Don't Stop Me Now

Land ho! We've finally got the islands in sight. Even with the binoculars, it's hard to find the distant lump of slightly different tone from the sky, but it's there. It's a relief because for the past few days, Jean-Pierre has been calling "Two-forty, Two-forty" in his thick French, thick smokers accent each time he's felt Valentina waiver slightly from that course. Moreover, the thirty-five year old steel compass never quite matches the reading from the handheld GPS.

The fishing line turns up a fine afternoon snack, and the boys and I finally seem to have the feeling that we'll survive this trip. It's just a case of laying about the boat and soaking up the sun now.

Every so often, a turtle drifts by us. A tiny bird lands at the stern and hops between the fuels tanks and assorted crap to evade a pair of significantly larger birds. He's lucked out to find us way out here. His chest is visibly pounding and there's fear in his eyes. He wouldn't have lasted much longer and the hunters are continuing to circle. He's with us for a good twenty minutes before they get bored and he makes an escape.

As more islands appear and grow large, the ocean is all but perfectly still. As the sun starts making it's way down to set behind the islands, the water reflects like a mirror of liquid mercury. It's incredible to see in comparison to the horrors of previous nights. With no wind, we've fired up the engine and are noisily chugging across the otherwise serene setting.

Photo: David Lustenberger

We're doing well, about four hours from coming alongside Lanzarote, and enjoying it. Then, without warning, the constant whirring of the old Renault cuts out. It's not the first time, so no great surprise. Usually Jean-Pierre will disappear into the engine cave for twenty minutes and kick start her somehow. Not this time though. Apparently, she's finally given up the ghost. We're now estimating something closer to twelve windless hours to Lanzarote.