A Dairy of an Atlantic Crossing Part 1 of 3

Apologies for last week’s radio silence - our inverter chose mid-week to permanently retire, leaving us adrift in a sea of dead batteries and unpublished drafts.

Mindelo is an unusual place. The local cast is dedicated, offering unsolicited guidance, whispered sales pitches, and a persistent, hopeful energy that turns a simple errand into a mild negotiation. It is a VERY laid back place, service isn’t slow; it’s a philosophical stance against hurry.

The soul of the place is Cesária Évora. Her melancholic morna songs are the haunting soundtrack to the streets, her iconic image a serene contrast to the vibrant chaos on the streets.

17th January – Departure Day

Kenet arrived, and the very air on Sawasdeekat changed. It was as if someone had opened a porthole to a fresh, sunny breeze. His smile is a genuine, uncomplicated affair, and his bag of fishing lures promised protein and glory. The earlier niggles with Danny and Vikki receded into the background, washed away by a wave of renewed optimism. With a little help from our friends we checked why a pin had come out from up above but it turned out that we needn’t worry.

We cast off from Mindelo’s chaotic embrace, grabbed by 20-knot trade winds that sent us swooping towards Grenada. Immediate dividends: within twenty minutes of Kenet setting his lines, we had a fish. A small but symbolic victory. He filleted it with practised ease and Pookie cooked it with consummate pride. We made 7 knots under the Code 0 alone. The routine, the purpose, felt good. Tanks full, spirits high. The Atlantic, for a moment, felt like a willing accomplice.

The first night was a rough night. The inaugural fish perhaps rebelled in our bellies; Kenet and I paid a small price. The ocean reminded us it is not a millpond. We gybed to stay on course, the second turn finally finding a more comfortable groove.

And then there was The Leak. Not Danny’s Drip - that was a quaint, domestic annoyance. This was the €160 Cape Verde Special, the exhaust-pipe seal we’d been assured was fixed. It was not fixed. It was, in fact, a spectacular failure. Water was now regularly seeping in through the port hull, as if the Atlantic had accepted an open invitation.

This necessitated a round-the-clock vigil. The drill: remove sodden cloths, wring them out over a bucket, hang them to “dry” in the humid cockpit, and lay down fresh ones. This had to be done at every watch change, and every time a new puddle smirked up at you, roughly twelve times a day. We were crossing an ocean with two holes in our boat from day one. The irony was as palpable as the damp: we’d paid a small fortune in Mindelo for the maritime equivalent of a shrug.

Everyone was on the leak roster. Except Danny, who seemed to possess a preternatural ability to be otherwise engaged whenever the cloths began to weep. The boat’s soundtrack was no longer just waves and wind; it was the rhythmic squelch-squeeze-drip of our futile mopping, a soggy metronome marking our progress.

18th January – Flying Fish & Floor Food

The second day’s true bounty was not from the sea, but from the air. Overnight, seven flying fish made the fatal error of landing on our deck; silvery, bewildered kamikaze pilots that were too dry and too small to eat. Then, the main event: Kenet’s lures proved their worth. We hooked one magnificent mahi-mahi. Then, in a burst of piscine insanity, we hooked two at once. The scene was pure, joyous chaos: me hauling one in hand-over-hand like a maniac, Kenet wrestling the other on the rod. The largest measured a triumphant 84cm. We ate like kings. Our total fish count by day 2 was 6 and rising.

A minor, comic note emerged. Kenet confided, with a diplomat’s sigh, that Danny’s habit of leaving a trail of debris is already wearing thin on him. Cups, bowls, clothes, crisp packets, even flakes of fish, it all seems to fall from his orbit and remain, awaiting a cleaner-upper. Pookie and I have become inadvertent valets, returning shed garments to his cabin. Danny starts to treat the boat like a self-cleaning hotel, and we appear to be the staff.

19th January – The Helm & The Huff

Calmer seas, a pleasant sail. The water ingress continues its soggy vigil. At 8am, I decided to goosewing the sails to correct our northerly drift. Vikki took the helm during the manoeuvre. It quickly became apparent that holding a steady course is not her forte; we wobbled like a shopping trolley with a rogue wheel. Once we had got back on course we resorted to the trusty wind vane and a makeshift spring I rigged for the genoa. Problem solved, but a tiny (sailing) flag raised.

By now the repaired leak that had set us back 160 euros in Cap Verde was determined to be a definite failure. Water was now regularly coming in through BOTH hulls making for a round the clock vigil. It appears we had set off to cross the Atlantic with two holes in our boat from day one!!

20th January – The Consultation Kerfuffle

A quiet night was followed by a revealing day. Light winds forced an hour of motoring. Morale was superficially good. Kenet, Pookie and Vikki even launched into a spontaneous cleaning spree, polishing stainless steel until it gleamed. Then, the first cracks in the happy facade became audible.

I decided to hoist the mainsail to catch every whisper of wind. I consulted Kenet on the timing. This, it transpired, was a grave political error. Vikki was upset I hadn’t asked her opinion, her feelings hurt by the exclusion. I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that it was Kenet’s specific, insurance-mandated experience I was leveraging. I conceded and said I would involve them in future. Yes I know… Captain Rookie error, however the point was underscored minutes later when, during the tack, she twice turned the boat the wrong way, over-revved the engine, and turned a simple sail hoist into a pantomime. Danny, meanwhile, also joined the miffed brigade as I hadn’t consulted him either. He didn’t like my idea of having the main up as well as the code zero or genoa. He then offered a piece of nautical theory that left me speechless: he insisted that “adding sail in light winds makes no difference to a boat’s speed”. I simply stared. He retreated in a silent huff, leaving behind an atmosphere thicker than pea soup.

21st January – Water Woes & Midnight Giants

Kenet woke me at 12:30 AM with a thrilling sight: the 79-foot Geronimo gliding past our bow, a silent ghost in the moonlit vastness. Our first vessel since departing. A comforting reminder we weren’t alone. The night’s good speed (7-9 knots!) was tempered by a more pressing discovery: the starboard water tank was empty. We’d somehow used half our water supply (nearly 500 litres) in 4.5 days. A sobering moment. In addition, the water maker, our mechanical saviour, was started but refused to produce. I spent hours tinkering with pressure switches and flushing routines, a high-stakes puzzle with thirst as the opponent. I failed and decided that water rations begin now.

We also faced another, more baffling mystery: our boat developed a profound philosophical objection to sailing dead downwind. While the rest of our flotilla slid gracefully on the direct route, Sawasdeekat would point her nose away with the stubborn dignity of a cat refusing to enter a carrier.

We began to seriously question our sail inventory. That large, fetching front sail we called a Code Zero? Upon closer inspection by the Viking collective, a theory emerged. “The clew is suspiciously high,” one noted. “That’s no Code Zero,” laughed another, “It looks like a Yankee!” A Yankee - the kind of sail you’d see on a classic tall ship, not a modern catamaran hoping for downwind performance. Essentially, we were trying to win a Formula 1 race with a vintage clipper’s wardrobe. The result? A route so deviant we once found ourselves nearly 200 miles off course, earnestly sailing towards South Carolina while Grenada lay patiently to the west. Our track across the chart plotter looked less like a sleek arrow and more like the exploratory meander of a lost sheep, swiftly cementing our status as the flotilla’s favourite comedy act.

22nd January – Small Victories

This was a day of essential repairs. We got the Code 0 flying, making good speed and after more fiddling, the glorious sound of fresh water trickling from the maker! The mood lifted instantly. No more flushing toilets with bottled seawater. I also played electrician, tracing a fault in the port rear cabin (Danny and Vikki’s, naturally) to a loose wire behind the toilet switch. Fixed. A small, satisfying triumph. The evening however brought a savage but brief rain squall. We were reefed down and ready, watching the torrent from the dry(ish) cockpit. So for once, we felt prepared.

23rd January – The Leg in the Aisle & A Theory

3am. Sleep was impossible with the waves slamming the hulls. Kenet woke me again: a cargo ship, the Norfolk Express, was on our port side. Danny had just taken over at the helm. I called out a question to Danny about the wind to make sure everything was set properly but got no response. Kenet insists Danny heard me. I got up and stood right next him. As I moved to check the instruments, he deliberately (I am convinced it was deliberate) stretched his leg out, blocking my path. A petty, physical barricade so I went back to bed.

In the morning  and all of he day the wind was strong and fair. No fishing however as there was too much seaweed. My logbook now contains less about sailing and more about Danny’s behaviour. I’ve begun to wonder, with a growing sense of clarity and sadness, if Danny might be on the autism spectrum. The social isolation, the literal-mindedness, the clumsy one-sided conversations, the utter blindness to the emotional and physical clutter he leaves in his wake… it paints a picture. It doesn’t excuse the perverse leg-barricade, but it might explain the profound disconnect. We are not a crew. We are five individuals sharing a floating apartment, two of whom are increasingly, bizarrely, at odds with the other three.

The great Atlantic is proving less a challenge of waves and wind, and more one of tangled human currents, and tomorrow, the 24th, promises behaviour that descends from the merely baffling into the truly bizarre. Pookie, my cooking tripitaka had throughout this time been fantastic.

Despite the No Veg, Gluten Free, No Red Meat and Lactose free challenges she had been given, she continued to serve up fabulous food every day. I will leave you with a little collage… The last photo of which was a bit of a joke.

The Viking Group held a light hearted competition to see who could catch the largest fish etc.. and as we had been eclipsed by another boat that caught a near 1m long fish, we decided to start our own competition of who could claim the smallest.. we offered some 1.5cm flying fish pics and Pookie decided to pretend she had collected them and deep fried them! They were actually Minnow, a Thai delicacy.

To be continued…