I am sat down for no longer than 30 seconds when Otto starts struggling to cope with the sea state. The wheel jerks hard to port, then hard to starboard, then hard to port again. The main sheet goes slack and the boom slams hard, enough to wake Charles and send him running up. I leap across the cockpit to regain control of the helm.

One of the lashings attaching the tack of the jib to its furling drum has snapped. And so, in a rare state of affairs, I venture out of the cockpit and forward to the bow. On closer inspection, all but one of the lashings have snapped or are almost entirely frayed away. I grab some fresh dyneema to run a few more lashings.

Step 1: Test newfound speedy bowline skills on the tack of the jib - success!

Step 2: Thread the dyneema through the space on the furling drum - unsuccessful!

The dyneema is thick relative to the size of the hole I am threading it through, and as I push it, it begins to fray. Sigh. Then a thought occurs to me. I head back to the cockpit and ask Charles: “Is there any bowman’s tape around?” Cue laughter.

Charles: Get everyone up. Stow everything.

And so a mild panic is induced as we rush to stow the Garmin inReach, various phones which charts downloaded on them, and our prized possessions - cameras, laptops, and Lieneke’s authenticating phone (wouldn’t want to lose that, and be unable to work for the next few weeks, would we). I place sacrificial items - my old laptop and phone - in easy to find places, in the hope that anyone boarding the boat would be satisfied with this loot and not search deeper.

Over the next forty-eight hours, we must be more vigilant than usual, because we will be sailing through pirate waters. Our route is a conservative one: we are 100 nautical miles offshore, and have put 40 nautical miles between us and the report of piracy which is furthest offshore. And we have gone dark - nobody can see us on AIS, and no lights at night. Nevertheless, the risk remains. The best form of defence is to keep a good watch. That means a frequent and full horizon scan, and checking the radar regularly for any sign of other vessels. If we spot any light on the horizon or a blob on the radar which isn’t obviously a cargo ship or a squall, we must wake Charles. We will then alter course and try to outrun them, manoeuvring in weird and unpredictable ways.

The rest of the washing up is problematic too. It’s hot, we are at an angle, and now the drawer won’t open to put the utensils away - meaning all the clean, dry utensils are dancing across the countertop, threatening to impale someone (or worse, become dirty again). I climb up into the cockpit to try cool down. My heart rate is 110 beats per minute just from washing up. After a cold shower on the transom, it falls to 60 - somewhat elevated, but I will take it in this heat.

For some reason or another, we do not learn our lesson from the bow incident. It is so hot, we keep the aft hatches open to maintain some semblance of airflow. I’m chilling in my cabin, listening to music, when I see a waterfall streaming from the side hatch. The same wave which installed a water feature in my cabin also doused the oven and its electronics. So, we turn all the AC electronics off as a precautionary measure. Our dinner, bubbling away on the hob at the time, is especially well seasoned tonight!

As Lieneke moves towards the side of the boat, I realise she is not tethered on, and launch myself from the winches on port side across to the starboard rail, grabbing hold of her lifejacket just in time for her to lean over the edge. When I reflect back, I can see it all in slow motion. The experience is quite surreal - being airborne as the boat keeps moving forward, rolling side to side in the sea state.