When I was sailing as part of the Clipper Round the World Yacht Race, we were on the London to Rio leg... 6,000 miles across the Atlantic. Somewhere near the equator, we hit a place every sailor dreads: the doldrums. It’s where the trade winds from the north and south cancel each other out. Warm air rises, and at the surface there’s nothing. No breeze. No push. The ocean turns into a mirror. The horizon blurs. The air presses on your chest like a weight. Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. For centuries, sailors have prayed to Neptune when crossing the equator. Some would pour rum overboard, others staged elaborate ceremonies. It wasn’t just tradition. It was fear. When you’re stuck in a world of endless water with no way forward, superstition feels safer than logic. Even today, sailors still pay homage, part respect, part insurance against being trapped in eternity. On our race, the nightmare became real. We had the longest delay in Clipper history. 9 days of going nowhere. You couldn’t motor through - use the engine and you’d be penalised. In the old days, men sat in the same stillness with no hope of rescue. Just staring at the horizon, wondering if the wind would ever return, or if they’d rot under a burning sun. We worked shifts, two hours on, two hours off, waiting for a whisper of wind. Off-shift, you’d crawl into a coffin-sized bunk already slick with someone else’s sweat. The heat was close to 40 degrees, no shade, no escape. The boat reeked - sweat, damp, salt. Hygiene broke down. Cuts festered. I caught MRSA there, which later poisoned my blood and started to shut down my organs. What looked like paradise was quietly killing us from the inside. You imagine diving overboard for relief, but salt water only speeds dehydration. So you sit. You sweat. You wait. The ocean becomes a prison cell without walls. Beautiful, yes, but beautiful in the way a venomous snake is beautiful. You start asking yourself the most dangerous question: what if the wind never comes back?