I realize that I have actually slept three solid hours - amazing considering that I've been rolling side to side in my bunk the whole time. I look at the watch on my wrist: 5 AM - an hour until I go up. We pushed the clocks back another hour yesterday so I'm ahead of myself again.

At 540 I hoist myself over the lee cloth - I feel really tired, but, standing spread-eagled and bracing myself against this cursed rolling, grab a couple of cookies for my pocket, swallow a half a cup of grapefruit juice and put the kettle on to boil. The tea and I are about ready simultaneously and up I go.

It's very black out, with a few starry patches visible ahead, downwind to the west. Astern the sky is opaque except for one band of clarity. It looks like a fogged up window with a child's finger swipe across it, through which the dazzling stars shine.

Stib goes below and in two minutes the rain starts, heavy and warm. Ten minutes later it is over. The wind is about 25 and the seas very jumbled. A little water washes into the cockpit once in a while from either side. We roll and swirl about. I stare ahead, getting up to see. The sky behind me is just a bit light now. The sails are fluttering. I look at the wind gauge: 25, 31, 35. The foam is streaking behind us on either side and we are flying down the tracks. The triple reefed main is prevented out to port and the partly rolled genoa poled out to starboard. The speedo says 7.7 knots and it reads slow! The GPS peaks at 9.3 knots over ground.

We are completely alone out here this morning, as the pilot whales which had surfed with us in the swells for the last three days and nights have departed - called home by their mothers I guess. I miss seeing their pale bellies as they roll over next to the hull to look up at us, and their heavy wet exhalations at night as they surface right beside us.

Suddenly the railroad tracks we're on are twisted like they are in those post earthquake photos. A 12 foot swell lifts the stern. I am standing on the seats to see forward, right hand holding the pedestal guard behind me, left fingers on the dodger edge ahead, but I can't see anything but water ahead of us as the anchor and bow platform plough the trough. Just then a cross sea from the southeast hits and the stern slews around to starboard like a car out of control skidding around an icy corner. It's quite a ride as we swirl around about 45 degrees and water sloshes over the rail. The genoa luffs madly and the pole waves up and down, but after a few oscillations the Monitor gets us back on course and it's relatively quiet again, if that adjective applies to a 34 foot boat trucking along in the dark at 6.5 knots in 30 knot winds and roaring surf.

One of these rollers now comes up right to our transom snarling like a nasty dog chasing a cyclist, and I'm sure it's coming over to fill the cockpit. Even though the bottom 3 boards are in, I lean forward to shield the companionway to minimize the splashing below. The boat lurches very sharply, but somehow this mongrel was subdued, and his bark was all we received.

But now there's a weird vibration from the stern. What the hell is that? I hope it's not the Monitor. It’s coming from the tow line for the water powered generator prop - it's got a huge harmonic twang - I can see the standing waves to a point of turbulence in the water. Maybe the line has partially snapped or it's picked up some debris. I consider waking the crew, but then say, hell, this is no emergency. Whatever it is, just take care of it in a straightforward, calm, logical fashion.

I go below and turn off the generator, get the retrieval basket out of the locker and try to string it on around the torque line hanging over the stern. This is rather difficult since the line is flailing wildly and the generator is pointing every which way as the spinning prop is being dragged unevenly through the water and waves. But then, abruptly, as I am tying the last knot I realize that the abnormal motion is gone. I guess it must have been a partial twist in the torque line induced by the last wave, which has now cleared. It all looks OK so I go below, turn it back on, and everything's back to normal.
 
 

Sunrise - not actually visible through the horizon haze, but the scattered high clouds in the east are pink and then yellow. Ahead it's all black cumulus, rushing away downwind, and then, almost magically, ten minutes later the whole sky is blue. The water is 77 degrees, the flying fish leap in the warm sunlight. I take off my foulie jacket, turn off the tricolor, have a cracker with peanut butter. The wind is 25 knots and we roll along at 6 through the water. Despite the wet conditions up here I decide to get this book and write, and so now it's 930 and in a half hour my watch will be over and it looks like another humdrum day at the office coming up.