It’s the fourth day on passage and I’m standing in the Atlas’ pilot house gazing out of the large glass windows we meticulously resealed before setting off. As the waves pass from under our starboard quarter towards the west, I’m contemplating their fractal intricacies and modulations.
The preparation weeks in the boat yard of Minihic-sur-Rance and the marina of Bas Sablons already seem a long while away as we have fallen into the rhythm of passage making: sailing, eating, sleeping, contemplating, living in motion, meandering in and out of being together and being apart as each takes their watch.
Our route takes us north of west as we sail from France towards the shores of SW Greenland. The wind direction is unexpectedly out of NE to ENE. Earlier this year we had talked about beating upwind all the way: we’re bang in the zone of Westerly winds after all, ushering the weather systems and lows across the Atlantic from the American to the European shores. This year is different.
Atlas rolls to the waves that are reminiscent of Twoflower’s first Atlantic crossing in the trade winds. Heaving up and down with the waves passing underneath, rolling – gently most times, violently at others – with the sea boarding the leeward scuppers, washing along the bulwarks before gushing out of the fairleads frothing our wake.
The giant bronze propeller polished mirror-like before going into the water, spins in sync with Atlas’ motion through the water. An undulating background humming accompanying us at all times. It evokes in my mind memories of riding the open nostalgic cable cars in the precipitous canton of Uri in Switzerland. Often older than any of us, meticulously maintained, they take four people up the mountain in an open basket suspended over the cliffs. As they ascend and descend the mountain, they hum akin to Atlas’ prop.
Whenever near a stanchion, the cable car’s speed drops and with it the mechanical humming transmitted through the cables in unison with the carriage’s wheels turning on the guide rail just above. As we slow down just before the stanchion, the cabin riding up to it from its suspended ride in the cable, the hum drops an octave. A short breath hold — a pause in a musical piece, preceding the next crescendo — before both the cable car and the humming gain momentum in unison having passed the stanchion and continuing its journey up, ever up.
Atlas sings to a variant of the melody. A joint piece of the natural and the mechanical. We lift up from astern. Atlas gathers her skirts, surfing forward on the wave’s face. As if sat on a wooden swing slung over the branch of a stately oak tree, she’s given an inviting push by an invisible hand, surging forward joyfully before gently slowing down after the crest passed. Smiling to herself, awaiting the next wave, she is ready to swing again. Each wave, each motion a modulation of the preceding.
The wind and sea have calmed down since my last watch in the night. The Genoa I partially furled is out at its fullest once more, pulling along Atlas steadily towards our destination. The crew is asleep.
Angie