It’s midnight, and I’m hanging upside down in the bilges, diesel-polluted seawater sloshing under my nose, trying to pull a greased pig through the locker hole. Or, more accurately, a dry bag containing enough food to feed 20 tired, wet, hungry people for a day. The outside is anything but dry, and I’m hoping the pasta, biscuits and tins within have survived. The boat falls off a wave, and the bag (along with my head) slams against the side. There go the biscuits.
Each night, two of our round-the-world yacht-racing crew go through this rigmarole — the start of mother watch. They will convert the contents of the sack into three square meals, served, not on the Royal Navy’s cornered plates, made to wedge on a rocking table, but in dog bowls, prized for their non-slip bases and ease of tipping over the side if you’re too seasick to eat.
Cooking is a challenge or near impossible, depending on the weather.
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