Part 2 of the Atlantic crossing
And if something happens?
It is the fourteenth day of our trip. We are still 1351 nautical miles away from our destination and I am unusually irritable. When I come out of the toilet, my face white as a sheet, I know why. I grab the water bottle and empty it in one go before disappearing back into the toilet. Two weeks of poor, restless and dream-distorted sleep combined with drinking habits that lag behind rising temperatures are taking their toll. My personal nightmare comes true: cystitis in the middle of the Atlantic. Over the next 24 painful hours, I raid my alternative medicine supplies. When I finally feel a slight improvement, I fall into a restless sleep. And wake up bathed in sweat. In the dream I was 20 again and was in the Mainz University Hospital with pyelonephritis. There is no university clinic out here. Just us, our emergency beacon, an SOS button on the satellite receiver and an emergency antibiotic. Without any further hesitation, I threw my alternative medicine plans overboard, started the antibiotic and was out of the woods two days later.
Everything is in motion
Just in time before Captain Alex is struck down by a nasty migraine. He suddenly can't stand the light anymore, has pain in his left eye and finally hides in the aft cabin, where I don't hear a peep for the next few hours. In the evening he feels a little better, I cook for us like a prince, wash up, tidy up - and open Narnia. Narnia is our cupboard above the washing machine. Because it's somehow too big and we can't agree on a clever stacking system, its contents are constantly moving when there's a sea. Unfortunately, this time it's the sugar bowl that has made its way to the front row. However, I only know this when a kilo of the finest sugar grains rain down on the floor, the surrounding cupboards and in every conceivable crack in the kitchen. And with every wave, everything ripples and tingles in the lukewarm temperatures. A sticky cleaning procedure begins, and yes, there is a lot of swearing here too. But also a bit of a giggle.
On-board cuisine with yoga and mats
The challenges increase with the waves, and they don't end with the mishap in the toilet or the sugar disaster in the kitchen. Every meal requires maximum concentration because you always have at least one, but on average five, hands too few. One hand for the plate, one for the toast, one for the jam jar, one for the screw lid, one for the butter - and then there's still one hand to hold on to so you don't fall over yourself. After a few days, I had at least established a solid system of kitchen yoga and anti-slip mats. It allows me to use both hands and occasionally, very briefly, to put something down. And so, waves or no waves, we feast pretty brilliantly for 3000 miles.
Of wonders, mountains, valleys and elbows
No two waves are the same, but over time I learn to assess them and divide them into categories. The steady, undulating swell. The mountain peaks that suddenly rise up next to or behind us and make our pulses and eyebrows skyrocket. The deep valleys in between, where another treacherous wave often hides, disrupting our rhythm. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a busy train station. Some waves strive purposefully in one direction, others in the other. Some are unnecessarily hectic, others take all the time in the world. Some whiz past us and leave nothing but small splashes of water behind, others seem to extend their elbows and irritably jostle us in the torso.
Cold Feet does well. She surfs elegantly along the large swell. She plows mercilessly through the small waves. Sometimes she allows herself to be thrown off course for a moment and occasionally she tosses back and forth irritably. And then there are, very rarely, the miracle waves. I spend hours tracking them down. They are big and gentle and gently lift us into the air from behind, carry us with them for a while until they touch us very carefully and with an irresistible whooshhhhh put down again. In these brief moments there is no rocking and no elbowing, just majesty.
Sun, moon and stars
As long as we can see the sun during the day and the moon and stars at night, living on board is relatively worry-free. The sun warms us and gives us the energy for our on-board electronics. And at least during the first 10 days of our trip, the moon also does a great job at night and puts us perfectly in the spotlight. As if he knew that this was a really big deal for us. As the trip progresses he seems to trust us more. Every evening he gets up later, sometimes lying in the pillows or clouds for an almost outrageously long time before he shines his dwindling light on us with a crooked grin. But that also has its good side. Because it is primarily the moonless hours in which the starry firmament makes its most spectacular appearances. Out here, beyond any light pollution, it sparkles from horizon to horizon.
Of clouds and scaredy-cats
The closer we get to our destination, the more closely we observe the sky. We know that the risk of squalls increases with the last 1000 miles. These are short but violent weather events with lots of wind and rain. In our fear of our first squall encounter, we let the night trick us. When the moon finally rises, well after midnight, it reveals clouds that had secretly crept closer in the darkness. It envelops them in a dramatic light, casting dark shadows on the sea and our courage unceremoniously thrown overboard. We reef the sails and prepare for the worst. And it happens: nothing. If it had been day, we probably would have waved at the puffy clouds. At most, I politely asked them to please make a little more room for the sun, because of our batteries and stuff. In the threat of the night, however, we almost shit ourselves and spend hours crawling rather than sailing. Meanwhile, the waves roll past us giggling and seem to chortle at us as “cowards”. Waves are not afraid of the dark.
Our first real squall hit us the following day and was by no means as bad as feared. At first we try to work against him, but soon we surrender. And we simply accept that he and his numerous successors always first suck us towards the south and then blow us towards the north, while we want to go west. Our course then looks more like a wild scrawl than a straight line. But after an hour at the latest the spook is usually over.
Land Ho!
On the last night, a seductive glow of lights appears on the horizon. Kind of like two little acres rising in the west instead of the east. The islands of St. Lucia and Martinique are getting closer. And when the sun rises the next day with its southern abruptness, the Caribbean is simply there.
On the home stretch towards Martinique, things get tight on the chart plotter. Several sailboats appear, all following a similar course to us, and we have to be careful not to get in each other's way. Although I'm excited to finally see land, I'm also a little wistful. It's hard to imagine that the big journey will soon be over. Or does it just begin then? Explore, discover, get to know each other, shop, get water, work, make phone calls, WhatsApp, Insta, Facebook, LinkedIn… I got along pretty well without all of that for 24 days.
Europe, Caribbean and the little things
In Martinique, my cell phone promptly welcomes me with an SMS informing me that calls, SMS and mobile data cost the same here as in Germany. 24 days of sailing and we are still in the European Union, in the French Antilles. On land we check in at a small café and pay in euros. I dig out my French and somehow everything is almost a little too easy for such a milestone. But stunningly beautiful.
The morning after we arrive, I celebrate one thing above all: the absence of waves. I defiantly place two full teacups on the kitchen counter. Very close to the edge and without any anti-slip mats or kitchen yoga. I watch in fascination as they NOT move from the spot. I deliberately slowly turn my back on them and go to the toilet in a duck march. And I cheer quietly when I find the cups in exactly the same place where I had left them.
© Photos: Daniel James Cook, Ina Hiester
Ina Hiester
Ina is a digital nomad and travels through Europe by land and sea. The journalist is always on the lookout for special places for Good Travel, philosophizes about travel in her column, takes photographs, makes music and writes articles on all kinds of environmental and sustainability topics.
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