Mouse yer shackles afore ye go

We are 50 miles off our destination, meaning we are some 950 miles from where we started, and almost 7 days from when we started. Soon we'll be there. Arriving sometimes feels like a mixed bag. Take today: I am exhilarated at the thought of closing the passage because that means we have achieved what we set off to do, mostly in one piece, safe at least which is most important. Whilst arriving means escaping the uncontrollable whims of the vast ocean, and that is a relief, it also introduces a new set of parameters to adjust to. We will have to deal with the complications of checking in, changing money, filling up with clean water, buying provisions. In the light of these tasks, life on passage is simple: provided you have prepared correctly you will have all you need, you point the boat in the right direction (wind allowing) and deal with whatever comes up with the unconditional rule that (barring physical injury to self) the boat comes first.
Preparing correctly is key. When I first started sailing I was relatively fearless. When I say 'relatively' I mean relative to now. Because in those first years I had no knowledge of the sea or boats and therefore had simply very little idea of what could happen to two folks on a small craft in a huge expanse of water. With time, experience, and hearing and reading about other yotties sailing anecdotes I am now heart-stoppingly aware of 'what could happen'. The more I understand about how Impulse works, as well as each item of gear that completes her, the more I realise that we are only ever a widget away from potential disaster. Because sailing when everything works is easy. But it takes just one line to chafe, one batten to splinter, the tiniest split pin to vanish for things to start to go wrong. This is because that line, that batten, that split pin had a very precise function. If you cannot replicate this (by replacing or fixing the widget) you are stuffed - either now or sometime in the future depending on the conditions you are sailing in and the amount of time you have before you can replace or fix in port. So preparation is everything. My Dad without fail reminds us to 'mouse our shackles' before we set off. Whilst this makes me laugh (something to do with the quaintnoess of this old seadog expression), the undertone is dead serious. 'Mousing your shackles' is a euphemism for so many things: checks the lines, check the rig, check the blocks, the engines, the sails (I can go on) - and not once but check continuously. What it also means is look after yourself: fill the lockers, eat well, stay rested (weather permitting), stary warm/dry/cool as appropriate.
By doing these things we minimise risk. After all, sailing is a very risky business. But then most things in life are. It's just that on land we have a greater illusion of safety - those sirens you hear in the distance, the emergency services just a phone call away, the help of a friend next door. Out here there is little of that so it appears more risky. I know however of plenty of people who put themselves at far greater risk than we do out here (something I'm sure my mother will not believe). Take the 3 Swedish 'boys' we met in Las Palmas. Chris (unusually dark for a Swede) bought a 20 foot boat built before Abba even formed. He had no sailing experience so advertised for crew (on Facebook naturally). Two replied, nice enough just a shame they had never sailed either. They set off in November - from Sweden. They spent Christmas day in the middle of Biscay. It was snowing. They wore dry suits to keep warm whilst they took turns at hand steering (the boat, called 'The Flying Teapot', has no self steering gear). With one of them out in the snow, the other two were down below in a space approximately 14 by 4 feet (crawling because, to create room for provisions, Chris had brought the floor up several feet). The original standing height wouldn't have done anyway given that all 3 men are over 6 foot tall!
On the other end of the spectrum, I have seen cruisers with huge, luxurious yachts (in particular I think of the 60 foot ketch named, pleasingly, Modesty) equipped for everything. The crew however (invariably a semi to competent man with a less than competent, fumbling wife who enjoys cooking and is in it for the pontoon parties and because 'it's his dream and I love him') is not so well equipped. I find myself thinking how do they manage bad weather so short handed on such a large boat? Of course - everything is electric. That helps. But, then again, does it? What happens, for example, when the electric winch, windlass or in mast furling goes wrong and those complicated bits of kit can't be bodged together a la Heath Robinson? What then? That to me is just as risky as the Flying Teapot brigade.
Risk is always present. What matters is what you have done to minimise risk and what you will do when the situation changes. We met a man in Gran Canaria who had named his dinghy Plan B - and that's exactly what I mean.