Across the pond

June 1996.  Furious preparations began, followed by a grueling month with Bijou hiked up on land in a boat yard.  In the end, we hoped Bijou was ready.  Personally, I believe she hoped we were ready.
 
After a couple of weeks floating on the Chesapeake testing things and doing final adjustments, we passed through the Chesapeake Bridge/Tunnel on June 14 and headed East.  The six-day trip to Bermuda was the best it could be.  We dodged several thunderstorms and bounced over the gulf stream, but the weather, for that area, was settled, with favorable light winds.  We considered it a great trip and felt lucky to experience such a successful first leg of our journey.  At the other end, pastel pink and turquoise Bermuda welcomed us.  Too bad we couldn’t enjoy it.  The vast expanse of water between us and our destination across the pond kept diverting our attention. 

Being an island, everything was more expensive than we were used to.  We wanted a few things done, like laundry, fueling up, filling our water tanks, and keeping the food supplies stocked. Most importantly we wanted to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.
 
We watched weather patterns and listened to Herb, a Canadian that connects dozens of boats in the Caribbean and transiting the Atlantic with current weather information.  Six days after arriving in Bermuda, we thought we had a good window.  Knowing we hadn’t done Bermuda justice, we hauled anchor on June 26th and sailed away under bright blue skies and gentle favorable winds.

The Atlantic challenged us for the next 22 days. 

After only twelve hours after we hauled anchor, a low-pressure area we thought was weakening regained its strength and joined another low that came barreling off the east coast of the U.S.  The wind shifted and increased, acting like a sparing partner.  We fought for every mile for nine days as gale after gale tore off the east coast and tracked north of us.
 
Knowing the Atlantic can get pretty ornery, and that this was just a little ruffle, we fought down those niggling thoughts of our foolishness and focused only on the next watch and the idea so appropriate for both good times and bad, ‘this too shall pass.'
 
Eventually, the shriek of the wind playing on the rigging; the pounding that made me think of eggshells when I pictured Bijou’s hull as all that protected us from the fury; the rain; the leaks; and the lack of sleep that drove me to look up ‘ordeal’ in the dictionary were replaced by the romantic sounds of sailing.  The gentle whoosh of water racing by the hull, the gurgle of the rudder and Monitor as they kept us on course, the squeak of lines tightening, and the gentle slat of the sails as the breeze filled and spilled from them brought on passage amnesia.  The violent, sickening motion was replaced by the gentle rock that lulled us to sleep unless we had something engaging to do while on watch.
 
After twenty-two days at sea, we pulled into the Azores, all showered and shaved.  Bijou was spic and span, except for cleaning up after the leaks.  We basked in the friendliness and European flavor of the islands that make up the Azores.  It was so appealing that we considered staying there for the winter.  Wonder if that idea had anything to do with the passage we’d just completed and the notorious passage to England we still had in front of us?​

Horta on the island of Faial in the Azores. Our marina is located in the third body of water on the extreme right of the photo. Protected and a crossroads of culture.

Pico Mountain on the next island, lit up by the setting sun with a full moon overhead. Horta's famous cement pier and wall.

Pico

July 1996.  Horta on Faial is a popular cruising haven in the Azores off the coast of Portugal.  The cement pier and walls near the harbor are famous because of the skippers and crews who have painted their ship's mark there. Doing that helps to ensure safe passage. Wonderful place. Bijou's mark is there, and we wonder if it still is??

Carl taking in the famous wall

Lori painting Bijou's mark