Author: angie

Passage notes, 14th June 2023, a bright morning

What a morning to wake up to! The sun is out, the sky has cleared behind the occlusion, the sea has come down, and Atlas jogs along with the crisp gennaker billowing out.

As I slowly open my eyes, I see bright sun patches traversing the cabin in synchronised movement with the boat. Highlighting first the onion basket swinging peacefully overhead, then Richard’s face who is slumbering on the other side of the boat right underneath, now the wood stove resting in the centre of the boat. Finally it comes over to our side of cabin, momentarily blinding me, as if to say, ‘Good morning, it’s time to get out of bed,’ before it continues its migration across.

Stepping out into the cockpit from the pilot house, the warm sun rays and the bright light of a splendid day greet us. An utter transformation from the past week of uniform grey. By then, we had been jokingly wondering if we were even moving at all. Every morning ground-hog day. We woke up to the same landscape, the same dull sky, the same colour of the sea, and just a little variation on the movement, too little to really count as a change.

Arnaud, our skipper, in a philosophical mood, asked some days ago: “Can we prove we are not going in circles?” And in fact, we couldn’t. For all we knew, we might be. The light had no direction. It had been days since we had last seen the sun, or any other celestial body. Our surroundings had become uniform, light grey above, fading from and to twilight during the morning and at night, the water with a pale blueish-green complexion. Suspended in what seems like timelessness.

This morning. A change. The sun. It feels like summer has arrived, and energy, zest, vibrance, and contrast have returned to our lives. A fresh breath of cool air, the sun warming our bare skin on our arms as we slowly spoon our breakfast and sip the hot coffee. It feels like having traversed a high glacial plateau shrouded in mist, and come down into the summer valley on the other side. ‘We’re going to Greenland after all,’ says Arnaud as he returns from the foredeck and steps into the cockpit with a bright smile.

The ocean moves like a flag billowing in slow motion, the colour has poured back into the water while we were asleep. The waves and wavelets have rounded soft shapes now. High cirrus clouds adorn the sky, and a rim of low stratus is still visible on the horizon. The occlusion has brought a longed-for change.

Angie

Passage notes, Tuesday, 13th June 2023, evening watch

I’m on the first watch tonight, and we’ve had increasing wind strength over the afternoon. A low is to the south-west of us, trailing a long occluded front around its centre. As the cold front catches up with the preceding warm front, it pushes up the warm air and closes like a zipper.

We fly along again with the wind from the stern. I only just finished a radio call with a Liberian tanker bound for New York City. We have been on converging courses, like on a motorway feeder. The tanker catching us up from behind on nearly the same heading.

Upon my second hail on the radio ‘tanker Alian, Alian, Alian, call sign D5ZH7, this is sailing yacht Atlas, Atlas, Atlas, over,‘ they seemed to notice us, started adjusting their course to give us more sea room and called back. A pleasant chat with the officer on watch unfolded and he reassured us that they’ll pass us at a safe distance.

Regardless how much I peel my eyes, I still can’t spot them out in the grey murk that has enveloped us for days, even though they are just 5 miles off our starboard stern by now. They’ll rush past us with their 13 knots, while we do 5.5 – 6 knots.

Often as not, when one eventually meets another ship out at sea, they are on collision course, or nearly so. The AIS or Automatic Identification System, is a great help in such situations. It transmits ship data such as position, speed, heading, name, destination, etc over the radio and allows us to determine how close we will get way ahead of time. Finally, there they are, the two white masthead lights dipping and appearing in irregular intervals as we climb up and sledge down on the wet slopes, and our horizon changes accordingly.

Soon it will be time to wake up Alex for his watch and snuggle into the warm bed myself. Whether sleep will ensue is a function of the sea state, the location, orientation, and snugness of the berth in the boat, and most importantly, tiredness. The sea state tonight is not the most comfortable, with an irregular cross swell sent out from the low that is overlaid by the wind waves. The sea is heaving and at times sends us skittering downhill, heeling over, only for the boat to pop up again and roll over the other way as we ascend the next hill rolling sideways underneath us.

‘If you still haven’t slept, don’t worry, you’re just not tired enough,’ said our skipper on a training passage from the Azores to Spain mid-winter some years ago, after I got up for my night watch after several days at sea, not having been able to fall into the sweet nothingness of slumber.

‘If you are tired enough, you’ll sleep anywhere,’ he added reassuringly. I’ve lived by this shard of wisdom since. I found it to be as true in mountain huts, during stressful times in landlubber life, as on that passage of 7.5m waves with a storm in our neck. My berth then was in the forward-most part of the boat, and the boat was launching off the waves, falling into the valleys, with a resounding crash and the rigging reverberating. At some point, nothing matters, and one sleeps in any circumstance.

Angie

Passage notes, Tuesday, 13th June 2023

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