“As the old saying goes, the die is cast. The journey has begun; there’s no turning back now. Once we cross the Atlantic, that’s it… we can only move forward.
On the radar and navigation systems, via the AIS, there are countless vessels, coming from all directions, especially from Las Palmas. The starting line was buzzing with activity.
We planned to head towards Cape Verde and turn towards the Caribbean about 100 miles before, then head directly to St. Lucia. This was our chosen route, a sort of middle ground.
Safety was a primary concern, and with that in mind, we rigged yellow safety lines along each side of the boat, checked our life jackets and inflatable capsules, and even bought spare capsules, just in case we survived an initial incident and needed them again. The yellow lines were attached to the bow and stern, with the idea being that we would clip ourselves to them while moving around the boat, preventing the possibility of falling overboard in the open ocean. However, this quickly proved impractical during testing. Besides, wearing a life jacket during the day in the heat was a chore in itself, and it wasn’t much better at night, so we unanimously abandoned this option. If someone fell in, they fell in, and that was that… whatever happens, happens. This wasn’t the smartest approach, but we were both apparently too lazy to put on and clip into a lifeline every time we went to the front of the boat. Of course, if we encountered a serious storm, that would be a different story :).
The beginning was slow, frustratingly so. There was almost no wind, or it was teasingly weak. The sun was scorching with full force, as it usually does at the equator, from early morning until late at night. Gradually, Gran Canaria faded from view, and we approached Cape Verde… At one point, we practically stalled. There was no wind anywhere; the ocean was as flat as glass, without a single ripple. Surrounded by several other boats in the same predicament, messages slowly started trickling in, and people were calling on channel 16… everyone was asking for the same thing… a fresh weather forecast. We fired up the phone and attempted to download a new forecast, a painstaking process that took us about half an hour for a single update… the news: there would be wind, but in two days…
We had fuel, but not nearly enough to motor the entire way, so if this happened to us in the middle of the ocean and we ran out, we’d be in serious trouble… better to wait it out… a few sailboats, impatient or with more generous fuel reserves, started their engines and motored on… we decided to wait for the wind to return. The heat was relentless, slowly melting us, but the current was fortunately nudging us in the right direction.
The days drifted by slowly. I spent most of my time fishing and reading. As the journey progressed, I became a voracious reader, even managing to finish a book a day. Since I had taken on the entire night shift, I began to truly appreciate the night sky. Far from the mainland, where there is no light pollution, you could see all sorts of celestial wonders, just no UFOs (yet!).
A part of the time also went on preparing food… although we had a decent supply of ready-made microwave meals – what some might call “airplane food” – I found myself experimenting in the galley, making various pizza doughs, and of course, burgers… one fateful time, I used some seriously potent Moroccan hot peppers and made a burger so fiery that I could barely eat it, an experience that definitely had its consequences!
During the nights when the wind picked up and the waves got a bit bigger, we often found ourselves collecting breakfast from the deck in the morning; quite a few flying fish, propelled by wind and waves, would land on our boat, sadly meeting their end. We always tossed them back into the sea; we weren’t going to eat them – we had plenty of our own food, and who wants to clean flying fish anyway?
As monotonous as it all might seem at times, I must admit that I witnessed some of the most breathtaking sunsets and sunrises of my life while crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The vast expanse of the ocean, combined with the clear skies, created truly unforgettable displays of color.
One night, I was comfortably settled upstairs reading, occasionally glancing outside and getting up to stretch my legs and walk around the boat. We had a solid wind. A sailboat was trailing us about 2 miles behind. Somewhere around 2 am CANARY ISLAND TIME (we hadn’t changed our clocks) messages started flooding the radio station, which I had miraculously left on the table in the cabin. The system was going haywire… I had to manually silence the beeping, which would otherwise continue until each message was read… This went on for the next hour. I started ignoring the messages, assuming they were just routine updates and announcements… I hadn’t even bothered to read them. Suddenly, a beam of light swept across our boat; I looked up and saw the sailboat behind us shining a spotlight on us. I grabbed a lamp and returned the signal, making us more visible from a distance. Then, contact followed via the radio. “Finally, I woke you up….” A bit disoriented, I replied, “Hi, I wasn’t sleeping; I was reading a book…” And then he hit me with the millennium question… “Are you fishing right now?”
Again, a bit confused, I told him no, of course not. I thought to myself, who would be fishing in the middle of the ocean in the dead of night, trying to pull up fish in the dark… He responded, “OK, I’m planning to pass you, so I didn’t want to break your line.” I simply replied, “Okay, everything’s fine; feel free to pass.” I went to the back of the boat, gave a wave, and went back to my book… but my mind was racing. Was it possible he called me for that? How? This ocean is vast; he was about 2 miles behind… no fishing line is that long… how… I got up and checked the AIS; he was now about 700m behind us… unbelievable… even if he had wanted to, there was no way he could have snagged our line. If he had just slowed down, he could have easily executed his maneuver and passed us… strange… maybe he was just lonely. I suspect that was it. There are, after all, people who cross the Atlantic completely solo.
Due to their design, most catamarans lack a backstay that connects the mast to the stern, limiting their ability to sail at angles greater than 120 degrees to the wind, as this could risk breaking the mast. This meant we had to sail a zig-zag course, drastically increasing the distance we needed to cover.
As the days passed, day 10 arrived, marking the halfway point of our planned trip, although it didn’t feel like it on the map… it felt like we were living a few “Groundhog Days,” like in that movie where everything repeats itself… Every morning, I would wake up, look around, realize we still had half the journey ahead of us, and think, “Okay, we’re halfway there again today,” and then continue with my usual routine.
The second half of the trip was a bit more favorable… the wind picked up, which also increased the waves a bit, but luckily, they were coming from behind, making for a much smoother ride. One day, through the binoculars, we spotted St. Lucia… finally, something that wasn’t blue! I was overjoyed… less than 24 hours to the finish line… fantastic, we were almost there.
As we approached the island, we encountered some local fishermen in large wooden boats with powerful engines, venturing up to 30-40 miles offshore to fish. It was quite a sight.
To complete this leg of our journey, we covered approximately 3200 nautical miles, which took us about 556 hours and 20 minutes, or 23 days, 4 hours, and 19 minutes, at an average speed of 5.6 knots. For those with the “premium tickets” (those who were part of the ARC rally), there was a support boat with a cameraman and a drone filming their entrance into Rodney Bay in St. Lucia. For us, from the “national class,” a simple wave and a friendly greeting were enough.
We dropped anchor and took a well-deserved rest before contacting the marina to inquire about availability and reporting our arrival to immigration. The sight of green vegetation was incredibly welcome after 23 days surrounded by nothing but blue. Land… it felt good to finally be on solid ground again. Now, we were eager to see what the Caribbean had in store for us.”