Passages

Today we shall finally cast off our lines—first heading west into the Baltic Sea, following the setting sun towards Denmark. Then through the Kiel-Canal and into the grey North Sea, the cold English Channel, the Bay of Biscay, the Atlantic Ocean off the coasts of Portugal and Galicia and so on until we reach the warm reaches of the Mediterranean, this new boat's summer home.

It will be a three weeks' passage, and the most challenging one we will have done together. The enforced delays—necessary modifications, tardily delivered paperwork—have made us chafe at the bit, we want so badly to set sail.

I think this passage actually began nearly two months ago, anchored off a small island in the Caribbean on a sunny morning. Or perhaps it began three years (or is it four years now? I forget) earlier in a small town in France, when we packed up our belongings to fly to the Virgin Islands.

But the Captain thinks it began on the 5th of April when we cast off our lines from the marina dock that had been a home—of sorts—for three years, and raised our sails, heading south to deliver our former boat to the Windward Islands for her last charter with us as crew.

That was a rough 50-odd hours. We watched as the swell grew into deep rolling troughs, shielding our eyes against the needle-sharp spray as the bow reared up like a distressed animal and came crashing down again, foamy white sea shooting up and past us. The force snapped many of the plastic fastenings to which the trampolines were rigged, and soon enough, the ragged edges of this corner or that were blowing in the wind. The spray forced open a corner of one of the portside UV screens; later on the second night, the screen blew off altogether. But the wind itself was fitful, gusting up uncertainly only to die again, leaving our sails limp and dispirited. Starting the engines gave us little better headway—earlier in the season, the three-blade propellers had been replaced with slower two-blade ones. This meant a loss of speed of half a knot per hour, which seems negligible until you multiply that over the course of a day—then another—and another.

Though the winds did not favour us, the open sea was generous with her gifts: one day we saw whales breaching; the next, we were treated to the joyous larking about of dolphins at the bow. They were so close we could hear their snorting huff as first one then another leapt and dived before our eyes. We saw the lights of Guadeloupe in the distance, and passed the long flank of lovely Martinique. Later, we sighted St Lucia's Pitons, their twin fangs wreathed with cloud; then the rich green peaks and deep valleys of volcanic St Vincent.

We tied off safety barriers in the cockpit at night, and took turns doing our watches. Mugs of hot tea warmed and woke us; we shared a ceremonious cold drink together every sundown. We slept very little. The night sky was very beautiful.

At the end of the third day, quiet little Admiralty Bay in the island of Bequia welcomed us at last. We arrived just after sunset, the orange light catching and reflecting off the salt crystals drying on the boat. When I turned to smile at the Captain, I felt the fine film of salt crack on my cheeks. I licked my dry lips, and tasted the sea.

Daylight Passage: Anguilla to Virgin Gorda

It is midday and the sun strikes a flinty glitter off the surface of the water, scattering a thousand fractionated flakes of white light, harsh as the glint of mica on a street pavement at noon. The boat dips, the waves rasping at the bow. I listen to the soft rhythmic breathing of the sea and watch its great indigo flanks rise and fall with the swell.

We are headed west, with a fresh nor’easterly breeze filling the mainsail and genoa. The green peaks of St Martin fall behind us in the distance; we have passed the flat white reaches of Dog Island (north of Anguilla), its pleasantly briny aroma blown seawards to us by the wind. For now, only a scant few clouds cling to the clean edge of the horizon, and there is nothing else about us but sea.

As if on cue, a flying fish breaks the surface of the water, whirring its improbable flight across the distance of twelve full, breath-held seconds. That tiny living glint of silver makes me smile, though I admit it also makes me think of cooking a whole dozen of boned, filleted flying fish—I like them best simply crisp-fried in fruity olive oil and glittering with flakes of sea salt; I also like to stuff them with pine nuts and raisins, like sarde a beccaficco.

Earlier that morning, we were surprised by a Breughel apparition: a full-rigged ship in the distance, its long bowsprit pointing east. Flat on the Delft blue horizon, it seemed nothing more than a painted ship upon a painted ocean [Coleridge].

Alas, closer inspection proved a much less romantic truth: it was only the oddly shaped Club Med boat, headed perhaps for St Martin, perhaps for little Sainte-Anne in Martinique, its berths filled with the hopeful and prurient young—or at least, the prurient hoping to be taken as young. I wonder idly if the ship is named Espoir. After all, as John Irving assures us, Hope floats.

Motor-sailing at a steady eight knots, we reach our anchorage on Virgin Gorda before sunset—a pleasant ten-hour trip, though we did not get to sail her properly. By the time the long, low-sprawling clouds glow pink in the twilight, our guests are settled with their glasses of wine and their frosty cocktails, and the smells of bruised lemongrass and caramelising pumpkin and simmering spiced coconut milk waft from the galley. Before us lies the evening, unusually cool for the Caribbean, under a sky bright with stars.

An Overnight Passage: Tortola to St Barths

"... There's Arcturus, looking very bright."
~ Edmund to Fanny [Mansfield Park, Jane Austen]

Venus burns low on the horizon, with Arcturus glowing red just off our port bow; behind us, our wake is lit up by the full-bellied moon. Standing at the helm for
the night watch, we see the swell hurrying past, its furrowed crests breaking into a lather of white foam. The boat lurches and sways as the billowing water picks her up and drops her, time and again, in a familiar rhythmic pounding we can feel in our bones.


These are the pleasures of the overnight passage, especially for crew who love making the delivery alone. We have done this so often now that even working silently together on our final checklists—checking the props, lashing down the dinghy, securing the hatches, taking down the more fragile furnishings etc—has become part of a pleasant ritual that culminates in the liberation of casting off the mooring lines. There is a joyous truancy in having escaped—absconded!—in the dark of the night, gliding furtively past the sleeping boats, out into the freedom promised by the channel.


The wind picks up.


Twenty-seven knots, says The Captain. Under our feet, we can feel the boat struggling to make headway against the push of wind and water. To ease the wear on the boat, he adjusts our bearings; as we exit Round Rock, we are 20 to 30 degrees north of our course. Now we can bear away, with the wind port side rather than on the nose; we are hoping to be able to sail her come daybreak.


The moon is rising again when at last we pull into Gustavia harbour. Behind us is the sunset, and a passage of eighteen hours instead of the usual fourteen. We are tired. We drop anchor, do our boat checks, and think with pleasure of heading ashore for a well-deserved dinner. Somewhere warmly lit, with a view of the moon on the water; somewhere to sit back amidst the friendly clink! of silverware and glasses and the buzz of conversation; somewhere to smile at each other across the fragrant steam of heaped plates, and the gleam of a glass of wine.