Sailing across the Atlantic on Fri
I’m working on a book about my solo travels around the world. Here are some excerpts from journals and letters — and some photos from my journey across the Atlantic on the gaff-rigged ketch, Fri.
July 2, 1987 (halfway to Azores!)
Back at sea. We left St. George’s, Bermuda June 21 around 1 pm. Whew! Too much thinking! Still writing letters by the dozen, but only in my head. I never take the time to sit down and write, least of all to myself. Talking to Mike has been a relief for my sanity.
July 4, 1987
Yo! A good day to lie in bed eating crackers with tahini, honey, peanut butter, and sesame seeds! Wind from the SW! The seas are growing and we’re making six knots east. We’re so lucky—we haven’t had to tack for days. This leg of the trip is going much faster than the first. Once we went 175 miles in 24 hours! We now have 700 miles to go after 13 days.
It’s drizzly today; it’s been warm the last couple of days. I’m getting some satisfaction working on Jolly Boat with Pat and Mads. Last night was funny. Lone very seriously woke me at 11:45 for my midnight shift so I’d have time to go make coffee for David.
A few seconds later, I heard a big whoop of laughter from Lone, along with Pat and Mads. I quickly pulled on my army pants, turtleneck, light wool sweater, beret, glasses, and knife, went for a pee and then down to the galley where Lone and Joy were laughing as Pat and Mads were discovered, giggling like little boys, drinking whisky and shaving off their beards in the dark!
August 12, 1987
Letter home from The Azores
We’re here! The Azores—an archipelago of nine islands. An oasis in the middle of the Atlantic. After my watch, I slept for an hour or so, then got up to wait for sunrise and the first sighting of land. The engine was running, so I used a bucket to capture the engine cooling water that was spilling out the side of the hull and filled up the little Chinese tub for a rare hot soak on deck. After being out of sight of land for twenty days, I witnessed the sun rise up in an orange sky behind a 7000-foot volcano jutting straight out of the sea. The island of Pico. Our destination was drawing nearer—the marina in the town of Horta on the island of Fayal. I could see the lush green terraced slopes with fields divided by hedgerows, and was itching to get off the boat.
We tied up at the marina and as soon as I could, I unlashed my bike from the main hold, wiped the rust off the chain, and headed for the hills. I rode up steep hills, drawn up higher and higher by curiosity. Soon I was up in the cornfields, with a great view of the town, the marina, and Pico. There was a big-bellied man in his garden and I experienced the true meaning of “language barrier” when we tried to converse. This is my first time in a non-English speaking country! We used body language to exclaim about the beauty of the scene, the size of his squashes, and the potential size of his corn. He was impressed by my bicycle. I climbed higher.
Houses became more scattered as I passed fields with crops, cows, and goats. A few people were hanging out their windows, watching me go by, and I felt a little alienated the way they just stared. But I quickly discovered that if I smiled and said “Boa tarde” (good evening), they smiled warmly and answered. I was seeing the patterned landscape up close—pastures and crops divided by tall thick hedges of corn or bamboo. Ten-foot-high rock walls were common, and most buildings were made of stone or concrete—all with orange clay roof tiles. The road was excellent—smooth pavement winding up to the top of the hill, lined on both sides by masses of giant blue hydrangeas. When I rode back down the hill, I was surprised at how far I’d gone. What a ride home!
Text and photos copyright Carolyn Masson, 1987.
