It’s after midnight and the boat rocks and rocks in the wind and rain. I’m in a flannel nightie, combat boots, and a leather jacket. The small heater provides a bit of warmth and a constant whir that muffles the sounds from outside.

Crowhurst was no dummy. It didn’t take long for him to figure out he could never complete the journey. But Crowhurst had banked everything on winning. His business in England, Electron Utilisation, was failing. This was his chance to turn it all around. Prize money, publicity, all the opportunities awaiting the winner. So he pretended. He never left the Atlantic. He radioed in a fake course with vague positions. He kept a fake logbook and planned a rendezvous with himself when the phantom Teignmouth Electron sailed back into the Atlantic. Placing second or third would mean his logbook wouldn’t receive the same brutal scrutiny first place would bring. If he could carry it off.

The romantic Frenchman, Bernard Moitessier, was in the lead, sailing without a two-way radio — he said it destroyed the purity of solo sailing. In letters fired from a slingshot to passing boats, Moitessier explained how he had decided, after rounding Cape Horn, that life in Europe was insane. He had no desire to return and headed to the South Pacific to spend three years on a remote atoll in the Tuamotu Archipelago.

While people were busy debating the apparent madness of Moitessier, Donald Crowhurst was actually going nuts. With Moitessier following his heart, Crowhurst was now neck and neck with Nigel Tetley, another British sailor, who was driving his boat into the waves trying to catch up to the imaginary position of Crowhurst. Tetley strained his boat too far and it sank. Now he was sitting in a dinghy at midnight, awaiting rescue.

Two a.m. I’ve been on deck four times now. Pete hasn’t come back, thank god. The wind is still blowing strong and the boat keeps rocking. I try to sleep but the hideous shape of the lantern swaying sends me stomping back up on deck, convinced we are adrift. We are still at the wharf. Shining the flashlight around, I scan for perverts. Relief. The light of the neighbours still burns. I’m not really alone. So I creep off the Snapper and sneak up to the side of their boat. Just need to see another human, even one asleep. It’s a night light. There is no one on board. I’m utterly and completely alone. It’s just me and Bob’s dreams, tossing from side to side.

Back in the boat, I sit on the bunk. I’m terrified and covered in sweat. I can’t sleep because I’ve realized the boat’s lower in the stern than the bow. We are sinking from the fucking stern. My heart is pounding and I’m hyperventilating. I do deep breathing. I get control. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe we aren’t sinking. I take a glass and put it on the floor. It rolls to the stern. So I rip up the cover over the diesel engine, expecting to see water flowing in. Nothing. At this point I notice the fuel injector pump is broken. The neglected engine is idle in every way. So much for escape. I hop back to the bunk, knocking over some books.