15. Crossing the Atlantic - 3/4

Day 8, 70 miles.

Brisk sailing,  rain squalls,  becalmed,  took the sails down and drifted faster towards my goal! 

Got some good work done on sails when they were down. 

It's beautiful out here. 

Becalmed! 

I asked Sam about the overall weather situation. He described it in his own words like this:

"Imagine a massive pit of no wind in between Bermuda and the Azores.”

That's about right.  In six hours I have drifted forward10.9 miles. Multiplied by four, that's a 44 mile day.

Day 9, Friday 4th, 52.4 miles

No wind.  Like literally. But a lovely gentle swell. So by midnight I took the flogging sails down,  looking forward to a calm spiritual night. 

And it starts to roll like a m******ucker. End up motoring all night to find and keep the calmest angle. 

It's hard to explain to a non-sailor how intensely a sailboat can roll. Even a gentle sea with a soft swell and suddenly the boat rolls from side to side, from gunwhale to gunwhale. Things on shelves that were fine, when you were sailing along, suddenly become projectiles.

I started the engine and kept the boat moving forward, just at a few knots. That helped. And I re-hoisted the sails, and even with no wind, the apparent windspeed of the boat moving forward, was enough to steady the ride.

It's interesting how the seas, the salt seas, are one of the most toxic corrosive environments we know. Which is why our boats always break. Yet in the middle of the Atlantic ocean I was struck by how full of life it is out there. I would pick up a bucket of water to wash the cockpit deck and it was teeming with little plankton, small semitransparent beads the size of lentils. And at night they glow. Fish, I saw a random tuna, maybe a foot long, leaping out of the water. Whales. Birds. And dolphins, almost every day.

The Atlantic is on average some 12,000 feet deep. Call it 4,000 metres. Four kilometres. From the surface where I am and to the bottom, there is so much life it is ridiculous to think about.

It's on another scale that one's brain can't process. And the very idea that our minuscule impact on 0.04% carbon dioxide has a meaningful effect on this is childish. The buffer of the ocean, its processes to create CO2, the brute force of the sun - human hubris is neither here nor there.

But this becalmed state changed, wind came, and then I had a lovely morning.  At one point I was hopeful to break distance records. And then lost the wind again. 

So I get on with chores.  On the personal side, I give myself a shave and trim my head. 

Then I make some wood shavings.  Out of some salvaged teak I made a fairly decent shelf just inside the companionway. Little curved thing above the chart table.  At one point almost every single power tool was out in the cockpit. The boat was fairly stable but still, the idea of some sort of injury was intimidating and made me think very carefully about what I was doing. 

I left the boat to her own devices in the no wind and had a sense that Beyond was looking over my shoulder at what I was doing to her. 

Lost my green running light, the one on the starboard side. After much fucking about it turned into victory by wiggling wires about. Not very tradesmen like.

Still satisfying.  It wasn't working.  Now it is. 

But as I tidied tools and shaving and offcuts away, I thought Beyond was pleased and we then had a pleasant sail in almost enough wind. 

Not hitting my waypoints from Chris Parker, simply not able to cover the ground. 

New forecast tomorrow.  Must include a turn to East for Horta.

Day 10, 71 miles

A day of promising winds that petered out. I think it's what sailing around the Azores High can be like. But hopeful things take a turn,  literally,  eastwards to Horta tomorrow or so.

My weather router guy is monitoring waves, wind, currents, highs and lows.  So far he has been pretty spot on. 

Getting closer to 41N at which I will bear East for a straight line to Horta.  It’s fully logical to be steering north, to avoid falling into the wind hole of the Azores High, but looking at the almost vertical line the course makes to north across the Atlantic is disconcerting.  One wants to make progress towards the destination, not get into position to make progress.

With time on my hands, I bedded down the new old compass on white Sikaflex. Neat job and pleased with myself. I sand off the varnish on teak trim in the cockpit. Someone told me that as a sailor's hair gets whiter, so does the teak in his cockpit. Why? Because sanding and varnishing becomes less and less meaningful.

Saw a pod of whales in the distance. Amazing. 

And had my first decent rain squall. I filmed how I was shepherded by massive canyons of high dark mountains of cloud. Made light of it, fun. And then I could hear it roaring up behind me, and then the hum in the rigging,  both a sound and an energy over taking us. Started the engine,  just to make sure I would have batteries for autopilot steering. Filmed again. 

And it came. Buried the rail, pushed us up to 8 knots. A few plates crashing. Had the thought to reef the mizzen so reefed three panels. Good choice. Lasted ten minutes or so. 

Had the thought that I am not going to like episodic squalls as a solo sailor. 

Day 11, 101 miles

Good day,  winds picking up a little bit.  Also had squalls in the night so going to catnap most of the morning. 

This evening I start turning East to run a straight line for Horta.  

The morning sail was spectacular.  Had maybe 13 knots behind me,  set her up for a deep beam reach, and she flew.  Peaked at 9.1 knots,  sustained 7. Have to trim mizzen carefully to prevent weather helm from overwhelming the auto pilot. 

Great day but a bit tired from last night squalls and lack of all sleep.

Doing well on waypoints.

Running engine three times a day for charging batteries. One hour at a time. 

I keep seeing birds, solo or even in small flocks. Which is odd I think. Nearest land is Newfoundland 500 miles away. How can they be out here?

A massive black thunder squall is coming up from aft. Dark and ominous,  slowly overtaking me.  I get the boat in order,  put in reefs, dress for deluge. It is lightning and thundering. And, before it hits me, it simply dissipates. It was the weirdest darn thing. One moment it is towering over the boat and the next it's gone.

I made a connection - that is exactly how God can make the greatest issues...just... dissipate,  disappear,  evaporate.  All your anticipation and fear for nothing.  Because God’s got this. Have no fear.

Things happen:

Another ship with a 1 mile CPA, monitored on the AIS well before I saw it.

A couple of squalls in the night, no big deal. Shook a reef out of mizzen. 

Dead tired in the night but recovered quite quickly with egg-timer sleeps.

Getting ready for the drama about to unleash on me.