Angra: Churches, forts...

...and a green kiosk crammed with liqueur bottles.

"Sedna" and "Babette" are on safari in Heroic Angra. Or Angra do Heroísmo in Portuguese. Post-card perfect houses line the streets. They are white, decorated with broad bands of bright colors around the windows and doorways. Red-tiled roofs. The many light-red ones are new, restored after the New Year's Eve earthquake in 1980. There are cobbled streets up and down the steep hills. Lined with typical Portuguese patterned sidewalks: black and white, basalt and marble. The hills above provide a backdrop of small green pastures enclosed in lava-stone walls lined with blue hortensia bushes.
The impression, as at Faial, solid farming country with tidy towns.

From down in the amphitheater of the new marina we can see it all. Starting with sky-blue and white Misericordia Church, chiming the hour day and night. Its twin bell-towers and scrolled façade once part of the first Azores hospital complex, in 1492!
We climb the stone steps up to the church, walk up the cobbled street to the big square by the impressive town hall. This is where we find the 8-sided little green kiosk filled from floor to ceiling with bottles of liqueur. We find a red-parasolled table and try out the ice cream and coffee. For meals the serving girl braves the busy street, hurrying back and forth with plates of fries, sandwiches.
We force our Pico-weary legs further up the steep Angra streets. Up to a great look-out point topped with a yellow pointy pyramid. In the middle ages they thought this would be a good place to build a fort. So they built one. Soon to be out-dated with modern Renaissance forts nearer the coastline. There was a stream of Spanish galleons loaded with (stolen?) New World silver and gold to protect from Sir Francis Drake and other pirates. All sea routes to anywhere seemed to meet at The Azores, mid-Atlantic.
We get a great view of this World Heritage Site town. A town which became a renaissance City in 1534. We can see the Cathedral, Santissimo da Sé from 1570. Its twin towers, conical as the volcanoes, but patterned in squiggly black and white lines.
Down the hill again. And up the broad Cathedral steps. There we meet again our Portuguese Pico-climber friend, Clara Agapito. She and a French friend sailed here to Terceira last night.
Inside the church we get a free organ concert. Practicing for Sunday? The dark tones from the huge pipes match the murky interior of the 16th century stone church. Nuns kneeling by huge columns at small alters, candles flickering. I wouldn't be surprised to see Vasco da Gama appear from behind one of the stone columns.

Whales!

Up at 05:15. Ouch. But the sky lightens, the blackbirds in the bushy trees are wide awake, chirping away. As we slip our lines, glide out of the sleepy harbor.

It's a motor-sail. "Sedna" and "Babette" have light winds on the nose out the Canal de São Jorge, between the islands of Pico and São Jorge. Heading towards Terceira.
The Pico crater towers over us, momentarily free of its mantle of clouds. Rugged and bare in the day's first sunlight. A merry gang of dolphins cross our path, rolling over the waves, like water-wheels spinning.
São Jorge is topped in a woolly cloud cap, terraced fields, white, red-tiled villages glued to the steep slopes. Below them sheer cliffs straight down to the frothy sea. Waterfalls pour over these huge cliffs in free fall.

Just before the entrance to our harbor at Angra do Heroísmo, is Mt. Brasil, a volcanic outcropping. And just before we round this headland we spot a cloud of steam, a long grey rounded form and a hooked black fin. Just port of dead ahead. A whale! Oernulf's grabs the wheel, now hand-steering. Hope this fellow's moving to port! On our way in we spot three more whales surfacing. This is the season for whale traffic in the Azores.
We can verify that!

Farewell, Horta!

Our last Horta day. Farewell to the hundreds of seawall paintings, to the happy sailors, glad to touch land after a long and harrowing ocean passage, to the long and narrow cobbled streets, small and tidy shops, to the lonnng tables and longer meals with all the "Norwegian Net" sailors at "Capitólio", and later at "Peter's Sport Bar".

"Babette's" mark is painted on the wall. So now we are free to leave.

Up Pico, and down again

With the sleep still in our eyes we're all making a mad dash for the Pico ferry: "Babette", "Noravind", kids and all, Snorre from "Snorre", "Sedna" and "Vanvara", 11 of us. It's a fast, bouncy ride over to Madelena. The main town at Pico Island.

We find the Pico-tour operators and get our first shock. The price is 35 euros per person. No group prices. A short debate. We agree to pay the non-negotiable price and taxi up to the starting point.
There we meet our guide, a young geology student, Walther. And our group is expanded by the addition of a little, middle aged Portuguese lady with a big curled walking stick and solid boots. She's come from Lisbon to the Azores just to climb Pico.
The drive up gives us a 1200m lift up the mountain. But there are plenty of meters left. We feel each meter climbed, in the thin air and the 40 degree ascent. The scraggily bushes and heather are soon behind us, just hard lava flow basalt, bumpy pumice stone and lots of loose gravel and sand left. We stop at the first grassy plateau, smooth as a putting green, and covered with rabbit droppings. There we get a look down into a dark cave opening, a "bottomless" lava flow tunnel, still to be explored. Our guide provides us with a tale of a hiker who fell into the pit...

We climb on, through wafting fog, then break through the clouds to bright blue skies. Making our way slowly. Walk. Stop and breath. Walk. Stop and breath. Their are lots of stops to catch our breaths in the thin air before we finally make it up to the crater rim, 300 meters in diameter. A fabulous view of a white sea of clouds. And a little bit of Faial's own caldeira in the distance.
In the other direction, an eerie look into the crater, a lunar landscape with mini volcanic cones, black swirls from hardened lava streams, red and black explosion "bombs" strewn over this smooth surface. Steam is trapped under the surface. Pico is only sleeping. It's dormant, not extinct.

A smaller expedition, Anna and Joergen ("Vanvara"), Snorre, Svein Hugo ("Sedna") Oernulf and Shannon go down into the crater bottom, investigate its various holes. Then begin the ascent up "Pico Pequeno" the conical top rising from the crater, to 2351 meters. I stop below the highest steep bit and am content to wait on a shelf while Oernulf and the others pull themselves over the top. It's still quite a way down to the crater rim! Congratulations and photos, then down, across and up to the rim again.

The walk down: At first we're all relieved, there's none of the hard huffing and puffing of the way up. We balance on the hard rock, slide a bit on the loose gravel, slowly make our way down again. Our Portuguese hiker, who eventually made it all the way up, catches up with us now, as we rest our increasingly jelly-like legs. The gravely path becomes more and more treacherous as leg muscles grow tired. We suffer minor falls, scrapes and bruises, as we descend. Will we ever arrive? And will we make the last ferry, at 8pm?
As we go down into the cloud again the fog surrounds us; we have to wait for the Portuguese woman at more and more frequent stops. It's 7pm when we finally arrive at the asphalt road. Hurray! We made it. Groans of relief. Two taxis speed the first group down to the ferry dock. There's an extra ferry leaving now! We rush over, "Noravind", "Sedna" and "Babette", and get into Horta by 8pm. The others won't be leaving Pico before 8:45, when the next ferry goes.
A beer at Peter's, a shower and a good dinner at "Santa Cruz", Pousada Hotel. Where the restaurant is called "Pico View"! Linens and crystal, good food and wine. We digest today's Pico climb. Swearing never to repeat the event in any way or form. We’re off mountain climbing. From now on it's rental cars up to the rim! But I think I'm hearing just a little bit of pride in our voices, too. Telling of today's gruelling accomplishment.

Hey, we did it! We climbed Pico!

Round Faial by Rental-car

"Sedna" and "Babette" split a Peugeot and set out to see this smallish island (173 km2). We head NW, up to Pta. dos Capelinhos. This is where the newest bit of the island popped out of the sea in 1957. First came clouds of steam and rock projectiles flying sky high. Eventually an island, 2 1/2 km big was formed. The eruptions lasted a year. The island became a peninsula, soon shrinking to just a square kilometer. During the eruption 300 houses were destroyed. The land in the west disappeared under meters of ash and rock. And half the population in the area, 15,000, emigrated to America. There's a tall, derelict, light-house standing in front of the dramatic volcanic cliffs. Pumice pebbles and sand still cover the area. Though the sea and storms are doing their best to strip the land of everything but the barest basalt. Hearty, tenacious plants are tugging the other way, holding on to the soil.

It's noon and time for a bite. Up in the NE, near Cedros, we find a cosy little café run by two German men, O Escoderijo. They've had the restaurant for two weeks, today. We wish them luck, and lots of customers! The food is good, with a German flavor. We had ice cream with hot berries out back in the little garden veranda.

Then we're off again. Heading up to the big caldeira, the crater named Cabelo Gordo. It rises 1043 meters high. There are trails that go around its 2km (diameter) rim. And trails that go down, and up again, huff, puff, into its empty bottom, 400 meters deep. But we settled on walking the 20, 30 step long tunnel from the car to the crater edge for a look down. (Since we're planning a hike up Pico tomorrow...)

Just before Horta, on our way back, we stop at some bright-red old windmills. With tall, sleek modern versions of same on the next ridge. There's a great view of Horta, town and harbor from the top here.
We've had a nice, sunny day. And now, across the bay, we can see Pico, Portugal’s highest mountain, with just a small ragged collar of clouds clinging to it.

That's where we'll be tomorrow.

"Babette" was here!

We leave our mark on the Horta seawall. This is our third "oil painting" of the trip. The first one was in Bayona in Portugal, the second in Porto Santo, Madeira. This is the real one. The one every sailor staying at this popular pit-stop has to leave behind. Or risk a dire fate at sea. We find a little space for our round, "roped in" picture on the old wall. Pico in the background. I paint a bright, warm yellow ground. Then "Babette", with her red stripe and billowing white sails. Norway, 2006.

We were here!

Shopping Safari

There's just one street to trawl. But no problem for the female halves of "Sedna", "Noravind", "Vanvara" and "Babette". We start at one end and check out each and every clothing store, working our way up the long and winding road. The result is four white "Horta" shopping bags with a variety of jeans and tops. And a lot of laughs, and a chat over café com laite at the end of the strip. No men along, no pained expressions, no not-so-stolen glances at wrist watches. A perfect shopping day.

"Snorre" has arrived with Maggan, Helge (cpt.) and young Snorre (22yrs) aboard. They've made it over in 19 days, most of them hand-steered! That's because they met a whale on the way over. Or a whale met them. That's the theory. A series of bumps, and splashes, a bent wind rudder, a fleeing flock of dolphins, that's the evidence. They're happy to have arrived, safely tied up to a dock.
"Odin", with cpt.Christian, and the crew of two, Lars and Ed, is right behind, and they used only 15 days. A rip, roaring rumbline sail with both genaker and diesel assistance.

Cybercafé Day

...at HortaNet. And when I type these words I'm all caught up again. The whole 22 days of ocean passage, first jotted down in shaky almost undecipherable runes in my black, marbled Composition Book are now neatly typed, somewhat spell-checked, in Horta's quiet and tidy little cybercafé.

Our other activity is to search the painted pavements and seawalls in the old, North Marina, for a spot. Where will we paint our "Babette" sign, when everyone has painted everywhere before us!? Common practice is to paint over the oldest, now unreadable ones. So there's hope.
We've found old sailing friends' still readable marks. The "Merrimac" of Sandefjord, "Celina" of Egersund and the beautiful "Galyfreya" painting. St.John and Elsbeth, who searched for "the tree of life" on their world tour from Australia to the Orkneys, to Kinsarvik in Norway.

And then they sailed back again.

Dark wood, white linen

A long night's sleep. Securely tied to Mother Earth. No night watches. Breakfast is provided by the near-by bakery-and-café. Café cum laite for me, no laite for Oernulf and croissants. At a little red table, completely still and horizontal.
E-mail check, the Laundromat, the photo shop. All the things you do when you touch land again. Just nice to be walking on the black and white patterned pavements of this Portuguese town.

"Sedna" invites us to coffee and apple cake at 5pm. We bring our Atlantic Ocean crossing map, spread it out over the table from St.Marten to The Azores. Both "Babette"s and "Sedna"s routes are plotted in. A close and undulating tango for two.
"Noravind" and "Vanvara" join us; it's 8:30pm. Anybody hungry? Off to find a restaurant. And what a find! The Pousada da Horta, "Santa Cruz". It's a 16th century castle-turned-hotel. Vine-covered walls and turrets and a lethal looking iron fall-gate at the entrance. Inside, a restaurant, dark wooden walls, white linen and crystal covered tables. Why on earth did they let this scruffy crew of sailors into this palace?! We behave as princes (knights?) at our large round table. Taste the Azores wines and enjoy the gourmet meal and the good company.

One last stop on our way back, "Peter's Sport's Bar". A must for all sailors. The walls and ceiling are covered in pennants and flags. A crowd of sailors, in good spirits, is sitting and standing, filling the pub. More yarns and lots of laughs over a pint. Until yawns overpower us.

Great to be back among good friends again
.

22 Days: Land 0'hoy, The Azores!

After 22 days at sea, on May 22nd, (on Kevin’s 22nd birthday) we see volcanic peaks of The Azores Islands like a misty blue mirage. Land Ahoy!
Out of the blue we are flanked by three other sailboats also heading for Horta. Where have you all been? It seems we're all converging on the same waypoint.

The islands we are closing in on have not just dropped down out of the sky, here, mid-Atlantic. The Azores have exploded out of the seas at this T-joint meeting of the Atlantic Ridge and the Terceira Rift. We approach Faial Island from the North. Where it gained a kilometer of land during a year-long eruption in 1957. As we approach these bluish cut-out conical mountains they grow Ireland-green. The hillsides are terraced, divided into a crazy-quilt of small pastures. Villages of shining white houses, red-tiled roofs appear. The image: neat, tidy, industrious. Welcome to Portugal! We're back in Europe.

We round this NW corner and head for Horta. This is the sailor pit-stop in the Atlantic. The pavement is not gold, but it, and all the seawalls, are covered in paintings. No boat would think of leaving the harbor without painting its name, insignia, a more or less artistic rendition of the boat, on the wall. Bad luck follows the boat that defies this tradition. And sailors are a superstitious lot.
At 17:30 we sail behind the long seawall, drop the main and tie up to the immigration dock. 22 days at sea are over and terra firma is at our feet.

The officials are helpful and cheerful. In a jiffy we're assigned our place, 34 on B-dock. Alongside all our Norwegian sailing friends. "Sedna"s Ragnhild and Svein Hugo, here from 10am today, are the welcoming committee.
Barely time for a long, hot shower before we're all off for a meal at a nearby café. We're 11 hungry Norwegians, all new arrivals today. "Noravind", with their two school-age kiddies and "Vanvara" with their recovering sea-sick Dane, have just arrived from Flores, further north.
"Skoal!" We did it, crossed an ocean.

Again!

(For sailors only: 115n.miles logged, 2667n.miles, totally)

The Azores Flag Flying

As soon as we have only a "North Sea crossing" left, just a couple days sail, we feel we're almost in the harbor. So today we raise the Azores flag. To the sound of the Norwegian National Anthem. The sun is shining encouragingly, never mind the wind is still on the nose. Ørnulf empties another couple of jerry cans, 40 liters, into the greedy fuel tank. And Shannon makes pizza. We celebrate our last 24 hours of our second sail across the Atlantic.

Just one last night watch.

A Clothes Line, at 6 knots

It's been a wet and chilly night, the fog and mist occasionally becoming drizzle. We, occasionally, poke our heads out to check for lights. That could quickly become huge bulk carriers.
Come day the fog lifts, and soon we're a moving clothes line. The foul-weather gear, Ørnulf's is diesel-soaked, other damp items, we have it all out, clothes-pinned to the railings. Merrily swaying in the 6 knot breeze.

We're getting the wind on the nose now as we close in on Horta. Time to use up this Caribbean diesel. We're galloping Eastward, wind or no wind.

"Babette" smells the barn.

A Chorus Line

Down at 37 degrees, 10' we're still double reefed and roaring along at 6,5kn. But the wind is pleasantly from just behind the beam, sending "Babette" gently gliding along. The sun is shining and we're out in the cockpit both buried in each our Naipahl paperback.

Waking from these Port-of-Spain images to sounds of splashing, we look around. A herd (pod, school, flock, gang?) of dolphins is coming over to play. Suddenly seven of them, stunningly black and white, jump a wave.

Like a tuxedo costumed chorus line.

Gale Warnings

Gale warnings from Herb to "Sedna". They continue due East; the strong winds are North of them. And so are we! So we head South-East. Shame to lose our hard earned Northern latitude and drop down from 38 to 37 degrees. The alternative being a bumpy ride in 30-35kn wind, gusting 10 more. So with a double reef and a tiny triangle of foresail we hightail it down South.

While enjoying left-over "17th of May" cake, on Dad's 82nd Birthday!

Hurray!

A whale's plume in the distance, sun glittering on blue seas; it's a splendid 17th of May. Today is the Norwegian much celebrated Constitution Day. We'll miss the flag-waving Children's Parade, the national-costumed Folk Parade and all the ice cream. But we raise our Norwegian flag up above the solar panel. (Ignoring it's power-depleting shadow). Shannon plays the national anthem on the flute as the flag goes up. We also raise the blue and white spinnaker creating quite a festive mood. 17th of May food?? Besides a new batch of bread I bake a never-before-tried package cake: Rhubarb-strawberry pie. A splendid success. And with a dash of long-life whipped cream in our deep blue storm dishes, it did a good impersonation of the red, white and blue Norwegian flag.

Our dolphin pals are back, circling the boat in another good imitation: of the winding 17th of May Children's parade.

Jumping Dolphins!

A jolly pod of dolphins leap-frogs its way through the waves over to play with "Babette". Swooshing by, rounding the bow, popping out of waves and round again. Looks like fun! The sun is shining, wind abating, and even the waves are diminishing. Life's looking up.
We seem to be leaving the blistery trough, entering the Azores High, with lighter winds. Apparently there's a gale raging up at the Azores.

Hope it's done its damage before we arrive.

While waiting for the Azores, more Caribbean-pictures!

I'm now in the process of uploading another batch of pictures from the Caribbean, they'll be available today at this address, and of course there's a slideshow here.

A sailor´s Gale

A sailor´s gale is Force 7 on the Beaufort scale. That means we're occationally seeing 30 to 35 knots on our dial. "Babette" is tipping, lunging and bouncing. This life in a roller-coaster keeps activities down to an absolute minimum. Boiling tea water and visiting "the head" are major feats. Even lying in bed without rolling out can be an achievement. One lee-cloth grammet popped and sent Ørnulf flying.
But we're not alone out here. (Only looks that way!) We listen to the Norwegian Net and "Herb and Sedna"on the short-wave reciever.

Better weather ahead.

"No Panic"

I thought he said, "I'm a sailboat; don't panic". What the French-accented voice on the vhf radio said was: "This is the sailboat, "No Panic". Ørnulf took over the conversation , practicing his French. It seems we both are heading to Flores, then Horta. Nice to meet another boat on the high seas.
Then the next callling from "No Panic" comes.

We've just sailed by them, I've taken photos of the little, blue-hulled sloop. There is a man at the mast in all the pictures. On "Babette" we decide to take in a reef as the winds are climbing up the 20's. That's when "No Panic" calls us up again. The problems at their mast are caused by a broken forestay. That means the wire that holds the mast up from the bow doesn't function. Fortunatly for "No Panic" they have an additional smaller stay, a "Baby Stay". That will have to do in this emergency. But this means only a well-reefed main to sail on, and double the time to reach the Azores. We promise to relay their message of the delay when we arrive at Flores. They give us an e-mail address to a friend. We radio them again and ask if they are sure they can sail on to Flores without assistance. Affirmative to that.

And as we go into the night the winds increase. We're seeing 30's now. Waves are growing. Rather, transforming. Once they were pointy, cake-icing decorations on our happy blue sea. Now they're boarders between deep valleys,shaky watery ridges. "Babette" climbs and plunges along, double reefed. The genoa is rulled in. As we continue to roller-coast along, top speed.

A bumpy night. How are the "No Panic" sailors doing?

Towards Flores

Finally! "Babette" is pointed straight at The Azores. Full sails, full speed. We've changed our landfall-waypoint. Joining "Sedna" and the other Norwegian boats we'll pay Flores a visit on our way to Horta.
Flores is supposed to be the lovliest island, bearing its floral name rightly. Green valleys, cosy pastural villages.

Right now, out on rather lumpy seas, Flores is our shangri-la.

Friday, 13th day out

It's a Friday and it's our 13th day out. Hmmm. Better avoid the forward deck. And keep a good watch! But good news from "Herb and Sedna": We should expect our NW winds tonight or tomorrow. Hope so. Then we can set our sights on the Azores.

As the sun sets we get a brief visit from a couple dolphins. Definitely a sign of good luck!

Busy, busy

Surprise! Right out of the blue, as we raise our heads from each our V.S. Naipahl paperback, a huge bulk carrier is about to cross behind us. Bright red, blue smoke stack, you can't miss it. Whose watch is it?!
Otherwise it's a busy, busy day. Ørnulf siphons another 40 liters of diesel into the gluttonous tank. Burp. While I bake bread.
Then time for a black-bag shower, forward deck. In a slightly cooling Northerly breeze. Invigorating.

The full moon lights the 360 degrees of sea for the night watches. So how did that big display of bright lights, spelling cargo ship dead ahead, get there. Hiding behind the genoa, and then jumping out.
Two ships in one day. Have we come to the English Channel?

Whale!

Look! A fin. A whale? A long, black fin appears again. Wow, a whale!
We were watching a bulk carrier cross behind us when the sharp black fin cut out of the water. At a respectfull distance he surfaced a dozen times before dropping back, out of sight.

That was today's entertainment. On a pleasant day of NE breezes. As we try both due North and due East to reach some wind that will blow us to the Azores.

Northward Bound!

Due North, and, wind permitting, a tad East. It's getting a bit chilly as we climb North. And we climb into long trowsers for the night watches. We've pulled the quilts out of storage. The days have grown slightly longer, too. And more tolerable. No more mad dash to the one shady spot under the solar panel.
The wind's still out of the North-East where The Azores lie, so we push North. As Herb advises "Sedna" to do, too.

We're both waiting for the Westerlies.

Saragossa Sea

A bright and cheery morning. The barometer still rising. From 7am we're motoring again. No wind.
We're in a salty pool of confusing currents called "The Saragossa Sea". It's a sea boardered by sea streams. The "Gulf Stream" is to the East and the "North Equatorial Current" to the South. And swirling in the middel of all this is the Saragossa Sea. It's one meter higher than the Atlantic off Floridas coast and 10% saltier than the salty Gulf Stream. And it's full of floating seaweed! Columbus arrived here and thought he was just off shore. The Portugese sailors looked at the delicate sea plant , with its pea-sized pods and thought of their own Salgazo grapes. Salgazo became "Sargasum Weed", hence Saragossa Sea.
A perfect pool for these lazy winds, or lack thereof. We motor most of the day. A warm sun, cooling breeze, paperbacks and carrot cake.

And a bright full moon by night.

sailing,

Slip, sliding along, on and on,
windblown,
over a watery blue world;
our tipsy saildriven days
and nights, our faith
in the rigging and the rudder,
our tiny lives of soup tins and
coffee ceakes, of paperbacks,
toothbrushes, pillows, blowing
along, forever the center
of our pi-perfect circle of water
with babyblue skydome, its
suspended cottonwool clouds
billowing by.

forever moving, the curvature
of this expance of ocean
concealed, as we climb and slide
down gentle swells. Watch out! as
gales carve deep valleys, steep
shaky, watery ridges.

Atop the chilly fathoms, forever spinning
along, playing tag with hot brother sun,
hide 'n' seek with coolkid moon, careening
crazily along the starcrowded supermilkyhighway, this
tango-for-three joins the myriads, hotgas stars,
deadcold rocks. Hey,

where are we headed? On beyond
Zenith, into the empty, black
hole. Dragging us along: Hold tight!
to the string of this skyblue
waterballoon, and our
tipsy windblown lives.


-nightwatch, May 8th, 2006
Atlantic, toward the Azores

One down, two to go

We've been on the high seas a week now. And, so far, a silk-sail. Just look at that sharp, clear horizon, in 360 degrees, the baby-blue skies, ink-blue seas. It's a slow, easy climb up the swells, a gentle coast down again. We've motored all morning, but by 4pm the wind's up and we're doing 5, 6 kn, due North.

We've lost "Jobber". Even "Sedna". Nothing heard on the short-wave. But we hear most of the merry gang on The Norwegian Net loud and clear today. Nice to have good company as we sail along.

Other busines

"Jobber" and "Babette" are sailing due North. Or as North as we can. I'm afraid we're losing a bit of our "Easting" in these NE winds. But it's a good sail, doing 5 to 6 knots, in fairly flat seas. But that's "Lille-Per"- windpilot's job today. We have other busines at hand.

Like a beard trim and a haircut for Ørnulf. With tiny embroidery scissors, snip, snip, snip. The cuttings whirling around the cockpit. That done, time to bake bread. I've got five handy pre-packed zip-locked "Babette" especial mixes. A little spelt flour, whole-wheat, sunflower and pumpkin seeds. Just add yeast and water. Two perfect loaves appear out of our tiny gas stove.
Ørnulf is communications officer, with his earplugs on, listening in on "The Norwegian Net" and "The Herb and Sedna Show" Our "Jobber" chats are more static than signal now.

So, what's for dinner? Today, Paella. With spanish rice, marisco and bonita, onions, chistophenes and tomato. I'm starving! Night comes right after dinner, bringing along an almost full moon. It lights up the rolling black seas.

As "Babette", with full sails, goes as North as she can.

An indoor day

Plenty of wind:25knots, plenty of pouring rain. The grey clouds like huge sponges. Whose squeezing them right over "Babette"?
An indoor day. We bounce along, goosewinged sails. The cheery sound of egg, ham and tomatoes frying in the galley. We have a vhf-chat with "Jobber" who relays to "Sedna" on the shortwave. A cosy morning.

Around noontime we have a bit of fiddling with the sails as the wind suddenly turns off. And then turns about-face. Now we're leaning on our starboard side. No longer poled-out, we're roughly following just east of our rumbline.

And in the midst of all this sailing business we manage to rescue the carrot cake out of the oven, just in the nick o'.

"Hello, Sedna"

Yes, we're right behind you! And listening in on you and Herb, and "The Norwegian Net". Our new sailing buddy, "Jobber", is kind enough to relay our greetings with his shortwave to "Sedna" this morning. A little surprise from "Babette" through this Netherlands-guest on the Norwegian net. We are able to give "Sedna" our position and tell them that we hear them loud and clear. "Sedna"s weather info from Herb trickles down to us, and we appreciate that. As "Sedna" tries to keep up with the wind in a front, avoiding the still airs that will follow, so do we. Herb is the Atlantic sailor's weather-man with a one-to-one contact with countless small sailing boats. A great help dealing with too-still or too-rough seas and fickle winds. His voice is there, behind the clouds, come rain or shine. He gives the chaotic weather a pattern and predictability. After a chat with Herb it all seems manageable.

As Herb moves his sailboat-pawns about on this rolly blue board, avoiding both kingsize gales and calms.

Photo-op!

A slightly squally morning, we're sailing with rain and 2,5 knots one minute, roaring along at about 7knots the next.
And who should roar up beside us? "Jobber"! We get a lot of good photos of the large ketch with all her three sails billowing.
We're both bouncing, in and out of waves. So there are photos showing half-boats, diagonal horizons, just a bit of mast. Delete, delete! There are two or three good photos, too. The joys of digital photography: lots of ammunition.

Light southerlies the rest of the day. We climb out of our lethargy and set up the big blue, purple and white genaker. Lots of rope-spaghetti to organize, first. Finally, all the halyards in place, we raise it. And, miracle, there she billows, tugging us along, an extra half knot faster. In the slight breath of wind.

Yes, I think we will make it to The Azores.

New friends!

But the white triangle shows up again. And transforms into a yellow-blue striped wing. Not a butterfly but a genaker sail. Why not say "hello"? Calling them up on the vhf radio I find myself talking to the Dutch ketch, "Jobber". We've apparently met at Union Island in January. We exchange weather information and plan to call again tomorrow morning.
After a day of genaker sailing in light winds "Jobber" is again nearby by nightfall.

Nice to make new friends.

Where is everybody?

We goose-wing the main and the genoa. We're sailing, doing 4 to 5 knots in following, southerly winds. With the occasional company of white rumped terns skimming the white-tipped waves.
Later on a white triangle on our horizon, aft, says we're not alone in the world. At nightfall the snip of sail turns into a bright light, still following, now slightly starboard.
During the night the skies open and thoroughly wash "Babette". And wash our following light away, out to starboard. Where did they go?