21/10/2019
The rest of the sail down the Costa del Sol to Gibraltar was thankfully much less eventful than the previous leg. No problems, but we were still sailing pretty much directly into the wind, so the motor was on. After about 50 nautical miles, we made it to The Rock, which on approach from this angle was more imposing than I remembered it from the other direction. As we rounded the enormous rock, I kept my eyes open for the macaque monkeys the area is famous for, though didn’t spot any. The wind and sea picked up once we were in the bay of Gibraltar, so we turned the engine off and had a nice current pushing us to the depths of the bay where we would drop the hook for the night. We no longer needed to get fuel, so while we’d miss out on Gib’s duty free prices, we could thankfully avoid that intimidating concrete wall that serves as the fuel pontoon and the pesky fishing boats that will cut in front of anything in their path.
As I tried to fall asleep, I’ll admit I was nervous for the Tenerife crossing - more nervous than I had been thus far. Recent harrowing situations aside, this would be by far our most ambition passage. Firstly, crossing through the Gib Strait from east to west is no joke and far more involved than making the crossing from the other direction. You have to get your timing just right to avoid a foul current that makes the passage nigh impossible, especially in a strong westerly, which is what we would be dealing with tomorrow. There is also a massive and very busy shipping lane we’d have to be careful to avoid. Once through the strait, which given the wind and current could take a number of hours, we had over 700 nautical miles of Atlantic Ocean to cover down the coast of Africa before making it to the Canary Islands, an area we were not at all familiar with. Our insurance would not provide us cover to stop in Africa, so we were without the possibility of a port of refuge anywhere along our journey should conditions deteriorate.. We would just have to pray we wouldn’t need it. The forecast seemed to be varied, with strong winds the first few days following by a period of calm. The sea state was a bit more concerning. It was easily double any sea state we’d experienced in the Med, even in rough patches. I nearly choked when I first looked on Windy at the wave heights we’d be dealing with - 6 to 12 feet consistently. I was someone comforted when Stephen reminded me that you have to consider wavelength in connection with wave height to get an understanding of whether the sea will be quick, choppy, breaking waves, or more of an undulating swell. Thanks, Physics Boy! It would also no doubt be an endurance test for the 2 of us, with 5 days and 5 nights at sea where we’d each be 4 hours on, 4 hours off. I knew we could handle it though - Florence is an incredibly seaworthy vessel, and we’d built up sufficient experience over the past 6 months to handle this more challenging passage. Plus we really had no choice - tomorrow was the final day in our weather window to begin the crossing, so it would be anchor up early and off.
When we awoke the next day and upped anchor around 11 AM, we were both a bit nervous but determined. As with any big challenge, there is definitely a sense of excitement and adrenaline at the outset. It reminded me a bit of some of the more harrowing ski runs Stephen would take me down in the alps. Perching on the edge of the cliff, willing myself to drop in, it’s the burst of adrenaline that would eventually motivate me to tip my skis over the edge and just fucking go. The Bay of Gibraltrar was crowded with massive tankers, so we weaved around them carefully as we made our way towards the mouth of the strait. In the bay, the wind was already gusting up to 25 knots, which was a lot stronger than Windy had forecast. We were therefore a bit apprehensive to see what that meant for wind conditions in the strait itself. We timed our departure to enter the strait exactly at slack tide. The crossing should take about 4 hours, which would mean while we would have a foul tide against us the entire way (as is always the case when crossing east to west during a neap tide), the tide would never be more than 3 knots against us, as opposed to the 6-7 knots it can reach closer to high water. We thought it prudent to cross the strait under engine, as beating into the wind while fighting 3 knots of current would have taken all day. Progress was still painfully slow. Patience and trust in Flo’s engine (which now we knew for a fact had fuel) kept us moving calmly and steadily forward. We stayed well clear of the wide traffic separation scheme, eventually cutting across it at as close to a 90-degree angle as we could once we neared the end of the strait. This would bring us closer to the African coast and marked the beginning of our long journey south. We had been warned to give the African coast at least a 30 nautical mile berth, as the coast is lousy with fishing vessels that don’t have AIS and will easily trip you up in their nets if you aren’t careful. Sure enough, these weird and oddly sinister-looking fishing boats were everywhere along the coast, so we headed well out to sea before turning further south along the coast. By this time, it was around 6 PM, giving us an hour before it would start to get dark. The wind was gusting up to 20 knots, so we set the sails close hauled, turned on the nav lights and radar, and settled in for our first overnight of the passage. I had the midnight to 4 AM watch, so I went below deck to try to get some rest while Stephen manned the ship.
In my state of semi-consciousness, I noticed some bright flashes coming through the hatch. Was that lightning? This was around 10 PM. I came above deck and saw that sure enough, there were a couple lightning storms off in the distance. Stephen said he’d been monitoring them and that they seemed very far away. I was surprised to see these electrical storms out in the open ocean, as in our experience they tended to hug coastlines. With absolutely nothing ahead of us but pitch black open ocean, the cracks of lightning breaking through the ether would light up the whole sky and looked incredibly menacing. I didn’t want to get an inch closer to these storms. I started monitoring the storms on the radar while Stephen stayed above deck and watched the activity live. It appeared from the radar that the two orange blobs ahead were closing in on us from both sides. There was also another storm brewing behind us and gaining momentum. This was not comforting, as we were the only sailing vessel for miles, and out here in the open ocean, there was nothing else for this lighting to hit except Florence’s aluminium mast. While Flo has a lightning conductor running through her mast that is meant to dispel a strike out into the water, the damage to the boat would still be significant. All her electrics would be fried, so we’d be without power or navigation, and there was also the likely possibility of more serious structural damage. In short, it would be disastrous.
For next 9 hours , Stephen and I played dodge the electrical storms - not a fun game, and one I hope never to have to play again. I stayed on radar watch, while Stephen kept an eye on the activity on deck. These orange blobs on our radar screen kept morphing, growing in size and getting ever closer. No sooner had we seemingly dodged one then another would crop up. For hours and hours, it felt like we were being closed in on from all sides. We took in the sails and just motored around in weird loops, doing whatever we could do avoid the centres of these fierce storms. It was quite the night - eyes were wide open, adrenaline levels were running on turbo, and concentration was laser-focused. By around 7 AM, it finally looked as if we were through the worst of it, with the larger storms rolling on ahead of us. I told Stephen to get some sleep and stayed on watch as the last of the storms fizzled out over the course of the next couple hours. This crossing was not off to the best start. Shit-scared and exhausted, we geared up for Day 2.
The electrical storms were followed by a healthy breeze. We had about 25 knots on a beam, with some big waves to boot. We put out almost full sail, wanting to make tracks while we could.The boat was on a heavy heel, with her tow rail in the water. Stephen said when he woke up to relieve me from my watch, he was surprised to find the boat almost sideways, and he initially panicked as he couldn’t see me above deck. He found me tucked in the deepest corner of the cockpit, clipped onto my lifeline and with my legs pushing against the cockpit table for support, just writing away in my journal. It was an intense sail, but we were making 8+ knots, and though only 1 day in, we were both feeling ready for this crossing to be over. Only 4 more days of this! This crossing was already proving to be eventful if nothing else. But at least we are well on our way.