It didn't start too well. Eric (our French captain's name) prepared some lovely smelling chicken with garlic and all sorts of things and placed them on the rail-mounted BBQ at the rear of the boat. After about 10 minutes of yummy smells wafting to our nostrils, we heard a bang, a sizzle and a very loud Merde!. The BBQ had deposited its contents into the Rio Dulce. Margot (Eric's travelling companion) whipped up a pleasant enough substitute.
A much less sweltering night saw us awaken to a pretty dawn and another sight of Livingston as we motored past.
Once we were out of the bay, sails were hoisted and we we on our way, driven by nothing but the wind.
T started getting a bit concerned about two things.
- Eric's penchant for sleeping and letting the auto-pilot steer the boat.
- The amount of heel (leeward leaning for you land-lubbers) that the Kir was doing.
I wasn't unduly bothered, as the heel was well within limits (it was quite mild, if truth be told) and the lack of Captain vigilance could be made up for with us setting up an informal watch.
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