The sailing today is more of the same. Wind, waves, speed, repeat. After five days of it you settle into a rhythm where the days blur together a little, so instead of another conditions report I figured I would answer the questions I get the most. Usually right after someone gives me the look that means you are doing what.

How do you sleep out here? This is always the first question, and honestly, it should be. Sleep at sea is not one-size-fits-all. It depends entirely on where you are and what is around you. There are three rough scenarios. Alone in the middle of nowhere, which is the best case: AIS picks up other vessels from up to about three hundred nautical miles away, radar alarms cover squalls and solid objects, the boat gets reefed down and settled, and you actually sleep, waking up regularly to check things but enough to function well. Offshore with traffic, which is more hands-on: alarms set to wake you about an hour before another vessel is near, time to assess, adjust course, and escort the situation safely past, with sleep in shorter bursts more like a series of naps. And coastal or busy traffic zones, which is where sleep basically disappears. The goal there is to avoid being in that situation overnight if you can. If not, coffee, on deck, maybe a show running just to keep the brain alert. Across all three, I have a twenty-minute timer running on the watch, just in case I doze off unintentionally. And one rule I never break: I never set a course where land is directly in line with the autopilot. If I pass out, I want sea ahead of me, not rocks.

Why do this? That one is harder, because it is not just one reason. My son and I joke that I am out here trying to prove the world is flat. So far, no hills. The real answer goes back a long way. As a kid, I read a book called The Boy Who Sailed Around the World, and that story stuck with me. It planted something that never really went away. Then life happened. Business, responsibilities, routine. And somewhere along the way I stopped really seeing things. No sunsets, no slowing down, just moving through the motions. The heart attack changed that. It was a hard wake-up call, the kind that makes you realise you have been asleep in your own life for years. So I made a decision to get up and start living again, properly. From there it became about preparation. I trained hard, practised in the worst conditions I could find, headed out at midnight into gales to learn how things feel when you cannot see anything, and that has paid off more than once out here. I formalised my skills with the Royal Yachting Association, raced, crewed on different boats, learned from other captains. I wanted to show up to this challenge ready, because I knew it would not be easy.

So, why really. A few simple truths. A childhood dream that never quite let go. A second chance at life. A deep respect, and curiosity, for what nature can do. And the desire to use that to travel, explore, and connect with people and places most never get to see. Out here it is stripped down. Wind. Water. Boat. Decisions. And somewhere in all of that, clarity.