The Feel of the Atlantic: Crossing 2,700 miles of ocean, powered by sail
Credit: Pim Pouillot-Chevara
Anyone who’s sailed the Atlantic — or completed any long crossing by sail for that matter — will tell you about the stars. Away from the land and the light pollution, is the opportunity to fully appreciate the scintillating beauty of the night sky. As you sit on deck in the late evening or early hours whilst the rest of your crew mates are sleeping below, the constellations become your friends. They offer some level of reassurance as they look down upon you from the heavens, and for the more competent seafarer a means through which to navigate towards your destination. All the while they spark a feeling of awe and admiration within you, as you wonder how much more they know and what they’ve seen.
The stars are one of many beautiful things about a Transat. Some, like the night sky, are visible to the external eye. Some, such as the mental journey that takes place within you, are not. It sounds cliché, but it’s not just light pollution that you’re sailing away from when you head out towards the horizon and the open seas, but the mind pollution and fog that comes with modern life too. As you begin your journey of 2,700 nautical miles surrounded by open water and you settle into three weeks of nothing but sailing, a mental clarity comes over you which is far greater than any you’re able to experience on land. Your responsibilities melt away, technological distractions are removed and all you have to focus on is sailing the boat and staying alive. Everything is simplified to become centred around necessity and survival, and whilst the sailing is of course a big part of it, it’s a journey that encompasses so much more.
Moonrise over the Atlantic Ocean. Credit: Pim Pouillot-Chevara
For me, travelling by sail is about the adventure, the unpredictability, the mental challenge and the human relationship challenge that comes with it. It’s not just about sailing, but about what it represents. It’s about pushing myself outside of my comfort zone, seeing what I’m really made of, learning a new skill and forging deep-rooted, meaningful relationships with others. It’s about seeking out wilderness, discovering remote and nature-filled parts of the world, feeling more connected to Mother Nature and being able to appreciate everything the ocean has to offer (good and bad).
Fire and lava (zero nautical miles)
“Lava!” shouts Aisha. As the sun dips below the horizon, it casts a fiery glow across the sky. We cast our eyes towards the La Palma landmass and see the first molten-lava of the volcano. At first, it’s a faint streak of red, etching its way down the slopes, but soon we see it’s a large river of lava, where one of the eight fissures is erupting. As darkness cloaks the remainder of the day, fire and rock stream their way down the face of the mountain. To the left the lights of the city shine brightly, but they pale in comparison.
Huge explosions of lava burst from the top of the mound again and again; each eruption accompanied by the crackling sounds of molten rock meeting the cool night air. The crest of the mountain is crowned with a fiery halo, the sky is ablaze with orange and red. I am reminded of a mythical underworld, however, this is real life. It’s difficult to believe my eyes as I watch the eruption of the Cumbre Vieja volcanic ridge devour the southern reaches of La Palma.
This volcanic eruption was the last thing we saw before our three week sail across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. Credit: Pim Pouillot-Chevara
We are drifting a few miles off the coast of this small, rounded landmass, which belongs to the Canary Islands. It's our final glimpse of terrestrial life before embarking on a daunting three-week voyage across the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. It fascinates me to think that events like this are what brought the Canaries into existence in the first place and that these elements and compounds have been lying below the earth’s crust for millennia. However, as I reflect on the geological forces at play, I'm reminded of the delicate balance between creation and destruction. My mind turns to the people living in La Palma who are losing everything, including their homes and livelihood.
As I flitter between awe and despair, our captain’s voice rouses me from my thoughts – it’s time for us to go. I bid my mental farewells to life on land, whilst we hoist the main and set our course towards an endless horizon. As the glow of the eruption fades into the distance, I grapple with the magnitude of the journey ahead. The fiery spectacle of La Palma was but a prelude to the vast unknown awaiting us – a journey that will span three weeks and thousands of miles until our eventual landfall in Grenada.
The Transatlantic crew once we reached the Caribbean from L to R: Pim, Naomi, Lydia, Aisha.
Switching off (600 nautical miles)
As La Palma’s volcanic fury fades into memory, we settle into the rhythm of life at sea. The initial days are plagued with fatigue, as our bodies grapple the continuous movements of the ocean. Whilst most of us manage to avoid the misery of seasickness, my crewmate Pim finds herself battling its relentless grip. My greatest challenge, however, is managing a restful period of sleep. I've been dreaming a lot and waking regularly, because of how loud Heaven’s Door is. Whilst I know the boat is of sound construction, she does little to dim the ocean’s mighty voice. The walls sound like they’re paper thin and each wave sends violent vibrations through every inch of the hulls. Even louder is the incessant creaking and groaning, accompanied by percussive bangs and slams.
Adapting to the watch schedule becomes our new reality, with it rotating between four of us. There are nine hours between each shift, however, last night I was woken in the early morning to shake out a reef. It was hard to see anything beyond the guard rails; the moon was only a thin crescent of cream. Still, I managed to make my way through the darkness to the mast and soon the job was complete. Sailing is our duty out here. Everything else – including sleep – can wait. The trivialities of normal life are of little use or concern, though it is taking days to rid them from my brain.
Pim suffered from really bad seasickness for the first few days of the Transatlantic crossing.
As the days pass, a sense of liberation takes hold, fueled by the absence of modern distractions and technology. In its place, I am finding solace in both simpler pleasures and the overall simplicity of my surroundings. Each day becomes an exercise in mindfulness, as we savour the nuances of life at sea – the gentle rhythm of waves, the pages of a well-worn book, the camaraderie of shared meals and conversations. Time is going quicker than I thought, yet everything has slowed down. I have more time for observation and my thoughts have a renewed clarity, now they are completely my own.
Each sunrise has become a revelation. I never noticed before how different they could be. This morning it is accompanied by wispy cirrus and altocumulus clouds, which make for the most picturesque dawns. All around are a fusion of colours, painting the sky in hues of indigo, clementine and gold. We are floating atop a soup of grapes, the sky a kaleidoscope.
We sailed across the Atlantic on a Voyage 500 catamaran.
The feel of the ocean (1,500 nautical miles)
We've become inhabitants of our own secluded universe, cut off from the pulse of the world beyond. With no means of communication save for a 20-mile radius of AIS and an emergency satellite beacon, we're isolated and alone. We haven’t seen another boat for almost two weeks, nor a bird or another soul.
I’m standing on the port bow, embracing the feel of the waves. I surrender to their rhythm, each swell propelling our vessel forward with exhilarating force. At this moment we're surfing across the Atlantic, riding the crests and troughs. I’m experiencing an unmatched sense of freedom; the boat and the ocean feel as one. As we plunge to the foot of each wave, warm seawater engulfs my feet and toes. With nothing but a slender rail separating me from the vast ocean, I brace myself for the next exhilarating rush.
Ahead looms a formidable wave, towering at least three meters high. I feel butterflies in my stomach as we descend its sheer face. Suddenly, a burst of silver breaks the surface of the cobalt sea below – the swift flight of a flying fish, eager to avoid becoming a meal. Soon, it’s joined by others and I’m reminded of the abundance of life beneath the waves. Yet, it's the sight of a familiar dorsal fin that ignites a spark of joy within me. My heart swells at the sight of it – a bottlenose dolphin, gliding effortlessly through the water. Moments later there is a pod of fifteen, including two calves. They draw so near that I could touch them. Of course, I resist. Nonetheless, I feel a one-ness as we surf in unison.
Sailing by night is just as immersive, though in a completely different way. Night watches also offer precious moments of solitude amidst the camaraderie of our days at sea. It's a peculiar sensation, sailing through the darkness, yet astonishing how swiftly we have acclimatised to its embrace. As our vessel dances over unseen swells, enveloped by the vast expanse of night, our world shrinks to the essentials: our boat, the celestial bodies above, and those of us onboard.
Sunset in the middle of the Atlantic. Credit: Pim Pouillot-Chevara
We do our checks every fifteen minutes, vigilant for any unseen obstacles lurking beyond the reach of radar or AIS. Yet for weeks we're met only by a void of profound darkness – a black canvas painted with stars, interrupted by the occasional sting of saltwater against our skin. This nocturnal realm unveils our vulnerability, demanding our utmost vigilance and resolve. Our senses become our guides, attuned to the subtle cues of the wind, the waves, and the shifting sails.
Resistance to arrival (2,500 nautical miles)
As we approach the West Indies, a steady breeze carries us closer to the Caribbean Sea. Long gone is the icy grip of Europe's winter shores. Now, our days unfold beneath the scorching zenith of the sun. We are accompanied by the gentle drift of brown sargassum, their buoyant air sacs providing sanctuary for a myriad of marine life. Above, broad-beaked boobies glide gracefully, their wings brushing the edges of our wind-filled sails, signaling our imminent return to land.
Handwashing my clothes, a few days before making landfall in Grenada.
In the distance, the silhouette of the St Vincent and the Grenadines islands begins to emerge, each one a precious emerald rising from a triumphantly blue sea. On board, there's a sense of excitement – we’ve been waiting for this moment for nearly three weeks. Our wind-powered journey across the world’s second largest ocean is almost done, our mission on the brink of fulfillment. Yet, amidst the joy of nearing our destination, I feel a confusing resistance.
These weeks of solitude at sea have been eye-opening, offering a break from the noise and distractions of everyday life. Out here, I’ve found a real sense of freedom – unburdened by the expectations and pressures of society. Here, amidst the boundless expanse of ocean, ego and status hold no sway. But as we approach the shores of Grenada, I'm reminded of the inevitable return to reality – the constant buzz of technology and the demands that come with it.
We arrived in Grenada just before Christmas and it was amazing to see green again!
On our final approach to Grenada, peaks of waves are replaced by peaks of mountains. Their steep, sloping sides rise and fall to make up the island’s interior, and are covered in thriving tropical forest. A gust of wind blows through a valley and I receive a whiff of vegetation. My nose drinks up the fragrance of the forest, whilst my eyes feast on the colour of its verdancy. It’s a luxury to be here and to rediscover solid ground beneath our feet. Yet, as we prepare to embrace terra firma once more, a part of me remains tethered to the boundless sea. It is a testament to the transformative power of our oceanic odyssey.
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