S/Y Babette Sails to the Caribbean

Hurrah!

2006-07-12T16:21:00.000+02:00

4am: We mark a new x in the chart, this time in "Norskerennet". A bright, sunny day is already dawning. As gentle winds push us towards the Norwegian south coast.

1pm: Land! The coast is a blue shadow, jagged on the horizon. Soon layers of hillsides, still in blues, appear. Then solid, bare granite of neighboring Egersund and the Sokndal coastline tells us we're really and truly in Norway. Last seen: the 7th of July, last year.

We fire off a barrage of sms messages to friends and neighbors as we approach land. Finally we enter Hidra Sound, our blue-carpet gateway to Flekkefjord. Just a few more phone calls to make. One is to Annelise Kleven, at Waage, on Hidra Island. Not in the house, so we leave a message.
But, surprise, surprise! Before we can wink an eye we spot a motor boat speeding our way with a bright blond head and a waving flag, "Hurrah! Hurrah!", "Welcome Home!" It's Annelise, who else!

Sunny, blue skies, the fjord full of holiday motor boats and crowded cabins. Summer green hills are a cozy collar around the white clapboard, red-tile roofed town. We approach the "Tollbod Brygga" dock, where we left, one year and five days ago. Now we can see a little group of flag-waving friends, including "Bestemor", Karen, 92 years old.
In we glide slowly in, our bright and cheary signal-flags and all our various guest-flags flying. Get the ropes ready!

In just a short minute we'll be stepping ashore!

Our last full day at Sea

2006-07-11T16:03:00.000+02:00

The short, light nights of the North, what an improvement on the twelve hours of pitch black night in the Caribbean. And there is the yellow-orange glow of oil platforms, like a lit path across the North Sea. "The 40's", with the Buchan oilfield first. The "Armada" is the last rigg on the British side, just down the road from the Norwegian platform, "Varg". Now we're in Norway!

The winds lighten up a bit. Force five and six, the same sailor's gale we have every afternoon on the South coast of Norway. I make our very last sea-dinner of the trip. Lamb chops, with onions, mushrooms and potato-boats. All wok'ed together in the big skillet. Rosemary and mint jelly, of course.

Tomorrow, Flekkefjord.

Maybe gale winds, force 8

2006-07-10T15:52:00.000+02:00

A fine, sunny morning. Flat seas. We read the NavTex weather warnings and listen to the Aberdeen Coast Guard. They agree that strong winds, maybe a gale will meet us out in the North Sea. But more or less following winds aren't so nasty. And look at the calm flat seas! So, armed with new stugeron seasickness tablets, we set sail.

Under lee land we have full sails out, even some motor help. But soon we've put in a reef. Then two. Then pulled down the whole main sail. And half the genoa. We're still roaring along at over 6 knots. We'll be home in no time.
The waves aren't high, but best to spend most of my off-watches in the bunk while waiting for my sea-legs. Soup for dinner.
And busy night-watches with lots of North Sea cargo traffic.

The British oil platforms lighting our way.

Mary, 90 years young

2006-07-09T15:23:00.000+02:00

Covesea Village revisited. It's been one year and two days since last we were here. Since than Mary Hovenden has had her 90th birthday. You remember, it was she who had to inform these ignorant sailors, us, that on the day we left Norway, terrorists had blown themselves and fellow underground passengers to bits in London. And we who wondered if she was going on about The War!
No. Mary H. is as bright and with it as ever. We had a pleasant, but short visit with her and sailor-daughter, Janet. We'll have to continue our conversation later...in Norway?

2:30pm and we're sailing. Out of the fast-sinking tide at Lossiemouth towards MacDuff. Where we can come and go in any tide we wish. A gentle, windless motor-sail, we arrive at 7:30pm. Quickly we secure "Babette" to the high, green-slimy harbor wall. And cross the street to the pub for a meal accompanied by the last of the World Cup football games. France looses to Italy, by one penalty goal. Time to put our Trinidad and Tobago supporter gear on the shelf.

Tomorrow morning we cross our last sea of the journey. The North Sea to Norway.

Catching a tide to Lossiemouth

2006-07-08T13:16:00.000+02:00

6am, says the alarm clock. Not quite civilized: yawn. But we have a date with a tide. We're off and sailing down Loch Ness towards Lock Clachnahary . Try repeating that one three times on your vhf radio!
Another wool-and-rain-gear day. Later, blazing sunshine between cool showers. Where did I pack down the shorts and t-shirts? We leap-frog with the enormous Canal cruise-boat, "Lord of the Glen". Its stern's been cut off so that it should fit exactly into the locks, like a huge bear's paw in a glove. Today, again, it jumps the queue right ahead of "Babette".
In any case we're down and out of the sea-lock at a quarter to four. Now, salt water lapping about "Babette", we're again at sea. Carefully we thread our way out across the bay from red to green buoy. The whole bay varies from under one meter till maybe three. A wading pool.

Finally the cluster of grey stone buildings appears: Lossiemouth.The entrance to the harbor is too shallow to go through, two hours each side of low tide. We arrive at sunset, 10pm.

At high tide.

Leapfrog with "Lord of the Glen"

2006-07-07T13:25:00.000+02:00

Chirp, chirp. Mooo. Plenty of company out here in the pouring rain. At Cullochy. But no lock-keeper.
Suddenly the Canal's biggest customer, "Lord of the Glen" arrives like a medium large village. Its inhabitants hanging over the railings of the upper decks, goggling. Priority customer. They get to pass the queue, us, and into the lock they squeeze.
But at 8:30 we're also locked down. Then on to Loch Oich, Kytra Lock, and, finally, Fort Augustus.
In Fort Augustus we meet up with "Noravind". Last seen, including their two kiddies, up on Pico, 2,351m, in the Azores. From volcano-hike-organizer Cpt.Steinar is now wedding-organizer for Norwegian, "Don't Worry". Never a dull moment. Joergen from "Vanvara" will perform the ceremony, a captain's privilege civil wedding, at Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness. A romantic outdoor wedding. We hope it doesn't rain and the mosquitoes are all busy elsewhere.

We have a good meal at The Bothy. And celebrate one year at sea. It was a sunny, quiet morning, July 7th in 2005, when we slipped our lines at the town dock in Flekkefjord. While, as we sailed out into the North Sea, bombs exploded in the London underground. It would take a week till we learned about the mindless attack. By then we had sailed into Lossiemouth.

Where we hope to be again, tomorrow.

Up Neptune's Staircase

2006-07-06T12:23:00.000+02:00

8am. A reasonable hour. "Adventura II" and "Babette" are lifted up the sea lock. And who do we see? "Vanvara"! Last seen in The Azores. And now with no motor. Well, not quite true. They've jury-rigged their 4hp dinghy outboard on the stern and whizzed across still waters at top speed, 3 knots. Comfortable here in the canal.
Now, at Banavie, we're at the foot of Neptune's Staircase, eight locks in a row. But the push-button type, no heavy wooden doors to shove open, unlike Crinan. We're up at the top in a jiffy. And, Per Arne, with hang-glider along, on "Adventura II", is even further up. Up our mast. Retrieving our genaker halyard. Now we're ready for following light winds over the North Sea. (light, following? The North Sea?!)

And we're off. Leaving the other Norwegian boats behind, we hope to make it to Augustus where "Noravind" is helping to celebrate "Don't Worry's" wedding, and we can get a meal at The Bothy pub. How many locks and lochs can we do today? In rain and fog, in full foul weather gear we climb the locks and sail the lochs: Gairlochy Locks, Loch Lochy, Laggan Locks and swing bridges. We get through Aberchalder Swing Bridge and. Full stop. Cullochy lock will open tomorrow morning, 8am. Meanwhile, between the bridge and the lock, we have the whole rainy, pine-lined canal all to ourselves.

Hello! Anybody out there?

Following the fjords to Telford's Caledonian Canal

2006-07-05T12:06:00.000+02:00

Tide tables and gps waypoints: we're out in the salty Scottish fjords again. A sunny day on flat waters. Pulling us along in their tidal flows. Look, "Babette"'s doing 8 knots! We plow into great flocks of terns and guillemots feasting mid-fjord. To port we have Jura Island, to starboard, Kerrera in the Firth of Lorn. Then, up the Lynn of Lorn, inside the Isle of Lismore. And into Loch Linnhe. Reading the charts is like reading poetry.
The blue hills in the distance grow into steep mountains. The fjord narrows. And becomes Corran Narrows rolling under us at a great rate. Now we're against the tide, but manage a couple knots in the right direction: forward. Watch out for the ferry! It's ping-ponging back and forth across the Narrows.

And here we are, 6pm now, at Fort Williams and the sea lock. Which has closed down for the evening. The rickety pontoon looks more or less like a Huckleberry Finn raft. But no fear, we're invited to tie up along side a sturdy Norwegian (Florø) sailboat, "Adventura II". With five year old, Alice, big sister, Tine (16), and her girlfriend onboard it's a lively boat. And friendly. We wish them fair winds, and hope to hear from them next year when they sail south on their big adventure.

Do-it -yourself Canal

2006-07-04T13:51:00.000+02:00

At 10am we're locking up. Good-by salt water and tidal flows. "Sedna" and "Babette" step up, lock by lock, into the do-it-yourself Crinan Canal. We get expert assistance from "British Waterways" lock-keepers to get us started. Then we're on our own. Huffing and puffing, pushing and pulling. The heavy gates creak open and we crank the watergates up and down. As in Watergate. Of the more famous C&O canal.
The landscape looks oddly familiar. After cactii and aloe in volcanic slopes, Tobago's rain forests, blue hydragias of the Azores, we're back. Back to birch. And pine, and oak. And cool, wet days. And low-flying swallows to feast on the mosquitoes.

At lock number 8, Caialbaan, we're at the top. Blue mountain ranges in the distance, cows munching cud canal-side. Very pastoral this inland sailing.
So, downhill. From lock 9 to 13 we crank and push, opening and closing water chambers til we're down at a Marina just short of the sea-lock.
It's here we take farwell with our sometimes sailing companion, "Sedna". We've sailed tandem since the Azores. And up along Ireland. Now, between canals, our ways diverge. Over a piece of "Sedna"-concocted chocolate cake we recap and wish each other fair winds and hope to meet again.

Tomorrow we sail to the next Scottish canal: Telford's great Caledonian.

Argyll to Starboard

2006-07-03T12:31:00.000+02:00

Brrrrrrrrrrring. Even earlier. 3:30am, says the merciless alarm clock. Time to abandon cosy warm quilts and face the damp cold predawn. We're off to Scotland, heading for The Crinan Canal. First over to the Firth of Clyde, up inside the Isle of Arran, Kintyre to port, Argyll to starboard.
The light winds predicted go up to 30 knots, so we reef the main. Fog makes for extra interesting sailing. "Sedna" pops in and out of the fog, just a half nautical mile in front of us. Peek-a-boo!
In Scottish waters a long fjord cuts into the tattered coastline as we de-reef. The mist and fog in the Irish Sea have vanished. A bright sunny day emerges here on the other side as we peal off layers of wool and waterproofs. Out with the two reefs. Motor sailing. Then sail. Motor. Sail. The winds come and go. And we have our sights on Ardishaig and hope to get into the Canal Basin before the locks close at 7pm.
We arrive at 6pm and before we catch our breath we're secured and fendered in the sea-lock.

Going up?

Battleships, new and old

2006-07-02T20:58:00.000+02:00

The Tall Ships Festival in Belfast is spread about the docks and city. So we didn't manage to see some of the events we were looking forward to, (African dance, historical street-theatre...) being at the wrong place at the right time. And the Seafood Fair was apparently cancelled. But we got to board two warships.

The first was a newly built model of an Admiral Nelson era ship. A cannon-ball shooting square-rigger. "The Grand Turk". Built in Turkey. It stars in "Hornblower" and "Longitude". It's a good replica, except they've cut out a whole deck, a gun-deck, to provide extra standing headroom and comfort for film crews.
Next, the modern navy. A serious looking German torpedo boat with a variety of lethal more-or-less smart weapons spread about the deck. And, tied along side, is a smaller British mine-sweeper. Guarded by a machinegun-armed crew, as kiddies and grandpas tip-toe past down the gangway.
On our way back to the "Bridge End" Railway Station we pass huge gable-end house murals. These depict fighting heroes of this protestant neighborhood. There are Catholic murals and Peace murals, too. Happy the day when they join the Berlin Wall and become mere tourist attractions.

Click, click. Now they're in the "Babette" album.

Drums in Belfast

2006-07-01T20:19:00.000+02:00

July 1st. It's not the victory/defeat, depending on your viewpoint, in the Battle of the Boyne, fought on another 1st of July, back in the 16-hundreds, that they're marching for today. No, today it's just a ca. 90 year old battle. World War I's slaughter and maiming of a million young men at Somme. The good news: finally the protestant North and the Catholic South have laid wreaths together in France. Now let's hope they can do more of the same in home waters.
Apropos: We were at the Ulster Museum today. A fabulous exhibit, extensive, well put together, interactive, called “Conflict: The Irish at War”. From the megalithic pre-Celts to the wall-divided city of Belfast. The panels and exhibits dissect and analyze the Irish participation in any number of wars at home and abroad. The exhibit is extended by popular demand. I could've spent more time there if the museum hadn't closed at 6pm.

Which gives us the opportunity to observe another battle. At a pub. England is mired down in battle with the Portuguese, in Germany. World Cup enthusiasts are cheering on their warriors. Mostly for Portugal!? A very few for England, and no animosity in the pub. Standing room only through two extra periods and the penalty shoot-out. Giving Portugal the battle's only fatal shot. Ronaldo's. Football battles, however inane they may seem, tend to have fewer casualties than the ones with pikes and guns. Football hooligans may not be a Sunday school class. On the other hand, the young men, dead and wounded, of the trench battles at Somme, had they marched 10 abreast, would have made a long, grim parade.

It would have taken two years for them to march by.

Pea Soup

2006-06-30T09:58:00.000+02:00

Brrrring! The alarm clock sounds in a dark, icy Babette. 4:30am. And it's time to catch a tide. "Sedna" and "Babette" are up and out at 5am, heading north to Bangor, near Belfast. We’re soon enveloped in a clingy wet blanket of fog. Hot oatmeal porridge helps.
The wind is from behind, but weak, so we motor to speed things up. Even with some help from the tide this will take us about 13 hours. In the fog. The radar tells us that "Sedna" is a mere quarter nautical mile dead ahead. But we can't see her, swallowed up in the swirling mist. The big "light-boat" is blaring fog signals at us, just a half mile off to starboard, just as invisible. Fishing boats and their net-buoys suddenly appear. Then disappear into the tight grey noose of fog surrounding us. While cargo ships pass on the radar screen, unseen.

Magically the fog lifts just before the tricky part, Donahgadee Sound. Blue skies overhead and a retreating ring of low ground fog. As the pizza sliiiiides out of the oven. Just saved from landing face down on the floor. We gobble pizza while navigating the inner Donaghadee Sound, Copeland Island now visible to starboard. Magic Rocks, Deputy Reefs, and two red buoys to port. And the tide is with us.
At 19:00 we're safely inside the huge Bangor Marina. Side by side at place Echo 18 and 19. "Sedna" and "Babette" have put another 90 nautical miles behind. And we're that much closer to home waters.

A Dublin Day

2006-06-29T09:29:00.000+02:00

We start off in the Temple Bar area for a pub lunch. "The Oliver St. John Gogarty Pub". Try saying that after a pint or two of Guinness! We ordered a big serving of their good Irish stew and soda bread. And Guinness. Just in case we can't remember what country we've now come to. And just to make completely sure, at the neighboring table there's a group of three playing Irish tunes on flutes, fiddle and guitar. Yup, we're in the Emerald Isle.
If you don't recall hearing of this Mr. Oliver St. John Gogarty, he was not just a poet-revolutionary-politician-surgeon-swimmer-pilot. He was also the sometimes great friend, sometimes worst enemy, of James Joyce. He made a legendary daring escape from execution in prison swimming the icy Liffy. And he wrote poetry admired by W.B. Yeats.

And all this leads us to the Dublin Writer's Museum. We cross the Liffy, by bridge, no swim today. March down the broad O'Connor Street up to Parnell Square. The boulevard has a pedestrian walkway down its center, adorned with statues of famous citizens. And now also accompanied by huge silly-looking bronze bunnies. Skinny, leaping, crouching rabbits with large floppy ears.

There's another noticeable addition to O'Connors: "The Needle". Stretching up into the stratosphere, bright shiny silver. An easy landmark, and great meeting place. Of course this is where Ørnulf and I get separated. As I wait a half hour for him to show up again he walks all the way up to the museum. Without looking back.
Reunited at Parnell Square we wander through Ireland's literary history from the Book of Kells to Nobel Prize winning authors. Swift's "Gulliver's Travels", Brian Stoker's "Dracula", Thomas Moore, Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Becket and, of course, W. B. Yeats. And the great James Joyce. Most of these modern writers are represented in the museum with their typewriters.

No personal computers. Yet.

Old friends

2006-06-28T09:06:00.000+02:00

We're on the green Dart train into Dublin, with a 12 noon appointment to meet Michael Carville. Last seen at Warrenpoint. Now we're at Chatam House, just off of shopping street, Grafton. We meet both him and Eamon Kenan there. A quick summary of our sailing year and some catching up on minerals and mining. After one year in retirement Ørnulf attempts to change modus to mineral industries. Another world. Then a good lunch at a nearby brasserie. Great to have a chat with Michael and Eamon. Seems like just yesterday, and not a year ago, we last met the Carville’s in Warrenpoint, and wandered about in the Morne Mountains during a restful weekend with Peg and Charlie.

Come evening we're again out eating, now with Eamon only, out at Howth. "The King Cidric" is a fabulous seafood restaurant with a great view of the harbor. While we're enjoying monk fish and prawns and a white wine, Michael is out in the salt spray sailing. He's crew in a Howth Yacht Club regatta. Back at the marina we join up again. And congratulate Michael on his winning boat.

Whistler's Sea-scape

2006-06-27T08:56:00.000+02:00

After four hours sleep it's my watch again: 7am.
The pearlgrey water and mist surround us , cocoon-like. Silent and perfectly calm. Brightly black and white, guillemots in flocks of four of five skim the glassy surface in undulating flight. Pairs of Gannets follow. They seem to be cut out of cardboard, their white wings dipped in ink at the tips. And their crayon-yellow heads the only spot of color in this Whistler study in greys, black and white.

We motor-sail with and against tides. And hold watch in this inkwash sea-scape til we tie up at Howth, outside of Dublin at 8pm.

A smuggler's night

2006-06-26T08:47:00.000+02:00

At 11:30am we're off, "Babette" and "Sedna" in tandem, sailing to Dublin. Over 30 hours in one go, an over-nighter. A misty, foggy sail. The wind's against us. And, for the moment the tide's with us. This combination giving us short, steep waves. Which we bang into in a hull-shaking manner. But as the wind dies the seas grow less confused.

The fog is still thick as we go into the night watches. No moon, not a star in sight, a proper smuggler's sea tonight.

Wine from Washington State

2006-06-25T08:42:00.000+02:00

A quiet Sunday. Browsing at the bookstore. A walk around town. Dinner aboard "Babette": The lamb chops, onions, mushrooms, potato boats frying smelled so good that we pulled out our last bottle of special Washington State wine. Good memories of the little Seattle winery and Lynn's sushi on the eve of nephew Matt's wedding.

Work day

2006-06-24T08:09:00.000+02:00

Boiler-room mechanic, Ørnulf, is greasy black up to his elbows. Two foul looking diesel filters, one oil filter and the motor-oil are now all changed. Sailors are, generally speaking, not motorboat experts; best to sooth Volvo Penta with lots of soft oil. Nice girl, be good.
Meanwhile the scribe, Shannon, is at work recording our crossing on a borrowed lap-top. typetypetypetype in the boat all day and then, magic, suck it all into a little plug-in device. Fabulous just to take this little thing-y to the exorbitantly priced internet café and, ZAP, it’s all in the machine. Now I know how the other half live.

All work and no play? "Sedna” and "Babette" meander among the many restaurants and pubs in "Irelands Cuisine Capital" as Kinsale hales itself. And settle on "The White House. Half pub, half bistro, half white table-clothed restaurant. There's room at the bistro, if we can wait an hour. We can. As Mexico and Argentina give each other one goal each. There's a TV in the pub, as there is everywhere in these World Cup days. Then we have a good meal for reasonable prices in their popular Bistro. And before we've thrown in the napkin, football from Germany has been replace by banjo plucking boys singing popular Irish tunes. With "The Wild Rover" ringing in our ears we go out in the Saturday night lanes. Live music blaring out from all the open pub doors.

The Circle Completed

2006-06-23T19:46:00.000+02:00

The morning dawns slowly. A black sack with the pulsing beam from the Fastnet Rock Lighthouse becomes sky and The Celtic Sea. Then they separate into gray and black and the horizon appears. The light pales, shades of gray lighten. Woolly sky, silky sea. A short burst of rose-vermillion at sunrise. Should “sailors take warning”? Then gray settles in again. A muffled, liquid world. Dolphins glide by, Gannets soare soundlessly overhead . A perfect morning.

As storms whirl up force 10 winds further north, must be a different planet entirely, we pass the rock-solid lighthouse on the Old Head of Kinsale. We cross our path, the circle is completed. It was here we headed out on the third of August, 2005, 11am, to brave the Bay of Biscay and see the world.
At 10:30am we’re once more alongside the outer pontoon at Kinsale Yacht Club Marina. Not quite the same sailors who left here a year ago.

Just one more day

2006-06-22T19:45:00.000+02:00

Our tenth and last whole day on this last Atlantic stretch. No more oceans, just seas: the Irish Sea and the North Sea still to cross.
"Herb, the weatherman" tells us there’ a window Friday morning when we can squeak into Kinsale before stronger winds start blowing again. So we assist weak winds today with motor power. Charging along at five knots. That’s the "No wake" speed you’re not supposed to exceed in narrow channels.
The last night watch. It’s a moonless sky, low clouds on a flat sea. Black. the only light is “Sedna”s white top and red port lanterns. But just before Ørnulf goes off watch, at 22:40, he sees a reflected light flashing in the clouds by Fastnet Rock. On Shannon’s watch the shine becomes a powerful light-beam, our first look at Europe since we sailed out into the Atlantic just about a year ago.

Fulmars and Gannets

2006-06-21T19:44:00.000+02:00

03:00, Shannon on watch. Sugary tea, flat-ish waves make for a more optimistic view of the world. A sliver moon waving farewell for this month. The Milky Way is left to light our path. And the Big and Little Dippers, drifting in and out of clouds. They seem to have all righted themselves, after being tipped over and moved about down in the Caribbean.
We’re now up at over 50 degrees north, making good progress: 141nm over ground today.
More good news: the Navtex weather reports are now ticking in. Not that the weather predicted can be called good news. There are gale warnings up and down the coast of Ireland, moving north to Scotland, the Hebrides. But it looks like there will be a slot to slide into harbor further south, in Kinsale later this week. Cross fingers, toes.

More signs of northern waters: the Fulmar and the Gannet. First we see the bullet-bodied Fulmar on short stiff wings, skillfully skimming the waves, well under radar height. Watch out for hopping dolphins!
Then the elegant Gannet. Shining white, with long, narrow wings, black-tipped. Bright yellow neck and head, black-ringed eyes, a real dandy. They soar above us in pairs, sometimes with a gangling youth about. I’m just wondering, with all this continual soaring, when do they ever find time to eat? But then I see, in the distance, a whole flock of Gannets, bright white in the sun, swirling about like bits of white paper. Then diving down into the sea. A feeding frenzy. Hence the expression, “Greedy as a Gannet”? Apparently they feast till they’re so heavy they can’t fly.

Something's come between us

2006-06-20T19:43:00.000+02:00

It's Shannon’s watch. Four night hours in misting fog, rolly seas. “Babette” is rolling along, too. At six knops. Then, forward, starboard, right out of a gray curtain of fog, I see a huge wave breaking over the bow of a bulk carrier, landing on its forward deck. Switch on the radar, call up the captain, and hand-steer. “Babette” is sailing on a port tack, the wind well behind. Not much to go on to starboard. Luckily looks like he’ll fall behind us; I can just make out a bit of his starboard side now. Oernulf’s up now, takes pictures, as we pass, starboard-to-starboard, less than one nautical mile away. Then the ship passes “Sedna”. Port-to-port. He goes between us! Nice that his radars seem to be functioning, swirling in the fog. Ragnhild, steering “Sedna”, tells us that on their radar he seemed to be heading for “Babette”. Before he swung between us.

An otherwise bumpy, grey day. The captain’s cheery Scottish porridge warms up the crew.

Who's steering the Ark?

2006-06-19T19:41:00.000+02:00

A dove, no olive branch, lands on Sailing-Ark “Babette” today. Remarkably similar to the common park pigeon. With two fancy ankle bracelets, double ring-marked, white and red. After wobbling precariously on the solar-cell tower, she flies down onto the wheel. Steers the boat briefly before hopping onto the benches in the cockpit. Bold as brass, marching about . Our guest is served breadcrumbs and water. Then thanks us with bird shit. We come to an agreement: she can hitch a ride on the forward deck. Only. Pigeon tries re-negotiations. Then tries “Sedna”. Ping-ponging back and forth for awhile. Before opting for a more independent life at sea. Or maybe a cozy bulk carrier.

Just as well as we’re busy putting reefs in the main, winding in the jib. The wind is working itself up to a howl and the waves are rising up on end again. Looks like a bumpy night-ride ahead.

Relay: Happy Birthday, Jostein!

2006-06-18T19:39:00.000+02:00

“Happy Birthday, Jostein!”

Yesterday we read a birthday greeting over the vhf to “Sedna”s Ragnhild. Who e-mailed it to big-computer-brother Kevin’s e-dress. Who sent it on to Jostein. An Atlantic birthday wish racing up to satellites in space, down to Bergen, over to Flekkefjord.

The 18th of June brings us a whole day of fast sailing. Motor’s finally off, wind rudder in action. The course now straight to Ireland.

A relaxing Saturday

2006-06-17T19:37:00.000+02:00

A grey and quiet day. Motor-sailing to Ireland. Oernulf tries his hand at crosswords and I’m at lesson 23 in my Spanish book..
It’s Saturday. That means “rice porridge” for lunch in Norway. And, what luck, we have exactly one bag of “instant” left. 25 minutes of stirring later, drowned in sugary cinnamon, we’re lapping it up. As “Babette” steers herself north and east.

"Roger, Roger!"

2006-06-16T19:36:00.000+02:00

04:30, Shannon’s and Ragnhild’s watch. Enveloped in fog, radars revolving, we alternate motoring and sailing until we get a stable sailable wind at about 8am.
We sail at five to six knots all day, pointed towards Kinsale. Herb ok’s that. ”Roger, Roger!”
More fair winds, then a front or two ahead, he says.

And about a week more of Atlantic sailing.

Sailing in Mushroom-Turtle Soup

2006-06-15T19:34:00.000+02:00

We sail on a polished blue surface, with a rolling swell: liquid glass. The hot sun orders us to shed layers of wool . And where did I bury my shorts?
In the sea flowing by we start to see small white “bumps”. And more of them. Streams of them, thick as hail.
Like pearls, the string broken, fallen all over the floor. Some large, some smaller, lots of them.
Pearls?! Their just small Styrofoam balls, from packing crates tipped off a container boat, spread out floating along with the current.
Styrofoam?! With roots? The bigger ones have grayish “roots” growing downwards under them. Must be mushrooms. Great, we’re sailing in mushroom soup! Or mushroom-turtle soup; did you see that little turtle paddling by?

On the Norwegian Net the suggestions tumble in. The consensus is they must be jelly fish. Not the home-grown bluish or stinging orange jelly-ish varieties. These are thousands of tiny opaque white balls. There is also the occasional blue-purple Portuguese Man-of-war “sail” among them. Another jelly-fish. Or maybe these “mushrooms” are just Portuguese babies-of –war?

Later, the wind picks up enough to raise the genaker. “Sedna”s is already up. Then, down comes ours. We rush forward, pull it saltwater-wet out of the waves. The halyard, freed from the sail is stuck at the top of the mast.
So we sail on with jib and main and a little motor help. Another 40 liters of diesel into the tank.

By sail or by motor, we're bound for Ireland.

Motoring to Ireland

2006-06-14T19:33:00.000+02:00

Half the crew is sort of drowsy, drugged on seasickness pills. Scottish oatmeal porridge is the “Babette” captain’s preferred remedy for lumpy seas. It helps. And the wind dies and the waves lie down. Good for sea-legs, bad for sailing. Captain Oernulf dumps 40 liters of diesel into “Babette’s belly as we motor north.

The crew loses her sea-green pallor and cooks coq au vin. Shame we can’t invite “Sedna” over for dinner.

To go or not to:GO!

2006-06-13T19:31:00.000+02:00

No weather window to climb through. No news from Herb. The wind is still against us. So we decide to sail.
At 13:00 “Sedna” and “Babette” slip their ropes at Pta. Delgada. We tandem sail along São Miguel’s south coast. Heading west. Which gives us a nice tail wind, except we are planning to go northeast to Ireland.
Rounding the island we point ourselves towards the Emerald Isle. And get the wind firmly on the nose. A WNW tack heads us away from our goal. We try a ENE tack. Hmmmm.

In Toronto, his amateur radio cranked up by 8pm, "Dear Herb" is sending sound advice to sailors all over the Atlantic. It’s 10pm before “Sedna” gets directed, “Babette” following. The message is clear: sail North. That is, motor north, right into the wind, short, nasty waves and the current. With our trust in Herb to deliver fair winds further North we burn our precious diesel, achieving a few bumpy knots “over the ground”.

“Babette” and “Sedna”, side by side, battering onwards through the full-moonlit night.

Off to Ireland, but maybe not today

2006-06-12T12:38:00.000+02:00

"Sedna" and "Babette", with Canadian short-wave weather-guide, Herb's, help, will be heading for Kinsale, near Cork, in Ireland.
But maybe not today. We've been studying the weather maps. A lot of wind against us. Or no wind. If we start today.

We're looking at Wednesday late, or Thursday, now. And we've sent Herb a mail. Hoping for some advice from Toronto.

We'll be sailing with "Sedna" and plan to stay within vhf range. Should we wander out of range we can get their position over the short wave radio. We listen in to "Sedna", "Herb"and the "Norwegian net" on our ssb radio receiver.

The Last Supper

2006-06-11T12:24:00.000+02:00

We're getting ready for tomorrow's sail, tidying up after three weeks more or less on land in The Azores. The rest of the population seems to be focused on football. The Espirito Santo fiesta starts this week-end, but it's the World Cup football match between Portugal and Angola that has got all the Azores-Portuguese out. Patriotic Portuguese red and green flag-colors flying on all the scarves. All the restaurants, not just sports-bars, are now outfitted with televisions.

Including at the cosy "Costa do Atlantico" where we eat our last supper here in the Azores, baccalão. Tomorrow it's boat-food again as we and "Sedna" start out on our ca.12 day sail together, east to Ireland.

Silver Spring Sailors

2006-06-10T12:02:00.000+02:00

They're tied up right behind us on the dock, "Ketch ya Later", yup, a ketch, from Silver Spring, Maryland. In all my teen years in Silver Spring I never remember seeing a sailboat that wasn't something you pulled on a string in a pond. Sailing being as exotic as skiing.
But the Ratcliffe family, with two teen daughters have sailed their ketch to The Med, and are on their way back home now. Nice to hear news from the old neighborhood: there are coyotes loose in Sligo Creek Park.
Fair winds, "Ketch ya Later"!

And who else just blew in? "Grace"! With Swedish couple, PG and Pia on board. We first met way back when in La Coruna, after our longest sail ever, five days over the Bay of Biscay. We've all grown a bit since then. "Grace" has had theives aboard in the Caribbean; PG getting attacted with a knife. While Pia, alone on the boat in Cuba, got tired of daily searches by the officials. The police with guns and dogs had already searched the boat thoroughly. Didn't find anything inbetween the underwear. All in all "Grace" has had an interesting sailing year on the North-Atlantic "Milk run".

Cooking and Swimming in Hot Springs

2006-06-09T14:04:00.000+02:00

The sulpher smell is what hits you first. The clouds of steam rising from the ragged black cracks in the white-yellow crust, then the slightly-off-eggs smell wafting on the breeze. Then you wonder where the over-heated steam will break through next. Watch your step!

Our jolly rental-car crew has now arrived at Furnas. The area where they cook their famous "cozido das Furnas", underground slow-cooked stew, is beside the big warm-ish crater lake, Lagoa das Furnas. Today there's a special event here involving several restaurants. A big tent has been set up to accomodate the crowd eating sulpher-steamed stew, baccalão and meat-and-beans. You can also buy local bread, honey, brandy from stands along the edge of the tent. A stage is raised on one side for concerts in the evenings.
In the town of Furnas there are more underground "furnaces". A beautiful mid-town park smokes from fissures in the earth and is covered with lovely flowering bushes and trees, fountains and walkways. Draped in foggy steam. The steep, green pastures up the sides of the crater in the background.

There are five parks in this little town. We stop at the old estate garden, Parque Terra Nostra. It was created by an American, Thomas Hickling. He arrived in the Azores in 1769. Made his fortune in oranges. In front of the manor house is a big pool. With yellow-green water and a palm tree island in the middle. You can swim in the pool. So we did. It's bath-tub warm. But the outdoor shower, to remove the yellow sulphur-water, was c-c-cold.

Before returning to town we manage a tea plantation visit, too. At Gorreana Chá factory from the 1870's. Old copper machines and tea tasting of good black and green teas.

In the crater: four lakes, one town

2006-06-08T13:51:00.000+02:00

With Svein Hugo at the wheel we whiz out of town. In our rental car crammed with five full size sailors. First stop: Pineapple green-houses. Little baby pineapples in long rows of window-sill plants. They smoke the plants into thinking the end is near, causing all of them to flower simultaneously. Eventually they all grow big and yellow; it takes 18 months. Some of them get converted to pineapple brandy. Which you can taste at the brandy factory on the island.

Now we head west and north to the enormous caldeira, crater, which contains four lakes and the little village of Sete Cidades (Seven Cities). Lagão Azul, Blue Lake and Lagão Verde, Green Lake, are divided by the road. It's the blue sky that creates the Azul. Today it's Grey Lake! The green end is colored by the steep crater side and the cedar trees growing up it.
The village, white-washed and winding, has a lovely church, São Nicolão, at the end of a long cedar-lined lane.

You can drive along the crater rim. If you like motoring on narrow ridges, protected only by blue hortensia bushes. Enough of us in our rental car liked it to form a majority. Some of us were slightly envious of the hikers we passed along the way.

Punta Delgada by the Sea

2006-06-07T13:31:00.000+02:00

The city is open to the sea, the Infante de Henrique Road running along the harbor. And along the road there's a long and broad waterfront walkway, pleasantly punctuated by rattan-chaired coffee bars. Very civilized. The road leads right into the main town squares. The prettiest is Plaça de Gonçalo Velho Cabral. He discovered São Miguel. The huge town gates lead from the square into the city. Their three arches echoing the old arcaded façade running along the harbor road.

The town gates, the arcades, the tall bell towers, the churches, they all have the same white walls with black basalt articulation. Black and white. Like the patterned cobbled squares and narrow streets. Like the camouflaged pidgeons.
The town is chock full of black and white churches. And monasteries and convents. Their façades scrolled and twisted in baroque design. We peek inside the Cathedral, São Sebastião. Then meander into the narrow cobbled lanes. Where delivery vans are a size to big to squeeze through comfortably.

After eating Ragnhild's ("Sedna") fabulous cheesecake this evening I might have to go sideways throught the lanes.

Fourth Azore Island: São Miguel

2006-06-06T13:17:00.000+02:00

A windy, blistery welcome to São Miguel Island. Clouds hang heavy over the black cliffs. A narrow green strip between clouds and cliff, the same crazy quilt of pastures fenced in by blue hortensia hedges. The occational white-washed, red-tiled village. We're definitly still in The Azores.
Both boats arrive at the fuel dock behind the long sea-wall in Punta Delgada. "Babette" tied up outside of "Sedna". By 10am we're side by side on the pontoon. Let the winds whistle in the masts, we're attached to land!

Showers, rest and a nice dinner with "Sedna" and its captain, Svein Hugo's father, Hugo. He's visiting here in The Azores for a week.

Night sail, full speed to São Miguel

2006-06-05T12:59:00.000+02:00

Once, sailing to Denmark was a big thing. An 18 hour sail, overnight over the Skagerak sea. The North Sea eclipsed that, two and a half rough days to Scotland. Now, after two times the Atlantic we get our fenders ready to hang out when there's just a "Denmark's sail" left.

But definitely no fenders out tonight. This 18 hour sail over to São Miguel is a good blow, but a comfortable beam reach. "Babette" is doing top speed, 6,5 to 7,5 knots. Even 8kn! And we're double reefed, with a 3/4 forsail. Half the sails, same speed.

It's starts as a girl's sail. Shannon and Ragnhild skipper "Babette" and "Sedna", more or less side by side the first five hours. Jumping dolphins see us off into the half-moonlit night.

Raining holy water

2006-06-04T12:47:00.000+02:00

The procession, led by two small alterkids (a boy and a girl) is long, winding around the Cathedral. It includes the whole confirmation class. Dressed up, holding their candles more or less upright. The organ accompanies an enthusiastic church choir.
It's Pentecost Sunday, raining, and we've found our way to the Sé, the Cathedral. Incense is wafting, holy water raining on us, and huge red banners with doves and tongues of fire are hanging from the massive stone arch at the alter. It's all in Portuguese, reminiscent of the old latin masses.

This evening it's "Sedna"s turn. We're invited to another fabulous scampi dinner. And chocolate pudding! This could become a habit, making dinner every other day!

More pictures

2006-06-04T01:01:00.000+02:00

Pre-Azores pictures are up here (slideshow), Sint Maarten- and Azores-pictures will be up soon :-)

A hike up Mt. Brasil

2006-06-03T12:34:00.000+02:00

Have we been to Brasil? Uh, yeah, sure, great view from, uh...the top!

Mt.Brasil on Terceira is a three kilometer big volcanic crater that popped up out of the sea before the rest of the island. In the seafaring days of goldbearing galleons it was fenced in with stone bulwarks, crowned by the largest fort on the Atlantic. The fort is still in military use today.
The rest of the island is now a large and lovely park. A huge brightly colored playground, basket ball courts, picnic areas, a partly caged collection of ducks and geese. Peacocks wandering about, dragging their heavy tails behind them.
Trails lead up to the four hilltops surrounding the crater. We walked up two of them. At the top there's a windblown view of the rugged coast and the white-capped sea. In the days of whale hunting there was a whale look-out post. But no luck today. We didn't spot any spray plumes or tails of diving whales.

Gales whirling over the Azores

2006-06-02T12:30:00.000+02:00

Herb, Navtex, weather-online, they all agree, there's a gale whirling over The Azores today and tomorrow. Best to stay put.
A quick trip to the Market and we're drenched. We bake a carrot cake and "Sedna" makes a fabulous scampi-in-wrap dinner. Good food with good friends: and comfort on a rainy day.

Gate-crashing at an Espirito Santo fiesta and hot steam from Purgatory

2006-06-01T18:17:00.000+02:00

We're off at 9am, speeding east along the South coast. A rugged coastline, tidy white-washed fishing villages. North to Praia da Vitória where we meet a few thousand children down at the harbor. All with new caps, red, yellow or blue and one-size t-shirts, now tunics down to their sneakers on the first graders. It's "Children's Day" in Praia and the schools are invading the beaches in two squiggly lines. Games, wet sand, soda and ice cream seem to be their plan.
We also meet the Danish boat, Pi, last seen in the Canaries. They are also on their way to Ireland now.

So, on to Bisqoitos. First a stop at an overlook and natural tidal pools. Some workmen are busy helping nature out with quite a lot of cement. Soon a fair sized swimming pool will be nestled in the rough black volcanic rock and white spray of surf here at Pta. do Mistério. Sea temp, about 18 degrees today.
At Bisqoitos we head down to the harbor. We've heard there's a good restaurant there. When we arrive we see a lot of cars and pick-ups parked near the sea. Long tables are full of platters of food. The smell of grilled meat in the air, casks of wine on the pick-up beds. It seems the nearby village of Lajes is celebrating "Espiritu Santo" today. We meet a California-expat, brother-in-law of this year's "mordomo" (emperor), who invites us to join in, and help ourselves! We do. We fill paper plates with grilled meat, homemade bread, meat pies, and other more mysterious dishes. There's a special sweet rice cake decorated in cinnamon with either Holy Spirit doves or a crown for dessert. Remarkably like Norwegian rice pudding. The local red wine from the verdelho grape comes right from the keg. Thank you Lajes for a great meal and a warm welcome!

Back up in Bisquitos we find the Wine Museum, just opened after siesta. Bisqoitos we learn actually comes from "biscuit", a hard, twice-baked bread. The small volcanic rocks that are huddled around the grape vine stock to keep them warm resemble biscuits. So now you know that. The vineyards are all boxed into small stone-walled sections to protect the grapes from the wind and weather. Here the verdelho grape is developed and used in the local wines. There's a good fortified wine, like a Madeira. We know. We sampled it and brought back a sample to "Babette".

And we're off again. Up, along tall cedar trees, to the center of this volcanic island. We wind our way to the steamy hills of Furnas do Enxofre. Hot steam rises from endless black holes in the mossy hillside. Was this supposed to be the entrance to Purgatory? There's a yellow-white baked clay surface, white-green rocks, red and yellow moss in the steamy valley. The steam is hissing on its way out. Think it's time to go.

And why not go further down for a look around? Not here, but at Algar do Carvão, a bit further down the road. Huge caverns wait, 100m down. A big hole in the ground has a vertical drop down to the entrance into a nicely paved cave. We pay three euro to take this short cut instead of rappelling down.
We go through glass doors into a damp dark tunnel. Beyond that we can look straight up, up, up the wet mossy slopes to a round circle of blue sky far above. Then the wet concrete steps wind us downward into the huge cavern. White stalagmites hang and the deep pool, at 4 degrees centigrade, meets us at the bottom. The cave is filled with soft indirect light and spooky pling-plong music which matches the drip-drip-dripping water everywhere. They give concerts here in the largest room, "The Cathedral". Great echo-y acoustics.

Our Pico-weary (still!) legs carry us up the steps and out into the fading daylight. We’ve had an incredible day from Holy Ghost parties to steams from Purgatory. On this, our third Azores island, Terceira.

Angra: Churches, forts...

2006-05-31T17:19:00.000+02:00

...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!

2006-05-30T13:10:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-29T13:03:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-28T15:07:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-27T14:33:00.000+02:00

"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!

2006-05-26T14:24:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-25T14:06:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-24T14:11:00.000+02:00

...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

2006-05-23T13:36:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-22T13:43:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-21T12:52:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-20T12:40:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-19T12:28:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-18T12:15:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-17T19:30:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-16T19:29:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-16T16:33:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-15T19:09:00.000+02:00

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"

2006-05-14T18:52:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-13T18:47:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-12T18:42:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-11T18:33:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-10T18:17:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-09T18:11:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-08T18:00:00.000+02:00

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,

2006-05-08T14:41:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-07T17:54:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-06T17:40:00.000+02:00

"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

2006-05-05T17:32:00.000+02:00

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"

2006-05-04T17:16:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-03T14:28:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-05-02T17:09:00.000+02:00

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?

2006-05-01T17:02:00.000+02:00

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?

Ready, set... GO!

2006-04-30T16:46:00.000+02:00

Horn blasts and dinghy-boat escort from "Snorre" sends us out of the Marina at 8:30am. Off and running. And joining the long line of boats leaving the lagoon through the raised bridge at 9am. We're leaving the Caribbean behind. Sailing East and North. The other sailboats evaporate. They're day-sailors to St. Barts. We're soon alone with a pair of Brown Noddies skimming the waves. The pointy volcanic islands sinking slowly into our wake.

Then the wind dies. Hmm, "Day One". How much diesel do we have? No choice, we motor along at 3, 4 knots. All Day. Hot sun, no shade . The skinny solar-panel shadow is an expensive box seat today.
Relief comes as the sun relaxes its grip, about 5pm. Now let's try out some of that vacuum-packed beef! Cpt.Ørnulf makes "The Boys' Dinner": steaks, onions, mushrooms and fried potato-boats. As first mate, Shannon, sneaks some garlic, herbs and red wine into the sauce. Don't tell!

The night brings wind. We're sailing again, about 6kns. all night. After 9hrs. of diesel-gobbling motoring.

Last Caribbean Day

2006-04-29T16:40:00.000+02:00

Fair winds to "Sedna"! We send them off with horn blasts, and good wishes. And hope to hear them on the shortwave shortly.
This is our last day in St. Marten. And it's full of busy preparing, organizing, last minute purchases, e-mail check. Call family. And have a short, last evening out with boat-friends.
Tomorrow, shortly before 9am, we're be off. Again, out on the high seas.

After this last Caribbean day.

Mangos from the Marigot Market

2006-04-28T16:31:00.000+02:00

Time to fill the stores. With fresh food. We try the fruit and veggie market in Marigot on the French side. There's enough wares in the stalls to fill our bags with passion fruit, mangos, pineapple, christophenes, pumpkins, tomatoes. But we don't find any fresh eggs. The French side is somewhat more cosy than the Dutch. At least around the harbour area. But like the on Dutch side there's heavy traffic and billboard bombarded roads, dirty, dingy buildings lining them.
Back at Le Grand Marché we order meat, deep frozen, vacuum-packed, to be picked up tomorrow.
Tomorrow "Sedna" is leaving. Then us, the day after.

Swing and smoke

2006-04-27T10:44:00.000+02:00

At 08:15am we're at Island Water World, waiting for the crane. We have a 8:30am appointment. Except there's a large motor boat that's jumped the queue. It has three (3!) outboards, with 250hp. Each. It's the light boat for the yacht, "A Quieter Place". Hmmm, quieter. With 770 hp?

We wait. waitwaitwait.

Waiting is so much easier among good friends. So we climb aboard the already hauled out "Felicie". Soon "Snorre" captain, Helge and "Blå"'s Kari and Eilif are also on the dock. And Swedish "Sulamitt"'s Thove. And, what do you know, suddenly it's 12 noon and we're up on the hard. Of course then our friendly "Simpson Bay Diesel" repairman is out to lunch.

So, just to pass the time, we scrape off the nasty reddish, round algae growth that serve as platforms for barnacles. Arms aching, we finish that job as the "SB Diesel" man finishes getting the sail-drive repaired. Now it's 5pm. Finally we can head back to our marina slot. Where we should have been already at 11am!

Time for Le Grande Good-by! "Blå" has decided we need a night on the town together. Again. No one protests, so we're 17 with Langesund boat, "Snorre"'s new crew, Snorre. From Langesund! 17 crew from 8 Norwegian boats wander out on the "Vegas" strip and again we end up at "The Warf". Lots of photos, "skoals" and spicy food. Afterwards energeic swing-dance for everyone at the end of the table where the older crowd has settled.

While the more or less young-ish ones sit and smoke.

Jouvert, revisited!

2006-04-26T15:08:00.000+02:00

The little green throw-away camera from Trinidad carnival’s "Jouvert" popped up today. Along with the last photo CD from the Caribbean, we get it processed. A lot of body-painted Donald Duck costumed "sailor boys", and gals, appear. In the first, 4am pictures we look sort of concerned. Forced smiles? In the bright daylight pictures at the finish line, we look totally exhausted and a little pleased with ourselves. We had danced Jouvert through the streets of Port-of-Spain all night, ushering in "We Carnival Nice, 2006" in Trinidad.

Flash forward to April in Sint Maarten: we're busy with a lot of boat-errands today, getting ready to sail soon: gas bottles to be filled, the genoa2 to replace the smaller crossing jib.
And tomorrow, an early rise, to move "Babette" to Island Water World Marina for hauling out.

We have an 8:30am appointment.

Le Grande Marchè

2006-04-25T16:51:00.000+02:00

Dry good shopping at Le Grande Marchè: Jugs of water, cartons of juice and milk, cans of beer. That's the bulk of the dry goods. Then there's the corned beef, chilli beans and hash. Sardines we still have from the Cape Verde Islands. And a super supply of soups and sauces from our Norwegian visitors in Trinidad. This will be our longest passage, about three weeks to 25 days. Depending.

Upside-down in the saloon storage lockers, the sweat running in a river down (up?) my spine; finally everything is stored, numbered and catalogued. Everyone seems to be having a long work-day today. So when the skies darken, that's 6pm, we join "Snorre" and "Felicie" and trawl the busy, dusty road for a place to eat. No real problem since this main drag is lined with cafés, bars and restaurants. The three girls leading the way choose The Warf, with a live dance band. The three captains following after.
Good, spicy, "blackened" wahi-wahi fish. And then we shake loose stiff muscles with a few swirls on the dance floor.

What a life.

Motor trouble!

2006-04-24T16:39:00.000+02:00

Motor trouble! There's water in the gear oil. And that means "Babette" will again have to step onto terra firma. There's plenty of help to be had here; and we're now due to be lifted out at "Island Water World" Marina on Thursday. We think it was our close encounters with lobster pot lines that may have damaged the seal for the sail-drive. That means bad lubricating and that's no good!
Meanwhile, while Ørnulf is up to his elbows in oil, I finished yesterday's food inventory, stores reorganization and shopping lists.

And you thought all we do is go to bars in goggles and goggle at casinos!

We do take coffee and croissant breaks. While shopping for bread at the little French Boulangerie. On their palm fringed veranda overlooking the lagoon. A warm day, cool breeze. Black Frigate birds careening above. This is what we'll remember from our Caribbean sailing.

As we shovel snow next winter.

Celebrations

2006-04-23T16:16:00.000+02:00

An sms message from Edina Lalic informs us that we have a wedding anniversary today. What would we do without Edina! Luckily there will be, inadvertently, "celebrations" today.

At 5pm there's a crazy one. We gather all the Norwegians we can and change to swim-wear and snorkeling gear. . We're heading for Jimbo's Rock and Blues Café. And pool-bar. There's a small pool which winds its way around the veranda deck café and past the bar. Bar stools under water. We're eight flipper-and-goggle swimmers, two dry photographers. And that'll be 10 Margaritas, please. A jolly gang, lots of splashing and laughing!

The second "celebration" is even more impromptu. We join a growing circle on the pontoon, and when we reach 14 crew from 7 Norwegian boats we head out to find a place to eat. Ending up at "Boat House", seafood and jazz restaurant. The staff are friendly, pulling together a great amount of small tables, making one 14-crew long table for us. Another great evening, yarns retold.
And how many diesel jerry cans will you be hauling aboard?

Some of us stop by the Casino on the way back. We just have to have a look. Some of the younger crowd throw some $5 chips onto the green felt tables. Cards flying, they gradually lose the lot. "Babette" is among those content to goggle at the betting. And the gaudy, noisy "bandits" under the cold bluish light. Unreal.

At Jimbo's PoolBar, St.Marten

2006-04-23T10:46:00.000+02:00

At Jimbo's PoolBar, St.Marten,
originally uploaded by (ble først losset ved) sbvalla.

The Norwegian fleet, Sint Maarten

2006-04-22T15:57:00.000+02:00

At 06am we're up, and at 7am we're off on a tailwind sail towards St.Martin (French)/Sint Maarten (Dutch). The tiny, split island that'll be our launching pad to the Azores.
A golden morning and a good sail; we watch heavy rain squalls drench St. Maarten in the distance. By the time we're circling in the bay waiting for the 11:30am bridge opening, the skies have cleared.

We meet other Norwegian boats waiting to pass into the huge lagoon on the Dutch side. A "new" boat, "Chica", is here; two "chicos" have sailed up from Venezuela, where they picked up this "delivery" boat. "Helen Kate" is here to refuel; they will turn south afterwards and head towards Venezuela and new adventures on their way around the world.

Inside, at the Simpson Bay Marina, we meet up again with "Snorre", "Blaa", "Sedna", "Apricus" and "Felicie", a big Norwegian family of boats! We gather at "Jimbo's"(Rock and Blues Café’s) in the evening. A shortwave net is being created by "Sedna's" Svein Hugo, busing typing away on the computer. The others are busy discussing provisioning, routes and weather.

Whatever is on our minds?

Swimming with Turtles

2006-04-21T15:30:00.000+02:00

Light-green lace fans gently swaying in the warm current. We’re swimming in a coral garden where live coral animals in a myriad of shapes and colors mimic plants. There are mustard colored "lettuce leaves", rust-red "branches", light yellow Brain coral. Hiding in the nooks and crannies, under shelves clownish aquarium fish peek at us, then dart out, their bright parrot colors, spots and stripes glowing. A skinny "walking stick" fish perches itself vertically, mimicking the swaying corals. An animal playing plant. Only the "plants" are animals! Black spiny corals threaten with their infection-causing spikes. Most of the corals have a stinging secretion, so all is not paradise in this garden of eden.
And were already excluding real nasties like Portuguese man-of-wars, stingrays, barracudas and sharks!

On our second forage out we're snorkeling back, over the grey-blue bottom, a starfish-pattern in the sand. When whom do we spy? A big turtle. And with what looks like a long dorsal fin?! Only it's not; it's a long fish, in fact there are two of them. They're feeding on parasites they find on the turtle's shell. A win-win scheme.
Suddenly this huge sea-turtle paddles upwards through the blue water. He gains a greenish color towards the top, sheds his fishy friends, as he gasps for air at the surface. Just in front of Ørnulf and me. A few more gulps of air and he's diving down in the murky depths again.

A bitter-sweet last glimpse into the watery deep. At our next stop, St.Marten we'll be busy busy with onshore "marina" life. Fixing, provisioning, watching the weather. At our last stop.

Our launch-pad to our second Atlantic sail. To The Azores.

From megayachts to Rockefeller's haven

2006-04-20T15:19:00.000+02:00

We leave the mega yachts of Gustavia, two Swedish and two Norwegian slightly smaller, ocean-sailing boats behind, and motor in the hot, still air up to Anse du Colombier. On the NW peninsula of St. Barts. Just an hour up the coast.
We meet turtles already on our way in, and soon we're hearing exclamations from snorkeling boat-neighbors: "A turtle, a really big one!" This quiet little "turtle bay" used to be the private playground of the Rockefeller family we're told. Now it's a Marine Reserve. Anchoring is forbidden. So we use the government provided moorings. And help give the corals and turtles a chance.

We settle in, take a swim. And make a carrot cake.

Shell beach, St.Barts

2006-04-19T19:36:00.000+02:00

Perfect little shells, a whole little beach of them. And bathtubwarm waters in this tiny bay. Some of the shells come with a natural little hole, just right to string into a necklace.

In the evening Norwegian boats "Apricus" and "Helen Kate" sail in. We're in the water when "Apricus" arrives, and soon Sonja and Øivind join us for a cooling pow-wow. In the clear azure waters.

Our own little snorkling beach, Swedish sushi

2006-04-18T19:18:00.000+02:00

Lars and Hilderud from "Ramnoe" and we rent a little red car to see St.Barts. That takes only a couple hours, so we pack snorkeling gear in the trunk. When we get to the lovely little sand/shell beach, Petite Anse, we have it to ourselves. Two snorkel expeditions with a baguette-and-cheese picnic in between. The fish are fabulous. A big bright blue, purple-edged one is my favorite.
The roads are unbelievably steep, concrete, sharp edged, just enough breadth for two tiny rental cars. When the big cement trunk roars up it's nice to be on the inside track. The precipice with the ocean view can wait.

Come evening another Swedish boat-friend, Sven from "Alma", brings over his catch of Kingfish which he has made "gravfish" out of. Raw fish treated in such a way as to make it edible. And it is! We all gather at "Babette" for the feast, the two Swedish boats and us. Boiled potatoes, flatbread and butter, a salad, wine. Later coffee and cake. We all contribute something to Sven’s fabulous fish feast.

Airplane acrobatics

2006-04-17T19:11:00.000+02:00

A walking tour of Gustavia. We see all the stone, brick and wood shingle evidence of its Swedish past. But the most exiting "exhibit" is the runway. The small airplanes using this short strip come around and between some hills before diving down to the runway. Then stopping just short of the bluegreen waters at the far end. If you go up to the round-about (circle) just west of the center of town you'll be about level with the landing planes. On this Easter Monday they seemed to land about every 5, 10 minutes.

Easter morning, St.Barts

2006-04-16T18:49:00.000+02:00

It's a bright, golden morning, Easter Sunday. And last night we had a gentle motor sail to St. Barts. The westerly winds, a bit on the north side, were light, the night watches uneventful. At 6am we're approaching the hills and outlying rocks of Gustavia Bay (Rade de Gustavia). The tall mast at the entrance is Norwegian "Canica". At 7am we've tossed out our anchor, 8 meters, into the clear bluegreen waters. We have Swedish "Ramnsoe" beside us; "Full Circle" is on its way in.
Gustavia Harbor today is mega yachts with helicopters where we would have a dinghy. The boats are polished to a blinding white, with smoked black windows, not much deck. These floating 5-star hotels are a bit out of touch with the lovely warm waters surrounding them. As "Babette"s crew jump off the boat.
Gustavia of yesteryear was St.Bart's Swedish capital for about 90 years. It seems Louse XVI traded St. Barts, its 600 Normandie farmers included, for some dubious trading rights in Gothenburg, Sweden. Then the French got it back for 80,000 francs almost a century later. The hard-working French farmers barely noticed the exchange of European rulers.
The Swedes had done some building on the island. Some of these houses can still be seen. First floor stone, second in wood. They also gave St.Barts a lucrative "free trade" status. Which some yachties and tourists still appreciate today.

We're content to have lunch on the pier with "Full Circle", and, later, a good boat-made Easter cake at Swedish "Ramnoe". And to see another day's orange ball of fire be quenched in the azure blue waters.

Check-out at Barbuda

2006-04-15T18:28:00.000+02:00

Check-out at Barbuda is different. No dinghy docks, so you brave the surf, passport and boat-papers in water-proof plastic bag. Today it's definitely a swim wear exercise. Landing near the verrrry exclusive hotel a watchman is skeptical to our dinghy beach-landing. But we have a date down the beach with George, the taxi driver. For the slight fee of $60, sixty US dollars (!), he will drive you to Codrington, then around the village so you can see the three officials who need to stamp hour papers, and back.
First the Harbor Master. Not home. Three houses down at the bar he and his pals are enjoying a Carib and a game of cards. But he will stamp the papers we fill out if George gets them from his house. One down.
Two to go. Next stop, "Customs". He's at home, but asleep. Now on his feet, he has a great deal for us to fill out. Some are 6 carbon-copy forms.
One to go. At the Airport. That's a dusty walk along side the runway's wire fence. And into a little one-room building. "Immigration". Now the last signatures and stamps are procured. But as "Full Circle" had already described the entire process our repeat was no surprise.

Back to dinghy. A wet launch, but successful. And now, back at "Babette", where to and when?
St. Barts? A night sail? The wind is suddenly from the west. The west! And our "guaranteed" following-wind sail has died. The dinghy lashed on deck, motor mounted aft, the wind is worse than ever, WNW. Right in our face.

But the die is cast. Just before sundown we tip-toe out between the reefs: A night sail to "Swedish" St. Barts.

Passing Montserrats puffing volcano

2006-04-14T18:15:00.000+02:00

At 7:30am we're following our gps breadcrumbs back out of Nonesuch Bay. Heading for Barbuda. We're outside the nasty reefs with two reefs in the main. And then only one. We're sailing with just the mainsail, tailwinds.
Out on the horizon the live volcanic island of Montserrat is distinct in the clear skies. It is sending up thick clouds of hot steam into the air. The last time it had a major eruption it destroyed much of the island, and devastated the population. But no pyrotechnics today.
From the upside-down ice cream cone summits of Montserrat we arrive at the pancake-flat island of Barbuda. Wind-blown, sandy outpost of Antigua. It has a private exclusive hotel-with-airplanestrip. And a tiny dirt-road village, Codrington. And is encircled by fine white sand beaches.
We anchor beside "Full Circle" at 14:30. The water is translucent turquoise, cool after a hot sun sail.

Three Norwegian boats, and a cat on the reefs

2006-04-13T17:54:00.000+02:00

The wind is blowing 20kn, but the surrounding reefs quiet the seas in Nonesuch Bay. At 7am "Full Circle" (Annapolis, USA) and our fellow Norwegian boat-neighbor, "Canica", a rather large sloop, five spreaders in the mast, apparently with Stein Erik Hagen and family/friends on board, leave the bay. We're waving goodbye. To John and Karen on "Full Circle".
A calm and lovely day. Warm sun, cool breeze and waters. We chat with the Norwegian "Caro", snorkel a bit. And then do some Polynesian dreaming of Fatuhiva, deep into Ragnar Kvam's Thor Heyerdahl biography. Which we're borrowing from s/y"Fatuhiva". Surrounded by reefs and small green islands in a bluegreen sea it's not hard to be swallowed up by Kvam's page-turner.

Just as the magic hour before sunset arrives, giving some relief from the sun, we suddenly hear some shouting and whistling. A catamaran is stuck on "Middle Reef". Everyone else is glad it's not them. With a long rope another (rental-) cat manages to pull them off. And they're still afloat as the sky darkens. And a big orange moon rises.

Reef labarynth into Nonesuch Bay

2006-04-12T16:15:00.000+02:00

What a name, "Nonesuch Bay". Like "Saltwhistle", we just had to go and see it. Even if it does have a tricky, reefy entrance. The weather's calm-ish and we're off at 11:30am for a two hour headwind motor sail.
We're soon rounding York Island, and ready to dot to waypoint-dot ourselves through the reefs. We hope. If the gps satellites are behaving and the maps are accurate down to this scale. But we have reality also. There's Green Island, which we're rounding. We watch the turquoise waters, green over sand, brownish over grass or coral, our depth instrument is another loyal friend.
We thread ourselves around behind Green Island. And arrive in a rather large anchorage, with only 10, 12 boats. Our anchor's down at 2pm; we are the third Norwegian boat. That's a good percentage for such a little country. Our Annapolis boat-friends on "Full Circle" are there, too. Nice to have them aboard "Babette" as "lunch" becomes "dinner", while the sun sets beyond the reef breakwaters. And the full moon rises into a huge open sky.

Devil's Bridge and a view to "Nonesuch Bay"

2006-04-11T16:06:00.000+02:00

Rental-car day! As a "bug" as disturbed my insides, I'm happy just to be sitting somewhere semi-air-conditioned. So, we bump along Antigua's unsigned roads, first to Jolly Harbour. Ho, ho, not so Jolly today, I trudge along behind Cpt.Oernulf as he inspects the fleet.
And, off we go again. The roads bare a certain resemblance to Granada's, no road signs. A little Texaco tourist map, the position of the sun and of the Texaco stations are our only clues. Eventually we find the airport.
At the airport we find the Cricket Club. Which has a crickety sports bar ala a TGIFriday's restaurant. Really. Oernulf ate both our huge sandwiches and I enjoyed the cool air-conditioning.
Back in our rent-a-wreck we map-and-compass onward towards the Devil's Bridge, out at Indian Town Point. On the way we have an interesting plantation-ruin stop. "Betty's Hope" has a good little visitor's center in an old stone house. In it there's a fabulous model showing the workings of the whole plantation from sugar cane, milling to rum distilling. So many tiny slaves, laborers and skilled craftsmen in this incredibly detailed model. The pictures on the wall show a train engine; it wouldn't be an English colony without a train somewhere!
There are explanatory sign out in the now empty fields, some ruins and two restored windmills, still standing. And I'm on my feet now, too. Feeling better.

Off to Devil's Bridge! We park and walk out onto the hard limestone rock, pocked and pitted by the sea. The spit faces into the relentless battering of the trade winds and waves that bunch up in these shallow waters, then crash constantly onto the rock. They've dug under a shelf and we can feel wave after infernal wave pounding beneath our feet. At places the waves have broken through the top creating a narrow bridge where the limestone is still intact. Great splashes of foam and bluegreen wave rise up on both sides of the slippery bridge.

From Devil's Bridge we can see across to the turquoise, reef filled waters of Nonesuch Bay, tomorrow's destination. That'll be a tricky one. You have to follow a narrow navigable path between the reefs. Looks obvious on the chart. Only the signposts are all under water.

Vicious thorns!

2006-04-10T15:30:00.000+02:00

We are climbing up, up up the dusty trail to Shirley Heights. We are "Fatuhiva" and Shannon. Oernulf has had enough exercise wrestling with the water tank today, he says.

Monster Aloes and bundles of "cucumber" cacti tower over us. The giant flowering Century Plants are king of the foliage. The 12feet stalk with its saffron-yellow crown attracting a court of adoring hummingbirds. There is a sort of "flower pot" cactus, too. It's a huge, round spiky cactus with a blood-red cylinder growing out of the center. Nasty looking, with sweet pink flowers blooming from its top. It also has vicious thorns. They lie, sprays of them, spike up along the path. Then they penetrate sandals and tennis shoes like a needle through a thumb. Ow. There are also razor-edged aloes, too (not the nice Aloe Veras). They attack "Fatuhiva"s Bjarne sending a stream of blood down his arm.
But up we climb on to the undulating cliffs looking out over the foamy sea to a light blue silhouette in the horizon that is Guadeloupe. Huffing and puffing at the top we find goats showing off, jumping from rock to rock.
It's just a half mile downhill slide back to Freeman Bay, our anchorage. Our last hike with "Fatuhiva".

And, come evening, we have the last of many, many great meals with our sailing friends, on their boat. Tomorrow we'll be parting ways. For now. Farwell and Fair winds, Fatuhiva!

Meanwhile, back at "Babette"...!

2006-04-09T18:49:00.000+02:00

It’s the foot pump under the sink that's the sinner. Sending a trickle of water down into the bilge, and then spilling over onto our wall-to-wall-carpet-covered floor-boards. The whole tank! Luckily we're not out on the Atlantic right now.
Before breakfast Oernulf has the pump removed and wood plugs pounded into place. And, miracle of miracles, "Fatuhiva" has a brand-new pump in reserve which fits. And now it is installed in "Babette". Now all we need is water.

Now we're all ready for a walk in "Nelson's Dockyard". The Dockyard was never Admiral Horatio Nelson's favorite places. It was "vile". Of course he was slightly prejudiced, being forced into boat-arrest on his HMS Boreas in the harbor. The local businessmen were upset about not being able to trade freely, just with English boats, now that Nelson was in command.
But the brick buildings from 1725 on are beautifully restored now. The "Naval Officer’s House is the museum. The oldest house, "Pitch and Tar Store" is the popular "Admiral's Inn". Incredible pillars from the "Old Boat House and Sail Loft" are now standing, like thick palm trunks along the shore. The colonial buildings are all aged red brick, white trim and grey-blue shutters, edged with palms and flowering bushes, and lovely lawns and paths. Well-kept and tidy. Verrry British.

We take a walk out on the peninsula, Middle Ground, getting a good view of all the bays, inlets and anchorages. It's easy to understand why the British would want a cannon or ten up at the top of this hill. The landscape is dry. Cacti and Aloes, and flowering "Century Plants", their stilts high above our heads, crowned with clusters of bright yellow flowers. And tiny hummingbirds helping themselves to the nectar. Back on the ground little goats are munching on the dry grass between the cacti. No rain forests here.

Come evening we're on our way up to Shirley Heights. We're joining American boat, "Full Circle" at a "Pan Band, Jump-up Barbecue". The view over English Harbor from this side is just as panoramic. And fabulous as the sun sets in the sea.

Later, returning from "Full Circle" where we stopped to chat, we get an unpleasant surprise back at "Babette". The wind has died and she has wandered over to neighbor boat, "Sea Terror" and they're now touching. "Sea Terror" is an old Life Boat out of Stornaway, Outer Hebrides. Now with a mast on it. And its rope leads down to a mooring we learn. That's why it doesn't swing like an anchored boat. We pull in some chain, and gain a little elbow room. Can we sleep now?

Dot to dot on the Riviere Salee

2006-04-08T18:14:00.001+02:00

It's been a warm mosquitoe-y night. A squall passing by has just dumped a load of rain on us. And by 4am the coffee is waking us up. The anchor's weighed. We can make out four sailboats aiming for the red and green blinking lights in the black waters.
Up at the starting point we find two catamarans, two more single-hull sailboats. We all mill about, careful to keep off the shoals as we wait for the booms to fall and the bridge to open. An American boat, "Romance", is first in line. But the current is too strong, their speed too slow. And they are soon broadside the entrance. Now they're hitting a piling at the other side. They're on the bottom! Will they be stuck in the mud under the bridge all day? No, freed and backing off, they're heading back to the end of the queue. The French are going through, then the American, "Full Circle", and then us, the two Norwegian boats. It's full throttle against the whirling currents, and we're charging into "Full Circle"s stern in front of us, avoiding them by going along side. We all make it through, "pani pwoblem". "Romance", too.
As we approach bridge number two the black sky is softening about the edges. The mango trees, their tight foliage now a silhouette in a grey-blue sky. Gold trim on the Eastern horizon. The mangrove roots are black stilts in the brilliant blue-green waters. White egrets flying low, scooping mosquitoes as they go. When we're not concentrating on keeping off the shoals it's a lovely dawn.
We're all through the last red-green gate, now in deep waters. The sails are hoisted and we're on the wind, doing our six knots. "Fatuhiva, 38', is pulling ahead. The autopilot steering, it's a good sail in steady winds all the way to Antigua.

Our only worry is that the cabin sole, "Babette"s floor, is full of water?! Hmmm. Luckily it tastes fresh, not salt. That's good. Is the water tank emptying itself?