A Thousand Miles from Anywhere Read online

  Contents

  The Journey

  The Beaufort Wind Force Scale

  Acknowledgements

  About Voyager

  Prelude

  THE MADEIRA ISLANDS

  PORTO SANTO

  1 A Friendly Little Island

  MADEIRA

  2 Under the Volcano

  3 Funchal

  SELVAGEM GRANDE

  4 Salvage on My Mind

  THE CANARY ISLANDS

  TENERIFE

  5 Santa Cruz

  6 The Neighbours

  7 Los Cristianos

  LA GOMERA

  8 San Sebastian

  9 The Garden of Eden

  TENERIFE

  10 At Anchor Again

  11 A Tragedy

  12 Return to Santa Cruz

  13 A Magical Mystery Tour

  14 A Spell of Bad Weather

  TO THE CAPE VERDE ISLANDS

  15 Dolphin Delight

  16 A Lack of Stimuli

  17 Assorted Visitors

  18 Mindelo

  19 Preparing for the Crossing

  THE ATLANTIC

  20 A Vast Empty Sea

  21 Life at Sea

  22 Peculiar Weather

  23 The Festive Season

  24 One of the Locals Stops By

  25 A New Millennium

  THE CARIBBEAN

  ANTIGUA

  26 Getting Acquainted

  27 Just Another Day in Paradise

  28 A Different Antigua

  29 Getting Sorted

  30 Jolly Harbour

  31 A Trip around the Island

  32 Moving On

  NEVIS

  33 Charlestown Harbour

  34 A Little Local History

  35 A Bus Called Babylon

  36 Pinney’s Beach

  ST KITTS

  37 Brimstone Hill Fort

  SINT EUSTATIUS

  38 Such Friendly People

  ST MARTIN

  39 A Schizophrenic Island

  40 Philipsburg

  41 Simpson Bay Lagoon

  42 Marigot

  43 Back at Simpson Bay Lagoon

  THE BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS

  44 Paradise to Purgatory

  45 Tortola

  46 Paradise Resumed

  47 Treasure Island

  48 Prickly Pear Island

  49 Clearing Out

  NEXT STOP, AMERICA

  50 At Sea Once More

  51 Ruminations

  52 Deteriorating Conditions

  53 A Night to Remember

  54 Normal Service is Resumed

  55 The Bermuda Triangle

  56 Bird on a Wire

  Glossary for Non-Sailors

  The Journey

  The Beaufort Wind Force Scale

  In Britain, and much of Europe, wind and vessel speeds are described in knots. One knot equals a nautical mile covered in one hour and is roughly equivalent to 1.15mph.

  Also used is the Beaufort Wind Force Scale. This was created in 1805 by Sir Francis Beaufort, a British naval officer and hydrographer, before instruments were available and it was subsequently adapted for non-naval use.

  When accurate wind measuring instruments became available it was decided to retain the scale and this accounts for the idiosyncratic speeds, eg Force 5 is 17–21 knots, not 15–20 as one might expect. Under numbered headings representing wind force, this scale also provides the sea conditions typically associated with them, although these can be affected by the direction from which the wind is coming.

  The scale is reproduced on the opposite page.

  Force

  Knots

  mph

  Sea Condition

  1 Light Airs

  1–3

  1–3

  Ripples.

  2 Light Breeze

  4–6

  4–7

  Small wavelets.

  3 Gentle Breeze

  7–10

  8–12

  Large wavelets with scattered white caps (also known as white horses).

  4 Moderate Breeze

  11–16

  13–18

  Small waves with frequent white caps.

  5 Fresh Breeze

  17–21

  19–24

  Moderate waves with many white caps.

  6 Strong Breeze

  22–27

  25–31

  Large waves with foam crests and some spray.

  7 Near Gale

  28–33

  32–38

  Sea heaps up and foam begins to streak.

  8 Gale

  34–40

  39–46

  Moderately high waves with breaking crests forming spindrift (spray blown along the sea’s surface).

  9 Strong Gale

  41–47

  47–54

  High waves with dense foam. Waves start to roll over. Considerable spray.

  10 Storm

  48–55

  55–63

  Very high waves with long overhanging crests. The sea surface white with considerable tumbling. Visibility reduced.

  11 Violent Storm

  56–63

  64–72

  Exceptionally high waves.

  12 Hurricane

  64+

  73+

  Huge waves. Air filled with foam and spray.

  About Voyager

  Voyager is a heavy cruising catamaran that was built by Solaris Yachts at Southampton. They built strong, comfortable boats but ceased trading after a disastrous fire spread from a neighbouring yard. Voyager is their Sunstream model, 40ft long x 16ft wide with twin 27hp diesel engines.

  She is a typical British catamaran in that she has a small mainsail and a large genoa which is her main source of power. She is cutter rigged and therefore has a small staysail as well as the other two sails.

  Her two hulls are connected by a bridge deck with a cabin on it which provides the main living area, or saloon. It contains a large sofa, a coffee table, a dining table and a chart table. Opposite the chart table, and overlooking the galley, the starboard dining seating quickly converts to a breakfast bar which also makes an ideal dining area for any meal on a bouncy sea as there is less potential for loose objects to move about.

  From the saloon, you enter the starboard or right-hand hull down three steps. Immediately in front of you is the galley. Turn right and there is an additional food preparation area, storage for cutlery and crockery and a large chest freezer. In the stern is a double bunk, a wardrobe, dressing table and clothing cupboards. Underneath the bunk is one of Voyager’s engines. At the bow end of this hull there is a head containing a toilet, wash basin and a bath.

  The port hull contains in its stern an identical suite to the one in the starboard hull plus a shower, toilet and vanity. There is a further cabin in the bow of this hull but for the voyage we converted it into a storage space with a small workbench and vice.

  Out on deck Voyager has a deep, well-protected cockpit and all her sails can be handled from within it.

  Prelude

  Looking back on my life, there was never a time when I envisaged crossing the Atlantic two-handed on a forty-foot boat. Yet here I am. Testimony to the sublime unpredictability of human existence and the dangers inherent in uttering those immortal words, ‘Oh, alright then.’

  David and I had wanted to make a fundamental change to our lives. Overworked, unfit and living in a cold damp climate, we had already reached that age where you see one of your parents looking back at you when you inadvertently catch sight of yourself in a mirror. We wanted a little warmth and to be physically active before we got too old.

  The answer – alth
ough not without some initial resistance on my part – was to exchange our house in the north of England for a catamaran called Voyager and set sail for the Mediterranean. It was not only a time for putting our seamanship to the test but also for revelling in small coastal towns and villages and the joy of dolphins swimming with our boat. This was how Dolphins Under My Bed, the first of the Voyager books, came into being.

  The second stage of our odyssey was a summer spent dawdling around the Mediterranean as we finally shed our house and possessions, not to mention quite a few pounds in weight. We were getting fitter from the daily exercise required by sailing, and healthier from outdoor living and a simpler diet. And it would become something of a personal journey as well as a physical one, with a developing sense of what was really important in our lives.

  My second book, Turtles in Our Wake, reflects a growing confidence in our abilities as yachtsmen. We had come late to sailing and felt we lacked experience. We’d had our sights on the Caribbean, but only if we felt up to it. After a summer around Spain’s Balearic Islands and the Italian island of Sardinia, we decided we were. Accordingly, we left our comfort zone of coastal waters and headed out into the Atlantic.

  As this third book begins, David and I have just completed the first leg of a voyage to the Caribbean – that Northern European’s daydream of coral sand, warm sea, waving palm trees and friendly, happy people.

  We are currently anchored at Porto Santo, a very small island 500 miles off the north-west coast of Africa. Only seven miles by four, it is one of the Madeira Group of Atlantic islands and a convenient stopping off place for yachtsmen on their way from Europe to the Caribbean.

  What lies between us and that mecca of laid-back living and coral sand – apart from several thousand miles of open sea – is the North Atlantic hurricane season. So while we wait for that to blow over we plan to spend the time exploring some captivating Atlantic islands which, along with Madeira, include the Canary and Cape Verde Islands.

  After four months soaking up the charms of the Caribbean there will come the crucial question: where do we go from here to escape the Hurricane Zone? There are a number of options, the most alluring being the United States of America and an entirely different kind of sailing from anything we have done so far. As a result, A Thousand Miles from Anywhere ends with us bobbing on the Gulf Stream and gazing through the darkness at the flickering lights of the Florida shore.

  For now, however, we are about to embark on the delights of the Madeiras.

  THE MADEIRA ISLANDS

  PORTO SANTO

  1

  A Friendly Little Island

  Graffiti, as everybody knows, is the domain of adolescent males in hoodies. It is usually perpetrated under cover of darkness and it is a prosecutable offence. So as we disembark from our dinghy on this bright afternoon, it comes as a surprise to see a middle-aged couple hard at work on the harbour wall under the noses of the authorities.

  This is the first place we have ever visited that welcomes, or at least tolerates, graffiti. As a result the long quay wall, which protects Porto Santo’s harbour from the sea, is bright with tributes from visiting yachts. Not the casually-scrawled Joe Bloggs was here sort of thing that has traditionally sidled onto walls. Nor the enormous tagging in spray paint that nowadays defaces so many public buildings, trains and bridges.

  Restricted to the sea wall, these take the form of a modestly-sized circle, square or triangle and range from the simple to the elaborate. Anything from just the name of the boat and crew and the year they came here, to composed pictures of the boat itself complete with sunset and seagull, to abstracts, variations on a national flag or caricatures of the crew. They are as varied as the people who paint them.

  Some are faded survivors of the Atlantic weather. Some have lost corners thanks to the over-zealous efforts of later arrivals. But all have been done with care and pride, because each picture is a celebration of a challenge accepted, a voyage undertaken and a safe arrival. Especially the safe arrival. And, subconsciously at least, they represent an offering for the much greater journey still to come. Just as ancient Greek mariners poured libations of wine from the decks of their ships before sailing into the unknown.

  And so it is that halfway along the sea wall a middle-aged couple from Dublin, newly arrived, are hard at work with an artist’s brush and a small pot of paint apiece; one spouse to the left of their picture, the other spouse to the right.

  David and I arrived at this little island this afternoon, on our catamaran Voyager, following a six-day passage from Gibraltar. And after setting our anchor we had hoisted a courtesy flag. This, as anyone who sails to a foreign country knows, is a miniature version of the national flag of the country currently being visited. It says that the crew of this vessel recognises that they are in that country’s waters and subject to its laws. Despite being hundreds of miles out into the Atlantic and off the coast of Africa, the Madeira Islands are an autonomous region of Portugal. Accordingly the little courtesy flag now fluttering in our rigging is Portuguese.

  Our next task is to register our presence with the local authorities here, or clear in as it is universally known. So we have unstrapped our dinghy from the foredeck, attached the outboard, and chugged into the harbour to present ourselves, our passports and our ship’s papers to the scrutiny of Porto Santo’s Customs & Excise, Immigration and the Maritime Police.

  The Customs officer and the policeman ask almost identical questions and you wonder why they don’t pool information. They are the same questions that their counterparts in their mother country asked, and you wonder all over again why the Portuguese want to record your engine number and the colour of your sails when nobody else is interested. But it is the price of entry to their country, so you dutifully fill in the forms.

  The Immigration Officer, by contrast, observes our wine-red passports, says, ‘Oh, EU! Great!’ and simply shoves them, and our ship’s papers, through his photocopier. We are asked how long we’d like to stay, but it is ‘only a formality, you are welcome to stay as long as you like.’ Porto Santo is developing its tourist industry and is pleased to have you there.

  It rains before dinner. We are rather disappointed. If we had wanted rain we could have stayed in Manchester. But at least it washes the boat free of salt after our passage here. Every cloud, as my mother used to say, has a silver lining.

  After six nights of sleep broken up into three-hour watches we have little energy for anything beyond dinner and observing the variety of nationalities at anchor around us: German, American, French, Swedish, Dutch and a little British boat called Antares that I recognise from somewhere, but can’t remember where.

  We are semi-comatose by early evening and asleep in our bunk by 8.30.

  Next morning we get up feeling surprisingly energetic and buoyant. It is as if there are positive ions in the air – or whatever those things are that make you feel lively – and we set off for a trip into Vila Baleira, Porto Santo’s little capital. We dinghy into the harbour again, through surprisingly choppy water for such an otherwise gentle day, tie up and begin the two-mile walk into town.

  In this kind of life you quickly learn to expect the unexpected. Indeed, almost to take it for granted. Even so a surprise awaits us, because one of the last places we might have expected to find a rally of classic English cars would be a tiny island out in the Atlantic Ocean with very little in the way of roads. Yet here we are, walking down the beach road, along the edge of which is parked a selection of English motoring history, most of them dating from the 1950s but a few from the ’30s and ’40s. A Triumph Herald, Morris Minor, MGB, Sunbeam Talbot, an Austin A55 and A90, an Austin 10 and a Triumph TR4. Also being celebrated are classic American Chevrolets, Pontiacs and Fords and several French Citroëns.

  This is a brown, barren island. It was once covered in giant spiky dragon trees, but they were cut down long ago. Some sources say to grow food, others to build boats. Reforestation is now underway at its centre, while down here on the
margins it is lush with palm trees and oleander. We have gone some way towards the town when we see a man beside a garden wall preparing a small cart. Before he has finished, there is a commotion among the palms and oleanders and something resembling a large dog jumps over the wall to join him. It is in fact a very small donkey, which positions itself in front of the cart and waits patiently to be put into the shafts.

  The only other traffic on the road illustrates the contrast between a gentler past and the economic imperatives of the present. The drive to bring tourism to the island means that a large inter-island ferry berths regularly in Porto Santo harbour. Its latest batch of passengers now sweeps past us, down the road towards the town, sealed inside large tourist buses complete with tinted windows and doors that hiss compressed air.

  Following some distance behind is a rather disconsolate middle-aged man in the driving seat of a small white trap pulled by a brown and white horse. We had noticed him at the harbour, waiting for customers, dwarfed by the fleet of luxury buses. Now his horse is clip-clopping along pulling an empty trap. All the ferry passengers have boarded the coaches and the little white trap has no takers. It has blue and white curtains and seat covers under a blue awning. As we approach the town we see it parked on the cobblestones beside the road. The brown and white horse is standing on two wooden duckboards; only small ones, but so much kinder to the feet than cobblestones.

  At Vila Baleira we have coffee at a street café with a favourite from our time in Portugal, pasties de nata, little egg-custard tarts with a thick, soft pastry case and a scattering of nutmeg on the top. After that we do a little sightseeing: Christopher Columbus’s house, the 15th century church opposite and possibly the world’s smallest town hall.

  Porto Santo was discovered by accident in 1418 by two explorers called Zarco and Teixeira, heading for Africa but blown off course by a gale. They had been sent out by Portugal’s Prince Henry, better known as Henry the Navigator from the expeditions he sponsored.

  These were initially down the African coast and for the purpose of exploration, but later their aim was to discover the world’s riches and bring them back to Portugal. To this end, the caravel was developed – a light, manoeuvrable ship able to carry cargo – in which many of Henry’s navigators sailed, although he never went on any of their voyages himself.