Race 1 - Day 17
Crew Diary - Race 1, Day 17: Liverpool to Punta del Este
05 September
Race 1 Day 17
By Lizi Adams and Helen Trundle
UNICEF'S ODE* TO THE DOLDRUMS.
Part 1: Eulogy to Sleep
We speak on behalf of our recently deceased friend 'Sleep'. You will recall with fondness Sleep, known variously and affectionately to you as 'Kip', 'Shut Eye', 'Doss', 'Stick some zs on the ceiling', and to those in the country, 'Calling the cows home'.
Life ebbed out of our dear Sleep as the Doldrums' cloying heat and airless nights and days and nights began to bite. We grasped every last opportunity to hold on to you but the memories are already fading and we are learning to live without you.
Sleep sadly gave up the ghost just over a week ago after a rapid and unexpected decline. Oh Sleep. What gratitude we have for those precious times we spent together before you left us. Occasional late mornings, afternoons after lazy lunches, train and plane journeys with you at our sides. But it is the long nights we spent together, innings of eight hours or more of undisturbed, peaceful Kip we miss the most.
Blissful hours in your company, resting our weary bodies, seeking solace in your warm and heavy arms. Cocooned by an 180 degree, carefully selected mattress whose tension met our needs, whose kingssize cover absorbed clumsily spilt cups of tea, and whose Egyptian cotton sheets and pillow cases covered tog defined duvets and memory foam pillows. Those memories of Sleep, sinking heads into your fluffed pillow shoulder, wearing our favourite pyjamas, accompanied by a glass of thirst-quenching water, a pile of reading materials, glowing lamplight and a gentle rouse morning alarm in place. Sleep, you served us well - a loyal and dependable friend.
What now without you? In our loss, we are forced to relearn all you taught us. Bunks at 45 degrees, mattresses failing to hold even the slimmest shoulders, lee-cloths cradling bodies, sleeping bags discarded and silk liners too warm upon the skin. Pillows, deflated, slide behind us, or reflect heat back onto our faces. Pyjamas discarded for various stages of undress. Scantily clad, sweat-drenched bodies toss restlessly. Those with the wisdom to bring cooling fans juggle desire for air with some heady risks. Uncharged batteries, bumps in the night from dislodged charging packs, or already matted hair being wrapped around the fan's propeller denying bunk exit for agonising moments.
And Sleep let us remember your silence. Now gone. In vain we stick silicon blobs and builders' foam earplugs into our ears to protect against the clunks and donks of the engine, grinders, winches, water-maker, the heavy footed, wonky floorboards clunking, people chewing granola and ghostly night-time hammering in the heads.
For some the loss of Sleep is hard to bear. They crawl to the sail locker, slump on the saloon benches lying at right angles against the galley wall, or drag themselves, gasping, to the deck seeking solace in the folds of a staysail or yankee (while adhering of course to all safety protocol).
Memories of Sleep come at last as the fair Unicef comforts us with her rocking.
Alas, the respite is brief. Five short minutes later we are awoken for our watches with the dreaded tap on the arm, our first memory on waking that of the loss of Sleep. But life goes on. We disentangle ourselves from damp merino pants, twisted sports bras, smelly socks and fans to being our next watch.
Oh Sleep, how we rue your passing. Had we our time with you again, we would never again take you for granted, complain about stolen duvets, star-fishing or weak bladders. Rest in peace.
*There has been some discussion on Unicef about exactly what an ode should comprise. A poem? Prose? Who cares, and we don't have Google to check. Enjoy ;)