Just a quick post to wish everyone Merry Christmas, and to thank you for reading, contributing and being such a great help throughout my journey so far.

I have parked Constellation in Figueira da Foz, around 80nm north of Lisbon. Pedro, a new and very warm Portuguese friend, drove over 100km in the middle of the night, to come pick me up, take me to his family home and adopt me for Christmas, for which I am eternally grateful. I wasn´t relishing the thought of Christmas alone again, and the trip down here has been fraught with terrifying waves, port entrances from hell, and racing tides. I was glad to get away from all that, and today I write from the warmth of an open fire.

I will post again from Lisbon - Feliz Natal!

nick.

It was a little sad leaving Laxe, not because I didn’t want to get on my way, but really just because of language difficulties. I couldn’t express to Miguel and his family how much I appreciated their hospitality, and it really disappointed me to just be leaving without be able to say much more than ‘Thank you, Goodbye’. I left two bottles of wine, and my email address, however I’m not too sure email was his preferred method of communication… I should have asked for their address to send something, but alas, it never occurred to me. Here is a photo of Miguel, who was hard at work cleaning his nets. He showed me an enormous bag of crabs he had caught, and we compared boat sizes. I think I’m going to try sending something to ‘Boat Loly Uno/Miguel, Laxe, Spain’ - I bet he receives it!

It was a relatively short sail to my next port of call, Camarinas. After the bad weather of the previous few days, I was treated to sunshine and little swell, albeit without any wind. I’ve been motoring all over the place, so poor little ‘August’ the mighty Yanmar has been working overtime. I’m quite certain when he came out of the factory, he exclaimed to his bigger friends how lucky he was to be in a small sailboat, doing nothing more than working in and out of port. Little did he know, he’d be motoring to Australia.

As I came into the Ria that houses Camarinas, a little wind picked up, and I launched my headsail. I tacked up the Ria, and decided to sail right into port for the first time. Sailing onto the dock must be a singlehanders best party trick, so I figured while I still have 3rd party insurance (it ran out on the 16th), I should do some practice. As I rounded the breakwater at three knots, I let her run a little, before dousing the foresail. I coasted into the pontoon area, and lined up perfectly for a free berth. As I neared, someone started shouting and carrying on, insisting that I go to another berth. I really couldn’t see what the bother was about, considering the entire place was empty, but there you have it. Luckily I had enough power under main alone, and I redirected, and docked to perfection. Unfortunately no one was around to take any notice at all, except the Marinara, who was probably just really annoyed that I had just sailed at 2kts for the last twenty minutes into his marina, while he stood on the dock attempting to direct me.

Nothing of particular interest happened in Camarinas, and I had really only come into a marina to find a post office. Post offices have been causing me great pain in Spain (that’s a rhyme)… In La Coruna, I couldn’t find the post anywhere, and when I eventually did, the hours were beyond comprehension, it never seemed open, and then I was ready to depart, and hardly in the mood to wait around to figure it all out. In Laxe, the post office was nothing more than a post sign out the front of a house, which upon entrance, turns out to actually be exactly that: The post office is a set of scales in the front room of somebody’s tiny apartment. I walked in, and accidently thought I’d gone through the wrong door… While Laxe had the facility to post mail, I really needed a big post office with envelopes, boxes etc, and so, I had to move on in hopes of something bigger further on.

A friend emailed me after hearing I was going past Finisterre, mentioning that it was the end of the Camino Trail. This trail if you are unfamiliar with it, is a walk, or pilgrimage, going from one side of Spain to the other, finishing at Finisterre. As a symbolic gesture, I am told some walkers burn their clothes at the end of the walk, which as you can imagine, results in naked pilgrims loitering around the Spanish hills. All endeavours related to the act of persuing nakedness should be heartily encouraged, so I came in close around Finisterre (to those concerned, it wasn’t that close, yet for the sake of narrative…) with eagle eyes. Unfortunately all I found was a sore neck from craning, but I decided to come into Finisterre proper, as another small boat pontoon was reportedly in the harbour. As with the last small boat pontoon, I was dubious of its existence, but noted a decent anchorage nearby, if it was only a summer installation. To my luck, it did exist, and I slept cosily tied up inside the breakwater. The following day I did a scout around for naked pilgrims; rather, I mean for a supermarket so I could buy provisions, but none were open… I walked past a Churros vendor (sort of like donuts that don’t connect?) and asked for three Churros please, because I knew any more would make me sick, and I have no self-control when it comes to sweet things. The women exclaimed that I had to buy six for one euro. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t buy three for half a euro… The mathematic puzzle really didn’t seem too deep to me, however, language barriers resisted my abilities for debate, and so as expected, I ate like a glutinous pig.

Dolphins, the greatest animals on the planet, piloted us out of Finisterre, as I made for Ria De Muros. They danced around the boat, and I would have jumped in to join them, if it wasn’t for my Churros illness. I motored into Muros town, and tied up against the fishing harbour wall. No one seemed to mind, so I walked around for a bit, bought eleven tins of anchovy olives, and moved Constellation into the bay so I could sit at anchor, listen to shortwave radio, and eat my tinned olives in the tranquility of not being tied side-on to something. It was still daylight (day/night has effects on stations one can receive), so I was stuck with Christian Science Monitor, and Radio Slovakia German Special Edition on the radio. As you can imagine, I understood neither. Actually, that’s a lie… I could understand about 20% of the German Special Edition, however one fifth of any conversation leaves much to be desired. As night fell, BBC World finally came online, and I lay in bed happily listening to the ailments of the planet, reported every fifteen minutes of every day, 365 days a year.

I left Muros for Sanxenxo (pronounced Sanshensho), for reasons I still don’t quite understand. I think the name attracted me… I should have powered onto Baiona, but I wasn’t finished with the Rias, and Sanxenxo seemed like a good place to stop. While on route, the Guardia Civil (coastguard) curiously powered past. I curled up in a ball in the cockpit to reduce my visibility. This is an instinctive animal trait, that assumes if I cannot see the Guardia Civil, the Guardia Civil cannot see me. In actual fact, they probably now think my vessel is not under command, or I have not set a proper watch, further incriminating me. I fear the Guardia Civil for several reasons, mostly because they could get me on a number of technicalities if they so chose, and I hear they enjoy paperwork, strict rules, and small red boats. In light of all my bad mouthing, they carried on, and left me huddled in a ball thinking up good excuses as to why I didn’t have VHF licence or a motor cone up.

In the distance I could see the triangles of sails as I made my approach to Sanxenxo. Out here they appear to be an anomaly - I am about the only sailboat around, so I was happy to see some others out enjoying the distinct lack of wind. I was rather suprised to see several boats sailing quite quickly in the distance, past Isla Ons. How on earth they were sailing was beyond me, as the air was so still, you could see smoke rising from the villages in enormous vertical trails. All I could think of, was that each boat had it’s crew on the ‘windward’ side, blowing great mouthfuls of air onto the sails, to the timing of the skipper cum coxon. In the interest of hypotheticals, if any physicists are onboard, could you please tell me whether or not that would actually be possible… Because if it is, I think I’m going to ditch the solo thing.

As I eventually came into Sanxenxo, which was now dark, I was admiring the surrounding hills when the most curious thing happened: They all quite literally disappeared. In front of my eyes, a huge power outage unlit an entire city. For a second, I thought it was the sneaky Guardia Civil, testing to see whether I was doing Streetlight Pilotage (a close cousin of Stern Light Navigation). Minutes later the city came back online, and I was still floating, which must have meant I had past the test, which as you can imagine, was a great relief.

Thud.

Nothing of particular interest happened in Sanxenxo… I bought some more olives, and left the next day for Baiona (Bayona). I plotted my projected course, punched in my waypoints, setup my routes and sailed south in a perfect wind on the beam. This soon evaporated like a fox, putting ‘August’ the mighty Yanmar back on shift, to my great annoyance. It wasn’t all bad though, as I kept one eye on the compass, and one eye on Fernando Pessoa, until I came closer to Baiona. Then, out of nowhere came a stiff wind and enormous choppy swell. I was not prepared to do any ‘real’ sailing, the boat was a mess, and I expected nothing less than calm seas and sunny weather, as it had been for the past four hours, and the past five days. I launched the foresail to harness some of this precious wind, and I started flying along at 5kts, burying the bow, and probably slightly over powered. The coffee plunger fell over, covering the floor, the cabinets flew open, and the books on the chart table ended up in the sink, but Constellation was a free bird, almost soaring directly into the wind (upwind is a long keeled, skinny boat speciality). A tanker and a tug boat went past before I could change tack for Baiona, and eventually I docked at the fancy yachtclub closest to the breakwater. The Marinara attempted to put me stern-to with a slime line on the bow, which I think is the most horrible way of marina mooring on the planet, especially for visitors. Sorry, but it’s just stupid. Give me a finger pontoon please, or something else distinctly grounded. Not to mention the fact that reversing a long keeled boat is near impossible, and I’ve got a 1600euro windvane hanging off the back which I don’t relish the thought of impaling on a pontoon… So I high-tailed out of there, and went to the lesser Deportivo next door, which was more my style anyway. The fancy one had a restaurant with leather couches, a cigar cabinet, and oil paintings of square riggers painted in pastille colours hanging on the walls. It really wasn’t me… Stick me in with the fishermen any day, at least they’re interesting, and are really, truly, the only genuine people of the sea.

Baiona was one of my milestones. Thinking of sailing to Australia is impossible - It’s simply too far away. I can only think in baby steps… For me, sailing from Amsterdam to Calais was a milestone. Cherbourg was my next milestone, as was Camaret, and then La Coruna. Baiona was my next one, with Lisbon being my last before hitting the Atlantic islands, where my milestones become much further apart. So, as Baiona was a milestone, I was kind of irritated by how things were going. First, the unpredicted wind and sea-state-weirdness, then the silly stern-to idea, and then once in the other marina I was redirected to about three different pontoons because they were all ‘prohibido’, even though the place is desolate and I’m probably the first sailor from a foreign port they’ve seen since the end of October. And then, I put my shoes on, and the starboard shoe was full of coffee. I think it was just one of those days…

Special thanks to Cindy at Cindigo for the donation. You rock! I suspect it was a subtle suggestion that I should go by some seasickness medication!

So, I need to get cracking down to Lisbon before Christmas day…

nick.

So far, I have been amazingly fortunate on all counts. As you know, I’ve hopped into a lot of ports along my trip, becoming quite the expert on entering foreign harbours almost always in the dark, because poor Constellation takes so long, and also (mostly) because I can’t stand the idea of waking up before 9am to sail. Which means, if you leave late, you arrive late… Coming into port at night is also a nice challenge after sitting at the helm all day. A challenge except when struck by terror.

My first day out after spending 39 days in La Coruna had me chronically sea sick, having been on dry land far too long. I was vomiting over the side of Constellation every hour, for the entire nine hour journey. I was trying really hard to make my first day out a triumphant sail, by going non-stop to Bayona, which would have been a twenty four hour sail. I wanted to get around Finisterre quickly, knowing that bad weather was swiftly heading towards land from far out at sea.

If you’ve ever been sea sick, you know that while you’re sick, you are depressed, tired, and you hate the sea with a great passion. But, after you throw up, you’re all keen again. So, for the majority of every hour, I just wanted to sink Constellation and go sleep in front of a warm fire, on dry land. And then I’d be sick, and be back on track, ready to go non-stop to Bayona, often thinking ‘to hell with it, I’m going non-stop to Lisbon!’. Some ten minutes later, I’d be back in the dumps, wondering how to safely sink the boat, launch the liferaft and not forget my wallet so I could get the next flight home.

In the end, after all the ups and downs of what to do and where to sail, I decided to just pull into Laxe. I looked in the pilot book, and there was supposed to be a small boat pontoon which I could tie up to. There were no marinas until Camarinas, and I thought I might get away with a free night or two on the pontoon, or if not, I could according to the pilot safely lay at anchor. I was still really sick, and on entrance into Laxe, I had made a severe navigational mistake. I kid you not, I was within seconds of sinking Constellation for real - And not because I wanted to (or maybe my deep subconscious had purposely altered my route, hoping to grant my secret wish).

I was diligently following my GPS route, but not following the track (ie. my course was in the right direction, but not in a perfectly straight line), as clearly the tide was pushing me to port. I was motoring along with a fairly large swell annoying me from the stern, when my peripheral vision picked up the whites of breaking waves. Directly in front of me, lay a rocky outcrop, which I was just about to crash into. Instinctively I reached down for the throttle and pushed ‘August’ the mighty Yanmar into full ahead, glancing down at the depth sounder as I did the fastest 180 degree turn in history, seeing it read three metres. I had two thoughts as I swung around, the first being ‘three metres oh my God!!!’ (that’s the watered down version) and the second being ‘at least when I shipwreck, I can sit on the rocks as they are high enough above the water and wait until morning’. Thankfully, I was fast enough, and I motored away, shivering with cold, stress and sickness. I marked my current position, and derived a new safer waypoint from the Pilot chartlet to home in on. This all took longer than expected, it was such a dark night, the moon was nowhere to be seen, and everytime I was sitting in the cockpit trying to create a new route into Laxe, Constellation seemed to want to steer back into the rocks.

When my navigation was under control, I closed Laxe, and as I did, the smell of land hit me. You never seem to notice the loss of the earths smell on departure, yet on arrival, it literally smells like someone has placed a handful of earth under your nose. This time there was the mixed smell of wood smoke, and I could feel my sea sickness being left at sea. Eventually I arrived at 10pm, looking everywhere for the small boat pontoon. It was nowhere to be found… Fishermen on the breakwater were eagerly watching me motor in circles as I wondered what to do. The swell was up and there was no way I could safely anchor, even with the new fifty metre nylon rode I bought so I could spend more time with the hook down. I decided to sail into the breakwater and tie up on the inside of the breakwater wall where all the fishing boats were sitting on buoys. In hindsight, I should have just picked up an unused buoy, but I was concerned about what the buoys were attached to, and having such a large audience on the wall, I thought it best not to annoy anyone by stealing their ships parking spot in plain view.

I motored into the calm protected harbour, and prepared Constellation to sit against the high wall. A group of people came by as I motored up, taking my lines and tying Constellation up. No one really spoke English, but everyone was interested to see the small boat flying a foreign flag. I took out my pilot book and asked where the small boat pontoon was - Apparently it is only ‘installed’ in summer! There was no port authority or irritable bureaucracy to deal with, and I was happy to be on land again. Constellation took a battering against the wall, so now she unfortunately has pink marks along her sides, showing her undercoat through three coats of enamel. I was very concerned the swell would smash the spreaders against the wall, but thankfully the swell was only mild on the inside, and paintwork can always be repaired.

The next day, a fisherman came onboard, and told me ten metre waves were forecast, and that I should tie Constellation up on a buoy, and sleep in a hotel. I was as you can imagine, somewhat concerned. I tried to motion that I was not going to motor onto a buoy as the winds were already too strong, and that I would stay with the boat. He then said to me with great seriousness, that if it became too bad, I must leave the boat, as there are many yachts, but only one life. I went from being concerned to being very, very concerned, verging on plain frightened. The little port was well protected, but if a local tells you such things, surely it must only be natural go from concerned to petrified. So throughout the night, I woke up every hour to check the lines and ensure the weather hadn’t deteriorated too badly. The winds did increase to great strength, with Constellation pinned to the breakwater wall, her paintwork taking a serious beating, yet it was nothing too terrifying or life threatening.

The morning after, the same fisherman arrived again with his brother. He said the weather was going to get worse, and that he was going to help me move onto a buoy, having phoned around to find a free one. He insisted that I was going to stay with his brother until Tuesday when the weather was predicted to improve. There was little possibility to argue, as most of this was understood through sign language or broken single words. We moved Constellation over, another fisherman helping with his rowboat. Quickly and under-prepared, I took a few things from the boat and was rowed ashore. The brothers drove past a friend and knocked on his door, exclaiming he was excellent in English, and would explain what was going on. As the door opened, I was greeted with a thick London accent, yet the friend (who turned out to be a cousin) also spoke impeccable Spanish. He explained everything, and I was rushed off to Miguels house. I was expecting to be sleeping on the couch with a big family on the hill, but was genuinely suprised when I was handed the keys to a completely furnished top story apartment, with a view of the sea! I was lost for words, as Miguel showed me around, turned on the TV, and said his mother would bring food in two hours! I lay down for a bit, and on queue, Miguels mother appeared, with a huge pot of homemade spinach stew, bread, milk, cans of beer, coffee, salami, cheese, yoghurt and tuna. I was literally dumbfounded with the incredible show of generosity. I was, and still am, lost for words; and not only Spanish ones.

I spent the day relaxing, yet nervous about Constellation. I also hadn’t brought enough clothes with me, being in a rush after tying up. As I was rowed ashore by another fishermen, I had no rowboat, or dinghy to get back… Poor Constellation was out there on her own, and I had no real way to go aboard. I eagerly went out to borrow a row boat, but whimped out at the thought of stealing someone else’s boat without asking Miguel about row-boat-etiquette. Somewhat disappointed, I went back to the apartment, drank coffee, and tried to watch Four Weddings and a Funeral. It was a rather painful event, seeing Hugh Grant overdubbed in Spain’s very own Spanish-Speaking-Hugh-Grant-Voice-Alike, but I had little else to do, and it was blowing a hoolie outside. I understood nothing of the film, and found myself not really watching, but rather just worrying about my little stranded boat, biting my nails and channel surfing for English programs. It didn’t help that between the TV breaks, reports would come up in the news, talking about the horrific weather, showing pictures of huge waves crashing against the coastlines of Galicia.

The following day I walked around the town, and worked out the row boat laws - You simply borrow one when you need it. At lunch, Miguels mother again turned up with an armful of amazing food, this time a huge potato fritata, bread, and extra milk. I just wish I had more Spanish to express my thanks, beyond ‘Gracias, gracias, gracias muchos gracias!’.

I spent the rest of the day meandering far up into the hills, going in a southwest direction, scoping out where I was to be sailing next. The area was stunning, with the days walk being well worth the trouble of coming into Laxe. Everywhere I went, dogs barked at me, which always makes me feel like I’m a criminal or being told off for something - I’m sure that feeling has some kind of deep-set freudian meaning, but lets not there…

I came home at dusk, attempting to watch Spanish TV again, but still nothing made sense (how suprising). I ended up reading a Webb Chiles book and leafing through the Atlantic Islands pilot guide, taking special note of average temperatures… I’m really getting tired of being in the tail end of the nice weather - I want warm waters, t-shirts and an excess of swimming. Alas, the true temperatures I pine for (30c+) will not be too frequent until I reach the Caribbean, some (seemingly) two million miles away. I will end this post with a quote from Chiles himself, whom I have had the fine fortune of discussing sailing matters with, and who has taken the time to answer my questions with great pragmatism.

“To me a voyage is essentially an act of will and a testing of the human spirit. If a sailor doesn’t learn anything more important from the sea than how to reef a sail, the voyage wasn’t worth making. One of the pleasures in setting out on a voyage is not knowing where the sea will lead. On a voyage a sailor is at risk. On a voyage a sailor knows he is truly alive. A voyage is not an escape from life; it is a reach for life.”

nick (click here for a few more photos of Laxe)

Thanks so much to everybody emailing support and for commenting on my last post, it was all really encouraging.

I was hoping to have left today… But the weather has been bizarre. Just two days ago, the forecast for today was huge swell (7.2metres!) and high winds, which is not conducive to making it around Cape Finisterre. Just yesterday, local Navtex stations were reporting gales at Force 8 - Which I think was completely off the mark, as there was barely a draft going through the washboards. It’s very confusing, trying to make a decision on when to leave. As of today the next five days are looking good. Swell is still up through till Thursday or Friday, presumably from conditions created by the low pressure system that has been hanging around. I wish it would just go away already. Conditions 100nm down the coast are much better - La Coruna is clearly a magnet for bad weather.

Constellation really wants to leave, she is starting to look like a messy houseboat, it’s horrible. Although strapping loads of stuff to the deck does make her look somewhat impressive to some, I suspect the majority of the Real Club Nautico (local sailing club) think I’m a smelly singlehander that should be at anchor, not in their impressive white-boat-marina. Couple Constellation’s chaotic appearance and the big Australian flag, it really does look like I’ve just sailed from Australia, as opposed to the other way around. Finely dressed Spaniards walk along the pontoons, regularly checking mooring lines, as I slouch up and down with bags of pasta from Gadis, saying ‘Hola’ with far too much enthusiasm.

This isn’t to say I haven’t met some really amazing people here. Not long after tying up, one of the marina staff took a shining to my boat. He really liked her. Several days later, he said there was another boat, just like mine, on the opposite side. I thought he was daft, maybe confusing Constellation with something of a lesser pedigree. But, I did wonder over for a look nevertheless. And what did I find? Nothing other than a really lovely white Contessa 26, her owner onboard, flying the Spanish flag. I tried to explain that I had a boat exactly the same, pointing to the other side, however we both just stared at each other blankly, having big ‘no comprendo’ looks at each other (hey, what happened to Esperanto?). In the end, he made a phone call, and gave me the phone. ‘Errr, hello?’ It was his son on the other line, speaking perfect English. I explained, he explained. It turns out, this little white boat, had sailed all the way from England, through the Med, Suez, around the Cape of Good Hope, and then back up to Alicante, Spain! Wow, another impressive Contessa voyage. Funnily (or, not really) enough, he was in trouble with Spanish authorities, because he had no paperwork for the boat, it had all drowned. How you ask? Much the same way my boat filled up with water when on the hard: The cockpit filled, and flooded the interior, taking the paperwork with it. This lovely Contessa owner invited me to lunch the following day. His son picked me up, drove me at breakneck speed to the family business. Which, as it turned out, was vinegar factory in one part of town, and in another part a spirits refinary! I had a tour of the vinegar factory, which still uses big oak barrels, admiring the family collection of strange cars, with a Uni Mog in the front garden, and a beautiful 1950’s Mercedes restoration in the shed. We went out for a stunning lunch, and he invited me out again the following day! Here, he offered to loan me his spinnaker and spinnaker pole, as well as a mooring in Alicante (the Mediterranean) if I decided to stay in Europe. What amazing generosity.

Later in the week, I saw someone poking around my boat. I looked out of the hatch, and saw a man double bent over, trying to read the transom stickers. He popped up with fright when I said ‘hola!’, and we chatted for awhile. He came back several weeks later, holding the hand of a very young and pretty girl. He exclaimed ‘this is my sister!!’ and I sort of looked at him oddly. Later he told me he meant to say it was his daughter, which made much more sense. He took me out to coffee, and explained (there were some communication difficulties, so the story may not be quite right) that the OSTAR singlehanders used to come in near his house after the long race. He would row out in his boat to greet them, and chat about their craziness. He then took a look at my legs, and exclaimed ‘oh yes, all solo sailors in small boats have tiny legs. I think you have tiny legs’. I laughed. I guess I do. Unfortunately that probably just has more to do with my anatomy than my sailing, since I’ve been spending more time walking around aimlessly than sailing great distances…

And then I met Monica, at a local cafe. She works there, the cafe is called ‘Gasthof’, which I must have been attracted to because of the German name (it means Guest House, if I’m not mistaken). Eventually after I kept showing up every once and awhile over the month I’ve been here, she started asking what I was doing in La Coruna. I explained, and Monica took a great shining to the idea, also after finding out I was not a ’sailing bigos Pijo*’ (I don’t know what the word is or out to spell it, but I presume it is Spanish for ’snob’ or something to that effect!). Not long after, she left for Madrid for a holiday, but not without sending me a present of great generosity, with some photos of my boat to stick to the cabin roof. Thank you again Monica, you’ve been so generous.

While I have loved it here in Coruna, I really do hope my next post is from another port. It is time to move on. Constellation is biting at the bit, we must go.

nick

* Tudor, my official trip advisor, and official translator (gosh, he’s so official!), says: “Pijo, you have correctly guessed is a snob, but it has a slightly different demographic in Spain. More like a “conformist middle-class snob”, as these are the people that wear tweeds, Burberry, Barbours and such, looking like thay have just come off a stag hunt in Scotland.”