Race 2 - Day 13
Crew Diary - Race 2 Day 13: Punta del Este to Cape Town
17 October

Hello sailors!

I realize you're not all sailors and after reading these blogs probably some of you are pretty glad you're not, but I think that that's quite a lovely greeting.

All good here on the good ship GREAT Britain, the sun is shining and I've just finished kneading 4 beautiful loaves of bread that I am now hoping have fundamentally different properties than normal bread and will rise in Arctic temperatures. (Sidenote to all you closeted home-makers out there: If we can bake bread and cakes and clean toilets until they sparkle at 3am and 45 degree of heel and 5m waves, so can YOU!!!)

Since you've probably heard a lot about the cold and the wet, I thought I would take the opportunity to go into a little bit of detail about what this means for what we wear on board. Now you might be thinking, "How bad can it be?" The best way I can describe it if you don't happen to have an ocean you can quickly paddle out on to try out the conditions is by comparing to skiing in the winter:

Imagine you're going up in the chairlift, cold wind in your face, your face ideally completely submerged in your jacket. And all of a sudden the chairlift stops, and it's one of the worst windy days you've ever seen. So you're stuck there for 4-6 hours, bouncing up and down in heavy winds, snow in your face. And as a bonus, someone keeps emptying big buckets of icy cold water over you about every 15 minutes, completely drenching you. Now try dressing for that.

Fortunately, clothing technology has improved somewhat compared to a couple of years ago, when Sir Robin Knox Johnston “probably did the circumnavigation in a wooly sweater” (that's what John Olsen said). So our outer layers, be it our most fashionable banana suits (read: yellow dry suits), or our red foulies are mostly quite waterproof. If they're breathable is another discussion, I have come to learn that 'breathable' is a very loose term.

Underneath, I have adopted a solid 4 layer system: Underwear (merino, for minimum smell, and maximum breathability again), long underwear, bikeshorts to have some extra padding for sitting on a cold, wet deck (despite these, it's still horribly cold and my bum's getting pretty sore, but I firmly cling to the concept), and then trousers that Gareth calls my 'incontinence pants', which are basically waterproof rain pants to trap in more heat and keep out more water. On top, it's a similar situation with merino wool long shirt, fleece, and a vest. Then the foulie top. To top if off, I accessorise with some waterpoof sealskin socks (waterproof socks are absolutely essential because either through a massive wave that comes from below or above, or condensation, your boots will end up damp, just ask Antonia!), a buff to keep my neck warm, a beanie that I have started living in and some waterproof sealskin gloves. Waterproof gloves are a lie by the way, so each watch I am faced with the fun decision if I would like freezing hands without gloves, or if I would prefer to have icy hands in my sopping wet gloves, which provide a bit more protection but icier temperatures.

The other crew members seem to do this layering and dressing also with varying degrees of intensity, although there definitely are variations in how cold people get.

Phil Blakey seems to always just wear a merino wool t-shirt under his foulies. Yet he complains of the cold. I will investigate. John Buckmann I think has packed for a Continental European River Cruise rather than a stint in the South Atlantic (think light layers and shorts). Have heard no complaints from him yet though, he is a trooper. As for the other guys on the smelly side of the corridor (yes, we have a smelly corridor, and a not-so smelly one), I'm not quite sure as I only see them emerge all dressed up because I try to avoid that part of the ship. Pip is full-on layer queen, already with her midlayer salopettes, and about 4 ½ fleeces that she wears every watch. She says that she has excelled especially at her sock layering system so far. And Thomas I think cracked the code for waterproof gloves, he wears these orange rubber fishing gloves that look like they have sheep skin on the inside. I will look for the sheep-skin-angling-store when we get to Cape Town.

So there you have it, the lengths we go through to stay warm. Now we take most of this on and off about 6 times a day (beginning and end of up to three watches), which you can imagine is a whole lot of effort. I think we're getting faster though, especially at the end of watch when a warm meal and a warm bunk await. But by the time you've gotten through the process of putting your foulies or drysuit on, which evokes feelings of claustrophobia and has some crew members make very weird sounds as they try to shut a zipper that is stuck, or wedge their head through the tight seals (“just breathe through it, like childbirth”), and you FINALLY stumble up on deck through the catflap that is our companionway hatch, you're already exhausted.

However, ideally you're warm and will retain some degree of that over the next 4-6 hours. Mind you, if there are sails to be changed, all that layering quickly becomes a hot mess, and you wish you could take some of it off. But oh, the effort of a mid-watch wardrobe change and prospect of being cold again soon usually stops us from that.

I do very much support Pip's invention of a dry suit with headphones or speakers in them, because all those layers and being bundled up so only your eyes are visible are not very conducive to on-deck communication. I should maybe learn how to morse-code through blinking. That would keep me occupied for a solid watch and a half.

That's it for today, lots of love from the good ship, Luise with currently very dry socks and wearing only a light layer of a fleece