The Captain and Me

When the captain has a belly ache the wind stops blowing. Tides stop turning. Fish stop jumping. And birds figure, why bother.

While you're balancing hot toddies, warm blankets, cold medicine and your keyboard, you start to think. Not about divorce, surprisingly, but what it takes to be a captain. I've seen a few Capt. Ahabs. They yell, a lot. Some give orders then push you aside to do it themselves as they hitch up their macho britches. Some are strictly by the book while others couldn't find the book if it were stuffed inside a certain body cavity.

My captain is quick to jump in the water to untangle lines when somebody accidentally runs over a crab trap. He's smart enough to figure out how to undo the spinnaker when the wind start gusting and you're hurling along at 9 kts. And he can make a darn good cup of hot chocolate, even when the waves are bucking like a bronco.

So I think I'll stay the course.

Sleeping Around

As we stroll down South along the coast of Spain and then Portugal, we end up stopping at various anchorages or marinas. Each one has a particular flavor. Some are nice and neat (and cheap. I known, that's a bit disappointing but even Sailors need to think about these details !) like Povoa de Varzim. Some are not very exciting (and sometimes on the expensive side) like Figueira da Foz. The other day we ended up in a post-industrial area moored between a little village, an air base and a bunch of smoky factories (Sao Jacinto). The place was nice and quiet and we spent an excellent night. In the background we would have every so often a horn or bugle or whatever military people call it telling us what military people were supposed to do at that very moment: get up, go to bed, go for dinner etc... You get the point even if you've never set foot on a military camp.

In the early light of the morning, I heard the sweet noise of a small engine being started and I thought that on this glorious day, the PAF (Portuguese Air Force, I guess) was getting ready to perform a routine or a practice flight. May be even teaching some young and enthusiast new recruit the basics of taking a plane from the ground and bringing it back down in one piece. The noise went on for quite a while and I wasn't seeing any plane emerging from behind the bushes on the side of the runway. I thought that may be this was actually a young mechanic being taught how to run an engine with all its due smoothness ( and I was ready to go ask the guy for advice because we do have a bit of a trouble with the outboard here). When suddenly popping from behind the said bushes came the source of the noise that had been so intriguing me.

I must say that I have the utmost respect for a country so peaceful that they protect their airspace with squadron of lawnmowers.

The Long Good Morning

There’s something strange that happens when you’re at a harbor. You pass by someone. Instead of saying, Hi, it turns into a quick glance at the flag off the stern of their boat and then a Bonjour, or a Bom dia, or a very proper Hello - when you have the advantage of seeing their flag.

When you don’t you’re left with: HelloBonjourBomdia. It sounds kind of musical, no?

This crossing on a catwalk only takes a few seconds, but it’s a charged moment. You’re making contact with someone (from Norway or Belgium or Portugal or Wherever) who shares your vagabond spirit and maybe that’s the only thing you have in common but it’s enough. It merits a salutation and smile.

Portuguese Trade Winds

Ever since we've been sailing we've been told: hope for the best, prepare for the worst. When you're a Sailor, you know that things can go from a sunny, nice breeze to a sunny not nice breeze. Like when you sail along the Portuguese and Spanish Coasts on the Atlantic Ocean side. You have a pretty steady wind of 10 to 15 knots blowing from the North-North-East that pushes you gently down toward the South. Bon, that's theory. So we set sail from Camarinas to Muros on a Sunny and nicely windy afternoon to pass the Cabo Finisterre (the western most cape of Europe). And as any good sailor would do on a nice sunny afternoon with a gentle breeze due to the Portuguese Trade Winds, we prepared for nothing and were pretty confident that things would stay that way. Two minor factors were slightly neglected: increase of wind from the temperature gradient between land and sea (a.k.a. the sea-breeze effect) and the wind acceleration from the cape affect. So we're happy baby Sailors enjoying the quiet afternoon when suddenly the wind starts to build up. 18, 20, 25, 28, 30, 42 kts. And 42 kts of wind is not like 15 kts. Things get a little bumpy, the waves get a little crazy, and everything gets more complicated. Not really dangerous because NoLa was designed to sustain much more substantial winds but let's say things were a little out of control. We had all the sails on, and were going a hefty 9 kts down wind surfing on the waves like a pair of good dudes on a California Beach. Except our surf board was our house and it approximates 8.5 tons (the French ones, not the US ones). Things ended up perfectly fine and our trust in NoLa increased since we didn't even break an egg in the pantry. But even if in retrospect it was fun to sail Volvo Ocean Race style (take a look at YouTube, you'll get a pretty good idea http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cojzm1Gf_fg&feature=relmfu because for obvious reasons, we did not record any image on our own ) we should have been ready ! That's why we know we're still baby Sailors.

Leaving the Coast Romanica/Romantica

We are currently leaving Spain and have a 70 nm sail to Porto. More news when we land.

Viva Galiza!

So what do you do when you're a newly validated Sailor hangin' around La Coruna in Spain? ("S" for the real, blue water kind, you got that right?)

You go in town to a Taberna (a real one, hence the capital "T"). A shabby place full of noise and people. They are friendly and speak a weird language that you thought you spoke at some point but may be it's not Castellano after all.

The owner serves local food. The kind you're not sure what's in you plate, maybe it was swimming at some point but maybe it was meowing (too). And the guy next to you who seems to be even more of a Sailor than you, clearly enjoys what he's eating. So... Let's order it.

First problem, the friendly waiter starts telling you that may be it's a bit too much and so he's gonna give you a half order of It (you get the capital stuff right ?). So may be you don't look so much as a Sailor, or may be your "baby" character is showing up still... Who knows, you don't speak the language anyway. Then comes the Thing: Bacalao a la Gallega. Butter, that you can identify. The rest is a nice blur of green (peas?), yellow (potatoes?) and white (fish?) and red (??). And it is indeed quite good (you eventually understand the half serving when you've eaten half the Stuff). And now believe me: you're a Sailor.

NoLa recommends:

La Taberna del Arriero

Troncoso 19, La Coruna, Spain

NoLa, the Shark and the Bay of Biscay

Shit a shark! It's one of those alliterations you don't alway think of, unless you're surrounded from horizon to horizon by water. Turns out I was being a melodramatic ninny as the shark was actually a really cute dolphin. He brought all of his friends to hang out with us for part of our 75 hour sail across the Bay of Biscay. Then his cousins the whales took over once we crossed over the continental shelf around the end of the second day.

Since we're a crew of two, we had to pull shifts. We ended up sticking to our natural rhythms. I'm n-o-t a morning person, but I love staying up late so I took 11pm to 3am. Nicolas has a Cinderella complex and ceases to exist after midnight, but he doesn't mind waking up early, so he got 3am to 7am. Then we napped, a lot, during the day. With the warm weather and calm route, it worked out fine.

Next stop, Spain!

Tomorrow we will change status. Well, not exactly tomorrow, but in three days, when the Bay of Biscay crossing is over. 300NM of blue water from Brest in France to La Coruna in Spain. We were nothing, we will become sailors. The real ones. Even if only the baby ones (hey, you have to start somewhere don't you ?). We'll be able to enter a smoky tavern and order a shot of rhum and spit on the floor and sing songs with a horrible voice. Just like that.
We might not sleep much tonight because it's a little stressful to change status. You have responsibilities after that. Moussaillons will come to you with envy and respect shining in their eyes and ask you respectfully how it feels to be a real sailor (even a baby one). And you cannot disappoint them with a stupid answer like "Uh, it feels exhausting because we didn't sleep for three days and ate only crap and puked all over and...". Nope. You'll have to tell them about pirates and sea monsters and treasure hunts and stuff like that. So that one day, they will too become sailors (even if only baby ones).

Coming Clean

NoLa has been looking pretty grungy lately. After two winters in Paris, you can't blame her, but I sort of was. After all, boats can be smelly, crappy, tin cans. So, while waiting in Le Moulin Blanc Port in Brest for just the right wind to cross to Spain, I got assigned cleaning duty. There's a great system for pressure washing here. They even have a vacuum for sucking up all the toxic debris before it infests the water.

Donning boots and shorts, I grabbed the hose. Between the pressurized water shooting out and my oversized sunglasses I felt like Lara Croft wielding a nifty weapon of mass destruction. As far as the algae on the hull were concerned, I kinda was. Then I attacked the deck. With each arc of spray NoLa's sparkling, nonskid finish peaked through.

I started feeling guilty. NoLa was only a mess because we'd let her get that way. From now on, Spa Day at least once a year. Promise.

I'm going to sail across the world, really?

I'm a Jersey girl, NOT a Jersey Shore girl, but a mall hopping, turnpike driving, pop culture glutton. I'm not sure which left turn, got me here, but here is an OVNI 43. That sounds like the name of a spaceship, but it's a boat, a sailboat.

So, all of my earthly possession (or most - I'm not a total idiot) are stowed somewhere on board and the plan is to go from Brest (with a name like that it has to be a French port) to somewhere between Salvador and Belem in Brazil.

That's the what. The how, when and why are much more complicated. I think I'll save them for next time.