something inspirational. To succeed, the crew will need quick learning, resourcefulness, bravery and a strong instinct for survival!  The trip will remove us all from our comfort zones and throw us together into an unforgiving situation that we must all deal with in order to survive.  

Hopefully, our story will inspire and motivate you guys to capture the essence of real adventure, as you follow us through hard times, providing a first-hand account of what such a trip entails. I will describe the practicalities of undertaking such a voyage, and will create an account of the trip, including the details of life on board.  Also, by witnessing some the most breathtakingly beautiful parts of the world I will be able to share the experiences with you lovely lot in an on-line travelogue.

The trip starts on 1st December when I fly to Los Angeles to join the boys to embark the Black Wind.  We sail south to Panama stopping off in Mexico, Guatamala, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica via the Panama Canal, a truly incredible experience in itself.  From there we will set course for St Thomas, via Jamaica and Puerto Rico. The trip is estimated to take five months in total, and would be a remarkable trip for any sailor to attempt, but it is especially daunting in my case as I had never stepped foot on a yacht before June! 

The trip is going to be like no other; the boat is a work in progress (for example, when we reach Mexico, we are dry-docking in order to paint it ourselves) and the ‘motley crew' come from different backgrounds and with varying degrees of sailing experience.

A little bit about the Crew:

James - He is the owner of the boat and will thus be our skipper for the voyage. He has had a colourful past and has the tattoos to prove it. He is a top bloke and is the mastermind behind the whole trip.

Jack - Probably the craziest person I have ever met. He is the ex-infantryman whose thirst for adrenaline the army failed to satisfy. He intends to join the French Foreign Legion when we get home - a desire which pretty much sums him up. He is the character that will make the trip most interesting - I fully envisage us having to leave ports early as Jack comes sprinting down the dockside being chased by angry villagers. Oh, and he is a Geordie. Enough said.

Blair - As bent as a 15 bob note but we love him. He promises to install a sense of calm in the wake of Jack's destruction. At 25 years of age, the flamboyant Kiwi has a real passion for sailing and has his heart set on making the ocean his office space some day.

Chris - The cheeky cockney chappy. Matching Blair in years, Chris is along for the ride - just desperate to do anything to get him out of Sutton. He is a top lad but is the 'ditsy' one of the crew - his inquisitive nature often results in some hilarious musings and his lack of observational awareness has seen him talk about people who are sat right next to him. Watch this space for a good laugh!

Sam - I haven't actually met Sam yet, but from what I hear he is worthy member of the 'motley crew.' As one of the two with adequate sailing experience, I am sure that he will save our lives on more than one occasion. I just hope that he has the patience of a saint!

Me (Kris) - I am the dreamer of the crew. Currently in the middle of my post-uni 'gap year',  I view this trip as a chance to quench my adventurous thirst. I also find myself daydreaming about becoming a commercial sailor/travel writer - living the life of old riley amongst the waves, lavished with beautiful girls and monies. The reality of the situation is that I will get home from this trip by the skin of my teeth and will be an unemployable mess. As the posh boy of the crew, I intend to be Jack's translator - I don't think America is ready for him uncensored.

The Vessel - The Black Wind has the appearance of a pirate pimp palace. Having been impounded three times for drug trafficking and also served as an offshore location for lesbian weddings (rumoured to have housed up to 44 lesbians at one stage), she is a tough old gal. Decked throughout with leopard print carpet, flame riddled toilet seats and a banging sound system, she promises to get all the ladies. I look forward to living inside her for five months!

So, there you have it. Follow us on here or on http://twitter.com/#!/BlackWind2010.

B' bye.