A freshly brewed steaming mug of spicy ginger tea in our hands, we nibble the delicious flapjacks baked following Sue’s delightfully sticky recipe. A treat of buttery caramel, toasted oats, nuts and seeds, and sweet apricots.
As we savour them, we reminisce about how we met fellow sailors Richard and Sue some years ago in Cartagena with their beautiful yacht Tahira where we spent the winter together. As a parting gift and sustenance for the passage to the Balearics, Sue made flapjacks for us, and her recipe has been our go-to ever since. Cooking and baking has become for us a celebration of friendships. We have gathered recipes of family and friends’ specialities over the years, or prepared something for someone. Each time we revisit the dish, our minds turn to the people from then on associated with it.
Evening is approaching once more in an overcast world. Not that we can tell yet – daylight, if not sun, stays with us until late in the night by now. Fog and dense stratus clouds govern our days, dotted with the occasional flyby of a seabird or two. Fulmars and gannets are frequent visitors to our boat, and the occasional storm petrel soars past. This morning, we saw our first three great shearwaters on this voyage, birds we have grown very fond of on our last long passage from the Caribbean to the Azores. We then we shared their migration route to the North.
Perhaps equally curious as us to meet someone out here on the ocean, the fulmars and gannets glide towards us over the waves, into the troughs, soaring up again on the far end. Not beating a wing, as if flirting with the sea, they harness the air turbulences induced by the water hills.
A young gannet momentarily suspends its journey for a visit. Mottled grey feathers on the wings and the back show it is of last year’s hatch. Before heading onwards on their own journey, our avian guests leisurely circle the boat a couple of times with their innate elegance, observing the goings-on. Having seen enough, they take their leave. They pick up their game with the elements once more disappearing into the distance, their flight a playful dance with the seascape and the wind. Those pelagic birds are truly at home here.
Most sailors and mariners have a passion for birds, companions on long voyages. Occasionally, the same bird comes visiting again and again if our journeys converge for a while. But on this voyage, everyone seems to go the other way.
A few days ago, in light winds, we crossed paths with several pods of jet-black pilot whales. As they come up for a resounding breath, their backs arch in a fine curve, their dark skin glistens a if lacquered in what wan sunlight filters through the overcast skies. Their elegantly curved dorsal fin slices the water, sending a shimmering wavelet before it, little droplets sparkle. When they dive in all leisure, they don’t show their fluke. Silently swallowed by the sea.
At the cry of ‘Whale! Pilot whale!,’ everyone grabs a jacket, a camera, hurries up on deck. The whales have us riveted to the bulwarks. Four concentrated pairs of eyes are trying to discern their intentions, spot their numbers, observe their behaviour, enjoy their company. Will they come close for a visit? Perhaps play in our bow wave? We all wish them to come near, as we watch them coming up for a breath between the waves.
Scattered over a considerable area, the pod’s members seem to travel in small groups, occasionally alone. Some are more curious than others, decide to edge closer, follow the boat while keeping their offing.
No one comes to play this time, they are on their own journey.
The high seas are alive, still. Although its creatures don’t always reveal themselves, they are out here. My thoughts go to old tales of seas teeming with life, and what a different world it must have been those hundreds of years ago.
Angie