He prayeth well, who loveth well.

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best.

All things both great and small.

For the dear G.o.d who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

Just as I was finishing that last line an albatross came winging over us and floated above us on the air. Dad's spirit was in that bird. I knew it and so did Mum-we didn't have to say anything to know what the other was thinking.

As we watched it fly away I told her about the promise I'd made to Dad: that once he was gone, I'd do the voyage we were going to do together on my own. I'd sail to England, do all I could to find Kitty, and then sail home again. I expected an argument from her-I knew how nervous and upset she'd been about the whole project, and that was with two of us doing it. But she just said very quietly: "I know all about your promise, Allie. He told me, and besides I know his story, don't I? He was so proud of you. You go. You do it. It's what he would have wanted. But when it's done, you come back home, you hear?"

Fitting up Kitty Four, and planning the whole trip, and all the sea trials needed to test out the equipment, took several months. Mum wasn't going to let me go until she was quite sure everything on board was just as it should be. Grandpa was the same. He checked and double-checked everything. And all this time Mum was beginning the search for Kitty. She surfed the net, but that got her nowhere. She sent off emails to public record offices in London and all over England. Nothing. She wrote to one or two friends who lived there asking for their help. Everyone did what they could, but no one could find a trace of a Kitty Hobhouse born in London, probably in Bermondsey, at about the same time as Dad-though, like him, we could never be quite sure of when exactly that had been.

We set up a Kitty Four website so people could chart my progress at sea, and follow me all the way to England. And there was a link to the whole story of the search for Dad's missing sister asking anyone who might have any information about Kitty Hobhouse to get in touch. Maybe someone would read it. Hopefully someone would know something. We had hundreds of hits, huge interest, lots of good luck messages; but no one, it seems, had ever heard of a Kitty Hobhouse of Bermondsey, London.

Mum didn't give up. She and Grandpa used the press too. There were front-page articles in the newspapers, national as well as local. "Allie's Epic Voyage." "Allie Searches for Long Lost Auntie." I did radio interviews, TV interviews. Grandpa liked the TV coverage best of course because the boatyard's name was up there behind me: "Stavros Boats" in huge blue letters-bow to stern, the whole length of the boat, on my cap, on my wet weather gear, on just about everything. Grandpa was always there to stage the interview-he never missed a trick.

Mum thought the press coverage might be our best chance of tracking Kitty down. But no one phoned, no one got in touch, no one emailed. I got to thinking about what Dad had told me when he was a bit down once: that it had all been so long ago, that sometimes he wondered if Kitty had existed at all, that she could be just a figment of his imagination, that someone else could just as easily have given him his lucky key. So we could be looking for a figment.

As usual Mum stayed positive. Kitty was real, she was sure of it. Kitty was as real as her key, she said. She would keep looking while I was gone. Sooner or later, something had to turn up. All through Dad's illness she had been the same. Everyone around her only kept hoping because she did. Whatever made Dad feel better she made sure we did. Most of all he loved to see us dancing, all of us together, the whole family. "Let's do it like we always do it," she'd tell us, "so that he feels the joy in it." Even when he died, she was the strongest of us all. It was Mum's strength and determination that was to keep me going over the next five months. I could never have done it without her.

Mum was my coordinator back at home on sh.o.r.e through email, and through Satphone in an emergency. We would keep in touch every day. Any technical problems, I'd let her know. She'd talk to the blokes in the boatyard, and they'd do what they could to talk me through repairs and maintenance. Any injuries and health problems, she'd ask the doctor. We'd thought of everything, we hoped. We were as ready as we could be. All set to go. But I wasn't happy. There was a side to all this I was really beginning to dislike. Over the last weeks before I left I'd become a bit of a local celebrity, and I was finding the constant intrusion getting on my nerves. I just wanted to be gone. But I knew they'd be there, and lots of them, on the day I left. I wanted to slip away without anyone noticing, but Grandpa wasn't having any of it. He wanted me to have a proper send-off, a Cretan send off. The press was important, he said. He was proud of his little girl, proud of Stavros Boats, and he wanted the world to know it. And what Grandpa said, went. So that's how it happened.

I'd never seen so many cameras flashing in all my life. "This way, Allie." "Smile, Allie." I showed my teeth it was all I could manage. But that apart, it was a send-off I'll never forget. The whole family turned out. Bouzoukis played on the jetty. They danced, they waved, they cried. Everyone from the boatyard was there, along with half of Hobart it seemed to me. All I wanted now was to be gone. I wanted the hugging and the tears to be over with. I just wanted to get on with it.

My first big worry was the dozens and dozens of motor boats and speedboats and jetskis and yachts that were escorting me down the Derwent River and out to the open sea. They were all around me, some of them very close, too close. Eyes in the back of my head would have been useful. I tried to wave them away, but they seemed to think I was waving goodbye to them and just waved back even more enthusiastically. But once we were past the Iron Pot and out in Storm Bay they all turned back, and I was on my own at last. We had a good breeze behind us and Kitty Four was sailing like a dream. I'd always loved Kitty Four-she'd been a dream for so long but I never loved her more than I loved her now. She was going to be my home for five months. We'd be doing this together, just her and me, and Dad, who'd built her to sail the way she did, and made me the person I was, and the sailor I was too.

I sat there in the c.o.c.kpit, the sun and the spray on my face, in seventh heaven-Dad was always counting heavens in his story, so I can too-singing London Bridge is Falling Down and drinking my first hot chocolate of the voyage. I was on my way.

Jelly Blobbers and Red Hot Chili Peppers 1600 hrs Mon 10 Jan 043' 23"S 148' 02"E out past Tasman Island. great start. lumpy b.u.mpy sea. lumpy b.u.mpy boat. nice of everyone to see me off, except for that bloke in his jet ski who nearly took my bow off he came so close. Anyways, he missed, so still in one piece. Kept crying when I looked back and saw you all waving, so that's why I stopped waving after a while. wasn't being unfriendly Grandpa. Every time I look up at the sails and see Stavros Boats I'll think of you. And Mum every time I use the laptop I'll be thinking of you. See you all in my dreams too from time to time, that's if I get any sleep which isn't likely.

Like I said to Mum I'll be writing emails whenever I can you do the same, pleeeze to let you know where I am, how I'm doing, how the boat's behaving, what the weather's doing.

I'm really loving this already, the emailing I mean. I talk a lot to myself anyway when I'm sailing because it's good to hear the sound of a voice, any voice, rea.s.suring somehow, makes you feel there's someone else around silly I know. So these'll be like talking emails. I sing a lot too, but I'll keep my singing to myself. You'll just have to imagine me up on deck belting out my Whitney Houston special in a force 8 or 9 and ieeeiiieeei will always love you. I found myself humming London Bridge is Falling Down in the c.o.c.kpit just now, like Dad did. I've got Dad's cds louis armstrong, bob dylan, the beatles, buddy holly. I've got "What a Wonderful World" on right now, one of Dad's favourites when we were at sea together. Got my own stuff too Coldplay, Red Hot Chili Peppers, few others. Couldn't take much, not enough room. piled high with junk down here, hardly any room for little old me. feel like a really big sardine in a really small can. Still it's home for a few months so I'd better get used to it. just hope the pc keeps going. lot depends on that. And that's down to the generator. Towing the turbine at 6 knots at present, so lots of amps. Amps = happy pc = happy me.

Just want to thank all of you for everything you did to get me this far. Kitty 4 is where she loves to be and so am I, and don't worry bout me too much. Got Dad's lucky key around my neck so I'll be fine.

Wind gusting 30 knots. Lots of jelly blobbers all around come to say goodbye too I spect. Saw my first albatross. Now I know Dad's out here with me, going all the way with me. See you.

2000hrs Tues 11 jan 44' 13"S 151' 12"E Hi y'all. G'day. Settling in or trying to. Forgot how uncomfortable Kitty 4 really is. Didn't dear old Dad realise you've got to live in a boat as well as sail her?

Not enough room to swing a mouse down here. Sea kept me awake most of the night. Never shuts up, not for one moment. Banging and crashing all night, and if I got up never stopped chucking me about either. No consideration. I think she was just reminding me who's in charge out here. Gave up after a while and went up on deck, had some hot chocolate, yummy, and looked at the stars, zillions of them. Can't be any more beautiful place in the whole world than the sea at night when someone's switched on the stars. Hope heaven really is up there. Thought of Dad. Think of him often. Miss him, and when I miss him badly I talk to him. Tried to get some sleep again but I couldn't. Too keyed up. I still can't really believe I'm doing this, after all the years of building and planning, after everything that's happened. I lay there listening out for problems, for any strange creaks or groans. Kitty 4 talked to me all night, telling me she was fine, that I wasn't to worry. But once I start worrying I can't stop. S'not really worrying, it's just that my brain keeps churning things round and round and won't let me sleep.

Forecast was spot on. Wind from the north 50 knots. Funny how you forget things so quickly. You forget how busy you have to be. So much to be thinking about, so much to be doing and when it's done there's always something else. Which is why I've got to stop this and get some sail off.........

Back again. Read a bit of Dad's story again in the night, the beginning bit with him being sea-sick. I'm lucky. Don't do sea-sickness. Love reading his story because I can hear his voice in every word.

Kitty 4 sailing beautifully. Big rolling beam seas don't make it an easy ride, not for her, not for me. Still finding sea legs. Not hanging on hard enough, always banging my head. Big lump above my right ear. I'll hang on tighter next time. Huge tanker out there. Ugly great monster. Saw an albatross again, think it may be the same one. I tried to take a photo of him, but discovered the digital camera doesn't work. It did when I tried it out back home. I wanted to send pics on email, but now I can't. Very fed up. Sorreeee. Thanks for all the emails. Yes, Grandpa I am taking the vitamins. Hope I sleep better tonight. See soon. A.

1600 hrs Thurs 13 jan 45' 41"S 156' 19"E 5 knots Love your emails. I love y'all. Miss y'all. I read them over and over. Yes Mum head's fine, no concussion. Yes Grandpa course I'll keep the Greek flag flying all the way, right up there with the Aussie one. Kitty 4 is a real beaut. Got y'all to thank for that, and Dad and Mr Dodds. She's a real marvel. Nothing I can teach her. She's teaching me. Got to be honest, it's a whole lot easier living alone on this boat. Dad was the best sailor in the world, but the untidiest. And he always hated me tidying up after him. He liked his own mess he said, knew where everything was. So I'd have to wait till he went up on deck then just tidy everything away quickly while he wasn't there. When he came back he'd never even notice I'd done it. Sound familiar Mum? He just loved living in a tip, that's all and I didn't. But give Dad his due, he was a brilliant cook (never washed up but he cooked like a dream).

He'd do all the cooking and let me sail the boat. All right so it was baked beans with everything. But he made the best bread, learned it off you Mum, the tastiest bread I ever tasted. Can't be bothered much with cooking at the moment. Just open a tin of something, anything, wolf it down then have my hot chocolate. That's what I live for, hot chocolate. I sit there all cold and wet and drink it down. It shivers the cold right out of me, warms me up from the inside up, reaches toeses and noses, all my freezing cold bits and pieces.

Decided this morning to learn The Ancient Mariner all the way through before I get to England. Think Dad would like that. Know the first verse already. Here it is. Not cheating, promise:.

It is an ancient mariner.

And he stoppeth one of three.

By thy long beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

Up on deck earlier going along nice and easy, brilliant sunshine. Saw the albatross again. It's the same one, sure of it now. He brought some of his friends with him to check me out. Seems to like me cos he stayed around for a while, they all did. He came so close I could see right into his eye and he could see into mine. I can't get it out of my head that maybe it's Dad keeping an eye out for me, doing this with me just as he always wanted to. When he flew off a few minutes ago I missed him, and the whole ocean seemed so empty and hostile too. I felt alone for the first time since I left.

Waves 10 metres and higher. Winds 30-40 knots all the time. Set the storm jib, not easy with the whole world pitching and rolling around me. Been up on deck doing too many sail changes, fifth today. Got to think ahead more. Got to limit the sail changes. Each one takes a lot out of me. When I get tired I make mistakes. Took the skin off my knuckles the last time I did it. Stupid. Little wounds don't heal out here easily. I've got two ginormous blisters already. Must look after them else they'll fester and festering isn't good, leads to all sort of nasties.

Wind patterns all over the place down here. Got to learn to predict the unpredictable, Allie I can hear Dad saying it now. Doing my best, Dad. Halfway to Stewart Island, halfway to N.Z. Hot chocolate to celebrate. Listened to Coldplay. One or the other cheered me up don't know which. Any news about Kitty, Mum? Be so so good if we could find her. Love you. A And Now the Storm Blast Came.

1700hrs Sat 15 Jan 46' 50"S 162' 49"E.

Biggest storm last night, worst I've had. Gusts over 80 knots, waves 10 metres plus but the self-steering brought us through, easy as pie as Dad used to say. Can't say I enjoyed it much but Kitty 4 took it all in her stride. Made for it she is. Sat down below, wind howling all around and learnt another verse of the Ancient Mariner can do the first eleven verses now without looking:.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he.

Was Tyrannous and strong:.

He struck with his o'er taking wings.

And chased us south along.

Little strange and little funny to be sitting down here saying that over and over. I had to shout it out loud so I could hear myself. But it pa.s.sed the time, kept me happy, made me think about something else besides the next towering wave out there. It was "Tyrannous and strong" all right. that Coleridge bloke knew what he was talking about.

Better now, heavy seas still but not anything like it was last night.

Averaging 5-8 knots, so that means we've done about 700 miles so far. Yippee! Hee hee!!! Well done Kitty 4 well done me! Good to know just how well Kitty 4 handles herself, feel she could cope with anything. I've always had confidence in her, but last night she really proved she could take it. She's so brave, so clever and I'm so lucky to be doing this with her. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Lots of birds about today and best of all my albatross is here too. Just making sure we're all right after the storm, that's what I think. He really is the king of birds. He's got to have a wing span of 3 metres, ma.s.sive, magnificent, Ma.s.sIFICENT, better word, my word. invented words are better words, mean more, say more. maybe that's the first time anyone has ever written that word. I like that, doing something for the first time, like going places no one's been before. At sea you do that all the time. I mean you sail up a wave and every one of them is unique, a new discovery, never seen before. You see clouds no one's seen before, and birds too. Course other sailors have seen albatross but not here not now not exactly the way I'm seeing mine. Difficult to put feelings into words but just want to say that's what's so great about being here cos it's like no one's ever been here before, that I've discovered it all for the first time. That's what it feels like anyway. Going on a bit. Sorry but I do love it, makes me feel so good, so lucky to be alive.

You should see my albatross. he doesn't fly, he doesn't need to. he just finds an airwave and floats and you don't see his feet at all. They're tucked up neatly underneath him. There's hundreds of little birds all around him, recognised some storm petrels I think Dad was better on birds than me, knew them all, knew so much. They dash about showing off, wing tips just not skimming the sea. And they're so fast, here, gone, swirling away. Wonderful.

Drying out after the storm, both of us, Kitty 4 and me. Soaked through, sodden. nowhere's dry, down in the cabin or up on deck. Not complaining, just dripping.

Reported sightings of icebergs little way south. got to be careful, really careful. icebergs worry me silly. So lots of cold sleepless nights ahead up there on watch. Wish the self-steering could do lookout as well. That's what I'll do one day, invent a self-steering system that does lookout as well. Easy. No problem. Make my fortune. Cool or what? Call it Stavros self-steering, all right Grandpa?

1641hrs Sun 16 Jan 2005.

Sorry to hear about your cold Grandpa. You're always going on about me taking my vitamins and you go and get a cold. Stay in the warm. look after yourself. promise?

Fog now and rain, so got our lights on all the time. Icebergs don't see lights but other ships might. All you can do is listen and hope. Not too worried I tell myself cos there's a lot of water out here and very few ships. Still you think about it. It niggles at you all the time. Did a bit of fishing, but no luck. 82 miles now to the Snares south of Stewart Island. Cooked myself a great feast cos it's so miserable up there. No fish, so baked beans (of course) sausages and eggs and...and...and...wait for it two mugs of hot chocolate. Feel a lot better. Fog lifted a little so I could listen to Dad's Beatles CD, played his favourite song here comes the sun thought it might make the sun come out. Great song, but still no sign of sun up there. Read some of Dad's story. I love the parts when he was at his happiest, when Marty and Dad were living with Aunty Megs. Love the bit about that wombat "Henry's horrible hat hole," always makes me laugh.

No albatross today. Probably can't find us in the fog. Thought I saw a dolphin though v close to the boat. Can't be sure. Sea goes very quiet in fog. Even the waves seem to whisper. Can't spend too much time down below. Too risky. Got to keep an eye out. Got to keep listening. v. tiring. want to sleep. mustn't. got to go. Miss y'all. Think of you. Love you. A. P.S. Any news about Kitty?

1015hrs 17 Jan 41' 57"S 167' 31"E.

Fog's lifted but feeling a bit low. Not enough sleep. All last night on watch and got to thinking about Dad again, I mean about him being here with me. Maybe it was reading his story that upset me, remembering all the sad things that happened to him. I shouldn't be sad because I know that he had good times too, specially during the best parts of his life, and with you and me Mum. But I just couldn't stop thinking about how much he wanted to be here doing this with me, that he made so much of this boat with his own hands. Maybe it's because I've always been so used to being on Kitty Four with him.

Maybe I was just imagining things, but I don't think so. I just felt he was there with me all night. I even thought I heard him humming London Bridge. I thought maybe telling you about it might help me make some sense of it. But it hasn't. Mum, I'm really beginning to believe he's still here with me on Kitty 4, like we really are doing this trip together just as we'd always planned we would. But there's something more. I need to believe it. I think the only way I'm going to get to England is to believe he's with me. at the same time I know I've got to stop feeling so sad about him, stop missing him so much. So I mustn't read his story again. I won't think of the past. Just focus on the here and now, it's the only way. Not going crazy, Mum, promise. We'll make it. Dad and me and Kitty 4. We'll make it. No worries. x.x.x A 1250hrs Tues 18 Jan 47' 31"S 170' 36"E.

Hi Mum hi Grandpa. Feeling a whole lot better. Not sad any more. Slept really well. Didn't want to get up at all. Always the same. Tell you why.

1. You don't want to get up there and get wet again soon as you stick your nose out up top.

2. Socks. You can always smell where they are and you don't want to go near them ever again.

3. Boots always waiting for you where you left them. Step right in, they say, and it'll be lovely and wet and cold, hee hee.

But once you're in your boots, in your wet weather gear which is always still wet, it doesn't seem to matter any more. It's done. I make a nice hot chocolate to warm myself through. Then suddenly I'm up there in the c.o.c.kpit out of the stench of socks and diesel and damp, and the ocean is heaving all around, and it's the best place in the whole world to be. And this morning, guess what, my albatross was back. He was there waiting for me. And...And...And...he's brought dolphins with him, dozens of them dancing all around me. Never been so happy in my life. What was it you called me once, Mum? Moody? Moi? OK you were right. Waves go up and down why shouldn't I?? Even my blisters are all better. Love you lots. Allie Just Staying Alive.

1830hrs Sat 22 Jan.

DUNEDIN NZ!.

Hi Mum, hi Grandpa. Sorree. Sorree, sorry you haven't heard much from me for a while. Been a bit busy just staying alive. Can't say I wasn't warned. Grib weather forecasts were the worst ever, so I knew it was coming. Trouble was I couldn't get out of the way of it. Ellen MacArthur would have been able to go round it, dodge it, or race ahead of it. She can do fast, I can't. Kitty 4 doesn't do fast. But she does do brave. And it wasn't just grib that warned me, my albatross did too. Not kidding. For two whole days before the storm he never left us. He was telling us, I'm sure he was. He just hung there above us looking down on us. He'd never stayed so close before nor for so long.

The storm came suddenly, 50-60 in squalls and huge blue waves so high you didn't want to look but you had to. And blue so deep you could see right into it. Just before it happened I was doing a sail change and clipped on, thank goodness. You know how you can feel thunder is about before you hear it, like the sky is taking a deep breath before it lets rip. It was like that. There was a strange silence and a stillness all around. Like the sea was waiting for it to happen. Then I looked up and saw this wall of water 15 metres high at least and it was breaking right over me, and my albatross was skimming along the crest of it like he was telling me to hang on. So I hung on. Kitty 4 was knocked down, rolled through 140 degrees. The mast was under the water. I thought that was it, that she'd just go on rolling and turn turtle and that would be that. End of story, I thought. But it wasn't the end of the story. She lay there on her side for a few moments like she was having a bit of a rest and then she just flipped right back up again, a bit like Kitty in my bath back home when I was little. Everything was crashing about. I was chucked about like a wet rag doll. Not a single bit of me that wasn't bruised. But no broken bones, and what's a bruise or two when you're still alive.

And that was just the beginning. Went on for nearly thirty hours. By the time it was over Kitty 4 had taken a real battering she was in a much worse state than me which is why Mum, Grandpa, I'm here in Dunedin. Had to put in for repairs. The light fitting on the mast head needs draining for a start. Needed a new set of steering lines cos they had chafed badly. Can't do without my self-steering gizmo. It's my magic pathfinder through the waves, like my best friend. Got to look after him. And there's a mainsail that's torn, so that needed fixing too. In a way I'm glad I got knocked down, glad I had to come into Dunedin. Taught me a lesson. Been a chance to reorganise, tie everything down properly that flew around. thought I'd done that already but the stormfound me out. Won't be my last knockdown on this trip. Be better set up next time.

And anyway I needed to do some shopping too, more plasters and antiseptic cream. baked beans and hot chocolate supplies were low. Everyone v. kind here in Dunedin, v. helpful. Lots of press people came to see me so lots of posing by Kitty 4. Maybe you saw some of it. Don't worry Grandpa I made sure I had my Stavros Boats cap on. you're going to be selling loads of boats in Dunedin after this, all over NZ. And guess what I've got free bed and breakfast for all the time I'm here gift from the town. Isn't that the best?

2015hrs same day.

Just spoken to you on the phone. So good to hear your voices. Made me cry though. And like I said Mum don't worry, I promise I wouldn't be going on with this if I thought the boat wasn't up to it. She's fine. She won't get there in a hurry, but she'll get there,bobbing all the way. Best bobbing boat in the world. I'm fine. Like I told you the bruises don't hurt like they did. pretty dramatic to look at though. got one all the colours of the rainbow right across my ribs. spectacular. Been having lots of sleep in my nice warm bed and I've had lots of long hot baths. I'm taking on all the warmth I can. Like a camel taking on water before a journey across the desert, I'm going to need it, I know that. Told you most of my news on the phone, but must tell you about my albatross.

Saw him last night, but only in my dreams. Dreamt of Dad too. Can't remember all that much of it, never can remember my dreams properly, but I think I remember Dad and the albatross seemed to be one and the same somehow. One or the other of them, and I don't know which, was singing London Bridge is Falling Down. Weird or what?

All being well should be on our way again soon. Weather pattern looking better, so that's good. Bout time. I want some nice easy sailing. Oh yes, and I can do up to verse 20 of the Ancient Mariner by heart now. v pleased with myself! Been learning a couple of verses a day in the bath since I've been here. Don't think I understood till now why Dad loved it so much. I just lie there soaking in my bath saying the lines over and over:

G.o.d save thee ancient Mariner!.

From the fiends that plague thee thus!

Why look'st thou so? with my crossbow.

I shot the ALBATROSS.

That's verse 20. Sad but so beautiful. I'll know it all word perfect by the time I get to England. Promise. A P.S. Still no news of Kitty? Keep thinking and hoping no news will soon be good news.

1002hrs Sat 29 Jan 48' 12"S 173' 45"E 6 knots. heading south in brilliant sunshine, reef in the mainsail. The mend is holding well which is good news. It's all good news because my albatross is back. It's like he's been waiting for me out here all the time I was in Dunedin. Seen plenty of them about, but they just fly by on their way to somewhere else. He's the only one who hangs about. He's like my guardian angel. So I've got Dad's lucky key and I've got a guardian angel too. I'm well looked after Mum. I keep throwing him some sc.r.a.ps because I really want him to stay. The trouble is that as soon as I throw him food his friends come back and bully him off it. I've decided to do some more fishing from now on never did it with Dad, he didn't like it. It's too easy just to open a tin. Besides I love fish, full of protein and good for me. Keeps me strong. Don't like the idea of killing them, but do like eating them. So I'm going to keep a line out and baited whenever I can. I'll get lucky sooner or later.

1122hrs Sun 30 Jan 49' 02"S 175' 38"E More fog. Can't see a thing, except a bit of sea around us and my albatross. flies in and out of the fog like a ghost, a welcome ghost though. Doing less than 2 knots, not even enough to charge the battery with the turbine and there's not enough sun for the solar panel to be much use either. need a minimum of 4 knots to keep going and that's with everything off except the laptop and the instruments. Can't afford to use diesel to motor out of it. Can't afford to use laptop any more either. So I'm turning you off. Byeee Mum. Bye Grandpa. A 0735hrs Wed 2 Feb 49' 52"S 173' 54"E 756 miles since Dunedin. Antipodes islands behind us. The Horn ahead of us. Long way to go still. Not worrying about it, Mum, just thinking about it, getting myself ready. Desalinator not working as well as it should. Water tastes a bit salty. But otherwise no worries. Clothes a bit smelly. Glad it's only me on Kitty 4. Must have a big wash soon, me and my clothes. Been putting it off.

Doing 7 knots sometimes, averaging 4.5. So I'm doing well. I thought my albatross had deserted me yesterday but he hasn't. He's up there now, helping us along putting wind in our sails with his great wide wings. He just comes and goes as he pleases. I feel adopted. Out of all the ships and boats in the Southern Ocean I feel he's chosen us. He likes me to sing to him too, always seems to come closer when I do. So I've done him my Whitney Houston, all the Beatles songs I know Dad taught me most of them and when I run out I whistle him "London Bridge is Falling Down". He seems to like that best. Still no fish, but I'll keep trying. There's got to be millions of fish down there, all of them deliberately ignoring my line. Why is that? What have they got against me? My smelly clothes? My singing? Thought I saw the back of a whale yesterday. Too big for a dolphin. Got all excited, but if he was one he didn't show himself again. Hope he doesn't have a nibble at my bait. Not really the kind of fish I'm after. Bit big. This is how sailing should be. We're dancing our way towards the Horn.

I'm having big doubts about Kitty, like Dad had. Maybe he did make her up after all. I really want to believe he didn't. I've been trying to keep my hopes up, but it's difficult. To go all the way to England and find out there's no Kitty after all would be so sad, for Dad and for me. Think positive. Must believe the best. When I do that I get to thinking about what I'm going to say to Kitty when we meet. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I tell her who I am. And to have a relation on Dad's side too would be really something. Got so many on your side no offence Grandpa. But we need some balance here. I'm only half Greek y'know. And I know you don't want to hear this but I've always liked cheddar cheese beta than feta! Now you know and you'll hate me forever. S'agapo, I love you, Grandpa. x.x.x A "Hey Ho Little Fish Don't Cry, Don't Cry"

Dad used to love old black and white Spencer Tracey movies, any Spencer Tracey movie. If it was on we watched it. And one film in particular he loved. It was called Captains Courageous. Tracey plays this old fisherman on a whaling ship. He looks after a young boy who's very spoilt and teaches him what's what, right from wrong, fair from unfair. He sings him an old fishing song, and I loved this song. It was one of those songs that just stayed in my head. I used to sing it all the time, out on the boat with Dad, in the bath at home, wherever I was happy. And now here I was in the Southern Ocean on my way to the Horn on Kitty Four catching and killing my first fish (I've never liked that part of it), tears pouring down my cheeks and singing out Spencer Tracey's fishing song: "Hey ho little Fish, don't cry, don't cry. Hey ho little Fish don't cry."

That first one I couldn't bring myself to eat, so I tossed it overboard for my albatross who had been watching me, probably hoping I'd do just that. He didn't have to be asked twice. He was in the sea in a flash and swallowed it down. He didn't actually lick his lips, but he looked pretty pleased as he sat there in the sea waiting for more. When I caught my next fish, I ate it myself, despite lots of hurt looks from my albatross. But I did chuck him the head, which he gobbled down more than happily.

Whenever I caught a fish after that my albatross seemed to be waiting, so I always threw him the head. I got less squeamish about boning and gutting them too, and I learned how to cook them better each time. The truth is that I began to enjoy the whole process, from the excitement of seeing the line go taut to the eating itself. So now unless it was really stormy I'd have a line out astern of me most of the time.

Routine was all important to living on Kitty Four. It kept my spirits up. Routine checks of everything up on deck-regular adjustments to the halyards and the steering lines. Regular meals and hot meals too, if the weather allowed. The weather rules everything at sea, so sailing the boat came first. But I tried to live as normal a life as possible, tried not to allow the sea to dictate how I spent every moment of my day. So I learned my Ancient Mariner. I wrote my emails. I tidied the cabin. I played my CDs. I mended what had to be mended-there was always something. I fitted the spare membrane to my troublesome desalinator, superglued what had to be superglued. I washed clothes, not as often as I should, and hung them out to dry. I liked to keep myself clean too-to begin with I hadn't cared about it, but the longer I was at sea the more important it became. So I washed whenever I could-I always felt so much better for having made the effort. And on fine nights, however hard it was blowing, I'd always do the same thing. I'd go up into the c.o.c.kpit if possible with my cup of hot chocolate and I'd watch the stars. I'd do a lot of my singing up there too-everything from London Bridge to Hey ho Little Fish to Yellow Submarine.

It was on just such a night that I first saw it. I was sitting there gazing up at the zillions of stars, wondering if Grandpa back home was also sitting there with his telescope doing the very same thing at the very same moment, remembering how he loved to tell me what each of them was called, how he'd help me to hold his telescope myself. I was remembering all this when I saw a shooting star pa.s.s overhead, much lower and brighter and slower than shooting stars usually were. I watched in amazement as this light arced across the sky, knowing already it couldn't be a shooting star. It had to be a satellite of some kind. I went down below at once and emailed home to see if Grandpa knew what it could be. Until now I'd never had an email direct from Grandpa-they had always come through Mum. But the next day he emailed me back himself. "I checked. Got to be the ISS. International s.p.a.ce Station."

I saw it up there again a few nights later even brighter this time, even closer, and I got to thinking: those astronauts up there are closer to me at this moment than any other human being on earth. I'm sailing the seas down here. They're sailing through s.p.a.ce up there. I wondered then if with all their high-tech gizmos they could see me. I felt like waving. So I stood there in the c.o.c.kpit and waved and shouted till my arms ached, till my throat was sore. I was just so excited, so so happy to see them up there. That was when the idea first came to me to try to make contact with them, proper contact. Wouldn't it be wonderful, I thought, to meet up by email or even by phone, so we could actually talk to one another as they pa.s.sed over? I sent an email to Grandpa. It was just a crazy idea to start with, just a lovely dream. Grandpa emailed back. "No worries. I'll fix it." I thought he was joking. Meanwhile I had a boat to sail.

I was still about 1000 miles from the Horn. I was down to 57S. There was ice about in the south, lots of it. It was cold you couldn't forget, the kind that got into your bones, deep into your kidneys. Feet and hands went numb, so when I cut myself, and I often did, I couldn't feel it. My ears and my nose ached with it. I used to warm my socks and gloves on the kettle, but the trouble was that my toes and fingers were always colder than my socks and gloves were warm. So the bliss never lasted for long. I'd never known cold like it. I'd do all I could to stay down below in the warm fug I'd created for myself. But sooner or later I'd always have to go back up there again, and the snugger I'd make myself, the colder the blast that hit me when I got up into the c.o.c.kpit.

It was too rough for fishing now, and far too cold anyway, but my albatross was usually still there. He'd go off for a day or two, but I knew he'd always come back, and he did. I had such faith in him, that he'd stay with me and see me safely round the Horn. And I knew why too, knew it for sure, though I'd stopped writing about it in my emails because I thought it might upset Mum, and because I know it sounded at best a bit crazy. But I knew I wasn't hallucinating, that I wasn't mad. I now knew for sure that it was Dad's spirit soaring up above Kitty Four. He was an albatross, of course he was, but he was Dad too.

It was a different world I was sailing in down there, the wildest place I'd ever been. I could see and feel the swell building all the time. South of 60 between Cape Horn and the Antarctic peninsula there's no land to break up the ocean swells, so the waves travel uninterrupted for hundreds of miles and they're just ma.s.sive-I kept using the word "awesome" in my emails, and that was about right. I knew Kitty Four could handle them, but I also knew I couldn't leave it all to her. I had to be out there avoiding the breaking waves, especially the hollow ones, the ones that look as if they're going to swallow you up. Sleep was almost impossible in seas like this, in weather like this. The wind screamed all the time. It was a constant pounding. I was on edge, listening to the boat, trying to work out if she was just complaining, or whether she was telling me something was really wrong. Like me, she was finding this very hard. We were both being tested as never before.

Below in the cabin was my whole world for hours on end. It was cramped, but down there I felt warm and safe. My bunk was a tight fit-it had to be because falling out was very painful and dangerous too. But it wasn't comfortable. I'd lie there surrounded by all the stuff that was keeping me alive-the medical box, generator, stove, charts, almanacs, s.e.xtant, pc, spares for everything, harnesses, life vests and sails-and kept telling myself that Kitty Four and all this equipment would get me through. And when I went up on deck there was my albatross telling me exactly the same thing. It was scary, it was heartthumpingly scary at times, but I never for one moment thought we wouldn't make it. And whenever I felt like human company, I'd sing to myself or listen to a CD, or email home. In my emails I tried to hide just how scary it really was sometimes. There was no point in upsetting Mum and Grandpa unnecessarily. Tell them some of it, I thought, but there's no need to tell them everything.

I was finding the keyboard slow to use now because my fingers were becoming very swollen. I couldn't feel them, and they looked like a bunch of white bananas. I was doing all I could to look after them, smothering them with lanolin, but still the cracks came, still my cuticles split around my nails-what nails I had left. My hands were not a pretty sight, but I didn't mind. I just wanted them to work, to be able to do what I told them to do-cook, tie knots, pull ropes, email.

I've never forgotten the morning I saw Cape Horn up there on the laptop screen at last. Sometime before I left home I'd seen the movie Master and Commander, seen the frigate battling its way through ferocious seas off the Horn. It was terrifying enough sitting in a comfy seat next to Dad in the cinema in Hobart. Soon now I'd be going round the Horn myself, doing it for real, but Dad was still beside me. He was there in the boat he'd made for us, in the albatross that guarded us, and in my heart too. I took out The Ancient Mariner which by now had become like a Bible to me. It gave me new determination, a new courage every time I read it out loud.