4,200 miles and 38 days later we finally arrived in Falmouth, UK. Didn't quite do a Noah (40 days), but we
had a bit of a menagerie on board. More about that later.

All in all we had a pretty good trip. After departing Luperon on 5th May we
made a short detour to Big Sand Cay in the Turks & Caicos. Marno thought he
could hear strange noises coming from the base of the main mast. Having
fixed it back in the US with a simple wax and epoxy job, we squirted the
last of our epoxy into the base and then ran from side to side of the boat
to rock it around a bit, hoping the epoxy would settle in the right places
(it didn't work for long). After a rested night we continued our passage,
albeit very slowly. For the next week and a half there was hardly a breath
of wind. When there was it was very light. Our average speed during this
time was just 3 knots. We weren't the only ones - it was calm all over the
Atlantic.

Before we left we had substituted our petrol cans for diesel, so we carried
20 gallons on deck and 40 gallons in each of our 2 tanks. That meant
approximately 200 hours of motoring. We emptied one tank during this time,
but managed to squeeze 84 hours out of it. Where were all the trade winds we
had heard and read about? As it happens, we had a total of 1.5 days of trade
winds throughout the entire trip.

But, the calm weather was sensational. We used it to do jobs and fill the
pantry with freshly baked bread, bickies, muffins and cakes. It was
beautiful weather and the colours out in the middle of the Atlantic are
simply spectacular. Clear blue skies and cobalt blue water. As the sky
turned coral pink the water deepened to royal purple. It's amazing how much
light there is even on the nights when there's no moon. The stars shine in
all their splendour and the Milky Way splashes in a long arc from horizon to
horizon, frosting the sky like diamond dust. The phospheresence is awesome.
Waves roll with green fire and the jelly fish passing under us light up
brightly - some larger than dinner plates. Large pods of dolphins joined us
along the trip, we even saw whales and watched a hump back breach and belly
flop several times.

We did hear strange noises out there. Nautical myths of sirens calling from
the deep sprang to mind, but both of us heard music, singing and, dare I say
it, voices, out there. We were fascinated by it and turned off all the
electrics and radios and still we could hear it - too faint to distinguish
words. Some would argue that it was coming from the standing rigging - but
seeing as we don't have any...

The days blended into each other and we slid into a routine. The weather got
much colder as we passed by Bermuda. We listened to the weather on our SSB
radio every evening, tuning in to Herb who forecasted for any boat checking
in with him. We were unable to reach him, but there was always a boat within
100 miles of us and we could generally follow the same weather advice. We
also downloaded weather faxes and for the most part were able to sail around
storms and gale systems, probably adding about 500 miles to our course.

One of us had to be on watch 24/7. During the days it was whoever was the
least tired or needed a break from chores. At night we alternated every 3
hours. Line of sight to the horizon is 5 miles. Ships travel at around 20
knots, so it would only take 15 minutes for a ship to reach you. We were
always careful with our watches, but one terrifying event turned that
caution into religious zeal.

We were listening to Herb when a Pan Pan call came through. This is not a
Mayday call where life is endangered, it's one down from that when you're in
trouble, however, if it had been me...

He was a Pommie, more or less single handing as his first mate was his cat.
He was closer to the African Coast in the vicinity of the Cape Verde
Islands. It was midnight. He had been hit by a ship and his boat holed. He
had lost his mast and rigging over the side and was sinking, estimating that
he had another hour before the boat was lost and he in the water. To make
matters worse he didn't have a life raft and his dingy had been stolen at
his last port. The ship that hit him was coming back to rescue him. We heard
later that he was saved, but they were unable to salvage the boat. As he was
climbing the rope webbing up the side of the ship he lost his cat. He had it
in it's cage when the latch to the door broke. In a mad struggle to save the
cat he also dropped all his belongings - passport, papers, everything he
chose to salvage. We listened to the whole thing in rapt horror. It could
happen to anyone. Single handers only sleep for 15 minute periods. Not
something I could do. I thought 3 hours was pretty hard. But this event was
incentive to stay alert during watch. Only once did we have a ship on a
collision course with us. It was quickly averted by a friendly 'G'day' over
the VHF.

There are always birds out at sea and a long way from land. They seem to
live out there. One evening we saw 3 little birds, much like Willy Wag
Tails. They didn't look like they should be so far from land and guessed
they had come from a container ship. Many times they tried to land on the
boat and eventually crash landed. They were so cold that two of them were
drawn to my body heat and proceeded to climb up my leg. They didn't seem to
be bothered or afraid of me.

Eventually, they ducked in under the cover of the dodger and stayed the
night. By first light they were gone. We had lost track of the 3rd bird,
whom we christened Frank. He showed up later that morning so tired that he
wobbled on his little feet. After sitting in Marno's hand he flew into the
boat and sat on the floor of the galley and slept. Eventually I picked him
up for fear of treading on him. From that moment on he elected that my hand
was where he wanted to be. I tried to make a little nest in a bowl for him,
but he just kept flying to my hand. Of course, this wasn't practical, so I
put him on my shoulder. He eventually wiggled down my shirt and snuggled
into my cleavage. This reminded me of you, Jeanne with Sweetie.

We had him for a full day. Then one fateful afternoon, when all three of us
were in the cockpit, he decided to take flight. He attempted to land back on
the boat and missed, hitting the water. He flailed away while both of us
were momentarily frozen with shock. The poor little thing was trying to swim
back to the boat and not doing a good job of it.

It took us 10 seconds to put a rescue mission together. Marno turned the
boat around and I scooped him up with a bucket. He was shivering and soaked.
We rushed him down below and sat him in front of the heater to dry out. I
tried to leave him there, but he just wanted to snuggle with me. We got him
dry, but several hours later Frank passed away. The shock was too much for
his tiny body. So we had a little service and watched our small friend float
away.

Then there was the day, a week or so later, an Albatross circled our boat.
But if it had come to give us bad luck, then we reckoned it was about an
hour late.

We were on our final leg - about 3 days from the UK. All in all we'd had a
fantastic trip. The worst things that had happened to us up to that point
was tearing a sail, which we managed to repair, bending the pulpit with the
preventer when we gybed violently, Frank passing away, and me having to
climb the mast to rethread the lazy jacks. (It's amazing how much movement
there is up the mast at sea. I had to hold on so tightly for fear of being
flicked off and had massive bruising on the inside of my arms and thighs.
Marno called me Lara Croft after that).

Well, it started off being such a beautiful, calm day - so calm we had to
motor and we needed to charge the house batteries anyway. That's when we
emptied the 2nd 40 gallon tank. No worries, we still had 20 gallons on deck.
We just needed enough to negotiate shipping channels if the need arose. It
was so calm we had no trouble pouring the diesel into the tank. We then had
to bleed the fuel lines to restart the engine, which we did and did and did
and did - to no avail. The engine would not start. No matter what we did.
For hours we were at it trying different things, pulling out every bit of
literature we had to help us trouble shoot. Of course, the battery by this
time was starting to go flat. So we let it rest for 30 minutes, then 45
minutes, then 60 minutes.

Our engine manual, on the subject of bleeding the fuel system, actually says
this, and I quote, "In the unhappy event of the batteries becoming flat
during the above operation, look to your flare locker (did you check its
contents before leaving port?)". When we first read this many months before,
our ribs ached for laughing so hard. So, when Marno looked at me after
flattening the battery and said "Look to your flare locker", I grinned and
responded, "Did you check its contents before leaving port?". This had us
grinning, but we knew engine loss wasn't the worst of our problems.

We were about to get hit by a strong gale system that was forecast to reach
40-50 knots and stay with us for 2 days. There was no way we could outrun
this one or work around it. We had done 40 knots before from Georgetown to
Mayaguana for almost a day and survived, so after taking a seasickness pill,
we cleared the decks and put triple reefs in both sails. The wind started to
pick up a bit and we had the choice of heading for Ireland, about 140 miles
north, or the UK, about 200 miles east. We chose to keep heading for the UK
and are glad we did.

Around 7:30am the gale hit us like a freight train. We were heading into it
and sometimes knocked almost beam to the seas, which kept climbing in
height. The wind this time seemed stronger than 40 knots. It was awesome
being in a storm. There was a kind of magnificence and beauty to it. The
surface of the water looked like it was being sand blasted into fine mist
and foam was whipped horizontally off the top of waves. Clouds raced across
the sky. The visual feast was added by the sound - it actually roared - a
real deafening roar. We had to shout to hear each other.

From time to time we heeled very sharply, the port toe rail would totally
submerge, so we lowered the mizzen. At times I wondered if we'd end up
having a knock down (when the boat gets knocked over on its side). There was
so much water over the boat - more than I'd ever seen before. Waves just
kept smashing onto the deck and sprayed from bow to stern and beam to beam.

Both of us went below and tried to reconcile ourselves that we could live
with this for 2 days. It was so rough we couldn't cook and once I was thrown
bodily off the loo. Numerous times my feet actually left the cabin sole and
I was jet propelled through the boat.

If it got any worse we were going to deploy our series drogue - a long rope
with small parachutes attached down the length and a bit of heavy chain at
the end. It in theory slows the boat down and helps to cushion the ride,
preventing knock downs and capsizing. Only problem with a drogue is that it
is nigh impossible to pull back aboard once deployed. Sometimes they are
just cut loose and left to sink to the depths. So we knew it was a last
resort.

Having lost the engine only an hour or so before, we turned off the power to
conserve energy, especially as the house batteries were pretty low. In doing
so, we also turned off our bilge pump.

Marno peeked out through the companionway every 10 minutes to keep watch. I
took a break from being sling shot around the boat and dozed on the bunk. We
heard a sharp crack on the deck. Marno bolted up and brought back down our
SSB antenna; the wind had caused the line holding it to the top of the mast
to chafe through. We wouldn't be able to use the SSB radio now - which was
okay as we needed to conserve power anyway.

Meanwhile, I could hear a strange sloshing and guessed it was the storm,
until I lifted the cabin sole to look in the bilges. They were full of
water. There was so much water coming over the decks and finding every
crack, nook, cranny and vent into the boat and the bilges. We found leaks
that we'd never had before - mainly through the bolts on the toe rails. We
grabbed the handle to the manual bilge pump and cranked for all we were
worth.

It seemed like now was a good time to start counting our blessings. Truth be
told, we were actually having the time of our lives. It was exciting and
adventurous. Some of the things we'd seen and done and the people we'd met
were life enriching. This storm, our engine and power problems were part of
the adventure.

Then in the 4th hour of the storm a curious thing happened. Marno and I had
wedged ourselves under the dodger in the cockpit to watch the storm. We
guessed that it was peaking to 50 knots, perhaps gusting higher (which we
later confirmed with other cruisers who were caught in it as well). The sun
came out. Directly above us a small patch of blue sky appeared and stayed
with us for the next hour. Gradually it grew and was both behind and in
front of us. The wind was still just as strong, but the sunshine gave it a
whole different personality. In another hour we had cloudless bright blue
skies and the sea was a magnificent shade of emerald green. Yet, the wind
and seas still roared.

By the 6th hour, the wind died down to about 20 knots, but the seas were
mighty. I was left open mouthed at the shear height. Attitudes is a
fantastic boat - she just skidded up the side of the huge waves, which from
the top seemed like small mountains. These were definately the biggest seas
I'd ever seen.

During the storm - just in 6 hours - we had covered almost 45 miles. Mostly
with just a triple reefed mailsail!

Gradually the seas calmed and we hoisted more sail and before we knew it,
were just 30 miles from the UK. So close and yet, so far - the wind died
again and we were becalmed. Both of us were so frustrated. We had enough
fuel to motor the rest of the way, but couldn't use it. This was the closest
I came to despairing. The swell was rocking the boat uncomfortably and we
were going nowhere. I tightened the sails - made them drum tight and the
booms were fixed to stop them slapping in an effort to find the slightest
breeze. It took us 15 hours to travel 20 miles. We could see lit buoys of
the shipping channels and kept our eyes peeled for any approaching vessel.

Seeing land the next morning was exciting. You can smell the land, although
it's not particularly pleasant - a bit like burnt toast and sewage. We ever
so slowly tacked our way past the Scilly Isles and around the first headland
of Lands End. We were almost there.

I started to worry about no engine, maneurvering and anchoring under sail
power alone in an unfamiliar port. We've anchored under sail before and had
even cast off a mooring under sail, but I guess it was fear of the unknown.
Marno was quite relaxed about the whole thing.

Then the wind finally picked up and we were sailing 8 knots on a flat sea -
such fun sailing! Took our minds off our troubles.

The land here is beautiful!! Hills are like patchwork quilts, green and
luscious, with quaint villages built in the valleys.

We were just 3 miles from Falmouth when Marno radioed the Coast Guard to get
some details and advice on where to anchor. They told us of the visitors
moorings and Marno was able to roughly guestimate where they were on the
chart.

Moorings! Picking up a mooring under sail was something new. And everywhere
we've been the procedure is different. Some have a small buoy with a long
antenna type thing you reach down and grab and pull aboard. Others you have
to thread your own rope through and then sometimes you have to fish around
for the rope hanging below the surface. And then usually the moorings seem
so close to other boats!!

My heart was jumping out of my chest thinking about all the things that
could go wrong. Marno tried to calm me - after all, he said, I had scooped
Frank out of the water with a bucket on a rope. I jolted myself out of my
negative thinking and we put a plan in place. This was going to be another
exciting chapter of our adventure! The plan was to sail in slowly and have a
look around first to see which mooring we wanted, then go back to it and
pick it up. We readied the boathook and extra line just in case and sailed
into charming Falmouth Harbour. A charming picturesque European village.
Layers of multi-story townhouses are crammed on the southern bank. On the
other side a patchwork quilt of green fields with several large estates
along the waterfront. And, dotted everywhere on the water, about a zillion
boats - all crammed together on moorings.

Marno scanned the immediate area with the binoculars and we headed for a
vacant mooring. These seemed to have little floats with a handle on one side
to catch with a long hook. I strolled up to the bow to my waiting boathook,
breathed deeply and decided that we were going to do this - we just had to
make it look like we knew what we were doing.

We zoomed in on a mooring. I looked at Marno and asked him what happened to
the practice run. He just answered "Ready?". I fumbled for the boathook,
leaned over the side and surprised myself by picking it up first go. I heard
the sails drop and Marno pounding up the deck to help me secure the line - a
big grin on his face. Although in mild shock, I felt elated and asked him
what happened to the practise run. He just said he didn't want to give me
time to panic!

With a grin and wobbily legs I made my way back to the cockpit. It happened
so smoothly. We looked around at the other boats around us and felt mildly
disappointed that we hadn't had any witnesses. FIGJAM was Marno's word for
the day (for those who know the acronym).

Marno went ashore to clear with Customs while I readied the laundry and
dreamed of long hot showers. Patrice, we remembered your experience of
exfoliating sheets of skin while soaking in a hot tub. I felt 3 sizes
smaller after stepping out of the shower - the amount of dead skin is
amazing.

So here we are in beautiful Falmouth and tonight Marno got the engine
working, after borrowing a generator from Eric and Jan of Kuramu to recharge
the batteries. Apparently all it needed was a really good cranking with full
batteries!! Tomorrow we head for Exmouth to catch up with Sam and Louise and
to look for work.

There's so much I haven't told you - our fishing experience with the shark,
the fields of jelly fish, the storm that stopped and stalled on top of us,
seeing the misty island of Flores - the western most island of the Azores,
the new and uncharted sea mount discovered by one cruiser during our trip,
the SSB radio nets we were involved with and the wonderful friends we made
along the way. But this is such a long email already.

Would we do it again? Absolutely!

But now, earning some much needed dosh is our highest priority.

Send mail to marno@yachtattitudes.com with questions or comments about this web site.
Last modified: 04/23/09