So, what on earth have I been waiting for? Or is it all a big farce, so I don’t have to cross the Atlantic? Actually, no. I’ve been patiently (rather, impatiently!) waiting on two solar panels (yes, two!) and a regulator to arrive from Hamburg, courtesy of the very generous Andre, from ‘AJ van der Weiden thodn Intertoys De Symfonie‘, in Nieuw Vennep, Netherlands. Yes, truly, a Dutch toy store is helping me out! We discussed the options, and while a boatload of toys would have definitely kept me occupied on my crossing, what I really needed was some way to generate energy (other than with the engine) to keep things running on my long passage. Remember, I have an enormous home entertainment system, including Playstation, Desktop PC and 82inch plasma TV onboard - ‘August the mighty Yanmar’ simply couldn’t keep up with it all… But seriously, generosity out of nowhere astounds yet again. While I am actually waiting for the panels to arrive (for some reason they’re still in Madrid…), you can see it’s all been for a good reason, and I’m very humbled for the generous assistance from Andre, who approached me and has been very fun to deal with. For the boat sticker, we decided to make something a little different. Remember, the tag-line of the website is ‘Bigoceans, Tiny Boat’? - So we made a modified version:

If you’re in Holland, be sure to stop by and say hello to Andre in his store, and don’t forget to say hi from me! Thanks Andre.

I also had the opportunity to to put an Autosystems sticker on the hull, which was long overdue - Their support has been instrumental from the very beginning of my trip, and still continues today - Thank you so much!

Other than hanging off of the side of my boat trying to put decals on in strong winds (not recommended), my days have been passing rather quickly. I’ve been swimming a lot, and spending time with ‘Pirata Paul’ and friends (Sabrina in the middle, Hector on the right)

Paul has been at the core of making sure I don’t die of starvation, regularly inviting me over for breakfast and dinner. If he’s not being called Pirata (Pirate) Paul, he is otherwise known as ‘Master Chef’, and always manages to produce a veritable feast of home cooked food. Our conversations have also morphed into a very strange combination of languages. Beceause Paul is half German, and therefore speaks the language, we mix everything up to converse. So, with my limited German, and the (very) few Spanish words I know, we converse in a rather curious manner, where a sentence may be linguistically confused in three different languages. As an example, “I would like the boat in the corner” may become “Ich möchte (German) the (English) barco (Spanish) in the (English) ecke (German)”. I’m often the let-down in languages, and of course that sentence is actually broken in every language, but we still manage to communicate by all means necessary! Thanks Captain Paul!

Several days ago I met The American again. Remember him, the guy with the cargo ship which is used as a private vessel? Well, he invited me for dinner, and of course, I jumped at the invitation - Not only because it meant home cooked food, but because I knew it was going to be a night with many a stories to remember.

To begin with, I got the grand tour of his cargo ship. Inside was what one would consider a ‘normal’ kitchen. It was full of standard appliances - Microwave, fridges, freezers, gas oven and cooktop, including a large sink, bench and pantry. Coming from a boat where I can’t stand up, the kitchen alone was worth a visit… The captains room was of course… Just like a normal room, but instead of seeing trees when you woke up, you see a great expanse of ocean, or in this case (being in a commercial harbour) enormous tankers and ferries, only metres away. Down below in the engine room, was a 400 horsepower Detroit Diesel, large battery bank and hydraulic system to run the crane, all in a space larger than my entire ship. Inside the forepeak of the vessel, lay a full workshop, with plasma cutters, welding equipment, air compressors, workbenches and a three phase diesel generator. As you moved forward on the port side, there was an entrance into the cavernous cargo hold. As you descend the railed stairs, the enormous hold opens up, full of boxes and shelves, with what must have been a years supply of food. It actually looked like a mini-market, with rows and rows of tinned cans, and 20 litre containers of sugar and flour. At the very rear of the cargo hold, lay a Ford Fiesta, which is craned out on suitable occasions. Next to the Fiesta was a Ducati motorcycle, and a four wheel motorbike, surrounded by ten brand new washing machines, five sewing machines, boxes of boots, TV’s and other assorted appliances. It was phenomenal, and I was mostly speechless.

Basically, The American is a rogue trader. There is apparently a limited supply of whitegoods to the Cape Verde islands, and he takes advantage of the situation by importing these items on his own, which in turn funds the operation of his ship (the fuel alone costs 200euros/day). Wherever he is, if he sees a bargain, he’ll buy everything in bulk, with the possibility of selling it sometime in the future. While taking all this in, the water was on the boil in the kitchen, and we moved back up the maze of ladders, where he prepared bolognese sauce from scratch, and told me of his adventures.

As we finished the dinner, he had some ‘things’ he wanted to show me. After a brief minute, The American returned with an enormous stainless steel machete, and what looked like a black pistol. Excuse my French, but holy shit, for a brief second, I wondered if I was going into the huge deep freezer directly behind me. He took the machete out of the sheathe, handing it to me while commenting on the quality of the stainless blade. I was as you can imagine, somewhat taken aback; I’d just helped this guy feed dough through a hand-cranked pasta machine, and now there was a machete and a pistol on the table. After looking at the machete and agreeing it was nice stainless (actually, I have no idea what constitutes nice stainless… But I wasn’t exactly going to argue), he handed me the pistol. Now, I’ve shot .45 and 9mm handguns in a shooting gallery before, and this black pistol had the markings of a Beretta and was well built and heavy in the hand. The weight of a weapon is always what strikes you first, and this thing had all the hallmarks of a real gun. I was relieved to find out, after requesting to see the ammunition, that it was a ‘Luftpistol’, made in Germany to exact Beretta specifications and dimensions. In essence, it was an air powered BB gun. Relieved that I would live another day, his next ‘thing’ was a book of photos, which I thought would be a much calmer show-and-tell, full of photos of his former sailboats and dogs.

As the picture of his Dobermans on the next page showed up, he grabbed my upper arm with great strength, to which I nearly fell off the chair. Unsure of what on earth he was doing, he began explaining how a Doberman bites. As I relaxed my shoulder, he grabbed it again, scaring the crap out of me. Apparently, this second demonstration was to show that Dobermans were smart, and after biting the first time, wait until the victim relaxes before continuing their assault. Thankfully the Doberman experiment ended rather quickly, as I redirected the conversation to a pretty picture of a boat in his photo album.

Still with the pistol on the table, and the photos finished, he turned around and showed me a scar the shape of a small circle on his neck. “What do you think that is?” He asked… I said it looked like a bullet hole, which is exactly what it turned out to be. An attempt to rob The American in Bolivia, had resulted in him being without a doubt, the luckiest man alive. A headshot had smashed through his teeth, and continued on through the back of his neck, missing both his jaw and anything vital.

In normal circumstances, I would have thought he was pulling my leg. But there is no doubt in my mind, that The American was truly shot in the head by Bolivian muggers, and is by all rights the most insane individual I’ve ever had the pleasure (fear) of meeting.

nick.

If you’ve been reading regularly, you’ll know I’m stuck here in Gran Canaria waiting on equipment to arrive via the worlds most aggravating postal system. Obviously post is still delivered by horse, cart, and steamship… I’ve been expecting this stuff to turn up any day, and every day I’ve anxiously done my run-around, looking and worrying, and getting increasingly concerned. A friend offered to lend me a Gennaker (a large sail, like a Spinnaker) for my crossing, so I could speed across the Atlantic in 24 hours (no, not really), but unfortunately this package ended up becoming cursed, with couriers unable to find the pickup address, to getting stuck in a warehouse for lack of bureaucratic paperwork. In the end, I just had to tell the courier to send it back - It was becoming a very unfunny comedy of errors. If I had known from the beginning I was going to be here for a month or more, I guess I would have made an effort to actually do some interesting things. On occasion my anxious personality overrides everything else, and I can do little else but busy myself with concern. I could have sailed over to the other islands, done some more exploring here in Gran Canaria, worked harder on learning Spanish, taken up ocean swimming (!), or a myriad of other interesting activities. But instead, I just spent the last three weeks thinking I would be “leaving any day now”…

So this morning Paul came with me to the post office, to help translate my postal worries. Eventually after what seemed like at least 15 minutes of rapid-fire Spanish, the women decided to actually look into the problem, and finally found the last received information on the whereabouts of the item was on the 13th of Feb, in Madrid. She said it was on a container ship headed for the islands, and expected it to be awhile yet… So I finally resigned myself to just getting on with things, and letting the parcel arrive whenever it felt the need. Most people probably would have come to this conclusion somewhat earlier, but what can I say… I have accepted my fate, and started filling my day with interesting jobs and activities instead of needless worry. Over the past few days I have begun listening to Spanish learning tapes, dusted off my German book, and even begun listening to a 20 hour French course. I bought a cheap set of computer speakers, and mounted them in the cabin, which has been probably the greatest improvement to general living aboard so far. I’m also becoming acutely aware of my unique situation, and rather than waste my days away with impatience, I could really be more productive on many different levels, taking care of all those things I’ve been putting off.

In an attempt to do some exercise, The Austrian (now referred to as Chris) said I should come swimming with him. Sure I thought, why not, the weather is nice, and the office hasn’t called, so hasta luego, I’m going to the beach! I borrowed my next door neighbors hot pink flippers, grabbed my shorts (or rather jeans with the legs cut off), and we set off. After an incredibly lengthy walk through Las Palmas, finally we began to descend down to beach level, and resume the days swimming activities. As I stood there in my unevenly cut shorts, pink flippers on, about to jump in and act like an Otter for the next 20 minutes, Chris donned a special wetsuit, goggles, and informs the lifeguard that “he might be a while” and proceeds to vanish off over the horizon. As I stood there at waste level, tripping over myself, Chris had already vanished beyond the breaking waves and turned right, for his daily three hour swim! Some people like to sail away from land, and it seems others enjoy swimming where land is but a dot on the edge of the sky. Chris is one of those crazies I keep managing to attract (and hey, don’t say they’re mirrors!) who both pique my interest and test my human sanity detection circuitry. Chris is out here looking after a boat, which seems to have had one of the saddest fates I’ve heard. A German father and son team sailed down here, on route to a Caribbean circuit. The father stood out the front of the toilets here in the marina, smoking, and suddenly died of a massive and entirely unexpected heart attack. The trip was clearly off, the son going back to Germany, agreeing to let Chris look after the vessel until arrangements could be made. What a horrific end to the trip of a lifetime.

When you loiter around a place long enough, people eventually become familiar faces on the street. You start remembering the names of the little French kids playing on the dock, notice the recent German ship has a new crew, and people start asking you about your missing post or finally inquire as to what your name is. Two weeks ago I met Carl at the infamous Sailors Bar, after subconsciously noticing we were both out here alone. There must be an unspoken rule, in that there is a period of time in waiting before one makes the effort to strike up a conversation. Because sailing is so transient, sometimes it’s almost a fruitless exercise making any kind of connection with someone, because it’s highly likely they will be gone the next day, never to be seen again. Nevertheless I was glad to have met Carl, a singlehander doing a delivery of his former yacht to the new owner in Guadaloupe. We spoke casually on and off, but I recognised there was something more to him, and I was unusually disappointed to see him off yesterday. It was really an unexpectedly intense experience, as I stood on the pontoon watching him sail out through the breakwater, I really felt a pang in my heart for his undertaking. Not a feeling of fear for his safety, but really just a level of understanding in what he was doing, and even a glimpse of what was to come. There was such a quietness in the air, and even an early onset feeling of solitude to his departure; this act of a lone person sitting there in the cockpit of their boat, in something so small, about to voyage across such a great expanse of ‘nothingness’. I could sense his nervousness as I pushed his bow off the pontoon, even though he was highly experienced. I watched him sail out without glancing back, departing sans spectacle, as people nosily watched from the cockpits of their boats with disinterested looks, as another boat left the marina. The problem is, some boats are so incredibly different than others.

Out here you meet all manner of folk, but only very rarely do you meet someone who speaks not of theories, ideas or stories, but someone who only exudes their experience. These are the most exceptional people you can ever hope to meet, and if detected, must always be given all manner of questioning, in order to learn as much as you possibly can. Carl spent ten years sailing around the world with his wife and three children, but did the journey with immensity, surviving quite literally by his own wit and hard work, feeding his family at times with only fish and island fruits. He is the type of person that no matter what you did to him; whether you dropped him the desert, or threw him on a rickety raft in the Atlantic, he would survive and carry on with little fuss. I guess in a sense, this is one of the reasons I’m out here myself; to build the kind of character that is strong, experiential and effortless - An attempt to wash away those illusions we’ve encased ourselves in, whether we constructed them on our own, or had them thrust upon ourselves by others.

It would be nice if everyone who reads this, could spare a thought for Carl, because right this very second, he is out there alone, fishing, reading, tending to his vessel, wholly insignificant, and blissfully in the middle of nowhere; metaphorically like each and every one of us.

nick

It’s the 21st of Feb today, which means, in five days I will have been here for one entire month. I’ve only spent that long in two other places so far, the last La Coruna, and the one before that, Amsterdam. So far, Amsterdam/Holland was the most interesting place to be stuck. No offence to Spain, but I haven’t exactly been stuck in Barcelona or Madrid, which I think would both be pretty interesting places to spend a month. In La Coruna or Las Palmas, there is only so much one can do without a penny. I’ve done all the exploring I can, I’ve done all the park bench sitting you could ever want to, and I’ve sampled all the 50cent ice creams you can buy.

Lying in my bunk, I remembered back to my brief encounter with Montreal, back in 2004. I travelled up from New York City, and found myself in a city I couldn’t speak the language, wondering how I got there. Which is a lot of what I do these days… But I was so excited at the time, it felt like the train had gone across the Atlantic, and I really was in Europe. After eating a croissant and finding my Hostel, I explored the city like I always do: By walking and getting myself lost, and avoiding anywhere that might have tourists. As I did so, I learnt about the Quebecois, or more specifically, the strong undercurrent of locals who wanted to separate from Canada and become and independent country. I searched out these revolutionaries, but since all I could say in French was “Hello, Good Night, and I can’t speak French”, my investigations were severely hindered. Not to give up, I visited a small record store, asking for music on the subject, and bought a hip-hop CD which was supposed to be all about the fight. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word, but it had a nice beat track, and we all know how stupidly hip it is to be listening to French lyrics you can’t understand - It’s some weird anglo saxon thing. Anyway, I know, you’re wondering where the hell this can be going…

There I am, hobbling about my boat (shuffling around with my head down, because there is no standing headroom), when wondered if there might be an undercurrent of people wanting independence from Spain, here in the Canaries. I mean, look at the map - The Canaries are nowhere near Spain, and I can’t really imagine there is much economic importance for either country. Or maybe mainland Spain has a hankering for Canarian bananas, i don’t know. The Canaries surely make all their money from German tourists, requiring little if any handouts from the mainland.

So I went hunting for Canarian Revolutionaries. I started my survey with the people I had met, and they laughed at me. So i went to the marina office, and asked the marina guy. Now he fancies me, and thinks I have nice eyes. But, he does think the Canaries should be independent. “Great”! I thought, there is the possibility for leading a revolt! I had decided I would write up a manifesto on small vessel naval warfare, and test it out here in Gran Canaria. Since my gift to the Canaries would be to lead the naval arm of the fight for independence from Spain, I thought I would ask for naming rights of the islands. I think it’s a fair trade for my skills in sea based fighting. Other decisions will include the official language becoming a cross between Esperanto and Gomerian mountain whistling. I’ve been practicing my Gomerian whistling, and I can now understand myself. I’m not sure if it’s just me whistling, and then talking to myself, but it certainly feels like I’ve mastered the craft. If you think I’m just pulling your leg about the whistling thing, do your research. As for Esperanto, I’ve had a long standing love of this curious language, because it was such a brilliant but failed idea. All those old text books will be on eBay somewhere, so changing languages for the people should be relatively cheap. We will use all profits from the sale of German sausage on the islands to fund the new linguistic program.

Any good navy revolt must also involve an overland mission. This is to rustle the feathers of my overland detractors, and also to give Constellation an opportunity to be the first boat in history to do a Sea to Summit in honour of Timothy Macartney Snape. Remember, the tallest mountain in Spain, is on the Canarian island of Tenerife.

Here is the proposal for the order in which I will conquer the islands, and also my renaming scheme. I think some of you will recognise my naming format. As you can see, I had some trouble with New ACT. Back home in Australia, we had a similar problem with the original ACT… In this case, New New South Wales (more on that later) and New Victoria were fighting over who would be the capital. I made the executive decision to just build another island in the middle. In the design of New ACT, you can see that the island is a perfect sphere. All roads are also circular, and lead nowhere; it is a purpose built island for Government officials, and has no laws, a large red light district and is also the place where the New Years fireworks are launched from, for all the islands to see.

I made New Queensland the smallest, in hopes that it will curb the breeding of any possible political leaders. New Western Canaria is just far away off in the corner, New Northern Territory, is, well, North, and New South Canaria (which erm, isn’t south…) is quite large, because they will be the main grape growing producer, making crisp white wines, since it is the perfect climate for such beverages. New New South Wales was a bit of a naming issue, and I spent a lot of time thinking about it. In the end, I decided that it would be local law to abbreviate it as New² South Wales. New Victoria is central, easy to get to, and generally the best island of the set. What about New Tasmania you ask? Well, it’s the island everyone always forgets…

As the captain of HMS Constellation, I’ve also had to consider who may strike out against the revolt. I’ve done a lot of research, and believe the authorities of differing ranks, are so caught up in their own policing, that I should be relatively safe. I’m quite convinced that there are so many minor authorities (Port Police, Local Police, Guardia Civil, Minor Military Units etc) that they will all be looking after their own concerns, unable to comprehend the goings on of the revolution. Any thoughts of policing outside of the pre-described arena would probably result in some kind of bureaucratic hernia, considering the Spanish have a deep love of red tape.

At this stage, I only seem to have piqued the interest of the marina guy, and I think he has other things on his mind. But I will keep recruiting, searching and planning, unless of course the damn package I’ve been waiting for suddenly arrives. If that’s the case, I’m really just going to have to leave in a hurry. I’ll have a lot of time to hone my skills for the Australian War of Independence on this trip, so not all will be lost.

My apologies to the people of the Canaries, and also to non-Australians who probably don’t get this post at all. It’s really just to articulate how the mind wonders when stuck in warm climates, alone, with little to do. I get a ton of email saying “oh you’re living the dream”, or “you’re so lucky” etc etc. Which in some cases is right, but my god, I promise you it’s not all amazing. Some days I want just go into work, see a movie, see my long lost friends, drink overpriced coffee, or be a vegetable on a comfortable couch somewhere. I would never trade this for the world, but it’s certainly not easy at times, and it definitely is not an incredible adventure every day.

The Germans have a saying, that goes something like “may you always have a handspan of water under your keel”, which basically means don’t ground your boat. My saying is a derivative of the German one, and goes “may there always be at least six knots flowing beneath your keel”. I think for someone who has money, spending a lot of time in port, is an enjoyable thing. You can go do things, like see movies, buy books, spend loads of time sampling restaurants, go shopping etc. But for me, its becoming more and more about the sailing, than the landfall. I think back and almost regret (but not enough to actually really regret anything at all) doing all that damn coastal hopping. I had my reasons, but I’m beginning to think my route should have been: Amsterdam->Brest->La Coruna->Lisbon->Canaries. I don’t have the cash to be a tourist, I only have just enough to keep going… Funnily enough, it’s actually cheaper for me to be making progress, which is what I want to be doing anyway - I’m going to make a concerted effort from now on, to spend more time offshore, making heavy miles. Thankfully I have the Atlantic in front of me!

Nick.

(Happy Birthday Celeste).

It’s been a long week in Gran Canaria. A long week indeed. I must pre-warn you, that this post isn’t going to be particularly long or interesting. Just a brief note to say I’m still alive, and contrary to popular opinion, I do actually want to leave. It’s also a note to say, I haven’t given up at the gateway to my longest voyage to date. The reason I’m here, is because I have equipment coming in the post, and it hasn’t arrived yet. There are a ton of people mailing me, saying “when are you leaving?”, or “why haven’t you left yet” etc… Talk about pressure!

Last Sunday I started feeling a bit weird. My legs hurt a lot, and by evening I had a migraine. That night I had a fever, and those things all became worse right up until yesterday (Saturday). I think I just had a cold, but, I must admit, by the fourth day of sleeping poorly, and having a high fever, I was beginning to wonder if I had something worse. I stayed in my cabin the whole time, drinking only water, with no appetite. I didn’t eat anything for four days, and felt dreadfully sorry for myself. Oh woe is me, sweating away in the dark, watching borrowed DVD’s for days… Such classics as Cool Runnings, Dances with Wolves, Executive Decision. Thinking back, maybe it was my chosen films that were making things worse? If anyone is going to make you sick, surely its Kevin Costner… Then again, I did find myself chuckling away, nibbling on my sleeping bag like a child as John Candy encouraged his Jamaican bobsled team down the cavernous Canadian ice, in Cool Runnings. It’s so damn hot here in Gran Canaria, I might watch that film again…

The minor fiasco over the new route I’d like to take has brought all sorts out of the woodwork. The closer I get to the US, the more email I’m receiving from the continent, and this recent idea has created a new burst. American hospitality is already turning its bells on - 99.99% of people are really excited by the idea, and are offering barns for any storage requirements, meals, beds, berths, parties and all sorts. It’s a crazy world, and I can’t wait to keep sailing so I can experience more of it.

Since I’ve had so little this past week to inspire a post of great significance, here are some other things about my trip by other people if you’re interested: I forgot to mention on the main blog that there is a new article about my trip on TheOceans.net, visible here. There is also a small mention and following discussion about my site on the Messingaboutinships.com Podcast. Download the MP3 or subscribe to the podcast here. Thanks to the previous two publishers!

I really, really hope everything arrives soon - If my packages arrive early in the week, and there is good weather, it’s possible I could be gone by the weekend… Fingers crossed.

As an aside, fellow aussie Rob, is also just trying to get home, and has had his method of transport stolen… Check out his story. We’ve made a pact to have a beer on home turf, when we eventually make it. Thanks for the link Ben!

Nick

Did I say I wanted to leave on the 10th of February? Intrepid readers should know by now, that like wave height estimation, whatever is said on the sea in terms of dates, should be doubled in time, and wave heights always halved. If someone says they’ll leave in five days, that means probably ten, and if the waves were five metres they were actually two and a half. That being said, I always have really good reasons for my delays (and my wave estimations are always 100% correct), and of course my reasons for this delay are great! But, that folks, is my story hook - I’m not saying another word! Maybe doubling the time is a little over the top, but I think the 10th is a little ambitious at this stage.

Life on the tiny island has been interesting, to say the least. Last week when I mentioned I was well on my way to going stone broke, I hadn’t quite expected it to become the understatement of the century. The following day, I thought to myself “how broke am I exactly, and surely I can almost double whatever I have in Euros to make myself wealthy in US dollars!’” Wealthy is of course a relative term, and in relation to me, it means being able to afford two minute noodles that come with two different flavouring sachets, instead of just one. Or maybe even the ones with the little dried shrimp in one packet, and the MSG, sorry, I mean, seafood flavouring in the other? As my online statement came up, I grabbed my heart in utter shock, almost careening out of my chair in complete disbelief, looking at what appeared to be exactly one million Euros in my account! No, really, there was a negative statement, the one million dollars was a typo… So there I was, numbers in red, with a negative symbol in front of them. How did this happen? It seems three and a half weeks of transactions were backlogged, and here I was thinking I was doing ok. This isn’t a cry for money (that will come later, I’ve been talking to this Nigerian guy, and we have an idea…), I still think I can scrape together enough cash to provision the boat from my tax haven account in the Caymans, but things are really on the wire yet again…

I know you all come here for my seafaring stories, but since I am stuck on land for the next little while, my stories of strange encounters will have to do for now. I hope that’s ok with everybody, and don’t worry, I’ve met enough strange characters to keep this blog active for the rest of my trip, should Constellation decide she likes relaxing in the sun more than sailing.

So I’m sitting in the Sailors Bar, and a young guy comes up to me with a big backpack, and asks me if I speak German. Well! Naturally, yes, I was living in Berlin for a year, of course I can speak German! Blah blah blah blah blah blah La Palma. That’s what he sounded like. All I could understand was La Palma. Ok, so I can’t speak German, other than to order Wurst and large beers, so we will have to switch to English. It turns out this young German wishes to get a lift to La Palma (another Island). I thought about this for awhile, and then I said, “No, but maybe La Gomera.” He wasn’t interested in La Gomera, and I wasn’t interested in La Palma, so then he asked if he could sleep on my boat. As you know my boat is only 26metres long (sorry, I mean feet), but I agreed he could stay for one night.

Later that day, a girl walked briskly into the Sailors Bar with a big backpack, and then disappeared again down the street. I thought it was a rather curious act, but ignored it and went back to drinking my tap water and surfing the web, leaving just before dark for a swim. As I was returning to the boat, I saw this same girl on the beach, and asked her what she was doing. She said she was French, and waiting for a ferry to another island. I asked her when the ferry left, and she said “tomorrow”. At which point it was ascertained, she was intending on sleeping on the beach. So I asked her what she thought of Germans, and she seemed pretty non-chalant about them, so I said she could sleep on my boat if she didn’t mind sharing the rather small space with myself and a German backpacker, because it was safer than the beach. Now… I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking “gosh Nick is SO GENEROUS asking French girls to sleep on his boat” … ! My next door neighbour (his name is Paul) later told me he uses a similar line with Spanish girls, something along the lines of “it’s not safe to sleep at home, I have a catamaran!”. But truly, as this girl tells me she will be sleeping on the beach, all I could think of was my Portuguese friends and all the other generous people on my trip. My boat is hardly the Hilton, and the cupboards are only stacked with Pasta, but it seemed it was the least I could do. Besides, I wanted to write some jokes down that started with “What do you get when an Australian, a German and a French…” etc.

That night, I made International Pasta (it’s the same pasta I normally make, but in company it has a more exotic name), and raised the French, German and Pirate flags on the port spreader, to indicate I was no longer singlehanding in the marina - The Pirate flag was to indicate to the rest of the pontoon that we were not to be messed with. The French girl quite aptly took Croissants and Wine out of her backpack, and the German guy quite strangely pulled out a bag of mung beans. So we’re sitting there with Croissants, Wine, Pasta and mung beans, and I can’t think of a damn joke. Or maybe that is the joke? Anyway, it was Carnival night too, and trucks were going past the marina with Drag Queens dangling off the back. Is this story becoming surreal, or what? In the end, the French girl left the following day for her Ferry, and later in the evening Paul invited me and The German over for a drink, and then said it was a Sunday night, and that he and his friends would drive through the mountains for something to do (Paul is from Gran Canaria). The German then packs a sleeping bag, and asks if he can leave his big backpack on my boat for a bit. I agreed, and then he asked me to sprout his mung beans while he was away. Sure, why not, it’s not like I have anything else to do… Later in the evening, after a hair raising drive through the mountains, The German walks off into the woods without a torch, holding a rolled cigarette filled with what appeared to be grey, dried flower petals (he was a health nut).

My Spanish friends said ‘LOCO’, and we left him there, and drove back down the mountain stopping at a quaint little Hamburger place for provisions. My Spanish friends kept saying “Nick, your friend is really really crazy, LOCO LOCO”, to which I responded “yes, he is German, this is what they do”, because really, it wasn’t such a big deal for me to be dropping this kid off in the middle of nowhere… In fact, it seems like yesterday that I was curled up on the side of a road in Sweden! Thinking back though, I don’t recall trying to smoke flower petals… Having said all that, he did seem quite resilient , and it’s not as if it’s Northern Europe here anyway, so the worst that could happen is he returns with a chill and an empty stomach.

After The German fiasco, I was back at the Sailors Bar to check my email, and met an American. I wanted to ask him if he’d sailed to Bermuda, to which he told me he had sailed from America via Greenland. Wow! What an amazing trip to do in a sail boat! Then he started telling me about how expensive fuel was… Now, I know fuel can be an issue, but really, a sailing boat doesn’t use that much diesel. Later in the conversation The American starts complaining that he burns one ton of fuel every two days. ONE TON OF FUEL? What kind of sailing boat does this guy have? Or maybe he forgot to launch the sails? Later it becomes apparent that he actually has a small Coaster, or for the uninitiated, he actually owns a 30+metre diesel cargo ship, built in Norway. The American was using a cargo ship as a pleasure vessel, and had a crane, two cars and a Ducati onboard. He ’sailed’ to Morocco, craned the Ducati off the boat, and then toured the continent! He makes money hauling cargo around the country (no, not that kind of cargo), and is unique in that his boat only has a small draft (meaning it can go in relatively shallow waters) with the ability to go up river and along the coast. I couldn’t really fathom how this was possible from a bureaucratic standpoint - Surely you can’t just buy a large boat and start hauling goods? To which he replied “No, in 1st world countries, what I do is not possible”. Prior to here, he’d spent two winters and one summer, stuck in Belgium because they couldn’t quite understand what a single American with such a big ship was doing in their waters…

So the point of the story is, if you have a big enough boat, it sounds as if plying up and down the African coast with legitimate cargo might be a profitable business. Which is why I’m going to use that one million Euros I have, to buy a fleet of those really sketchy looking Greek tankers you see everywhere… Maybe I can haul mung beans?

I promise my next post will be more nautical, and involve Atlantic preparation themes… And I know you’ll want to hear about what happened to The German, so as soon as he shows up, I’ll get the low-down on his Nature Adventures too.

nick.

Firstly, thanks a lot to Ben from Amsterdam for the donation! Also thanks to my long lost Aunt, who seriously sent me an email with some paypal funds that started with ´you probably don´t remember me, but I´m your Aunt!´. Well, Laurel, don´t you worry, I remember!

The last post on my Lisbon to Canaries trip was written while at sea, and didn’t truly encompass the final leg into port, so here is a little more information on my arrival.

I was so anxious in the final day of sailing to get into port, I couldn’t busy myself with anything other than writing a post for the website, or fidgeting with the sheets in the cockpit, anxiously wondering if the objects in the horizon were actually becoming bigger or not. The wind had swung around to the south, and ‘August the mighty Yanmar’ was on duty to get home, Constellation having crawled to a halt, with me just wanting to tie up and go to sleep as soon as possible. It seemed to take forever to round Isleta, and when I finally arrived, I became absolutely disorientated, with huge tankers and pilot ships steaming in and out at three in the morning. It’s a really simple entry, but I was just so tired, lights blinking everywhere, and a myriad ships to steer clear of, I couldn’t quite work it all out. I contemplated just setting the ‘Windy the Windpilot’ back on duty and sailing back offshore until daybreak, but I just couldn’t do it. After ten days, land was just there… I could see it. Tenerife was on the horizon, with ferry’s chugging past my stern, so I decided to just do the night entry and get it over and done with. Eventually I was so frustrated, I put Constellation in donut mode (lock the tiller to port, engine in tick-over so you simply circle going nowhere) and went down below to sort things out navigationally. I programmed a two-leg route and just followed it into harbour, which all became clear after about ten minutes. I tied up to the visitor pontoon, and felt distinctly depressed. I have no idea what I expected to feel or experience, but it was like running an ultra marathon with nothing at the finishing line, except a dusty old cactus and a hand painted sign saying ‘Caribbean, 3000 miles to go’.

I disembarked onto dry land for the first time in ten days, and felt land sick. I swayed a little and walked around to check the marina out. For some reason I just saw really big yachts, and felt even more depressed. I instantly thought ‘oh, it’s that kind of marina’. So I went back to the boat and curled up to sleep. At 9am on the dot, there was a tapping on my cabin roof, with some stern looking harbour master telling me to register and pay at the office. I just wanted to throw a wash board at the guy and go back to sea; after all that tension over ten days to get here, it all just really sucked. I can’t think of a more eloquent way to describe it. I registered and signed about five hundred forms with alternating signatures, just to be annoying. At least the Spanish are a notch down from the Portuguese when it comes to paperwork, but still, really, I’m an EU boat with an EU passport. Who cares? Just let me in already, borders are so last century.

I got my pontoon, and moored bow-to. The mooring here is stern-to, but as I’ve said before, I never back into places with the steering gear on rear end. Luckily some friendly people on the pontoon helped me dock, as ’slime line’ mooring can be difficult singlehanded. There is a technique for it, but there must have been 20kts of wind blowing from the stern, which wasn’t assisting me in any way whatsoever. After getting safely tied up, I looked around to see what the vibe was. For the first time on my trip, I was surrounded by what seemed like permanent liveaboards. Clearly Constellation and I had been pidgeon-holed into the gypsy stereotype, and I was set among my brethren. I guess it beats being moored up next to the 120ft multi-million dollar ketch from Guernsey…

Below is a really short film (requires latest Flash player if you just see a blank space) with just some quick clips of my Canary trip. It has music playing to it, so if you’re in an office, turn the speakers down… Your boss doesn’t appreciate you watching clips about sailing. You might get crazy ideas! The conditions were not all as placid as they are shown in the clip, but one hardly runs for the camera when other things must be tended to.

The day of my arrival coincided with Jack arriving. What timing! I had been calling home on the satellite phone to pass on the message that I was going to be at least a day late, however on on the 9th day I was making such good progress I changed my ETA to ‘early on the 26th’. It was nice to have a friend around after such a long period alone, having only my engine and windvane to talk to since Lisbon. Jack was really great, feeding me delicious food, and even renting a car to explore the island with, which was amazing. I rarely get to go inland, and I also rarely get to drive. Therefore I was able to get two years of non-driving crammed into two days. I believe Jack will continue to walk around with his hands held in front, in a motion that may suggest ‘I am just resting my hands on the dash, I don’t really think they will assist my survival in an accident at this speed, but it makes me feel safe’.

For those that haven’t been to the Canary Islands, all I can say is: Wow. I arrived here with no expectations (the best way to be; you’re always impressed), and was just utterly amazed by the landscape. It was almost too incredible to appreciate. The weather here is perfect too, around 24degrees during the day, and 19degrees during the night. At long last, after all my complaining, I have finally hit the warm latitudes… The water is a nice temperature too, and if you ever come here, go direct to Agaete, it’s amazing.

I wanted to film a Western with Jack in the mountains, but alas time didn’t permit, and both of us had forgotten our guns and horses back at the boat anyway. I was constantly looking for props for the film (tumbleweeds etc), and our only piece of costume was a garishly coloured ‘Havana Club’ cowboy hat we found on a park bench the day before, clearly forgotten after a long Saturday night at the Carnival (I forgot to say, it’s festive season here!). We both felt the film could win awards, however in the end, we decided to go swimming at the beach instead.

Jack left for Berlin today, and I managed to drive back unassisted from the Airport without having an accident… Remember, I’m from Australia, so I was driving on the wrong side of the road. I feel a little bit hollow after the tense time at sea, having someone around for the past five days, and now this, just a quiet existence in the marina again. I have a reasonable amount of work to finish off before I leave, however I am tentatively looking at departing for the Caribbean on the 10th of February. I have some significant route changes planned (no, they don’t involve Cape Horn!), but there is no use talking about them until I make some decisions… I will have absolutely run out of money again once I hit the other side of the Atlantic, so that will be the third time I´ve gone broke since I began my trip. First it was in Amsterdam, then La Coruna, and soon the Caribbean - Third time lucky! So, in the next few days, I’ll write another update about all about the excitement that surrounds my preparations for 30+ days in a bathtub on the high seas, on a dollar a day!

nick