Before I do anything that I consider to be outside of my comfort zone, I research it and then
I research it some more. The more I read, the happier I am knowing that we have discussed and/or prepared for any eventuality. The downside of this approach is that I end up scaring myself and focussing on the worst-case scenario. For Biscay, this meant that I was convinced we would be facing walls of horrendous waves and endless storms, despite knowing that we would be making the crossing with a good weather window. And let’s also not forget the threat of having to run the Orca gauntlet that had now extended beyond the coasts of Portugal and Spain and into Biscay itself.
The weather window arrived on Thursday 25th July, our weather routing suggested that we would be downwind or reaching for the majority of the time with a comfortable sea state. It all sounded reasonably pleasant. When Thursday morning came, there were undoubtedly pre match nerves but for the most part I was excited and Ben being Ben was just his normal steady self (I like to base how nervous I should be when we’re sailing on Ben’s reactions, if he’s not worried, I know I shouldn’t be. If he is worried or concerned, this would translate to me being terrified as it takes a lot to bother him when we’re at sea). I was excited at the prospect of starting the real adventure and for my first proper offshore passage. As the sun rose, the Falmouth coastline was bathed in soft auburn light and dolphins guided us round to the Lizard, an ever-reassuring presence. The wind was northerly and as we rounded The Manacles just off the Lizard and set our heading to our first waypoint 60miles off of Brest it felt like the ocean passage had begun as the wind and swell filled in.
Life at Sea
The first day and night eased us in gently to life at sea, the sailing was as good as sailing gets
and the sunset really gave meaning to golden hour. I don’t think there could be a better view in the world to eat your dinner. We decided on two four hours watches for the latter end of the night and a loose couple of hours earlier on. I did 22.00-00.00, Ben took 00.00-04.00 and I took 04.00- 08.00. Sailing at night has its own charm, I’ve always enjoyed it, as you lose yourself in the stars and your thoughts. One of the greatest thrills of night sailing is the bioluminescence, the sea comes alive with light, the bow waves and breaking waves glow all around you. However, being in Orca country, night was tense. You had no way of knowing what was around you and every ripple teased your mind. As dolphins’ races towards the boat, like luminous torpedoes our hearts would race, wondering if it was friendly fire or not. Night on this trip was different, I would desperately wait for the morning glow to provide solace and take the edge of the dark night.
The second day was a mixed bag, we knew the wind was due to pick up a bit at night but we also knew we had to get through a bit of a wind hole. We sailed quite conservatively and didn’t cover as much ground as we would have liked in the morning and in hindsight, we should have sailed wing on wing to give us more of a push. As we headed towards the night, we agreed that we would run the same watch system as the night before. It had worked well and we both felt fresh. As darkness fell, the wind filled a little but it wasn’t quite enough to fill the sails to reduce the roll and by the time it had filled in more we found ourselves in the middle or the main route for ships travelling between the Traffic Separation Schemes of Ushant and Cape Finisterre. Our watches went out of the window as we spent most of the night gybing constantly to avoid ships. We went into the day feeling rather jaded and, of course, completely unaware that the next night was going to be even more tiring.
When the going gets tough
At around 15.30 on Saturday, the vibe on the boat changed quite quickly, friends who we were sailing with had had an orca encounter. Luckily, they didn’t touch the boat and reversing had worked, but we were now on red alert as they were only 15 miles in front of us at the time. The prospect of a disabled rudder with some strong winds slap bang in the middle of the Bay did not appeal. To distract us, we put some music on and took in turns hand steering and surfing down the waves as the wind and swell picked up. Overnight it was forecast to stay around F5/6, with the disappearance of the night we reduced sails and went into the 3rd night with two reefs in the main and one reef in the genoa. Another sleepless night was ahead as the autopilot was struggling with the wind and swell (we decided not to use the hydro vane for this leg as it we didn’t want to lose both our rudders in one go). Ben slept on deck for my early watch as we both felt that it would sensible for him to close by if I needed anything. I went down and managed some broken sleep, always wanting to keep half an ear on what was happening on deck and there being a lot of boat movement. I was due to relive Ben at 4am.
I nervously attempted to settle into my watch, talking the handover through with Ben. We had expected the wind to drop a little as we went into the early hours but it wasn’t abating. Ben was about to get his kit off when a bright flash crossed my vision, I shouted at Ben asking if he’d seen it but brushed it off thinking I was just tired. But it happened again. Just a small flash in the corner of hours. And then again, but this time brighter and then the wind picked up. It was clear that Ben was not about to go to bed as the sky came alive with energy. We were under a thunder cloud and this meant one of my worst fears at sea. The wind and swell weren’t bothering like I thought it might, the boat felt good and I knew we had ways to manage that. But with lightening you’re just a sitting duck and there is nothing you can do. We gybed to try and move away from the main cloud but it just seemed to grow and the small flashes weren’t small flashes anymore but long forks scarring the skyline. We furled the genoa and stayed on the uncomfortable tack hoping that it would just go away. This was definitely the most scared I have ever felt at sea, I felt so small and vulnerable and I spent a lot of time with my hands over my ears and my eyes closed. Ben was looking a little tense but he wasn’t giving much away.
Daylight didn’t bring its normal solace as we could now see the cloud above us and that we
were indeed right under it. When it was clear that we weren’t going to avoid the clouds we gybed back onto course, concluding we might as well be stuck under this and going in the right direction. Eventually, as the saying goes, the storm passed and a heavy rain shower washed down our sticky, tired faces. I just wanted to drink some water and have a sleep but it was definitely Ben’s turn for a nap first. As the day passed the wind and swell decreased and we hoisted the asymmetric to make the most of the wind before it completed died as we approached the coast. It was perfect sailing, the sun was hot, we were making 6 knots and we were catching up on sleep. We’d forgotten the threat of orcas given the mornings activities, but in true Biscay fashion our next scare came when what looked like whales were approaching us. We initiated our orca procedure, dropped sails and got the engine into reverse within two minutes. The orcas didn’t reappear and I was questioning what I had seen – our ID book on board suggested that it was in fact Risso dolphins that can be easily confused with juvenile orcas. Despite this scare, we were happy with how we reacted and carried out our procedure and it was good opportunity to practice it should we need it again.
One Final Push
The rest of the day was cruisy and we both managed a shower and some more sleep. As expected, the wind eventually died and we began our 24-hour motor to Vigo. We considered turning into A Caruna but we really wanted to get round Cape Finisterre and get further South. The hard work still wasn’t over however, as the wind died the fog appeared and we had next to zero visibility as we headed into the night - I’ve never been gladder for modern navigation systems. Ben did the majority of the night; he seemed to enjoy it and left me sleeping despite my offers whenever I was due on watch. I spent my last solo watch checking the radar and AIS and texting family and friends as we were now close enough to land to get phone signal, even if we couldn’t actually see it. The fog finally cleared in the afternoon to reveal Spain and the sun in all their glory! We were nearly at the finish line.
We motored into the entrance to Vigo in the early evening and were taken aback by the beauty of the Rias and the surrounding landscape. We hoisted the sails to make the most of the evening wind to get us into the marina before dark. At around 22.00 we tied off on the fuel pontoon at the Real Club Nautico de Vigo and attempted our first bit of Spanish. It soon became clear that nobody was that bothered by our presence and that we would just deal with paper work and customs in the morning. Weirdly, I almost wanted to be back at sea and not worrying about any of these issues. But, it was then that it really hit home that we had finally done it, we had started the adventure we had been talking about for years. What hit even more than the excitement was the exhaustion, with no weather forecasts to check, no watches to think about or sails to adjust we quite simply crashed and slept for ten hours straight. Luckily no one came knocking on the boat asking for us to move.
Now, looking back at the crossing, I still can’t believe I’ve actually sailed across Biscay. I could say we’ve but Ben has done it before. But I also can’t believe we’ve sailed it in our own boat on our way to cross the Atlantic. I’m not sure if it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, I’ve pushed myself mentally and physically in the past but the main difference with offshore sailing is that there is no way out. You don’t have an option call it quits even if you want to. At times it felt like we were never going to get to the other side, but it was also exhilarating and definitely one the best things that I’ve now ever done. The conditions could have been a whole lot worse and I think we were really lucky with what we did get, but I also have to remind myself that we’re sailing shorthanded and everything is always going to be that bit harder. A lot of people said the trip would change us and I’m seeing that in myself already. Usually, I would shy away from manoeuvring in marinas, but as we moved the boat in the morning to our berth, I took the helm and thought to myself “I’ve just sailed across Biscay, I’m pretty sure I can steer this boat around a few pontoons.”
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