32 Antigua to The Azores
04 July 2017
The direct route from Antigua to the Azores is 2200 miles, but that takes you straight through the centre of the North Atlantic high pressure system (the famous Azores High) where total calms can extend for hundreds of miles. This straight line route means vessels must carry huge volumes of fuel and be prepared to motor most of the way. This is not a serious option for most sailing boats, and definitely not for Morven with her fuel carrying capacity of a mere 120 litres and so we would have to rely on nature's forces to deliver us to the Azores.
The recommended sailing route adds about 300 miles to the above journey and involves heading almost due north for the first 1000 miles upon leaving the Caribbean, passing within a couple of hundred miles to the east of Bermuda, before shaping a course to the north east. It is then a question of what latitude to aim for before heading east towards the Azores; turn at 35° north and skirt around the top of the high pressure system with relatively light winds but the risk of getting becalmed, or keep going until 38° or even 40° north to ensure stronger winds but increase the chance of encountering gales, as this is the usual track of depressions when they leave the east coast of the USA. As always, nothing is guaranteed though, and it varies considerably from year to year. Before leaving we could get a relatively detailed and accurate weather forecast for up to 10 days, which would hopefully see us somewhere approaching Bermuda. After that we would be reliant upon picking up occasional weather transmissions via our small SSB receiver.
The food lockers and water tanks were overflowing once again after the tins, dry and fresh produce had been stowed; a mammoth task as we had even more food on board than for the crossing to Barbados. The estimated journey was probably to be a month at sea, so provisions for 45 days were shoved into every empty nook and cranny. It's difficult to assess how long any fresh fruit and veg might last at sea given the variety of conditions and temperatures it is subjected to. I was confident that Miss Bailey from Falmouth Harbour had given us the best of what she could get, although her fresh produce arrives on Thursday, and we weren't planning on leaving until Monday so it was already a little riper than I would have chosen. However, with the extra help from my 'green' bags it was to be hoped that we'd enjoy the delights of bananas, carrots, apples, pears, avocados and tomatoes well into the trip, although the temperature inside the boat at this point was somewhere in the region of 39 degrees centigrade. Meals were cooked in preparation for our first few days at sea and we took what was probably to be our last warm shower for a month or more. We were all set to go.
Thoughts then turned to open seas and the long journey ahead. Armed with up to date and favourable weather information we left Falmouth bay with a good south-westerly wind to get us on our way. A gentle sail took us around the southwest coast of Antigua and then up the leeward side of the island, with fabulous views over the reefs and lots of that glorious Caribbean sunshine. All we had to do then was avoid Barbuda, lying directly to the north, and land would become something of a distant memory until the Azores, some 2500 miles away.
Two reefs in the main sail had seemed a little excessive when we left Falmouth, but once clear of Antigua the wind became more constant, blowing up to 20 knots, so a good move which saved having to reef as darkness fell and the seas got lumpy. Our first night at sea was a little testing; it's been almost 3 years since our last night sail proper, and we were once more lurching around inside and hanging on to everything. So glad that vegetables didn't need chopping for a few days at least as we found our sea legs. The nights were still very hot and humid and so sleep didn't come easily for a while, especially having to get used to all the creaks and groans of the ship once more, and it was almost impossible to snooze during the daytime in the soaring temperatures inside the boat. It was a struggle to even make sandwiches for lunch with the heat, and I really thought I might succumb to a first ever bout of seasickness after a couple of days with the lack of air. A short stint in the cockpit restored the equilibrium and the moment was passed.
Aside from all this, progress was good and day 2 saw us cover 132 miles in 24 hours, Morven's personal best, but experience told us there's absolutely no point in trying to predict arrival dates at this early stage. Morven was sailing well, and the Hydrovane proved its worth again, helming the boat on a perfect course, leaving us free to relax and enjoy the ocean. The seas calmed and wind dropped to around 15 knots so everything was just lovely, although a bird tried to land on the solar panel during Ian's night watch. That would have been fine and we're happy to give a guy a lift, but the danger was the bird didn't seem to understand that if he sat on the solar panel he was liable to get some part of his anatomy guillotined by the wind generator blades. The other main concern was that the blades are fragile after so many years being exposed to the elements, and we don't have spares; not wishing to have macerated bird and no wind power meant Ian spent most of his watch shooing said bird towards a more suitable resting place. All in vain; the disgruntled bird just flew off eventually, but at least the wind generator was saved.
The weather seemed to be behaving as planned and so sailing was a joy, although we were subjected to some head winds which meant we couldn't make the direct course required; always a nuisance, but it's a big part of ocean sailing and it really is a question of going where the wind allows you, and rectifying the course as and when the wind changes.
Life on board settled into a routine of eating, cooking, checking, fixing and sleeping. The fresh produce wasn't bearing up well and after only 3 days a putrid mess of bananas and carrots had to be committed to the sea. Daily fruit and veg 'hugging' thereafter helped me make the most of the rest and avoid more wastage, but made for some inventive meal concoctions to avoid wastage. There were one or two galley incidents where food once again leapt from pan to floor. Eggs began to be a forbidden word as whisked eggs waiting in a bowl to become a nice fluffy omelette sloshed over the side of the bowl and covered the worktop. Despite mopping up with many precious sheets of kitchen roll the eggs slimed their way around the galley refusing to be absorbed. I wonder if those paper manufacturers have ever tried to mop up beaten egg; my guess is not, as these ended up being swept into the sink and 'drowned'. My 'piece de resistance' was trying to cut a boiled egg in half whilst it sat on a spoon over the pan; what a mess, egg and curry bounced across the cabin. We were still finding blobs of curried lentils two days later; why did I even try to do it with the wind roaring outside and Morven rolling from one side to the other? All to try and save washing up an extra plate or board! The sea does funny things to the brain methinks.
For the first 10 days we had a mixture of north-easterly winds and calm patches, interspersed with squalls and so made reasonable progress northwards. More of those 'Black Pig' clouds sent us reeling way off course one night forcing us almost due west, so much so that we began to think we may fetch up in Florida, rather than pass to the east of Bermuda, but you just have to go with it. Eventually the wind played ball again, but was accompanied by some strong squalls; at least they cooled the cabin down a bit. The evening weather report indicated that we were approaching some sort of trough which should eventually bring wind, but prior to that we had to endure being becalmed. We just sat and drifted for almost all the next day, which is a horrible state of affairs, as the ever-present ocean swell rolls the boat from side to side continually without actually making any forward progress, while the sails and boom flap and crash about without the wind to give them any life. We ended up dropping the sails completely and waiting for any sign of breeze. Our first true Atlantic calm, and suddenly the realisation of the task ahead set in as we sat helpless. The first indication of breeze coming was a huge dark black cloud obscuring the horizon directly ahead of us and suddenly the wind arrived with a wallop and an awful lot of heavy rain. Up went the main sail and we were soon moving along at a good pace but to the south west, completely the wrong direction; a case of one step forwards and 5 back! Depressing to say the least, but eventually we were back on track, making good progress again but beating hard into strong headwinds all through the night. A final howling squall signalled the end of the trough and the beginning of another ridge of high pressure which killed the wind dead instantly and left us completely becalmed once again, drifting at 1 knot on the current which fortunately was going north, but obviously meant very slow progress.
We opted to use some of our precious fuel and motor overnight, hoping to find some wind by morning. Fuel management was going to be essential as we were still a long way from our destination, and if we got stuck in the main 'Azores High' we'd need every last drop of it. We agreed it would be prudent to motor for a maximum 24 hours, fairly confident that we'd find some wind to the north of the ridge. At least the flat seas meant we had some good periods of sound sleep, even with the sound of the engine, and favourable wind returned within 24 hours and allowed us to set the sails again.
After drawing level with Bermuda we began heading north east, planning to work our way around the north of the Azores High towards 36° north. We picked up weather information from a few other yachts via the evening SSB net, although without equipment to make transmissions we could only listen and plot their positions on the chart and build up a picture of the overall weather patterns, without the specifics of a proper forecast. The nights began to get cooler, and shorts and tee shirts were reserved for daywear, while we had to find socks to warm our feet for night watch, and even a set of thermals was not frowned upon.
By 30th May (day 15) we'd made it to 35° north and changed course further to the east only to be confronted by an unexpected and un-forecast low pressure cell the next day, with big seas and headwinds up to 25 knots. Water was cascading over the whole of Morven and us. The night was black and the wind strengthened every hour as we headed further north hoping to pass through the system. Not much pleasure and certainly no sleep. A loud twang got me out of bed and fully regaled in foul weather gear, lifejacket and tether in approximately 15 seconds. Convinced something major had broken I jumped out into the cockpit. We couldn't find what had made the noise; it had sounded like a rope or piece of rigging had snapped, but on checking these nothing seemed amiss. We gave up on sleep and decided to turn the boat around and head south; she was taking too much of a battering and we needed to escape the horrendous seas which were by now regularly washing over the entire boat. One wave even managed to find its way through the companion-way and douse the chart table and instruments. By morning the winds had calmed, but were still coming out of the east with some big seas running. Everything was salt ridden and damp.
Daylight gave us time to assess the damage. The 'twang' had been the stainless steel gantry on the stern of the boat which houses the solar panel and wind generator. One of the welded joints had cracked and a whole section had parted on the higher rail of the pushpit. Perhaps that bird had been heavier than we thought? As we don't carry mobile welding equipment a temporary repair of some sort had to be found. Lots of lashings to every other piece of stainless and it seemed to withstand pressure, but would be put to the test in the next bout of strong winds. At least it looked like it would stay put for now, though we were still very far from 'home'. By this time we had arrived right back where we had been two days earlier, the charted progress was looking decidedly uninspiring. We began to believe in the Bermuda Triangle.
To change the mood we cast out the fishing line; the only catches we'd had to date were 'the one that got away', Sargasso weed, and a stolen lure, so imagine the delight when the line began to strain. First thoughts were more Sargasso weed, but this time it was a tuna of fair fatness which was carefully reeled in and landed. A fine specimen which proved almost too much for the very small knife we reserve for dealing with fish. It took a while, but, fish and cockpit cleaned and the debris thrown back to feed something else in the ocean, we had some fine looking fish for dinner, baked in the oven and served with fresh vegetables (yes we still had some), a veritable feast. Straight from sea to the table. So good for the soul, and a second helping for tomorrow. That same night though Ian complained of violent stomach pains and had to forego part of his watch as he was put to bed (with buckets at both ends just in case). No serious consequences next day, but after this I wasn't sure we should risk the fish again so that went back from whence it came; bit of a shame as it was extremely good but too much at stake 1500 miles from land; no effect on me so I did wonder if he just wanted a longer sleep? Fishing was just for sport after that; good job, we didn't have another catch.
After a few more days of strong winds during which we made good progress, and a new record 24 hour run of 155 miles, we struck yet another calm, which saw us wallowing around in bright sunshine but going nowhere, though the seas were still quite lively. In a split second the Hydrovane (known to us as Harold) swung violently from one side to the other and then lost control completely. Further investigation showed a broken ratio knob which is used to put it in and out of gear. This meant that the self-steering gear would not remain in the selected gear and so was rendered useless. The thought of potentially having to hand steer the boat for the next 2 weeks, night and day, saw us delving into all of our spares boxes in search of something that could be used to at least fix 'Harold' in gear. By the end of the day Ian had managed to achieve this with various nuts, bolts and washers, much to our relief though Harold would now have to be treated with the utmost care until landfall.
We naturally hoped for fair winds all the way, but on day 21 picked up weather info indicating that a large and deepening low was tracking directly towards the Azores and that winds of force 9 or 10 could be expected towards its centre, with an active front stretching some 600 miles to the south bringing gale force winds, apparently considered by the meteorologists to be quite unusual for this late in the season. The advice to all yachts was to keep well south of 35° until the associated cold front passed over, so we had no alternative but to dive back south again as quickly as the conditions allowed before the seas built up. We then continued running eastwards at 34° north to wait for the depression to sweep through. The waiting for this 'thing' to arrive was hard, as we'd had nearly 3 days' notice of it, and the anticipation of what would probably be the strongest winds we'd ever encountered in open water meant we were constantly on alert, and so relaxing was not an option. Meanwhile we were heading further and further east, and well out of our way. At this rate we'd be in Madeira.
The wind and seas continued to build slowly over the next couple of days and our sail plan continued to be reduced at regular intervals. The front finally arrived at dawn, and by then we were down to 3 reefs in the main and the storm jib. Still we were flying along in some pretty large waves and surfing too, hitting a top speed of 14 knots (our hull speed is around 6.5 so this was getting a little dangerous). We reduced sail further to just the storm jib and eventually had to resort to trailing long knotted warps astern to slow the boat down. A very swift run for the next 24 hours with winds in excess of 35 knots still saw us heading east, but Morven sailed through beautifully and we just assisted; the gantry and Hydrovane repairs both held up too. Phew! The wind finally veered quite dramatically to the north east, indicating that the cold front had passed us (confirmed by a rapidly rising barometer,) and so we immediately gybed and began heading north again. At last we could set a course for the Azores, although we were now way off track to the south, some 250 miles further south than our rhum line course, every mile of which we had to claw back. This was going to be a long journey, but the sun was out once again and the bow was pointing to the Azores at least.
We had seen quite a few cargo ships by now, most of which passed us by at a safe distance, but one in particular was heading straight for us at night without showing any sign of altering course. It is often very difficult to judge the distance and speed of other ships, especially at night, but when you can see red and green lights together you know it's definitely heading your way. There was no response to Ian's radio calls and our AIS display now showed it just 3 miles away and travelling towards us at 16 knots. We adjusted the sails and altered our course further to starboard and tried calling again on the radio. This time we got an answer and a man asking "where are you, you are not on my screen, nothing is on my screen". When Ian told him our relative positions there was a delay an then "ah yes, I can see you now, I will alter my course". And so he did. But it's a bit worrying nowadays that if you don't show up on a screen then you don't exist! A computer is now the ships lookout. Thankfully that was our only close encounter.
Our next battle was with yet another ridge of high pressure. We'd heard tell of it on the SSB and rumour had it that there was now wind to be found at 36° north, but a distinct lack of it further south. We were now approaching 35° so agreed it would be best to motor for the next 60 miles, and then wait for the wind to fill in - at least we'd then be in the right vicinity if the wind did materialise. Whilst motoring over the flat ocean with its rolling swells we were treated to the fabulous sight of a very large sperm whale on the horizon. Alerted by the blow which rose high into the air we were once again mesmerised. At this time of year the males of the species are often to be found cruising solo in this area, waiting for their wives and young to join them in July and August. The youngsters are born further south and have to be fattened up in order to make the journey to the cooler latitudes. At least we had the foresight to get the camera, but with the boat rolling around on the swells, and the distance between us and him the video footage was a little shaky to say the least; well you really had to be there. As if by magic, as we reached 36° latitude the whale disappeared and the wind filled in from the south. Off we sailed in a light breeze and sunshine.
At last we now felt we were getting closer to the Azores, the mood on board was positive and although the wind came and went from right and wrong directions, we soldiered on. With another calm day on the horizon we could do nothing but conserve what fuel we had left and so drifted with the current and used what wind there was. Our original destination in the Azores was to be Horta on the island of Faial, mainly because it is the centre of yachting in these islands and thus the facilities for repair and maintenance are much more comprehensive than elsewhere. With the latest forecast predicting more light winds, which could last for several days, we took the decision to head instead to the tiny island of Flores, some 135 miles to the west of Faial and thus within range under engine if necessary, whereas if the wind dropped suddenly our remaining fuel supplies wouldn't be sufficient to take us to Horta. And so it was that we sighted the tiny island at dawn on day 31 of our travels.
So we'd sailed over 3000 miles and our world for one month was just as far as the horizon of the ocean. Reliant on each other and the boat. We'd suffered frustrations of being becalmed and sailed in the strongest winds and biggest seas we'd seen and had a fair share of container ships passing too close for comfort. This journey was always going to be more difficult than crossing via the tradewind route as the weather is far less predictable and the currents and winds can and do come from every direction. It was a bit like entering a labyrinth, not knowing which way to turn in order to avoid the worst of the weather, while constantly keeping the boat moving to reach your destination. Decisions were made according to the little weather information we were able to glean from our limited sources; not always perfect, but we managed to dodge the worst of the many low pressure systems flying across the Atlantic with us. Every single mile was hard won.
This journey felt like proper sailing; a voyage of extremes and a real test of stamina, with constant sail changes day and night to make the best of the conditions, and keep the boat and ourselves safe. A constant battle between calms and storms. Breakages had to be repaired, whether permanently or temporarily, and watches kept; sleep was at a premium, particularly in bad weather. Inevitably this all takes its toll, both physically and mentally, and the longer the journey, the more wearing it becomes, but on balance we had many more good sailing days than bad, and felt we had done ourselves and Morven proud on reaching Flores. Although quite desperate for some solid sleep, it was difficult to unwind having reached land. We were on a high (and it wasn't the pressure) having completed the passage and arrived safely, and of course the brains were still in gear. It took a couple of days for us to actually get the sort of sleep we needed to recharge our batteries, after which we had a fair list of repair jobs to undertake, some of which would have to wait until Horta, but first there was a bottle of chilled Prosecco to be uncorked and dealt with in an appropriate manner.