The team left behind paced the bridge wing and decks, like expectant fathers waiting for news. Ears strained to hear the crackle on the radio from Stan. Eyes peered into the gloom of the bridge, watching the luminous green slug-like spots - the electronic version of the beacon on the horizon - creeping across the radar screen.

Nothing. Just black night and distant glow. Dave, Hélène & I leaned on the railings staring, staring into the dark. Above our heads a shooting star fell to earth. "What shall we wish for?" asked Dave. "Gosh, let's think", we joked - eyes still all fixed in the horizon. The shooting stars were pretty heavily burdened last night. Twenty minutes later Julie appeared by my side "I've wished on every shooting star I saw tonight" she told me.

So, to suck up time we invented a new game to play. It's called "Fantasy transshipping" - bear with me, it was well after midnight by that point! So, take fantasy football, put the pitch 100km offshore in the Atlantic ocean and imagine the team you most want to be relegated - and off you go. We could have a whole league table of previous offenders who are still pirate fishing without further sanction, known illegal transhippers, launderers of stolen fish the length of the west African coast.

We hadn't got very far when Pete checked in with Stan about their progress - we couldn't wait any longer. The African Queen had arrived as crates of fish were being swung high on the cranes from one ship, over to the reefer. Two more where tied alongside, waiting their turn.

Our little inflatables are often dwarfed by the ships they confront and this was no different - the Korean trawlers are huge. But you would think a giant had descended upon them the way they scattered. On the horizon, the glow was suddenly snuffed out as all the ships doused their lights, with the crews literally running the length of the decks to untie from the factory ship, the Elpis. On the radar, the sleepy slugs burst into life, leaving a trail of luminescence as they fired off in different directions. They apparently didn't even take time to fully weigh anchor before scattering.

We brought the African Queen back to the Esperanza, turning on all the decklights to create a beacon. While we were waiting by the cranes, once more peering into the dark for a boat, the deck lights gave some baby flying fish a chance for some late night antics. Not as skilled as the elegantly soaring daytime version, we got a front row seat for junior flying practice. Soon, the familiar thrum of the African Queen's engine could be heard, and the flare of life jacket reflectors and the faces of the team came into view.

The night had only just begun - it was already 1.30 in the morning! Out of the boats and up onto the bridge - it was starting to get crowded up there. It's times like this that many years experience and plain good fortune come into play. Pete, our captain, had spent hours staring almost wordlessly at the radar all night.

"I think it's that one", he said with confidence. We had to follow the reefer, but in the scrum to run the radar echoes were crossing over each other. We had to pick one.

Okay. Hold your breath, hope and put your faith in Pete's experience and instinct.

The engines start to bite and the Esperanza kicks up a gear. We soon get close enough to shine the huge spotlight on the bow of a ship. Up to now, we could only follow her in electronic form on the radar, as she is still sailing with no lights. The powerful beam shines out from our bridge and bounces off her bow. Bingo! It's the reefer - Elpis (or as we now call her - Elvis) So, we follow. By now it's long after 3.30am. I stumble from the bridge to my bunk for a measly 2.5 hours sleep, wondering what the morning will bring. When I wake and glance out of the porthole, land is staring back at me. For a minute I wonder where the hell I am - what's that land doing there? Elvis had run to Sierra Leone and is now hiding in Freetown harbour. Elvis has left the Atlantic.

- Sara