“Pete! Peeeeeeeeete!!!!”

I slowly wake up, my subconscious already aware that something is different in the motion of the boat. Is that my name I can hear, being carried away in the wind?  Or am I dreaming?

“PEEEEEEEEETE!!”  

Now I’m sure it’s Jen’s voice, calling me. Faint, but unmistakable.

 “I’m coming!” I yell, as I disentangle myself from the sheet and try to climb up over the lee cloth that’s pinning me into the bunk.  Normally I’m glad it’s there, keeping me secure against the lurching and heeling motion, but now it seems like it’s deliberately trying to hold me back.

 Jen calls again, unable to hear my response above the wind, which I’m now aware is howling up on deck.

 “I’M COMING”  - this time she hears me, as I burst out of the Pullman cabin, and bang straight into the heads door opposite.  Making your way around the boat when you’re offshore requires a carefully syncopated dance with the waves.  You need to be alert and in tune with the motion.  I’m not, and I’ll have the bruise in the morning to prove it.

 I stagger through the saloon like a drunk at closing time, and make my way up the steps into the cockpit.

 It’s mayhem up there.   

 When I went off watch at 1am, the winds were calm, and although we knew there was more wind coming during the night, we discussed that it would be straightforward for Jen to put some reefs in the Genoa by herself if it happened during her watch.  I was due back on at 5am, and we figured that was the time to put the mainsail away (in contrast to the Genoa, the mainsail is a two-person job).

 Clearly Neptune had other ideas.

 A squall had blown through, taking the wind from a comfortable 10-12 knots, up to 27-30 knots. Jen had felt it coming, and was half way through rolling away the Genoa when it smashed into the boat, spinning us around, and back winding the mainsail and mizzen in an uncontrolled gybe as the autopilot was temporarily overwhelmed.

 What could have been a rig-damaging impact of two booms crashing across the boat was avoided by the preventers we’d rigged on both booms for just this situation.  In doing their job, however they had created a new problem – we were being pushed hard over by the wind, with no easy way to get the wind out of the sails and bring the boat upright.  

 And in the meantime, the Genoa, which Jen was half way through furling, was now flapping mercilessly in the gusts, creating an almighty racket and putting the sail in danger of being shredded.

 We were in no immediate danger of hitting anything – we were over 200 miles from land in any direction in the middle of the Gulf of Carpentaria, half way between Cape York and Darwin.  So we just needed to get the boat back under control and reduce sail area, quickly enough to prevent damage to the sails, the boat or ourselves.

 Jen is securely clipped on, a tether connecting her lifejacket/harness to a strong point on the boat.  I, on the other had, am standing in my underpants, taking in the scene and trying to make sense of the snakepit of lines that have ended up all over the cockpit as Jen tried to control three sails and a steering wheel at the same time.

 The eerie glow from the red cockpit light is not helping my sleep-befuddled mind absorb the scene and decide what to do next.

 “Grab the sheet and help me finish furling the Genoa” commands Jen.  It’s just what I need in the moment, as the synapses in my brain are not yet firing quickly enough to make any decisions.  

 Once the Genoa is away, and the worst of the noise has abated, Jen suggests I go and grab my lifejacket and harness, which is just inside the saloon.  But I know it will take me 2 or 3 minutes to get it on, and I’m worried that the sails are going to be damaged if we take that long.  

 Our cockpit is deep and secure enough that I know I’ll be fine if I stay in the middle of the maelstrom, and let Jen do any of the tasks that require us to leave the cockpit, so I focus instead on trying to bring us back on course, and in so doing, get the wind back on the correct side of the mizzen and main sails.

 I grab the wheel, disengage the errant autopilot, and wrench the helm over to starboard to try and gybe the boat.  

 Nothing happens.

 There’s too much force in the back-winded sails for the rudder to be able to counteract them.  

 I start the engine, checking for any lines over the side before putting it in gear - the last thing we need is to add to our woes with a rope around the prop.

 Jen starts to ease the mainsheet and preventer, which in combination with the help from the engine, brings the bow around.  But now I have a new problem. I’m still only half awake, we’re being smashed by the wind and some fairly confused seas, and I just can’t work out which way we’re meant to be headed. By the time I start to get my head around it, I’ve turned too far, and the boat has spun through 270 degrees and put us almost back where we started.

 I try and correct our course again, and we spin too far the other way.  Is it me, or is our steering damaged?  I feel some panic rising, as I remember when we lost our steering half way to Lord Howe Island two years ago.  Back then we were only 80 miles from the coast, but it would be a much bigger issue out here in the middle of nowhere.

 But no, the problem is not so much a broken boat as a befuddled mind, and I decide the best thing to do is get all the sails down, get the boat back on course, and start again.

 We’re a well-oiled machine, Jen and I, and even though I’m dazed, confused and in my underwear in a huge squall at 3 in the morning, we quickly get the sails squared away and the boat back on course.

 “Are we good” I ask Jen, already half way down the steps towards my bunk.   “All good” she yells cheerily, stopping only to offer me an extra half hour off watch to compensate for my broken sleep.

 I’m back on watch at 5.30am. The wind has abated, and there’s no sign, either in the seas or on the boat, of the mayhem from just a few hours before.

 I eat an apple, watching the sun rise while dolphins play in our bow wake.

 “What a life”, I think.