El Hierro, Canaries to River Saloum, Senegal

Pirogues at Djounouar, Senegal

Day 1 - Sunday 28th Feb
Got the two anchors up without too much problem. Unfortunately on retrieving the line to the mooring block we discovered that it has chafed badly with the strong wind and choppy swell - needs splicing and a new outer sleeve sewing on. Saw spray from two whales some 50 metres off as we left El Hierro. Boisterous sail to start with. Winds not as forecast - we are beating! The evening brought reprieve to the point where we reefed to minimise the floppy sail flogging in the abence of breeze. A huge full moon to keep us company. Waiting for deep sea legs to take root - uncomfortable feeling of mild nausea all the time. The higlight of the day is that THE WAITING IS OVER - by this I mean our long and comendable restraint from eating Saori's Christmas cake (saved for our first passage on from the Canaries) has come to its end. Ah! Nectar! I am still keeping it in the starboard hull for I fear if it makes its way to the pod permanently it won't last long.
Day 2 - Mon 1st March
Happy Birthday Ian! A stunning sunrise which took over an hour to reveal the firey orb. The sky was a strange shade of yellow - pale like creme anglaise - for a very long time. Perhaps dust from the white sand off the coast of Mauritania gives it that subtle colour?. I've not seen it before. I was more pleased than ever to see the sky lighten this morning as all night I struggled to stay awake on watch. Uncomfortable rubbernecking. The first nights are the worst. Trying to make sense of celestial. Plotted two position lines and drew up a fix which showed us to be on land. Oh dear. Am so aware that Africa if just to our left. It was all our time in the Canaries but it seemed more distant because we were in Spain, in the EU. Slightly apprehensive about Mauritania. Only covered 100 miles yesterday. Rubbish.
Day 3 - Tues 2nd March
The bad weather they predicted today for the Canaries came earlier and further South. Last night we were caught on the edge of it. The wind wasn't so bad (25 k on the nose) but the sea was ugly and aggresive. On putting the 2nd reef in the car to the 2nd batten popped out (by this I mean broke). Not entirely sure why which is a worry - think possibly to do with the line not being in the right place, therefore pulling the sail down at the wrong angle. Luckily Ullman sails had given us a spare so Casper was able to fix the problem quickly. Other casualties were the wind vane and VHF antenna which have vanished. At least we have the handheld VHF and I have tied some red ribbon to the shrouds in lieu of the vane. Oh and another thing - the fish chomped another line taking trace, hook, lure and 12 oz trolling weight with it (poor thing). Only Melvin has managed to secure a catch - a tiny flying fish got stuck in the dinghy, unfortunately dead by the time I found it and too small to eat. The weather is good today and we are no longer being headed! The sea is still uncomfortable - leftover lumps from the big weather NW of us. Visit from 20 odd dolphins this morning just after sunrise (custard coloured again) - they showed off delighfully as usual. A little bit of traffic - last night Casper saw two ships and a boat with its nav lights back to front (or was it sailing backwards?).
Day 4 - Weds 3rd March 2010, 11h
Last night rates as one of the best watches ever.
The night began black but jampacked with stars. Then the moon rose, bright enough to cast shadows across the deck. A few days off full now, she was a strange shape like she was being gently squidged in the middle between an invisible thumb and forefinger. The wind was steady, blowing at around 15 knots. We sailed between a reach and a run. I barely had to adjust the sails at all, just tweeked our course occasionally when the wind blew directly from behind us. As the wind and swell increased this morning I gave Gloria a rest and took the helm - what a joy! Surging, heading 180 degrees - due South - to the Gambia. How exciting. I can picture the markets, the bustle, the wide white smiles in shiny black faces. Exotic. Suddenly it was very much dawn and Casper's head and shoulders popped out of the open hatch like a merecat on red alert, ending the night watch. Unlike last night (matchsticks between eyelids, mild feeling of nausea, head too haevy for neck) this night watch was effortless - the only hiccough being my wild panic at the sight of some lights between us and land (Mauritania). I convinced myself briefly that they were the lights of a pirate ship, stashed everything, changed course by means of a jibe, managing to trip myself up and fall very hard against the main sheet in the process. My escape course, being off the wind, gave us a miserable speed of 2 knots! Then I realised that it was a commercial ship and anyhow why would pirates have lights on at all? Had a brief try at fishing just before sunrise (apparently when fish can see best - how do people find out this stuff?). No luck. We are doing some mighty speeds making even reeling the gear in hard work so I'm not sure how we'd cope with a catch. We've just put two reefs in the main as surfing down the ever increasing swell at 11-12 knots felt alarming. Waiting for the bread to rise before I have another go at cooking it in the pressure cooker. 420 miles covered and we are 72 hours in. Almost halfway there - but who knows what the winds hold for us tomorrow.
Day 5? - Thurs 4th March 2010, 17h
More of the same. Blue skies, hectic but following seas, steady winds (now Northerly with a touch of East, between a 4 and a 6). I LOVE GLORIA (the autopilot) because without her we wouldn't be having such a lovely time. Am about to start Attention all Shipping, about the shipping forecast, and just reading the description on the sleeve reminds me of the pleasures of Radio 4, sorely missed, just like other home comforts I could mention (a good brew with real milk - from a glass bottle with a red foil top delivered by the milkman). Aaaah England! How quaint you are. (We really are racing down these waves! Wow!) We haven't even attempted fishing today - too fast. Found a tiny squid on the trampoline this morning with huge bulbous blue eyes. It was dead, poor soul. What else? Long chats on the divan over Saori's delicious Christmas cake (we have decided to keep half for the return leg, a wholly head-based decision). Much reading. Continuous struggles with celestial navigation (today I was 60 miles out but at least the fix wasn't on land). Ouch just crazed down a wave at 13 knots, maybe time for another reef? Thai green curry with porc tonight.
Day 6 - Friday 5th March 2010, 14h
The wind is still racing Southbound at 20-30 knots. The night was exhilarating but tiringly so. Handsteering to avoid the wild, theme park helterskelter. If the swell were a ski piste it would be a red. An ugly clatter and cutlery and soup cups hit the floor (luckily empty). Can't find sleep. Partly this is because I am so damn excited about arriving in Africa (we are heading to the Saloum River in Senegal first) with its promise of flamingos, hippos and river eagles. But mainly because the cabin is loud, noisier than the urban rush hour with the whooshing, hissing, slapping, thumping and whistling of water the other side of the hull (just 5 mil away). At sunrise, the top mainsail batten popped out of the end of it's pocket. A minor repair to take care of when things are still. Dropping the main (already carrying 2 reefs) was a revelation. The mad slipsliding stopped and Gloria is happy again. Not quite sure why we didn't think of it earlier but we are now running under headsail alone. Still galloping onwards towards Dakar (77 miles away du South East). Beautiful day - just too bloody windy!
Day 7 - Saturday 6th March 2010
Happy Birthday Di!
No change with the wind. The sea became more confused, Radio France International's forecast described it perfectly: 'forte et croisee' - rough and crossed. We started getting the odd wave in the cockpit and at one time through the open hatch and onto my head whilst I tried to sleep. By 5 this morning the glow on the Southeastern horizon had mutated into the smokey ligths of a city - Dakar! As we passed the Presqu'Ile du Cap Vert, protecting Dakar from the West, the water flattened and the wind became fiesty with regular gusts of 35 knots. We were reaching with an apparent wind of nearly 30 knots and 3 reefs in the main! Typically an hour later our empty sails were flip flopping and we were scrabbling round trying to get the spinnaker to fly. Coaxing a reluctant spinnaker into life on a hot morning when neither of you has slept enough the night/week before is rather like having to clean up after your dog/cat/child with the most dreadful hangover in the world. It's really the last thing you want to spend your time doing. Eventually the chute was convinced and agreed that we should sail downwind more or less on course to Saloum. The water was becoming strangely shallow - 9 metres under the keel - given that we were 15 miles off the coast.
What a great sail this had become: a steady breeze, flat sea, a stiff current nudging us along from behind, the kite bellowed pompously up forward. It became clear that we had arrived in Senegal on the very day of the Shallow Water Spinnaker Slalom Cup. A forest of slalom poles lay ahead of us, each topped with a pretty little flag. But we appeared to be the sole participants - where was everyone else? No sooner had the question been asked than the answer came in the shape of a fleet of fishing of about 50 boats - pirogues, slim and elegant with their long pulpits stretching out over the water. The figures of men, hands behind their backs, leaning in to the rythym of the water stood forward looking for fish. Once spotted, the engine man at the stern did his best to follow the shoal (much shouting and finger pointing). Then swiftly a net was deployed by the men at midships and the fishing began. No one seemed a bit suprised to see us amidst all this action, whistling past, just pleased.
Soon we were sailing with just 4 metres beneath us, the slalom poles were thinning out and it was time to start looking for the 'large whitish water tower that looks like a tree' mentionned in our pilot guide. Given that sailing to West Africa was an after thought, the only guide we were able to get hold of in time for our departure, dates back thirteen years (and then states the author was 'written from memory'). Not only this but erosion on the West African coast is such that the underwater landscape is constantly on the move, making charts and guides obsolete by the year. Oh great! So we were looking for a 'narrow gap in the coast' that might or might not be there anymore and a water tower that looked like a tree. There were lots of trees. There were two water towers. And there, do you see that? THERE WAS THE GAP IN THE LAND! The 1997 guide ('written from memory') told us to expect no more than 2.5 metres of water at mean low water springs. Now we knew that we were no longer at springs (because we left with a full moon 6 days ago) but had little idea what the state of the tide was at 17h on the March 6th 2010 off the coast of Senegal. After much head scratching and pencil chewing we'd come up with the tide times at the Cape Verdes which are not a million miles away and certainly closer than Dover. So if the tides tallied at all with the CV's, we were at something like dead low . This was a mixed blessing (if the assumptions made were true at all) because it meant passing the bar when there would be least water under us but once in the river we would have the current with us, helping us up the river. The village of Djifere streamed past us in a blur: trees shaped like boxes on sticks, palms, white sand peppered with white things that must be shells, goats, a donkey, a woman - clothes billowing in the wind, some small people playing with a ball, a man crouched down - having a poo?, a mess of houses, thatched and corrugated roofs, the end of the beach sliding into a strip of surf.
By this time we just had the headsail up and were goosewinging dow the wind. The water had a brownish tinge to it now, presumably owing to it being shallow and near the mouth of the river. When the equation of depth minus speed yeilds a negative answer its only natural to worry. We were approaching the 'narrow gap in the land' at 4 knots with less under the keel. A few pirogues passed ahead of us - good for them but they have less draught than us. Waiting waiting waiting - and we made it! The echo sounder announced 6 whole metres. We were home and dry.
We must remember not to sing victory too early. A while later as we headed northeast up the channel to our anchorage for the night, pleased with ourselves and coiling ropes in anticipation of the cold beer to be opened on arrival, we both neary had heart failure as the echo sounder apologetically blinked 0.4. We had somehow lost the channel and appeared to be moving forwards very little. In retrospect I think this was more because of the headwind than because we had gone aground as neither of us felt the keels bump. The bright faces in the pirogues around us, ferrying their catches back, were clearly unaware of our plight and smiled broadly, hands offering up huge fish - 'vous voulez du poisson?' 'Non, non' I replied 'merci' (could they not see we were going aground?). Politely declining the fish again, I asked where the water got deeper. Ten arms flung up, dark hands beautiful against the shock of bright orange sleeves, indicating the channel. We followed them in, ignoring the depth sounder (still blinking woefully 0.4, 0.6, 0.5).
We are now anchored outside the pretty if somewhat false tourist camp of Delta Aniominka. All is well. We have slept, eaten and are pleased to announce that our legs no longer feel like blancmange.　

Mouse yer shackles afore ye go

We are 50 miles off our destination, meaning we are some 950 miles from where we started, and almost 7 days from when we started. Soon we'll be there. Arriving sometimes feels like a mixed bag. Take today: I am exhilarated at the thought of closing the passage because that means we have achieved what we set off to do, mostly in one piece, safe at least which is most important. Whilst arriving means escaping the uncontrollable whims of the vast ocean, and that is a relief, it also introduces a new set of parameters to adjust to. We will have to deal with the complications of checking in, changing money, filling up with clean water, buying provisions. In the light of these tasks, life on passage is simple: provided you have prepared correctly you will have all you need, you point the boat in the right direction (wind allowing) and deal with whatever comes up with the unconditional rule that (barring physical injury to self) the boat comes first.
Preparing correctly is key. When I first started sailing I was relatively fearless. When I say 'relatively' I mean relative to now. Because in those first years I had no knowledge of the sea or boats and therefore had simply very little idea of what could happen to two folks on a small craft in a huge expanse of water. With time, experience, and hearing and reading about other yotties sailing anecdotes I am now heart-stoppingly aware of 'what could happen'. The more I understand about how Impulse works, as well as each item of gear that completes her, the more I realise that we are only ever a widget away from potential disaster. Because sailing when everything works is easy. But it takes just one line to chafe, one batten to splinter, the tiniest split pin to vanish for things to start to go wrong. This is because that line, that batten, that split pin had a very precise function. If you cannot replicate this (by replacing or fixing the widget) you are stuffed - either now or sometime in the future depending on the conditions you are sailing in and the amount of time you have before you can replace or fix in port. So preparation is everything. My Dad without fail reminds us to 'mouse our shackles' before we set off. Whilst this makes me laugh (something to do with the quaintnoess of this old seadog expression), the undertone is dead serious. 'Mousing your shackles' is a euphemism for so many things: checks the lines, check the rig, check the blocks, the engines, the sails (I can go on) - and not once but check continuously. What it also means is look after yourself: fill the lockers, eat well, stay rested (weather permitting), stary warm/dry/cool as appropriate.
By doing these things we minimise risk. After all, sailing is a very risky business. But then most things in life are. It's just that on land we have a greater illusion of safety - those sirens you hear in the distance, the emergency services just a phone call away, the help of a friend next door. Out here there is little of that so it appears more risky. I know however of plenty of people who put themselves at far greater risk than we do out here (something I'm sure my mother will not believe). Take the 3 Swedish 'boys' we met in Las Palmas. Chris (unusually dark for a Swede) bought a 20 foot boat built before Abba even formed. He had no sailing experience so advertised for crew (on Facebook naturally). Two replied, nice enough just a shame they had never sailed either. They set off in November - from Sweden. They spent Christmas day in the middle of Biscay. It was snowing. They wore dry suits to keep warm whilst they took turns at hand steering (the boat, called 'The Flying Teapot', has no self steering gear). With one of them out in the snow, the other two were down below in a space approximately 14 by 4 feet (crawling because, to create room for provisions, Chris had brought the floor up several feet). The original standing height wouldn't have done anyway given that all 3 men are over 6 foot tall!
On the other end of the spectrum, I have seen cruisers with huge, luxurious yachts (in particular I think of the 60 foot ketch named, pleasingly, Modesty) equipped for everything. The crew however (invariably a semi to competent man with a less than competent, fumbling wife who enjoys cooking and is in it for the pontoon parties and because 'it's his dream and I love him') is not so well equipped. I find myself thinking how do they manage bad weather so short handed on such a large boat? Of course - everything is electric. That helps. But, then again, does it? What happens, for example, when the electric winch, windlass or in mast furling goes wrong and those complicated bits of kit can't be bodged together a la Heath Robinson? What then? That to me is just as risky as the Flying Teapot brigade.
Risk is always present. What matters is what you have done to minimise risk and what you will do when the situation changes. We met a man in Gran Canaria who had named his dinghy Plan B - and that's exactly what I mean.