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Outside Magazine July 2003
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Record Collector (Cont.)

WE'RE FIVE DAYS in and running about 30 miles behind Club Med's prior record, but flying fish are now our foremost preoccupation. They get spooked into flight by the bows, squirting out of the sea and juking through the air. If they are not diced by the trampoline netting, leaving eyeballs and other body parts scattered around the deck, they sometimes whiz through the cockpit airspace at 50 knots. Even a three-incher could put an eye out, but there is mostly laughter whenever the telltale thwap, followed by an eruption of expletives, signals a direct hit.

Fossett is out of the firing line. When he is not eating, sleeping, or on watch, he is often on the satellite phone in the navigation area working out details for his next project: an assault on the altitude record for glider flight. "Faster, farther, higher," he proclaims cheerfully when I sit down next to him and ask him what he's up to. "I see myself as an aviator in the coming years," he adds. In the meantime, there are a few sailing records left on his hit list, such as the 24-hour distance record of 694 nautical miles. Fossett may even take a shot at sailing PlayStation single-handed in a bid for the solo 24-hour distance record. The idea of a lone sailor trying to keep the world's most powerful maxi-cat under control has me picturing Fossett strapped to the wheel, a madman rocketing toward glory or oblivion. It's just the sort of absurd challenge he lives for.

By day eight, our southern route has paid off. We've worked our way to a 350-mile lead over Club Med's run. I'm standing with Pete Melvin in the leeward cockpit when there is an almighty bang. Melvin barely glances up before shouting, "Mainsheet's parted!" Sure enough, the massive boom is scything toward the shrouds that help hold up the mast. It is jerked to a halt by safety lines, and Melvin and I freeze for a beat until we are sure they will hold. Fossett is on the helm. Without a word, he steers deep downwind to slow the big cat and punches an emergency buzzer to summon all hands. "Let's go," Scully calls, orchestrating a jury rig to handle the sail while he splices in a new mainsheet. We're back up to speed in half an hour.

A day later, we finally round the southwest tip of San Salvador. The dying breeze brings a whiff of sand and beach scrub that is beautifully pungent after days of nothing but salt air. Fossett is on the helm, just as he was at the start. A small boat bobs in the distance, waiting to record our time. We cross the finish in silence. Fossett pumps his fist once, there's some handshaking, and it's over.

Fossett gives up the wheel and heads below. "How does it feel to have a world record?" he asks me as he goes.

I follow him down and find him hunched over a calculator at the nav table, his blunt fingers stabbing the buttons. He confirms the time with Brian Thompson: nine days, 13 hours, 30 minutes, and 18 seconds, more than a day faster than Club Med. Then he works out the average speed: 16.92 knots, or almost 20 miles per hour. Fossett shuffles through the papers strewn across the chart table and digs out a list of speed-sailing records he has compiled. The list shows the major ocean-passage records in descending order of average speed. Our 16.92 makes this the ninth-fastest record passage on any ocean ever. Fossett turns to show me the sheet. The name Steve Fossett is all over it. "That makes ten of the 13 fastest sailing records," he says.

I ask Fossett if he can imagine ever retiring from his relentless record chase. He just looks at me funny, as if he can't quite comprehend the question.




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