The last of the Continent

We’ve now sailed over 1300nm and have left the continent for our first Atlantic island. The adventure is well and truly underway, having reached warm, turquoise waters, had some scary moments and struggled through total fatigue. But this is what we came for.

Nazare

On Friday 16th September we left Fig Foz for Nazare, a short passage of 30nm. Given that it’s now the 4th October, this sail feels a lifetime ago, but it was one of the best sails we’ve had so far. The sun was out and bikini sailing weather had finally arrived, we cruised down the coast with the asymmetric up the whole way, reading and listening to music. The mood on Cariad was sky high. South of Fig Foz, the scenery changes dramatically – the industrial flatlands give way to miles and miles of golden sand beaches backed by miles of pine forest.

As we rounded the infamous Nazare headland, Cariad was carried over the tiniest bit of swell and we concluded that we could claim to have surfed Nazare. The wave itself was of course benign, we would not have been sailing around the headland if 70ft waves were in the forecast. We arrived into our berth around 19.00 and set out on a mission to try the local Nazare fish stew, Caldeirada for dinner. Down a little side street, we found a busy restaurant that promised us the best fish stew in Nazare, made from a family recipe. We have found the Portugese food a little disappointing, but this was hands down the best food we had eaten on the trip. The family recipe was a winner for us.

The following morning, we set out to the headland, meandering through the streets of Nazare to the steps that lead to Sitio de Nazare, the grandstand of big wave surfing. The views along the Portugese coast were breath-taking, and despite the small swell we really got a sense of how powerful the atmosphere must be when Nazare stirs and the town is descended upon by the big wave surfing community. Unfortunately, the museum on the headland was closed, as we were up there quite early and didn’t have time to linger but it is certainly somewhere we would come back to.

Peniche

The sail to Peniche was uncomplicated, another 30nm with the asymmetric, although we were pushing it a little close to the wind at times. We were having a ‘race’ with a boat a similar size to us and didn’t want to be overtaken. Unbeknown to them, they did however take the victory, our excuse being that they were a lighter and faster boat. Our research on Peniche suggested that it wasn’t great for anything other than a short stopover, offering a questionably run marina that is open to the wash of the tourist boats or a rather industrial anchorage that was known to be foul on the bottom. We had decided to anchor to save some money, but on arrival we were the only boat in the grim looking anchorage and the gusty wind wasn’t that appealing. Instead, we opted to raft up on the outside pontoon of the marina, the only space for visiting yachts. After sorting our lines, a group of us gathered to try and work out the marina situation. We were soon told that there are no marina staff at the weekend and if we left, we would have to force the security gate open to get back into marina. A little different to the efficient marinas we’ve become accustomed to where marina staff meet us at a berth and catch all our lines.

Despite the warnings, we slept well. The only time we woke up was to the sound of a distant bass that we assumed was hailing from a local nightclub. The main lure of Peniche, for us, was the surf. So, on the Sunday, as with similar surf missions along the Portugese coast, we set off on a 2.5km walk with longboards under arms in the 26c heat in search of waves. The search prevailed and we spent two hours enjoying a half decent longboard wave in warm water. Tired, hungry and content, the walk back to the boat was spent largely in silence as we dragged ourselves and the boards through the heat, in desperate need of a sugary hit. That evening, we went for dinner on a boat owned by a liveaboard in the marina. A strange but enjoyable evening followed, with another delicious home-made fish stew. We also worked out that the music was not from a night club and was in fact from his boat, he was partial to some late-night music creativity. We never did get his name, but we did receive a heart-warming voice message a couple of days later that we have vowed to listen to whenever we need a little boost.

The next day the swell was smaller, and after the struggle from the day before, we decided to make the most of all the toys we were carrying with us and take the hand planes to the beach. Considerably easier than lugging the 9ft boards around. As we arrived at the beach, the heavens opened and in true British fashion, we sat out a heavy thundery downpour before deciding we weren’t going to get any wetter. We jumped in the water for a fun body surf in small waves, feeling very pleased that we hadn’t made the effort to carry boards. A few shortboarders had passed us on route to the beach, most of which were now standing on the water’s edge searching for something that wasn’t going to be found.

On our way back to the boat, a quick check of the weather confirmed that the following day, our next offshore passage, the Madeira Archipelago was calling. The weather looked perfect, a broad reach the whole way with steady winds. A 520nm that was forecast to take around four days. That evening, we moved to another anchorage outside of the harbour. We had been told it was forbidden to anchor there, but a couple of boats had been sitting there for a few days without being moved on and we were desperate to escape the confines of the marina.

In search of the Atlantic Islands

On Tuesday 20th September, after a rocky, sleepless night at anchor we departed for Porto Santo, the island just to the NE of Madeira. We finally had a chance to use the hydrovane as we were leaving behind the threat of the orcas. This was exciting in itself as we would no longer be drawing power from the autopilot and would be sailing silently without the constant click of the wheel being turned by the autopilot. Ben had been eagerly waiting for this time to arrive, excited by his new toy. With the vane Cariad looked like a true-blue water cruiser. The first day of the sail was perfect, 12 knots of wind on a broad reach making 5.5 knots boat speed with a smooth sea state. The water colour had also changed, here, in the open Atlantic waters it was a picture-perfect turquoise, the kind that draws every inch of your body into it.

We knew from the forecast that we would be surrounded by thunder clouds, but our run line would skirt us round the edge of anything nasty. I spent the day learning about thunder clouds, how to identify them before they arrive, how they evolve and how to tell when they’re dissipating. It was fascinating watching it play out in real life and as night fell, we were treated to a light show nearly 360 degrees around the boat. As with Biscay we had planned on a 2,4,4,2 watch rotation, I would start the first watch at 22.00 and switch with Ben at midnight. I went into my watch quite nervous. I think it was the lightning and my memory how vulnerable we felt sitting directly under the last storm. In the pitch dark, I had convinced myself that the clouds were getting closer. Ben took over from me a little early, which was a massive relief as I just wanted to get into my sleeping bag, close the curtains and switch off the lightning, the enjoyment of it having long gone. As I was going down to bed, we heard a bang on the hull of the boat. Bangs are rarely good. But then we heard some flapping, flapping that sounded very much like a fish out of water. A quick scan with the headlight lit up the culprit - we had our first flying fish on the deck! I couldn’t get over the size of it and how mythical it looked. This was a sure sign that we had reached warmer waters.

The rest of the night felt long. On Bens watch the wind veered 180 degrees and as I poked my head up to check everything was ok, I saw a huge black cloud looming over us – the bringer of the wind shift. I was convinced that this cloud would bring something nasty and felt unsettled for some time. However, the cloud bought no further excitement and the rest of the night passed without incident. Despite an uneventful watch I still felt anxious, much more so than crossing Biscay but I couldn’t put my finger on why as a much easier offshore passage was ahead of us. The following day was equally as uneventful, with near perfect sailing conditions again, averaging 6 knots on a broad reach and the only discussion needed was to decide what to eat next and whose turn it was to nap. A similar theme continued into the second night, my nerves had eased a little and we were flying along making an average of 6.5 knots with the asymmetric up. Cariad and the hydrovane were working a little hard to hold our course, we were a little overpowered with 14 knots of wind but it was great passage making.

Thursday passed uneventfully again, we celebrated 200nm to go with tea and flapjack (for those from Rm 18 reading this, it was a decaf earl grey and I’ve only drunk two on the trip so far!) and napped some more. Thursday night, and our third night was a little harder work. It was a very black night, with deep cloud banks blocking any light, making it difficult to see the separation between sea and sky. We motor sailed most of the night, spending a lot of time adjusting sails to balance the boat in the swell. Morning took a very long time to come, with the sun fighting against the cloud. It’s getting lighter noticeably later anyway but with my fatigue and the way the mind wanders at sea I had almost managed to convince myself that the apocalypse had finally arrived and that we would never see the sun again. Of course, the sun eventually prevailed and rose for another day. One more night to go.

Going into our last day I was starting to feel like I had finally settled into this passage, perhaps because I knew we only had one more night to go or that I knew I would actually miss being at sea once we reached land. The last day was again uneventful, no marine life and one or two ships that passed by with no concerns. That last night we were rewarded with clear skies and together we sat back on the deck and watched the stars, one of those moments that sticks with you for a long time. As forecast, the wind was now dead behind us and we were sailing with the genoa poled out in some slightly uncomfortable swell. The only minor mishap of the passage happened when we needed to gybe in the middle of the night, as Ben was preparing to bring the pole round, he noticed that the bolthead attaching the pole to the mast had snapped, making it unusable. This meant a sail change in the dark, something we usually try and avoid. The autopilot was struggling to hold the course with the swell and I needed to hand steer whilst ben sorted the pole on deck. Bleary eyed, I tried to hold the course for the sail change using the compass, something I hadn’t done in a while. With absolutely nothing to aim for, I found it took me a while to get the course steady. The asymmetric was hoisted with ease and we changed course slightly to keep the sails full.

The mind does wander and wonder

During my watch I spent some time thinking about why I had found this passage overwhelming, despite on paper it being easier than Biscay. I was frustrated and disappointed that I had been feeling that way. Upon reflection, there are hundreds of reasons why you might feel overwhelmed on offshore passages, and this passage was different in so many ways. We weren’t sailing in the company of friends, in fact we hadn’t seen another yacht on the whole passage. We weren’t flanked by the security of land, but heading for remote islands in the middle of the sea. We are in a tiny boat, in the middle of the sea and in the hands of mother nature and the nights had been cloaked in darkness. It’s easy for me to compare myself to Ben and how he is at sea, he thrives and is in his absolute element. There is always a twinkle in his eye when we’re offshore, but he grew up on the water and has thousands of miles to his name already. With no one else to compare myself against, I lose the ability to realise how much I do know and forget that prior to Biscay, my longest passage was 30 hours. Obviously, the benefits of being at sea far outweigh my anxieties, otherwise I wouldn’t do it, although I have questioned that resolve at times. There is stillness to be found in the middle of the sea, as you settle into a routine and focus on sailing your boat safely and comfortably. The joy small things can bring, the endless milestones and celebrations, the unforgettable moments that would not have been experienced from the comfort of land and the constant learning and stepping out of comfort zones that ultimately make you stronger.

Land Ahoy!

Saturday 24th September the island of Porto Santo came into view. As we approached the island, excitement was building. Arriving at an island really felt like the adventure had begun and we had no idea what to expect. We had both wanted to visit the Archipelago for a long time and we had actually sailed our own boat there. As the island grew bigger on our approach, flying fish darted around the boat, the sun climbed higher and we basked in the warmth. There is only one small marina on Porto Santo and spaces are hard to come by. We had decided we would anchor anyway as it’s cheaper. Approaching the harbour, it was clear that to get a good night’s sleep we would need to anchor within it as the anchorage outside of the harbour wall was incredibly rolly and decidedly unappealing after a four-day passage and five nights of little sleep. Little did we know, five nights were soon to become six.

Both anchorages were busy, full of yachts, like us stopping over in the Madeira archipelago before heading to the Canaries. We managed to squeeze Cariad into a space, although Ben wasn’t entirely comfortable with our positioning – we were a little too close to other boats, they were all swinging differently given the turbulent winds from the high cliffs and in order to squeeze in, we hadn’t put as much chain out as we normally would. But, we were tired and these concerns were pushed to the back of our minds. Of course, it is in these moments when mistakes are made. We had been told that there was a Christopher Columbus festival in town and a lot of people were heading that way. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, we pushed through the tiredness and experienced the magic of Porto Santo for the first time. We fell into bed around 11pm, exhausted and fell into deep sleeps. After our last four-day passage we slept for ten hours straight, and I for one was looking forward to a good recharge. There was a slight difference here though, we were not in a marina this time, we were at anchor.

A bumpy night

The wind was forecast to pick up overnight and we knew that the cliffs would intensify the wind. At around 4.30am I woke with a start, the wind had picked up and gusts were howling through the boat shaking the rigging, sending vibrations through the hull. And then, a more viscous gust hit the boat. Ben sat up and stuck his head out through the hatch to check if the anchor was holding. It wasn’t. The anchor had dragged with the gust and we had shot back onto a German boat, the crew of which were up and fendering us off in the hope to avoid any damage. We needed to act fast, and so, in the violent gusts Ben started to haul our chain and anchor in by hand, the manual windlass wasn’t going to be fast enough. I was on the wheel trying to drive us off the German boat and forwards to take some of the weight off of the chain for Ben and at the same time avoid going over anyone else’s chains.

Thankfully, we managed to get the chain and anchor up without any further complication, but we were shaken and completely drained. We motored out of the anchor area and took some time to think. It was now around 5am, it was pitch black and with another two hours to daylight. And, to add to the situation, it had just started raining. It was at this point I couldn’t help but think, rather ironically, that everything was so much easier at sea. We considered our limited options. There was nowhere we could safely tie up to, we could try resetting inside the harbour but that seemed too much of a risk, so instead we motored to the outer anchorage. It was horrible, the gusts were still vicious, half the boats were unlit and it felt impossible to safely set the anchor. We were at a bit of a loss and desperately wanted to just switch off. We concluded, that the safest thing for us to do was motor in circles in the harbour until daylight and then reset the anchor outside of the harbour. For a miserable hour and half we motored around, not saying a lot but just willing light to come.

As the glow of the sun appeared, we skulked our way out of the harbour and with our confidence in our anchor knocked, dropped the anchor some distance away from the other boats. We drove the boat back hard on the anchor to make sure it was properly dug in and after watching the boat for a while, Ben went down for a nap. There was no way I was going to sleep so I stayed on anchor watch and phoned home to try and relax. The wind eased in the afternoon, and for a while the sun was beating down on us and helped us forget about the despair of the night before. As the sun came out, the water turned a light turquoise, with such clarity that upon waking from a nap I jumped straight overboard. The moment I landed in the water, everything bit of anxiety was released from me. The lukewarm water enveloped me as I swam around, savouring the feeling of release and warmth and blueness of the waters we had sailed to. This is what we were looking for.

That night, however, sleep continued to evade us. The anchorage was uncomfortable, the wind had picked up again and, still stung by the night before it was impossible to sleep. Ben spent most of the night on deck and with every gust I popped my head up from the cabin asking if everything was ok. Once bitten, twice shy. Never in my life, have I been so desperate for a solid night’s sleep. But this was part of the adventure, we knew that we would be tested, and that it wouldn’t always be plain sailing. That’s why the highs feel that much more rewarding. My main takeaway from that night is what we can do as a team. Our anchor had never slipped before, let alone in such a tight space with such viscous gusts, but we did what we needed to do quickly and efficiently. I was scared, but I knew I had to do what Ben asked of me and we got through it together. My confidence in myself is constantly growing, as is my ability to manage my thoughts in difficult situations.

We are not alone

On a boat, you’re confined to your space and it’s easy to feel like you’re the only people who’ve a bad experience. But we weren’t the only ones in an uncomfortable anchorage as there were about 15 other boats around us. After finally speaking to others about the windy couple of days we discovered we weren’t alone with our discomfort. Everyone had their own experiences and stories to tell. In fact, we watched another boat slip their anchor in the exact same place as we did. This is part of the adventure of sailing. Once the wind had eased and we regained confidence in our anchor, we made a plan for conquering the island of Porto Santo. We are well and truly in the middle of an adventure.