Atlantic Circuit Ten Years On

TEN YEARS ON

Our first Atlantic Circuit in Island Drifter, our 37ft cutter-rigged Countess ketch, was in 2000.  We acquired the boat in June 1999 from Steve and Helen Grover, who originally purchased the hull from Cygnus Marine in Penryn. Steve is an experienced marine engineer.  He and Helen fitted out the boat within three years before sailing it to the Mediterranean and then returning through the French canals.   Although we had done a fair amount of sailing before we bought her, Island Drifter is the first and only yacht we have owned.  A summary of our first Circuit was included in two articles in the Countess magazine in 2000.  

Since then, apart from periodically sailing our own boat, Mike has covered over 65,000 miles as skipper on deliveries and sailing school boats, including six Atlantic crossings.  I have joined him on some deliveries but have been somewhat selective in terms of the boats and locations!

Last time when preparing for sea we simply used common sense and followed the checklists and advice included in Beth Leonard’s excellent book “The Voyager’s Handbook”.   The majority of our time and effort was spent checking gear and purchasing the 501 items “you should have” when long- distance cruising.  As a consequence we almost needed a trailer to carry everything that we were “supposed” to take.

Over the last ten years we have modified Island Drifter and her contents to reflect changes in technology, our own experience and personal preferences.  We have added storm and light-weight sails, an SSB transceiver, Iridium satellite phone, GMDSS VHF, Raymarine navigation instruments, electronic charts and Weatherfax on a new laptop, Navtex, Radar, a Radar detector, an Autohelm 7000 (to complement the Hydrovane), electric windlass, 12v water-maker, and a parachute anchor and drogue. 

We recently brought ourselves into the 21^st century with the purchase of an iPod which we loaded with nine days’ worth of music and which plays, wirelessly, through the boat’s speakers, or independently with headphones if one person wants to listen on their own.  By doing so, we were able to free up a vast amount of storage space that was previously taken up with a TV, video, tape and CD deck – not to mention all the CDs, tapes and videos. DVDs can be watched on the laptop.

On our first voyage power was a constant problem.  The introduction of an upgraded wind generator and solar panels, a towed water generator, a larger alternator and regulator, plus LED lights and masthead bulbs have virtually overcome this problem.  There were even stages on the trip when we turned lights on to consume excess power.  Mast steps and running rigging have been the only significant changes made on deck – although we have replaced standing rigging wire and re-coppered the hull since these were both ten years old.  The boat, which was beautifully constructed and finished by Steve and Helen, remains, however, fundamentally the same.

We delayed deciding to go on our second Circuit until September (somewhat late in the season!) because Mike wanted to make sure that he was fully fit following prostate cancer surgery.  By way of training we spent a busy summer sailing on various coasts in the UK in our Wayfarer, after which it was all systems go.  We took six weeks getting Island Drifter ready in Ipswich prior to leaving on 26 October 2009. Fortunately the weather was excellent while we were getting ready and at least this time we knew what we were doing and took considerably less gear with us.

We had a great sail to Falmouth, getting there just as the winter gales and rain arrived. It was a good sea trial. Just what was needed.  The gales continued for the next eight days, keeping us in port doing jobs we found we should have done in Ipswich.  We originally planned to cross Biscay and go straight down to Lagos in one go without stopping in order to make up for our late departure.  However, given the appalling long-range forecast we concluded that our best option was to work our way round the Bay as weather windows permitted. 

We finally left Falmouth on 8 November, making a dash for France in a F7 northerly.  This was forecast to drop during the night, which it did.   We then had a very enjoyable warm sail through the Chanel du Four and Raz du Seine, where we caught both tidal gates spot-on. Even so, one appreciated what a rough area this can be if you get it wrong. 

We sailed south from our first stop in Audierne, as the weather permitted, in stages to La Rochelle.  There we perceived a four-day weather window and set out with a view to slipping round Cape Finisterre before the next gale. Unfortunately it turned out to be a three-day window and we had to heave-to off the Cape to let a gale pass.  Not a problem. We battened down the hatches, put the anchor light and radar detector on, drank coffee and brandy, went to bed and read to pass the time.  On a couple of occasions Spanish trawlers came up to us – presumably looking for salvage opportunities!  We eventually had to back-track and pulled into Ribadeo in Galicia, northwest Spain, to what is described in the pilot book as an “all-weather harbour”.  

Next morning six-metre Hawaiian-style waves were breaking across the whole of the entrance to the estuary. Even two days later, when we left at the same time as an American delivery crew on a catamaran they were taking through the Panama Canal to San Diego, we had to thread our way out through breaking surf.  They, incidentally, were the only boat we met going south until we reached the Canaries.  We were clearly the last of the swallows!

We continued to work our way around the northwest corner of Spain before we at last rounded Finisterre and picked up the traditional northerly winds, which enabled us to pole out for three days and bowl down the Portuguese coast to Lisbon. There the wind died and we had to start motoring.   Soon after, our engine alarm went off and we quickly discovered that the fresh-water pump pulley had sheered off. 

We sailed the remaining 150 miles to Lagos in the Algarve, around Cape St Vincent, in very light winds under the spinnaker alone. We even had to anchor at night close to the beach under sail.  I had never been a great fan of the spinnaker, but after it came to our rescue it’s now my best friend.

In the 37 days since we’d left Ipswich we had covered 1650 miles and were weatherbound for a total of twenty-two days in twelve ports.   Arguably that’s what comes from leaving too late in the season.

Next morning we were towed into Sopramar, Lagos’s excellent boatyard, and remained there on one of their pontoons for two weeks, working on the boat and generally appreciating Portugal at our leisure while waiting for the replacement part.  In particular we enjoyed visiting the fish restaurants in the docks where, for under €7 each, we could eat grilled sardines, floury steamed potatoes and salad, together with a jug of house wine.  The sardines kept coming until one said stop.  We noticed on the wall that one individual claimed to have eaten 46 sardines at one sitting!  Mike’s best was ten.

Once the replacement pulley had been fitted we moved into the marina since our original plan to reach the Canaries for Christmas had now become unachievable. 

The marina is not known as Port Velcro for nothing.  There is a sizeable community of British boat owners living aboard there during the winter.  We were made most welcome by everyone and participated in the community’s various Christmas activities: carol singing around the marina and its bars; a six-course dinner dance; Christmas Day swim (in the sea); Christmas lunch and an organised guided walk along the coast.  Throughout this period, we were entertained and did a lot of entertaining with other crews whom we got to know well and have kept in touch with. 

Cruising is a life style where you cannot take your time to make friends.  You have to be bold and take the initiative. Most cruisers are interesting people and good company.

Our son Will and his girlfriend Lesley joined us for New Year.  We hired a car for sightseeing and also made, at their insistence, a sail down the coast to Vilamoura and back again next day – both trips, amazingly, on a run!

We finally left Lagos for the Canaries on 7 January 2010 and took six days to complete the 700-mile passage. Unfortunately we got caught in a Force 9 for nearly three days.  On one occasion we heaved-to simply for a rest and on another we got knocked down completely flat at night by breaking waves.  Mike, who was on watch in the cockpit at the time and was left hanging from his lifeline, said that Island Drifter bounced upright after twenty seconds or so, shook herself like a wet dog and then continued sailing on the Hydrovane as if nothing had happened. I was in the saloon and ended up upside down being bombarded by the contents of a cupboard that broke open.  I am still finding grains of sugar from a packet that exploded against the electrical control panel at the chart table. My first thought on seeing the white mess was that a fire extinguisher had gone off.

We made landfall in the Canaries in Santa Cruz, the capital and principal port of La Palma, a small island to the extreme west of the archipelago.  As we approached after three days of warm-weather sailing, the air was laden with the scent of almond blossom.   We went there, like many seafarers before us, because the island is one of only two in the Canaries that has good quality drinking water on tap and fresh “unchilled” fruit and vegetables available.  The island is described as the most beautiful of the Canaries. It has no beaches, so it attracts only eco-tourists and hikers.

We hired a car and toured the island. Canary pines, which grow in odd tufted shapes, covered most of the upper slopes of the island, and plantations of bananas completely dominated the lower slopes. The weather was glorious so we walked up part of the GR route to the island’s 7500ft summit and were rewarded by breathtaking views of the adjacent islands and a vertical drop into the enormous caldera itself. 

In the 180-berth new marina where we stayed there were only four yachts.  I spent two days there repairing by hand the sails and sprayhood which were damaged in our knock-down.  The “Speedy Stitcher” lent to us by a Dutch cruiser was invaluable for this task.  We now have one of our own!  One of the other four yachts, Pico, was owned by Ingrid and Fritz, a German couple who were on their way to Patagonia, after recently coming back through the Panama Canal to Europe following a number of years in the Pacific.  They kindly gave us a send-off breakfast.  No Branflakes for them – we were treated to an exceptionally lavish “Continental” spread of meats, cheeses, eggs, guacamole, three different kinds of bread, fresh fruit, juice and proper coffee. 

Our Atlantic crossing from the Canaries was a bit of a doddle after the gale-ridden trip from the UK. Most of the time we had winds of between 15 and 20 knots from well behind the beam. We sailed mostly with twin poled-out headsails (to protect the mainsail); during the day we had blue skies with trade-wind “Puffing Billy” clouds and a cooling breeze; at night we were privileged, without light pollution, to see the full panoply of stars and planets.

We quickly slipped into the easygoing rhythm of trade-wind sailing: three-hour watches; four light meals a day; each evening a glass of wine (or two) before supper as we watched the sun go down, and on one occasion we even saw the fabled green flash. Special events (crossing the Tropic of Cancer, the granddog’s birthday, etc.) were celebrated with a G&T.  Halfway across, Mike caught a 30lb tuna.  I filleted it on the cockpit seat because it was far too long for the galley worktop.  It yielded pan-fried steaks, noisettes, salade nicoise, ceviche and fish cakes and fed us for a week!

It took 26 days to complete the 2,600-mile crossing from the Canaries. Not bad for us, given the conditions.  By this stage we had covered 4,900 miles since leaving Ipswich three and a half months previously.

Our arrival in Barbados on the beach in Carlisle Bay was not exactly as we would have planned.  Our dinghy was rolled in the surf and we had to drag it up the powdery white sand beach with as much dignity as we could muster, given the amusement we had just provided to the fifty patrons on the veranda of the local beach bar.   Our first rum punch at the bar tasted excellent regardless of our drenched condition.

We were particularly fortunate in being allowed temporary membership of the Barbados Yacht Club and free use of a buoy throughout our stay.  The Club is based in an imposing old Colonial building with oleander-lined paths leading to a large open-air restaurant and bar right on the edge of Carlisle Bay beach.  We enjoyed one of their outstandingly good Sunday barbecues there on Valentine’s Day.

One of the first people we met in the Club was Major Mike Hartland, a British ex-pat who had led a Barbados infantry company into Grenada when Reagan sent in the US Marines to get rid of the Cubans in 1983.  He has since, on behalf of the Government, amassed and refurbished a fantastic collection of cannon from the island’s forts.  Some of the guns are unique and date back to Cromwell’s time. Major Mike has now become a local historian and guide of distinction. He kindly gave us a private tour of the military museum in which his cannon are housed. 

He also invited us with some of his friends to watch a Six Nations Rugby match at his home – an apartment in a wonderful ramshackle wooden Bajan house situated right on the edge of one of the few remaining undeveloped beaches on the south-west of the island. Fully protected from the prevailing Atlantic wind it was a real gem of a property and location.  Humming birds flitted about in the bougainvillea spilling down his veranda, over which adjacent palm trees provided shade.  He’s lived there for thirty years with a priceless, unsurpassable view.

We explored the island using the local minibus taxis that cost 40p for any journey, whatever its length. We didn’t even need to hail one – the assumption was that anyone walking in the sun must be in need of transport.  After over a week of sundowning at the Club’s bar, we became a bit worried when the bar staff began to remember our names and what was our “usual” – a Rum Collins for Mike and a Bentley for me (Rum Collins without the rum).  Time to move on…

The 110-mile, 20-hour sail to St Lucia was on a beam reach in moderate winds and waves.  We had already decided to make the island our initial base since it was in the centre of the Lesser Antilles, had a good international airport which we needed for our own return flight to the UK and for friends due to visit, plus it had a secure marina in which to leave the boat while we were back in the UK for a week. 

Since we were there on and off for nearly three months we got to know the island quite well.  Its charm lies in its spectacular uninhabited jungle-covered mountains, magnificent west coast beaches and its unspoilt villages.  We stayed in Rodney Bay at the northwest corner of the island, in either the recently renovated (to hurricane-proof standards?) marina in the lagoon, on a private pontoon or anchored in the bay itself.  We much preferred the latter, with cooling breezes, no fees and no mosquitoes or “no see ums”.  

WIFI is almost universally obtainable – a great aid to communications.  Even out at anchor we were able to pick up WIFI from one of the hotels along the beach.  Ten years ago getting on to the Internet was always a difficult affair and keeping tabs on one’s bank account, for example, was almost impossible. 

With a view to moving on from just SSB weatherfaxes to getting sat phone (only) e mail communications and weather information when at sea, we signed up with Mailasail but found that the connection to Iridium was too unreliable.  Unlike Sailmail, which appears to be specifically designed for use with a flaky connection, on either an SSB or sat phone (and with which other cruisers seem to be happy), Mailasail, when operated with Iridium, would get us halfway through a transmission, then the signal would drop.  To add insult to injury we were then charged for abortive air time.

From Rodney Bay we used communal minibus taxis to travel around the island and also sailed along the west coast exploring the bays.   The ones we liked the most were Marigot Bay, and the bay between the Pitons.  These are two volcanic plugs which have become the national emblem of St Lucia. The whole area is a marine and nature reserve and it is quite stunning.

We also visited by car the volcano near Soufrière with Murray and Caroline, a couple on their way to New Zealand.  Together we braved a mud bath and rinse in the very hot water issuing from the natural sulphur springs, before a cool bathe in one of the old tiled 18^th-century pools said to have been used by the Empress Josephine.  Murray and Caroline are both diving instructors; not surprisingly therefore we managed to squeeze in a bit of quality snorkelling in Chastanet Bay just north of Soufrière. 

During the day we drove through a series of picturesque fishing villages, each in its own bay, with wooden shingled “gingerbread” houses painted in vibrant colours.  They were not always brilliantly maintained but were nevertheless very attractive. Driving back at night we passed through the same villages. Without street lighting and with the locals congregating in groups on the pavements, the whole scene looked rather dodgy and we did not hang around.

We (that is the Royal “we”) lost our dinghy and outboard while in Rodney Bay.  Thankfully, I was not the one who tied it to the guardrail with a temporary slipknot – and then forgot to secure it later.  By now it’s probably in Panama, a thousand miles away.  As it happens, Mike had always wanted to change the dinghy and outboard to a more powerful combination better suited to larger bays and anchorages – but could not justify the cost (even to himself).  He now felt justified in buying an upgraded replacement – a 3.5m dinghy with inflatable floor and keel, together with a 10 hp Tohatsu 2-stroke engine (something you can no longer obtain in the UK).  Mike is now able to plane at speed and keep up with the “big boys”. 

As part of the deal on the new dinghy we negotiated free berthing for a fortnight on the supplier’s private pontoon, which was shared with Scuba Steve’s Diving School. We found that the downside to this arrangement was that we were right on the edge of Gros Islet, the ghetto area where drug running and crime are a serious problem and bodies appear at intervals!  Indeed, the police had apprehended one local criminal in daylight on the property itself six weeks earlier.  One of Steve’s divers was asked to recover the gun he had fired and thrown into the sea.  This diver was currently in safe custody pending the gunman’s trial!  

We, however, felt relatively safe since the compound was guarded by four dogs which appeared able to know whom to trust – and conversely whom not to!  We got on fine with them but soon learnt that they had a mean reputation with the locals.  Butch, the dog in the adjacent property, which hired out jet skis, was held in even greater respect having allegedly seriously mauled an intruder.

Ten years ago, after half an hour’s appalling instruction in the BVI, I had chickened out and didn’t complete a scuba “resort” dive.  At the time I was seriously tempted to fell the 18-year-old Canadian instructor Brock (never trust a boy named after a badger) when he tried to console me with the platitude: “Never mind, my mom can’t hack it either.” 

While berthed on their pontoon I had got to know the chief diving instructor Shirley, Steve’s wife and an ex-UK primary school headmistress, who encouraged me to try again.  This time, with proper instruction I cracked it, completed the full PADI Open Water course, and from then on I was hooked.  I can now hire equipment or dive with a school anywhere in the world.  

We took the opportunity while based in St Lucia of going north to Martinique, which we had missed out on in 2000 and which was only some 20 miles away.  Since returning to the UK we’ve discovered that our Round Robin Newsletter No 7, covering our time in Martinique, which we had sent to friends including Peter Coy, was printed in the Countess Association’s Spring newsletter.  It was in more detail than this article, and I won’t therefore bore you by repeating any of it. 

After nearly a month in Martinique we returned to St Lucia to meet up with Ian and Ginny, friends we met through the Wayfarer Dinghy Association, and sailed with them south in one 24-hour passage to Grenada.  In the absence of a suitable anchorage we stayed in the new Camper & Nicholson marina of Port St Louis, in a lagoon in the corner of St George’s Bay.  The development very tastefully incorporates Caribbean colours and architecture with modern boating facilities immediately to hand.  The pontoons are supposedly hurricane-resistant – time will tell.

The city of St George’s, Grenada’s capital, is divided by a steep ridge running down to the bay. The two halves of the town are connected by a long, low 19^th-century tunnel without pavements, which in true Caribbean style is shared by both vehicles and pedestrians.  (UK Elf ’n’ Safety, eat your heart out.)  Colourful houses on either side of the ridge mingle with shrubs and trees.  Many of the houses and commercial properties along the waterfront are constructed of English brick – a legacy of the days when bricks were used as ballast on ships coming from the UK.

The atmosphere in Grenada is more laid back and friendly than in St Lucia where we felt that many locals still had a serious chip on their shoulder.  Mike even felt quite comfortable going to downtown St George’s and having his hair cut by a large Rastafarian.  This was such a unique occurrence that his friend just had to take a photo of a “whitey’s” hair being cut!  It was a good haircut but I’m not sure that dreadlocks really suit Mike...

We discovered that many of the beautiful villas spread around the island were owned by Grenadans who had made their fortunes in England.  Mike was at a bus stop some way out of town one day talking to a local who turned out to be a senior manager on the London Underground.  He was in Grenada in his villa on holiday. He insisted on paying Mike’s bus fare into town!  Obviously he felt sorry for Mike, dressed as he was in cruiser’s uniform of a creased T-shirt, shorts and sandals.

I, incidentally, was designated “shore” captain when we arrived anywhere. Normally one had to report to three or four officials each with their own set of forms, the details of which were usually identical but in a slightly different order.  Clearing in or out in the ex-British islands could take a couple of hours and cost a bomb.  Compare this with the French islands where there were no charges, one could clear in and out simultaneously (for short visits), input the necessary information into a computer and deal with one official all in the space of less than ten minutes.  Not surprisingly, Mike, after our last trip, had neither the inclination nor the patience to deal with Caribbean bureaucrats who are generally, but not always, thought to be less awkward with women.

While in Grenada, as a break from sailing, we hiked for seven hours across the island through the rainforest to see the Concord Falls – one of the highest waterfalls in the Caribbean. The terrain was quite challenging, consisting of both primary and secondary jungle criss-crossed by tumbling streams.  We only just made it back, muddy and exhausted, to the western coastal road before night fell. 

After a few days we sailed slowly back north from Grenada on our way through the Grenadines – giving the active undersea volcano north of Grenada a very wide berth.  The highlight of this part of the trip was the two days we spent in the Tobago Cays. From afar the area is a kaleidoscope of brown, gold, turquoise and deep blue.  The cays themselves comprise half a dozen very small, uninhabited islands with sparkling white sand beaches. The whole area is surrounded by a six-mile horseshoe coral reef.  The water inside the reef is relatively shallow with coral outcrops in the sand – perfect snorkelling conditions.  While snorkelling, we saw, apart from the usual colourful fish and corals, some enormous turtles grazing on sea grasses.  

We also stopped in Carriacou where we made two drift dives with Arawak Diving, run by a German couple who have been there sixteen years. Then Mustique, where we drank at Basil’s Bar, said to be an “in” place for the jet set; and finally Bequia where the islanders are famous for their long-distance fishing trips in open long boats which are built on the beach under the shade of the palm trees, and for their active whaling industry which is permitted to catch four whales per year using traditional hand-held harpoons. 

Because of its poor reputation regarding security and aggressive boat boys, we gave St Vincent a miss. As it happened, Ian and Ginny wanted to do another overnight sail, so we left from Bequia and bypassed St Vincent for St Lucia.  There we anchored and took them in by dinghy to Vieux Fort, a small colourful wooden town adjacent to St Lucia’s international airport.  They were extremely lucky that their flight was the first out of the island after the Icelandic volcanic ash debacle. 

We finally left St Lucia for Domenica to the north, where we anchored in the bay at Roseau, the capital.  Ten years ago we’d visited two of the principal inland attractions: a row up the Indian River through the enormous mangrove swamp; and the Boiling Lake which entailed a six-hour uphill hike through the rainforest and Valley of Desolation (steaming with vile sulphur fumes) to the flooded fumarole at the top covered with clouds of vapour.  This time we went to Domenica primarily because of the reputation of its dive sites.  At one such, the Champagne reef, hot air bubbles streamed up all around us from the seabed and it was like swimming in a glass of warm bubbly.  

From Roseau we sailed 180 miles in 36 hours to Saba.  On the way we passed Monserrat, where red-hot lava runs down to the sea from its active volcano.   Saba is a mere five miles square and rises rapidly to a height of almost 3000 feet.   Sheer cliffs climb vertically out of the sea.  The upper hundred feet of Mount Scenery, the island’s summit, which we climbed, remain in almost permanent cloud creating a miniature rainforest at the very top.  Below that the steep slopes are covered with small trees and shrubs alive with the sound of tree frogs and crickets.

This Dutch dependency is spotlessly clean and tidy and calls itself the Unspoiled Queen [of the Caribbean].  All houses have by ordinance to be painted white with green paintwork on doors and windows, with uniform red roofs. Gardens and roadsides are a riot of colour from oleander, flamboyant trees, bougainvillea, hibiscus and Black-Eyed Susan, the national flower.   Saba has a fascinating history. Until quite recently everything brought into the island had to be unloaded from ships at anchor into open long boats, manhandled ashore and then carried up steps, known as The Ladder, carved in the cliff, to the nearest hamlet 2000 feet above. 

Four hamlets have evolved at that level, connected by one road (The Road) which clings to the mountainside – just.  It was constructed over a period of fifteen years under the direction of a local engineer who took a correspondence course in road building, after Dutch civil engineers had deemed it an impossible task.  The locals then went on to build themselves an airport, about the size of an aircraft carrier; again, after Dutch engineers declared it impossible. 

Seventy per cent of the population of 1500 are of European origin. Fishermen were originally attracted in the 17^th century to the island by the abundance of fish on the extensive Saba Bank to the south and the fertility of the inland plateaux around which the hamlets have grown.  The inhabitants have made the absence of beaches a virtue.  Discos and nightclubs are not allowed – but there’s a surprisingly high number of flashy modern cars for a road that is only five miles long!

We made two dives in Saba:  one of over 100 feet down to the top of a 1000- foot pinnacle with vertical sides; the other through a garden of coral and luminous sponges with a swim through an archway.  One evening Mike swam ashore from Island Drifter in Ladder Bay and climbed “The Ladder” – the original route used to embark stores on to the island.   He left it a little late in the day, it took him longer to climb The Ladder than anticipated, and he therefore ended up swimming back to the boat in the pitch dark.  This was the same bay where I had jumped in to do a bit of snorkelling and the first thing I saw below me was a large shark!   I exited the water somewhat faster than I entered it, although I now discover that nurse sharks are “supposedly” quite harmless. 

We reluctantly tore ourselves away from this island paradise.   It took twelve hours, on one tack, to cover the fifty miles to Anguilla.  One has to admit that beating into the wind in a warm, 20-knot breeze is no hardship.   Unlike the other mountainous volcanic islands, Anguilla is low lying with silver sandy beaches. Its dry climate, which previously worked against it in terms of agriculture, has today become the principal reason for the growth of its tourist industry. 

We anchored in Road Bay and met up with David and Kellie, two American friends who now live and work on the island.  They kindly showed us around and helped us to re-provision in two of the excellent supermarkets.  David seemed most amused by my excitement on seeing the range and quality of goods on offer.  However, his description of me as “a kid in the Christmas candy store” was, I thought, a bit OTT…  While there’s a 25% import duty on goods, it appears not to apply to alcohol since liquor in the supermarkets was incredibly cheap.  A 1.75 litre bottle of Mount Gay rum was only £9.  Needless to say we stocked up. 

We spent a very pleasant evening with them and two friends in their apartment on the cliffs overlooking Crocus Bay and the Atlantic.  The following evening they joined us for supper on the boat, when David brought his own ice and limes since he was of the view that Brits were incapable of producing a “proper” G&T.  We were sorry that we had to leave and couldn’t stay to see him play Sunday Jazz at Johnno’s Bar on the beach of Road Bay.

We had a fast downwind overnight sail west from Anguilla to the British Virgin Islands.  The BVI is a popular cruising ground, in particular for charterers who have limited time available. There are well-sheltered, attractive anchorages, all within three hours’ sailing of each other, winds that are constant and steady, clear water in every shade of blue and the sun invariably shines.  Although an autonomous Crown colony, the BVI are today more influenced by America than Europe. The currency is the US Dollar. Not surprisingly, prices are ludicrously high and the locals have become adept at fleecing the two-week charterers.  Having said that, the locals are no worse than MDL marinas in the UK or Cowes visitors’ pontoon!

Initially we went to the Bight on Norman Island with its famous Pirates Bar at the head of the bay.  It is famous in the area for stories of buried treasure being still hidden and undiscovered on the island.  Mike took an early morning walk but didn’t find any. 

We dropped anchor rather than pay someone $30 for a buoy. On double-checking, Mike found that it was well and truly fouled in some large chain on the seabed. We decided that since we were well secured for the night and the water was deeper than Mike could free dive, we would resolve the problem in the morning.  We therefore went ashore for a drink and to watch the sun go down at the mouth of the bay.  It was Happy Hour – two for the price of one – and the location was outstanding.  As we sat ten yards from the water’s edge we even saw a large ray lollop past in the shallows.  We also watched a pelican catching fish. Each time it came up a gull landed on its head and tried to grab a meal from its bill.  The pelican seemed totally unfazed by this appendage!

In the morning the anchor was not as problematical as we had envisaged.  We were pleasantly surprised that the new windlass was powerful enough to raise both our anchor and the chain it was caught up in.  We were then easily able to release the two.  Later that day we hired Scuba equipment for £20 and scrubbed the hull.  It took two hours but was somewhat cheaper than a £180 lift-out! 

In Trellis Bay near Tortola we met up with Graham, a friend from Bermuda staying on his own yacht which Moorings charter out under their livery when he is not using it. After five years’ chartering it was still in immaculate condition and Graham seemed very happy with the arrangement.   After a sundowner on his boat we went to the Last Resort restaurant for dinner with his son and partner who had just arrived from the UK and his friends from Bermuda who were leaving the next day.  Mike felt a little fragile the next morning, putting it down to an excess of nitrogen in his body from the previous day’s diving – I put it down to too much tequila…

Finally we moved on to Jost Van Dyke, the BVI’s most northerly island, in preparation for our forthcoming departure for Bermuda.  The location’s principal claim to fame is its reputation in the sailing community for Foxy’s Bar and restaurant.  We went there to have our last meal out in the Caribbean and were not disappointed – excellent food, good live music, atmosphere and surroundings at reasonable prices. 

Next morning we pulled up the anchor and headed north.  Unfortunately, after a few days a gale established itself between us and Bermuda and we therefore heaved-to for three days until it moved away.  At intervals we made tentative forays north in the vain hope that it might have shifted, before turning back south again. The only consolation was that it all happened around the Tropic of Cancer where traditionally one allows oneself a large G&T to celebrate “crossing the line”.  We were forced to down seven each over the three days!

Finally, the gale moved off and just as we were preparing to continue north, we noticed six large dorado swimming around the boat. They are an extraordinarily beautiful fish, being an iridescent bright yellow and blue.  Mike quickly dropped over the lurid pink plastic squid he uses as bait and jiggled it about in the water. Within five seconds he had hooked a 20lb fish!   It fed us all the way to Bermuda. Dorado is an outstanding fish to eat, with firm white flesh similar to halibut. This time we even tried sashimi with wasabi and loved it – having avoided eating sushi all our lives. 

At the end of our 850-mile, eleven-day passage from the BVI, we had an interesting night entry through the narrow channel bordered by reefs into St George’s Harbour and arrived in Bermuda at midnight.  Next day we walked up the hill to the coast guard control centre where they seemed more than happy to show us their vast array of technical equipment, all designed to prevent serious environmental damage to the islands and the reefs. It was most impressive.  They can see a yacht coming from thirty miles off and you conduct most of the entry procedure over the VHF before arrival. 

With an area of just 20 square miles Bermuda is even smaller than Guernsey.  Lying on the edge of an extinct volcano, it is shaped like a fish hook and comprises seven principal islands joined by bridges and causeways which give the impression that it is one body of land with an attendant throng of picturesque inlets, bays and small islets. Its reefs extend 12 miles off the coast, thereby protecting the islands from the worst of the Atlantic weather. Indeed, it has the most northerly warm-water coral reefs in the world and a mild climate as a result of the Gulf Stream which passes to the north.  Its most striking sights are around the coast with shell-pink sandy beaches and water of a thousand shades of blue, together with the shifting browns and yellows of the reefs.  

One day we were invited as guests by Graham, now returned from the BVI, to the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club where we were not even allowed to purchase a drink as a non-member, since members have monthly accounts and nothing so common as cash changes hands.

I managed to make two dives with the ominously named Triangle Diving.  (Mike, unfortunately, couldn’t participate because of an ear infection.)  One dive was on to the wreck of a cargo ship, the Pelinaion, balanced on a coral reef sixty feet down.  It came to grief in 1940 when the lighthouses had been blacked out to confuse the German U boats.

We left Bermuda after a week and did a “formal” sail-by through the anchorage past sailing friends who gave us a traditional ocean send-off – flags, whistles, horns and salutes. Our departure was reminiscent of when we left the Canaries for the Caribbean ten years ago, when a young Austrian skipper whom we had befriended played “God Save the Queen” on his accordion as we left. It was quite moving given the task ahead of us.

For the first seven days gales to our north forced us to travel east when we wanted to go north-east.  During that week we spent a lot of time using either our lightweight genoa, cruising chute or spinnaker, depending on wind direction, in order to maintain an acceptable speed.   Subsequently a series of gales blew through which could not be avoided.   Rather than heave-to for the forty-eight hours as each of the three caught up and passed us, we kept moving under a spitfire jib and mizzen. This configuration worked well.  On only one occasion did we feel the need to heave-to and that was when the wind went well over 40 knots and we were concerned, when running downwind at night, that the boat might start surfing out of control.   

It was a very different sail from our milk run in January to the Caribbean.  We were in shorts and T-shirts for all of that trip. This time we were adding layers each night until by the time we reached the Azores we were in full wet weather gear.  Seldom during the period of the gales did we venture outside other than to trim the sails and look around to check the boat and the horizon.  We were able to steer from inside using the Autohelm’s remote control. Our Hydrovane, which we consider to be our third member of crew and which normally works 24/7, was given a well-earned holiday – since it would have required us to come on deck to adjust it at intervals. 

Throughout, we remained dry and relatively comfortable, although it sometimes it felt like being in a tumble dryer.  However, we never doubted Island Drifter’s capacity to look after us.   On this return trip our days revolved around watches, weather faxes, meals, sleep and, for relaxation, reading.  To keep our spirits high during this period we had the iPod turned up to negate the noise of the elements. In particular we enjoyed listening to Eileen Quinn – a Canadian long-term cruiser who is also a singer-songwriter.  One of her songs is an ode to a lost dinghy!  (Appropriate in our case.)  I, however, particularly like her track:  “If I killed the Captain, really who would know?”

The boat’s 10-year-old inverter chose this passage to expire. I therefore reverted to traditional breadmaking by hand and have to conclude that it is less effort than waiting over three hours for the breadmaker and the results were far superior.   We, nevertheless, used the satellite phone to order a new portable inverter, for delivery to the Azores, so that we could charge other 240v equipment, such as, for instance, the spotlight and hand-held VHF. The sat phone, incidentally, has proved invaluable on a number of occasions and enabled us to keep in contact with friends and family when at sea.

Sixteen days and 1850 miles later, we reached Flores, where we made our landfall in the Azores. It is the most westerly inhabited island in Europe and is only 17 x 14 kms in area. The scenery is a succession of stunning panoramas.  Rolling hillsides end in vertical cliffs with silver ribbons of water cascading hundreds of feet into valleys where whitewashed houses with red roofs cluster in meadows and fields.  On the plateau at the top of the island it is reminiscent of the North Yorkshire Moors – with hydrangeas! The moors drain into deep green or black lakes, seven in all, lying in the craters of extinct volcanoes, their sides thick with the ubiquitous blue hydrangeas. 

While driving around Flores, we stopped for lunch in the famous El Pescador restaurant near Ponta Delgado, at the north of the island.  For the starter we had fresh curd cheese with very hot chilli sauce and bread.  Although we considered ordering their excellent fresh fish as a main course, we opted for goat, braised in a chilli stock, served with plain boiled local potatoes.  Delicious! 

Our 130-mile sail from Flores to Horta was uneventful.  Few yachts on an eastbound Atlantic passage pass Horta by.  It is unique and has been a traditional meeting place for yachts and crews for more than fifty years.  We were joined there by Marjorie Mullins whom we met almost twenty years ago at navigation night school in Harrogate.  She’s sailed with us before, including on our first Atlantic crossing from the Canaries, via the Cape Verdes, to the Caribbean, and was hankering for another long passage.  I was particularly delighted when she greeted me with the words: “My goodness, you’ve lost weight!”   Indeed I have – 20lbs! More to the point, I am much fitter than I was.

Unlike in most marinas, which act as depositories for plastic toys, almost all the boats and crews here had recently sailed themselves to the Azores and were in various stages of preparing to leave for their ultimate European destination.   Horta has a buzz to it. One can spend many hours wandering around looking at other ocean-going boats and equipment, and talking to their owners.

Café Peter Sport, which we of course patronised, has been a yachtsman’s watering hole since 1920.  It is now run by the grandson of “Peter”, the founder.  The walls and ceilings are lined with burgees and ensigns bearing the names of some of the most famous of ocean-going yachts. The café overlooks the harbour where for many decades crews of visiting ships and yachts have been painting their names and insignia on the walls and pavements.  From a distance the area resembles a bright patchwork quilt. Tradition has it that it is unlucky to leave without making one’s mark.  Our own original painting from 2000 was still in remarkably good condition, so all I had to do was modify and update it.

On the night before we sailed, we treated ourselves to one of the specialities of the region – “surf and turf on a stone”, which one cooks oneself at the table on a super-heated slab of volcanic rock rather like in the manner of a fondue.  Another excellent meal!

During one of the gales between Bermuda and the Azores, Mike had taken a couple of nasty falls in the cockpit after adjusting the sails. He ended up very stiff and badly bruised but was fortunate that he didn’t break anything. He did, however, appear to have trapped a nerve in his neck.  In the absence of a chiropractor in Horta he was pointed by the locals in the direction of The Januario, who, we were told, was a “strong man of the land”.  By this stage Mike was in sufficient discomfort to try anything and so took a taxi to the north of the island where the Januario lived in a bothy along a track. When Mike arrived he was up the hill tending his goats.   He was eighty if a day and was indeed a “strong man of the land”. Before Mike had a chance to decline his ministrations, his arm was taken and he was manipulated into various contortions in an attempt to free the trapped nerve. Finally there was a loud click and Mike’s tormentor smiled to indicate that all was now well.   We were somewhat cynical as to how effective this ten-minute treatment would turn out to be and were therefore pleasantly surprised that Mike’s neck quickly improved.

We, of course, had to get in a couple of dives – this time with Dive Azores, with whom Mike had been on previous visits.  It is run by two young marine biologists, Joanna and Tiago, both of whom speak excellent English. Indeed, they conduct their PADI courses in English.  This time, since the sea temperature was considerably cooler than the Caribbean, we were issued with full-length thick wet suits with hoods, under-vests and boots. 

Surprisingly, many of the fish are the same type as in the Caribbean, having been brought by the Gulf Stream.  The islands are, however, too far north for warm-water coral.  We saw several large barracuda, but the highlight was a close encounter with two huge stingrays, one of which was the size of a small car.  Regrettably, the tuna had not yet moved inshore.  Last time Mike dived there, thousands of them swum in a shoal immediately above him.

 

We left the Azores on the morning of Wednesday 30 June.  The 1260-mile passage to the UK took eleven and a half days. The trip panned out very much as expected.  We had to motor on and off for nearly three days in total before we could get out of the light winds of the Azores.  Thereafter we sailed on various points of sail and in winds that seldom went over 30 knots.  Rather than get swept into the Bay of Biscay by trying to follow the rhumb line from the Azores to the UK, we initially went due north to 48N and made sure we were well into the Westerlies before turning north-east towards the UK, crossing the Continental Shelf at 10W, entering the Western Approaches, passing the Scilly Isles and Land’s End, before finally making landfall in Plymouth.

On this leg, with three of us on board, it was a little bit “cosy”. We had to “hot bunk” but the arrangement was quite workable and indeed the workload was obviously much lighter.  We did, however, stick to a more formal watch and operating system than with just the two of us, when we are a lot more flexible. 

And who said two women can’t share a galley?  We got on very well and had time between us to come up with some more elaborate meals.  My own pièce de résistance, to celebrate the halfway stage, was Yorkshire puddings served with gourmet tinned sliced roast beef and fresh vegetables.   Since our oven appears to have only two settings – off or incandescent, it is ideal for Yorkshires! 

In transit, having worked on the SSB yet again in Horta, we were finally able to get through to Herb, the Atlantic meteorological guru based in Canada. His advice was as ever somewhat conservative and we therefore only half followed it. Not the point – Mike actually got through to him.  It had taken us only nine months to do so.  Our new SSB, which had been installed by Fox’s Marina in Ipswich, had clearly not been fitted by an experienced radio technician.  Fortunately, on an Atlantic Circuit one encounters plenty of ham radio enthusiasts and it is thanks to them that we eventually got the system sorted out and working. 

It was generally a smooth trip.  We did, however, have one heart-stopping incident when we became entangled, having just crossed the Continental Shelf at night in a F6 and 4-metre seas, with the marker buoy at one end of a French drift net.  Fortunately we were able to extricate ourselves before the attendant French trawlers returned!  On another occasion, again in a F6, the gooseneck and boom came off the mast when under sail.  We replaced it with the assistance of the halyard and topping lift to take the weight while we replaced and secured the bolt.  At least it was daylight this time.  

We arrived in the Mayflower Marina in Plymouth just in time to watch the second half of the World Cup Final in the bar.  The marina is adjacent to the old extensive ex-Naval barracks which have now been converted into apartments.  Unusually, the berth-holders are also the shareholders of the marina. 

Next morning, as planned, Marjorie left to catch a train home to Exeter. Later, Bob and Beryl Salmon came for lunch. Mike originally met Bob when he crewed for him on a delivery twelve years ago.  Bob has given up deliveries now and is concentrating on refurbishing old Porsches, one of which he is about to test drive round the Nurburgring in Germany with his son.  Bob is a vastly more experienced sailor than we are, having skippered yachts on the first two Round The World Whitbread races. He was also the founder of the mini Transat (the single-handed, under-21ft Atlantic yacht race) – which today is run from France.

We left Mayflower on Monday12 July and got back to Ipswich at midnight on 17^th, having spent two days gale-bound in the Solent.   On both legs of our sail to and from the Solent we caught the tides right at each of the tidal gates and made excellent progress.  Indeed, our downwind run from Dungeness to Dover in a F7 was particularly lively, given that we had wind over tide and were travelling at 8+knots over the ground, poled out with three reefs in both the main and genoa. 

While passing through the Solent we arranged a photo shoot with Hamo Thornycroft, a marine photographer from Cowes, whose assistant, a black Lab called Reuben, seemed thoroughly at home in the bouncing RIB. 

We also anchored and dinghied ashore at dusk to our beach hut at Calshot in order to collect various items of gear which had been left there, before re-anchoring in Osborne Bay, Queen Victoria’s bathing retreat on the Isle of Wight. 

Next morning we moved into the Camber dock in Portsmouth for two days.  It is particularly well protected and less than half the price of any of the local marinas.  We moored against the dock wall and initially had great “fun” adjusting warps and fenders to cope with the 5-metre rise and fall of the tide.   For the second night we borrowed several giant pink fenders from local fishermen, which solved the problem.  We were the only yacht in the dock, which was filled mainly with fishing smacks and tugs.  Any disadvantages, such as lack of water and power, were significantly outweighed by the fact that we were located only 15 metres from The Bridge Tavern, an outstanding Fullers pub. 

While in Portsmouth we visited the Victory in the “Historic” Dockyard – something we’ve wanted to do for a long time.   It was most impressive and interesting. The boat was also considerably bigger than we had expected.  Even so, we were amazed that it could carry a crew of 850 men, each with a beer allowance of 8 pints a day.  Portsmouth has had a remarkable facelift in recent years.  Our only regret is that we didn’t have sufficient time to go up the Spinnaker Tower with its far-reaching views over the Solent.

Having had such a trouble-free sail, it was Murphy’s Law that when we came to restart the engine in the lock leading into Ipswich Haven Marina, we discovered that the salt-water intake to the engine’s cooling system was blocked!  It took us over an hour to get at and clear seaweed from the hose and seacock, much to the frustration of the somewhat surly lock keeper.  As a consequence we didn’t arrive on our berth until it was getting light, which, for interest’s sake, is at 3.30 a.m.  Our celebratory G&Ts helped ensure that neither of us woke up until gone 9 a.m. 

We are now working on the boat, getting it ready to be lifted on to the hard, where we’ll work on it in the autumn after taking the rest of the summer off at our beach hut, where Mike hopes to get in some serious Wayfaring including the Association’s Circumnavigation of the Isle of Wight in mid-August.  We have no firm plans for next year, although we’ve got a number of options on the table.