Transatlantic crossing

A voyage of self discovery

Experienced sailor Mat Desforges reflects on his first Atlantic crossing and what he discovered along the way

Ibraced all the muscles in my body, I held on with both hands as the yacht pitched and rolled in some of the biggest waves and swell we had seen in the last three weeks. The wind whistled in the mast and rigging, as crashing waves surged the boat forwards. There was no moon, so apart from an entire sky full of stars, it was pitch black. Some waves glowed from the phosphorescence and the occasional flash of a flying fish whizzed past.

I squinted at the radar screen and saw a large light patch straight behind, indicating big squall of wind and rain was approaching us fast – just a few minutes away.

I was on the midnight until 2am watch, all alone in the cockpit, as the skipper and three other crew caught some sleep below the deck.

We were approaching the centre of the North Atlantic – over 1,000 miles to the nearest landmass in any direction – south to South America, east to Africa or west to our destination, the West Indies.

The boat rolled even more and it was definitely time to change our course slightly to avoid a crash gybe, and to reduce sail. The squall would arrive very soon. As I reached for the ropes the warm (we were below the tropic of cancer) rain lashed my back. I reduced the mainsail, thankful, as ever, for the joys of hydraulics and electric winches – something I definitely wasn’t used to from the smaller boats I normally sailed on.

Just as the squall hit, Steve, our ever-alert skipper, popped his head out the hatch to see if everything was okay. The change in motion and the noise from the hydraulic winches had woken him. It was nice to know someone else was around, but the work was done and the boat settled down a bit in the Force 7 as it surged forward, west to the Caribbean.

ABOVE LEFT

The Gib-Lanzarote crew – all smiles after a few days at sea – left to right – me, Ricky, Steve

ABOVE RIGHT

The helm station – mission control for a few weeks

An extended sabbatical

But before all that excitement, let’s rewind as to how we got here.

I was on an extended sabbatical, which the family were calling “The Trip - A Global Family Adventure” (although this part was going to just be me – the family were staying at home as the kids wanted to go back to school for a few weeks).

The Atlantic was something I had wanted to sail for a long time but November is normally a month of ‘head down hard’ at work. The luxury of weeks off at this time of year had never previously

been there. This was my chance.

As I planned my departure, the reality of a very different, long and potentially arduous adventure hit home. Time away from the family is always tricky, but as my 14-year-old son Monty reminded me, quoting Riley Whitlem from ‘Sailing La Vagabonde’, who we had met earlier during our sabbatical: “If you’re a sailor…… you gotta go sailing.”

So that is where in early November, as the clocks turned back, the nights drew in and the leaves fell, I was going … sailing. I headed by air to Gibraltar to rendezvous with the boat and crew.

I would be sailing the Atlantic on what I would describe as a “proper yacht” – an Oyster 565. Much larger than anything I had sailed in recent years. She was safe, well kitted out and up to the job of crossing oceans.

Steve and his girlfriend Claire were early on their extended voyage and the Atlantic was the first big ocean to cross; they wanted some crew to share the watches. The journey was to be broken down into two main parts; first was Gibraltar to the Canaries, then to the Caribbean.

Out into the Atlantic

Leaving Gibraltar after the customs shenanigans which is now the UK and Europe, we dodged tanker after tanker as they plied east and west through the Strait of Gibraltar. The African coast was tantalisingly close with the lights of Tangiers clear. The ocean currents through the Strait meant that we were reminded of the strong currents back in Guernsey, where Steve owns Beaucette Marina and we had met. The boat made light of the ‘overfalls’ and we swept west at 8 kts with few revs and the smallest of sails.

It was chilly at night but warm and clear during the day. The first few days drifted past and the wind played games with us by providing light, fluky breezes but there was enough to get the boat sailing with some occasional engine.

The trip down the African coast was most exciting at night. Not really from a sailing but from a boat dodging perspective. The coastal seas were littered with travelling cargo ships and small fishing boats. We had the small specks on the radar screen indicating an approaching vessel but many of the fishing boats didn’t show up on the radar or AIS. So we had to keep our eyes peeled and adjust

ABOVE

Spinnaker prep in Gibraltar

BELOW LEFT

Rest and Recuperation in Lanzarote, before the proper trip begins

BELOW RIGHT

The comfortable twin helm of the Oyster 565

course, often at the very last minute.

The Canaries leg was a short hop so after a crew change it was time to cross the Atlantic ocean proper – but first, a few facts.

November / December is when it’s best to cross from east to west and it’s about 3,000 nautical miles, so if we travelled in a vaguely straight direction at an average of 6.5-7 kts it would take us about 18-19 days and nights at sea. No land in sight for all that time.

The winds are more favourable at that time of year. The Azores high pressure weather system is generally over the north mid Atlantic creating an anti-clockwise Force 4-6 known as the trades.

The hurricane season has also generally passed (late July to October) so significant storms are less of a worry (and they generally track further north).

Combined with these winds is a generally west flowing sea current of around 1-1.2 kts.

The butter technique

One old navigation adage is to “head south until the butter melts, then turn west.” Sounded fair enough. We headed south. The winds were light. We motored and sailed a bit when the wind picked up. The butter remained hard.

The winds kicked in for a few hours here and there and we had some lovely sailing. The temperatures rose. The butter started going soft. But the trades never got going. There were hours of little wind. We motored some more. It was slow and frustrating.

We were headed in the general direction of the Cape Verde islands and calculating our fuel usage. We didn’t carry enough fuel to motor more at this rate and run the generator. We recalculated. No one wanted to stop in Cape Verde to refuel.

The butter started to melt and the forecast was telling us the trades would arrive. On ‘decision

ABOVE LEFT

White sails before the kites are up

ABOVE RIGHT

“Which way skipper?” Crew on a serious watch

BELOW LEFT

Fueling up the crew as the low latitude dusk quickly turns to night

BELOW RIGHT

When heading west the sunset helps the navigator .... and is a lovely sight most nights day’ (whether to stop at Cape Verde or carry on) the trades did as predicted – they kicked in. We were consistently sailing and after the first five days and nights of motoring on and off, we then didn’t use the engine again until 500 yards off St Lucia.

As we got further west, the trades really kicked in and the boat rolled around. When I say rolling around, I mean the boat was like a side ways roller coaster in a washing machine. I have been on many boats, but this rolling action was for days on end, all day and night.

Sailing across an ocean for many weeks is a strange concept. It goes from the amazing to pure monotony. During long distance sailing I find myself appreciating what I have at home much more – my family, friends, home comforts. I found my mind wandering as the seascape drifted by and I realised how much I have.

It was really hard to do much – cooking was a nightmare. Each

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time you opened the fridge it was (according to crew Ricky) like “there was a bloke inside who was chucking things out at you”. But this fridge dweller wasn’t satis ed with throwing individual items, he would happily release the whole contents of the fridge.

Sleep deprivation created some strange moments. Strange dreams and conversations took hold. On one occasion, Steve, while on watch looked at Ed, another crew, through tired eyes and said “thanks for my pint.” Ed looked bemused as we were far from a bar or a pint!

Flying sh sailing

Flying sh continually landed on deck. A few decided that wasn’t quite enough; they headed down the hatches. And stank. Before the trip I would think “ ying sh…cool.” A er a few days they were just a stinking menace to be cleared up in the morning.

Being out at sea always has its risks and worries; “what if” questions and niggling doubts can intensify when land and potential outside assistance is far away.

What if you fell over the side? e ultimate nightmare. e rst rule on a yacht is “don’t fall over.” But accidents happen. You’re careful. You clip a harness on. You wear a lifejacket. But falling overboard can still happen.

What if the keel broke? Again, pretty much doomsday scenario. It is incredibly unlikely but can happen.

What if you got injured? e boat pitches and rolls; if not stored properly then items y around. Good boats are well designed so that there are hand-holds and furniture to brace against as you move about. But one missed hand-hold at the same time that the boat lurches in the wrong direction could mean a long fall against something hard or sharp. If it happens closer to land the discomfort or help at hand is just hours, rather than days away.

Getting into the routine

e days can be monotonous and long. I found that a routine helped. It wasn’t complex but it worked for me. From midnight to midnight it went something like this:

Night: get woken up by bloody alarm. Wake (kind of). Can’t believe you have to get out of bed. Two hours on watch. Stargaze. Adjust sails. Get tired. O watch. Bounce around your bunk while trying to sleep. Wake - “What? Already?!”

Day: On watch. Breakfast. Stretch/ exercise. Boat chores. Lunch. Meditate/podcast/rest. On watch. Sundowner/catch up with crew. Tea. Get rolled around in bunk dri ing in and out of light sleep.

ABOVE LEFT

Fish for dinner! – mid Atlantic shing can be rewarding

ABOVE RIGHT

Doing a watch from the comfort of a bean bag (drinking iced tea – honest)

Repeat.

Bizarrely, I liked most of it. e starry night watches – listening to music or just enjoying peace as my mind dri ed – were enjoyable. Hundreds of miles from anywhere or anything.

But helming out at sea is still my favourite. When the asymmetric is powering the boat along at 10+ knots, I nd my mind can almost go into a meditative state. I am in the right here, right now. My brain seems calm and content, dri ing occasionally to re ect, appreciate, or just think about the world around me. It feels mediative, positive and special.

My overriding conclusion from

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years of sailing yachts is that the team was so important. I couldn’t do this alone (although I know many do).

Despite all the crew being very much individuals, we really felt like a little team working together. We solved many problems in addition to the day to day jobs of running and sailing a boat. Once a large fishing rope (from another boat) got caught around our propellor and two of us had to get in the sea, use scuba gear, in mid-Atlantic in a building swell to cut it free.

At the end of the day it was a bunch of individuals pulling together as a team with one clear objective – to get to the other side of the ‘pond’. We were independent, yet totally dependent on each other and, importantly, the boat. It can be scary, boring, exhausting, amazing. You get to see sights you would never normally see – a million stars at night, whales, dolphins, countless seabirds, massive fish (which we ate) – to name a few.

Gaining perspective

It made me put life into perspective. We had intermittent wifi while at sea and I used to send the odd message. One exchange stood out for me in particular. My wife was dealing with all of life’s and family challenges alone and at times shared some issues. Nothing too bad, just the usual stuff that grind us down now and again. I couldn’t do anything, but when sailing far from shore you realise that life’s day to day annoyances, jobs, tasks, lists, admin – just general stuff we all deal with are always there. But in a way they aren’t really the problem. Sure, they need doing and I am not belittling them, but crossing the ocean allowed some distance and perspective on life’s challenges.

This was my reply: “I am on watch. The pesky wind is up and down. It’s just rained. The boat is rolling. Speed is low. A cup of boiling tea has just chucked itself at me. The boat’s a tip – stuff is everywhere. Everyone else is cosy and asleep and I am bloody knackered. But guess what? In the grand scheme of this journey, all of these things are irrelevant. We will get there.”

Hopefully it helped my wife. Or perhaps Ali just thought: “Well that’s bloody good for you! But I am having to deal with all this stuff at home.”

Then, like so many epic experiences in life, one minute you’re in the middle of it, loving it and then, in the blink of an eye, it’s over. So, just after midnight one December night the twinkling lights of St Lucia came into view. The trade winds swirled around the first land we had seen in nearly three weeks. We navigated our way into the lee of St Lucia, the omnipresent Atlantic swell died, we dropped the anchor and it was over.

The Atlantic crossing was a memory. A great one, but just a memory. Hopefully the feelings that I had experienced – such as those of contentment, focus and ability to put life’s challenges into perspective – would remain.

ABOVE LEFT

Marigot Bay, St Lucia

ABOVE RIGHT

Entering the channel to Rodney Bay Marina on arrival in St Lucia

BELOW LEFT

My last job before the flight home – top of the mast rig check

BELOW RIGHT

Boat at anchor in the Caribbean for Christmas – mission accomplished