Claire Jackson (1993)
Claire Jackson circumnavigated the world in 10 ½ months in the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race. She left Liverpool,UK, on 18th September 2005 and stopped in Portugal, Brazil, South Africa, Australia, Singapore, the Philippines,China, Canada, Mexico,Panama,Jamaica,New York, Jersey and arrived back in Liverpool on the 29th July 2006. The boat was called Durban Clipper and was sponsored by the city of Durban, South Africa.Craig Miller, from Durban, was their skipper.They came overall second out of 10 internationally sponsored boats in the race; the race being won by the Western Australian Clipper.There were 10 crew who did the whole race(including Claire) and others who did one, two or three legs only.Claire took a year out of working as a doctor to do the race.
She had been working as a GP in the UK. Claire is currently working in New Zealand.
Diary Excerpt
‘Steak, medium rare, please!’
In your dream, the waitress puts down a plate of calamari, grilled, served with rice and a lemon butter sauce. Your glass of sauvignon blanc is slightly chilled, creating streaks of condensation on the outside. Suddenly, the maitre ‘d (who sounds suspiciously like one of your crewmates) calls your name, saying ‘It’s that time again’. You wonder if he’s talking about the bill, but you open your eyes to see the white bulkhead of the boat above you. You hear the sound of water rushing past, the creak of the deck above you and feel the easy motion as Durban Clipper moves on the waves. You push the button that illuminates the face of your watch. It’s two thirty-eight AM!! No snooze button on this alarm clock, your crew mate is insistent that you reply and you grunt that you are awake. You peer over the side of your bunk to the sloping floor 5’ below- this will require a dismount worthy of Nadia Cominech!
You walk into the saloon, narrowly avoiding a kamikaze apple that is escaping from the netting holding his comrades, along with oranges and potatoes, in place above your head. The saloon looks like a cabaret dressing room, just with less glitz. The dim red light illuminates your crewmates in various states of dress, from tight leggings to full dry suits; the floor is littered with boots and socks. There is a low murmur of noise as they ask how everyone is and if everybody slept. Once on deck, you are handed a cup of tea that is slightly weak and insipid and also half full to prevent spillage, but you think it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You are asked to check the trim of the headsail's and stagger up to the heaving foredeck as though you’ve just had 10 tequila slammers in the time you’ve been awake. Despite this, your head feels the clearest it’s been in months, and even the dousing that you get from the freezing spray coming over the bow is invigorating thanks to your foul weather gear and trusty boots. You sit on the rail and lose count of how many shooting stars you see flying across the Milky Way in the darkness above you. For a few minutes you listen to the hasty breaths of dolphins each time they surface briefly alongside before speeding along next to the boat and then diving into the depths again. You spend some of the time chatting to your watchmates and some of the time pondering the fluorescence in the water rushing down the side of the boat and wondering how you got to be here in the first place.
Two hours later, the horizon starts to lighten and you know that dawn is about to break. You watch as an albatross glides past you, its majestic wingspan barely flinching as it glides just above the water. You think that it probably has quite a good philosophy on life: go with the flow and only flap if all other options have failed! There is a smattering of cloud on the horizon as the sun makes an appearance in a haze of pinks and reds. You spend half an hour on the helm surfing down waves, watching the speedometer rise and fall and thinking that life is pretty good.
A few hours later, a succession of red-clad bodies emerges from the hatch, blinking in the light, as if hatching for the first time from a darkened lair. Their voices are still bleary with sleep. You are cleared to go below and try to maintain your balance while you remove your foulies, boots, hat, scarf, two pairs of gloves, socks and midlayer. You vaguely wonder if Narnia lies at the back of the wet locker and then laugh at yourself for such abstract thoughts; however, it is 6am on day 18 and you use this as your excuse for such frivolity. You brush your teeth, spitting into the toilet, which thank goodness is now working. You toy with the idea of flossing, but realize that you haven’t eaten anything that vaguely required chewing in the last two and a half weeks and probably won’t for the next week, until land.
You prepare yourself to launch back into your bunk, waiting for the last heel of the boat on that side and realize once you’ve got there that you are wearing the same thermals that you have had on for the past 14 days. You use your self-made equation to check if this is acceptable: that is, number of days that the clothes have been worn multiplied by the average temperature both above and below decks, multiplied by the crewmate coefficient (number of crewmates who have commented on the smell in the previous 24 hours) and divided by motivation to get out of bed to change. You decide that you can probably wash later in the day if you get time, but for now, the next 3 hours, 36 minutes and 28 seconds are all yours. As you slowly drift off to sleep, your waitress asks how you would like your fillet steak with pepper sauce done. ‘Medium rare, please’ you reply… And a smile crosses your face!
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| Tropical Squall | Wet wather gear |
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| Spinnaker from the top of the mast. | Durban Clipper coming into Durban Harbour |
