RORC Caribbean 600 postscript

Date: 02/03/2010
Courtesy of Michael Boyd:
The RORC website records the full results of the race (www.rorc.orc) and Tim Wright has taken many beautiful photos (www.photoaction.com).
We should complete the story of 40 Degrees by relaying the events following our arrival in Falmouth Harbour and our respective returns to colder and wetter climates.
First, though, two other events that we omitted to mention in our log took place at the beginning and end of our stay. During our practice, we rounded Montserrat, getting close to the still smouldering volcano. Its Georgian era capital city of Plymouth was destroyed and two-thirds of the island's population were forced to flee abroad by an eruption of the previously dormant Soufriere Hills volcano that began on July 18, 1995. The eruption continues today on a much reduced scale but the lava still smokes and one can smell the acrid fumes when downwind of the summit. An exclusion zone extending from the south coast of the island north has been imposed because of an increase in the size of the existing volcanic dome. The extent of the lava flow is awesome.
Montserrat’s ash can sometimes reach Antigua – we were told that, ten days before, “day had turned into night” there. As if this wasn’t enough, there had been a minor earthquake in St. John’s, Antigua’s capital, during our absence.
Later between Antigua and Guadeloupe, just before we retired, the eerie quiet of the totally still sea was broken by the sinister sound of the unmistakeable whine of an unlit, high-powered, petrol-driven, speed boat. We felt a chill, speculating on its passage, cargo and crew in this place at this time (0200)...
Eventually ashore, we were greeted at the dock with some cold cans of beer by Miranda’s beau, Halvard, later supplemented by the RORC’s gift of a further two dozen bottles of beer and a bottle of rum. We took our extremely necessary showers, feasted on Libby’s delicious chicken kebab and crashed out for a couple of hours before going to the, necessarily short, prize-giving. Charlie Pitcher, who we had modestly sponsored, had completed his epic rowing race across the Atlantic in 55 days and was the presenter of the prizes at a ceremony handled adroitly by RORC’s CEO, Eddie Warden Owen. Claude Thelier & John Burnie's ORMA 60 trimaran, Region Guadeloupe took line honours and Carl Kwok’s Farr 80, Beau Geste was the IRC Overall Winner. The ever-elegant AYC Commodore, Elizabeth Jordan, made a persuasive plea for support for the new Antigua Sailing Academy and the winners spoke well – Kwok touching about how much the race meant to him and Burnie doing a brilliant impression of a Frenchman seeking to avenge Nelson’s conquests in the region.
In our class, Tradition Guadeloupe will persist, alone, for a further 30 hours and win the event at 0130 on Sunday morning – a fully deserved award for dogged persistence and six days at sea.
At the prize-giving we kept our promise to Siobhan Geraghty, RORC’s membership secretary, and sought new recruits to the club amongst the fetching 30-somethings of Lloyds Insurance Yacht Club.
After prize-giving we had a quiet dinner at Trappas with Charlie Pitcher’s faithful team - Kate and Richard Power, and the statuesque digital chronicler of Charlie’s heroic campaign, Olivia Chenevix-Trench.
Our walk home enabled us to accompany a world-renowned yachting journalist on his jaunty return to the Pineapple House and we passed out soon afterwards to the sound of his gentle snoring.
That same snoring woke us up several hours later for our final day in Antigua – a relatively relaxed one, with a notable exception. It began with a hike along the goat trail at English Harbour and a good chat about possible future offshore adventures, a swim at Pigeon Beach, a breakfast at the ever-generous Libby’s and a quick visit to the West side of the island through the rain forest and past the pineapple estate to see Jolly Harbour and the new hotel/spa development at Sugar Ridge.
Back at the Yacht Club, we watched England v Ireland from Twickenham in a bar where the Irish formed a decided but vocal minority. An exciting game in poor conditions saw England with all the possession/territory and Ireland with all the glory, Tommy Bowe’s rapier cutting past Wilkinson and straight through English hearts.
From there to a delicious lunch in the exquisite Harmony Hall, overlooking the Dragons racing in Brown’s Bay and being entertained by Halvard’s stories of his fellow French legends – Tabarly, Moitessier, Morvan, Plisson and so on.
We part from Halvard and Miranda at the unprepossessing petrol and car wash station, bequeathing to her our liquid prizes and asking that she toast our health at sunset each day as they steer 40 Degrees to the Azores and on to France. 2000 miles must be passed before they can paint the image of our sturdy boat on the harbour wall at Horta.
Our destiny is the so-called real world – airport check-in, security, the squalor of Gatwick, rain, fog, cold...
Our polymath, John Patrick is now back at his academy in Cambridge studying how the human brain can manipulate artificial limbs; Niall has restored the FTSE to strength after one day in Canary Wharf; and Michael has commuted by bicycle along the frozen Avon and Kennet canal to his office in Wiltshire, a slow puncture adding to his misery. The hazy moon is our only link with the magical ocean - same earth, different world.
Before going to bed we think of our mermaid and her gentle giant as they inch 40 Degrees Eastwards across the wide Atlantic.
At night, we wake with a start from our bachelor beds ready to go on watch but there are no stars on the ceiling ten feet above. What will guide us now? Outside the window, we find the steadying moon and two new stars. Perhaps these are Sean Haughey and Phyllis Knight, taken to heaven during our week at sea. They will be our guides. May they rest in peace!
But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Kahlil Gibran