7/12/2019
So here we are, Day 3 of the big Atlantic Crossing. It has been a fast and interesting start. Our final morning of prep was a bit of a mad dash, ticking final items off the check list and picking up last minute things we’d overlooked. I was surprised however at how quickly it all came together. From chaos a couple of days earlier, not knowing if we would even go, to 100% ready to depart. Everything was organised and stowed below deck and in the lockers, the boat was scrubbed inside and out, and the crew were rearing to go in their new snazzy Florence t-shirts. By mid-day, there was only one thing left to do: slip the lines. John was there to take the D-Day crew photo and to wish us well. We gave him one last goodbye hug and thanked him again for his endlessly helpful support. Without his initiative and creative thinking on the furling motor issue, we would not have been able to cross this ocean. Sea brothers forever :)
As we made ready to depart, I was at the helm and gave the final commands, yelling “Drop the bowlines! Now slip the stern!” As the stern slipped, I put Florence into forward gear, and we slipped slowly but surely out of our berth that had been our preparation station for the past 2 weeks. We crept out slowly towards the mouth of the marina. My next challenge as helmsman was to avoid the end of the jetty at the entrance to the marina - literally the only physical hazard between us and Barbados. We had joked at various times over the past week how comically tragic it would be if we managed to clip that jetty on the way out, thus ending the journey before it had even begun. We’d just have to walk slowly away from the boat and pretend this whole thing never happened…. Alas, I managed to swing us safely around that one barrier (it was not difficult), and that was it - we were out in the Atlantic, with nothing ahead of us but 2,750 nautical miles of ocean.
I was feeling a bit overwhelmed - a heady mix of nerves, excitement, and I’m not sure what else. Perhaps curiosity to discover what this crossing would bring, both in terms of the journey itself and how it would affect me. Would I love it? Hate it? I suspected some combination of the two would occur at various points along the way. Would the experience alter my perspective in some way? How would I deal with 2-3 weeks of being shut off from the outside world? Our only connection is a satelite phone we use once daily to download a weather forecast and to email our coordinates to a handful of people tracking our progress on land. As we watched Tenerife grow smaller in the distance, we slipped into an entirely different routine dictated solely by the wind, weather, sun, moon and stars. I wondered if this Atlantic crossing would finally give me some clarity in terms of what this trip has really been about. Quitting jobs, moving out of our home, giving away possessions, leaving behind family and friends - what had that all ultimately been for? With these big questions whirling around in my head, I was also cognisant to not load the journey with too many expectations: 18 days at sea is by no means a guaranteed path to self-awareness. Mostly I was just praying it would go smoothly, with no major boat malfunctions, no fierce storms, no crew injuries, and god forbid no man-overboard situations. By far my most overwhelming feeling as we headed out into open water was the sense of the unknown. Slipping the lines and starting across this ocean was a leap of faith - we couldn’t know exactly what the journey would bring, but we were willing to take the risks to find out.
The trip started out almost too good to be true. We weren’t 5 minutes outside the harbour when a large school of dolphins promptly swam up and began dancing with our bow, as if to wish us luck for the journey and signalling that everything would be alright. I continue to think of dolphins as the good luck charms of the sea, creatures who know the precise moments when you are feeling fearful/discouraged, etc. and show up to help push you along. We expected to have to motor for most of our first day before the offshore winds kicked in. However, the wind seemed to fill in pretty much immediately, and within 60 minutes of departing, we had the full mainsail and jib out and were sailing on a lovely broad reach, making 8-9 knots through smooth seas. Brad wasted no time getting out his fishing tackle and rigging up our first trawling line, eager to catch that first blue water fish. The sun was shining, and the crew were in good spirits - we were off to a cracking start.
It was all a bit too good to last however. While the winds continued to increase steadily, settling in at 25-35 knots, the sea state became pretty confused over the course of the evening. It started getting quite bumpy as we struggled to enjoy our first crew evening meal. All 5 of us were huddled in the cockpit, clutching our bowls tightly to our chests, trying to avoid splattering our dinners all over the deck. We decided to reef the sails a bit, as we were now overpowered with gusts above 35 knots and darkness closing in fast. For our watch system, we decided to do a rotation of 5 solo watches at 3 hours a piece which would give ample off time between watches and also allow for some solo watches at night, which can be a cool and at times necessary experience. With 5 people living and working in a crowded space, a few hours here and there of alone time with the ocean can be precious. Stephen and I decided that since the rest of the crew were still getting to know the boat, we should take the first two graveyard shifts. I would be on from 12-3 AM, Stephen from 3-6 AM. The sail would have been lovely, as the winds were strong and consistent, if not for the sea state. The waves were big, well over 3 meters, and definitely confused. The swell was mostly coming on our quarter, which is OK, but occasionally a wave would smash us right on a beam and throw the boat out of step. It was a long night of rocking up and down, back and forth, followed by an even longer day of more of the same.
Some of the crew were feeling a bit seasick, which is to be expected. It can take a couple days to get acclimatised to the motion of a boat at sea, as it's counterintuitive to our innate sense of balance dictated by our inner ear. I was feeling pretty good actually, except for the lack of sleep that inevitably comes with the first few days of passage making. Alice and Will weren’t feeling great but were able so spend a good chunk of the day resting and trying to get used to the admittedly unpleasant motion of the boat. We were all hopeful the swell would calm down soon.
Given the expected forecast, we decided it made sense for us to basically follow the rhumb line from Tenerife to Barbados, making as straight a shot as possible from island to island. The wind is currently on our starboard quarter and is forecast to veer as we get further southwest, and by day 4 of our crossing it should be coming from directly behind us. That is the point of sail we are most looking forward to and one of the reasons people like to cross the Atlantic this time of year. The trade winds at this time of year around this latitude blow pretty consistently from east to west, and once the wind is behind you, it should push you all the way west to the Caribbean. We hoped that tomorrow once the wind was solidly behind us, the sea would also become mostly a following sea which should allow for a smoother ride. Until then, we will be rocking to and fro, popping those sea sickness pills, trying to stay above deck as much as possible, and trying not to injure ourselves when below as the boat pitches about. The upside to the uncomfortable ride is that Florence is flying! We made 175 nautical miles in our first 24 hours and then smashed out another 205 nautical miles on Day 2. The sailing really is exhilarating when above deck. The crew’s stomaches may be churning, but Flo is churning out the miles. She is clearly built for this and is harnessing the wind and smashing through the waves brilliantly. I love this boat.
Speaking of being built for this, so it seems is my step dad Brad. He takes every opportunity to turn off the autopilot and take the helm, loving the challenge of fighting the big seas and trying to give us extra speed by surfing down waves. He gave me some pointers on how to surf, and I spent a couple hours on my watch yesterday at the helm trying to surf down the really big ones, all while keeping our heading of 240 degrees true. It was a work out. You really have to wrestle the wheel to port as a big wave takes you on your starboard quarter, pushing Flo’s stern down the face of the wave much faster than her bow, hence the need to really force the rudder to port to compensate and keep her from spinning out at the bottom of the wave. Exhilerating stuff! I tried to get some good footage, but a camera can't do justice to how mammoth these waves are. At the bottom of a 20 foot wave, all you can see behind you is a wall of water before it lifts you up then remerges on the other side of your hull before rolling off into the distance. It’s a wild sensation that I wish I could convey through film, but alas, you’ll just have to take my world for it.
Sailing through these large seas is a bit more unsettling at night especially when below deck where every pitch of the boat seems much more severe. Below, you have no frame of reference for what’s happening outside, so you can’t anticipate the huge wave about to smack against the hull (and incidentally right by your ears), lurching the boat one way or the other as you try pretty fruitlessly to sleep. It’s at these times especially that I’m glad we bought such a heavy, solidly built ocean-going vessel, and I try my best to put my faith in Flo and relax enough to steal an hour or 2 of shut eye.
Given the direction of the swell, sleeping normally in our bed is near impossible. I've had to adopt what I call my Batman approach to sleeping on passage: I wedge myself in horizontally across the head of the bed so that I'm sleeping semi-upside down like a bat while see-sawing back and forth. Comfortable it is not, but it keeps me from rolling off the bed every time a wave hits.
This morning I had my favourite watch, the sunrise watch from 6-9 AM. It was still pitch dark when my watch began and a bit squally. I clipped in and got situated above deck to monitor the wind and waves when the sky opened up. We had just crossed under another squall. I quickly became soaked through, but I stayed out there so I could appreciate the slow-burn effect of the sky ever so subtlety changing colours as the sun began to rise. There were a lot of clouds around, which added some drama to the event. It was just me, Flo, and the Atlantic Ocean, which was pretty fantastic. Definitely one of the singular experiences of this trip so far. Talk about feeling alone in nature.
The sea state today thankfully seems to have calmed down a bit. The waves aren’t as massive and are coming from a more consistent direction, with fewer of those rogues throwing us out of whack. We have full sail out now as the wind gusts have calmed down to 25 knots, and we're still making 8-9 knots on average. I’m hoping the sea grows more consistent and the wind continues to veer so we can get our downwind rig out and start surfing our way to Barbados. By then, we will all hopefully have settled into the rhythm of passage making and can begin to relax, as these first 2+ days have been pretty intense. Only 2,225 miles to go!
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