On the 22nd November 2022, we slipped our lines from Marina Santa Cruz, Tenerife and set out on the biggest sail of our lives. A sail and a dream that had been five years in the making. On the 16th December, after 24 days and two hours at sea and 2930nm sailed we made landfall in Bridgetown, Barbados. Those 24 days at seas felt surreal and I never thought that this would be our reality. Sitting in our boat in the Caribbean. It still hasn’t sunk in that we made our dreams come true.
Brexit, a weather window and a quick turn around
Our last couple of days on dry land weren’t quite how I’d imagined them. Prior to Hector and Eddie’s arrival, Ben and I had been watching the weather closely and, at the same time were becoming increasingly aware that our Schengen clock was rapidly ticking away, our time in Europe was running out. Hector and Eddie arrived on the evening of the 19th and the only window we had to leave was the 22nd November. After this, a low-pressure system was forecast to bring strong southerly winds to the Canaries and we would have been stuck with no time on our Schengen clock. If we didn’t take the wind, we would have had to fly to Morocco to get some time in Europe back and leave the boys on the boat. We didn’t really consider this an option. It was time to go.
We had planned to have a week in Tenerife with Hector and Eddie on board, this would give us time to provision, get them both comfortable with the boat and its systems, carry out last minute repairs, do some exploring and prepare as a team. But best laid plans don’t always work with sailing. We now had two days to get everything ready. Luckily, Hector and Eddie are skilled carpenters and made light work of repairing our missing hatch that we lost on our way to the Canaries. The provisioning was an adventure in itself, we filled trolley after trolley with enough food for a month at sea. In true Lidl style, we frantically raced the cashiers to get everything packed into bags and avoided catching the eyes of the unfortunate shoppers that had ended up in the queue behind us. Well into the evening we were washing down the fruit and veg and removing all traces of cardboard and paper packing. We didn’t want to pick up any stow aways in the way of cockroaches in the packaging! We had just enough time on the first evening of preparations to have some pontoon beers with the other boats who were due to leave in the coming days and talk about how we were all feeling.
There wasn’t enough time to think about the anxieties that were eating my up days before, there was too much to do and with the marina abuzz with preparation, excitement was starting to kick in. Most boats were preparing to make the week-long passage to Cape Verde, only a handful of us were heading direct to the Caribbean. Those two days weren’t quite how I imagined our finals days before departure. I had imagined a special last dinner on land, but in reality, we wolfed down dinner on the last night, all exhausted and desperate to get some sleep but conscious that we still had jobs to finish. And suddenly it was time to go. In my head I never really thought the day would come, but this was it. On the morning of the 22nd November, we finished the last of the jobs, had a celebratory coffee and snack in town and went to immigration to officially stamp out of Europe. It’s a strange feeling slipping your lines, there’s no huge farewell party waving you off as you head out on the biggest challenge of your life. Just the family from the boat next door who you couldn’t get to know very well due to language barriers. As they shouted Bon Voyage, we retuned the best wishes, wishing them fair winds for their own crossing. And so, on the 22nd November 2022 at 1400, we hoisted our sails and headed south into the Atlantic Ocean, the second biggest ocean in the world and we were about to cross it.
The Atlantic Ocean
Life at Sea
As we cruised down the coast of Tenerife and into the night the swell became lumpy and uncomfortable. Ben had told us to expect the first couple of nights to be hard work as the swell converged between Tenerife and Gran Canaria, the effects still being found some 100nm offshore. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace as the sun disappeared and we lost sight of shore. This was where we were meant to be, we had prepared everything to the ninth degree and we had the comfort of having Hector and Eddie on board, in theory we would be getting six hours straight sleep a night, an absolute luxury. We doubled up on watches for the first couple of nights to settle the new crew in; dark, windy, lumpy night watches are that bit more enjoyable when you have company. On that first night, it really hit home the challenges of short-handed sailing and how much Ben and I had done to get this far on our own. As we went to gybe, the furler jammed and required some deck work. Deck work in the night, when its blacker than black in a lumpy sea and just the two of us is always a little jaw clenching. Ben usually works on the deck and I helm and deal with the lines in the cockpit, but with two extra hands the issue was solved quickly and I was so glad that we made the decision to take on crew for the crossing and that Hector and Eddie were up for the adventure.
The Atlantic was kind to us for our first few days, with light winds and a soothing swell we were making a steady 4-6 knots with a poled-out genoa and were hitting our target of 120nm a day. And to the relief of Eddie and Hector, sea sickness hadn’t reared its ugly head! Life was good at sea, it’s hard to describe the feeling as you disconnect from everything and slow down. There is nothing but the endless sea. There is no focus on the end point but just time to enjoy the moment. Time to sleep and read, time to cook and time to just stop and not feel guilty about it, as is so often the case in the real world. This certainly didn’t feel like the real world, life is surreal out there on the ocean. I remember, a few days in, alone on deck listening to music and feeling so free with the trade winds and the rolling ocean swell guiding us south towards Cape Verde. That evening, as golden hour arrived, we landed our first fish. It was all go as we desperately reeled in the line, we had a plan to master our landing technique after already losing one fish. The plan worked and we landed the beautiful Dorado. We gutted and filleted the fish and ate a delicious fish dinner, the moment that we had all been waiting for. This was the magic that Ben had spoken about.
The Motion of the Ocean
As first mate, I was in charge of weather forecasting and comms and I knew our gentle introduction to life in the Atlantic was coming to end. We were about to experience the true trade winds, with winds forecast to increase to 25knots, accompanied with 3-4m of swell. After five days at sea, the Atlantic slowly started to come to life. White horses started to dance around the boat and as the swell grew with the wind, the rolling waves started to crest. The sun searched its way through the cresting waves, lighting up pockets of dazzling turquoise as shoals of flying fish darted their way across the seascape. It can be pretty hard to tear your eyes away from the water, it draws you in as you wander what she will offer us out here and if she will be kind. That day, on the 26th November we passed the tropic of cancer, we were now officially sailing in the tropics and we landed our second fish. As night fell, we saw the first tiny sliver of the new moon before it shyly disappeared into the horizon. Before our arrival, the moon would pass through all its phases and we had the delight of watching this cycle from the best seats in the house. No matter how many days you’ve spent sailing offshore, the arrival of the light of the moon will always provide comfort as it lifts you from the claustrophobic vacuum of darkness where sky and sea become one. The moonless nights did, however, provide it’s own show - an uninterrupted sky awash with stars and like the ocean, it can be hard to look away as you lie back on your night watch and take it all in, your eyes searching the horizon for signs of life and the night sky for those special shooting stars, that you never get bored of seeing. But, it’s not all magic on the high seas. We are maintaining a small yacht, in a big ocean and things can and do break. A week or so in, one of Ben’s worst nightmares came true. The forward heads became blocked (I won’t single anyone out here!). On the second blockage, Ben had no other choice but to open the inspection hatch on the pump and manually remove blockage. Unsurprisingly, there were no other takers for this task. A few hours later a sweaty, smelly Ben appeared from the confines of the heads asking everyone to save their more serious toilet business for the aft heads. The day was greatly improved as Hector and Eddie landed the second Dorado of the trip and we enjoyed another fish dinner.
As the wind continued to increase, we continued to sail wing on wing. We put a second reef in the genoa and put a third deep reef in the main. We weren’t expecting to use the deep reef so readily, but with 25knots of wind Cariad was surfing down the swell and we were seeing 10-11knots speed over ground (SOG). With thousands of miles of sailing ahead of us, we didn’t want to be putting the rig under that much strain. Life on board became significantly harder as we raced down the growing swell and trying to settle into the dreaded downwind roll. Although, it’s important to note 25knots of wind downwind is easy compared to 25knots sailing upwind. Our muscles were working overtime, as we moved around the boat and thought to keep our bodies still as we lurched around in our bunks. Evening searches for that one banging noise was added to our routines, each of us fixated on our own individual noises that was keeping us from our rocky slumber. Despite the wind and swell the good food and good times continued. It was easy to forget where we were, we were becoming accustomed to life at sea. During a game of cards or whilst washing up, I would look out across the water and it would suddenly hit me that I was on a boat in the middle of Atlantic, as if somehow it had so easily slipped my mind.
The wind and swell continued and it was starting to take its toll on everyone. I found these days the toughest of the journey and on day 9 I hit the wall and just couldn’t fathom the idea that we had more than double the amount of time ahead of us than had already passed. I was tired and just wanted to be still, the pitching of Cariad in the swell made those six hours of sleep fitful and with the increased wind and swell I was alert to any changes in the motion of the boat. I don’t think I was scared at this point, just tired and overwhelmed. Looking out across that wild seascape, it felt like we shouldn’t be there, with the angry white caps and the waves riding up behind us as if they were going to swamp us, but at the last minute rolled beneath us as Cariad lurched forward and surfed down the face. Cariad and our fifth crew member, Salty Steve the hydrovane skilfully sailing sailed us onwards, without so much as breaking sweat. I kept telling myself when the going gets tough, the tough get going and on one night watch, when I was struggling to be alert, Ben spent an hour chanting with me ‘I am Jen and I am brave’. But, when you hit a wall, you really don’t feel tough, I felt weak for feeling uncomfortable when we were totally safe but it’s these moments that make us tougher, more resilient and ready for the next challenge. And, it was through some of these days that I felt like we were true sailors and adventurers, using the elements to our advantage whilst living life on a fragile edge where one mistake could be costly. We ate dinner below deck, our plates and cutlery sliding backwards and forwards across the table, the creaking of the boat and the slam of the waves making me think we were sailors from times gone by It was exhilarating, breath taking and overwhelming all at the same time, but these were the trade winds and our one-way ticket to the Caribbean. The Cape Verde islands were now well behind us, the option for a mid-Atlantic pit stop was no longer available if needed or wanted. This felt like a big milestone. Only the open ocean was ahead.
Half way, sea swims and no wind
I had been promising everyone for a couple of days that the wind and swell would start to drop, and when it did, it was like we had all woken up from an uncomfortable slumber. I woke up to the smell of freshly baked bread and brownies in the oven. We shook out all the reefs and allowed Cariad to spread her wings fully once more. We had also been tracking a nasty looking low pressure system that was disrupting the trade winds, we didn’t want to be anywhere near this system. We gybed to head further south to keep out of its way, whilst we were avoiding the deep low, we were also headed straight for a wind hole. Strong winds are challenging for obvious reasons, but light or no wind brings its own frustrations. What’s more, it looked like we would also have a couple of days of upwind sailing. Not the trade wind sailing we had expected or become accustomed to. In fact, we couldn’t remember the last time we properly sailed upwind since leaving home in August.
On Saturday 3rd December, after much discussion we concluded that we had reached the half way mark. We were half way along our planned run line. Working out half way is harder than you might think, we didn’t know how many miles we would end up sailing or how many days we would spend at sea. Time loses all meaning when on an ocean crossing, the days and miles roll into one. I had thought that at half way time would begin to mean something again, that we could start counting down but with nearly 1500nm still to go and another 12 days at sea it just didn’t seem worth focussing on. Particularly when the first few days of the passage already felt like a lifetime ago. On the 4th December we came across our first boat since leaving. Super yacht MV Arrow on passage to St Martin from Cape Verde, they were expecting a 10 day passage all being well. We all laughed as at the idea of such a quick passage given that we had already been at sea for over 10 days already.
With the light winds I moved back into the master cabin at night, this provided some much sought after privacy and the comfort of my own bed. Up to this point we had been hot bunking the sea berths as we changed watches overnight. The light winds brought so much calm to the Atlantic, a dreamlike state of serenity as Cariad gently slid through the water. The bow waves softly lapping the edges of the hull and the rhythmic creak of wood were the only noises to be heard. The blue was endless, endless blue seas and endless blue skies. This is what I imagine heaven looks like. Whilst the light winds bought stability to life at sea, the heat became our next challenge. The sun bore down on us, our skin prickled with sweat as we desperately searched for relief, the little wind there was did nothing to take the edge off the sun. The bimini didn’t quite provide enough shelter as the sun arced across the sky and we spend days with sheets rigged up in the cockpit to block the sun. Although our greatest relief came, of course, from the Atlantic itself. It was time for our first mid Atlantic swim. We stopped the boat and dove into bottomless, sapphire blue Atlantic. The warm water washing away any stickiness that was clinging onto us. We took it in turns jumping and diving from the boat, feeling so incredibly alive and in awe. How could it be that we were out here, in the middle of the Atlantic swimming around a little boat. An unforgettable experience that we had all been waiting for. Although, none of us found it easy to shrug away the feeling that we were being followed and would often make a rushed swim for the ladder, jokingly making comments about sharks and other creatures of the deep. Cariad was rewarded for all her efforts with a quick bottom scrub to rid her of the worst of the barnacles that had been attempting to hitch a ride to the other side.
As forecast, the wind started to come round. We dropped the pole, furled away the genoa and hoisted the asymmetric and were making 4 knots in 8 knots of winds. We were now struggling to reach our 120nm a day target. We spent a couple of days sailing with other yachts in the distance, a comforting sight knowing you aren’t that alone out there but no one ever sticks around for that long as we all navigate our own routes across the big blue.
A birthday, upwind sailing, still no wind and lots of fish
The moon had grown during our time at sea and was nearly full. Night watches were magical as the light cast its milky glow across the smooth Atlantic, staying with us throughout the night. The 6th December was Ben's (second) birthday in the middle of the Atlantic and as the sun rose it cast a palate of pastel blues, oranges and pinks across the sky. What a place to spend a birthday. I rigged up some birthday bunting and waited for Ben to wake up for the watch change so that we could quietly open his birthday cards together. I’d also promised Ben that he would of course still be getting his birthday cake this year and so I set to work making the best cake I could in the middle of the Atlantic. I proudly presented a chocolate cake with caramel filling and cacao icing, I wasn’t going to let the standards slip just because we were at sea! Although cooking at these latitudes on a boat is a very slow and sweaty affair. In the afternoon I had invited everyone to Bens Birthday Boat party and we donned our best shirts, played games and had a drink to celebrate the captain’s birthday. Throughout the day the wind had dropped further, Salty Steve was struggling to hold us on course with such light winds whilst flying the asymmetric so we switched to the autopilot. Unfortunately, the repairs we had done in Tenerife hadn’t worked and the autopilot wasn’t working effectively. We had no other choice but to hand steer. We switched the night watches to four-hour double watches whilst we were hand steering. Hand steering for long stretches of time can get tiresome and it becomes easy to lose your concentration. Having Hector and Eddie on board meant Ben and I could share watches together without feeling exhausted. We had time to talk over the crossing and how we were finding it so far, enjoy the stars and cherish the long nights at sea. A visit from dolphins added to these unforgettable moments.
For a couple of days, the ocean came alive with life. Shoals of tuna sliced through the water chasing their prey, their bodies a vivid purple against the blue of the sea. Their prey scrambled desperately to escape and flying fish launched themselves out of the water to escape the frenzy below, their means of escape hampered by the sea birds that circled and dove from above. The life that sat below was now being performed on the surface, like a well rehearsed dance. Hector was desperate to land a tuna and spent a whole day committed to landing a fish. At sunset his patience was rewarded and he landed four unidentified fish, we didn’t and still don’t know what they were but they made for a delicious fish dinner and we lived to tell the tale. By now, the deep low was passing just north of us, the wind had spun and we were sailing upwind with our big genoa. Life on board changed again as the wind picked up and we were living life at 45 degrees with a particularly uncomfortable cross swell thumping the side of the boat. But we were making 6 knots, the most speed we’d had for some time. With less than 1000nm to go the air was getting stickier, everything was constantly damp from the heat, sweat and salt water. Clothes, cushions, the floor was just always sticky. Showers only provided relief for a few seconds. Our fresh food supplies were starting to dwindle but the red cabbage was holding out as the winner and the Wembury salad became a go to side dish (red cabbage with salt and cider vinegar, named so as Hector had been introduced to it at our house). We were also starting to see squalls form around us, walls of grey at sunset, as rays of sun attempt to burn their way through the heavy downpours. You can’t help but wonder what you’re about to sail into. At times we prepared ourselves for some excitement as the wind increased and when the rain edged towards us, but barely a drop of water fell on us. Somehow, we managed to dodge every squall in the Atlantic.
Where is the wind
As the low-pressure system passed, the wind slowly dropped again and we made the decision to get the engine on. We were heading too far north at a very slow speed. Motoring whilst on a sailing boat never feels right, its loud and everything feels hotter and it’s just not what we’re out there to do. Ben and I had made the decision before we set off to take on five days’ worth of fuel; some we would use if there was no wind and some would be saved in case of an emergency. Bobbing around in the ocean waiting for the wind to return is part of sailing, but it’s also frustrating and uncomfortable. As we motored on through the hot days and the squally evenings, the Atlantic sky rewarded us with glowing sunsets and inky, black seas. Still the card games, good food and music continued. We were desperate for the wind to fill in and this time I found myself promising that it would only be a day or so until the wind returned. We knew that the last few of days of the crossing were forecast to have good wind. We allowed ourselves another dip in the ocean to cool off again, this time even more surreal than before. A long, rolling swell had caught up with us and watching the horizon disappear whilst in the water as we rolled into a trough made us realise how small we are out there. For a few days we dipped in an and out of motoring, trying to fill the sails and giving our ears a welcome break from sound of the engine. Silence really is golden. Ben and Hector made more bread, we finally had dolphins on the bow and we did some laundry.
Finally on the 12th December, we hoisted the sails and didn’t drop them again until our arrival. We started off flying the asymmetric but were soon overpowered making 7-8 knots. With the return of the wind, came the return of the swell. I reluctantly moved out of our cabin again, the swell had become too much to sleep back there. A berth parallel to the swell was required. We had a night surrounded by distant lightening and it reminded me of my fears from Biscay, but once I’d acclimatised, I sat back and enjoyed the show and the last few night watches in the Atlantic. The last couple of nights at sea were not comfortable. Cariad lurched with the swell as the wind filled in and we shortened sail to the third reef once more to balance the boat and help everyone sleep. Reefing the main required someone to go forward to the mast, there is nothing more exhilarating than making your way to the mast in the dark in a lumpy and windy sea to change a sail or put in a reef. You feel so incredibly alive and wild.
Land Ahoy
14th November 2022 and 250nm to go. Time has meaning again. The remaining miles are disappearing quickly with only two days to go. Two days has a finality to it, the day after tomorrow seems like nothing. As we closed in on land, ships started to appear regularly and we were reminded of the need to keep a good watch. The swell however, was starting to take its toll again, those last two nights at sea were probably the most uncomfortable Cariad had been. She skated and pitched with the waves, perhaps feeling just as tired as we were, now suddenly desperate to reach land and just be still. Although, this time I wasn’t intimidated by the swell. It was also those last two nights when I realised just how tuned into Cariad Ben and I were, when sailing on our own we are always listening out for any change in motion or a flapping sail, sleeping with our life jackets under our pillows should we need each other quickly. On some occasions when we were both off watch, Ben and I would wake up at the same time, having felt a motion or heard a noise that we weren’t happy with and gave each other a knowing look that we needed to be making a sail adjustment. It is truly an incredible feeling knowing your boat so well. 15th November, 160nm to go. Our last day at sea. We were tired but excited, how could we have been at sea for 23 days, how could it be that tomorrow we would have sailed across the Atlantic. The swell and wind continued as we had our final hurrah in the trade winds.
Friday 16th November, 26nm to Bridgetown Barbados. We were flying along on a broad reach, a squall had finally caught up with us, as the rain came down on us Ben and I were on deck hand steering taking in every last mile. This was some of the best sailing we’d had on the whole passage. How could it be over already?! Somehow, I didn’t want it to be over but the lure of land and a full nights sleep was strong. The squall filled sky had taken away our visibility and it took a long time for land to appear, we were all desperately searching the horizon waiting for our first glimpse. I will never forget standing on the bow, looking for land after sailing across the Atlantic, moving at one with Cariad as she dipped into and over the swell and the flying fishing continued their ubiquitous flight. At 12.45 UTC Hector spotted land. Barbados slowly came into view, edging closer and closer the swell dropped and we drank in the sights of golden sandy beaches with palm tree lined shores and smelt land for the first time in days. We rounded the corner of Needham’s Point and the tropical anchorage came into view, aquamarine water inviting us to take a dip. Before we could drop the anchor, we had to clear customs and immigration. This would be our last challenge of the trip, Bridgetown doesn’t have a small boat dock and to clear into the country we had to tie up inside the cruise ship terminal alongside buffers that were built for boats ten times the size of ours. But, many hands make light work and around 1200 local time, after 2930nm and 24 days at sea we stepping onto land for the first time and were greeted by a port officer who upon hearing that we had just arrived from an Atlantic crossing responded with ‘Welcome to Barbados, have a nice stay.’
We had done it. I had done it. We had achieved our dream of sailing our own boat across the Atlantic. It is hard to understand what we have achieved as we are surrounded by people that have just done the same thing but spending 24 days at sea definitely sounds like a big deal when we say it out loud. (we won’t think about the fact that we have to do it all over again to get home and the way back is significantly more challenging!).
‘Prepare and prepare again. Whatever you do in life, throw yourself into it, learn everything you can and be ready for the ride of your life. Believe in yourself and believe in the special people around you, because they believe in you.’ Janette Benaddi, Skipper of Rose, Talisker Whiskey Atlantic Challenge.
Technical Notes
Watches
Ben and I talked over the watch system with a few people before leaving and agreed that Ben would take a Skippers watch. Overnight he wouldn’t be part of the watch system, myself, Hector and Eddie would take the middle watches and Ben took the watches on either side. We carried this system through the crossing apart from the couple of days when we doubled up at the start and whilst we were hand steering. We felt this worked for us as we knew Ben was likely to be up and down in the middle of night and being out of the watch system for nine hours meant that he would have time to get enough sleep.
Provisioning
We ate incredibly well for the entirety of the passage, everyone took in turns cooking and took pleasure in making good food for each other. Cabbage was the star of the show and lasted the length of the crossing, we were still eating squash from mainland Europe in the Caribbean and some of our cheeses went over quite quickly as we were being careful with the power draw of the fridge. People often ask what we eat whilst we’re at sea but we eat just as we would at home but without any frozen food. The only food that we felt we were missing was eggs. We just didn’t have the storage for them and we didn’t want to end up with broken, smelly eggs all over the place. We took 24 eggs and used them on egg Sunday and for a couple of cakes. Storage was tight but if we were to do it again, we would get as much tinned food on board as we could. Food is expensive here and there is less choice.
Water
We provisioned for one eight litre water bottle a day for drinking and left with full water tanks (3200 litres). We also have a low capacity water maker on board (6 litres an hour) that kept the tanks topped up. We didn’t shower every day and asked that as little water as possible was used when showering. We fitted a salt water pump to the boat prior to leaving and used this for washing up. We arrived with a third of a tank and are only planning on using the water maker to top up our tank whilst we’re here.
Communication and Weather Forecasting
We have an Iridium Go! satellite phone that we purchased through Predict Wind and we use the Predict Wind Offshore App for weather forecasting and routing. For the entirety of the trip, we haven’t had any major issues with the Iridium Go! The Offshore App has worked well and I’ve found it easy to use, although it does take some time to set up and get your head round. We like to have the Offshore app as it means we can make our own informed decisions for routing. For comms the Iridium Go! app works well, we can text friends and family easily, however, for the Atlantic we weren’t receiving texts properly and this was a little frustrating. Phone calls worked welll; we have 150 minutes per month which are largely kept for emergencies. While we were on passage, we allowed everyone to make a few short calls home. I certainly enjoyed those calls!
Sail Plan
On board Cariad we have a No1 and No2 Genoa, a new fully battened main with a 3rd deep reef, an asymmetric and a storm jib. Trade wind sailing is downwind sailing and the main element to consider with this is boat stability. The down wind role, as you heard can take its toll. We had planned on flying poled out twin headsails for the passage, this is a well-known sail plan for trade wind sailing. However, we didn’t use this set up once, most of the passage we sailed wing on wing with a poled-out genoa. We hadn’t been expecting to use the deep reef in the conditions we had, but we found that in the stronger winds the deep reef helped to balance the boat for the hydrovane and was sufficient to main a good boat speed. The asymmetric has proved invaluable for light downwind conditions.
Power
We have three solar panels on board that provide 320 watts and a wind turbine. This provides us with enough power to run the boat systems and the water maker when there is enough sunlight. The hydrovane significantly reduces our power drawer and would have struggled power wise if we were reliant on the electric auto pilot. We ran engine in gear daily for an hour to top up the battery charge. Since arriving in the Caribbean Ben has his doubts about the longevity of the batteries and is considering replacing them.
Comments