Black Velvet

Photo: David Lustenberger

For the past two-hundred-and-forty-odd miles we're been trailing a fifty metre fishing line with varying plastic or metal lures. Today, in the afternoon, I've woken up from my afternoon nap to find we've finally caught something. I don't know what exactly she is, but she's a shiny pretty thing of worthwhile size.

She tastes fantastic. Thomas gutted her and Jean-Pierre left her best bits in little more than lemon for an hour or two.

Photo: David Lustenberger

It's a clear night and Thomas and I are on deck for the midnight shift. We're just two or three of miles from what looks like a big coastal town. So much so, Thomas is getting a little tetchy each time I let Valentina slip ever so slightly off course.

The sea is jet black and seems to be trying to move in all directions at once, which makes for a rich and thick texture in the surface of the swells. Along the streaming line of moonlight across the sea directly behind us, the accentuated detail of the texture looks almost like we're sailing on a fluid layer of velvet.

Over little more than five minutes, the wind has kicked up from a casual ten or fifteen knots or so, to something closer to thirty - we're not equipped with electronic nor mechanical measure of wind speed. All of a sudden, Valentina is being thrown all about the sea like a rag doll. I'm fighting as hard as I can to hold our course with the compass and the moon behind us. By both measures, we're being heaved and spun through thirty degrees either side with each motion of the water and wind. This isn't good.

With each gust, our genoa sounds a discomforting and disconcerting clap. The sea is looking deeply menacing. I'm vividly imagining Neptune's hand rising up out of the waves to take me. Thomas hasn't said anything. When I look at him hopefully for some reassurance, he doesn't so much as look back at me. By my amatuerish expectation, if this wind gets much more fierce, then either something will break, or we'll capsize.

We both know the genoa has to come down. We also both know, that crawling out onto bow to bring it down is terrifying. We've got no jackstays, no tethers, nor lifejackets. If someone goes over, they'll die. In my mind, I want to go out there and pull that bastard sail down, because I know I have to. But, I'm not brave enough to volunteer.

I'm still doing my best to hold the course and waiting quietly for instruction. Thomas and I still haven't made eye contact, much less said a word to each other. There's only the quiet exclamation of "shit" as we stare at the suffering genoa.

Before we're forced to make the horrible decision, we granted mercy by both the wind and sea. It settles as quickly as it started and neither of us mention that twenty minutes again.