Voyage across the North Atlantic: ups and downs

I thought it would be hard setting out on a 2,700 nautical mile journey into the blue. Expecting it to take 18 days, a long time to be alone. In fact, due to being virtually becalmed for several days, it took a lot longer: 24 days. A good thing that I didn’t know this at the start… The irony does not escape me: my biggest worry was encountering a severe storm, and I had made all sorts of mental preparations for dealing with such a thing. On the other hand, I had given no thought to being becalmed for a few days mid-Atlantic in blazing sunshine…

I surprised myself at the leaving. As we eased out of the narrow harbour of Santa Cruz de la Palma I realised that I was actively looking forward to the voyage. Having spent five nights in La Palma had probably helped: I walked, I ate out every night – a new freedom, after Covid restrictions. So, when it came time to leave, I felt that I was ready.

The first seven days sailing were easy. Weather was good and, with the exception of one day, the wind blew steadily. Headed south west, to turn west once we were through 20 latitude and could catch the trade winds. The route Christopher Columbus sailed on his later voyages to the New World.

The next few days, and my mood plummeted. By day 11, I felt trapped. This journey seemed set to go on forever. The fabled trade winds almost failing, soft and variable, wind vane swinging through 100 points of the compass. We were moving, but very slowly. If this keeps up, it will take another two weeks… Not sure I can bear that. Frustration and something like claustrophobia, being imprisoned in this small space surrounded by an infinity of water. I tried not to think of how many days might remain. Just go through the motions, through this long day, and then get through tomorrow too. And at some point hopefully I will feel differently. 

Two days later, it’s almost 2pm. Warm, temperature’s 28 degrees. I step up into the cockpit, look around. A thought washes over me: it’s beautiful out here. The expanse of rippled blue water, curving away at each edge of the horizon. Little wavelets on a much deeper swell, rising and falling, rising and falling, again and again. The boat rolling sedately. My bare feet burn on the deck. A feeling of rightness – this is a perfect place to be. 

As the days passed, this new mood remained. The wind was blowing, albeit at 10 to 14 knots, rather than the 15 to 20 knots that would be more typical. Luckily, my positive mood persisted as the wind deteriorated. Days 17 to 20 were very slow, the wind from the 18th to the 20th days failing completely. No despair – I seemed to have settled into some sort of rhythm and felt fine. I was reading a lot, which was passing the time. With the wind dead we were just floating, moving half a mile or a mile an hour, borne north west by the current and the wisps of a breeze. The compensation for no wind is beautiful weather, blue skies and a rich blue sea. A pod of dolphins leaping out of the water and playing around for a few minutes gave me an extra boost.

Apart from the dolphins, on the morning of the 19th day I had what passes for excitement out here: a ship, a ship! The first ship I’d seen in seven days. Amazing. That’s how isolated you can be in the middle of the ocean. 

As night fell, a mist descended over the sea from the east. At 10pm I wonder if it’s still there. Hard to tell because the night is so black. I get a torch and shine it out. Not very effective but it does seem misty at sea level. Apart from a large patch to the east, the sky above and all round is clear, littered as usual by the millions of stars. No light pollution out here. So many stars they might as well be grains of sand.

On the 20th day, still without wind. Faint ripples on a sea that seems oily, viscous. But there is also a long rolling swell, enough to lift Manuka at least a metre, extending the horizon. The space between each swell is large, a hundred metres perhaps. It comes from the northeast, cutting across the current coming from the southeast, the remnant no doubt of strong winds very far away. 

As I got closer and closer to Antigua, I was certainly counting down the miles. It felt strange, the idea that I was once again going to be on dry land. A change felt welcome – it would break the monotony of every day being so much like the one before…

So, a long and varied journey, in which I might I have learned something about patience, or acceptance. We shall see. It certainly became easier as time went on, maybe because I began to feel at ease with myself, the boat and all this ocean. The hardest days were in the second week – I suppose that was the adjustment to being alone for more than a week. Then, to move slowly was a frustration, making the destination seem to be receding. Instead of being able to say Maybe another 7 days, it’s maybe another 8 days, no, maybe another 10 days. It felt as though, after a strong start, we were going backwards.

The sensible thing would be not to predict, just try to accept. But it is impossible not to measure: you need to know where you are, so you cannot escape the fact of how much progress you’re making. I smile: even the greats record their daily distance. The legendary Frenchman Bernard Moitessier, who sailed 37,455 miles solo without touching land in 1968/69, stoically recorded his daily progress in his book The Long Way, noting good days: 150, 165, 185 miles even, and then slow, slow days, 63, 55 miles. My Day 19 was 18 miles! Reassuringly though, his spirits also went up and down. More helpfully, he regularly noted the effects of tiredness. It seemed that I’d quickly got used to sleeping no more than an hour at a time, but it does wear you down, quietly, insidiously. Very helpful to remember this, and say to yourself, It’s not so bad, I’m just tired…