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.

This is just a small post to clear up some confusion. In the February edition of the magazine ‘Yachting Monthly’, there is an article about my trip. In this article, my route has somehow been modified by the press to say I am going westabout around Cape Horn. While this would of course be a great, heroic idea, I really don’t think me or the boat are up for rounding the most dangerous cape on the planet, in the wrong direction, against the prevailing winds and currents, in a 26ft boat built in 1972!

Of course, if someone wants to sponsor the rebuilding of my boat, before and after such an attempt, plus pay for helicopter/navy vessel rescue standby in Tierra del Fuego, sure, I’ll give it a whirl, and attempt to live up to my new Cape Horn reputation!

Or maybe I should just keep quiet, and fake my positions around the cape, leaving the world to speculate on my madness and whereabouts? Wait a second…

I do really appreciate the article in YM though, it’s very exciting for my little trip to be noticed by the printed medium. Welcome to any new readers!

Anyway, baby steps. First I’ll figure out how to leave Lisbon before we talk more about The Horn.

nick

P.S If anyone has a copy of the afermentioned Yachting Monthly, I’d love to see a scan! Thanks Arek!

I’ve never understood why someone would be ’sick as a dog’, because in my experience, dogs are rarely sick. The same can probably be said for Turtles, since they live such a long time. But anyway, that’s the best title I could think of in my current state, because, for the past four or five days, I have been couch bound.

Couch bound you ask? When did you install a couch in Constellation? Well, truth be told, the installation of my purple, crushed velvet love-lounge in the forepeak is only a pipedream… I have however been rescued once again by the fantastic Portuguese. Generosity must be part of their genetic makeup, I’m certain of it. Wherever it stems from, it’s amazing and I just can’t believe it. Really I’m just a smelly vagabond without any money on a small bathtub with sails, yet assistance comes from all directions.

This time around it is by Pedro, but not that Pedro, another one. He will be referred to as (how original) Pedro #2 for the sake of limiting Pedro induced confusion. Pedro #2 is a friend of Paul & Lisa, who long term readers will know helped me out on numerous occassions in Holland and even in Spain. Pedro #2 has been taking me out every lunch & dinner, and providing a nice cosy house for me to live in while I have been sick, and today even took me out on an excursion to the Maritime Museum, so I could learn all about The Discoveries, and see how real navigators conducted themselves. I dearly wish I could waltz around in such a dashing outfits, sextant in my left hand, jewled sword in my right, commanding great discoveries on the bow Constellation… But alas I merely have a pair of torn jeans and a handheld GPS. And everything is mapped already.

If the Portuguese had had things their way, chances are, you my reader would be considerably more Latin than you probably are. As you probably well know, the downfall of Portuguese rule was a disappointing fall from near absolute global domination through seemingly infinite maritime discovery. It’s always special to think about how little changes in history would have affected the way we are today… Unfortunately there was no information I could find in the museum on theories of prior Portuguese discovery of Australia, which is an especially interesting topic. One look at their maps and expansive routes, does lead you to easily believe that there was every chance they made our East coast before the Dutch or the English.

This bout of sickness has been a real downer on a lot of levels. First and foremost because I haven’t had the slightest chance to work on Constellation. I actually have quite a bit to do before I leave continental Europe, and none of that work has really even begun. The real sailing begins from here, and things just cannot be left to chance. I have my liferaft at the service station, which I sent back after noticing that in the first service the canister wasn’t closed properly. I really hope this isn’t a sign of things to come, service-wise… Liferaft servicing is something you need to feel especially confident in.

As I have been sick, it also means the boat has been sitting in Cascais marina, knocking up a nice bill I’m sure. I had great plans to sit at anchor or something similarly free, but now money is going down the drain hole for the boat to just sit there. My last and final feel-sorry-for-myself-I-am-sick-boo-hoo complaint, will be that time is really of the essence. It’s the peak of winter, and I should have been out of here months ago. Once I reach Madeira or the Canaries everything will be back on track, it’s the bit from here to the Islands that’s hairy, and I just really don’t relish the idea of the whole thing. I need to be in good physical (ie. not sick) shape to do the trip, because I think it will be long and difficult. I still have every intention of leaving for the Atlantic islands for my doubters, and I know my sickness may appear to be some kind of convenient excuse to lay about on the couch, watching DVDs and surfing the Internet. Fear not, I promise I will be back at sea, getting drenched, shivering with cold and generally being miserable, as soon as I possibly can.

My down-time has not been entirely wasted though, I’ve been working on other things, and conversing with Australian sailing greats like Nick Moloney on sleep strategies. With great astonishment Nick sent me sleep training paper written for the Pirates of the Caribbean Volvo Ocean Racing team. I’ll be up there racing Open 60’s before you know it! Thank you Nick.

There really is little else to tell you… I just can’t thank Pedro #2 enough for letting me be the resident vegetable on his couch. There is nothing worse than being sick, especially when you’re away from home, and the best you can do is sleep on the dry side of your boat, not even having enough legspace to curl up in the foetal position and sob like a child. I’m not sure if it is men in general who fall to pieces when ill, but, I’ll be honest and tell you, I do… I wish could ship my mum over for Chicken soup and a pat on the head.

Yeah I know, what a whimp.

nick.

So much has happened, I’ve actually been avoiding this post, simply because I couldn’t work out how to encompass everything without writing a novella…!

While in Baiona, I had the very good fortune of meeting a pair of Australians aboard an enormous catamaran, who turned out to be fellow Melbournians, taking time out to explore Europe by boat. It was really nice to hear accents from home, and I don’t know why, but it’s situations like these, far away from home, that complete strangers from similar regions emit a sense of homely calm, and you instantly feel at ease. Later in the week I met Geoff and Sassie, liveaboards on their own respective boats, quite amazingly, both 26ft and built in 1972 - The same length and DOB as Constellation! I spent dinner with the Australians one night, and another with my 26ft friends watching DVD’s and being treated to another lovely homecooked meal. Special thanks to Geoff for the bivvy, which is keeping my sleeping bag much drier! (I suffer from condensation problems as a result of sleeping with half my body in the enclosed quarter berth).

I was eager to leave Baiona, because as I’ve said previously, I can only work in short steps with Lisbon being my next goal, one I have been eager to reach for a long time. A friend in Holland told me I would not be a real sailor until I reached Lisbon. Am I a real sailor now? I don’t know what that is, but I’m here, so there you have it. The coast down to Lisbon from the Spanish Rias was quite barren, and one could say it is more suited to surfers than sailors. As always, I had intended to sail much faster… Baiona to Lisbon, non-stop: No worries! Well, at least a week later, maybe two (probably closer to two) I arrived. I stopped off at some hazardous ports, to which I won’t bore you with details… Let’s just say, Constellation learnt to surf. In a race for Christmas, after being generously invited by Pedro to spend the ‘festive season’ Portuguese style, I was attempting to sail to Nazare as quickly as possible, the closest port to be picked up from. Unfortunately I was delayed, and ended up in Figuiera Da Foz instead, a port I don’t really recommend anyone to enter, except possibly on slack high water, maybe in Summer, with nothing less than glassy water… Pedro and his brother Andre, drove a long distance to pick me up and bring me back to their home, where I spent Christmas, Portuguese style.

The Portuguese Christmas I encountered, is a tradition I will definitely be bringing back to Melbourne. First I was shuttled to Pedro’s fathers house for the most amazing dinner of 2007, an official nomination which I have recently created, and goes without a doubt to this particular meal. Pedro insisted I should store food like a Camel, which I really did try to do, but one always encounters certain physical boundaries in such sports. There was Cod casserole, steamed Cod with potatoes, amazingly tasty Turkey, and so many desserts I couldn’t actually try them all. I was a complete stranger in this household, but I didn’t feel like one, and it was because of everyones fine efforts and generosity, to which words fail me. After taking on food stores, I was shuttled back to Pedro’s mothers house for a continuation on the theme of generosity and Portuguese flair. More drinking, desserts, an enormous family which I think may constitute a small village, and warm friends around the fire until six in the morning. I believe Christmas day was actually spent primarily in bed, which was probably a good thing, because as the tradition goes, there was another party to attend which also ran into the wee hours of the morning. Again I was a stranger in a foreign land, in a foreign house, surrounded by foreign people, yet I had forgotten all this, and had another wonderful evening deep inside Portugal, a rare place for ‘tourists’ such as myself.

After all this eating and drinking, and being part of such an amazing family for several days, I came back to the boat and suffered a full day and night of severe ’sailors blues’. That might sound silly to you, or maybe my fine audience thinks my life is a constant dazzlement of the senses, but on occasion, things coming crashing down, and life takes a serious dive. I was trapped due to tides and a difficult exit, and I lulled into a deep depression, touching the very core of what it is I’m doing, and why. I am convinced my stoic solitude was confused by this outpouring of kindness and family, in the sense that it begged to ask many questions on what is really important in life. I’m not going to bring the joviality of this post down by exploring ’sailors blues’ in this post, but I will in another if anyone is interested, because it’s an interesting topic to consider.

Eventually I left Figueira Da Foz, stopping briefly in Peniche, and then direct to Cascais, in Lisbon. The trip from Peniche was not without its difficulties. For some peculiar reason, I was absolutely beset with boredom. I could not entertain myself in any form, and I became incredibly agitated. I saw a bunch of small crabs seemingly floating just under the surface, and to curb my boredom, I did circles to try and catch one with the boat hook. I thought maybe I could catch a crab, and we could hang out on deck, smoking cigarettes, drinking gin and playing poker for awhile… Possibly talk about Miss Mermaid 2007 for a bit, and then I’d pop him back in the sea… Unfortunately catching a crab with a boat hook in four metres of swell, is like trying to eat a single noodle out of Port Phillip Bay with a chopstick, and so I resumed my slow going to Lisbon, alone, still immensely bored.

My boredom was soon transferred to stress and annoyance, with severe engine problems rounding the first cape into Cascais, Lisbon. I came in engineless under full sail, for four hours after an irritable day with diminishing wind. I docked French style (under sail) on the visiting pontoon and battled Portuguese bureaucracy for a little while. They were not exactly convinced my expired insurance policy was as valid as I was attempting to argue… It expired on the 16th, and my course of debate was that I paid half yearly, and simply didn’t have the paperwork on me… Eventually it was accepted (it was all a farce, I never renewed), and I was able to sleep off my stressful engine fiasco. A seriously big bravo to all engineless cruisers, you guys are mad. Although I might be joining you rather soon if I can’t fix ‘August the mighty Yanmar’…

In Cascais I met up with S/V Aquamarijn again, having an opportunity to share stories of sea-sickness and surfing down the Iberian coast, which appeared to be a common thread. I was quickly attacked by the Hooligans, who made a special point of climbing all over my boat like monkeys, to which I could neither argue nor complain, because I like climbing around my boat like a crazy monkey too.

New Years Eve appeared from nowhere, and again I caught up with Pedro in Lisbon, for a stunning prawn curry cooked by the hyper-smart Ana, coupled with a walk through Lisbon city. I finally managed to meet Fernando Pessoa, sitting in a cafe, almost oblivious to his surroundings. Fernando and I chatted for awhile on the topic of banality and the soul, after which I carried on with celebrating another year closer to an all-eventual end.

Where to now? I think America is calling. I hear the stripes of their flag, and the warmth of their southern latitudes through my conch shell; it is the end of my time in continental Europe, my departure point for gaining some serious mileage in a westerly direction, towards home. I feel a little sad leaving so soon, it’s crazy that the end of my ‘European vacation’ will not climax with a burst of avgas down a runway, but rather via a bouncy ride to some small Atlantic islands in the middle of nowhere, before setting a course to the Caribbean. I had so much more to see here, I guess that means I’ll have to come back. Right now I am trying to get my liferaft serviced, diving under the boat and cleaning cooling inlets, epoxying deck joins and re-drilling chainplates. I hope to leave in a week and a half. It looks as though 2008 is going to be a serious mileage builder.

So, to sum up Portugal, is to say ‘muitíssimo obrigado’ an infinite number of times to Pedro, Ana and their wonderful family and friends, for helping me have such an special entrance into the country of Portugal. Really, truly, amazing.

Happy New Year, and thank you again to everyone who spends time reading, contributing, and supporting my grand expedition across big oceans.

nick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thud.

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

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

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

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

nick.

And I thought Biscay was big! Over the last seven days, I’ve sailed 200metres… Yes, I’m still in La Coruna. Why? Well, when I say I’ve run out of money, I don’t lie. But firstly, thank you to Paul & Lisa, from the Swedish sailing vessel Eekaros, currently docked in Amsterdam. They’re going around the world, and currently saving for a larger boat. Their current one isn’t that much bigger than mine, and they’re totaling three persons onboard (including the kitten)! I was looked after like family while in Holland by these lovely sailors, and they’ve assisted me again with some funds to keep me eating until my first paycheck. Here is a picture of us, with me wearing the same jumper I’ve had on since I left Australia, in 2006!

Monnikendam, Holland

Yes, I know the fenders are down. The engine failed, I wasn’t suppsed to be sailing…

Thanks guys!

A few days after arriving here, by great coincidence, someone I previously worked for via the web emailed with a job. So, being in a fortunate position where work is achievable if I just have an Internet connection, I’m staying here for a month to refill the boat with beans & diesel. And make repairs… I don’t earn a lot (seriously, working in a bar pays better) but if it means I can keep sailing, then I’ll do anything.

I’ve been here for seven days now, and it’s been fantastic. I’ve met really nice liveaboards, had a chance to recover from my sleepless Biscay crossing, and La Coruna is an interestingly transient place. There are ships from Norway, America, and even Japan coming through, and all going places far away. You can tell the boats that have made it this far, are not the day cruisers normally encountered when out sailing. The boats here have crossed the Atlantic, are just about to, or are heading off to other distant places. This also means that a lot of people are arriving from Biscay, all with stories of fighting FORCE 10 CONDITIONS. I’m well aware Biscay is more than capable of throwing up such harrowing storms, but I must admit, I’ve been taking Force reports with a grain of salt, and automatically reducing them by 3 points. It’s a little bit like estimating wave heights at sea - If you think the swell is six metres, the true height is half. I’ve been guilty of it myself, but I blame horizon physics, a secret branch of a science I just invented.

It is also really exciting that I’ve been able to get a little work while in La Coruna, because this means that with about 75% probability (I’ve just calculated that on a large computer), I will actually be making my own Atlantic crossing by the end of the year, or, at the very beginning of the next. This is really amazing, because I never thought I would be able to achieve it so soon - Every port I’ve arrived in, I’ve told the locals that I can’t continue, and that I’ll have to ‘winter’. And every time, something crops up that allows me to just move a little bit further. Also, having done with Biscay, I can relax for a little bit without fearing the weather too much. Biscay was a massive hurdle for the logistics of the trip, however now I can almost day hop down to Lisbon, wait for another good forecast, and go direct to Madeira.

I will probably wait in Madeira, or nearby for another few weeks, possibly I can even work again to make further repairs, and hopefully arrive in the Caribbean with more than $14 and six overdrawn accounts. So far, repairs scheduled for La Coruna, involve replacing all the chain plates for the standing rigging, installing an electronic bilge pump, replacing the mainswitch (again) and generally tidying up.

Other than that, my stay here will mostly involve being cabin bound with my laptop, watching the pilot vessels come in and out of the marina.

nick.