Halfway Across the Atlantic With a Constipated Dog

I am writing this at midnight, sitting in the pilot house, jacked up on coffee and some rather good French chocolate I squirreled away from our trip to St Martin for just these moments. The last time I was keeping these kinds of disco hours it was in the 90s and I had other stimulants helping me along. So I feel no shame in stuffing myself with whatever it legally takes to stay awake during my designated night shift.

We are at the halfway point on the first leg of our Atlantic crossing. According to the magical, yet temperamental instruments in front of me, we left St Thomas 415 miles ago. It has taken us 2 days and 10 hours to get this far, and we have roughly the same to go until we reach our first stop: Bermuda. At Bermuda we will catch our breath and then head on to the Azores…

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Before this epic voyage, (as I like to think of it), when friends asked me whether I was nervous, I honestly didn’t know how I would feel about sailing into the unknown. I guess I had my wake up call during our catastrophic first emergency drill (see How To Lose Several Mermaids And Your Nerves in Open Water) which, in hindsight, was a timely reminder to take this trip a little more seriously. Subsequently I am more prepared than I was, with significantly less fragile ornaments, and would possibly not be entirely useless if something untoward happened. But it’s a bit like when you are heavily pregnant and people ask if you are nervous about the birth. Maybe…but it‘s rather too late to reverse course now. There are also other unexpected similarities, for example, people love to share their disaster stories with you - gleefully recounting near run ins with semi-submerged floating cargo containers in the night or how cute whales can become dangerous obstacles. Another similarity to being preggers is how astonishingly quickly you stop caring about the collapse of your general appearance and who sees you naked. In fact clothes don’t seem to matter at all currently.

But also we are literally bristling with technology-its not like modern day sailors such as us sextants and celestial navigation to keep us safe any more…Although, having said that, in the first 24 hours both the main radar and the backup radar failed. That first night shift, while Ken slept, I stared for hours at a radar screen displaying the deeply unreassuring word “STANDBY” while trying not to think about the Bermuda Triangle, which we are now located in, and of course the floating cargo containers and the kamikaze whales. I guess at least I’m not pregnant…But fear is surprisingly difficult to sustain when absolutely nothing bad happens.

The next day, after some time on the phone with Furuno, the radar manufacturer, (thank you Starlink), Captain Silver Fox performed a series of engineering style incantations over the magical equipment and everything suddenly leapt back into life. I call it Ken’s “laying on of hands.” The man can literally fix anything. Which is, of course, why I am currently in the middle of an ocean despite possessing extremely limited nautical experience.

Of course, over the last six months whilst living on a boat, our entire lives have revolved around Gypsy’s potty routine. Our canine Queen has steadfastly refused to acknowledge her designated onboard “potty patch” during prior passages, so we have been thoroughly trained to ferry her ashore to land three times a day. So Pottygate, as we call it, has been a long time coming. We braced for the struggle which was for sure to come on a five day passage:

Day 1: Gypsy regarded her thoughtfully decorated piece of astroturf, complete with carefully collected and encouragingly displayed samples of previous offerings, with profound disgust.

Day 2: She looked increasingly uncomfortable, but still refused to acknowledge its existence.

Then finally, at dawn on Day 3, after 45 heroic hours of resistance, she could hold it no longer and unleashed an absolute gusher onto the astroturf. There was rejoicing throughout the vessel and much bacon was consumed. However, it seems the dam didn’t actually burst, it was just a bit leaky, because it is now 17 hours since that victorious moment, and she has returned to crossing her legs in silent protest. Ah well. At least we now know she will not actually explode.

We have also discovered we have a stowaway onboard. A tiny sparrow like bird who was probably enjoying a perfectly nice nap on the roof of our boat when we left St Thomas, only to wake up 100 miles offshore with no realistic way home on his tiny little wings. I actually had a similar experience once after falling asleep on a train in London and waking up in a ghastly place called Croydon, so I feel I understand his dismay and confusion.

Naturally, we have done our best to make him feel welcome.We have curated a gourmet avian charcuterie for “Fred.” He has reverse osmosis water, and organic cashews on the roof, and Ritz crackers arranged on the bow sprit in case his tastes are less sophisticated. I may add grapes and salami tomorrow. We are hoping Fred hangs on until Bermuda, where we suspect he will encounter considerably less hassle with animal import paperwork than we did with Gypsy.

Out of all the countries we have visited so far, Bermuda has by far been the most diligent about dog entry requirements. Ken has slogged through quite a few conversations with them by phone about mistakes they had discovered on the St Thomas veterinary paperwork. And frankly, it makes sense. It turns out Bermuda is astonishingly wealthy - somewhere up there with Monaco and Liechtenstein. Apparently becoming a resident requires not only being filthy rich, being able to rock the dubious combination of a blazer, shorts and yacht shoes, but also being nominated by an existing resident. This gives the entire country the air of a private members’ club. We should probably remember to clean the offerings off Gypsy’s potty patch before arriving at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club.

And perhaps put on some clothes ….

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