The lights on the platform grow sharper all the time—no, it’s the surrounding world that’s growing darker; it must be late. The night is surprisingly dark for the bright month of April. I sail into the night, a strong wind from the east driving me from land.

I take out the wind meter, hold it up, and measure the wind speed: fourteen meters per second.

Fourteen. So much already.

The wind is blowing harder and harder. I must reef the sail—should have done so a long time ago—but first I have to pee. I do it quickly on the floor of the cockpit—it will be washed away immediately anyway. Then I adjust the wind vane and slowly release the headsail sheet—the sail flaps as if possessed. I grasp the line of the roller furling system—it’s thin, chafes at my hands. I tug and haul at it, but it’s too heavy, far too heavy. I’m not as strong as I used to be.

I place the line around the winch—my fingers are frozen, every movement hurts, but slowly the wind force in the headsail is diminished and I can heave to. Then I yank the mainsheet out of the quick-release cleat, and now it’s the mainsail that’s billowing wildly—I have to move forward to the mast to reef.

The wind is a wall as I crawl toward the bow. I should have put on the harness, but I climb up on top of the cabin nonetheless, and free up the halyard on the mast winch. At the same time, a wave hits the ship—it’s like being hit by a train. I hold on to the mast with both hands, the end of the halyard slips and blows out horizontally from the mast. I reach for it, but know I have no chance of snagging it. The wind blows it back and forth, in the end wrapping it around one of the shrouds just beneath the crosstrees. Dammit, dammit.

I loosen a boat hook I have attached to the deck, and hold it out toward the crosstrees, but it’s no use, of course it’s no use. Should I climb up? No, not now, it will just have to hang there—the mainsail is almost down on the boom. I open the shackle on the sheet; my fingers are numb with cold as I fasten it to the mast and furl the sail. Then I crawl back to the cockpit. It’s only then that I’m able to breathe.

A quick trip inside to pull on my sweater, rain overalls, and raincoat on top of the windbreaker and trousers I am wearing. I am already soaking wet, it’s pouring off me, but there’s nothing I can do about it; there’s no time to change.

I should secure the containers of ice. They are stacked in the saloon, their weight is still holding them in place, but a big wave now is all it will take to send them sliding off the benches, careening onto the floor and creating chaos.