Bay of Biscay. Three words to strike terror into the mind of any sailor. Only after announcing my trip, did I hear of its fearsome reputation. ‘You’re sailing across Biscay? Ha, good luck,’ or ‘rather you than me!’ said far more experienced sailors than I.
A little research explained why. To the west, the nearest land is America, 5,500 kilometres away, allowing a huge stretch of water where storms, weathers systems and giant waves are born. Until the middle of the Bay of Biscay the sea is four kilometres deep, but then, quite suddenly, it hits the European continental shelf and shifts to a mere 120-metres deep. At this point, waves roar up and pinball off the surrounding land to create freak waves and a confused sea state. There’s little we could do. Our best hopes of avoiding four days of terrifying ocean rollercoaster required a perfect weather forecast.
Our weather forecast was not perfect. There was one day of good wind but directly on the nose, followed by a day of zero wind where we’d be floating, followed by two days of good wind in the right direction. If we didn’t reach Spain (350 nautical miles away) in these four days, we’d be caught by a gale forecast to rumble through the bay. That didn’t bear imagining!
I love that sailing reminds me of nature’s supremacy. We must cooperate, we can’t merely bend it to our will. If there’s no wind, we don’t leave. If there’s a gale, we don’t leave. If the wind blows from a bad direction, we alter our course.
We plotted the route, recalculated the timings, and debated alternatives but the picture was clear; leave now and hope to cross in four days or get stuck in France for at least a week. We agreed to leave immediately.
Setting Off
I don’t think it matters how experienced you are. Leaving for a big crossing is always intimidating. One moment you’re safe on land, and the next you’re heading towards open sea, only in control in the loosest sense. There’s always a surge of adrenaline and excitement for the first two or three hours, followed by a slump as the full gravity and monotony of the crossing sinks in.
Euphoria
Brest has been recognised for its natural defensive features ever since the Romans saw it in the 3rd century. We sailed close to shore, admiring fortresses and gun turrets built into the cliffs.
‘This could be the last time we ever see land,’ Jamie joked.
‘You’ll see it at least once more. It might just be on the seabed,’ Ben replied.
Other sailing boats – locals out for day trips – were sliding through the bay. Naturally, we raced them, even if they weren’t aware.
Ben had never sailed further than Brest. He was thrilled to be heading into the unknown. I was startled to be reminded that, having sailed across the Indian Ocean, I was the most experienced sailor when it came to these longer crossings.
Slump
We passed the peninsula that marked the end of France. One by one, the other sailing boats turned back towards home, until we alone were pointing our bow for the featureless horizon. Nothing would change on that horizon for the next hundred or so hours.
Moments earlier, we’d been singing, dancing and laughing. Sharing the excitement together. Now, we retreated into our own headspaces. Feeling seasick, Luc contorted into the foetal position except to vomit over the side. Ben put headphones in, Jamie read his book. I felt suddenly exhausted and headed below to nap before my shift.
Finding a New Routine
On some adventures, I’m gazing out and learning about the world. Sailing forces me to look inwards. The stresses and concerns of normal life evaporated. Things that once consumed me – that still consume most other people – simply no longer mattered. I thought little of work or bills or what day of the week it was. I loved not spending hours stuck in traffic. And other thoughts, of a more simplistic nature, took their place. When was my next shift? Where was the wind coming from? What fresh food should we use next?
Slowly, we sunk into our routine. We each helmed (steering and keeping watch) for three two-hour shifts per day. But apart from these six hours at the helm, there was little to be done. Sure, we might trim the sails once or twice a day in response to changes in the wind, and we’d chart our slow progress into the logbook every few hours, but mostly the time was our own. In my ‘normal life’ there always seems to be lots to do and never enough time. On the boat, all we had was time and nothing to fill it with. I tried to savour this downtime but knew the empty hours would be a curse long-before I reached the Caribbean. It would take several days more to acclimatise enough to read or write without being seasick so mostly we spoke with vacant stares across the endless march of waves leading to the horizon, or dozed in bed listening to podcasts and daydreaming of a world beyond the sea.
Living on a small boat takes getting used to. In those early days, bruises covered our bodies from where surprise waves had sent us crashing against the boat. Like after a drunken night, we awoke each morning to discover a dozen new injuries. Eventually we adopted a peculiar stance, wide-legged and holding something solid to remain stable, hunching to avoid heads hitting the ceiling. With our sea-legs gained, we eventually moved with the roll and toss of the boat, rather than fight it, and the ride became more comfortable.
I was surprised how cramped the boat felt. Leia B, my boat across the Indian Ocean had been larger and there’d been fewer of us. Aboard Sula, four of us shared the same 10.9 metres. I could barely reach my cabin without clambering across sleeping bodies. I recalled an experiment where red and black ants were put in a jar. They co-existed peacefully. But shake the jar and they began killing each other. I was happy to be with friends and hoped we’d all maintain our sense of humour and easy-going nature.
One evening, a speck broke the horizon, growing bigger until we could identify it as another sailboat. Though we were a hundred miles from land, the ocean instantly felt less lonely. They slid past us, perhaps two hundred metres away, tooting their foghorns and waving.
Ben radioed the Captain. It was his fifth time sailing across the Bay of Biscay and he admitted it was ‘the only one that hadn’t been horrendous.’ He told us how lucky we were, how much worse it could have been. Ben and the captain spoke like lovers who don’t want to hang up. We all appreciated the brief companionship out here. The boat shrunk until waves on the horizon blotted it out and the radio began to crackle. We were alone again.
On day four, the wind dropped and the water surface became smooth. We dropped the flapping sails and dived into the water. I swam away from the boat then turned to face it, treading water and imagining the four kilometres beneath me. I rose and fell on a gentle swell, like resting on the chest of a sleeping giant. Our boat looked tiny and insignificant compared to the vast ocean, yet it was home. It was our small island of safety. Without it we wouldn’t stand a chance.
Dramatic Arrival
As we climbed from our swim, the clouds parted and revealed land. ‘Land Ho!’ rang around the boat, with much whooping and cheering and slaps on each other’s backs. We’d crossed the terrible Bay of Biscay… or so we thought.
Spain was visible, twenty miles distant, but we lacked the wind to get there. In the spirit of cooperating with nature I wanted to wait for the wind to pick up, but I was outnumbered as the others voted to use the engine. It felt a disappointing conclusion to our Biscay crossing, but I had to respect my teammates’ wishes.
Ten miles from the Spanish port of A Coruna, an apocalyptic storm began to develop. The sky blackened. Three bolts of lightning pierced the darkness to strike the water in front of us. ‘Look away from the mast,’ Ben said, ‘It will be very bright if lightning hits it’. I shuffled further back in my seat. The wind, which had been still until minutes earlier, whipped up to 28 knots and raked little wavelets across the sea’s dark surface. A grey wall hid A Coruña from sight. Rain seemed to leap up from the sea to bite our faces.
Normally in adverse weather, the person at the helm would say something like, ‘Oh you guys stay inside; it doesn’t make sense for us all to get wet.’ On this occasion, however, we tethered our harnesses to the boat and then sat together in solidarity. I liked this gesture.
The pulsing green and red lights of A Coruna harbour sucked us moth-like towards them. We passed into the shelter behind a breakwater and instantly the sea was flat. Sailing isn’t quiet, as people imagine, but a non-stop crashing, creaking and banging. The silence of approaching land is always the first thing I notice. I jumped onto the marina with stiff legs that didn’t feel like my own. We headed straight for the shower. It was one of the best of my life, like standing under a warm waterfall. After a few moments, I began to sway, and had to lean a hand against the wall to steady myself.
