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suppose the most frightening moment (thus far) in An-Tiki's voyage was the realisation, after being disconnected from our towing vessel, that we were on our own.
Worse still, we could not return to our former haven. Should major mishap, toothache, appendicitis, extreme discomfort, raft breakdown or mental misery come our way, we would have to deal with it ourselves.
For some two months, or more, we would be bereft of the control with which lives are normally conducted. Yes, we could summon assistance, expect other vessels to offer aid, and in effect be salvaged, but that would be devastating if without proper cause.
Our only option was to steer to the other side of a vast, turbulent, alien and forbidding quantity of water. That was what we hoped to do. And that was what, once the tow-line had been dropped, we had to do. Small wonder we were fearful.
So far in these columns from the tropical Atlantic, I have not described the raft's features in great detail. Let me share a few facts about our extraordinary home. Basically, it is a quadmaran, with four sealed pipes each 40ft long and spaced so that our width is 21ft.
Across this distance are 14 smaller pipes, five of which contain fresh water whereas nine have buoyant air. The big pipes are 28 inches in diameter and the smaller are 12 inches. So we have 440 gallons or so of piped water on board.
As for the union between both types of pipe, there are 128 ratchet-straps, with their webbing keeping everything in place, together with wooden saddles to make a neater fit. There are also – for those of you still reading – a mast of 35ft, a spar of 24ft, and a square sail of 18ft by18ft.
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