18/12/2019
Here we are, on our final morning of the crossing. We are only 20 miles out from making landfall in Barbados, and everyone is on deck and buzzing. It’s still the middle of the night boat time but around 7 AM local time, so it’s safe to say the crew’s internal clocks are all out of whack. The sky is just beginning to lighten, and the weather has seriously kicked up. In addition to 25 knots of wind, the skies have opened up and we are getting hit with a biblical rainstorm. Why would Mother Nature take it easy on us at the last leg? She’s making us earn this crossing, that’s for sure. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
We have started to turn now so that we are coming along the north side of the island, bringing the wind and waves more on a beam and making the sensation much more extreme than it was sailing downwind. We all screamed out “Land, Ho!” in unison when the dark blob that was Barbados appeared on the horizon. We are so close we can taste it. Too excited to sleep, we are now thinking about all the things we need to do to make the boat ready to make landfall. We haven’t thought about things like lines and fenders since we put them away 2 weeks ago. Our biggest problem is actually our speed – at our going rate, we would make it to the marina at 6 AM local time, hours before they opened and would be able to accommodate us. So we have spent the last couple of hours trying desperately to slow down. We took in the jib and have been sailing on just a scrap of the genoa but are still somehow making over 8 knots – Florence just refuses to slow down! She’s apparently as excited as we are to make it there.
The final few days of the crossing have been absolutely amazing, with the crew trying to soak up every last ounce of this soon-to-be-over, once-in-a-lifetime experience. Highlights for me included my last night watch, where I was lucky enough to experience a phenomenon called the Geminides – one of the most prolific annual meteor showers visible from earth, where up to 160 meteors per hour can be seen streaking across the sky under optimal conditions. The middle of an ocean on a clear night is about as optimal as it can get I would imagine – not much in the way of light pollution. As I sat alone in the cockpit, my neck craned back and eyes up at the sky, I watched dozens and dozens of shooting stars make their arc across the sky before falling into oblivion. It was one graveyard shift I wished would never end. Another highlight came yesterday on what would be my final sunrise watch. I was alone on deck, with Florence surfing down waves as fast as she had all trip. I stood in the cockpit facing backwards, arms wide out to each side to get the full surfing sensation, blasting house music through my headphones while watching the mountains of waves undulate behind me as the sun slowly lit up the sky. It was perhaps the single coolest experience of my life.
And here we are –our final day, mere miles away from our destination. Although the epic trip coming to a close is a bit bittersweet, the excitement of the crew to complete the crossing is palpable. Everyone is on deck and animated, despite the wind, weather and total lack of sleep. All 5 of us are bundled up in our heavy wet weather gear – not exactly what we imagined for our arrival in paradise. Once we rounded the north side of the island, we had only a few miles left until we made it to the entrance to Port St. Charles Marina, where both a berth with our name on it and Stephen’s parents who’d flown all the way from North Wales to make it for our arrival were waiting. By this point, it was past 8 AM and the marina should be open. In anticipation of our arrival, I had taken the opportunity to brush my hair and put on some make up for the fist time in 14 days in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. Alas, that was in vain, as once I took the helm to start steering us in, the weather kicked up even more ferociously, and I was once again soaked to the core. No matter – I still had a smile on my face from ear to ear, knowing that an exhilarating trip called for a fitting ending. I drew the straw to park the boat upon arrival, which I was really excited about. Let’s finish this thing right!
The marina office gave us our berthing instructions, which weren’t entirely clear, but they rarely are when entering unfamiliar territory. The rain let up a bit as we approached the entrance, so visibility improved dramatically. We could see Stephen’s parents standing on the helipad at the end of the marina jetty (this looked like one fancy marina), jumping up and down in excitement. How amazing to have them waving us in! I know how excited Stephen was to have them rooting for us.
The park looked like it would be quite tight, as we were constrained by a reef on our starboard side and had a fierce cross breeze blowing us towards the pontoon to our port. The space itself was tight as well, squeezed in between the concrete wall of the pontoon and a massive catamaran. In summary, I bottled it. I didn’t give us a wide enough angle on the way in to be able to both avoid the reef and to back into the spot without clipping the cat, so I motored past. I’d need to re-start to try to get a better angle. Given the difficulty of the park and the howling wind, I decided in this instance I didn’t need to be a hero. I happily relinquished the helm to Will, who was keen to attempt the park while the rest of the crew handled the lines. I for one was just looking forward to being tied up safety after successfully smashing the better part of 3,000 nautical miles of ocean. No pride here. Let’s just get this done!
After turning the boat around and coming back out of the marina, Will took over the helm, and did so with authority. He did a brilliant job, not hesitating to be aggressive with the manouevre into the marina before gunning the engine sharply in reverse to get Florence’s big booty back into our spot before the wind could blow her either into the concrete wall or into the other boat. Once slotted in, Stephen and I jumped onto the pontoon to secure Flo’s lines, and that was it. We had made it! We had officially crossed the Atlantic Ocean, covering 2,750 nautical miles in just under 14 days, which is incredibly fast by any standard.
The crew were ecstatic. It’s hard to describe how I felt at that exact moment - some combination of elation, relief, adrenaline, exhaustion, pride, and confusion at the finish line I guess… It was a heady mix. We wasted no time peeling off our wet weather gear, securing Florence to the dock with extra lines, and digging into the bilges for our victory bottle of rum. Brad played mixologist, and we all had our first rum cocktails in hand by 10 AM, which was 6 AM boat time. As none of us had slept that night, it could have been anytime really. All we knew was it was celebration time for sure. We had done it.
I was so proud of our crew who had come together and worked as a team so brilliantly all the way across, battling high winds and big seas with little sleep, all staying positive while we slayed the miles and collected bruises along the way. And I was proud of Flo. I couldn’t imagine a boat handling that crossing better, She made barreling through nearly 3,000 nautical miles of open ocean look damn easy. And she has now earned a well-deserved rest.
Stephen’s parents, Peter and Sue, were all smiles and came flying towards us. Our reunion hugs were soon interrupted by a couple of fellows in uniform who demanded that Peter and Sue back away from the vessel and stand behind a partition at the entry to the pontoon. We were apparently not allowed to leave the boat and certainly not allowed any physical contact with anyone until the boat and crew had cleared customs and immigration. What? It seemed a bit extreme, given we’d just crossed an ocean, and Stephen’s parents had flown thousands of miles be here for our arrival. BUT bureaucracy reigns, so they were removed from the embrace and forced to stand 10 yards away behind a rope. Once the guards had gone away with our paperwork and passports, we figured what the hell, and waved Sue and Peter over. They were joined by several other ex-pats living in Barbados who had come to the dock the see us cross the finish line. Once officially cleared in, we were allowed to properly step off the boat and onto dry land for the first time in 2 weeks. I for one had some serious sea legs, which I’m sure the early morning rum cocktail didn’t help.
Team Flo then wandered to the marina’s yacht club to continue the celebration. What a gorgeous spot Port St. Charles is. First impressions of Barbados are very strong. The yacht club itself is an open veranda spilling out over the water, complete with full service restaurant, pool, swim-up bar, and a diving platform from which you can jump into the turquoise sea before climbing out to get another cocktail. It was just a glorious setting, especially for our land-starved eyes, and I couldn’t have pictured a better place to make landfall after such a momentous journey.
Of course, one rum punch turned into two, and by the time we were sitting down to lunch, we were feeling invincible. By this point, Brad had called my mom back in Boston about 7 times, each time having a super emotional conversation about the gravitas of the journey and how much he missed her, etc., before forgetting he had called and calling back 5 minutes later to have the exact same chat. I think eventually I took his phone away for a bit…
The lunch itself was also incredible. No offence to the likes of my microwave chilli we’d been guzzling on passage, but the blackened mahi mahi tacos at the yacht club were just a different standard. After lunch, Stephen’s parents made their goodbyes to head back to their hotel, as they’d been up from 5 AM to ensure they didn’t miss our arrival.
Meanwhile, the crew kept the celebration going, moving it back to our girl Florence, which felt appropriate. We pumped up her speakers as high as they'd go and had a loud and I’m sure really embarrassing dance party in the cockpit before moving our antics to the nearby helipad. No nearby boats complained, however, which I still find astonishing. When it finally felt like it was way too late and we should probably call it, the exhausted crew stumbled below deck and collapsed into our beds that for the first time in weeks weren’t pitching all over the place. This would surely be the sleep of the dead. After hitting the pillow, I rolled over to look at the time, convince it t must be 2 in the morning at the very least. It was 8:30 PM. Jesus! The Atlantic had taken it all out of us. Sure, we could crush an entire ocean in under 2 weeks, but we couldn’t for the life of us stay awake past 9 PM. Some kids just can’t handle Barbados, I guess…
