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.

I sit here, in a quaint little pub in L’Aber Wrac’h, France by the sea. This area of France is absolutely beautiful. I could live here, in a little white-washed hut on a stone island perhaps. Tending to the bees or working as a fisherman.

But alas, it will not be so, for I have itchy feet and live on a boat.

The trip from Cherbourg has been mostly good. I sailed through the infamous Race of Alderney. I was hesitant as always about areas people warn me about. I was however somewhat disappointed when I didn’t sink or get washed up on rocks (not really), as the Race was a piece of cake, and I sailed through at 7knots. I was an hour early, being silly and forgetting about the summer time addition (or was it subtraction…?).

I continued on to the island of Guernsey.

I stayed a night in the marina, just to refuel and spend some time in the town. The marina was expensive… 14pounds for my little boat - Luckily I still had some change left over from my stop in Dover. I moved at the next tide to Havelet Bay to anchor. I saw a bunch of private buoys, and seeing no one was using them, I used one for the night, bouncing about all night like mad. I always get nervous using the anchor, my dreams permeated with waking up beached like a whale, local conservation groups standing around and patting me down with wet towels, ushering me back to the sea.

I moved on the morning, deciding to sail to Lezardrieux instead of direct to L’Aber Wrac’h which was the initial plan. There was no wind, and I just didn’t feel like motoring for however many hours it was going to be. I made the decision to change course probably a little late in the tide, so I ended up entering Lezardrieux in the dark. So this is where the bad part of the last week started - My GPS has been playing up - It just turns itself off all the time. I kept smacking it back to life, but it’s the only one I have, and I was pretty nervous about it not coming back online when I needed it. So as the fog decended, what vital piece of equipment decided to fail? The GPS. I’d already taken it apart to look for loose connections, but all I could see was a complicated circuit board. It was stupid only having one GPS onboard, but it was really the last thing I thought would stop working, and I don’t have the money to have spares.

The entrance into Lezardrieux is not really difficult in the day, because you can see all the rocks, and it’s well marked. Remember, this part of France is Brittany - You know, the area where all the lighthouse photos come from - The lighthouses with the giant 1000ft waves crashing over the top, and a quote underneath saying ‘Follow your own lighthouse’ or something equally stupid. Or sometimes you seen these lighthouse posters in the offices of accountants. Anyway, you get the point - It’s dangerous to navigate in, there are many obstacles (rocks) and boats don’t like hard surfaces.

So the GPS turns off, and I hit it to bring it back. Nothing. Then I hit it again, and screamed at it. Nothing. Then I curse it, remove the batteries, replace them with new ones, put it back together, and it still doesn’t work. So I smack it again, hove-to at the entrance (stall the boat) and dismantle it again. Put it back together. Still not working. The fog is still there, and the sun hasn’t come up (9hours to go). Furious, I regretfully (only regretfully because it’s polluting) I hurl the thing into the sea… That GPS was a 21st birthday present from a good friend, and now it is at the bottom of the entrance of Lezardrieux, and I’m still stuck. So I navigate under compass bearings from my last known position. Somehow, I manage to get up the entrance into the river and find a private mooring buoy for the night. I was really angry, but the area was so still and quiet. As soon as I turned the engine off, my worries dissipated, and I wondered what the area was like I had just found myself in. The incessant movement of the ocean can be really grating, and all of a sudden, everything was utterly still.

Waking in the morning, I was still surrounded by fog. I waited for a few hours, and slowly the wind and sun sent it away to another port. I wasn’t disappointed by where I’d landed. Lezardrieux is really nice.

It was a Sunday, and the port capitaine was away, so I moored up for the day and met some incredibly nice French sailors, who gave me their boat food supplies as presents, fed me pizza, wine and Apple liqueur. I was a little wary of the French after being in Calais and Cherbourg, but things have changed dramatically since getting to Brittany. I now only have praise.

I spent the afternoon walking around and eating Oysters. I recommend future sailors to take a bottle of champagne, a knife and a lemon down to the waters edge. I didn’t have the champagne or a lemon, but I was quite content.

When dusk came, I decided to move while there was still light and find another buoy for the night. The tide was ripping, but I really wanted light. I pushed off and put a new scratch in my paintwork along the side of Constellation. Poor boat, having to put up with me. After another quiet night, I woke up to catch the tide, and motored out.

Or, as was my plan. That’s when I found a dead battery. How was it possible, I thought? I have two batteries, so it wasn’t too much of a problem, but it begs some questions. Why was it not charged? Maybe my $5,000 solar array wasn’t functioning (I don’t have one.)? Oh, I know, the alternator is broken! How wonderful! I started up and sailed to Trebeurden without a working alternator or a GPS. I replaced the GPS at some ridiculous local price, and left the alternator for another day.

I moved onto L’Aber Wrac’h, and along the way, there was a great choppy swell. It was the worst leg of my journey so far. Even worse than my North Sea adventures. I was absolutely sick, throwing up over the side, not able to eat the entire day. I don’t quite know why I was so sick (and don’t say it was the Oysters) but I was, and my sea sickness medication was useless. I just sat in the cockpit and let the windvane steer, trying to think happy thoughts. The forecast did not indicate such swell, but there were breaking waves and deep caverns for Constellation to contend with. Weird.

The GPS and alternator were at such great expense, I don’t know how to continue this season, or whether I should right now. The Bay of Biscay scares me, it’s the wrong time of year, and what’s on the other side? Let’s be realistic, there is not going to be a heroic Atlantic crossing this season. It’s just not going to happen, I’ve missed it. I left Holland under the pretense that maybe something would crop up along the way (like, I might win the lottery, even though I don’t buy tickets) or a particular sponsor might see I was ‘for real’ and cough up. Ha!

So I’m just going to hang out here for a few days and think about my options. If I do cross, what are my realistic work opportunities? If any? Maybe I should sail back to Guernsey and get a suit and tie job for the winter? Get cashed up and give Constellation gilded bow? Or maybe I should buy a lottery ticket and continue on anyway? It seems pretty disappointing to ‘winter’ already. But this so called ‘reality’ is catching up with me, fast.

Back to my hut, to tend to the bees,

nick.

Apologies for the lack of updates… I’ve been taking advantage of the perfect weather to sail as far as possible!

From Bruinisse, I sailed back through inland waterways and canals to the beginning of this Dutch adventure, to Vlissingen (Flushing). It was surreal moving back through the waters I’d already come through in such different conditions. So much of it was already unrecognizable - The weather was horrible, and I was glad to have made the decision to make progress inside Holland, as opposed to outside of it through the North Sea.

Dutch barge in the Verse Meer

In Vlissingen I waited a several days for an incoming weather window, which turned out to be 7 days of perfect conditions. Possibly a little disappointing on the wind front, blowing only F2/F3 at best, however who was I to complain, given that it’s Autumn already, and as far as I’m concerned, any weather I can be at sea is good weather.

The Belgian courtesy flag seemed to only be flown just enough to flap in the wind a handful of times - Progress was quick, through odd misty conditions to France.

Fog off of Belgium

Fog clearing

The only thing of any real note was the spotting of what appeared to be a radio controlled boat, well offshore. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks, but I’m quite certain a steel object with an antenna motored past my bow on it’s own steam, and was not in any way anchored.

Weird.

I wasn’t sure what it was, but I sailed quite close to check it out, and I still don’t really know what I saw. Post a comment if you do!

From Belgium I sailed towards my first visit to France, directly to Calais. For such a major port, the marina was a little disappointing, considering it was costly and entry was restricted by a tidal lock. Nevertheless, I explored the town, did some shopping, and struggled everywhere because unlike Holland, few people speak English, and my French doesn’t go much past ‘Merci’, ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Bon voyage’.

Tidal lock entry into Calais, France

After a night in Calais, and realising there was no tax-free Diesel, I decided to sail back to England for a refuelling stop. Due to lock, I waited around until 6:30pm to exit, resulting in a night crossing of Dover straight. There was little if any wind, so I motored across on a beautiful starry night. I think only other sailors will know what I mean, when I say that there is something so poetic and hypnotising about gazing up, and watching the sails and tip of the mast bounce against a ceiling of stars.

Back in England, I was awarded English prices, paying 25euros for a single night. It was disappointing after being in Holland, where my boat costs 7euros, often with free WIFI covering the marina. But all good things come at a price, and at long last, I had propane onboard - I looked everywhere for a liquid stove to replace my ongoing gas issues, but alas they’re either way too expensive, or just plain hard to find. So I took on board 8kgs of gas, which I think will be enough for the next several months, at which point I’ll have to deal with the issue again - I don’t think sailing back to England will be sustainable method of cooking in the future. Warm pasta on board Constellation was the best thing in many weeks. If there is anything to be gained from my tea-candle cooking methods, it’s that I have a new and everlasting appreciation for warm food and coffee.

In Dover, I stocked some extra food, and motored out at 10:30am to catch the tide, and headed back to France, on route to Fecamp. It was a long sail, but the best so far - I had a perfect beam reach, every scrap of sail up, and ‘Windy the Windpilot’ (I haven’t thought of a better name yet, feel free to assist!) steered course to perfection.

When night came, I became nervous. There is something slightly terrifying about sailing ‘blind’ through the dark. I’m not concerned about hitting a boat, or being hit, as I keep a good watch - It’s the idea of hitting something floating in the water that concerns me. Being hit I can avoid by keeping vigilant watch, however running into floating debris is completely unavoidable. After two hours of strung out nerves, I began to relax and rationalise that there is nothing I can do, so why waste the energy. I sat in the cockpit, lifejacket on, EPIRB, grab bag and flares within close distance. Call it paranoia or whatever, but I’m no hero - I’d rather be sailing than sitting at the bottom of the sea.

Entrance into Fecamp, France

I arrived in Fecamp after being up all night at around 10am. Poor Constellation, she’s so slow… I slept for a few hours, explored the town, cooked very hot food, went to bed, and pushed on the following day direct to Cherbourg, another long sail. Leaving again with a favourable sea, I maintained 5kts for the duration of the tide, before being hit with it going in reverse. I clocked back to 2.5kts, frustrated and helming due to a lack of wind to power the self-steering. As night came, my nerves shot back, again terrified of hitting something. This time I was in the middle of the Baie De Seine, which is hardly ‘offshore’, but it is out of reach of lights or any signs of life. A tanker or two was sometimes visible in the distance, but mostly I was entirely alone. I became twitchy about preserving my ‘night vision’, getting aggravated at my GPS backlight or compass illumination being too bright. I desperately wanted to maintain what little visibility I had, as there were little stars, and what is left of the moon, failed to appear. But again, around two hours into my fretting, I relaxed, made some coffee, and sat in my sleeping bag in the cockpit, keeping watch and thinking of nothing.

As if by magic (not really, it was actually by careful planning) the tide reappeared in favour and on cue, as I came closer to Cherbourg. Approaching the top of Point De Barfleur the tide carried me around, bringing with it a nice piece of wind, resulting in a steady 9.2kts of speed. There is nothing more uplifting than speed after a deathly slow passage in the night - I instantly put all the junk in the cockpit away, tweaked the sails for speed, heeled over hard and put the self-steerer back to work. Picking up my last needed cardinal buoy before making a straight line for the Cherbourg entrance, I saluted and thanked him for his navigational assistance and accurate flashing ability. Oh to be on route to sleep at 4am!

Once through the large fortifications of the Cherbourg entrance, I lost my bearings. It was dark, I saw port and starboard lights for an entrance, some poles I thought were masts, and decided it was the marina. I began cleaning up the boat, pulling the sails down, putting up fenders etc without looking at the port layout. To my dismay, I ended up in the navy port, alongside a submarine. I was within docking distance of it - Amazingly no one realised I was there, and I disappeared as quickly as possible. Oh what a stupid mistake, because if you’ve been to Cherbourg, you’ll realise how blatantly obvious the marina is. Coming back out, I quickly took out the almanac and located the marina - I was going to lay at anchor for the night, but I was just too lazy to deal with the anchor and figuring out if I had enough chain to deal with the large tide. In port, I slept, and here I am.

The weather has changed slightly, so I’ll be here for another couple of days, waiting on a good forecast. I can’t be bothered dealing with the Channel Islands, or anywhere with drying marinas, outlaying rocks or otherwise difficult areas. Direct to Brest or Camaret I will go, and then I’ll think about Biscay again. All logic and advice points to a direct crossing to Gijon or La Coruna - A passage of some 3-4 days.

On a side note - Sometimes I don’t have the time or energy to write a post, and will update my Twitter or position reports regardless. So if you’re keen, checking those regularly may yield more frequent information.

nick.

The beginning of this is going to read a little like an Oscars speech, but really, I wouldn’t be here without all the help I’ve found along the way…

I’m immensely humbled right now by the generosity of friends, new and old. People are supporting me in so many ways, through sending me money so I can actually start the trip, to feeding and welcoming me into their homes. Thank you to the generosity of David Watts, someone whom I have never met in person who generously sent funds to keep me on the move. Big thanks Tracy for sending funds live from New York city - Guess who’s getting married?! Thank you to Aaron for sending me money to sort out the stove situation, by extracting funds out of his Dubai relocation package no less! Gigantic thank you to new friends-in-person, Paul, Lisa (I’ve been wearing the Fladen suit already!) Lonneke and Peter for absolutely everything. Thank you to Mum & Dad for the SSB receiver so I can check the weather and listen to the BBC - I know you hate the idea of my trip, but I promise to only sail in 2ft swells, sunny conditions and 11kts of wind. And of course, thank you to all the ‘early adopters‘ who actually believed my ridiculous idea was for real from the beginning.

So, here I am… In June, 2006, I hitch hiked across Sweden into Norway, and saw the beautiful Fjords. I decided there that sailing would be the only true way to travel - It is one of the only ways left where travel can still be adventure, freedom and true exploration. In July, 2006 I researched boats and emailed brokers, and by August ‘Constellation‘ was part of a hairy monthly payment plan. I worked for fly-by-night companies, friends and even behind a bar. I had grand plans of satellite connections, digital navigation and summer sailing - I never really achieved any of those things, but I do have the necessities. I’m not leaving as I had planned, with money in the bank and good conditions, so for now this trip is going to be more of a ‘work yourself home’ thing, than a non-stop sailing adventure which is funded by a decent savings plan. I could have stayed and worked another year to achieve that, but I made the decision that to at least begin, and see how far I get was more important.

Two days ago I left Monnikendam on a non-descript Monday. It was raining, I had my last coffee with the very kind Harbour Master, and left. It was an odd feeling to think I was departing on this great trip, and all it really consisted of was me backing out of my berth and disappearing into the Markemeer, back towards Amsterdam. I engaged the windvane self-steering for the first time, and she steered a perfect course, to my amazement; not that I didn’t think it was going to work, but I’d just never used one before. It rained heavily all the way, and I ended up sitting in front of a large bridge for two hours waiting for it to open. Eventually it opened at 6pm, and I contended with another lock full of charter boats. I was nervous about crashing around in the lock to such a large audience, as everyone looks at me alone in such a small boat with the British flag… Luckily my lock maneuvers are well rehearsed - I came in gracefully, and watched some Belgians smash their pushpit against the wall to the amusement of the barge charter crew. Through Amsterdam city it rained gallons, and I sang to myself like a man with early onset madness. I was so happy to be going somewhere, and it was an exceptional feeling sailing through such a large historic city like Amsterdam, on route to the other side of the world.

Darkness came, and I motored through the North Sea canal towards the coastline. Through the other side of my final lock, I could feel the swell already, and as I motored on past the last industrial area, it became suddenly pitch black, except for a few navigation lights. I managed with a headlight torch and the Reeds Almanac on the cockpit seat to find the marina mini-channel, and I finally berthed at 12am.

I woke up at 5am to enormous winds, as Constellation was locked against the pontoon by the gusts. I sat in bed thinking that I wouldn’t be going anywhere that day… It was a favourable Northerly wind, which is becoming increasingly rare, as the winds have changed already to predominantly South, yet it was too strong with a large swell. I sat in the marina confident the next day would yield something more sailable. I defiantly left at 10am with a fairly brisk Southerly wind, and exited the Ijmuiden breakwater. To my shock, the swell was enormous. A 36ft Bavaria yacht came up from behind, being thrown around like a rag-doll. They looked at me quizzically and motored on. My little 10hp diesel was doing 1.2kts against a headwind and 4m swell. I battled to raise the mainsail and began heading towards Den Haag (The Hague). The sail increased stability slightly, but moving South with the swell coming from a South Westerly direction proved impossible - I neared broaching still running at 1-2kts of speed. The windvane was struggling to steer a course, because the freshly made knots in the steering lines had tightened up, therefore putting too much slack on the tiller. I eventually gave up after spending two hours just getting 1.5nm off the breakwater. Turning around I was back into less choppy waters within 15minutes, doing 7kts under a second reefed mainsail. I was annoyed returning, but I’ve vowed to sail conservatively, to conserve myself and the boat - I have nothing much to prove on the front of small boat heavy weather sailing, and the less I break on the boat, the less money I have to spend, and the further I can go.

I don’t like the North Sea at all, and would never wish upon anyone to have to sail it in a small vessel. Today it is a small ships warning, with some kind of front moving down from Germany. Tomorrow does not look much better, however Saturday may be the one I can finally move on. I can see at this rate, it will take me a very long time to progress South. My primary aim right now is to just get out of Northern Europe ASAP, yet with this weather, which seems like an early winter, I may spend considerable time wasting away in marinas…! At least I will finally get to finish Moby Dick.

nick.

I’m back in The Netherlands after my short sojourn in Berlin. It was nice to see everyone and say goodbye, and in a sense also hard to leave - Living in Berlin was not always easy, but I had built up a network of friends, and over the past year and a half it’s been the closest thing to home.

I arrived at 5:30am in Amsterdam, slept for most of the day, paid to stay for another night and left on Sunday with my new found Swedish friends Paul and Lisa to Monnickendam, a four hour motor north in the Markermeer. It wasn’t without mishap when my engine overheated, which I suspect was caused by a blockage in the cooling system from the day of motoring through green algae on the canals. I wasn’t prepared to sail, but Constellation hove-to perfectly under poles which allowed me to get things setup and hank on the foresail. I opened the engine compartment and sailed for a couple of hours, and thankfully the engine was cool enough to motor into the marina.

It’s a very nice marina here, however the primary difference to the Sixhaven, in Amsterdam and here, is that it’s a commercial marina. A lot of marina’s along the canals are actually sailing clubs, so the prices are always cheap. I am currently in negotiations to offer my cleaning services in exchange for a berth, which is actually showing some promise, as I am now playing the waiting game and cannot really move about.

A lot of people have asked why I wanted to go to Hamburg, because if you look at a map, you’ll notice that it’s actually the wrong direction. Back in the heyday of this project, I envisioned I would have more money, more time, and I would have been back in Hamburg in July, and left for Australia soon after. The point of Hamburg was to sail with Johannes, and to also start my trip from Germany. Unfortunately I couldn’t get things together quick enough, and the honest truth was that Hamburg had become the place to sit for winter, therefore delaying my trip by almost a year. I was fixed in my mind there was no other option, which was also why I didn’t mind dawdling in the Dutch canals for so long - It’s almost been a month since I left England.

When I arrived in Rotterdam, I changed plans again: Rotterdam was as nice as city as any, and they had work for English speakers. I was coerced (rather easily, I really wanted to keep sailing!) to move to Amsterdam, where I even went for a job interview. I felt sick at the thought of living as I have for another year, and working at a desk through a cold winter. Amsterdam seemingly had decent work opportunities, and in my head it was the right thing to do - Stay and work. But in my heart, all I’ve wanted to do is keep going.

Thanks to the extreme generosity of my friend Nathan, who called last week out of the blue, I gained some financial hope and decided I could do it. He was sitting in an Internet cafe in Thailand, on his very own holiday, telling me I could do it, and what was my bank account number, because he was going to send some money through. I couldn’t believe my luck, because his call was on the deepest day of my depression over the whole situation - I couldn’t leave the cabin of the boat, and I stopped answering pestering calls from recruiters. One of the pieces of equipment I required was self-steering - There was absolutely no way I could sail singlehanded without some kind of steering equipment. How would I go down below to navigate, to sleep, and to eat? I decided I would simply buy an electronic tiller pilot and leave.

Later in the day, I told my friend Marty, who is both a good friend and also a business partner - Together we run Serversaurus.com, yet the reality is, I’m always flittering about, and he does all the work. Already Marty has donated personal funds to this mad project, and once he heard I was leaving, he decided Serversaurus.com should sponsor me, and promptly sent the funds to purchase an EPIRB, which is now hopefully on route in the mail.

I also must thank Paul and Lisa, who donated the inverter which is now powering my laptop to make this post. Soon to be world sailors themselves, they’ve taken me out for drinks, fed me dinner and been great company while in Holland. For my Amsterdam stay, thank you also to Peter, a fellow sailor who has helped me out with transport cards, dinner, beer, a place to send mail, and incredible hospitality. The Netherlands has been very good to me.

Back on to technical matters, I’ve been trying to decide over the past week about which tillerpilot to buy, and the reality is, I might get a ways down the coast on it, but it’s not a viable solution in the long run. So I’ve gone out and sold my final valuable asset, which I have been avoiding for an exceptionally long time: My beloved camera. At the end of the day, it is a replaceable object, and in a sense, this project isn’t - It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, with enormous amounts of energy behind it.

With some help from Peter at Windpilot, I have purchased a Windvane for Constellation. I have been pestering Peter for almost a year about Windvanes, and finally something has happened. It has taken almost every last Euro I have, and dealing with the cost of having a stainless mounting bracket made for the transom, I will almost completely deplete my remaining funds. I have nothing left to sell, and no hidden stores of money… I’ll be leaving with a fully equipped boat, and literally not a penny! But the moral of the story is, I’m going, and that’s all that matters. If you live in Holland, and can tig weld, I need you!

Time is now of the essence, the trees are beginning to change colour, the mornings are definitely colder, and I still need to barrel back down the North Sea to wait for a weather window for Biscay, who’s ideal crossing period was at least a month ago. It’s through the generosity of long time friends and new ones, that has meant I will actually be departing. Thank you all.

nick

After explaining to a friendly Englishman in Zeebrugge about the plan to move into the canals, he disappeared into his boat and came out with a stack of charts. He exclaimed ‘this should get you to Hamburg’ - I couldn’t believe such luck! Enormous thanks to the man in the Dufour 40, for parting with an expensive set of charts.

I helped Johannes into Rotterdam with all his equipment, and saw him off back to Hamburg. It was sad to see him go, but it had to be, and I was glad the trip could still continue, even if it meant meandering through the canals. I called my good friend Ben in Germany, who managed to create the time to come over and accompany me for a few days aboard to Rotterdam. It wasn’t without mishap, when I grounded Constellation because I was concentrating more on keeping nice wind on the sails, than staying within the channel markers on the Oosterschelde however… Enormous thanks to the two unknown Belgian sailors who came to our rescue, literally minutes after my poor helming. Ben suprisingly volunteered (or as skipper did I overexert my power and demand it? I can’t remember!) to jump in and retrieve the tow-line. With us leaning on the boom and ‘August’ the Yanmar engine in full reverse, a few tugs had us back on our way.

I spent another few days in Rotterdam, contemplating the idea of getting work. I was quickly influenced to continue further north when two friends flew over from England to join the trip. We motored out of Rotterdam and made good time to the outskirts of Amsterdam within a few days. While my charts are spectacular, it seems the one from Dordrecht to Amsterdam went AWOL, and navigation consisted of asking people which way to go, and referring to a road map of sorts.

Outside of Amsterdam we had to wait until 1am for a bridge to open and let us into the city, after which nine more bridges were opened in succession. It was surreal moving through the middle of the night with 15 or so other yachts, who were also following the ‘Standing Mast Route’ (the route which allows you to keep your mast up).

So here I am, in Amsterdam… I’ve run out of money, and am trying to find work… I desperately wish I could just keep sailing. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, and tomorrow I’m going to move out of the marina and live with the other boats taking advantage of free mooring along the inside of a canal in northern Amsterdam - I didn’t quite think my trip would end under such circumstances so soon, being moored up as a gypsy (literally) and becoming terrified of the oncoming winter, but there you go.

I fear the day counter at the top of this page is nothing more than a countdown to nothing at the moment… But I’ll keep trying - The Bay of Biscay can still be crossed within the next month, contrary to popular thinking, and with some kind of self-steering I don’t see why it couldn’t be done.

nick.