Everyone Needs a Ken

Day 3 of our seven-ish day passage from the Azores to mainland Europe has already provided enough drama to last an entire crossing. I’ve linked two videos at the bottom, each featuring one of the fu@ktrastrophies, as a friend who once sailed with us, calls them.

I should probably ask Captain Silver Fox to explain what actually happened in each one because, as we’ve firmly established, the systems and mechanical bits of this boat are not my department. My role generally consists of asking, “Is that supposed to be making that noise?” before standing back while he deals with whatever fresh mechanical betrayal this adventure has thrown at us. Meanwhile, I quietly pick up my phone and start filming him. Poor Ken.

It did occur to me, though, when a random engine emergency alarm began screaming in the middle of the night, 70 miles from the nearest land, just how completely the dog and I rely on this man.

Quite a few people have commented on how calm I seem during these potentially dangerous situations. The truth is rather less impressive. I’m calm because Ken is calm. I have absolute faith that if something can be diagnosed, repaired, bypassed, or persuaded back into life with some gunk and a volt meter, he’ll figure it out.

It’s a strange feeling because, for most of my life, I have been fiercely independent. Yet somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic I realized that my confidence currently isn’t really my own at all. It’s fully invested in the only other human being on this boat.

As I write this, he and the dog are snoring beside me in the pilothouse while I take the night watch. Let it be noted, the dog snores much louder. As most of you know, someone always has to be awake out here in the big dark ocean. It seems to be one of Neptune’s unwritten rules that the moment your attention drifts, (also known as nodding off) a 600-foot cargo ship doing twenty knots will materialize out of nowhere.

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In fact… hang on. One has just appeared on the radar. Look at this guy…

We’re now about halfway between the Azores and mainland Europe, although our destination seems to change almost as often as the weather forecast. The original plan was to head straight for Brest in northern France, but a rather unfriendly weather system has parked itself exactly where we’d hoped to go. So we’re now heading east before turning north up the Portuguese coast. We may stop in Portugal. Or Spain. Or somewhere else entirely. At sea, passage plans seem less like road maps and more like tarot card readings.

But we will keep pressing on to reach the British Isles as soon as possible. They, along with much of Europe, are currently enduring a heatwave. A SCORCHER as the Brits say. However, knowing British weather, by the time we arrive it will almost certainly be fifty degrees Fahrenheit, raining sideways, and someone will still insist it’s “actually quite nice once you’re out of the wind.”

Anyway… that cargo ship? It’s approaching a little too close for comfort, so I woke Ken up. This is why he sleeps in the pilot house while I languish in our cozy bed downstairs when it’s my turn to sleep.

In true Ken fashion, he went from deep sleep to fully operational in about three seconds. He assessed the situation, confirmed that the ship would pass safely to stern port… and then noticed that our port navigation light had stopped working again. So he grabbed a broom, leaned out the pilot house door and poked it back into illuminatory life. Apparently this is also an accepted method of marine electrical engineering.

As I head off for a few hours’ sleep, he bade me good night and cheerfully announced, “When we get into our next port, I’m going to take that light apart and fix it.”

Of course he will. Honestly, everyone should have a Ken.

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