As I sailed away from the Cape Verde islands with a spinnaker up in increasingly mellow trade winds I finally had some time to fully consider where I was relative to the rest of the fleet and how my race had gone thus far. I could not hear any of the accompaniment boats on the vhf radio and in fact very little chatter of any sort. From the ssb radio broadcasts that I was picking up I knew that I was lying firmly in 25th position in the prototype fleet and was starting to feel a bit like I didn’t have a chance to catch back up. I think that something all solo sailors struggle with during their time at sea is the isolation and the ability to keep one’s spirits up when things aren’t looking so good and there is nobody to talk to. I was very lucky at this time to be in touch occasionally via vhf with, Craig and Keith, and just a few minutes of talking with friends each day really made a big difference on the moral front.

Two days after passing through the Cape Verde islands on the 14th of October in the morning I crossed a pronounced dark cloud line and within minutes the wind went extremely variable and squalls begin to appear on the horizon. I knew that this was roughly where I should be entering the doldrums. It was quite clear that I had crossed into this dreaded zone of light variable winds and powerful fast moving squalls. Lucky for me a light, but relatively consistent, east south east wind filled in shortly after entering the doldrums and for two days I was able to make steady, although slow, progress down the course. For these two days I was constantly on the watch for the ever present squalls and often had to rapidly roll up my gennaker and put two reefs in the main as I was engulfed by a squall that I was unable to avoid.

A pretty typical doldrums squall passing behind me

At this point in the race absolutely everything on the boat was wet. It was horrifically hot during the day and not that much better at night. Sitting in a saltwater puddle on deck 18 hours a day for two weeks leads to some pretty uncomfortable rashes developing on one’s bottom, I’ll refrain from showing the photo I took of my own ass in order to assess the situation. The best relief I could find for this problem was lying naked on my stomach down below while I napped to let my bits dry out a little. It was during one of these naked naps in the middle of the night that I was woken by a powerful squall while sailing with a full mainsail and gennaker. I grabbed my headlamp and leapt on deck, still entirely naked, and proceeded to roll up the gennaker and then go forward to the mast to put two reefs in the main. It was while I was getting pelted with sideways rain in 30kts of wind tucking the 2nd reef into the mainsail, naked as the day I was born, that even I thought what I was doing might be a little nuts. At least I got a good fresh water shower out of the ordeal!

Lucky for me my approach to the doldrums paid good dividends and on the morning of the 16th of October I had climbed to 17th position and was 92 miles behind the leader. In two days I had climbed 8 places and gained 100 miles on the leaders in the fleet. I felt like I was back in the race!

All of a sudden the vhf radio was alive with chatter again as I was now within radio range of a good percentage of the fleet. After many days of having next to no contact with the outside world it was a refreshing feeling to be able to talk with some of the other sailors. Mainly just hearing the voices over the radio made me feel back in touch with the fleet. Exiting the doldrums is something that is not really a defined transition and can be quite interesting when lacking the benefits of any real viable weather forecast. The afternoon of the 16th brought strong gusty south south west winds and the radio chatter was constant as everyone tried to analyze exactly what was going on. This was where we should have been exiting the doldrums yet instead of the south east trade winds filling in we were sailing under a cloudy, doldrums-esque sky with gusty 20-25 kt winds out of the south south west. This presented a tactical conundrum and the stress was obvious in everyone’s voices over the radio as we all tried to sort out how best to handle this unexpected situation.

For the next day I tried to play the shifts as I beat upwind getting soaking wet and trying to keep a very close eye on my jury rigged forestay as it was much more highly loaded while sailing upwind. There was this constant nagging thought in the back of my mind that I was pretty much smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean at this point. If my jury rig failed and I lost my rig I would be as the English say “Proper Fucked”. Needless to say I kept a close eye on things and actually left a spinnaker halyard tensioned on my inner forestay chainplate to give myself an extra few seconds to act if the forestay attachment did in fact fail while I bashed my way upwind.

Just around dawn on the 18th of October, after beating upwind for a day and a half, I skirted a particularly large squall line. The wind finally began to shift into the southeast and I was off on a course that would almost clear Fernando de Noronha. I really organized the stack (all my gear stacked to windward) for optimum weight placement and sat down to steer for a while. It was still a solid 20-25kts and I trimmed on and had the boat very powered up with 1 reef in the main and full jib. As I settled in and felt the boat getting into a nice groove I heard a loud bang and watched my mast bend wildly as my 2nd diagonal shroud fell away from where it had previously been attached to the mast. I released the mainsheet immediately to take the load off the mast and then got the mainsail down as quickly as I could. I fetched off under only jib, now heading almost due west, as I stared up at my mast and contemplated my current situation. The first thing was to figure out an immediate solution to allow me to safely sail to Brazil without losing my mast and secondly to maintain a pace that would keep me in the race. I climbed the rig with a piece of low stretch “Vectrus” Yale cordage tied to my harness and managed to lash it on to the mast where the broken shroud was previously attached and made it back down to the deck, in one piece, and used some Precourt Systems deadeyes to tension this jury rigged piece of rigging. I raised the mainsail again and as I started to load the rig I could hear, see and feel my replacement shroud stretching as it became loaded. After 30 minutes of this I decided that I needed to climb the rig again and somehow attach the broken PBO shroud back up to the mast (PBO is stronger and lower stretch than anything else that I had on board the boat). After another long and abusive venture up the mast I came down finally confident enough in my rigging to at least carry on at a reasonable pace. This was the fourth time I free-climbed my mast at sea during the race…which was definitely four times too many.

My GPS reading 00°00.77′ North (3/4 of a mile north of the equator).
I celebrated my crossing with champagne for Neptune, my boat and me just a few minutes later.

Settling into the groove of the southeast trade winds was a good thing. With every mile ticked off I was becoming more and more confident that I would actually make it to Salvador without losing my mast. I think most people become very in tune with themselves and their boat during a passage like the MiniTransat and at this point I could feel when my mast moved a little bit the wrong way or gear slipped in the stacking racks and changed the balance of the boat ever so slightly. After passing Fernando de Noronha I started to converge on the coast of Brazil around Recife. On one clear night I could even see the glow of lights far in the distance, the first physical sign of civilization in well over two weeks. It was on one of these first nights close to the Brazilian coast that I heard over the radio a startling hail.

“any mini any mini…mini 686…I have been touched by a ship…he go away without stopping” (with a VERY strong Italian accent)
It is around 0100 local time and I immediately grab the radio to reply, thinking that a fellow sailor was just hit by a ship.
“mini 686 mini 686…is everything OK aboard, are you hurt?” (me)
“I am touched by ship…I continue on” (Luca del Zozzo)
“Luca, is your mast still up? Did the ship actually touch you?”
“A ship touch me…it does not reply on radio…I continue on”
“Luca, did the ship actually hit you or only come close?”
“I don’t understand…I continue”

At this point I attempt to hail an accompaniment boat thinking that Luca has been hit by a ship and his boat is damaged but he is continuing on. Luca is Italian and speaks minimal English so communication over the vhf is mediocre at best. I am pretty sure that he has been grazed by a ship but somehow was lucky enough to not sustain damage that would stop his race, although I really can’t tell because his English is so poor. I finally get in touch with an accompaniment boat via a scratchy vhf connection and there is great concern among all of us that Luca has had a collision with a cargo ship, his boat has been seriously damaged and he might be in need of assistance. For the next two hours I am relaying radio communications between an accompaniment boat and Luca aboard 686 with still no conclusion as to whether he was actually hit by a ship or just came very close. Upon arrival in Salvador it turns out that there in fact was no collision…only a close call! I have to say that it was a bit scary to be sitting on board my boat that night thinking about what could have happened to a fellow sailor or just as easily me.

As I started to get closer to Salvador the wind gradually shifted more to the east and I was able to start carrying a gennaker and then finally a spinnaker again. On starboard jibe I was heading almost due west one evening, blasting along into a sunset so intense that when I looked down and took my sunglasses off all I could see was black spots. The equatorial sun reflecting off the ocean created one of the most intense forms of light I have ever witnessed. There were many moments during the race where I was awed by amazing displays of natural power and beauty and this was definitely one of those amazing moments.

The last days of the race were very enjoyable with moderate downwind conditions that left me feeling better and better every day about the odds of reaching Salvador with my mast still up. I have to say that things were at times a little stressful after I had jury rigged the shroud. The emergency rigging would stretch as it loaded up and when I was down below I could hear these terrible squeaking noises as it moved over the spreader tip under thousands of pounds of load. I finally jibed onto my approach to Salvador and after 21 days at sea I started to get pretty excited about the thought of hot food, a shower and a dry bed in less than 24 hours. As I approached shore around 2300 local time on the 25th of October I started to see lights and then smell the distinctive odor of land for the first time in 21 days. As I got closer I began to hear this unbelievable bass reverberating through the boat and it took me a few moments to realize that there was a party on a beach, still several miles away, that was so loud the sound was carrying out to sea…welcome to Brazil!

Minutes from the finish

I was shadowed by a chase boat with photographers and some of the race organizers on board as I sailed the final mile up to the finish line with this indescribable feeling rising up in me as I neared the finish of this epic adventure. I crossed the finish line after 21days and 18hrs at sea as the 21st prototype and the 35th boat overall out of the 85 boats that started the race. I was met on the dock by family, friends and of course a caipirinha, which I only got to take a few sips of before being thrown into the ocean along with my girlfriend, brother and a few other sailors who had also just arrived. Sitting at the yacht club in Salvador drinking beers as the sun came up with my friends Ollie Bond and Keith Willis, who had finished minutes before and after me respectively, I couldn’t help to think about what an amazing feat we had all just accomplished by covering 4,300 miles of ocean alone in a twenty one foot boat. More importantly I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wanted to come back with a new boat and a well funded program to do the race again, this time with a goal of getting on the podium.

Me, Ollie and Keith welcoming Chris Tutmark (another American)
I’m the second from the right with the big smile if you couldn’t spot me in my scruffy state

It is hard to find the words to describe the feeling of arriving in Salvador Brazil after almost 22 days at sea. Just before dawn on October 25th 2009 I became the 8th and youngest American to finish the Mini Transat in its 32 year history! Despite finishing in 21st position I was elated to have overcome some near catastrophes, continued racing and completed this grueling race. I think anyone who has completed a long ocean passage can tell you that arriving in your destination is an extremely satisfying experience sometimes hard to describe. For all of you that know this feeling, or can imagine it, I can tell you that having sailed 4,200 miles across the Atlantic, alone, in a 21ft boat with little to no contact with the outside world is truly profound. I would never have been able to complete such a challenge without the continued support of my sponsors, family and friends and would like to sincerely thank everyone who has helped over the past two years for making this possible. And special thanks goes to my father, John Rowse, for (among many other things) coming to Madeira with all the necessary supplies to make a reliable repair to my mast after the damage from the first leg and generally help prepare the boat for the Atlantic crossing ahead

getting ready to leave the dock for the start under a cloudy and rainy sky in Funchal

The weather for the start of the second leg of the Mini Transat was anything but normal with a large depression centered over the Azores where normally the Azores high (stable high pressure system) would be. For us this meant upwind sailing in rough conditions for three days before having to punch through a ridge of high pressure and then finally hitching into the northeast trade winds. Beating into 25kts and rough confused seas in a Mini is just about the worst way imaginable to start out a 4,200 mile race…especially one that is expected to be almost entirely downwind. The confused seas made it extremely wet on deck and also required a lot of time on the helm as my autopilot doesn’t handle the boat so well when it is being launched off of 5-8ft breaking waves. Every tack in these conditions required re-stacking the boat (moving all the gear to the new windward side) which included over 300 pounds of drinking water in jerry cans along with at least another 100 pounds of gear. Moving 400 pounds of equipment inside a boat being violently shaken and coming off waves with sudden abrupt stops is one hell of a tiring exercise and makes you consider your situation very closely before deciding to tack.

With this sort of weight stacked to weather combined with the normal 200 liters of water ballast the boat was more powerful than she ever has been. This was clearly evident when an eye bolt with a 2000 pound breaking load that is part of my jib sheet lead system broke clean off at the deck. I was able to quickly remedy this problem by temporarily lashing the lead down to the chainplate while I replaced the broken piece of stainless steel with a loop of spectra pulled through the original mounting hole in the deck and held in place with a piece of batten under the deck. Little did I know that this piece of stainless steel hardware failing was unfortunately just a precursor of things to come.

Approaching the Canaries I was feeling good about my position being with other older prototypes that are close to me in performance and also close to the top of the series boat fleet. Weather routers before the start had advised strongly against going between the two islands of Gomera and Tenerife and I took a rather expensive tack to the west to avoid being stuck in what was supposed to be a gigantic wind hole. Many of the boats that chose the risk associated with this route actually made big gains south and extended a bit on me there. As the fleet left the Canaries we headed south to cross the ridge of high pressure and get into the north east trade winds which would take us all the way through the Cape Verde islands gate and on to the Doldrums. When I finally started getting into the trade winds I was ready to push as hard as I possibly could as this was a time when hand steering with a spinnaker up paid out huge dividends. For me and my boat this meant a commitment to spending pretty much every waking moment on the helm as my boat behaves particularly poorly under pilot with a spinnaker up in the gusty and wavy conditions we were experiencing. It felt so good to finally be in some strong downwind conditions and I was sailing deep angles while watching my speedo never drop below 10kts and most of the time sitting in the low to mid teens. The conditions here along the African coast were a gusty 20-25 kts of wind with a disorganized following sea and the sky tinted an eerie yellow caused by the dust of the Sahara being carried out to sea with the trade winds. Keeping the boat at pace without really being able to use my pilot unless underpowered was difficult and tiring but I fell into a good groove. The trade winds had a tendency to shift at night slightly more to the north so I fell into a good rhythm of jibing onto starboard to make west at night and back to port during the day while the breeze had more east in it and was better for making south on port. I was able to get about 4-5 hours of sleep in every 24 by changing down to the code 5 (small spinnaker) for periods of time which the pilot could just handle, although I usually got woken up by a broach at some point and had to scramble quicikly onto deck and get the boat back under control. These were challenging conditions for sure with 18-20 hours of every day spend glued to the helm grabbing snacks out of a bidon (French for waterproof container) lashed in the cockpit. I felt good about how I was handling the boat in these conditions and from the vhf chatter and what I could get out of the shortwave radio receiver it seemed like my hard work was paying dividends and that I was making gains on boats in front of me.

Around 3 am on the 10th of October after only 3 days of fast tradewind sailing my race nearly came to a premature end. I was catching some sleep while the boat was sailing under pilot with two reefs in the main and a code 5 up making good speed when I was woken by a broach…a somewhat normal occurrence. As I was climbing onto deck the pilot was attempting to recover from the broach with the helm hard over. Then the boat popped back on her feet and immediately took off at a high speed down the face of a wave with the pilot bringing the tiller back to centerline way to slowly and I watched the boat turn into a jibe just before I could reach the tiller and pop the pilot off, “Damn it!”. Now I had a bit of a mess on my hands to clean up in the pitch black but never did I expect what I was about to find. I quickly doused the spinnaker without mishap and got the boat jibed back but as I started putting on backstay it never really seemed to develop any tension. I looked forward and my headlamp shone upon my jib in the middle of the foredeck but still attached to the forestay, the forestay was free entirely from the deck. I was already headed downwind so I ran forward and immediately put my fractional spinnaker halyard down to the inner forestay chainplate and loaded it up with the winch. I then got the mainsail down as quickly as I could, although I was going downwind and the forestay was not really loaded any alteration in course taken by the autopilot while I dealt with the situation could lead to a dismasting. I went forward now to assess the situation and found that the stainless steel stemhead fitting which acts not just as the forestay chainplate but also is the attachment point for my bowsprit was entirely destroyed. I had to pull my bowsprit free from the mangled bits of metal and lash it down on deck still rigged. I sat on the foredeck for a moment with no sails up thinking that my Transat was about to be essentially over and I would have to divert course to the Cape Verde islands to make repairs and maybe continue on. The dark feeling that came over me is entirely indescribable, after pushing so hard for days and keeping pace with boats that in all rights should be faster in those conditions it was all for naught.

The various pieces of the broken stemhead fitting after taking the mast down in Salvador

I ran another halyard down to my inner forestay chainplate to make sure that my rig was secure and sadly went about reporting my problem to the accompaniment boats via vhf and pushed the green button on my tracking beacon to notify the race organizers that I had a problem on board but was safe and not yet in need of assistance. After this I collapsed down below on a pile of spinnakers exhausted beyond belief both mentally and physically from the experience and slept for almost 2 hours. I climbed back on deck to the grey light of dawn feeling marginally better and proceeded to devise a repair to, at the very least, make it safely to the Cape Verde islands still almost 400 miles away. The only thing that was left on deck was a through bolted stainless plate wrapping forward around the bow with absolutely nothing to attach to. The only strong attachment point left in the front of the boat was where the bobstay (holds the bowsprit down) attached to the bow of the boat way down at the waterline. I jammed my body through the bow pulpit and managed to pull a piece of 6mm vectran through this fitting and led it back up to the deck. I was amazingly able to use this vectran strop to get the forestay attached back to the boat and properly tensioned with a little lashing slipped between what was left of the stemhead fitting and the deck to keep the whole thing in place on the bow. I cautiously hoisted my main and solent while making sure that the whole thing remained stable and began to clean up the mess that was left behind from the incident. My spirits lifted significantly as the boat began to sail again and I started to think about whether there was anything I could do to get the bowsprit attached to the front of the boat again. I was doing the math in my head and sailing to the Cape Verdes without the use of spinnakers would enlarge my current deficit on the fleet to the point where I would be entirely out of the race. With a bit of ingenuity and a whole lot of struggling I was somehow able to get the bowsprit set again just merely resting against the plate of the stemhead fitting left on the bow and lashed in place so that it did not fall off the bow when not loaded in compression. By the time I had a spinnaker flying again I had lost about 50 miles in less then a day on most of the fleet.

The front of my boat after the repairs with the bowsprit set again

I was thrilled to have a spinnaker up again but it was difficult mentally to have broken something so major with still 2000 miles to go in the race. I was now facing the rest of the Atlantic with a repair that although seemed to be holding I was not yet 100% confident in. My only chance to stop if my repair began to fail would be the Cape Verde islands, now some 300 miles south of me, after which there is over 1000 miles of ocean before getting close to the coast of South America. I decided that I would keep pushing, although within reason considering the boat’s condition, and assess the situation as I neared the Cape Verdes. I kept a close eye on all my lashings and kept pressing hard with a spinnaker as the conditions moderated a bit to more stable trade winds from the strong conditions we were experiencing close to the African coast. I was now in touch with my friends Craig Horsfield and Keith Willis on the vhf, they were both racing series boats and had caught up while I was making repairs, and having them to chat with did a lot to keep my spirits up at a time when things weren’t looking so great. As I was approaching the Cape Verdes towards sunset on the 11th of October I already knew the answer to the question I had been pondering…I was going to continue on without stopping and hope that I could not just reach Brazil but continue racing with my current repairs. I sailed through the Cape Verde archipelago in the dark of night with a spinnaker up as the nearest island off to leeward loomed out of the darkness as if I could reach out and touch it. I spent almost all of that night stuck to the helm with my spinnaker up steering the boat in the gusty, shifty conditions created south of the island’s wind acceleration zones as I watched the last land I would see for 10 days disappear behind me.

So after 21 days 18 hours 6 minutes 45 seconds I am the first American, 22nd prototype and 36th overall of 85 boats in the 3100 mile second leg of the Mini Transat. Just a quick update before I get some much deserved sleep and drink a few capairinhas with my friends and family and other sailors.

I went at the leg with a mentality of pushing as hard as I personally could and finding the true limits of what my old boat is capable of. I found these limits on the sooner side…

On the 10th of October after having been sailing downwind in the Northeast trade winds for several days at high rates of speed my stemhead fitting failed. This is a critical piece of the boat on the bow that both the forestay and bowsprit attach to. I am extremely lucky to have come away with it still possessing both an intact mast and bowsprit. I at first was entirely gutted and thought I would have to stop in the Cape Verdes. After about 12 hours of solid work I was able to fashion a rigging to support the headstay leading down to the attachment point for the bobstay and had set the bowsprit again tentatively resting against the bow of the boat and lashed in place. This was able to work with only minor mishaps for the next 2000 miles although I did lose quite a bit in the process of completing repairs.

I was able to catch up a bit to the rest of the fleet with a good doldrums crossing and then coming out of the doldrums was taking a western route skirting a squall line when I started to get into true southeast trade winds. As I hardened up on port tack with all my water ballast on, all my gear stacked and 1 reef in the mainsail I was pleased to see that I was laying the mark with some in hand. Shortly afterward I heard a loud bang and looked up to see my mast bending wildly and my port D2 shroud swinging around with what was left of a failed end fitting still attached to it. I had to take down the main and spend 4-5 hours sailing due west under only jib while I went up the rig twice securing a temporary shroud.

I am absolutely ecstatic to have finished the race without having to stop and feel like I pushed my boat right to it’s limits although I personally feel like I had a lot more in me that had no outlet. It is an experience that is hard to explain in words having just sailed across the Atlantic Ocean alone in a 21ft sailboat and I have a huge amount of thanks to owe all my sponsors and supporters who made this possible.

Off to enjoy some much deserved R&R here in Salvador, Brazil and reflect on the last month of sailing and the years of work that led up to it.

The start of the 3100 mile second leg to Brazil is tomorrow at 1400 local time. We are currently looking at sailing upwind for several days before having to cross a large windless area of high pressure and then FINALLY getting into the northeast trades. This could be one of the most interesting Transats yet tactically. Wish me luck and follow the tracker on the Transat website here.

The first leg of the Transat was a windy downwind affair that probably would have seen a new record for the course had the leaders not parked up in an area of high pressure not far from Madeira. My goal for the first leg was to sail conservatively and finish without a large time deficit on the top 10 boats regardless of my actual position and to above all not break anything in the 30kts forecasted for the third and fourth day of the race. I started the race in a good position and was taking things conservatively as planned for the crossing of the Bay of Biscay in what quickly built to a gusty 20kts of breeze. The night after rounding Cape Finisterre the wind had built to around 30kts with a steep following sea and the pilot was struggling to keep control of the boat even without a spinnaker while I attempted to sleep and eat. Just before dark the pilot drove the boat into an accidental gybe at the bottom of a wave just as I was leaping onto deck in an attempt to prevent it. The shock from the gybe was quite sudden and I was pleased to find nothing broken as I got the boat sorted and back on course, now committed to not leave the helm except when absolutely necessary.

A passing fishing boat in the rough conditions near Finisterre…before the wind really built

Shortly after this incident I was steering and as I surfed down a large wave the main stalled and then while filling again with a pop ripped nearly 1 meter of luff track off of the mast just where the head of the sail was lying with two reefs in. I immediately entered crisis management mode and was lucky to be able to get the mainsail down without an issue. I can only imagine that the damage was originally caused by the crash gybe a few moments before but didn’t become apparent until this moment. It being dark now I had to sail the entire night with only a jib and then climbed the rig in the morning, while it was still blowing 30kts, and tying myself to the mast to keep from swinging around went to work repairing my problem. After about 30 minutes of smearing epoxy around and getting the track back into place I had nothing to do but wait for the glue to dry. This was probably the most difficult part of the race for me as I sat down below poking the left over epoxy every 15 minutes seeing if it had cured yet. By evening the wind was laying down and the epoxy was mostly cured so I cautiously hoisted the mainsail and after 24 hours sailing with only a jib was thankfully off again at full speed. Needless to say this put a serious kink in my plan of sailing a bit conservatively and arriving in Madeira without any major problems.

The damaged luff track in the morning just before climbing the rig

It’s hard to believe that I have already been here in Madeira for nearly two weeks and the start of the 2nd leg is only two days away. I have been able to repair my mast and add additional reinforcements to the luff track to ensure that there will not be any problems during the grueling 3100 mile 2nd leg. The days spent here in Madeira during this stopover have been a wonderful experience with the 83 skippers that finished the first leg all milling around swapping stories and working away preparing for the true Transatlantic leg that is about to begin. Along with my mast climb in 30kts and breaking waves there were a number of amazing stories from the first leg. A good friend Craig Horsfield hit a large sea creature at 15kts while surfing down a wave and ripped his rudder hardware right out of the back of his boat leaving a gaping hole on one side and forcing him to make a stop in Portugal. Another skipper had issues with his masthead spinnaker halyard which led to him climbing to the top of his mast while the boat was broached with his big kite up and cutting the kite free. The best story of all though didn’t come out until several days after we arrived when a skipper dived on his boat to find shark bites in his keel.

Mini Transat fleet in Madeira

Thanks to the help of my father here in Madeira I am entirely prepared several days before the start and have had lots of time to study a rather interesting weather scenario that is presenting itself for our second leg. The second leg of the Mini Transat accounts for roughly 75% of the entire race and presents an opportunity for massive gains, or losses, to be made within the rankings. I am determined to climb through the rankings a bit and make a generally better showing than I did in the first leg. From the looks of the current forecast we will unfortunately be sailing upwind for several days before crossing a ridge of high pressure (little to no wind) before finally entering the northeast trades and getting the normal downwind conditions expected on this course. At this point I am chomping at the bit to get going already. This leg is an entirely different sort of race than the first leg being 3 times as long and dealing with a huge range of weather situations and I am really looking forward to a seriously long race like this and trying to take as much time as I possibly can out of the boats currently in front of me. I find it amazing still how much I learn about myself and offshore racing each time I participate in a long solo offshore race and I am determined to show all the folks back home what I’m really capable of in the next few weeks as I race to Brazil.

So I don’t have the time to write a full update at the moment, just got into Funchal this afternoon, but wanted to fill people in if they are wondering what happened out there. I had a good start and everything was going well for my strategy of taking it easy for the first couple days and then pressing hard after we got through the gale we were all expecting on the third day. On the evening of the 16th in 30-35 kts and large breaking waves my autopilot crash gybed the boat and shortly afterward my mainsail luff track began to part from the mast. I immediately had to take down the sail and it being dark could not begin to execute repairs until dawn. At first light on the 17th I climbed the rig (still blowing 30) and epoxied the luff track back to the mast in a messy but effective repair. By the time the epoxy cured and I was going again I had been sailing with only a jib for about 24 hours. Needless to say this led to a great time loss on the fleet and was a very hard thing mentally to deal with. I will be making all necessary repairs here in Funchal to ensure that I am 100 percent ready to go out and sail hard with no concerns during this next leg, which just so happens to be the leg that really counts it being roughly 75% of the overall race.

More later…

The docks here in La Rochelle are absolutely buzzing with activity as 85 boats finish their final preparations for the Mini Transat. There is kind of a general feeling of not believing that this is really IT after so many years of work to get here. I have finished all of my numerous inspections and safety checks and the boat is just about ready. I need to give the interior a really good clean and pack my food and personal gear but besides that I could push off the dock tomorrow. It is pretty interesting to see the range of boats and also the varying levels of preparation. There are some skippers that are barely visible on the docks, only showing their faces to handle their safety inspections, and others working from sunrise to sunset doing everything from splicing new lines to structural composite repairs. At this point I am just itching to go and spending a lot of time analyzing weather and going through my boat again and again and again to make sure I haven’t missed any loose ends. Make sure to follow the race via the tracker at http://www.transat650.org/en/home.html

So my boat is in the water and starting to feel more and more ready to start the Transat. With the help of my sponsor Yale Cordage I have replaced all the vital pieces of rigging on the boat with brand new lines and upgraded many things to a bit larger sizes. I have been going through my electronics and charging systems with a fine tooth comb as it is one of the pieces that is pretty much impossible to fix while underway. With the help of my friend Craig Horsfield, who is also doing the Transat, I was able to do an advanced calibration on my autopilot that involved being towed around by a powerboat for some time out in the bay. I plan on leaving tomorrow for La Rochelle, the start port of the Transat, and plan on taking the long route there. I really just want to sail for a bit, get into the rhythm of life on the boat again and feel like everything on the boat is doing exactly as it should.

In the midst of all my boat preparation my trusty Peugot Boxer van decided to stop starting for me and I spent the better part of a day troubleshooting electrical systems before narrowing down the problem. I was able to rig a temporary solution involving a direct wire from the battery to the fuel pump with a switch under the hood that had to be turned on to start the car and then when switched off actually stopped the engine.

I actually permanently fixed this problem the next day but it was pretty funny to be driving around and have to pop the hood in order to turn the engine off for a day. The things we do when were on a budget.

I have been back in Lorient for about a week now doing my final preparations leading up to the start of the Mini Transat on September 13th. More importantly I have to have the boat in La Rochelle on the 2nd of September and will be locked into the dock for safety inspections so all my major projects must be completed and tested well before then. France literally just goes on vacation during August and have been working away on my boat with only 2 or 3 other people around in the expanses of the Sub Base (I think I’ve explained before the depressing, decaying concrete buildings that compromise the base).

I have been doing lots of bottom work, unfortunately for me, as my boat has to be in the water for over two months and I also want to be able to give it a proper cleaning and wetsanding at the dock before the start of each of the legs. I don’t think there is a job on the boat that I really hate much more than wetsanding bottom paint. It’s all part of the game though and at this point I intend to do everything as well as I possibly can. I did get a chance to watch the utterly impressive maxi trimaran Banque Populaire 5 come out of the water fresh from demolishing the transatlantic crossing record. I have to include some photos just because in my personal opinion this is the most advanced sailing craft currently in existence.

The rig cants side to side powered by those hydraulic rams buried in the hull. This photo is great because you get an idea of the scale of things from the person holding the fender.

This photo is just really really cool. Like I said before…extremely impressive.