As you may have heard… W E M A D E I T. We made it. We made it. We made it. My enthusiasm for landfall deserves copious amounts of exclamation points, but there is something about a vertical dash and a dot that just doesn’t cut it. It’s like when you don’t know how to thank someone, because the words alone simply aren’t not enough. To hold down the shift key and “1” for ten seconds straight, is not enough. I tried it, I don’t like the way it looks.
Please trust, that we are beyond happy to have completed our Atlantic crossing safely, with a floating classic yawl in tact, and a relationship that in my opinion, has been sealed with 5200.
Landfall was made in the Isles of Scilly on July 12. We arrived to anchor in the dark hours of the night and woke to the sub-tropical western islands of England. The smell of earth, flowers and moss. High pitched dinghy engines and laughing terns. English accents echoing from animal cracker shaped rocks. Swinging in circles about a cyan bay. My life could have ended on that very morning. Full to the very top with delight. Foaming over the rim and dripping down the sides. I’ve never felt so drunk when I was so sober.
I have a lot to share with everyone. It will take a few posts to get it all out. I thought I’d start with the numbers for my sailors who understand their significance, and for my dreamers who are hungry to comprehend.
S T A T I S T I C S //
2107 nautical miles traveled
5.2 knot average boat speed (meh, ok)
11.6 knot top boat speed (YESSSS)
0 knot lowest boat speed (banging my head against the bulkhead)
45 knot highest wind velocity
38 knot highest gust with spinnaker still up (oops)
15 feet highest waves
3 days of sun
14 days of gray
8 days rain / mist (gross)
3 ice bergs
6 cargo ships
2 days headwind
3 days becalmed
16 days with Penny at the helm (self steering Hydrovane)
5 tacks / gybes
2 accidental gybes (I’ll take the blame)
10 HydeSail changes (Luke can take the credit)
9 reefs (I got better at this)
102 watch changes (I never got better at this)
3 salt water baths (bur)
56 gallons of water (drinking /cooking only)
56 Engine hours (battery charging and becalmed nights)
21 gallons of diesel
14 lbs of propane
32 beers (ran out too quickly)
3 cartons of eggs
5 loafs of bread
5 medium size bags of rubbish
6 rolls of toilet paper
907 photos taken (less than expected)
34 pages hand written (more than expected)
1 halyard lost at sea (I blame Luke)
1 headlamp lost at sea (I blame Luke)
1 small tear in spinnaker
I can’t count how many times I shed a few tears, or laughed. I can’t count how many times I threw up, or spilled food everywhere. I can’t count how many times I wished it was over, or how many times I never wanted it to end. I can’t count how many dolphins, seabirds or the amount of phosphorescence. I can’t count how much I learned, or how many hours I did absolutely nothing. For 17 days we played a card game of patience and strategy. It was a long game. I’d like to think we won. Yeah. I think we won.
DAY 1 //
The night before cast off we shove our bodies into the starboard side berth and try to sleep for three hours. We shift around puzzle piecing ourselves until we find a fit. Neither of us sleep well. But it feels nice to be close.
At 3:45 am my alarm confirms the thing I’ve been waiting to have confirmed since February. It’s time to cross the ocean. I stand up to turn the kettle on an arms length away, scooping generous amounts of coffee into the french press. In need of a strong brew. Out of my peripheral vision I catch a shooting star which arcs so far across the morning sky that I have time to twist my head and follow all the way to the horizon. I take this in as a welcome token from the sea. I thank it, and carry on with my morning regime. By 4:09 am, we push the bow off of the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club dock. No one is around to wave good bye. Secretly I am thankful for this.
I surprise myself in feeling nothing. As if we are departing for another day trip. I’m not necessarily excited. My tummy isn’t churning. I do not feel fear. I oddly don’t feel much. Five months of anticipation and I have exhausted myself of every emotion. I feel ready, that’s all. I am ready. I don’t cry (surprising) I don’t gaze back at the docks as if it’s the last land I will ever see (surprising) I don’t look ahead to the expanse of the sea and shit myself (very surprising) I don’t look at Luke to check on his emotional status (not surprising considering his emotions are flat lined 93% of the time) We drink coffee and listen to the local radio station. We glide forward through Conception Bay under the stars and wait for the wind. What I don’t yet know, is that the next 17 days will consist of nothing but waiting.
The sunrise back lights the rugged Newfoundland Coast. I take notes on it’s beauty but don’t linger for long in concern of experiencing any kind of land attachment. I unwind and strip off layers of clothes as the sun cultivates heat. By the time it summits I am naked. This is without question, the hottest day we have encountered. The breeze light as one could release from their own lungs. The sails snap full with air, and then fall slack, over and over again. At 2.5 knots, this could take a while. I download a weather forecast from Mazu, curious to see when the wind will come.
Three ice bergs float the horizon, and appear contradictory to the days temperatures. I check the water temp, its one degree above freezing. This confirms that yes, they are indeed going nowhere fast. They shine shockingly white. Each one appears and disappears into the swells. They are a kind reminder to keep alert. We have 300 miles until exiting the ice limit.
A duo of Puffins awkwardly skim the surface. Their geometric faces are separated by blocks of black and white, trimmed with sherbet orange beaks. They are littler than I expect, cuter than I expect, and I wish deeply that I could keep one. But they are monogamous and I couldn’t bare to take one from another so that means I will have to keep two. I wonder what Luke will think when he wakes to Puffin pets on my shoulders.
Minke whales surface as we pass Cape St. Francis in a pod of two, one dorsal fin next to another. These animals in pairs assure me that traveling in a pair is in fact, enough. That Luke and I being double handed, will be just fine, we are enough too.
I don’t notice when the coastline disappears. When I finally register that I won’t be seeing land for weeks It doesn’t bother me. I’m almost relieved. We are simply along the ride now. I see the next ice berg on the horizon, and adjust Penny to steer straight for it.
It takes 3 hours to reach the berg. We sail questionably close to it’s storybook features . Utopian in its figure. Classic in it’s coloring. Inviting in the way you envision having a picnic on it’s timeless slopes. I want to stay and explore. I want to peer under the sea to understand its entirety. At the same time it’s making me nervous. It’s beauty intimidating, the kind that makes an entire room go quiet. I feel privileged to be in it’s presence. We watch it undulate in and out of the sea, as long as we possibly can.
A hump back whale breaches 1/4 mile to port. It launches from the sea dropping my jaw and lifting my arm to point. My reaction startles Luke as he reckons something is wrong, but he sees it before crash landing the surface. It’s size immeasurable. It’s power inconceivable. It’s brief moment on stage striking.
I can’t add up the glories of one single day one. It’s doesn’t feel right to be gifted so many things in less than 24 hours. I feel a very subtle shift in my gut. I know how these things tend to balance out. As my first grave yard shift begins the subtle shift takes a sharp turn. Upwards. Outwards. Stuck in between the back of my throat, threatening to come out of my nostrils. I am sick. Again. Again. And again. I put water in. It comes back up. I put a cracker in. It comes back up. Ginger ale. Comes back up. What does it want, quarters? I prevent myself from trying this. Someone has hooked up a macerator pump to my mouth and is pressing the button. Over 4 hours I drain my body of everything that is not securely attached to the walls of my stomach. I move onto dry heaving and count down the minutes till I can wake Luke up.
Good morning Luke. Want a kiss? Your turn.
Results of a gale while tied up to a fishing dock in Newfoundland.
Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club sunset.
Getting my next lesson in mechanics. Torquing cylinder heads and spacing valves.
Luke, taking apart winches
Result of drawer flying out on port tack.
Provisions. Not including beer, juice, water, canned goods.
DEAR NEWFOUNDLAND // I want to extend the greatest of thank you’s to the Royal Newfoundland Yacht club, one of its commodores Mark Wareham, his wife Kerri, and a handful of it’s kind members who went above and beyond to make us feel welcome. They did such a grand job of making us feel at home and helping us prepare for our crossing, that it was very difficult to sail away. I have a lot to say about Newfoundland. Luke and I fell in love with it. Kindest people I have ever met in my life. I thought I was nice. Now I’m starting to think I need to step it up. We will be back. Above every place I’ve landed since Michigan, I recommend the RNYC first. Despite Newfoundlands notorious fog, icebergs, and labrador temperatures, it’s a m u s t. Don’t miss it.