Hi, and a big Merry Christmas to you!

I am surprised, thankful, and honoured that you've spent your time reading about our adventures. With so much social media bombarding people's senses and demanding their attention, it’s quite special to know that anyone would turn away from all that endorphin-rewarding noise to actually read.

So, hello, and thank you for joining me. Shall we begin?

Ai recently told me that I have an “adventurous spirit who seeks challenge, with a resilience to withstand its consequences; a reflective mind that must turn his sentiments into a story but uses dark humor to make the trauma bearable” Ai’s spelling not mine! (Bloody Yanks). :-)

Anyway, I feel I should begin with a confession.

Until recently, my nautical vocabulary was, to put it charitably, a work in progress. I had to look up the difference between halyards and sheets. So, if in the following tale of high-seas drama I refer to a ‘whatsit’ or a ‘thingamajig’, please, don’t shoot the storyteller. We’re all learning here.

Our story picks up in the Balearics, those sun-drenched jewels of the Mediterranean. We had just deposited our soon-to-be Atlantic crew, Danny and Vikki, back onto terra firma. The prospect of crossing an ocean, however, has a way of sharpening the mind. It whispers that perhaps you should practice crossing something smaller first. So, we did.

Our first leg was a delightful 57-mile jaunt from Mallorca to Ibiza. The sea was a shattered pane of polished glass, the wind a kindly push in (almost) the right direction. Sawasdeekat, our 2003 St Francis 48 catamaran, skimmed along at a sprightly 8.5 -9.5 knots, as if she knew a good anchorage and a cold drink awaited. We dropped the hook in what was formerly a small fishing village called Portinatx, and, as the sun bled into the horizon, it became a picture of perfect, postcard sailing.

This idyll, we would learn, was the sea lulling us into a false sense of security.

Our mission was Denia, a town once famous for making tin toys and now a tourist spot on the Spanish mainland. A 73-mile overnight passage. The reason? A man named Steve.

Steve is an electrical engineer, a wizard of watts and a saviour of sailors. We’d met him back in 2021 in Cartagena, and for two years, his voice had been a calm, knowledgeable presence over a crackling satellite connection. He happened to have a stash of lithium batteries going cheap, and Sawasdeekat’s 700Ah capacity was looking rather… modest. An upgrade to 1200Ah felt less like an improvement and more like a necessity. When Steve says he’ll even fit them for you, you go to Denia.

At 2am the passage began with a breathless calm. We unfurled our Code Zero sail (a magnificent, gossamer-thin thing designed for zephyrs and serene sunsets). It’s the sail you use when you want to whisper across the water. For a while, we did just that, ghosting along in the lee of Ibiza.

Then we left the island's protection.

It was as if we had sailed out of a lullaby and into a heavy metal concert. The glassy sheen of the water shattered into a chaos of knuckled, 3 and 4-metre waves that slammed into our beam. The boat transformed from a graceful swan into a bucking bronco. Plates, mugs, and anything not welded down grew lemming-like instincts and launched themselves onto the floor. And our beautiful, delicate Code Zero? It suddenly billowed and strained against a 20-knot wind like a butterfly in a hurricane.

We scrambled. Safety jackets on. We let out the stronger genoa in front of the Code Zero, trying to shield it. The plan was to furl the Code Zero away and hide it from the storm’s fury. The electric winch whirred. It failed. The sail was under such immense pressure that we ran out of furling line before the sail was fully wrapped. A section of it remained, flapping with a sound like a thousand gunshots, a frantic, ghostly apparition in the pitch black. We adjusted course and tried and failed a second time, a new plan was needed… and fast!

I knew it was living on borrowed time. It would tear itself to ribbons.

There was only one choice left: bring the whole thing down. Manually.

On a heaving deck. In the middle of the night. Sounds easy if you know the difference between a rope a halyard and a sheet.

I shouted to Pookie to join me at the front but we hadn’t yet fitted the safety lines for the Atlantic crossing. A detail that suddenly felt enormously significant. I kept low; Pookie, my sea-sick, not-terribly-athletic wife, crawled on her hands and knees. Her face, illuminated by the stark deck light, was a mask of determination. Her job was to lower the halyard - the rope that goes up the mast and holds the sail up (I looked it up). My job was to stand out front, catch the falling sail and wrestle it into submission.

Pookie lowered the rope. I leaned out over the crashing waves and churning black water; with the wind gusting at 25 knots, I grabbed the bottom of the sail. The boat pitched and yawed. I pulled with all my might, gathering the slick, wet, heavy fabric. Inch by inch it came further down. My hand found the sheet, the rope that controls the sail's angle, and I hauled on it. I was making slow but determined progress, dragging the rebellious sail onto the deck.

To say what happened next took me by surprise is the kind of understatement I might make over a pint later, for comic effect. In the moment, it was pure, unadulterated terror.

The rope jerked. I held fast. And then, the sail refilled.

Now, a 95sqm sail in a 20-25knot wind is VERY powerful. It didn't just tug; it lifted. It plucked me from the deck of the Sawasdeekat as if I were one of those green infantry soldiers that toddlers play with. One moment I was a sailor, the next I was a kite.

The black waves churned below me, a hungry maw. The instinct to not be thrown into that abyss was primal. I started to let go, hoping to slide back down the rope onto the deck. A wave of searing pain shot through my fingers as the rope whizzed through them, burning the skin raw. In agony I looked down at the receding deck, a tiny white island of hope in the angry black sea, and let go completely.

Splat.

I landed on the hard plastic transom between the trampolines. The world went black and silent.

I have no memory of those seconds. But Pookie does. She stood at the mast, frozen, still holding the halyard, her prayers like silent screams to the wind. The Code Zero flapped violently above her, the cloak of a nautical grim reaper come to claim its prize. Those agonising moments stretched into what felt like an eternity for her.

I woke. A throbbing, searing pain in my hand. A deeper, duller ache blooming in my knee. I rose to my feet, a little unsteady. "Wait here!" I shouted, and staggered carefully and slowly back to the cockpit.

Now at this point, I must confess. Jim, if you ever read this - I am sorry. I know you told me time and time again and now I really know what you meant when you said this to me - You were right, I needed gloves.

My brain, finally kicking into gear, also presented me with a brilliant, belated idea: “bring the sail down behind the genoa, in its wind shadow.” With the gloves addition this was a classic case of wisdom arriving precisely five minutes too late.

Gloves on, rope procured, I ventured back out. For the final time, Pookie lowered the halyard. This time, with the genoa shielding it, I managed to gather the defeated sail, a giant, sodden parachute, and tie it securely to the deck. We crawled back to the cockpit, our little fortress of sanity. The adrenaline receded, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling in its wake. Pookie, the strong, famous TV chef who handles live television and eager fans with ease, finally let go, the mental torture of the last 30 minutes releasing in a flood of tears. We sat there, in the dark... a mess of relief, pain, and shared trauma.

In the adrenaline-soaked silence that followed, I made a classic, stoic miscalculation. The pain was a beacon. I reasoned, a raw signal from my body that repairs were underway. I’ve never been one for pills, trusting instead in the grim, honest dialogue of ache and healing. This time, my body spoke a language I had to finally listen to.

The deep, bone-deep throb in my knee was just the opening act. Within hours, it ballooned into a furious, purpling hematoma, a viscous knot of oedema that made my leg a useless, painful log. The reality check was a bottle of anti-inflammatories, a companion I’d reluctantly shake twice a day for the next two weeks. My grand entrance to Denia wasn’t a sail-in; it was a slow, painful hobble. That aching shadow stayed with me, a stubborn passenger for the entire coast down to Cartagena. Through it all, Pookie was my anchor. As I limped and grimaced, she transformed our galley into a sanctuary of care, conjuring healing, amazing meals that were the only medicine I ever truly wanted - a delicious rebellion against the pain with every bite.

Morning broke not with a bang, but a whimper. The sun rose, a gentle artist painting the horizon in pastels. Mainland Spain emerged from the haze. The sea was flat. The wind was gone. It was as if the elements had proven their point and were now allowing us to contemplate our mortality in peace. We inspected the Code Zero. Our heroic efforts had been in vain; it had ripped anyway.

Denia was a sanctuary.

Steve, our electrical guru, sat with his dogs and listened to our tale with the weary smile of a man who has heard it all before. He took us up to his home on the mountain, a kingdom overlooking the sea that had so recently tried to best us. The new batteries were fitted, a silent, powerful upgrade to our floating home. On the insurance company’s orders, we had the rigging checked. And that furling line, the catalyst of our nightmare? Replaced with a thinner, stronger Dyneema rope, ensuring we’d have enough line to win next time.

Refuelled and repaired, we bid a fond farewell to Steve and sailed south. We passed La Muralla Roja, a breathtaking, post-modern apartment complex in Calpe. Designed to resemble a North African casbah. It’s a labyrinthine fortress of pink and blue walls, and a surreal sight from the sea. The knarly waves returned, herding us into the shelter of Cala Del Amore just north of Alicante. The name, ‘Cove of Love’, felt appropriately ironic.

The next leg was to meet Chaim and Karen from the Viking crossing group. The weather had other ideas. Under genoa alone, we shot along at 8+ knots in a 25-knot wind; the 4-metre waves making life profoundly uncomfortable. We sought refuge in Santa Pola, finding a lovely, calm anchorage. Chaim and Karen, on their monohull ‘Sea Kairos’, dinghied over. It was wonderful to put faces to the names in our chat group - a shared dream of an Atlantic crossing making us instant friends. The evening was a success, right up until the moment Chaim, fortified by a little too much local wine, attempted a less-than-graceful re-entry into his dinghy and ended up in the drink. Laughter, it turns out, is the best salve for fear.

A single night was all we had, for old friends called. Steve and Jo, with their children Ben and Luke, were holidaying in La Manga. This unusual place is a vast, salty lake connected to the sea by a man-made canal. A bridge, a gatekeeper of this inland sea, opens only at specific times. We waited with a flotilla of other boats, a nautical queue, before the bridge lifted, stopping cars and captivating watching children, to grant us passage.

The meal was simple, the company sublime. It was mid-September, and the resort was quieting down. The water of the Mar Menor was warm, inviting, but teeming with jellyfish, a million translucent umbrellas making a swim an inadvisable act of bravery.

All too soon, it was time for the final leg of this coastal pilgrimage: a return to Cartagena. The place where this entire mad adventure began three years ago. It felt like a homecoming. Ascars, the boatyard that had midwifed our dream into reality (see Blog 011), was waiting. We had a date with a travel lift at 2pm on Monday.

We spent our last night afloat in Cala Cortina, navigating a tricky anchorage between a forest of markers. My leg, a spectacular canvas of purple and yellow bruising, was finally beginning to subside. I poured two litres of oil into the port-side engine, a final act of maintenance before the haul-out.

So here we are, on the cusp of being land-bound once more. The boat will be prodded and welded, and we will make our final preparations.

Subscribe and join us next time, when Sawasdeekat is lifted from her natural element, when jobs are ticked off a long list, and when we set off to collect my best friend for the sail to Gibraltar. The adventure, much like the sea, is forever calling.