25/10/2019
This crossing from Gibraltar to Tenerife has really had it all: a battle through the Gib Strait into the wind and against the current followed by a white night of dodging electrical storms followed by high winds and big seas. The wind during the first 3 days of our passage has veered continuously, forcing us to constantly adjust our sail configuration from a beam to a broad reach to eventually a dead run. It was definitely a challenge getting the downwind rig up in those rough seas, but once it was up and running, it made for a beautiful point of sail. Let’s hope this is what conditions on the Atlantic crossing are like!
We rode the wind for as long as we could before it died a complete death in the early hours of Friday, our 4th day of the passage. It was time to bite the bullet and turn the engine on. We are really out in the middle of nowhere here, at least 70 nautical miles off the coast of Africa, over 500 nautical miles from Spain and still over 200 nautical miles from the Canaries. No land or ships for as far as the eye can see.
And that’s where we are as I write this. I am currently on the 6-9 AM watch and just saw the end of a beautiful and energising sunrise. Passage fatigue at this point has come and gone, and I'm feeling less exhausted and more reflective than I have thus far on the passage. This and Biscay are the longest crossings we’ve done, and I have found the first 3 days are brutal as your body adjusts to the watch system and sleeping in short spurts when you can catch them, all the while trying to get used to the continuous rocking of the boat. By day 3, exhaustion has taken over, you can’t really think straight, and you know you are not even halfway there. At this point, it can be disheartening watching the dot that is your boat on the chart inch farther away from your departure point and only ever so slightly closer to your destination. The term “a glacial pace” comes to mind, even though you may be doing 7-8 knots. With just the 2 of us doing 4 hours on, 4 hours off, this passage has seemed especially long. Today, day 4, is the first time I’ve woken for my watch not feeling cranky, disoriented, and generally out of sorts. I came above deck in the dark and spent the next couple hours watching the sky slowly lighten and turn an array of bright colours, remembering why sunrise watch is my favourite. I find I’m at my most reflective in these moments, watching the beginning of a new day. Being able to experience the full transition - from total darkness, to the first hint of light, to the deep blue that spreads over the sky, to that first crack of orange on the horizon that eventually gives way to the great orange orb peeking through - is very meditative. From there, brilliance takes over, and you spend the next hour watching the sun break free from the horizon and turn your whole world into a blaze of colours. It’s a time of rejuvenation and of hope, even for the bleariest of sleep-deprived eyes.
I am now feeling grateful for this longer passage, one I had previously been dreading. I needed time to break through the fear, exhaustion, and tedium often associated with longer passages to find these moments of stillness and clarity that allow me to reflect more holistically on this journey so far. The cruising life has definitely had its highs and lows! How I feel about the trip can change by the day, sometimes by the hour even. At times like the midnight coastguard rescue and dodging the lightning storms, I've been about ready to call it off, feeling the trip was just not worth the danger, the expense, or the stress! And then there are moments like this, watching this glorious sunrise alone on deck, hundreds of miles from anything or anyone. Moments like this make you appreciate the trip for its challenges and triumphs. I’ve learned so much about myself on this trip, both good and bad. I’ve certainly learned that I am capable of more than I realised living on land. I'm feeling quite proud of Stephen and myself this morning, as undertaking an almost 800 nautical mile crossing just the two of us out in the Atlantic Ocean is no small feat. I think we’ve handled it well so far, working nicely as a team. And what a cool thing to get to do with your husband! Granted, we are not there yet, and if boat life drills anything into you, it's that something can always go tits up at any given moment. But we have now broken the back of the passage and should be making landfall in Tenerife in fewer than 2 days. I’m now enjoying the passage and no longer just counting down the miles until we make landfall. The past couple days, I’ve been ripping through books. In Gibraltar, I downloaded onto my kindle the complete works of Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, and Thomas Hardy for the grand price of $1.98. Are you kidding me?? Easily the best 2 bucks I’ve ever spent.
Hmm, as I write this, enjoying the peace of the crossing for the first time, the sky ahead is darkening and visibility is deteriorating fast. A quick check of the radar confirms there are multiple squalls up ahead. OK then! As I said, it’s often the second you start to relax that the next challenge rears its head. That’s boat life for you. Pen is going down, nav lights are going on, and I’ll be monitoring the radar to see what this new system brings. I just pray no more lightning - I think we’ve hit our quota for this passage. Wish us luck!