Rites of passage are endured and enjoyed
Our start from Guernsey was early but quietly efficient and professional thanks to our preparations. We were off in a romping northerly, helped along by the cold wind we are trying to escape. Pearl was loving it and we couldn’t have been happier with her. She could sense what was ahead, eager with anticipation like us. The grey winter didn’t let us out of its clutches without a fight, forcing us to reef well down as we barreled along the Brittany coast. In came the rain – a heavy clag reducing visibility – and a confused sea agitated by spring tides, invisible in the black-hearted, moonless night.
Grim doesn’t cover it. Tracey went down with mal de mer. Abject misery. It’s a crushing thing that robs you of your fight and confines you to your protesting mind and heaving body. Ushant was vile with overfalls and at one point we were reduced to 1 knot over the ground, despite showing 8 knots on the log. It was a night of attrition, and I took comfort only in the law of change: no matter how bad it is, it will always get better. In the meantime, I just had to ‘eat my s**t sandwich’, as an old sergeant used to say, and then things started to get better.
Mid-biscay, the false dawn greeted us in the east while a huge moon set to the west. Before long, the sun rose in the east and the moon was replaced by a huge rainbow. Dolphins appeared to the north and sunnier climes beckoned to the south. The sun brought enough warmth to eat breakfast wrapped up in the cockpit.
Suddenly it all seemed worthwhile; there was a reason for all the work and sacrifice to get this trip off the ground. Tracey was smiling and after some much-needed sustenance, her colour returned. We held hands, drank steaming tea and chatted. I wouldn’t do this with anyone else and to see her enjoying life again was more warming than the sun.
Tracey is the brave one. She is the one taking the greater leap and to see her ill and miserable off Ushant was terrible. There was nothing I could do but nurse her and sail on. There is a definite cycle to settling into life at sea and Tracey groped her way forward blindly. While she focused on our destination, the time dragged. As she adapted, the destination faded and living in the moment came to the fore. I could see it, predict it even, as I have taken the same road myself and have led many others down it. It is a rite of passage and it’s only in reaching its conclusion that you understand there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Below Finisterre, like thieves in the night, we motored through the calm, sneaking onwards before the next storm caught us. A red moon reflected off the smooth sea, fragmented by the shape of dolphins under our bow. Motoring is a welcome option that cruising offers. The engine would get us below the storm brewing in the Atlantic and, as Tracey says, ‘Life’s too short for wallowing’. Tracey finds the night a dark and threatening place, adrift in a void. Anxieties of unseen threats resonate with childhood fears, but now there could be real danger. The night is an alien place. I have become comfortable with the dark as I build up a mental map. Anything that shows its presence is a beacon of information that offers further clarity. Tracey will get there too, but in the meantime I was happy to take the lion’s share of the night as we settled into a routine that made best use our strengths. With time and experience, the night will become a time of wonder, particularly in the tropics with the stars above and phosphorescence below. A cool respite from the day, for reflection, a comfort.
Getting south, we stripped off thermals and continued building ourselves up. The night before Lanzarote, flying along at 9 knots, I worked the foredeck as we dropped the spinnaker and Tracey worked the cockpit. It was fun; we were a team and it felt safe. Lots of things came together in that moment, giving us an upsurge of confidence. The ocean had restored our depleted batteries.
I am proud of Tracey. Her rite of passage is done and we have sailed to the Canaries. The wine tasted so much better having earned it. Salud, ‘Deep Sea Tracey,’ salud.
‘IN TIME, THE NIGHT WILL BE A TIME OF WONDER’