If anyone ever tries to tell you that rowing the Atlantic is like a walk in the park, that’s a fairly accurate comparison; if the park is covered in shards of glass and you’re walking barefoot into a headwind that pushes you back whenever you’re not fighting it. Oh yeah, and the park is 3,000 miles across and there’s no stopping places along the way.

Since leaving Gomera, I’ve been heading as far south as possible at every moment. However, other than the first few days, the winds have been blowing me north without fail. You can make some progress - it’s like rowing in treacle and your left shoulder feels like it’s going to detach itself - but you always know that, sooner or later, you’ll have to stop, and a pretty little zigzag will form on the gps as you’re swiftly returned north.

There was another whale this morning. I would have swapped that, and everything else in the ocean, for just a brief glimpse of a northerly wind.

As a great philosopher once said, “what I really got to know is, are you going to go my way?”

(looking at the charts, I think Antigua is overrated. Anyone fancy Miami?)