The Passage Back

Caribbean to the Azores via Bermuda

From the windswept dusty anchorages of Cape Verde to nights spent amongst flamingos in mangrove-lined rivers of Brazil to the turquoise waters and coral sand beaches in the Caribbean, it felt as if the best bits – all that we had come to see – were past. There had been very long passages, and plenty of adventure, but these passed in a blur after nine months of touring the tropics. Nearly 5000 miles lay between us, in Antigua, and the prospect of starting a life on land at home. Somehow the finality of the passage magnified the distance, so it felt very significant when we hauled up the anchor in Jolly harbour bay. Our toughest challenge lay ahead.

Reading up on routing advice and studying the pilot charts, we elected to take the traditional route. We would refrain from turning East for the Azores until making 35 degrees North, the latitude of Bermuda. After the crossing, chatting at dockside parties in Horta, I got the impression that the field was split; many sailors followed the shorter, direct route from the Caribbean. However, the windless Horse latitudes haven't changed since ancient times. You need to be prepared to make progress in very light airs, either with specialised sails or by carrying enough diesel. We were rafted with a heavy French steel yacht that had neither. Due to their desire to take a short cut en route to Europe, they were stuck for 35 days, static in the Sargasso sea.

Bermuda also, admittedly, has
some very pretty beaches

For us, the decision to pass via Bermuda rested not only in the routing advice, but also in the chance to make another interesting stop. The passage North was fast, with strong wind on the beam right up to the huge natural lagoon at St. Georges. Bermuda is a beautiful but oddly sterile place. A British protectorate that is most commonly a tourist destination for Americans, the archipelago is an unusual balance of cultures. Transfixed on appealing to cruise ship tourists, the best description we heard was “clean”. The old town at St. Georges is quaint and has plenty to see but feels like a model village, maintained as a museum piece for day trips but deserted at night. Given the historical, and indeed present, position of the islands as a major stop for sailors crossing the Atlantic, little is made of the fact that today almost every yacht is rigged with the triangular fore and aft sails that were invented on the island. We almost all sail with a Bermudian rig (note: correctly Berumuda rig or Bermudian, never Bermudan) yet beyond a small plaque in one museum there is little mention of it. The only exception is the sail training vessel “Spirit of Bermuda”, a beautiful wooden three-masted schooner that is striking, in such a large vessel, for bearing the local sail plan.

Bermuda to Home and the Aftermath

Passing back into the Atlantic through the narrow 'Town-Cut' channel, hewn between cliffs to provide easy navigation out of St. Georges, things were looking good for Auriga, who was streaming along with wind again on the beam. The perfect plume of a bow wave kicked up, and with the conspicuous blue-tinted jibtop set well, she was overtaking several larger yachts heading in the same direction, and for the first few days this joyful progress continued.

Towards the end of the first week a well-timed drop in the wind allowed us to put up the big genoa, while we got out our hand-cranked 1980s sewing machine and fixed a big tear along the foot of the jib. It was just in time; a couple of days of fresh headwinds marked our entry into seas where the winds are generated by local depressions. We were well and truly out of the trades.

Sailrepair at sea

As the transatlantic drew on the wind dropped, and the sun rose on the eighth day to utterly flat calm. If it weren't for an 'X' on the chart that told us we would have to look a thousand miles beyond the horizon to find land in any direction we could have believed we were again at anchor in a Caribbean lagoon. No swell reached us from any distant wind, nor was there the slightest ruffle on the surface. In the following days, drifting the seas, we were frequently entertained by the wildlife. Portuguese men o' war looked like dropped bath toys in the distance. Migrating pilot whales chose to pass by in the morning, giving us their head-bobbing display over breakfast. A pod of dolphins had made the area their territory, and we often saw them fishing in the distance. On most days they came over at least once to jump around the bow, bursting with curiosity about the silent beast bobbing about. They never hung around long, presumably bored we wouldn't pick up speed and play with them. 
 
 

There is nothing so magical in all the oceans, though, as the combination of dolphins and phosphorescence on a dark night. In the clear water their streaming motion is highlighted by a green glow across their bodies and they shoot close past, vivid underwater spectres leaving a glittering green trail in their bullet-like wake.

With what puffs of wind we had we worked our way North in the hope of an increasing breeze. It paid off, perhaps a little too well. Now North of the Azores a message came over the Iridium Yellowbrick messenger: “Suggest heading a bit South. Big depression to the West.” With increasing winds we worked to undo our Northerly progress, aiming significantly to the South of our target. More details came in over the following days. It seemed the winds would come on strong around the time we would be on the longitude of Flores, the most Westerly island of the Azorean archipelago. That meant we would have to avoid our planned stop there, and it was wise that we did – we later heard several yachts broke free of their moorings on the night the gale hit. The forecast suggested that 60 miles would make the difference between 35 knots and 45 knots of wind, an appreciable margin. We dipped a little South of the Azores, and in the end saw no more than 30 knots of sustained wind. We were perhaps over cautious with just staysail and three reefs, but we kept to that sail plan, expecting an increase that never came.

We made landfall at Horta in the very early hours of the morning with the wind dropping to nothing in the aftermath of the depression, and had a very welcome beer in the early light of dawn having covered 2100 miles in 18 days, our longest leg both in terms of distance and time. Not a record speed for Auriga, but acceptable given the long period of light winds and calms.

Fial is a beautiful island, as is Pico just next door. The days spent travelling about - walking the calderas, exploring vineyards and venturing into lava caves - were as much a highlight as any other stop of the year. Not only are the Azores spectacular in their beauty, they are uniquely positioned as a mid-ocean stop for sailors heading in every in every direction. Every yachtsman you meet, simply by being there, must share a passion for blue water sailing. We heard stories about trips from around the globe, met people who were setting out on a 10-year circumnavigation and those returning from the same. Sharing a drink at Peter's famous bar we made many good friends. We couldn't let the chance pass to make our mark on the dockside, and accepting we are not artists, did a good job with cut-out templates and a very limited palette!

Amazing to think it could
sit here for years

After extending our stay in the Azores as long as possible we were praying for a speedy passage home so that we would be back in time for commitments ashore. Thus it was that we found ourselves becalmed for the first four days out of Horta, again drifting our way further North in the hope of hooking into a passing depression.

Trickling by so slowly, the wildlife again decided to keep us company. One evening, enjoying a long drawn out golden sunset, I heard a distant puff. Again and again came the tell-tale sound, and looking in the distance I now saw the blow of an approaching fin whale. Silently bobbing around, little Auriga must have been an unexpected obstacle to the whale. She only changed course to pass us by at the last minute, coming so close as to reveal her whole form – easily twice our length – under the clear ocean waters. Yes, the time we spent with marine biologists from the Azores watching a pod of sperm whales was amazing, but there is something uniquely special, which only a sailor can experience, of a private meeting with such a magnificent creature hundreds of miles from anyone else on the planet.

Headed East - the sunset at our backs

Again a depression came along, and again a warm sky, streaked with cirrus, gave way to overcast drizzle and strong winds. Again we handled it without drama; it is much easier to run before a stiff breeze than into it. In strong winds we invariably let the wind pilot handle the waves while we stayed out of the spray. We were not looking forward to getting home by this point. The fast speed we were making was going to get us to all our appointments on time, but that was not enough to lighten our moods as our adventure came to its close.

Inevitably, good things must come to an end, and before long we were on the dock at Portsmouth. We made just a short stop on the South coast to catch up with Igor, who met us on the dock with a bottle of champagne. There followed a tough passage around Kent to our berth in Ipswich. Thick fog welcomed us back to British summertime. The famous cliffs of Dover were not a glorious symbol of our return to British shores, but passed unsighted, in a confusion of fog horns.

Dockside reunion

The final two hundred miles around the British coast were tough. The conditions were challenging, and more importantly we were no longer on passage to new sights and experiences. But keeping watch in the misty gloom I was looking back on the 5000 miles of open ocean we had covered. Over the course of two months some spectacular, some unforgettable and some hair-raising sailing had brought us home without incident.

Now back on dry land I am beginning to grapple with the task of looking back over our amazing year. We have completed a tour through two hemispheres, nine countries, thousands of miles, and countless dreams. In the days that followed our arrival home we received a heart-warming welcome; we hugged family, and partied with friends we left behind nearly a year ago. Almost every one of them asked what it was like to be back. I admit I struggled with mixed emotions to find the right answer. I believe that the feeling finality has not yet hit. I can't be sure whether that is because being back has been quite exciting in its own right, or because somehow 11 months cramped on a 30-ft boat hasn't dampened our spirit for voyaging far and wide, and we are planning the next trip already.