Four men on a raft: the daily rhythm of life at sea
At the age of 84, Anthony Smith is crossing the Atlantic on a raft. This week, he discusses the simple routine that has developed after 44 nights at sea.
"All the while we head slowly west"
Photo: ANTHONY SMITH
Now that we have experienced some 44 days – and nights – at sea, a pattern has been established. Each night watch lasts two-and-a-half hours, starting at 9.30pm (mid-Atlantic time) and ending at 7.30am, shortly after sunrise. Naturally we're interested in passing ships, but we've seen only four in the past five weeks, all in daytime. Night watch also has to adjust the sail (or the spar) if winds change direction or strength.
With dawn comes coffee or tea in vacuum mugs, which enable lips to get scalded long after pouring. Breakfast is at 10.30am or so. This is always cereal of which we have countless varieties. We marvel at those who have dreamt up so many ways, and names, for mixing grain and sugar.
Morning is a mad rush of doing things which would take one-tenth the time on land – washing (of self plus clothing); pegging the clothes out to dry; answering mail from loved ones, less-loved ones and bloggers wishing us well.
Lunch is simple. We slice a loaf, count the pieces, do the arithmetic to discover entitlement, and cover this allotment with a variety of spreads. We concoct assortments never known before: Nutella mixed with chutney and lemon curd goes down a treat; peanut butter drowned in jam and topped with olives or pickled onions is a near rival. We are amazed by our inventiveness and settle down to digest whatever miracle comes our way.
Different miracles then appear, such as shearwaters. They fly so excitingly, picking up speed from the waves, then cavorting exuberantly rather higher while looking for food. We wonder there is any to be found in the immensity around us, but they must know a thing or two, such as where land is at this breeding time of year. Occasionally we see a fish leap, presumably from danger underneath. We have the time to stand and stare, and do so avidly.
Or we sit and read, or sit and do nothing quite so active. Andy likes exercising his fingers on his guitar, David tinkering with guidance as need be, and John is constantly on the lookout for something new: he was the first to see our only whale. And he was the only one to see that colossal animal swim just beneath our raft.
All this inactivity is followed by the desire to watch the sunset. We sit or lie on the forward deck and watch the sun go down, roughly in the direction we are heading. Only when the spectacle is over do we return the few feet to our cabin and prepare for supper, the major meal of the day. With a base of potatoes, rice or pasta, the rest is a concoction formed from several tins. Whatever the ingredients, the mixture always goes down well.
After washing up, it is time for cards, an iPod rendering of Hancock, Yes, Minister or Fawlty Towers, or just talking until 9.30pm when the first night watch begins.
All the while we head slowly west. We have just done our first underwater repair, having found a piece of timber had broken. Otherwise our raft is stable. But we all realise it was put together by the four of us, an assortment of friends and various passers-by on the Canary island where we spent nine weeks.
Not one of these individuals had ever helped create a raft before. There was no trial run. Even the Titanic had trials at sea before the famous maiden voyage. Its captain was also called Smith, we remember.