1st-6th October 2024
As always, we had big plans to leave at first light on the 1st October. At around 2 pm Niels was still wrestling with the Genoa after having adjusted the rig, and had missed the outgoing tide, so although the anchor was up and the sail almost too, the journey began with us drifting half a mile backwards.
Then we had to clear a birds nest out of the mainsail. A collection of reeds, yellow grasses and feathers, a last souvenir from the river month blew quietly across the deck and into the water, floating in our wake.
The ‘boat garden’ (a bloomin great big basil, a toolbox full of chard, another toolbox with sprouting salad, tomato and parsley and a hardy old thyme found in the bins in Sweden were all strapped in on the table which would be their wobbly- yet salt free- home for the week.
Underneath was a vegetable box with our half an apple a day ration, some carrots that no one had the stomach to eat, and a bag of optimistic potatoes which gradually got smellier and smellier until the last day when I finally discovered where the odour was coming from and they all went overboard.
The sun shone in our eyes, and the first waves in months greeted us enthusiastically. With good wind but from the side, we slapped the water and rocked on at 6-7 knots, a good start.
By midnight everyone was throwing up, except me. I had sympathy sickness. Tobi was paralytic below deck, Bella cradling the bucket on the cockpit floor and Niels retching over the railing, in-between heroically reattaching the solar panels with cable ties – whom had chosen this moment of all moments to start falling off.
It was a disastrous start.
I was only just able to empty the saucepans of sick, and try and get everyone drinking water, leaving Niels to manage the boat pretty much alone, steering by hand since the autopilot wasn’t reacting quickly enough in the waves.
On the morning of the 2nd we managed to share an apple between us, and things were looking up. Our little satellite messenger showed that the waves were slowly going down, and we were able to adjust our course away from Morocco and more southwards. Although there’s not allot you can do about the weather, it was hugely comforting knowing was coming and being prepared and meant we could take risks like firstly sailing east, knowing that we could adjust it later on.
Niels managed to catch up on some sleep that first day, and Tobi started to look more alive but was staying safely indoors.
24hrs after leaving and we’d made it 127 nm, an average of 5.3kn an hour, maximum speed during that time was 9knt- and the forecast was promising, but some crazy cloud patterns were making me nervous and we never forgot that first night, spending the rest of the journey slightly on edge encase it repeated itself…
Day 3- Dolphins came along to comfort us, but Bella and I were too tired to notice them. Tobi told us about them the following day.
Everyone was feeling allot better.
There was considerably less wind as well, and the genoa was rolled in because it was behaving very badly. Due to a cloudy couple of days we had to let the motor run for a few hours to recharge the batteries, since the autopilot was on most of the time. I even managed to make a cous-cous salad which everyone kept down!
By this time, we’d developed a shift pattern that worked well for the nights. Bella and I did 8-midnight, Niels from 12-4am, and Tobi from 4-8. During the days we all took it in turns sleeping allot, on the deck, the cockpit benches, anywhere but the horrible sweaty bed which couldn’t be aired due to the waves that continuously splashed over the front of the boat.
Day 4- Tobi nearly got a flying fish in the face. This is the sort of thing we woke up to every morning, oh there were dolphins and you missed them, oh a flying fish landed on the sprayhood, bloody Tobi seeing all the animals. Bella and I were probably too distracted listening to our freebirth podcast to notice any. “There are some scales left” he mentioned kindly, but that was way less cool than a flying fish nearly in the face.
There were hardly any other ships at all, and Niels spent allot of the day working on the wind-steering which kept trying to turn us around. Not allot was happening, but I wrote in the logbook the things that felt important e.g. ‘Bella bit her finger really hard whilst eating pasta pesto’ and ‘I managed to get my hand stuck under the wooden bench I happened to also be lying on top of’
In 48 hours we made it 236 nautical miles.
Occasional rain showers came throughout the fourth night, bringing stronger winds and waves, bigger than those of that first disastrous night, but they now rocked us from behind, and if you got the steering right ( we were steering by hand again, thanks to the poor old autopilot) , sometimes it hardly felt like you were moving at all, riding the waves straight down and up. When you didn’t get it right, you would curl around with the wave and end up side on to the next one, not cool. During this midnight wave roulette, we had to change the sails to the other side which took over an hour, and then immediately back again because the wind changed. It rocked a lot that night, and the flapping genoa made me clench my teeth and wonder, how many times realistically can it do that before something breaks?
Sunrise sunset sunrise
Morning star reflects in your eyes
Only 600 miles, he says and smiles
Flying fish, near miss, swims the skies
Day 5- There were two big ships in the night, and by accident Tobi changed our course directly towards them which Niels and he managed to work out in the last minute. Generally, we are very lucky though, with our AIS most big ships adjusted their course before we even got close, which was especially good when we crossed the strait of Gibraltar at the beginning of the sail, with all the cargo coming in and out of the Med.
The last day is always the longest and hardest. So close and yet so far. Tobi and I tried to do some maths; if we are sailing at 5mph, and have 110 miles to go, how long would that take? It felt very complicated and we didn’t like the answer, so gave up quickly and slept instead. I had a sore throat and hadn’t been looking after myself since the crew had been so sick, and were still unable to do anything below deck, leaving quite allot to me.
Niels and I lay in the bed at the front, and just as I fell asleep we woke up to water everywhere.
Shit. A wave came in through the slither of the window I’d left open in order to breathe. Imagine if I’d had it fully open. The bed was now not only sweaty and really smelly, but soaking wet with saltwater. It made for a great night’s sleep.
It was on that last night that we received a warning on our NAVTEX (which prints off the shipping forecast by receiving information via a kHz frequency) about a drifting boat a hundred miles away off of the coast of Lanzarote.
It carried over 100 refugees and is only one of hundreds of similar stories with tragic outcomes. From what we understood they were successfully rescued.
According to the interior ministry more than 33,000 migrants crossed from Africa to the Canaries by sea between 1st Jan and 15th October, and it’s estimated that over 5000 people died during those months alone. It is one of the most dangerous migrant routes in the world. This was the first of many news stories that we would hear after our own, safe arrival that would shake us, and put our privilege and luck into perspective. Sailing is our joy, not a desperate means to an end.
That long last night was wavey, and I could not imagine being on an open wooden dingy on an ocean like that. It’s fucking terrible.
At around 8 am on the morning of the 6th we were all on deck under a cloudy sky was grey. The glow of light pollution on the horizon from the night before had solidified into rock, mountain and desert. There was an unspoken, united feeling of tension, it was so nearly over. The swell had completely disappeared as we sailed into the passage between the eastern cliffs of Lanzarote, and the tiny island of Graciosa. Drinking a celebratory chocolate milk, watching the water turn turquoiser and turquioser.
It was very turquoise against the dull sky.
A shark’s fin. Are we seeing things? Again, a sharp fin and tail are visible slowly patrolling the reef. We pass its checkpoint, and are accepted into the anchorage.
Sunlight on yellowed leaves, the plants extremely grateful to be let out again. Wet and soggy clothes hung out amongst bed sheets and pillows, a colourful smell scene, and finally, the most tentative of swims. There are sharks after all.
We asked the group who would do it all again. 2/4 said yes.
601 miles in 117 hours. An average speed of 5.1.
Recently during the vendee globe around the world race,
Sébastian Simon sailed 615 miles in 24 hours, that’s an average speed of 25.6kts…
Not a bad start : )
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