Clipper Race 2013-14: Team GB crew member Nikki Banks writes about the tough second race to Rio Then things started to break. Our main halliard was getting caught and shredding itself, risking the main sail falling down, two stainless steel fairleads tore off the deck and a couple of blocks exploded, among a whole host of other things failing. After an exhausting day, we had still managed to climb the ladder to third. Our hard work had paid off but mental and physical fatigue had started to set in. Our goal remained the same: sail safe, fast and maintain a leading position. As night time drew in, eyes got heaver and people's attention wavered. We were flying along averaging 16 knots having earlier hit our top speed of 26.8 knots, then all of a sudden, we managed to lose our lazy spinnaker sheet in the water. It got caught, dragged through the waves and wrapped itself around the rudder somehow managing to knot itself. I was helming at the time and could feel the impact it had on the steering. Our skipper screamed to get it out of the water but it was too late and despite our best efforts we had a fairly major situation on our hands, not only in feisty weather but in the pitch black of night. We hardened up by winching the sails right in and sailed as close to the wind as possible. The yacht therefore heeled over on its side which allowed our skipper, Simon Talbot, the chance to inspect the severity of the situation. The sheet was so badly knotted that it required someone to go overboard and untie it. We contemplated various alternatives but this was the only realistic option. Dressed in a dry-suit, he climbed over the side into the water. It took him about 15 minutes to untangle the sheet but it felt like he was down there or a lifetime. The safety of our skipper was in our hands. Back on board safely, and the problem was rectified. We quickly learned what the consequences of carelessness could involve. September 13 Our water maker has broken. We have no fresh water other than what we have stored. The problem is a manufacturing defect that can't be fixed. Stopping in Madeira was becoming a realistic probability until we found out that PSP Logistics had the spare on board. Luckily they were one of the boats in a small pack taking the same course as us, so we tailed them until we had authorisation from the race office to conduct a boat-to-boat transfer mid-ocean. It was so good to see another boat and the smiling face of my friend Nigel Brennan across the water. PSP Logistics secured the water maker in a dry bag, and strapped an inflated life jacket to it to keep it afloat. We sailed up alongside each other and threw them a line to which they attached the bags. The transfer went without a glitch. It took us almost two hours to complete. Frustratingly, we found out that Team Great Britain would not be compensated with a time credit despite the cause of the failure being down to a mechanical defect. We simply have to work harder to catch the rest of the fleet. Another hurdle overcome at least. September 14 Yesterday it was Jim Hendry's birthday. I decorated the galley with balloons, banners and party poppers. He was on the 3am-7am shift, so when he awoke at 2.30am, it was a big surprise for him. He is one of the stars of the boat - a fellow round the worlder - fit as a fiddle with a body and spirit of someone half his age. I baked him a brownie cake and tried to spell 'Jim' in Haribo sweets but it just melted in to a mess. I made a fake candle using the wrapper of a Crunchie bar for the flame and some bits from my sail making kit for the stick. It was a welcome break to do something else. I have been stuck in the sail locker alone for the last 24 hours sewing reflective strips on to our spinnakers which had come unstuck. They are essential to trim sails and get the maximum speed out of the boat at night. It allows you to see how much the sail is curling and therefore how to adjust it. September 18 We ripped out code-two (medium) spinnakers. I have been imprisoned in the sail locker yet again at the bow of the boat for the last 72 hours trying to repair the shredded mess which includes a tear more than 10-metres long. Three panels have been destroyed and parts of the sail were missing. I have had to cut new sections and repair it in conditions that make it the ultimate challenge. No flat surface, no space to move the sail or piece it together, all on a wet, moving floor, sometimes heeled over up to 45 degrees in a heat that is punishing. Whipping spinnaker sheets have slashed the clew of the sail, which also needed repairing. I had to hammer the top of a bradle to pierce holes before stitching could commence as the density of the fabric is too thick and heavy to just use a needle. I have had only nine hours' sleep in more than three days and I'm about to pass out. Why did I ever opt to do this extra role? I'm an idiot. We need this sail urgently and the pressure is on, all on me. How long is it going to be? I'm asked. Aren't you finished yet? I feel like punching the next person to pass comment. We are losing vital speed and places because we are having to fly a smaller sail in the interim. People are getting irritable and all the hard work we've done is wasting away. I'm feeling the strain with each second that passes by. Through sheer adrenalin and a caffeine overdose, I have kept plugging away but I'm at a real low. Although only a few metres away, I miss my crew mates on deck. I have missed out on seeing our first whale; Ionie Robinson being hit by a squid which has now left a black stain on the deck; flying fish landing on people; and fresh air, especially. We are in the tropics now and the heat is sweltering. Sweat is running down your body 24/7. It's so bad that my body has come out in a very painful rash. I have my arms wrapped up in bandages to ease the pain of movement around my elbows and keep them dry and clean while I work. I can only open half of my left eye because it's so swollen and red from sweat dripping off my forehead, or it could easily be the grease off my matted hair. My lips have split at the sides and keep bleeding but the worst of it is the skin on my bottom. I have been sat down mending the sail on a surface equal to that of sand paper. The movement of the boat has grated it like cheese. Add sweat, prickly heat and a rash and you have an excruciating combination. I haven't showered for ten days, due to a lack of water. Disgusting goes nowhere near to how I look and feel right now. September 20 It is amazing what sleep can do. My watch leader, Neil Bennett, very kindly let me have 12 hours off watches, to sleep and recoup after the mammoth sew-a-thon. Today, myself and another crew member are on mother watch, which starts at 5.30am. We have to prepare porridge for the oncoming watch at 6.30am and then feed the off-going watch at 7am. It's then straight in to cleaning the galley, all the cubbyholes, bilges, anti-bacting the walls and surfaces, disinfecting the heads before starting lunch preparations. The boat is heeled right over, so cleaning and cooking make the job much slower and if you're not careful, dangerous. One of my crew mates slipped and slid like on ice from the high side into the wet locker on the low side. She hurt her thumb badly and cursed the way we were sailing the boat. Most accidents are caused down below in the galley, hitting your head on a beam or getting out of a bunk. Conditions are cramped with hazards galore and living at 45 degrees can make moving around very difficult, even for the more agile of us. Still in unbearable heat, cooking is horrendous. Each day it is getting hotter and hotter as we approach the equator. Mother watch should be punishment for a convict. Every 10 minutes an on-deck, cool-down oxygen grab is a must before you descend back into the dreaded sweat chamber. After lunch is served, we bake bread and once again start preparations for the second carbohydrate-overload of the day. The heat and sleep deprivation is taking its toll. The crew look like zombies in a sauna who have just ran two marathons back-to-back, but somehow motivation and spirits are high. Crew are suffering from headaches caused from dehydration, sunburn, heat rashes and prickly heat. Thank goodness for medicated talc and the endless servings of filtered water straight from the deep blue sea. After dinner, another round of cleaning is undertaken then the almighty reward: a shower. The definition of shower - a hand-held head attached to a tap in the heads, in a space not large enough to swing a cat. Water is strictly rationed, but we sneak a jug and wash each other's hair, off the back off the boat or await a downpour from a squall. I feel amazing afterwards. Only problem, it lasts for all of two minutes before I start dripping with sweat again. September 21 Waking up in a pool of sweat isn't the freshest way to start your day. We are mid-Doldrums now - renowned for massive wind holes and squalls. Monitoring the weather systems especially in this area is critical to how long you'll be left becalmed at a standstill. It is a tactical game which takes no prisoners. Your decisions will win or lose you the race, but even the most experienced of meteorologists will find themselves in a fury of frustration as the weather outside has no bearing on what forecasts you may receive. The International Tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) is currently moving north which is benefiting us at the moment. We have managed to keep moving through the Doldrums so far which I believe we are the only boat to have done so. You're entirely grateful for even one knot of boat speed and the sail trimmers and helmsman stand there eagerly awaiting a tiny gust of wind. Our position is currently unknown as 24 hours ago a few boats opted to implement 'stealth mode' enabling them to hide their position for a day from the rest of the fleet. We will exercise stealth in 12 hours. The sun is shining and the water is calm so one-by-one, I open my salon and cut the men's hair off the back of the boat. Thank God they turned out all right, although I think Dr Mark Heywood - our best helmsman - feels a little 'scalped'. The next time I saw him he'd spotted a baseball cap. Sorry! Not long after and out of nowhere, 15 knots of wind hit us. We dropped the windseeker sail and hosted the heavier yankee one and we were instantly flying along at 8-10 knots. This is common throughout the Doldrums and you must constantly monitor squalls by sight and radar. It's very easy to get caught out and end up in trouble. I've never seen a sight like it, but as evening approached, we looked into the distance to see five sets of dark black squalls in various stages of depression on the horizon. One thing's for sure, there is nowhere to run, we are heading straight into a battlefield. I do however feel very privileged to see Mother Nature in all her glory. September 22 We had some fairly fruity weather last night as we passed by the edges of a couple of squalls although it enabled us to pick up 9-10 knots of boat speed. We all got drenched but it was fairly warm. Spirits were high as we sang our way through eight long hours of darkness. I'm already very fond of the crew on my watch, Jake Carter, Dr Mark Heywood, Ollie Phillips, Mark Owens, Mike Inglis, Marcus Batty, Lindsay Evans, Dominique Young, Paul Hardy and our watch leader, Neil Bennett, who has taken to the job like a fish to water. Over breakfast, we just found out that we are in first place - a position that was so far out of sight a week ago. We slipped to seventh place after breaking almost everything on our boat including our water maker which failed due to a manufacturing defect. We have clawed back a 170-mile gap between us and the previous leader. When our skipper told us, I burst out crying. I'm so proud of us. The sweat, blood and tears has literally paid off but for how long is anyone's guess. The dreaded Doldrums plays with you like a puppet, leaving you vulnerable and totally it its disposal. It chews you up and spits you out, we just hope that's in a southerly direction though. The race to date has been torture in so many ways but at least now we're back in the running. Who knows what will happen in the next 2,200 miles to Rio, but one thing you can be sure of is we will give it our all, providing the spam culinary delight doesn't kill us first. September 27 We are dead in the water. Seven days in the dreaded 'Dull'-drums and now officially the worst period of calm in Clipper race history. We have spent the last week playing cat and mouse with other boats in a 30 mile radius of us. Spirits are low. Our first place is long gone. Again. The first couple of days trapped here were a novelty, an opportunity to refuel in beautiful surroundings and glorious sunshine. But the novelty soon switched to reality. That reality is, we are losing places, fast. Our skipper, Simon Talbot, rightly so, is going stir crazy with frustration. How can a yacht six miles away be doing five knots and we can't even manage 0.5 knots? Analysing the conditions has turned in to an obsession, one that dominates everything on board. Morale soon starts to dwindle as crew and skipper start to doubt everything. Emotions fester and brew in the squelching heat and tension levels are constantly rising. People are niggling at each other and passing comment unnecessarily because they are bored and agitated. The pointless nit-picking fuels hostility and awkwardness in an already sensitive environment. It would be better all-round if people were to bite their tongue but in a group of 23, there is always going to be someone who can't help themselves but stir things up a little. Last night we lost three places and dropped to seventh. Not exactly the morale boosting news we wanted to hear. Derry-Londonderry-Doire who was visible on the horizon only six miles west overtook us and managed to establish a 20-mile lead. We were at a standstill most of the night, scraping together the odd knot of speed. Staysail up, staysail down, yankee down, windseeker up, windseeker down, yankee up, yankee down and on and on, the tedious sail changing circle continued all night in a desperate attempt to generate momentum. We are helpless, simple as that. Insignificant putty in the hands of the weather gods. If you didn't respect the sea and weather before, you certainly do now. Pray for us to get some breeze, cross the equator and head for the southerly trade winds.