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.

Before I tell you of the trials and tribulations of my most feared voyage, let me begin at the beginning… The beginning being the day before I left for Spain.

As readers can no doubt tell, I like to change my mind. One minute, I’m a bee keeper in Brittany, the next I’ve moved on already. People I’ve met along the way, I think will agree on my seemingly random movements. They ask ‘where are you going?’ Some days it’s Portugal, others it’s Australia, and then to others it’s ‘Just around the corner… And then I think I’ll stop.’

So, with that in mind, I left Camaret to go buy something I couldn’t find anywhere else but in a larger town, like Brest. I had already decided as previously mentioned, I would coast hop until there was a Biscay window, or maybe not… Possibly I would just go through the canal and skip the Bay altogether. I left Camaret for a short hop to Brest under a perfect Easterly wind, and connected the windvane, just because one only feels like a captain when barking orders at crew. The windvane never listens, but anyway, it’s the action not the outcome.

Turning up into the Rade De Brest, the current was strong, but I just wanted to go lay on a buoy for the night, and I was in no rush. I sailed upwind at 1kt, and attempted to fish with a spinner I found on the pier in L’Aber Wrac’h. As I fished (or rather, dangled a useless line to fish smarter than I) a large tanker came into the Rade. I thought I would be an annoying yacht type, and let him change course… But he wouldn’t have it, and I figured it was time I stopped dawdling and moved. I went to start the engine, only to hear a ‘CLICK’ and then silence. All the electrics in the boat instantly died in unison. Oh, well, that’s an issue. For all you romantics that think I just move around powered by the elements, I’ve got a story for you.

Panic stricken I finally managed to move Constellation out of the way under sail, by turning around and taking the tide for a minute and straightening up out of the collision course. Two marinas existed on the other side of the Rade, which I tried desperately to sail upwind into strengthening tide. I missed the first one, and aimed high for the next. Alas, I was missing that one too… I started moving into a new collision course with a rock. Terrified to infinity, I saw a fisherman mooring his boat, scurried for my fog horn and blasted it like a steamship. At first he didn’t understand what I meant. Meanwhile, a RIB was being put onto the back of a car, yet he obviously heard the horn, and re-launched. In the end, I was rescued by both boats, and as I pulled the sails down, I jumped into the cockpit as the boom swung around and hit me squarely between the eyes. Almost passing out and bleeding, I stood stunned for a minute, while under tow to a nearby buoy. This all happened in such a hurry, I took little notice of what was around me, still dazed and stressed about the situation.

Tied up, I reached into the cockpit locker for my toolkit, and frightfully saw that the buoy I was placed on, was too close to shore, and all the other boats around me were only small powerboats with shallow drafts. The fisherman was gone, and besides, I was too proud to ask for another tow. Soon, maybe in an hour, I’d not only be engineless, but I’d be on the ground. If that isn’t motivation to think quickly, I don’t know what is. Sweat was dripping from my brain as I searched out a logical reason for the failure, which after thinking it was a solenoid, and then some other things, I tracked it down to a blown vapour tight mainswitch. I disconnected everything, and built a temporary circuit block from parts, started up and moved to deeper water. What stress.

While in Brest, Commandersweather gave me a go ahead via email, several days earlier than anticipated for the Biscay crossing. I had to commit right away. Constellation was generally ready anyway, because I had planned to leave the day before, but I had no diesel onboard. Racing back to the marina, I arrived too late to purchase any in person, and I have no working credit card for the automated pump… Off I walked with arms full of jerry cans… I walked. And walked, and walked. I walked all the way back into Brest (you normally need to catch a bus) quite by accident, and then some. I could find no signs of a fuel station. Eventually I decided I would have to leave a day later than recommended, simply because I had no fuel, and I didn’t want to leave without enough to power me right across the Bay if I needed to. But that wasn’t good enough – I had to leave at 4am the next morning, and damned if a fuel station was going to stop me. I found a taxi, showed my cans and pleaded for him to take me somewhere. Finally he did, and it was to the only station in town: An automated one which you needed a credit card. Great. I stood there and tried standard ATM cards, but nothing. Eventually the driver detected my despair, and offered to use his card in exchange for cash – Good deal I thought! Back onboard, I lashed 50litres of fuel onto the deck, cleaned up a little and went to sleep at midnight. Checking the tides, I needed to leave at 5am, which I dutifully did, motoring out of the Rade, doing 8knots in its peak. A reasonable wind in a favourable direction prevailed, and off I was, towards a rather distant port.

Winds became increasingly light, and I decided I’d kristen the voyage with a motor sail to leave land as soon as possible. Unfortunately I wasn’t quick enough, getting caught up in heavy tide around the Point Du Raz. Frustratingly I went nowhere for a good four hours, yet by 8am the next morning, having helmed all night for lack of wind to power the self-steering, I finally made it to the continental shelf. If you look on a chart, this is an area where a wriggly line shows water going from 100ft in depth, all the way down to 4000ft in a relatively short distance. It is an area where waves can build, and I’d been wary off it since leaving Brest, approaching it with a grim frown on my face. I needn’t have worried in the end, but there was definitely an increase in wave activity. The small chop soon became the infamously long and slow Atlantic rollers. I started to become agitated by helming all the time, but thankfully rest came at 9am with a slight but steady breeze. I ‘cat napped’ (technically termed ‘polyphasic sleep’) waking up at 20minute intervals for checks, the boat finally sailing herself. This lasted for around two hours, before the wind died out, and I was back at the helm. Lashing the tiller down was useless, with the waves always changing the boats course. I had a sneaking suspicion I was up for a very long and tiring passage.

As night fell, so did waves of fog. I was absolutely terrified. Not minutes before two large tankers had edged passed me, and here I was with nearly zero visibility and no radar or AIS. Panicking, I rummaged through my bookshelf to read up on the topic of fog. I knew there was no solution, but in my head all I could think of was to regularly announce my position and heading on VHF, and I wanted to know if that was a practiced maritime tactic, and if so, what the protocol was. The book ‘Handling Troubles Afloat’ simply said that fog was bad, and you should go into port. Well, I was nowhere near port, so that was utterly useless information. I decided to take my own action regardless of whether it was the ‘correct one’, and spread an All Ships announcement of my heading, position, speed and to request that ships use caution when transiting the area. This seemed at the time, the best I could do. Maybe all the boats around me were chuckling at my naivety, but really, when it comes to being run over, I care not for others opinions. I decided to make an announcement every hour, because VHF has a range of roughly 40nm, although probably reduced in fog. I reasoned that a tanker might do 20-25kts, and under given ranges, this was acceptable. In the end, I lived to tell the story, and no one ever acknowledged my calls. The fog never came back, having been blown out to sea after three hours and three All Ships announcements. In fact, I never saw another boat until I was 20nm away from Spain.

Through all this I helmed. Stuck at the tiller like my imprisoned self-steering should have been, I avoided sleep by reducing the clothes I was wearing to make myself cold, drinking coffee from a thermos. Other times I would stand up, ’suspending’ myself by clutching a guardrail in each hand to stay awake. This went on for hours, keeping a course of 210degrees, not a whisker off. My second night with only two hours of stunted sleep since the beginning of the trip, I was becoming too exhausted to continue. The numbers on the compass were becoming blurred, my ears aching from the sound of the noisy little Yanmar engine. I decided I simply had to stop the boat, lash the tiller to one side, turn the engine off and sleep. So that’s exactly what I did, sleeping like a stone in a field, for two glorious hours. Waking up, I refueled and pushed on through a monochrome night, brightly illuminated by a full moon.

You may wonder why I was so insistent on making such progress. My possible mistake was of telling a friend to become concerned if I arrived a day late. This meant that I had to keep my average speed up and not waver, otherwise people on the other side would start getting worried, and the concern of others is something I don’t particularly like to instill. It was a mistake simply because sailing is not like driving a car. You cannot possibly make an accurate ETA, especially if you are under sail, and also unlike a car, you cannot pull over to make a call to tell the other party you’re stuck in traffic. So I pushed on, determined to maintain my average speed of 4.5kts. Already I felt guilty about losing two valuable hours of progress by wasteful sleeping. By 5am a little wind arrived, just enough to power the steering. I quickly took the opportunity to sleep in 20minute intervals for an hour, before it died yet again.

The ever nauseating din of the diesel engine was really canceling out a lot of the sailing beauty of the journey. There is nothing quite like the romantic sounds of water being pressed aside by the hull, random creaks the halyards rattling inside the mast. But at the same time, I was incredibly thankful to have ‘August’ (that’s the name of the engine) onboard – If it wasn’t for his amazing reliability, I quite simply would have drifted to Newfoundland or somewhere similarly far away… Or maybe just washed up on the French surf coast, a beaten wreck, powerless without wind. I also rationalised that I’d rather be motoring than battling fierce winds and an angry ocean.

The deep sea of the Atlantic is unlike the other waters I have progressed through. It was clearly alive, with so many dolphins, flying fish and strange birds. While in one of my attempts at polyphasic sleep, tiny dreams would crop up, converging with reality. At times I was able to hear the sonar of dolphins reverberating through the hull. Or maybe it was just a dream? At one particular point, a tiny bird 100nm from the middle of nowhere appeared in my cockpit. Not a sea bird, but more like a sparrow. What was it doing out here? The poor bird was exhausted as I was, yet unlike me, didn’t have to steer. Not long after touch down, the little bird fell asleep next to me. Curiously, I could even pat it’s weary head. Eventually it began to shiver, so I moved him inside the cabin which was warm from the engine. He pooped all over my chart table, but I think it was a small price to pay for companionship in such a faraway place.

Throughout the entire journey, I never felt even a minute of loneliness. A lot of people first ask – ‘You are all by yourself? Do you get lonely?’ And the answer is almost always ‘No’. Not once did I pine for conversation, or become fearful because I was alone. It was certainly the most lonely I’ve ever been, but lonely in a sense that I was simply completely by myself. To think in these times, it is rare for any one of us to spend a full 24 hours out of contact with the world. Ironically I feel, if anything, the greatest loneliness when I come into port, walking through the streets and watching others in merry self-amusement with friends. It’s a curious thing to think that being alone on a tiny boat on a vast sea, is less lonely than being surrounded by a heaving mass of people.

Along the way, it seemed my appetite had completely diminished. I simply wasn’t hungry, and I mostly ate things that I suspect didn’t rate too highly on the food pyramid. Biscay was proudly powered by Haribo lollies and packets of chips. I did eat the cans of French food I had bought at dinners, and I must take up an extra minute of your time, just to say how incredible French canned food is. For the first time in my ownership, Constellation had an aroma of cooked chicken in a red wine sauce, wafting through hatch. The French make the best tasting canned food I’ve ever had.

This pattern of helming until I was so tired that I couldn’t actually function without an hours sleep, continued the entire voyage. The wind never really came, and when it did, it was just like a fox; there for a minute, and then hidden around the crest of a roller, heading towards a faraway coast. Nights became day, as I watched full cycles of the moon and the sun overhead. As the sun went below the horizon to presumably illuminate my hometown, the moon would rise on the opposite side of the globe, brightly washing out all but the strongest stars. As it tracked across the night sky, I’d get my short sleep at last, and it would have hardly moved. By 8:30am, the sun would begin to add colour to the light, and so the day would begin. If I was lucky there would be a morning breeze, and I could sleep in intervals for an hour at best. Mostly I just concentrated on a course of 210degrees, and carefully listened to the engine, ever fearful it’s consistent hum would change, indicating failure.

As I approached Spain, the only indication I was approaching civilisation was rubbish in the sea, and that my mobile received coverage 40nm out. In fact, one would never have known the country existed, as it wasn’t until nightfall that I could actually see coastal lights; my navigation hadn’t landed us in Boston. Rounding Cabo Prior, I was escorted by dolphins for the last 10miles, before tracking a straight line into La Coruna. The dolphins darted through the waves and under the hull at such an immense speed. I noticed that if I turned all the lights off, you could see the phosphorescent plankton trails underwater, as the dolphins sped up and broke through the surface. I motored into the marina at 3am, keeping a keen eye out for Henk De Velde. I saw his trimaran in Ijmuiden, and I hoped to finally meet him in person in La Coruna, him being stuck with a broken mainsail track. Disappointingly, he is way too fast, already on route to South America. Henk left at least a week later than I, and made it to La Coruna in what looks like less than 7 days. Next boat: High speed trimaran & crew.

I docked ‘French style’ on arrival – This style can be characterised by smoking a Gitane, and not bothering with the fenders or ropes. I had no cigarette, but doggedly I lay Constellation along side the pontoon, and secured her from the dock. With such a small boat, it’s not hard to hold her alongside one-handed.

So that was Biscay, a trip which began at 5am on the 25th of October, and promptly finished at 3am on the 29th. I think the battle was with myself rather than with the elements. It was a sublime.

What now? Bullfighter of course.

nick.