Firstly, a very special thank you to Richard & Carole from the UK, who generously donated a sextant, chronometer, almanac and celestial navigation book for Constellation and I. I met Richard & Carole while they were on holiday Gran Canaria, where they also took me out for lunch and gave me a bag of provisions. With this additional navigation equipment, I will finally be able to learn how to navigate like a real mariner, and greatly further my marine education! Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful generosity. Thank you also to Wim from Holland (the Dutch shine again!), Joel from Australia, Charles from Ireland and Pedro #2 (again!!!) for sending through some cash to keep me going. As you’ll see below, it’s becoming a dire situation down here, and this show of generosity helps so much, both practically and also as a show of support.

This waiting is really getting me down… A lot of people are emailing and asking ‘when are you leaving’ or ‘why haven’t you left yet’, and while I know people are just curious, I’m feeling the pressure from this website and the public nature of the entire project bearing down on me. I’m doing my best guys, you’ll know when I leave, and I’m doing everything I can. I thought a lot about why I’m feeling this way, and frankly, the Atlantic is one of the major pinnacles of this journey, and it’s like I’m sitting at the bottom of Mt Everest as winter approaches, waiting to make my ascent, and it’s the only thing I can think about. I’m mentally paralysed by the coming challenge.

To try and alleviate this state of mind, I decided to see some of the other islands, and also visit Pedro #1 who landed in Tenerife last week, looking for work and sun. I left Las Palmas at 2pm anticipating an overnight sail, wanting to arrive at the anchorage during daylight. The sail was more or less textbook, and while I suffered a little seasickness, I did ok, nibbling ginger in the cockpit with the stereo turned on full. The stretch of water between Gran Canaria and Tenerife must create a funnel effect, as the conditions increased during the night, with several waves crashing into the cockpit. It was nothing dangerous, but I wasn’t really anticipating it. For a brief and somewhat scary second, you hear a cresting wave approaching the stern, while you hope it’s not too big, only able to see the white of the wave tops at night, as it dumps into the boat. In fantastic tradition, ‘Windy the Windpilot’ kept a perfect course as Constellation skidded around under Genoa, the boat rolling in typical stern wind motion. We made it to the anchorage with no problems, where I tried to get a few hours sleep after keeping watch all night. Pedro arrived later in the day, and I rowed into shore for the pickup, swimming back to the boat with ‘Bob the leaky duck’ overloaded with luggage:

As you can probably guess, the solar panels seem to be eternally stuck in Madrid, and I don’t know what to do… I received an email from a new friend (Rafael) in Santa Cruz yesterday, offering to help with contacts at DHL, which is really my last hope. Because of this entire postage disaster, I am now pushing it to arrive in the Carribbean outside of hurricane season. As you know, my initial plan was to arrive in St Maarten, and work for a couple of months before heading north to resume my New York City ambitions, however this plan is now essentially useless - I would arrive in St Maarten in May, and have to leave a week or so later. My money is running so low, I have now genuinly had to consider whether this Atlantic crossing is even viable. I’ve spent many hours walking and considering my situation, but quite simply I’ve come so far, I cannot possibly throw the towel in. I really only have just enough money to provision the boat, and with this all in mind, I have redirected my course to straight to Bermuda. This is a somewhat unusual course to take, however it is entirely possible, dipping into the tradewinds as if I were heading to the Antilles, and then steering directly up into Bermuda without stopping. This course change buys me a little extra time before I have to leave the Canaries, and is also en route to where I need to go (NYC).

For this plan to work, I must now wait another two or three weeks in order to correctly time my arrival in Bermuda with the seasons. This strategy also enables me to give my solar panels a bit more time to arrive - However, if they fail to show up in the next few weeks, I will be forced to leave without them, as it seems rather pointless to abandon my crossing over their disappearance. Possibly a friend in Gran Canaria could pick them up in 12 months time, when the lazy and slow bureaucrats in Madrid finally decide to look into that box sitting in the corner with all the dust on it… And then forward the package on to the USA. At this stage, I am anticipating an early April departure.

Last but not least, I turn 27 on Friday, which doesn’t help at all…! Every year is closer to the inevitable, and I had dearly hoped to spend my birthday in the middle of the ocean, or in the Caribbean, sitting on the beach, drinking rum with crushed lime and sugar in celebration of great distances…

And speaking of birthdays, Happy Birhtday Mum! I hope you had a nice day, and I’m so sorry to have missed yet another March 12.

nick.

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.

So The German returned two nights later, having hitchhiked back to Las Palmas without any money, even managing to get two bus rides for free! I told you he was resilient… He stayed with me for a few nights, before I had explain that the boat was just way too small for two people to be living in. I’m not sure where he is now, but I suspect he’s probably living in a really nice house somewhere… Rent free.

Las Palmas has been kind of getting on my nerves. I have some things coming via mail, and I met someone in the Sailors Bar who said I will need to hire a customs agent to get the package released. I tell you, bureaucracy makes me so mad, my face goes red just thinking about it. There is little I can do but wait, so wait I will… I guess I chose a good place to be sitting around twiddling my thumbs though. It hasn’t been all bad, I just think I’m frustrated with not knowing when I can leave, and sitting here waiting feels a lot like being becalmed on a sunny day. I think I have some kind of nervous personality that insists I must always be on the go…

Last Friday, I met two British sailors, Richard and Carole who emailed me a couple of weeks back, writing, “Nick, we’re flying to Gran Canaria for a holiday, we’d like to meet you!” to which I responded “Of course, tell me when and where!”. So on Friday I finally had the opportunity to meet them, where they shouted me lunch at my favourite bar, where we talked about sailing, Australia and my new route plan. Thanks guys! I also met a Psychologist named Ariel in Triana for Gran Canarian potatoes and local beer. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, “Nick should have seen a psychologist months ago”, but really, he was a very nice chap who contacted me via Couchsurfing.com, which is a great place to meet people from around the world if you’re ever stuck in a strange place. When I was house-bound in Berlin, I had Surfers in and out of my apartment like a supermarket. It’s like traveling without leaving home! Cheers Ariel!

So, I’ve been sitting around scheming, looking at my lovely new Ocean Routes of the World book, by Jimmy Cornell, which was graciously donated by Vera, in Belgium. I’ve been wanting a copy of this book for so long, but I was never really able to afford it. Thank you so much Vera! Up until now, figuring out when I can do passages has been a result of walking around, looking for someone that knows what they’re talking about (which is in itself a challenge) and asking a lot of questions (that’s not entirely true, but it makes for a good narrative). If I’m not asking people when the best time to cross an ocean is, I’m shuffling up to strangers in dark streets, trading waypoints written down on cigarette papers for my next port of call. I actually navigated down the coast of Spain with a map a teenager made for me on a napkin. The conversation was something like “Oh, yeah that pointy bit (Finisterre), uh huh, yes, round that, follow the fishing boats, look to your left for pilgrims waving on the hilltop and then go straight”. But now, I’m a competent ocean sailor because I’m armed with a book who’s tag line is “Featuring nearly 1000 sailing routes in all oceans of the world”. Even if you don’t sail, I recommend this book just to read on Sundays afternoons. It really has the potential to be a dreamy coffee table book, but without any pictures of minimalist furniture or Zen gardens. Perfect!

Now you’re squirming in your seat, wondering… Wondering where Nick the napkin navigator will take his mighty bathtub next? Cape Horn? Oh sure, why not? What about the Northwest Passage? Speaking of the Northwest passage, has anyone noticed there have been no singlehanded voyages up there by small sailboat? Find me a sponsor and I’ll bolt some steel plates onto the bow and do it! Anyway, who put this enormous continent in the way of my route home anyway, it’s so irritating (I suspect I’m not the first to have such feelings)! Maybe I should just go South right now, hop around the bottom of Africa and start a mining conglomerate in Perth? But no!

After consulting the book I’ve been so excited about, I’ve unfortunately come to the conclusion, that I’m too late to go through the Panama canal when I reach the Caribbean and start my Pacific Adventures. Not that I could actually afford to transit the canal anyway, but lets forget finances for a minute… I refuse to let cyclones or transit costs ruin my day, so with that in mind: I’m sailing past the Statue of Liberty instead. Hot on the tail of my fellow Contessa aficionados in BIKA, I’m going north, back into latitudes that don’t make me so incredibly lazy. If I’m not in 39N/S+ degrees of latitude, “siesta” means 9am to 5pm, with sleep on either side. My landing point in the Caribbean will be ‘high up’, in St Martin. I hear there might be opportunities for work there, where I hope to get a job for six weeks or so, while I wait for spring to warm things up. After re-stocking the kitty with Pirate treasure, it’s non-stop to New York City, where I’ll pan-handle on 5th Avenue for funds, as the next part of this trip takes us overland (unless my Northwest Passage sponsor shows up!). Overland to San Francisco, so I can sail under the Golden Gate bridge, to Hawaii and then on through the Pacific ocean; waypoint Melbourne, Australia. My Mum told me the interior of my boat looked like a Caravan (she doesn’t yet know how taboo that comment is!!), and so Constellation will actually live up to her interior, becoming an Airstream for ten days, as she hurtles across America, taking part in the greatest road trip of all time. View my projected route below, and click on the image for a pretty display - This version assumes I take the Canadian route which I’ll talk more about below:

(Wow, I have a long way to go…) But why New York? Well, why not? I could doddle around the Caribbean for awhile, or I could take affirmative latitude action, and add a roadtrip to my voyage while I’m at it. I have friends and family in New York, and a wedding in Vancouver in August, not to mention more family on the West coast in Oregon. Everything points north, what can I say? Ultimately, whether I stay in the Caribbean or go North, makes little difference to the overall scope of this trip - Both ways, I can’t start the Pacific until later in the year. I have no idea how this circus will be funded, but I left Amsterdam with six raisins and a bottle of drinking water filled from the Markemeer, so one can only hope my angels will follow me across the Atlantic and beyond.

So the logistics of this change of plan, will mean I need to leave St Martin in May, bound for New York City. It could become easier to take my boat overland through Canada, spending some time in Vancouver working, and as such, I have made my Canadian work permit application. Thank you America for making your immigration system so difficult to understand, I can’t even muster the energy to try and decode it. Are there any beautiful and inquisitively intelligent American women that want to get hitched in Nantucket, whaler style? In exchange for your American citizenship, you get Australian. If you have dual citizenship with… Japan, China or Canada, I’ll even throw in EU citizenship for you. Your proposal doesn’t have to be particularly romantic - If you like walks on the beach and pre-nups (no, you can’t have 50% of Constellation), that’s good enough for me!

Clearly the goal of today is just to leave Las Palmas, but right now I’m simply waiting. You’re probably wondering about what I actually need to do for my passage… In a nutshell, I need to stock fifty days of food and water, finish purchasing some items on my spares list (windvane rope, spare impeller etc etc), buy my charts, look at a five day forecast and get the heck out to sea. I’ve been hocking my charts and pilots online so I can actually afford to buy the information I need for the other side, and this week I might be able to afford a North Atlantic chart, Caribbean Almanac and projected landfall charts (I asked a local kid to draw me a map of the Caribbean, but he just looked at me funnily and sped off on his noisy scooter). I really wanted to follow the route of Christopher Columbus, but after quite a bit of research (involving an actual visit to his house, here in Las Palmas!), his route isn’t actually that great (I think his GPS must have fallen between the cushions of his couch, next to the Playstation controller), and is under a lot of dispute anyway. It’s a shame though, I was going to call my crossing ‘One degree away from the discovery of the New World’. Well, I thought it was an amusing idea…

Anyway, back to drawing squiggly lines on my globe, and calling them “possible sailing routes for 2008″.

This post was carefully crafted at sea level, 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

I left at 17:30 from Cascais, with the Hooligans attempting to steal my ship (again). I suspect they think it would make a nice little dinghy to play with in the harbour on boring Sundays. They’re probably right…! As I waited in the office to sign the long winded exit papers, the Policia Maritima took a copy of my boat details and destination, at which point I thought ‘oh here we go, I guess I’ll have a snap inspection or something’. Luckily he just showed me a weather report and said ‘do you know what you’re doing, there is 5metres of swell outside, and more predicted for tomorrow?’. I smiled politely and just said ‘yes, thanks’, and quickly left before he decided to check me out any further. I had a good quality forecast from Commanders Weather, whom I trust highly, and also a good plan of attack for said swell (it was simple really, get the heck offshore and don’t look behind you!).

I motored out of the breakwater, and the swell was up, as one could easily see from the waiting pontoon. A pilot boat was being cheeky and surfed past the entrance at great speed on an incoming wave, leaving a huge wake for me to contend with - Instantly I felt seasick… As soon as I was far enough out, I launched the sails, set ‘Windy the Windpilot’ to course, and lay in my bunk, feeling horrible. I spent some time vomiting over the rail, and then just lay down with my eyes closed, willing it to all go away. Thankfully the wind was steady, both in strength and direction, allowing me to be sick and not have to contend with the boat. I dozed a little throughout the night, but mostly I was awake, doing checks and trying hard to think of nothing.

The next day I felt considerably better, but had no appetite whatsover, eating a few jellybeans for breakfast, and drinking water all day. My kindly wind had died by 17:00, leaving me drifting around. I motored for a few hours, and then just decided to let it be, killing ‘August the mighty Yanmar’, and dropping the headsail. I slept with all the lights on, adrift, with only a few tankers far in the distance towards the Portuguese coast, climbing slowly North, from the Straight of Gibraltar.

Morning came with a light ENE wind, allowing me to continue on, feeling much better physically, and celebrating at lunch time by listening to Simon & Garfunkel, drinking Coke and eating cans of tuna. The lyrics to ‘America’ (…’I've come, to look for America…’), ‘Homeward Bound’ (’Homeward bound, I wish I was…’), and particularly fitting the track ‘I am a rock’ (’I am a rock, I am an Island…’) were all highlights - As you can see, Simon & Garfunkel were hauntingly apt for my little 10 day sailing jaunt.

What little wind there was, eventually died, the swell calmed down, and before I knew it, the Atlantic Ocean was a sparkling mirror. The light airs and complete lack of wind was really beginning to get to me. I didn’t have enough fuel to motor all the way to Gran Canaria, and if it was going to be like this the whole way, I was in for a lot more singing along to Garfunkel et al… As in, about four weeks of singing ‘I am a rock’ as I paddled south from the bow of Constellation with my dinghy oars.

Eventually I motored far enough to find the illusive wind, which appeared at around the 34degree latitude mark. I hoped that this was the point where I might find tradewind style conditions for the rest of the trip, and more or less, it turned out I had. Running with the boom out and a headsail, there was an all mighty ’snap’ at 04:40, as the boom went flying overhead. Luckily I always run a preventer, which probably saved further damage, but unfortunately this didn’t stop the main track from breaking loose at the base, leaving me to jury rig it for the rest of the trip. I’m a strong believer in using a preventer as common practice, because contrary to popular belief, more solo sailors disappear from being hit on the head by the boom, or falling overboard when taking a leak, than being ravaged by enormous storms or similarly dramatic circumstances. While this was a minor annoyance, the day was beautiful, and actually rather warm. I was in a T-shirt before you knew it, and the air smelt sweet, as it blew over from the African coast. Later in the day I could have sworn I smelt cigarette smoke. I pictured a group of Moroccans smoking Gitanes on the beach, pointing in my rough direction, with an elder telling the story of a long-lost shipment of rugs, the vessel foundered on a wicked lee shore, while on route to northern Europe… Little did they know, they were in fact pointing to a tiny red vessel far out at sea, the captain quite clearly showing an overactive imagination, due to a lack of contemporary distraction.

From this latitude on, the wind kept blowing from almost the exact same point, only varying in strength for the remainder of the trip. In my second day of steady winds, I was so excited to finally be doing real miles, I made an omelet with cheese and salami, and sat in in the cockpit, enjoying the uniform horizon and strengthening sun. As the sun went down, I looked forward to finally being able to listen to the BBC (the signal propagates better at night), and am therefore an expert on all sorts of world issues at the moment, so if you need any tips or clarifications on climate change in developing countries, or even the impending global recession, just ask in the comments below…

As I came further south, the winds picked up in strength, yet also tended to vary more frequently. This required numerous sail changes, which to begin with, became somewhat tiring at times (remember, I have hanked-on sails, not roller-furling). I did notice however, that by about the sixth day out, night and day became so irrelevant, it was quite extraordinary. I think I must have become more in touch with my ‘inner animal’, because I’m quite convinced, that in the animal kingdom, such human preoccupations with time, and particularly day and night, are not even noticed. To clarify, I mean to say, when you are entirely free of outside restrictions, one develops a state of being, which allows you to do what needs doing, when it needs to be done, regardless of of any other pre-concieved notions of familiar restraint. Therefore, a 4am sail change and getting dunked into the water on the bow, is no different from doing it at any other time, and is of no more, or less convenience. This I think is probably a unique situation to solo sailors, whereby you are pitted against the elements and time for extended periods, allowing you to develop a time-less existence. It is also something which crewed boats probably don’t experience, where they are more regimented by watch schedules and the like. I can’t really think of any other occupation where this kind of thing might occur, outside of sleeping experiments. I suspect this will become an even deeper phenomenon on my longer voyage across the Atlantic.

In other matters related to the psychology of sailing, or more to the point, how I felt mentally about the whole thing, I was remarkably calm and collected. The fear of Biscay (as a result of at least four hundred years of British maritime fear being drummed into me from every corner!) was quite intense. I sailed out of Brest with my heart in my mouth, where it stayed the entire trip. Biscay was mostly uneventful, but still, mentally I was concerned, nervous and exceptionally over tired throughout. I knew that fear had to be dealt with, which was why I left, and why on this trip I felt a lot more ‘together’. I knew what was coming, and while I didn’t relish the first few days (they are without a doubt the toughest), I felt I at least knew what I was in for, in some respects. Also, I believe a three day sail is probably tougher than a six to ten day sail, because it isn’t until about the fourth or fifth day that any kind of semblance to routine or normality is developed. Another curious note (I hope I’m not boring you with observations, I just find this all very interesting, and maybe it’s not spoken a lot about, so potentially it’s interesting to you too…) in the first few days, your mental state is quite fragile. For example, listening to depressing music, attempting to read difficult novels etc, are a big no-no. In order to keep it together, I amused myself with a bunch of hand-me-down yachting magazines, which are by nature light on the neurons (they’re just filled with photos of Tom Cunliffe holding a spanner with a stupid grin on his face anyway) and airy pop music. Trying to wrap your head around Raoul Vaneigem’s chapters on ‘Mediated Abstraction, Abstracted Mediation’ or listening to a particularly depressing Jeff Buckley track, will quite simply send you insane.

Constellation was a real dream - She reminded me so quickly once the wind started blowing what a great boat she is. Despite her size, she sails so incredibly well, the long keel gives immense directional stability, the displacement in the water gives a predictable movement, and one feels inherently safe sailing her. On more than one occasion, I woke up to find Constellation positively flying at over six knots. To begin with I jumped out of bed to de-power her, but after getting out of the cabin, and sitting on the deck under the mainsail, the sparkling full moon and stars coupled with the perverse exhilaration of cutting through the water in the middle of the night, it became a sight too good to miss. Usually I would spend ten minutes or so, simply watching the speedy wake disappear from the stern before dealing with the over powered sail configuration. The moon in full condition was a real help to night sailing, it almost felt like daylight outside, the water shining a cold silver. The stars alone are beautiful, but the moon has a somewhat friendly calming personality (that’s why it’s a smiling cheese-ball, right?), with the distance of the stars being a little too existential to appreciate fully when you’re hurtling along entirely alone in a small vessel. I think the stars were created for desert aficionados, with the moon built specifically for sailorly personalities.

‘Windy the Windpilot’ also performed with bells on, virtually steering the entire trip minus the 24 odd hours of motoring when the wind was nowhere to be seen. I genuinely don’t think I could have made better choices of boat and equipment (ok, with a lot of money I could have bought something of similar pedigree but bigger/more confortable…), and it felt good to finally experience those decisions fully. Constellation was not made for motoring around in unpredictable and non-existent winds, of which I experienced a lot down the European coast. She was built for sailing, and when she does, it’s amazing. Another breakage on this voyage was my Tri-light, which has been giving me trouble since day one. It flickers when the boat heels, and I’ve climbed the mast several times to try and fix it, and last attempted in Cascais, to no avail. I thought it was an odd sizing in the new LED lamp, so I swapped it out with a standard bulb. Unfortunately this worked for the first night, but again flickered out and then stopped. I ran with bow and stern lights, placing the LED lamp in the stern casing, which meant I was using a total of 27.5watts during the night. It seems one of my batteries (both new in August of 2007) may be on the blink: If I charge for 8 hours, it last for about 5 hours with minimal load, and drops in voltage dramatically in it’s dying failure. I suspect this could be from overcharging, since I have no regulator or charge system, it all comes off the engine, and if I forget to alternate batteries for charging, I think they become overcharged and destroyed. Disappointing. Thankfully other than nav lights and the shortwave radio, I have no other power requirements. My GPS is handheld, I use paper charts, and I don’t use the internal lights at night, other than to cook briefly, as I tend to start napping when the sun goes down, and I’m up again when the sun rises. This simplicity is wonderful, because other than two AA batteries to run my GPS and some power for the LED nav light, I can run free. So many boats are up to the hilt with complexity, that once something stops working, the entire boat becomes almost dead in the water.

All in all it was a very positive trip, and gave me excellent insight into the longer one ahead. The conditions were mostly ideal (only a few days had water over the bow, scuppers awash), but if you told me I had to leave across the Atlantic tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t be very happy… However I know after a rest I will have my gusto back to tackle it. Thank you again to Ton & Petra for the loan of their satellite phone, it was a real boon to call my family to let them know I was ok, and send back some position details. As I left in a fluster, I was unable to set things up properly, however across the Atlantic reporting will be sorted out properly, and I have a unique method of sending back my experiences to the web, which I’ll talk about later.

For now, Jack is in town, and I’m going to eat lots of home cooked food, which I really need, as I have definitely lost weight (he promised to cook in exchange for interviews!) and also attempt to regain a normal sleeping pattern ASAP. No doubt I’ll be waking up at all hours of the night, muttering to myself about checking the mainsail, ensuring the heading is correct, and glancing at the horizon for the dreaded ‘over 50metres and steaming’ lights, unawares we are safely tied up in the marina! Thanks to everyone who sent me good wishes in my last post, and for all the direct emails with positive thoughts.

nick.

Firstly, I’d like to welcome Airnavsystems.com onboard, as a new Bigoceans.com sponsor! AirNav build flight spotting software and products, and are releasing a new ship spotting product called ‘ShipTrax’. It seemed like a very fitting partnership, and AirNav are assisting with additional funds, which is really what I need at the moment. I seem to be going through what little money I have at a great rate, buying charts, parts, and provisions. Very, very special thanks to Andre for approaching me with the idea, being so fast to help out, and for believing my trip is a worthy idea to support.

It’s been a very busy past few days - I sat around sick for too long, and then when a good forecast came my way, it was all panic to get myself ready. As you can see from the above sponsorship, I haven’t just been sitting on my laurels. I’ve also spent over a week waiting on another partnership which would have provided some neat communications potential for my trip to the Canary Islands, however nothing has come of it yet, and it’s time for me to leave. If you missed it, there is a photo of the article regarding my Cape Horn aspirations (!!) located here.

Yesterday I provisioned the boat with supplies, which turned out to be an epic job. To begin with, I had exceeded my daily transaction limit at the bank, and only had 140euros in my pocket. I thought this would be enough for 15 days of food, but apparently I was wrong. By the time I was done shopping, my trolley was about to break, and I could barely push it. I tried to get money out, but it was futile, so I hid my trolley in the honey isle, and high-tailed it out of there, feeling really guilty about some poor kid having to re-pack everything because of my stupidity. It was with great luck that S/V Aquamarijn were able to loan me some money, and I ran back to see if my trolley was still hiding. Thankfully it was, and I caught a taxi back to the marina with a boatload of provisions. Putting all this food somewhere turned out to be a new experience, and I know for a fact, I will be finding food purchased in Lisbon, hidden around the boat for many years to come.

So my route now, is direct to the Canary Islands, not stopping anywhere. This is an 800nm trip, which I expect to take from anywhere between 7 and 14 days. I’m not going to mess up my expectations on maintaining a 4kt average like I did across Biscay, which put myself under a lot of pressure to arrive within three days, to tell friends and family that I was ok, and not to send helicopters. I expect to take around 10 days, but up to 14 I think is still quite possible. I have a decent forecast from Commanders Weather, but I’ve been waiting around today for reasons I’ll explain some other time, so already I’m 9hrs behind where I should be. I will be heading 1degree east of a direct line to Lanzarote, anticipating a wind change in a few days to South, which means I will hopefully be in a good position to tack back onto course for the Canaries, without sailing directly into the wind.

‘August the mighty Yanmar’ has new oil, and I never found an explanation for the overheating. Today I ran it in gear (in the marina) at a decent pace for 30mins, and ran an infrared heat gun on the block, but there were no signs of overheating. Fingers crossed the issue was a bag around the inlet or something simiarly temporary.

I spent last night having another wonderful dinner with the Hooligans et al, and then had a second dinner and drinks with Pedro #1, Pedro #2 and Ana, which was really nice. I’m still in absolute awe at the generosity of everybody around me. Last night I came into my boat, and sat down, and I must admit (I don’t get called Mr Toughguy for nothing!) I almost felt a little teary at everyones generosity and kindness towards me. I’m just some guy with a little red boat, trying my best to do my thing, and people are helping at literally every turn. Remember Pedro #1 saved me from a lonely Christmas, invited me into is really great family, fed me, gave me a bed, introduced me to his closest friends, and really showed me a side of Portugal people rarely see. Pedro #2 took me out for dinner and lunch everyday, showing me what amazing food the Portuguese produce, let me sleep in his house while I was sick, took me to the maritime museum, the planetarium and even parted with a bag of food and some extra money, citing I would need it for the marina in the Canaries! The Hooligans (plus Ton & Petra) have been really wonderful company in La Coruna, and here in Lisbon, and packed huge bag of extra Dutch provisions for my trip, and even loaned me a satellite phone (one of the reasons todays departure is delayed, finding a new SIM card) so I am able stay in contact, and hopefully maintain web-based position reports on my 800mile journey. I will miss everybody so much… I wish my boat were 15 times larger so I could just bring all the incredible people I meet along with me. I cannot necessarily return this kindness directly to the people who have helped me, but be rest assured, I will do my very best to ‘pay it forward’ and help others whenever I possibly can.

Thank you so much Portugal. The Canaries are Spanish territory, so this is the end of Portugal for me, and also the end of continental Europe. I cannot believe I am leaving Europe, after being here for almost two years. What amazing experiences and people I’ve met, from Berlin, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, England, Belgium, France, Spain, Gibraltar, Guernsey and Portugal. This is my longest solo non-stop voyage so far, over doubling my Biscay distance. I can’t wait to reach the Canaries, and look forward to telling you all about my biggest passage so far.

See you in a couple of weeks, and check back when you can, because there is every chance I may be able to get some news up on this site from somewhere out there in the Atlantic. More than likely updates will come via Twitter or onto my tracking page.

-moby nick!