There's no moon this evening, no stars, and no coastline in sight. The only light is from the saloon hatch and the red light of my head torch, which we've Scotch-taped to the cockpit roof so we can see the compass.
David has dinner in motion, but the wind has finally come around from behind us, so our goosewing construction has to come down before we can eat. There's a little turbulence in the water. It's certainly more than enough for me to be holding on damn tight as David and I edge out to the bow without any safety gear whatsoever.
We've gotten the genoa off from the end of the twelve foot spinnaker pole - a pole pivoted on the mast and rigged to hold the farthest tip of the genoa out in the widest position. I'm out front-centre, crouched down, so as to minimise the chances of being thrown off the boat by a rogue wave. I'm waiting for the pole to be eased down so I can catch it and help pin it in place, up against the mast.
I must have lost concentration for a second, because there's a shout, and I look up to catch sight of the twelve foot steel pole swinging wildly across the bow, around the mast, making a beeline for my head. With about a foot between my face and the spinnaker's business end, I duck my head to narrowly avoid the swipe. It passes back over me to port and comes back under control. As we steady ourselves and move to catch the pole, it's had enough, breaks clean off at the mount and comes crashing down.
When David and I return to the cockpit, Jean-Pierre is at the helm and jokes something in French. Manu translates: "He says, you risked your life for the manouevure."
Terrific.
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