It was a bold, final effort. Every tenth of a knot was significant and after three weeks at sea, we had come to know this all too well. One by one, Ocean Spirit of Moray 's sixteen sail trainees slung their oil skinned legs over the deck's windward edge.

It probably didn't make too much difference to the 80-foot ketch's speed, maybe none at all, but it was a fitting way to end our epic trans-Atlantic voyage. Besides, a Press boat was on its way to meet us from St. George's and we knew it looked good.

I was happy. There was no denying that fact. After more than three thousand miles of nothing, we were in Bermuda waters and it felt great, despite the appalling weather, a mixture of heavy showers and 25 knot winds.

My good mood had been sparked off that morning as we sat in the boat's cockpit on the dawn watch. After being treated to yet another spectacular mid-Atlantic sunrise, we spied two longtails gliding against the creamy-orange backdrop. I knew I was close to home and grinned.

Bermuda had taken centre stage throughout conversations during the trip. Most of my crew-mates knew next to nothing about the Island and Grant, another Bermudian, and I had been plied with three weeks of searching questions which only served to feed our anticipation. As much as I enjoyed sailing her, Ocean Spirit 's imminent landfall was very much on my mind.

Tearing my rain-soaked face away from the horizon, I saw the skipper, Ian Lerner, wander out of the doghouse in a kilt and bright purple rugby shirt.

Ever the ambassador, he wanted Scotland - for Ocean Spirit was registered there - to be well represented.

For the last few hours, he had been hunched over charts, strategically planning our course in an effort to maintain the lead over our closest competitor, another British ship called Rona II .

It was going to be close and he knew it. Every ounce of his energy and concentration was now, as it always had been, devoted to ensuring Ocean Spirit sailed this race as best she could.

We did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. The boat belongs to Scotland's famed Gordonstoun School, whose alumni include members of the British Royal family.

I cast my mind back 21 days, to when I first stepped onto the sleek, white-hulled ship at her berth in Cadiz, Spain.

Having just finished a month of travelling around Europe by train, I was suitably exhausted and looking forward to finally setting up camp on board Ocean Spirit for the next few weeks.

The atmosphere in Cadiz was vibrant and friendly. The moment I stepped off the train I was swept away by a throng of people all rushing toward the docks where several of the big Class A ships were berthed.

The Gran Regatta 2000 had drawn many thousands of people from all over Spain and Europe to the ancient seaport.

In turn, Cadiz made them feel as welcome as possible with parades, concerts and parties that lasted well into the wee morning hours.

There was a troupe of Gombeys there too, who worked masterfully through their rhythmic repertoire to the visible enjoyment of audiences and, in the process, earned Bermuda some colourful publicity.

Of course the main attractions were the ships themselves. Visitors queued for hours to take tours of the beautiful barques, brigs and schooners.

I even had to squeeze through a crowd of people to climb on board Ocean Spirit , which was being stared at and photographed like some strange animal in a zoo.

After meeting my twenty crew mates, whose ages ranged from 18 to 60, I settled down to a briefing with the skipper.

Ian sat over a huge chart of the North Atlantic with a ruler and pencil and described to us what he thought would be the best route to Bermuda.

The series of straight lines he drew would supposedly take us southwest from the Spanish coast to a point way in the middle of the Atlantic. From there, we would turn north-west and begin the final 1500 or so mile leg journey along the `Rhum Line', or quickest route, to Bermuda.

"It's going to be a long trip and a lot's going to happen,'' Ian said as he rolled up the map. I felt my stomach tie itself into an untidy reef knot of excitement and fear. I couldn't wait to get underway.

The next day there was a buzz of excitement in the air around the docks. The huge Class A ships took on the appearance of the Spanish Armada as they unfurled their huge white sails and slipped away in a magnificent, graceful procession toward the starting line.

Because Ocean Spirit 's crew was made up not of trained sailors but ordinary people in search of adventure, Ian thought it best to give us a crash course in putting up sails, tacking and tying knots before the race began.

It wasn't long before everyone began to get the hang of it. I could see the signs of a good team already starting to form as we weaved our way through the hundreds of motor boats who had come to bid us farewell.

The skipper had given us a `Braveheart'-style pep talk that morning and his stirring words had helped us realise just how much work and energy we would have to expend in ensuring we did well.

A short man with black, curly hair and a strong North London accent, Ian is an ocean away from the stereotype of a grizzled old sea salt. From the moment he began speaking, though, I could tell he had a deep well of experience at sea to draw upon. For that reason, I had faith in him as our skipper right from the beginning.

When the starting gun fired, we crossed the line on a wave of enthusiasm, drive and laser-beam concentration. I feared that such attributes were sure to be tested time and again during the coming weeks.

Our routine was simple and exhausting. Hours of butt-numbing deck watches, laced with moments of intense activity, and then followed by short periods of deep rest. At no time did we get more than four hours of sleep and our cubby hole bunks became our favourite places. The usually steady swish of the water lulled us to sleep like the clickety-click on a sleeper train.

As anyone who's tried to bake a shepherd's pie at 45 degrees will tell you, cooking and eating at sea is an experience, and an art, all of its own. It's frustrating but you have to laugh. There is something admittedly amusing about seeing your potatoes roll off your plate into someone else's peach crumble.

On deck, my favourite past time became helming. The two mates in charge of our watch, Jerry and Tash, kept a watchful eye over us as we learned how to steer the boat to the wind or on a compass course. It wasn't easy. On my third turn, I got my left and right mixed-up and had to be thrown off the wheel before we crash-jibed. The fact that the cruising sheet (a large, light sail which billows off the front) was up meant it could have been a very serious mistake.

Luckily, all that was damaged this time was my pride.

The weather we encountered ranged between the extremes. On less tranquil days, we encountered squalls -- storms which sweep across the ocean and pack heavy showers and gusty winds. If they catch you at the right point, they can send you barrelling along at 12 knots in the right direction. That's the best case scenario. On the flip side, they can send you miles off course and cause your ship a good deal of damage in the process. Unfortunately, that was a lesson we had to learn the hard way. One night, we pushed it a little too far in an unusually strong squall and burst our spinnaker. It was a costly mistake but one which, in the end, probably made us more enthusiastic to win than anything else.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all hard sailing. Two days after we left Cadiz the wind dropped to next to nothing. The mail sail flapped around frustratingly and the speed read-out showed we were doing zero knots. The ocean looked like the surface of a glass waterbed.

Sailing home under your own steam Being becalmed meant we could catch up on our sunbathing but it also meant we were going nowhere. That was annoying.

Some of the boredom on those days was relieved by a few welcome visitors.

Once, two sperm whales, a mother and her calf, swam past not far from the bow.

Powerful jets of water shot out of their blow-holes as they idled along and then they shoved their tails in the air before disappearing into the depths of the Atlantic.

On another flat day, a Nassau registered cargo freighter, the Afric Star altered course in our direction. At first we got a bit worried when we saw her heading straight for us, with thoughts of drunken helmsmen or even pirates entering our heads. At the last minute, she turned to come along side us and the Captain's friendly voice came over the radio asking if we had enough food and diesel. He had just been checking up on us. We showed our appreciation by beeping our horn and waving frantically. It was the first ship we'd seen in a week.

With so much free time on our hands, we planned social events between the two watches to help relieve the boredom. Once we had a fancy dress party in the cockpit. Another time, we organised an inter-watch Olympic Games with events such as `Pass the Bog Roll' and `Roll the Onion'.

During our deck watches, we drank countless cups of tea and coffee, took turns steering and told stories. The sunsets and sunrises were nothing short of spectacular. The stars at night made you feel as if you were staring into the kingdom of heaven itself.

It was these images that passed through my head as I sat with my legs over the windward edge of the Ocean Spirit 's deck and scanned the tempestuous horizon for land.

Then I saw it. Two humps of grey rose out of the water, barely distinguishable from the foggy, slate sky behind. I realised that these were St. David's Head on the left and St. George's Island on the right. In front of them was a tiny, black speck. As it came closer, I realised this was the pilot boat St. David bouncing through the waves, laden with reporters and cameramen. She circled us a few times and then led us in, toward the Island.

Moments later, I heard a shout from the doghouse. "We're finished! That's it!'' Ocean Spirit had crossed the finish line, the second boat to do so. I felt my face crack into a grin. That was it. I was home. Nothing could beat this feeling. Nothing.

Ship-shape: Crew members of Ocean Spirit of Moray , top, pose for the camera half way across the Atlantic, while Royal Gazette reporter Ben Greening, above, takes a firm hand on the wheel. Above left, Ocean Spirit of Moray before setting sail.