After sailing the atlantic from Liverpool, via La Rochelle to Salvador, I awoke with a realisation of what I had acheived.
I wrote the following blog.
So here we are in Salvador.
I awake at 05:02 and remind myself.
The street outside the hotel is quiet but in the distance I hear the rumble of life returning to the Latin streets.
We finished a creditable forth – something we could never have dreamed of two (or was it three) weeks ago whilst in the still waters of the Canaries. With nil wind. And there, the feeble attempts at throwing cheese at the sails failed to have any impact.
Yes, there were the low times during our journey and yes there was many an unspoken quiet moment in ones bunk when squeezed eyes formed tiny globes of water as friends and families were missed. Yet, these eyes did the same in different mood as we crossed the finish line on the beautiful Brazilian waters and we embraced each other to celebrate an exhilarating comeback.
At one stage, the schedules placed Liverpool08 tenth out of ten and our hearts sank. The seeds of determination which had already germinated long before we left the Albert Dock grew through our veins, muscles and sinews and revived the 14 fighters on board.
We had been told that the race was 90% good times and 10% bad and indeed, during the race this may have been a fair reflection. But the human mind has the wonderful ability to supress the negative and enhance the positive and as we crossed the finish line the dark times of blown spinnakers, rough seas and chapped buttocks faded as the realisation of what we had achieved, rippled through the boat.
So now we wander through Salvador where the fascinating Portuguese Colonial architecture spreads down to the lapping Atlantic waters and the sound of Samba pervades the air. Street vendors offer mangoes, pastries and the widest array of merchandise one could ever imagine. The shops are filled with music as Neil Francis and I search for shaving foam and Sudocrem (or the South American equivalent) and one finds ones butt swinging to the Latin rhythm which beats out of the washing machine shop.
So now I have a greater challenge ahead of me - one which I doubt I will conclude. My search begins so I can tick a special box. I will tick it with my favourite pen. Or with a quill. Or with Steph´s pink and tinsel jelly pen. Or perhaps all three. My search is for the questionnaire which asks, “...Have you sailed the Atlantic?...”.
Perhaps I will never find it. Perhaps I will have to be content with recalling my story in a pub. Or in a kitchen at a party. Or perhaps I shall tell the tale quite quietly, in years to come, to my grandchildren.
But I can tick that box.
I have jumped on a big plastic boat and helped hoist and trim sails to make the wind – the wind alone – to blow us from one pin-prick on a map to another over 4,000 miles away.
Yes, I have crossed the Atlantic.
I have crossed the Atlantic.
Tick.
Ian Tomo
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Nova Scotian dreamin'.....
Letter to the people of Sydney, Nova Scotia....
Liverpool Clipper in Sydney
During June this year I was one of the crew on the Liverpool Clipper, calling in to Sydney in the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race.
I had previously sailed on the first leg of the race from Liverpool, England to Salvador, Brazil - some 4000 miles - then rejoined the race on 19 May 2008 in Jamaica, sailing home to Liverpool, England on the final leg - leg 7.
Being from Liverpool I was proud to be on the Liverpool Clipper sailing to my home port. But being from Liverpool, I also love to travel and to meet people and to visit many places. And yes Jamaica had it's warmth and intrigue and New York had its excitement and allure; indeed, Halifax had its Chowder and chequered history and Cork had its Guinness and charm. But, for me the visit to Sydney was by far the best port visit of them all.
However, I may not volunteered that observation on our arrival - we had ploughed through rough seas for many, many hours before we drew along side the quay in Sydney all soaking wet, cold and miserable. The rough seas had taken their toll on the crew and we were ready to rest in a warm, preferably dry bed. You will remember the battering we got off the coast of Canada those long hours and how ready we all were for some form of comfort.
Sydney, on that very, very cold evening was hardly inviting and the dark skies and pinching winds made the prospect of coming ashore less than attractive. My damp clothes clung to me and although I wore many layers, I felt the cold Canadian airs as if I were bare.
After a hot meal in the warm pavilion I was tired and weary. I was ready to sleep. And I was ready for a comfortable bed.
That night I slept like a baby and awoke to a very different, a very friendly, a very beautiful Sydney, far from the one were we had landed only a few hours previously.
The sun was out, the birds were singing and we enjoyed a hot shower, tea and toast. Bliss!!
As the hours passed, our time in Sydney grew better and better. Our host, Marilyn, took us shopping, sight-seeing and showed us the best places in town to relax and to meet people. We were treated so well, signed autographs for children and given gifts as we walked through the shops and streets.
The first Sydney we had encountered had gone, and a warm, exciting, friendly one emerged through the many differing people, young and old, tall and short, sober and not-so, that we met.
Events were laid on for us and we embraced this hospitality heartily. We talked to as many people as we could and got involved with as many activities as we dared. The whole D250 promotion opened our eyes to some political realities which exist for you (as they do for us) and the lovely ladies working hard at these events gained our admiration. Was it Kate and Susan?
The day we left was special. The children and what seemed like the whole town turned out to se us off. We were led to the boats and were so proud as the crowds waited and waited and waited until we had thrown the mooring lines ashore, waved everyone off and eased ourselves out into the water.
It was hard for us to work out a way to repay all the hospitality shown to us. It was hard for us to think of a way to pay back all the warmth demonstrated by so many people across the town. It was hard for us all, focussed on the reality of our race, to demonstrate our gratitude for the kindness shown during our short stay in Sydney.
Then the race started.
As we tacked to port and to starboard and to port; as I looked around at the yachts weaving in and out; as each crew battled for the best position; I listened. I listened and I heard. We all heard.
We heard the crowds.
We heard the cheering.
We heard the cries for this boat for that boat.
We saw the waving children jumping up and down with excitement.
And then it dawned on me as it will have dawned on many of the crews of all the clippers.
The spectacle of ten, 32 tonne, 68ft yachts dancing across the waters was our offering, was our gesture, was our meagre contribution to this wonderful town and its wonderful, hospitable people.
This town, which had opened up its arms to us all; which had warmed us and fed us and given us a dry, dry bed; which had entertained us and listened to our stories.
This was our little contribution to the fine hospitality shown by the people of Sydney to the sea-wary crews of the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race.
I hope it was enough.
Liverpool Clipper in Sydney
During June this year I was one of the crew on the Liverpool Clipper, calling in to Sydney in the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race.
I had previously sailed on the first leg of the race from Liverpool, England to Salvador, Brazil - some 4000 miles - then rejoined the race on 19 May 2008 in Jamaica, sailing home to Liverpool, England on the final leg - leg 7.
Being from Liverpool I was proud to be on the Liverpool Clipper sailing to my home port. But being from Liverpool, I also love to travel and to meet people and to visit many places. And yes Jamaica had it's warmth and intrigue and New York had its excitement and allure; indeed, Halifax had its Chowder and chequered history and Cork had its Guinness and charm. But, for me the visit to Sydney was by far the best port visit of them all.
However, I may not volunteered that observation on our arrival - we had ploughed through rough seas for many, many hours before we drew along side the quay in Sydney all soaking wet, cold and miserable. The rough seas had taken their toll on the crew and we were ready to rest in a warm, preferably dry bed. You will remember the battering we got off the coast of Canada those long hours and how ready we all were for some form of comfort.
Sydney, on that very, very cold evening was hardly inviting and the dark skies and pinching winds made the prospect of coming ashore less than attractive. My damp clothes clung to me and although I wore many layers, I felt the cold Canadian airs as if I were bare.
After a hot meal in the warm pavilion I was tired and weary. I was ready to sleep. And I was ready for a comfortable bed.
That night I slept like a baby and awoke to a very different, a very friendly, a very beautiful Sydney, far from the one were we had landed only a few hours previously.
The sun was out, the birds were singing and we enjoyed a hot shower, tea and toast. Bliss!!
As the hours passed, our time in Sydney grew better and better. Our host, Marilyn, took us shopping, sight-seeing and showed us the best places in town to relax and to meet people. We were treated so well, signed autographs for children and given gifts as we walked through the shops and streets.
The first Sydney we had encountered had gone, and a warm, exciting, friendly one emerged through the many differing people, young and old, tall and short, sober and not-so, that we met.
Events were laid on for us and we embraced this hospitality heartily. We talked to as many people as we could and got involved with as many activities as we dared. The whole D250 promotion opened our eyes to some political realities which exist for you (as they do for us) and the lovely ladies working hard at these events gained our admiration. Was it Kate and Susan?
The day we left was special. The children and what seemed like the whole town turned out to se us off. We were led to the boats and were so proud as the crowds waited and waited and waited until we had thrown the mooring lines ashore, waved everyone off and eased ourselves out into the water.
It was hard for us to work out a way to repay all the hospitality shown to us. It was hard for us to think of a way to pay back all the warmth demonstrated by so many people across the town. It was hard for us all, focussed on the reality of our race, to demonstrate our gratitude for the kindness shown during our short stay in Sydney.
Then the race started.
As we tacked to port and to starboard and to port; as I looked around at the yachts weaving in and out; as each crew battled for the best position; I listened. I listened and I heard. We all heard.
We heard the crowds.
We heard the cheering.
We heard the cries for this boat for that boat.
We saw the waving children jumping up and down with excitement.
And then it dawned on me as it will have dawned on many of the crews of all the clippers.
The spectacle of ten, 32 tonne, 68ft yachts dancing across the waters was our offering, was our gesture, was our meagre contribution to this wonderful town and its wonderful, hospitable people.
This town, which had opened up its arms to us all; which had warmed us and fed us and given us a dry, dry bed; which had entertained us and listened to our stories.
This was our little contribution to the fine hospitality shown by the people of Sydney to the sea-wary crews of the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race.
I hope it was enough.
Going home
This is the final blog posted during the final leg on the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race
Quiet Contemplation
As we recuperate in Cork and prepare to leave for Liverpool, it seems to me only yesterday when we were a hundred miles off Newfoundland when late one night I spent an hour on iceberg watch.
A few odds and sods had been spotted on radar which had caused a number of brows to get furrowed and I thus was volunteered to deposit myself on the bow to keep lookout. And there I stood - with my left DuBarry some 4 inches lower than my right, to compensate for the heeling boat; our first line of protection against the semi-hidden demons which had, in the dark and distant past, sunken much greater vessels than ours.
As the bow below me sliced neatly through the Atlantic waters at 9½ knots, I observed the scene before me.
The night sky yielded no star or moonlight and its dark grey met the darker grey of the sea some five or six miles away in a foggy union. The occasional flicker of dull hazy light caught my eye in the water ahead and to both sides, as startled jelly fish agitated phosphorescence in fright as our yacht moved forward.
The sea was typical Atlantic scene with a massive lumbering swell of six, perhaps eight, perhaps ten football pitches in size but with little or no white water. And only occasionally did the bow cast up any residue to wet my boots or oil-skins. Behind me in the semi-dark, sat the other five or six members of our Watch in quiet conversation or contemplation. I could just make out the outline of helmsman Mike Thomas whose face and shoulders were dimly lit by the backlight of the control panel and next to him the outline of Shaun McGlue on the mainsheet.
Immediately next to me were the two giant headsails beautifully arched in perfect unison; both precisely trimmed to drive forward our 35 tonne, 68ft yacht. The wind rushing between them in a perfect Ventura, made a roar which was only just matched by the waters breaking on the bow.
My eyes continued to search the gloom ahead to spot the wisps of breaking waves which signal the presence of ice bergs. My instructions to Mike had been made very clear; if I raised my left arm, he would swing the boat to Port; if I raised my right arm, he would swing the boat to Starboard; if I was to jump overboard, he was to follow. My scrutiny revealed nothing and soon a signal was passed forward that the radar was now clear.
But I remained on the bow for a short time longer. I remained to absorb the moment. My eyes could see very little but other senses sharpened and soaked-up my surroundings. The biting wind which failed to cut through my seven layers gnawed at my exposed face from hairline to lips – a pinching sensation which would leave my skin red and raw. My gloveless hands clutched the cold chrome of the bow-pulpit and my knuckles turned white with cold and with the ride. The air was cold and clean and fresh and my lips tasted of salt as they had done since I re-joined the boat in May.
And what I would give to share that moment with those who mean so much to me. There are no superlatives available, nor will there ever be any crafted, that go anywhere near capturing or describing such a feeling.
The moment was magical.
And suddenly I was gone. Suddenly I was some two thousand miles away. Suddenly I was with my wife Jan who has made so many sacrifices for me to live this dream and had foregone two years of holidays to accommodate it; I was there with my daughter Liz in Germany and her boyfriend Heinz as they both study to enhance their careers; I was there with my daughter Steph as she enters the new world of driving lessons and wrestles with exam time-tables; I was there with my sons David and Andrew in Sydney, Australia as they work hard through the week and party harder over the weekends; I was there with my mum and dad, Kit and John who so proudly watched my brother Andy leave and return on Liverpool08 in the 05/06 race and will soon repeat the experience with me; I was there with my father-in-law Stan, who has followed my journey by latitude and longitude with the help of Brother-in-law Phil; and mother-in-law Edna who was denied seeing me off in Liverpool through illness but whose tenacity and determination will see her there for my return.
I was there with all these people who are special to me and with all my friends and work colleagues who have played a part, however small, in me being there and so supportive to me in my adventure.
And then, as quickly as I had gone, I was back. I was back in my solitude. I was back on the bow of the graceful, the elegant, the majestic Liverpool08 pushing on through the north Atlantic towards home. I was back in my solitude but far from alone.
And I was going home.
Soon we will all be home. We on Liverpool08 and all the crews of all the Clippers will go home and will attempt to tell their tales of being force-fed tuna pasta bake and drinking ´Tang; boasting of their prowess in clutching onto an unfeasibly small porcelain bowl at a 30 degree angle in a force 8 gale yet still retain a modicum of dignity; and tell of new friendships, some which may shortly fade and others which will last a considerable time.
Gone will be the excitement of port visits; gone will be the relentlessness of ocean crossings and the endurance of 3:00 am sail changes and gone will be a thousand new experiences.
But what will remain for all of us will be the magical memories to attempt to share with those we meet. And in time to come – whether it be weeks or months or years – when ensconced in the normality of life, I will close my eyes and travel that two thousand miles and return to my place on the bow where the Atlantic winds watered my eyes.
Ian Tomo
...and far away.
Second blog posted on the Clipper website during the final leg of the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race
7 June 2008
Lows and highs and buttock barometer
The race from New York to Nova Scotia ended this morning at 08:00 hrs.
To say we are gutted with finishing ninth goes without saying.
To say our position does not represent the magnitude of effort put in by all the Liverpool08 crew is an obvious claim; indeed, it did not reflect the truer picture as we looked around us as the seconds ticked away and seven boats lay within painfully close reach.
Twenty-four hours earlier we had anticipated a more fruitful outcome as the thick fog, which had encompassed us since the quayside in New Your finally lifted after 48 hours of almost nil visibility to reveal Glasgow, Scotland with Style a mere 200 meters away to our port side. We knew from the schedules that morning that we lay level forth with them so as we pulled away we felt a podium position was certainly a possible.
Anyone who has sailed the ocean knows full well that nothing is certain. Conditions change dramatically often over a short space of time. What happens in one area can be completely different only a short distance away. And as we debated over a sail change we saw Glasgow, Scotland with Style switch to a Windseeker and slowly but surely edge forward and gently pull away. We also made the change but a little too late and to compound our situation, we sailed into a wind-hole, caused by a low pressure hanging over us. There, we gracefully turned 180 degrees in the water and sat as the Scots and three, four, five other boats sailed off into the distance. And we looked on, helpless.
It's as simple as that.
Over the next 24 hours we made up almost all the distance we lost but tick, tick, tick, time ran out.
We will not dwell on this but will recharge our batteries in Nova Scotia.
To move onto life on the boat, which I am sure the discerning reader will also find of interest, I should like to share with you a snapshot of daily routine.
Food, of which we have to consume large quantities (of course) to sustain our energy, is surprisingly good. The practice of rotating the ´mothers´ is in itself a built-in surety of trying to beat the quality and quantity of previous mothers efforts so the end user (us) continue to enjoy more imaginative culinary delights. Casting my mind back to the first leg of the race when on one occasion mouth sized globules of Spam were the order of the day, I shudder. The combination of gravity and swallowing were no match for the human-body’s ability to propel food upwards and outwards, particularly aboard a rolling boat, and the accompanying tepid mushroom sauce merely acted as a lubricant to aid such action.
Now aboard Liverpool08 we enjoy such delights as chicken curry, egg fried rice with spicy sausage and tuna pasta bake. Bread making has become almost perfect, and certainly a passion, and the quality and range of fruit teas is both surprising yet a little disturbing.
As temperatures drop so the layers go on and the bags of washing destined for Nova Scotian laundrettes grow. Conditions below deck are no longer unbearably warm and we´ve all begun to get inside sleeping bags instead of on top. My fear of enclosed spaces has made using the zip somewhat of a challenge but the cold wisps of air entering my nether regions have encouraged me to face my fears and the sleeping bag is now firmly closed.
Doctor Roy (Stevens) has been kept busy tending to bumped head (me), knocked elbow (me) and grazed arm (me). He has also educated us all on which bit of the human body does what, and what we could chop off (or gouge out) should we wish to resort to extreme dieting. We all now have dotted lines were our gall bladders are.
In concluding, I have been urged, nay begged, by family and friends to refrain from including any mention of my buttocks in future blogs. Both my daughters, Liz in Germany and Steph back home, either in an effort to defend any standing I may have left in the local community or to selfishly protect themselves from personal ridicule, have been steadfast in their resolve for me to curb reference to the said cheeks. I will respect their request and cease forthwith.
However. My main role as bow-man (bow as in dog, not as in arrow) means my buttocks play an important function aboard this ocean racing yacht that cannot be ignored.
As I spend a great deal of my time on deck standing at the bow (the pointy bit at the front) facing backwards, I am in a fine, nay privileged position to disseminate weather and sea temperature information to the rest of my nautical colleagues. Indeed, with buttocks thrust ahead of any other part of the boat, I am first at hand to act as a human barometer, testing all that the High Seas can throw at us. The joys of the Caribbean whose warm waters I enjoyed on many occasions have, however, been replaced by the somewhat icy seas of the Atlantic and as such, my comfortable smiles have been replaced by a tearful grimace.
So, much to the envy of my ship mates, I am first at hand to convey sea-state data with a variety of facial expressions accompanied by sounds ranging from quiet purring to high-pitched squeal.
Despite my offer to exchange places with friends aboard, to a man (and woman) they are happy and even somewhat enthusiastic for me to continue my privileged role.
So, as we motor the last few miles into port, we will soon arrive in Nova Scotia and enjoy the hospitality of our Canadian cousins. We will try to put behind us the disappointment of the last few hours and rebuild our strength, resolve and Liverpudlian spirit and we prepare for the race to Cork.
Ian Tomo
7 June 2008
Lows and highs and buttock barometer
The race from New York to Nova Scotia ended this morning at 08:00 hrs.
To say we are gutted with finishing ninth goes without saying.
To say our position does not represent the magnitude of effort put in by all the Liverpool08 crew is an obvious claim; indeed, it did not reflect the truer picture as we looked around us as the seconds ticked away and seven boats lay within painfully close reach.
Twenty-four hours earlier we had anticipated a more fruitful outcome as the thick fog, which had encompassed us since the quayside in New Your finally lifted after 48 hours of almost nil visibility to reveal Glasgow, Scotland with Style a mere 200 meters away to our port side. We knew from the schedules that morning that we lay level forth with them so as we pulled away we felt a podium position was certainly a possible.
Anyone who has sailed the ocean knows full well that nothing is certain. Conditions change dramatically often over a short space of time. What happens in one area can be completely different only a short distance away. And as we debated over a sail change we saw Glasgow, Scotland with Style switch to a Windseeker and slowly but surely edge forward and gently pull away. We also made the change but a little too late and to compound our situation, we sailed into a wind-hole, caused by a low pressure hanging over us. There, we gracefully turned 180 degrees in the water and sat as the Scots and three, four, five other boats sailed off into the distance. And we looked on, helpless.
It's as simple as that.
Over the next 24 hours we made up almost all the distance we lost but tick, tick, tick, time ran out.
We will not dwell on this but will recharge our batteries in Nova Scotia.
To move onto life on the boat, which I am sure the discerning reader will also find of interest, I should like to share with you a snapshot of daily routine.
Food, of which we have to consume large quantities (of course) to sustain our energy, is surprisingly good. The practice of rotating the ´mothers´ is in itself a built-in surety of trying to beat the quality and quantity of previous mothers efforts so the end user (us) continue to enjoy more imaginative culinary delights. Casting my mind back to the first leg of the race when on one occasion mouth sized globules of Spam were the order of the day, I shudder. The combination of gravity and swallowing were no match for the human-body’s ability to propel food upwards and outwards, particularly aboard a rolling boat, and the accompanying tepid mushroom sauce merely acted as a lubricant to aid such action.
Now aboard Liverpool08 we enjoy such delights as chicken curry, egg fried rice with spicy sausage and tuna pasta bake. Bread making has become almost perfect, and certainly a passion, and the quality and range of fruit teas is both surprising yet a little disturbing.
As temperatures drop so the layers go on and the bags of washing destined for Nova Scotian laundrettes grow. Conditions below deck are no longer unbearably warm and we´ve all begun to get inside sleeping bags instead of on top. My fear of enclosed spaces has made using the zip somewhat of a challenge but the cold wisps of air entering my nether regions have encouraged me to face my fears and the sleeping bag is now firmly closed.
Doctor Roy (Stevens) has been kept busy tending to bumped head (me), knocked elbow (me) and grazed arm (me). He has also educated us all on which bit of the human body does what, and what we could chop off (or gouge out) should we wish to resort to extreme dieting. We all now have dotted lines were our gall bladders are.
In concluding, I have been urged, nay begged, by family and friends to refrain from including any mention of my buttocks in future blogs. Both my daughters, Liz in Germany and Steph back home, either in an effort to defend any standing I may have left in the local community or to selfishly protect themselves from personal ridicule, have been steadfast in their resolve for me to curb reference to the said cheeks. I will respect their request and cease forthwith.
However. My main role as bow-man (bow as in dog, not as in arrow) means my buttocks play an important function aboard this ocean racing yacht that cannot be ignored.
As I spend a great deal of my time on deck standing at the bow (the pointy bit at the front) facing backwards, I am in a fine, nay privileged position to disseminate weather and sea temperature information to the rest of my nautical colleagues. Indeed, with buttocks thrust ahead of any other part of the boat, I am first at hand to act as a human barometer, testing all that the High Seas can throw at us. The joys of the Caribbean whose warm waters I enjoyed on many occasions have, however, been replaced by the somewhat icy seas of the Atlantic and as such, my comfortable smiles have been replaced by a tearful grimace.
So, much to the envy of my ship mates, I am first at hand to convey sea-state data with a variety of facial expressions accompanied by sounds ranging from quiet purring to high-pitched squeal.
Despite my offer to exchange places with friends aboard, to a man (and woman) they are happy and even somewhat enthusiastic for me to continue my privileged role.
So, as we motor the last few miles into port, we will soon arrive in Nova Scotia and enjoy the hospitality of our Canadian cousins. We will try to put behind us the disappointment of the last few hours and rebuild our strength, resolve and Liverpudlian spirit and we prepare for the race to Cork.
Ian Tomo
Over the sea...
When sailing in the final leg of the round the world clipper race, I posted blogs from the boat on the Clipper website.
This was the first.
27 May 2008
Bermuda Triangle Strikes Again
In September 2007 I stepped onto Liverpool08 with a wealth of training but relatively little ocean sailing experience and within the hour we were ravaged by the ferocity of the storms which frequent Liverpool Bay.
Six weeks later I stepped off Liverpool08 onto the shores of Brazil with an Atlantic crossing tucked under my belt – a belt into which I had poked a couple of extra holes.
A week later, after enjoying the Salvadorian hospitality, the crew who had become my surrogate family, left for another Atlantic crossing to Durban whilst I flew on to Rio, then home to share my encounters and look forward to returning for Leg 7.
So, Leg 7 - the final leg – which was always a hundred years away is here. A few tears were shed as final phone calls to family were made, and loved ones were waved to on the shore at Port Antonio. And as Jamaica sank below the horizon we began to focus on the task ahead aboard Liverpool08.
And now I sit in the Nav station prodding at a keyboard, on a yacht I knew so well seven months ago which still fits like an old, favourite pair of slippers. And smells the same.
We are currently somewhere off the coast of Florida having navigated the sea between Cuba and Haiti. The start to Leg 7 saw eight yachts go further inland with us and Nova Scotia take the more direct route into the Bermuda Triangle – such is the bold approach of Liverpool08. And we now see the horizon to our port side peppered with the small white triangles of the remainder of the fleet – so we are currently well positioned.
The characteristics of this final leg are one of a number of shorter races. That 24 day crossing from La Rochelle to Salvador was an epic and won’t be matched by anything here, but stops at New York, Nova Scotia and Cork will provide a fragmented but more enjoyable approach to ocean racing than featured previously.
Old crusty seadogs are joined on this leg by Shaun McGlue (also leg 3), Tony Loftus, the effervescent Peter Liggett, JonPaul Lowles, Roy Stevens and me (also leg 1) who all sampled the Caribbean hospitality before boarding in Jamaica.
The sailing started light but soon we were dealing with 35 knot winds during which we carried out the routine actions of reefing and sail changes.
It was during one of these that we crashed into a particularly deep trough and, being on the bow, I was unceremoniously propelled up into the air then down onto my backside into the pulpit. I momentarily contemplated my position as the warm Atlantic water jetted up to part my buttocks and the cold steel of the forestay rammed into my crotch reminding myself that there could be slightly more relaxing things I could be doing at that very moment such as walking the dogs by meadow and stream. But my humble colleagues made it quite clear (with both gestures and words) that changing the sail was a little more important than sympathetic pleasantries.
But worse was to come.
The mysterious Bermuda Triangle – that harbinger of doom, that purveyor of tragedy, that spectre of the sinister - had also stuck. A ghostly hand had stolen from the depths of the ocean to pluck my size 10 deck shoes from both feet. Fortuitously, however, it was kind enough to leave both legs in place so I continued with no more than a little bruising of my pride. And left nad.
So, our final quest has begun and we set off once again into the great unknown and into the mouth of Atlantic. The temperatures will begin to drop, layers will increase and the warmth, the heat we have enjoyed here will soon be a distant memory as will that of the mosquitoes which feasted upon the soft flesh we used to have around our ankles back in Jamaica.
So, the race goes on to New York…….
….barefoot.
Ian Tomo
This was the first.
27 May 2008
Bermuda Triangle Strikes Again
In September 2007 I stepped onto Liverpool08 with a wealth of training but relatively little ocean sailing experience and within the hour we were ravaged by the ferocity of the storms which frequent Liverpool Bay.
Six weeks later I stepped off Liverpool08 onto the shores of Brazil with an Atlantic crossing tucked under my belt – a belt into which I had poked a couple of extra holes.
A week later, after enjoying the Salvadorian hospitality, the crew who had become my surrogate family, left for another Atlantic crossing to Durban whilst I flew on to Rio, then home to share my encounters and look forward to returning for Leg 7.
So, Leg 7 - the final leg – which was always a hundred years away is here. A few tears were shed as final phone calls to family were made, and loved ones were waved to on the shore at Port Antonio. And as Jamaica sank below the horizon we began to focus on the task ahead aboard Liverpool08.
And now I sit in the Nav station prodding at a keyboard, on a yacht I knew so well seven months ago which still fits like an old, favourite pair of slippers. And smells the same.
We are currently somewhere off the coast of Florida having navigated the sea between Cuba and Haiti. The start to Leg 7 saw eight yachts go further inland with us and Nova Scotia take the more direct route into the Bermuda Triangle – such is the bold approach of Liverpool08. And we now see the horizon to our port side peppered with the small white triangles of the remainder of the fleet – so we are currently well positioned.
The characteristics of this final leg are one of a number of shorter races. That 24 day crossing from La Rochelle to Salvador was an epic and won’t be matched by anything here, but stops at New York, Nova Scotia and Cork will provide a fragmented but more enjoyable approach to ocean racing than featured previously.
Old crusty seadogs are joined on this leg by Shaun McGlue (also leg 3), Tony Loftus, the effervescent Peter Liggett, JonPaul Lowles, Roy Stevens and me (also leg 1) who all sampled the Caribbean hospitality before boarding in Jamaica.
The sailing started light but soon we were dealing with 35 knot winds during which we carried out the routine actions of reefing and sail changes.
It was during one of these that we crashed into a particularly deep trough and, being on the bow, I was unceremoniously propelled up into the air then down onto my backside into the pulpit. I momentarily contemplated my position as the warm Atlantic water jetted up to part my buttocks and the cold steel of the forestay rammed into my crotch reminding myself that there could be slightly more relaxing things I could be doing at that very moment such as walking the dogs by meadow and stream. But my humble colleagues made it quite clear (with both gestures and words) that changing the sail was a little more important than sympathetic pleasantries.
But worse was to come.
The mysterious Bermuda Triangle – that harbinger of doom, that purveyor of tragedy, that spectre of the sinister - had also stuck. A ghostly hand had stolen from the depths of the ocean to pluck my size 10 deck shoes from both feet. Fortuitously, however, it was kind enough to leave both legs in place so I continued with no more than a little bruising of my pride. And left nad.
So, our final quest has begun and we set off once again into the great unknown and into the mouth of Atlantic. The temperatures will begin to drop, layers will increase and the warmth, the heat we have enjoyed here will soon be a distant memory as will that of the mosquitoes which feasted upon the soft flesh we used to have around our ankles back in Jamaica.
So, the race goes on to New York…….
….barefoot.
Ian Tomo
Friday, 29 February 2008
Time Travel
So, I committed (to myself) to posting at least one blog per month.
.....and a combination of dogged determination and good fortune puts me in front of this keyboard with minutes to spare.
Dogged determination because I generally deliver challenges I set myself; and good fortune as I happen to be blessed with the extra day which each leap year brings to enable me to achieve this deadline.
This very week, being driven bonkers by the only tape (The Corrs) I have in the car (yes tape) being played over and over and over again, I took to playing a another I found whilst mooching around in the garage last weekend. The tape was entitled, "Stephanie, aged 5" written in black felt pen in the hand of my eldest daughter Liz, referring to my youngest daughter - of course - Steph.
So, with mug of tea clutched between my knees and temperature control set just right, I embarked on the short journey to my destination that day.
However, the journey was a little further than I thought as an infant voice took me back through the years to 1996. A five year old Stephanie was singing Spice Girls songs and spelling out her words as she wrote little messages, aided by her big sister.
Kicking 'k'. 'A' as in apple.
And in the background the screams of delight from Andrew as Patrik Berger hit the back of the net to take Liverpool to a 4-2 lead were a joy and I saw his strawberry blond hair as he leaped up and down. David with his tuneless whistle reminded me of the growing lanky lad and the grown-up big sis Liz with her guiding support always in the background with a certain decorum - until of course Patrik's goal when all hell let loose.
Yes, momentarily I was there. I was there alongside Stephanie helping her spell. I was along side her singing her songs and I was there along side her watching her draw.
I was with Andrew watching the football. I was there kicking a ball at David practicing his goalkeeping. I was there with Liz and her premature maturity.
And the trigger to shed a tear?
The voices? No. The singing? No. The hubbub of long gone family life? No.
No. The trigger to shed a tear last Wednesday morning as I clicked off the tape and drained my cup, was the knowledge that I couldn't be there.
That bit of time locked away in some plastic and electronic ribbon is inaccessible.
How I really wanted to be there. How I wanted to live that life again with my children who were so full of life. How I felt I missed those magic moments and wished so badly for them to be back.
So, here I am now with moments to go before March thinking about those magic days.
But aren't they here now? Don't I have this new time to enjoy my family as they are?
Yes, those early days are gone but new days are with me now and that little snapshot of the past has reminded me to make the most of now.
So I will.
.....and a combination of dogged determination and good fortune puts me in front of this keyboard with minutes to spare.
Dogged determination because I generally deliver challenges I set myself; and good fortune as I happen to be blessed with the extra day which each leap year brings to enable me to achieve this deadline.
This very week, being driven bonkers by the only tape (The Corrs) I have in the car (yes tape) being played over and over and over again, I took to playing a another I found whilst mooching around in the garage last weekend. The tape was entitled, "Stephanie, aged 5" written in black felt pen in the hand of my eldest daughter Liz, referring to my youngest daughter - of course - Steph.
So, with mug of tea clutched between my knees and temperature control set just right, I embarked on the short journey to my destination that day.
However, the journey was a little further than I thought as an infant voice took me back through the years to 1996. A five year old Stephanie was singing Spice Girls songs and spelling out her words as she wrote little messages, aided by her big sister.
Kicking 'k'. 'A' as in apple.
And in the background the screams of delight from Andrew as Patrik Berger hit the back of the net to take Liverpool to a 4-2 lead were a joy and I saw his strawberry blond hair as he leaped up and down. David with his tuneless whistle reminded me of the growing lanky lad and the grown-up big sis Liz with her guiding support always in the background with a certain decorum - until of course Patrik's goal when all hell let loose.
Yes, momentarily I was there. I was there alongside Stephanie helping her spell. I was along side her singing her songs and I was there along side her watching her draw.
I was with Andrew watching the football. I was there kicking a ball at David practicing his goalkeeping. I was there with Liz and her premature maturity.
And the trigger to shed a tear?
The voices? No. The singing? No. The hubbub of long gone family life? No.
No. The trigger to shed a tear last Wednesday morning as I clicked off the tape and drained my cup, was the knowledge that I couldn't be there.
That bit of time locked away in some plastic and electronic ribbon is inaccessible.
How I really wanted to be there. How I wanted to live that life again with my children who were so full of life. How I felt I missed those magic moments and wished so badly for them to be back.
So, here I am now with moments to go before March thinking about those magic days.
But aren't they here now? Don't I have this new time to enjoy my family as they are?
Yes, those early days are gone but new days are with me now and that little snapshot of the past has reminded me to make the most of now.
So I will.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Objectives
So somebody said to me yesterday...."what drives you, money?...."
What a crap thing to say to someone.
What sort of world do we live in that materialism guides the way we think; what sort of place do we live in that money more often than not leads the way in our assessment of other people and what should we make of an environment in which money does drive people?
But isn't that the way it is?
How can I sit here in my detached house with clothes on my back and money in the bank and spout on about this; how do I feel I have the authority to talk down materialistic values whilst I enjoy relative comfort; what gives me the right to say what values others should aspire to when I've already sought out financial security?
That's not what I am saying.
Yes, I have chased the pound in the past and lost a few in the process and been obsessed from time to time in maximising income. But seeking what?
Seeking hapiness sounds such a corny statement but isn't that what we all want - hapiness, security, contentedness???
All too often we chase the wrong thing - we chase the pound instead of chasing what it gets us; we chase careers instead of protecting our families; we ever-expand our networking groups at the cost of warming to our children.
I spent all my twenties working hard trying to create a better life for my family yet failed to notice them grow up; I spent my thirties building a professional career to acheive financial security for my children but failed to hear their voices; I spent my forties making a better home only to watch my children leave.
Yes, I exagerate and yes I am a little too hard on myself but there is a line of truth that runs through this story which also threads its way through a thousand others.
Our career aspirations often take over our lives and become the objective when the real objective is to focus on our family.
We are lured into seeking out kudos, status and high personal profiles which is ideal for massaging egos but has the opposite effect on our relationship with our families.
Edward de Bono stated that when going from point A to point B we have to get past 'x' first. We hit x with hammers and picks and try to blow the damn thing up with dynamite. We stab it, we lift it, we push and we pull it, but all to no avail.
So, what should we do?
Try walking around it and go to B. Isn't that our objective?
As are our families.
What a crap thing to say to someone.
What sort of world do we live in that materialism guides the way we think; what sort of place do we live in that money more often than not leads the way in our assessment of other people and what should we make of an environment in which money does drive people?
But isn't that the way it is?
How can I sit here in my detached house with clothes on my back and money in the bank and spout on about this; how do I feel I have the authority to talk down materialistic values whilst I enjoy relative comfort; what gives me the right to say what values others should aspire to when I've already sought out financial security?
That's not what I am saying.
Yes, I have chased the pound in the past and lost a few in the process and been obsessed from time to time in maximising income. But seeking what?
Seeking hapiness sounds such a corny statement but isn't that what we all want - hapiness, security, contentedness???
All too often we chase the wrong thing - we chase the pound instead of chasing what it gets us; we chase careers instead of protecting our families; we ever-expand our networking groups at the cost of warming to our children.
I spent all my twenties working hard trying to create a better life for my family yet failed to notice them grow up; I spent my thirties building a professional career to acheive financial security for my children but failed to hear their voices; I spent my forties making a better home only to watch my children leave.
Yes, I exagerate and yes I am a little too hard on myself but there is a line of truth that runs through this story which also threads its way through a thousand others.
Our career aspirations often take over our lives and become the objective when the real objective is to focus on our family.
We are lured into seeking out kudos, status and high personal profiles which is ideal for massaging egos but has the opposite effect on our relationship with our families.
Edward de Bono stated that when going from point A to point B we have to get past 'x' first. We hit x with hammers and picks and try to blow the damn thing up with dynamite. We stab it, we lift it, we push and we pull it, but all to no avail.
So, what should we do?
Try walking around it and go to B. Isn't that our objective?
As are our families.
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