Category: Atlas

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

Passage notes, Sunday, 11th June 2023

Today, we are approaching the realms of Middle Earth: Isengard on our port quarter, Gondor on the port bow, Lorien on our starboard beam, and headed for Ronan. No sightings of Dwarfs, Hobbits nor Ents just yet, but neither of Orcs or Goblins, so that’s good news. The eyes of several lows, on the other hand – rimmed with amber and red on our weather charts – are lurking about, patrolling the area to the south west of us. We pick our way gingerly towards north west, harnessing their wind while avoiding drawing their attention to us, with their big seas and gusts that swirl in lower latitudes.

Meanwhile, the last remains of Île Brehat Boulanger’s bread started resembling dwarf bread, so you could say we are rightly provisioned for the journey ahead over the mid-Atlantic ridge and its hilly underwater landscape named after Tolkien’s world. Although the bread is great for croutons roasted in browned salted rosemary butter, Alex decided it’s time for fresh fare. He kneaded silky, soft and moist wheat dough for proper handmade Kaisersemmeln that makes up our lunch with plenty of salted Bretagne butter and some fresh greenery.

Our time in the Bretagne working on the boat and preparing for the voyage was a succession of gourmet feasts long to be remembered. Butter, galettes, crêpes, biscuits, croissants, cheese, noix de Saint Jacques, some of which we dove up ourselves, the wonderful fresh produce, like French strawberries and apricots at the same time!

Having just savoured the most buttery and flaky croissants imaginable our friends Jean-Luc and Marie treated us to in Troyes on our road trip from Switzerland to the boat, we were spoiled and nothing quite compared since. Hence, we had been on a hunt for the most buttery croissants we could possibly find. At each Boulanger, we sampled the fare, with the most perfect Troyoise delight in mind.

But butter isn’t just for croissants, and we quickly learned that it has the main stage in Breton cuisine. More than delighted to take up local habits, we made sure to take plenty on board for the voyage ahead!

The local market in St Servan, close to St Malo, near the marina where we stayed to finish the last preparations, became our treasure chest of delicacies of all sorts. We chose our favourite fromagier and sampled his produce. Soft goats cheese with fenugreek seeds, for example, or Basque sheep cheese, ‘¡pa chuparse los dedos!’, as one would say if in Spain. Having tasted his butter, we ordered 10kg, two big blocks of deliciousness. One salé, one doux, just to be sure.

Picking up the mots on the next market day, we started having doubts. Quick calculations of the required daily butter intake of each crew member for the next three months resulted in 30 g per person per day. 30 g doesn’t sound like that much, until contemplating that it means eating it every single day. Thankfully, we all love fresh bread and butter!

How does one store 10 kg of butter on a boat for 3 months without a fridge? The fridge was going to be full of cheese, fresh yoghurt made on demand, and delicatessen such as pâté and smoked salmon trout. Picking up the butter, finding the right storage containers and filling them with delicious soft butter, turned the quest of nearly a day. Chopping and massaging the butter into the glass jars, we had time and leisure to take in and physically understand just what amount 10 kg of butter is. Topped with brine, the jars now reside in the bilge, awaiting their turn to be opened and savoured. After about a week at sea, are nearly through the first beurre salé and making good progress through the first jar of doux.

We’re nearing half way on our passage to Greenland, and have left behind the last of the fishing boats before approaching Middle Earth. Each night, an eerie fog descends on us, so damp and saturated with water droplets that it feels alive. As we sail west-northwest, the temperature steadily decreases, and we expect a precipitous drop in some days’ time when entering the first eddies of the arctic currents.

Angie