Crossing the Pond - Part 2

On the morning of May 12^th, 2012 we awoke to a welcoming sky and a fair northeast breeze, perfect conditions for our departure.  We eagerly lifted anchor, turned the motor on just long enough to maneuver through the remaining boats moored in the harbor and once clear, we raised sail, cut the engine, and our voyage was officially under way.  The plan was to sail pretty much due north, pinching east as much as the wind allowed until we got into the westerlies which were expected to kick in around Bermuda at a latitude of 32° N.  Then jibe over and ride the waves east to the Azores.  As a starting point of reference St. Martin lies at a lat and long of 17°N, 61°W.  
  

The route which roughly covered 2500 nautical miles of sailing.
About the same distance from the west coast of California to the east coast of North Carolina.

We were all up on deck as we left St. Martin behind and sailed passed Anguilla to our west watching the land until it slipped below the horizon and were left surrounded by nothing but open ocean.  We were excited, anxious, and pensive as to what the Atlantic had in store.  Hopeful that the sea would be kind and we could handle whatever came our way in the 2 - 3 weeks it would take to get to the Azores.

Watching St. Martin fade away.

Sailing on the open ocean has its advantages and disadvantages to sailing along the coast.  The obvious advantage is that with an average depth of thousands of feet, worries about running aground or maneuvering through reefs are thrown to the wind.  The only thing you have to worry about running into are other ships and sleeping whales.  The first of which can be handled easily enough by radar.  The second is only found out when there is a sudden large thud on the hull seemingly stopping the boat in its tracks jolting crew and equipment forward.  And if the damage is extensive enough the boat is going down.  Thousands of feet down.  (I wish this was a joke but it's not.  Upon arriving in the Azores we learned one boat attempting the crossing had struck a whale at night causing a breach in their hull.  They pumped water out continuously for 2 days to no avail as the boat was lost.  The crew were safely picked up by a large tanker as they watched the top of their mast sink below the water line into the abyss below.  No news on how the whale made out. I am sure it now has a severe limp.)  

Now being so far from land, the threat of piracy becomes a non-issue.  Pirates are crazy but as we all know, any good pirate is in turn a poor swimmer, if he can swim at all due to his peg leg.  So straying too far from the nearest shallows fills them with a since of foreboding and an uncomely death by the waters that have served them for so long.  With that being said, being so far from land means you are left to your own devices no matter what comes your way whether it's severe weather or a burst of appendix.  There is no nearby port to slip into for protection or immediate medical assistance.  You've just got your know how and grit to use against the wind and waves and your wilderness survival guide, swiss army knife, and rum to handle the appendix.  Luckily no appendixes were burst in the making of this tale. 

Once land was lost and the horizon became infinite in all directions, we settled into our 3-hour shifts keeping a keen eye on all systems and sea while the autopilot handled the helm.  We were on starboard tack with the boat heeled over about 10 degrees slicing through the 3 - 6 ft waves that were on the offensive and coming at us non-stop.

Life on the edge...especially with William at the helm.

Now New Dawn excelled in these conditions averaging 7 kts/hr sometimes giving us 190 nm in a day, which is superb however life below deck was like living in a tilted carnival fun house on the San Andreas Fault.  It reminded me of when I went on one of those spiny rides at a rodeo carnival just after eating a turkey leg.  The ride operator normally spins it up for a few minutes then gives the next yahoos in line a turn.  Well since no one was in line he decided to give us our moneys worth and kept us spinning despite the cries of anguish and whatever else came up as we swirled passed him.  Ok, the fun is over.  Let's turn this thing off.  No, this was life on the boat for the next few weeks.  

Crawling on all fours seemed like the safest option however it is by far the least efficient and most importantly, unbecoming of a sailor.  After the first day or so everyone new to the boat, which was all of us except Paul, knew where the hand holds where and how to make it fairly safely from the cockpit to their bedroom with a stop in the head for good measure.  What was a nice drawer around your knee when the boat was flat was now a good place for your foot.  What was a window well above your head was now a nice hand hold at eye level.  Cooking in the kitchen was an entirely different story.  These were our living conditions until we would jibe east.

As for sleeping, Paul designated me to the v-berth while Filip and William took the bunks on the starboard side.  Now the v-berth is the most spacious and luxurious cabin after the captain’s quarters and while at anchor is as comfortable as sleeping at home.  However, once underway and plowing through 6 foot waves, the v-berth turns into a catapult of sorts being the most forward point on the boat.  I found there were 3 phases of sleeping up front in the v-berth.  Phase 1 was when all was calm and you are allowed to lay comfortably on the bed as the good Lord intended.  This occurs about 10% of the time.   Phase 2 was when the front of the boat jumps off the top of a wave launching the sleeping victim easily 2 – 3 feet in the air.  Sleeping through this is only possible if one has spent copious amount of time skydiving or living on the International Space Station and is accustomed to sleeping in a zero gravity environment.  This happens 45% of the time.  Phase 3 is probably what you guessed – the landing.  If somehow you have made it through phase 2 without waking up, being slammed back down onto your bed will definitely do the trick.  Luckily, most of the time you are so tired from not being able to sleep that after the jarring wake up call you can fall back to sleep within seconds hopefully to catch some sleep during phases 1 and 2.  I know this seems like quite the paradox but don't think about it too hard.  The closest thing I can think of to compare this to would be like trying to sleep on the back of an extremely pissed off bucking bull.  (I realize that this is two rodeo references in two paragraphs but I am from Texas so it can't be helped.)

The v-berth:  I did have to share my bed with some very frisky gear.

Aside from the pitching motion at the front, the breaking of sea on bow as the boat soars through the waves is a constant bane on even the most deaf of customers.  I have been known to use exaggeration to make my points however no exaggeration is needed to detail the unimaginable noise water can make on smooth fiberglass.  It is as if Poseidon had summoned a beast from the dark depths below to breath flames of death and destruction trying to get through the 35 mm hull so he may devour your soul.  If the flames don't work, he turns to tooth and nail until you are sure he will break through at any second immediately filling the boat with steam and salty water letting you catch a final glimpse of your horrified self in the reflection of his gleaming eye before snapping your head off in one bite.  Other than that it was quite cozy.

It can't always be smooth sailing and on day 3 we had our first troubles.  The autopilot had become spotty and had finally succumbed to life at sea, quitting to work at all.  We were taking 3 hour shifts at the helm which gave us a luxurious 9 hour break in between.  Now with auto gone we would have to hand steer the rest of the journey which is quite physically and mentally taxing.  The captain decided to shorten our shifts to a more executable 2 hours however reducing our time between shifts to 6 hours.  Obviously this was a slight notch to everyone's spirits but it was taken in stride.  We wouldn't be able to relax as much but then again we could say we hand steered across the Atlantic Ocean and I think the last person to do that was the pilot of the Titanic.  He made that ship pretty famous so we felt confident and pressed on north.

Along the way we had copious amounts of time to get to know one another.  Filip and William peppered me with questions on what fraternity life is like in American universities.  I unfortunately had to tell them that I myself was never in a fraternity but from what I gathered the most important thing fraternities taught you was that 'no' doesn't really mean 'no'.  It just means 'slow down'.  They seemed pretty happy with this sacred insight and keen on putting it to good use once back on solid ground.

Paul could not understand the conglomeration of applying peanut butter to one piece of bread and jelly to an opposing piece then putting the two aforementioned pieces together before inserting into your mouth.  Nor could he wrap his head around how the word 'awesome' can be used both literally and sarcastically.  I am certain he still despises that word to this day.

Having three younger men onboard, I take the liberty of including myself in this group, Paul was bound to learn a few hip phrases.  We taught him the remark 'That’s what she said.'  He was very eager to use it, however we had to chastise him the first time he used it since he used it on a sentence he himself said.  We told him this was strictly forbidden and it could only be used after someone else had spoken.  In the end he got the hang of it and couldn't be stopped spewing it forth every chance he got.  (If you thought about saying 'That's what she said' after the last sentence, give yourself one point.  If you actually said it out loud, give yourself 5 points.  Paul, go ahead and give yourself 10 points.)

Aside from the chatter we cooked a lot.  If they really want to have an interesting season of Top Chef they should have it on board a sail boat while under way.  I would have to say we managed fairly well.  The boys made about 132 crepes one day which we ate for 4 days and also their famous meatballs for another meal.  I found out that Swedes don't call them Swedish meatballs.  They just call them meatballs.  I introduced some Tex-Mex and made chicken-of-the-sea quesadillas one night.  Plus we always had our Sunday morning meal of fried eggs and bacon under all circumstances.  Carrying hot grease in a frying pan out of the kitchen below deck to be tossed into the sea from on deck in rough conditions is a skill I will include in my resume from here on out.

Appreciating the inventor of the swivel stove but not the waves.

The drop in temperature was a good sign that we were heading in the right direction and the cooler weather was a welcomed change from the balmy air of the tropics.  Bermuda was just a few hundred miles to our west and the westerlies were finally starting to take shape.  Captain made the official call as we excitedly scampered around the deck to make our first change of direction in 8 days (850 nm) and jibe east towards the Azores.  Now we had the wind behind us and enjoyed the "fair wind and following seas" which flattened the boat out and returned us to a bit or normalcy.

When the chart shows you crossing the words "Atlantic Ocean" you know you are in the middle of it.

Bundled up for a Scandinavian rave or sailing in the northern ocean.

On our downwind leg of the trip the wind was a bit shifty in both speed and direction but always at our back.  We were forced to turn on the motor a couple of times or else we may be still sitting out on the still ocean.  However things picked up as we came closer to the Azores with the wind racing from 20 – 30 knots and the ocean swells building behind us forming small yet looming mountains of sea that cast an ominous shadow on crew and boat alike.  By evening we were all versed at surfing a 50 ft boat down a 30 ft wave well aware that if we got her sideways, we may be going for a swim.  As night fell the waves did not but we had Faial in our sights, the first of the Azores archipelago, and held firm.  I was on shift at the helm as we sailed just south of the pitch black outline of the island occasionally spotting a fleck of light probably from a small house where the occupants where comfortably watching 'I Dream of Genie' reruns with bad Portuguese voice overs.  Once we had the east side of the island to our port, we turned up, dropped sail, and Paul motored us the rest of the way into the safety and calm behind the breakwater. 

We arrived in Faial's port town of Horta, 38°N, 28°W, at 11:30 pm on May 27^th after 16 days and 2678 nautical miles of sailing.  I think Filip, William, and myself completed the last 25 meters to the nearest pub in record time to enjoy a well deserved celebratory libation.

The Azores are the only safe haven between Europe and the Americas.  They lie 850 miles west of the Portuguese mainland and are under its rule.  Captain Joshua Slocum, the first man to sail around the world alone, said when he first cited the Azores,  “Nothing can replace how it is seen from the water,” and how true that is.

Being the only spot of land between the Americas and Europe, everyone pulls into Horta’s port happy to be 2/3’s of the way across and ready to drink and share their stories of trial, adventure, and flat out lies.  Horta’s docks, no matter how much expanded each year, are bursting with boats tied up five deep of the docks.  It didn’t help that the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC), the largest transatlantic sailing event for cruiser yachts just pulled into town as well.  It was a complete mess when any boat wanted to untie and leave but it was a sight to see, sure to draw a good heap of on lookers, both sailors and land lubbers alike.  If any boat aside from the outermost wanted to untie and leave, it took a small army of crew to make sure the event went as smooth as possible although it rarely did.  It looked like a new event was being forged together worthy of the next Olympics, or the Roman Colosseum, consisting of tight rope walking, destruction derby, and amputations.

A tangle of masts and stays fill the view from the crowded docks in Horta.

We couldn't have arrived at a better time because over the next couple days a severe weather system blew in with 40+ knot winds causing the sea to build and whitecap even in the safety of the harbor's breakwater.  Everyone hunkered down and made sure their boat's lines held fast.  Boats that where unfortunate enough to be stuck out in this system came in as best they could with crew looking like they had just been released from a prison camp.  One boat, while turning the corner into the breakwater, got a line wrapped in its prop and was powerless against wind and wave.  Before anyone could react, it was getting smashed to bits against the seawall with the crew being tossed around like rocks in a rock tumbler.  It was a complete horror to watch and took great effort and time before a coast guard boat was able to safely get a line to them and pull them off.  With the water line just inches below their deck from all the water they had taken on, they were immediately towed to a dry dock without a moment to spare.  The 3 crew were somehow unharmed except for bumps and bruises and their boat was the sight to see in town as water poured out of her for the next 3 days.

Filip debates making an offer to the boat's owner.  Careful lad, it will definitely need a bottom job.

Once all the excitement was over and we were settled in, cleaned up and dried off, we were able to enjoy the sights Horta has to offer.  All the sailors attend Pete's Cafe consistently throughout the day and more consistently at night.  We definitely had our share of food and beverage at this fine establishment.  

A true sailors den covered in flags and lore.

Enjoying the famous kebab with New Dawn's colors hanging on the wall signed by crew.

As Paul had seen the rest of the island once or twice before, he was ok with staying busy on the boat while the boys and I rented a car for a day to peruse about the island.  Once out of the port town of Horta there is hardly a sailor or other tourist to be spotted anywhere.  The island is dotted with small old European style villages that surround a central volcano with picturesque views around every corner.

View of the breakwater and port at Horta.

We were a bit apprehensive about where to stop and eat as out here the locals only speak Portuguese.  We decided on stopping at a place that was an obvious restaurant due to the goat sign hanging above the entrance.  We never got a menu while the mama talked to us for at least 5 minutes in Portuguese.  We just graciously nodded our heads hoping we were ordering something tasty.  We weren't let down.  After a healthy bowl of soup, a large platter was brought to our table that seemed to consist of about 4 lbs of french fries.  Once we dug through this first layer, we hit pay dirt.  Lying deliciously beneath the french fries were about 15 pork chops covered in a tomato/vegetable sauce.  We weren't sure if we were supposed to share this with everyone else at the restaurant because we couldn't possibly eat all this food.  Well given enough time and homemade wine, miracles do happen.  Somehow we ended up with all those chops coming to their demise in our stomachs.  No three gentlemen have ever been fatter and happier.  

Goat sign = Obvious restaurant.

The entree.

After a 2 hour nap outside on the sidewalk (that's as fas as we could make it) to digest the food, we picked up where we left off and headed to the southwest side of the island that is famed for a recent volcanic explosion in 1958 that engulfed the island's lighthouse and added a completely new peninsula to the island's perimeter.  It was an impressive display by mother nature and was comparable to an alien landscape.  I wisely invested, with a tip from a local realtor, or maybe it was a bar maid, in a piece of land that hadn't even formed yet but was sure to turn a profit after the next eruption.

The remains of the lighthouse humbly look over the strength of creation after the 1958 eruption.

Standing on newly formed ground looking west towards the Americas.

Fun Fact:
Horta is also famous for its scrimshaw - word of the day.  This is the dying art of carving detailed images into whales teeth, once extracted from the whale obviously.  Carving scenic pictures into the teeth of a living whale is a completely different art form and Williams' attempts at this craft will be documented in my next blog.  How you can donate funds to Williams' fatherless children will be discussed as well.  

Scrimshaw - a dying art due to the fact that it is now illegal to harvest whale teeth.

Safety Tip:
Before we returned to the boat we made one final stop at the supermarket to resupply our rations for the remainder of the trip.  It was a superb grocery store.  Even the meat was extremely cheap.  Well at least one bin set aside from the rest was priced unbelievably low for the quantity of meat to purchase.  As we loaded up our cart I stepped back and noticed a cheerful picture of dogs eating hardily on the side of the bin.  After the boys and I discussed this odd image in the meat section we came to the conclusion that the meat we were hastily loading into our basket, before other shoppers found out about such a great deal, was either meant to be consumed by dogs or was dog.  Either way we regretfully placed it back and were forced to purchase expensive beef intended for human consumption. 

All good things must come to an end and our time in Horta was coming to a close.  We still had an ocean to cross.  It is a tradition for crew to paint their insignia on the docks or really on any semi-permanent surface they can find around the docks to memorialize that they have successfully passed through the Azores.  We started ours the night before and finished it the morning of departure.

Real estate is scarce for boat and paintings alike.

Not the most amazing but it got the job done.  If you are ever in Horta, look us up.  Pier 33, Dock B7.

Cheers,
JB