JESSIE STEVENS
THE GRAVEYARD WATCH
Grey sky, grey sea,
The many greys of the North Atlantic
Hand on the tiller, body weighing down the rope
Keeping her steady at 330
Flap of the sail - the wind has changed
The wind’s always changing
Thrust on the Tiller, now heading 340
Water gushes over the deck
Shooting stars skim the planks
Cuppa? Yes.
The squeak of wellies on a shiny floor
The bristle of velcro slicing through the silence
Trying not to wake the off-watch
Derobe, kettles, milk, rerobe
Cold hands fumbling with the lifejacket buckle
First light: streaks of pink pierce through the gloom
Colour is returning
Fulmars feathering the writhing mercury water
A spitfire above the waves
Riding the swell of the North Atlantic.
The watch glows 3.35am. 25 minutes left. 25 minutes that will feel as long as the past 3 hours 35 minutes. The countdown is on until you can once again enjoy horizontal time. A brief chatter bubbles between your - until now - silent watch. The sleep monkeys have been grabbing at you all. Pulling on your lead-laden eye lids. Teasing you into fitful snooze, the icy wind roaring at your cheeks, the only thing keeping you from drifting deeper. Sleep purgatory. There’s no point saying anything. You all feel the same. In this haze of sleep deprivation, vague seasickness and bone-numbing cold, you need to pick your words carefully - force a smile.
3.42am.The past minutes both an eternity and a mere second. Maybe the wind dropped its steely grip and you did drift off into sleep. You mumble audibly, 3 buffs and your foul weather jacket holding onto your words. Watch leader Mathew nudges you, asking for you to do the log, then rouse the troops. This has been the role you’ve assumed since the start of the voyage. The final log of the watch, then waking up the next watch. Sax, steadfast on the helm, eyes glued to the horizon. Anna, entertaining you with beautiful words from far-flung places, bright rosy cheeks poking out from under her scarf. Mathew, a man of few words, the occasional dance move escaping when Bruce Springsteen comes on from your belters playlist. Rachael, still smiling despite 40 hours of debilitating seasickness. Watch 3: The Allotment Pie Crew.
You descend the steep stairs to the chart table. The warmth of the cooker, permeating through the steel bulkhead door, causing you to de-robe quickly in a jangle of lifejacket clips and velcro. Don’t let the seasickness catch you out. After endless minutes staring at the chart, trying to see through the sleep fog, you find the coordinates, locate your current position, marking it with a cross and circle, time and date. You heave open the bulkhead door. The boat lurches causing it to swing out of your grasp, hitting the wood panel behind. The sound reverberating around the saloon - an unruly alarm clock for those sleeping. Clinging onto the table, you edge slowly towards the kettle, wellies squeaking on the wood. The water tank judders as the kettle fills.
3.50am Softly you call through each curtain. Rousing watch 2 as gently as can be done. ‘Ellie, it’s time to get up. The fog is clearing, not far till the Faroe’s now.’ The wake-up call is something you’ve mastered over the long watches. Always trying to seem hopeful, despite the swell and wet clothes. Trying to make the harsh jolt of being awoken mid sleep cycle, in the coldest, deepest hours of the night, that bit easier. Out of the darkness, you see curtains twitch, puffy eyes and odd-socked feet being swung out of bunks. The intricate dance of getting out of a rocking coffin beginning. You take drink orders, deciphering grunts. And try to make light conversation. Saying that the fog won’t last for much longer, the boat hit 7 knots briefly, the Fulmars have been out dancing again.
Now it’s your turn to sleep. Finally. Outer layers come off. You crawl into the sleeping bag in merinos and wet socks. The bunk feels cavernous in the swell, too much room to roll around. So you press your tired limbs into all corners, bracing against the damp wooden planks of the hull. The sound of the racing waves wash over you, the fierce North Atlantic just metres from your head. A rhythm that's become a soundtrack to sleep over the past few nights.