From Heartbreak to Headwinds

It’s race day. After months of training, preparation, and countless lists ticked off, the boat is finally ready to go. Our team has been given a name: Team Tongyeong — after one of the upcoming race stopovers, and the very first time the Clipper Race will visit South Korea.

Then came the announcement: Thomas and I were chosen as watch leaders. The youngest crew member in the entire race, and me — the guy who had never stepped onto a sailing boat before all this began. A pretty surreal moment. I felt proud for us both, knowing how far we’d come.

Family and friends gathered at Gunwharf Quays to see us off, and emotions were running high. There was still a full schedule before we could leave the dock, though.

The morning began with a surprise phone call from the Clipper media team: would I like to do a live interview on BBC Breakfast News? Absolutely. A quick dash down to the dock later, I was chatting alongside Hannah and Millie from Team Scotland. (I’ll drop the link in here once it’s up.)

Back onboard, we went straight into photoshoots and the traditional parade of the teams around the quayside, before stepping up on stage to our team song — a moment that felt both celebratory and surreal.

Then came the hardest part: the goodbyes. Hugging everyone who had come to wave me off, I realised just how much support I have behind me. There were plenty of tears (mine included), but strangely I still felt calm about what was ahead.

It’s hard to put into words how grateful I am for everyone who came down to wish me well. I’ll carry those goodbyes with me across the oceans. See you all in eleven months.

From Parade to Plunge

After the goodbyes, it was time to slip lines and head out of Portsmouth. The docks were packed, music blaring, and our team joined the Parade of Sail, waving to the crowds lining the quayside and seafront. It felt like a festival atmosphere, but underneath the cheers was the knowledge that this was it — the beginning of eleven months at sea.

Once we cleared the Solent, we lined up with the rest of the fleet for the race start. Suddenly the mood shifted. No more waving, no more fanfare — it was game faces on. All the boats were jostling for the best position, sails snapping as we tacked back and forth across the line.

When the horn sounded, it was chaos in the best way. Both headsails went up, and although we were last off the line, we quickly made up ground, overtaking two boats as we charged towards the first marker. The adrenaline was pumping.

That’s when it got a little too lively. As we gybed around the mark, I was on the low side, working on the foreguys. The boat was overpowered, and before I knew it, I was completely submerged. For a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was — but I was still holding on.

My lifejacket automatically inflated, much to the alarm of the crew in the cockpit. I managed what can only be described as a turtle roll back along the deck before scrambling into the cockpit, dripping wet but grinning. In fact, I didn’t even realise until then that my lifejacket had gone off.

Soaked through, slightly dazed, but still buzzing with energy, I was just glad to be back on deck and laughing about it. One thing was clear though: I’d better sort out a new lifejacket before we got too far.

Baptism by Biscay

The first couple of days at sea took us out of the English Channel and straight into the notorious Bay of Biscay. It didn’t waste any time showing us what it’s famous for — big seas, strong winds, and conditions rough enough to take out a good portion of the crew with seasickness. Buckets and bunk time became hot commodities.

Somehow, I was still standing. No seasickness for me yet, which made it easier to throw myself into the role of watch leader. It was a new challenge — making sure everyone kept on top of their duties, helping run evolutions on deck, and trying to stay one step ahead of the weather, all while still learning the endless ins and outs of sailing an ocean-going yacht.

The weather was wild, but I loved it. I was getting more confident on the helm, learning to ride the waves instead of fighting them, and testing myself against winds that sometimes blasted up to 40 knots. Every shift behind the wheel felt like a lesson in control, trust, and adrenaline.

It was chaotic, exhausting, and wet — but it was also exhilarating. Biscay had shown its teeth, and for now, I was holding strong.

Highs, Lows, and Mast Climbs

Biscay didn’t just throw rough seas at us — it tested us in plenty of other ways too.

Chris took a bad fall coming down the companionway, twisting his ankle and hitting his head. It was a hard blow, and although he tried to keep going, he had to sit out for the rest of the week. In the end, he made the tough but sensible decision to step off in Puerto Sherry. The plan is for him to rejoin us in Punta del Este and carry on with the race from there.

Others weren’t spared either. Geoff cracked his nose on the coffee grinder in the cockpit, and Gavin went down hard near the helm, landing on his back. Thankfully, both managed to carry on. It was a reminder that the boat doesn’t just challenge you — it punishes lapses in focus.

The gear took a beating too. At one point, our Yankee car snapped off, threatening to throw the sail plan into chaos. Lou and Brian came up with a brilliant quick fix: rigging a low-friction ring and lashing it down. It held — another example of teamwork and quick thinking keeping us in the race.

Not everything could be solved from deck level, though. On one tack, the lazy Yankee sheet wrapped itself around the active one. The only way to free it was to go aloft. Harness on, clipped in, and I was hoisted while climbing the live sheet itself. It was a fight against the pull, but I got it sorted.

Then came my first trip to the top of the mast. A spinnaker quick-release line had jammed at the head, and someone had to go up. That someone was me. Halfway up, clinging on while the mast swayed under sail, I had a brief moment of what am I doing here? But then I settled into it, found my rhythm, and kept climbing.

The view from the top was something I’ll never forget — the endless sea stretching in all directions, the deck a long way below, the boat slicing through the waves. I freed the line, took one last look around, and came back down buzzing.

These moments — fixing, climbing, improvising — were things I never imagined myself doing before this race. Each challenge reminded me why I signed up: to push myself into the unknown and find out what I was capable of. And so far, Biscay was delivering exactly that.

Chasing Points and Chasing Boats

Through the eastern edge of Biscay, we had our eyes on the scoring gate. The first three boats through would earn bonus points, and we pushed hard to get there. Hours of trimming, grinding, and focus went into it. When results came in, we discovered we’d finished 4th — agonisingly close, but just outside the points. Still, it showed us what we were capable of.

The next opportunity came with the Ocean Sprint. It isn’t a side race you sail separately — just a timed stretch where the fastest three boats get points. This time, we nailed it. Our push paid off and we ended up 2nd fastest overall. That result was huge for team morale, and a reminder that our boat had real pace when we got everything right.

For much of the leg we were towards the back of the fleet, but steadily catching up. Rounding the south of Portugal, we started to close the gap. Then news came through that Unicef had strayed into the orca exclusion zone and were handed a six-hour penalty. On the water we were sitting in 8th place, but with their penalty we effectively moved up into 7th.

It might not sound like much from shore, but out here every gain counts. Each position is fought for mile by mile, watch by watch. And now, with points on the board and momentum building, belief on board was stronger than ever.

Whipped Feta and a Spinnaker Swim

Eventually, it was Thomas’ and my turn on galley watch. Cooking at sea is its own kind of challenge — everything sliding around, pots threatening to leap off the stove, and a constant queue of hungry sailors waiting for food.

For lunch, we decided to get a little creative: a hearty lentil and squash soup, spiced up with what we had in the locker. On a whim, we tried something new — whipping feta with a splash of milk and oil until it turned creamy. Dolloped on top of the soup, it went down a treat.

But there was still plenty of feta left. I looked at Thomas and said, “We could make dessert out of this.” So we spread it onto bread, added a layer of jam, rolled it up like a kind of makeshift roly-poly, and served it. To our surprise, it was delicious — and it even made a little splash on the Clipper media channel. Not bad for a couple of watch leaders moonlighting as chefs.

Dinner was supposed to be a Thai green curry — except we didn’t have any Thai curry paste. Improvisation time again. We threw together a fragrant curry with what we could find, but just as it was coming together, the call came: “All hands on deck!”

The spinnaker needed to come down, and Thomas and I ended up out on the bow in nothing but t-shirts and shorts. Within seconds we were drenched. Then came the real problem — a ping from above as the spinnaker halyard blew at the top of the mast. Suddenly, our spinnaker was in the sea.

Luckily, the whole crew was already on deck. Together, we hauled the massive, waterlogged sail back onboard — not exactly the textbook way to do a spinnaker drop, but a great show of teamwork and determination. Exhausted and dripping, Thomas and I headed back down below to finish off the curry.

Soup, dessert, curry, a spinnaker in the sea — all in a day’s galley watch.

Sunshine, Showers, and Puerto Sherry

After days of heavy weather, breakages, and high drama, our final run into Puerto Sherry felt like a gift. The seas eased, the wind softened, and the mood on board shifted with it. For the first time in what felt like forever, both the ocean and the crew were calm.

By late afternoon, the sun was blazing and spirits were high. As we sailed into port, we were met with warm smiles and a small welcome party — a few familiar faces, including Helen, one of our crew due to join later in the race, along with friends and family of some of the others. Seeing them on the dock made the finish feel even sweeter.

Lines tied, sails stowed, it was time to relax. Sunshine, cold cervezas, and laughter flowed freely as the tension of Biscay melted away. That first night in port brought two simple but glorious luxuries: a real bed and a proper shower. Both never felt so good.

Stage one of Leg One, complete!