Hello, Friends:

This is just the briefest position update -- more soonest. We ran into a mega storm and are now on the outside edge going east.

Details tomorrow.

Love and best wishes,

Ian & Dave,Lydia B.

N37.31, W065.36

Monday, June 2.

Hello, Friends:

Well, shortly after sending Saturday's jolly little message about pleasant life aboard Lydia B on the ocean blue, we got our come-uppance (which is the reason for the brevity of my last log entry.

Shortly after I sent it off into the afternoon sunshine we were overtaken by the MV Oleander, a freighter heading from Bermuda to Newfoundland. Clearly himself a Newfie himself, going by his Irish-Canadian accent, he called us on the VHF. For a chat, we thought. But it was really to ask if we were aware of the weather ahead on our easterly track. 20-30 knots of wind and 8 -14 foot seas east of N70, he said. Right on our doorstep. We'd be uncomfortable for a night, then high pressure would build on the other side of this system. We felt we could handle 20-30 knots of wind. Even 14-foot seas (though they really wouldn't happen. Would they? Realists just wouldn't go voyaging).

That night we got caught in the strongest weather we ever want to see. Southerly winds were soon screaming and seas building. We hove to, already down to second (and last) reef and storm jib. The sight and the noise were extraordinary. Big seas began to pile up, streaked with blown foam. Lydia B, with its crew anxiously listening for sounds of moderation, spent the whole night on her beam-ends, stationary except for a northerly drift of about 1.5 knots. Breaking waves regularly crashed over her. She was so far down that we watched solid water flowing over the starboard portholes. How on earth could she take it?

We got little sleep. It was a bleak time, in darkness. At first light, with the storm still as hearty as ever, we tied ourselves to the boat and crawled up the deck in driving rain to drag down the reefed main and get the boat more upright. Then we did the same to the storm jib. Lydia B then lay a-hull in more or less the same place, with the rudder lashed. Then we found water lying in the turn of the bilge above the cabin sole and, unable to trace the source -- the bilge itself was still dry -- we eventually sent out a precautionary Pan-Pan on the HF radio, unsure if it had been heard. Then we discovered that the boat had been pushed so far down hove-to that it had simply spilled out of the bilge. It went back when we brought her upright.

By this time Lydia B is in chaos below, everything moveable having flown -- including a topless jar of coffee-creamer. Coffee-creamer turns to toffee when sea-water is applied. It makes a wonderful slide on a varnished cabin sole.

A couple of hours after first light we got a call from Tony, English skipper of 'Wings of Time', a 50-ft ketch about a mile from us, on passage from Bermuda to Maine, NE USA. He'd clocked a wind of 61 knots during the night, with the remainder steady at 50 knots. We know he's right. We cancelled our Pan-Pan on the HF and got Tony to contact a ham radio colleague in Bermuda to phone the coast guard in Canada and the US in case our original message had been heard. It probably wasn't.

Two hours later we put the still screeching southerly back on Lydia's starboard beam, started the engine and motored back into the Gulf Stream, still offering a 2.6-knot ride on our easterly heading. By now, the seas had really risen to classic Atlantic height. We spent all yesterday rushing along with current and wind -- we did the last 30 miles to 4.0am this morning under bare pole, with neither engine nor sail power, but still running at up to eight knots. Lydia's eight tons picked up and hoisted to the top of a newly forming wave. Then the wave foams at its height, sometimes breaking, Lydia dips her stern, then her bow goes down and she takes off downhill into the next trough. Time and again a cross-wave chases Lydia, breaks on her gunwale and crashes aboard, filling the cockpit (and occasionally knocking down Dave or myself, tethered to the boat). The scene is impossible to describe. By then there was blue sky and sun, so these gigantic waves, with foam-streaked troughs between them something the size of a ski-run, and the height to match, were blue too. Awesome's the word. And awesome that little Lydia B survived -- though we felt constantly secure in her. She needs some tlc below (we probably don't smell too sweet by this time either); her cockpit lee-cloths were torn to shreds by the sheer force of the wind. We lost a few items blown out of the cockpit but otherwise she's fit and well.

It's been the toughest imaginable entry to offshore sailing for Dave, who's had a bad dose of debilitating sea-sickness.

Today the wind's calmed and we're sailing again, happy with five docile knots and nearing the outer wall of the Gulf Stream. We're 560 nautical miles out of the US east coast.

Love and best wishes

Ian and Dave,

Lydia B.

Hello, Friends:

N36.37, W063.43. 1604gmt Tuesday June 3.

First, so many thanks for all your concerns and good wishes over the last couple of days. We knew very few boats were near during the storm, but were thankful to be in touch with you. Today it's sunny again, there's a warm breeze of about ten knots on Lydia's starboard quarter and the ocean's back to its familiar alluring, sparkling blue. We've both had sleep, are eating again and are ambling along, still under storm jib and reefed main, at four or so knots. The ocean's calming down. Seas are down to eight feet. It'll take a while for the storm swell to subside.

We're dropping south-east to get under 37 degrees North and out of the influence of the series of low pressure systems that spawned our big one two days ago. The barometer's already risen and we're coming under the influence of the Azores high. When we've slipped another half degree south, to 36, we'll head due east. From there we hear from Herb, an amateur who runs an HF radio net daily for Atlantic sailors, that weather prospects for Europe-bound boats are good at least until the end of the week.

Today, rather than pile on more sail immediately, we'll give Lydia B the rest she deserves. And ourselves. We got no sleep and little food, and are sore from banging about inside the lurching boat. Like living inside a washing machine, said a colleague ashore.

The tally of loss and damage is small: a dinghy oar, outboard fuel and a two-gallon can of water washed from the side decks. The lee cloths shredded, a cockpit sheet bag gone and -- much the greatest loss -- the top of my Nissan insulated mug, which got sucked out when the cockpit filled up. This is serious. Tea and my Nissan are of major importance. No damage to the boat, sails or rigging is evident; all the nav gear's working and the Monitor self-steering's intact, save for a battered vane (I have three spares) -- though Dave spotted and repaired a control line that had nearly chafed through in the storm.

But how short is the memory! It was awesome while it lasted, and looked like a place human beings shouldn't be. But Lydia B took care of us, we must have done some right things and it's just great to be out here. Dave's sea-sickness is on the wane, his confidence is rising in the light of experience and we'll get cracking again shortly. As things stand we've maintained an average of 110 miles daily and are content, even though the last 24 hours has been fifty percent in a slightly less useful direction. We only want to get there, not just fast. From here we understand better what drove Bernard Moitessier as he described it in "The Long Way". Not content with completing a racing circuit of the world, he kept on going past the finishing line, starting a second time round to everyone's consternation ashore. The ocean's a box of questions and magical tricks. It's a pity so few people get to look inside.

More anon,

Love and best wishes,

Ian and Dave.

There's general agreement that we both probably stink by now, but we're well fed, reasonably well rested and all's well aboard.

Love & best wishes,

Ian & Dave.