We left Salvador to head across the vast Atlantic, to cross the Equator, and to head in the direction of Portugal. It would be many thousands of nautical miles. According to the logbook, we departed Salvador on a particular day, but returned to the safety of Salvador due to the bad weather. We must have set off again soon after.

My memories of the five-day trip to Fernando de Noronha are not good, but vivid.

The weather: inclement.
The waves: gigantic.
Scally: tipping and dipping and tossing and turning in the surf of the giant waves, her mast often parallel to the horizon.
My mother: utterly convinced she could smell gas emiting from the galley (and she was right).
My father: absolutely convinced there was no gas.


A lighter.
An explosion.
A fire.
A fire extinguisher.
My brother jumping to the rescue.
CO2 powder sprayed everywhere.
My father blacked out.
My mother panicking.
The real possibility that we might sink.
The real possibility that we might need to release the liferaft.
White CO2 powder everywhere.
Our voices disappeared.
Shock.
Fear.
What about our captain?

He had been burned all down his right side from the fire and was passed out. I had placed Jellonet all over his burns and he was sleeping in the forepeak.

It was up to me and my brother to navigate our way to Fernando de Noronha. Luckily, we had learnt how to use the sextant, how to calculate the position, how to plot the route.

Two days later we spotted the island, and sought anchor and help.