From Gibraltar to Madeira

We set off from La Línea, near Gibraltar, bound for Madeira. It was a crossing I’d been looking forward to, on the one hand, but which also caused me quite a lot of anxiety. Because, as much as I love life on the water, I can’t say that I’m completely unfazed by everything that might happen out there. Together with our fellow sailors, we spent a long time planning and preparing, studying weather models, checking possible routes and hoping for the right weather window on the agreed date.

Our crossing began in La Línea, just before the Strait of Gibraltar. From here, we were due to head out into the Atlantic and on towards Madeira. However, it is precisely in this area that the Iberian orcas are found, and they sometimes target the rudders of sailing boats.

I was really terrified of encountering them. The very thought that they might damage our rudder, leaving us unable to manoeuvre, really weighed on my mind. No matter how carefully you prepare for a crossing, check the weather and currents, and work out the route, there are some things you simply cannot control. And that is precisely what makes it so difficult for me.

Of course, there are useful websites where you can find out where these orcas are currently roaming or what to do in the event of an encounter; there is scientific data on the subject, as well as the wealth of knowledge from those who have already navigated these waters more or less safely. And everyone – absolutely everyone – has their own opinion on the matter. So it’s up to each individual to decide how to tackle this stretch of water. Of course, I know that you can’t prevent every possible danger. Nevertheless, it’s a different matter when you’re actually on the boat yourself and realise that certain situations are beyond your control.

In the end, we opted for the southern route: Gibraltar – Morocco – Cape Spartel. And it was the right decision for us, as we didn’t see any orcas on this leg of the journey. My major concern didn’t materialise, and for that I’m truly grateful. Sometimes the best part of a journey is simply what didn’t happen.

But where exactly does the Mediterranean end and where does the Atlantic begin?

Somehow I’d imagined this moment to be a bit different – not so ordinary, so trivial, so boring. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting; perhaps not necessarily a sign saying, ‘The non-swimmers’ area ends here’, but at least a buoy would have been nice. After all, it’s not every day you leave one sea behind to sail into another. But nothing. No buoy, no symbolic transition, no change in the colour of the water. We simply sailed on. That’s how unspectacular a rather big step can feel.

But by the very first night, the boredom was already over. During Denny’s watch, we had an encounter we could well have done without: the starboard rudder had snagged a ghost net. At night, around 11.00 pm, I hear a strange noise in my sleep and weave it into my dream. Then Denny storms into the cabin and rouses me from my slumber: “Anja, get up, we’ve caught something!” I jump out of bed, put on my waterproofs and stand in the cockpit, still half-asleep. It’s pitch black, the wind is howling, the boat is listing and the waves are crashing over the deck. Now I’m wide awake. Denny hands me a torch: “Have a look at what we’ve caught!”

I can make out a rope hanging beneath the starboard hull, which slowed us down to almost zero whilst we were travelling at full speed (around 7 knots). The net caused our boat to veer off course, meaning the sail was no longer catching the wind and we lost speed. Denny and I can’t manage to free ourselves on our own, so I wake our crew. Denny is still at the helm and gets the boat back on course before handing the helm over to Jan. Jan steers our boat by hand, relying solely on the small, dimly lit displays, as there’s nothing else to see – we’re sailing under a new moon. Robin, naturally clipped in, is standing at the back on the swim platform and pulls out his knife to cut us free. Once that’s done, we tie the remaining net, which is still wrapped around the rudder, to the cleat. That can wait; next, we need to lower the sails.

With a tailwind of around 20–25 knots and high waves, it’s no easy task. Robin and I head for the mast, Denny takes care of the halyards and Jan steers us through the night with intense concentration. Once the sails are down too, a sense of calm slowly returns to the boat. We check whether the autopilot can still work despite the rope on the rudder stock – yes, it can – so that takes the pressure off Jan as well.

However, we decide not to set the sails again. We drift for the rest of the night under the top and rigging (i.e. without any sails set) and still manage a speed of about five to six knots.

After the crew and I successfully managed to stop Denny from jumping into the water in the middle of the night to check the rudder, Denny is able to hand over his watch to Jan. Even so, Denny can’t sleep. Understandably, he’s worried that the rudder might have taken a knock.

At first light, Denny is back on deck, secured with a harness and rope to the winch. He submerges the rudder, removes the last remnants of the net and can finally give the crew the all-clear: nothing has been damaged.

After that, thankfully, things remained calm. Apart from this first unplanned incident, we had no further incidents of note throughout the entire crossing.

In total, we were out and about for 108 hours. That’s four and a half days on the water, without stopping anywhere along the way, going ashore or simply stretching our legs. Day-to-day life on board was surprisingly straightforward. Sleep, eat, keep watch.

And then it was back to square one. We had a fixed watch rota: during the day, between 6 am and 6 pm, four-hour watches were scheduled. At night, between 6 pm and 6 am, we took turns every three hours. This determined who was on watch to keep an eye on the boat and its surroundings, and who could rest. That sounds quite simple at first. And, in principle, it is. Nevertheless, time at sea eventually takes on a quality all of its own. Days are no longer measured by places or activities, but by watch changes, meals and periods of sleep.

You look out to sea, check the instruments and the weather, observe the surroundings and wait for the next change of watch. In between, you try to get enough sleep and have something to eat.

After a while, the individual days start to blur together a little. There’s no going ashore, no walks, no trips to the supermarket, and nothing else to break up the usual daily routine. Life takes place entirely on board.

And if I’m honest: after two and a half days, I felt that we might as well arrive now. After all, four and a half days is quite a while.

Navigation like in the old days

For our two crew members, Jan and Robin, our sailing trip wasn’t just a leisure activity or a holiday, but a training voyage. Both are candidates for the RYA Yachtmaster Ocean qualification. If you’d like to find out more, you can find further information here: RYA Yachtmaster

To qualify, they need, amongst other things, proof of having sailed a sufficient distance on the high seas (at least 600 nm, of which 200 nm must be without any other landmarks such as land, lighthouses or buoys), as well as knowledge of celestial navigation. This involves using a sextant to determine their position based on celestial bodies. They diligently observed and measured the sun, moon and stars, then worked out the calculations and carefully recorded everything. Denny and I were allowed to look at our navigation device, but the other two weren’t – at least not to use it to work out their results. A quick glance to check whether they’d entered the endless columns of numbers correctly into their tables was, of course, permitted.

• 

• 

Actually, I thought I’d like to learn how to do that one day, but in the end all that maths puts me right off. And yet there’s something special about standing in the middle of the Atlantic and studying celestial bodies that have helped generations of seafarers to navigate. Whilst modern technology makes many things easier for us today, navigation with a sextant still works according to the same basic principles.

Madeira in sight

And then the moment finally arrived: land in sight. First it was Porto Santo, before we drew closer to our destination, Madeira.

After 108 hours at sea, we are approaching our destination. After several days during which the horizon consisted of nothing but water, it was a special moment to see land ahead of us once again. And as if the anticipation of reaching land wasn’t enough, Denny had another very

special moment of achievement shortly before our arrival in the Madeira archipelago:He’s caught

a huge tuna! The first one in months. Naturally, he was absolutely delighted. And it’s quite something: a whopping 4.2 kg of tuna fillet is now back in our freezer.

As the sun set, we dropped anchor in a bay off Madeira. The lingering tiredness of the past few days suddenly didn’t seem quite so important. We’d made it. Our first Atlantic crossing was behind us, and we’d arrived in Madeira. Naturally, that called for a celebration! We opened the bottle of sparkling wine that Jan and Robin had brought with them and enjoyed some homemade burgers. This time without too much rocking about.

What remains of the crossing

When I look back on our first Atlantic crossing, it was less spectacular than I’d imagined. There was the incident with the ghost net, many hours spent in the same repetitive watch rota, the focus on navigation and, of course, my worry about the orcas.

But there was also the satisfying feeling of having completed such a journey. Experiencing what daily life is like on a long crossing, and realising that you adapt to the rhythm. And finally, that moment when Madeira lay before us.

108 hours is a long time when you’re waiting to arrive. And perhaps not every crossing needs to be full of great adventures. It’s enough for me to arrive safely, to have learnt something, and to be satisfied with what I’ve achieved in the end.

A new chapter is now beginning for us in Madeira. We’re looking forward to getting to know the island, discovering new places and finding out what the next few months have in store for us. It’s lovely that you’re joining us on our journey. We’d be delighted if you were on board again for our next adventure!

Fair winds und Ahoy

Anja & Denny