Cruising Morocco

Jessie & Luke Cross the Atlantic

DAY 1

Nerves and anxiety are present when entering a time frame and space in which self-reliance is your greatest power. Self-reliance could potentially be the only thing to save your life on the ocean. You must trust yourself and your partner; have faith in your boat and the work you did to prepare it. It’s not wrong to question these things, and these questions will creep up on you. It’s what keeps sailors from leaving. It’s what accentuates our fears. But at some point you must decide —and no one ever said decisions were easy. Today we decided to leave. Today we decided to trust.

Trans-Atlantic round two. Tenerife, Canary Islands, westbound to Antigua. Just Luke, myself, Tato the Portuguese cat, and 3,000 nautical miles of open ocean.

By Jessie Zevalkink-Yeats

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Jessie & Luke

DAY 3

This passage is seemingly opposite of our last, from Newfoundland to England. It’s 10 a.m. and I’m on watch in my underwear. I’m warm and dry, energized and sharp. My only complaints are a runny nose and soft white belly that I’ve ignored since October. Our four-hour shifts have turned to six, sometimes eight hours. Not a thing going on out here...

“Penny” the Hydrovane steers us through a vast water world. A sympathetic breeze gives us a slow start. The puffy cumulus on the horizon matches the predicted forecast and should bring us a 25-knot tailwind and well-fed seas. We have a really long way to go. Bring. It. On.

DAY 5

Each day I think to myself how weird this is. Sailing across oceans. It sure seems outdated. But this historic means of transportation remains romantic, and for many the ultimate dream. Here we are, all alone, in the middle of the sea. Where is everybody?

We spend the afternoon rigging up two genoas on the fuller. Wing on wing. Dead downwind. A mighty sail

area collecting the trade winds producing eight knots of speed, with 14-knot tailwind. It’s magic for this old girl whose favorite position is a beam reach.

Tato came alive on day four. After being wrapped in a ball for the first three days, she began following me everywhere. Potato the Adventure Cat is in full effect. Vocal, affectionate, and protective. She now predicts the waves and moves accordingly. While I go potty off the stern she follows me and meows until I am back in the cockpit. She knows it is an unsafe place for me.

I continue to discover wear and tear and chafing all too soon in our journey. The forestay pin is working its way out, the screws on the spinnaker pole that hold the ends on are falling out. The reef line cleats are loose. The mizzen boom is putting pressure on the back stay. The main halyard winch is wonky. A kind reminder that this smooth trade-wind sailing is no excuse to be lazy.

There are plenty of things to pay attention to, things to fix everyday, weather to expect. I remain on high alert, even though I am incredibly relaxed. This experience is worlds apart from our first transatlantic. I appreciate

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Cross the Atlantic

that the first one toughened me up. These low latitude tradewinds feel like a carousel ride in comparison.

DAY 6

There’s sand fog. I don’t know what else to call it. It’s a low-visibility day, and the earthy air carries sand from the Sahara. It’s so fine I suppose it would qualify as dust. It catches on the fibers along the windward side of all our lines, sheets, halyards, and canvas, leaving everything in its way with an orange tint.

DAY 7

Tato finds a bait fish on deck. She collects it delicately and brings her prize down below to sink her teeth into. With a few strategic bites she procures fresh fish head for breakfast. She leaves the remaining half next to Luke’s head while he sleeps.

We are somewhere between a quarter and a third of the way across the deep blue sea. The butter and the cheese have begun to melt at 20 degrees latitude, therefore we have adjusted to a westerly course of 265. Dead ahead, just over 2,000 nautical miles away, is Antigua. The right hand turn has brought with it the notion of progress—that we are in fact, getting closer to our destination.

DAY 8

We are just passengers on this ship. Another seemingly beautiful day in which I lacked motivation and exceeded in the ability to do nothing. We bickered about dishes just for something to do.

Luke is getting bored also. His restlessness stirs mine. I have a thorough understanding this time around about how big the ocean is. It messes with your perception

of space and time. Time melts. Space becomes outer. Where is everybody?

DAY 9

Maybe I have been creating drama because there hasn’t been any. I pick a fight with Luke for raising the spinnaker single-handed in the middle of the night. I think we are going through a “we are almost half way but not quite half way and we are still counting up not down” phase. We are also out of beer and all fresh food.

DAY 10 I keep waking in the same place. The repetitiveness feels like a trap.

I slept through most of my sunrise watch, waking at the slap of a wave or billow of the spinnaker. Florence and the Machine sings in my ears and it reminds me to listen to music more often. Its therapeutic in a way that silence is not. I sink in and out of consciousness all morning.

My armpits are a bit hairy for my liking and I smell a shower in my near future. We are incredibly conservative with our water usage, using salt water for everything. Our boat has 70 gallons of tank water that we use only for cooking and washing. Based off of our first crossing we provisioned 25 gallons of drinking water. This doesn’t sound like a lot—because it’s not.

DAY 12

A minke whale surfaced, just a few boat lengths away. He or she matched our speed and surfaced three times. Graceful. Quiet. Curious. It was a fantasia-like encounter. In recognition of sailing through this mighty creature’s space, there is divine admiration for their power.

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Jessie & Luke

While we were fixated on the whale, the shackle at the head of the spinnaker broke and came flying down. Our hot air balloon was blown into the sea. I scrambled to pull it back on deck and we were able to salvage it before it sank or dragged underneath us.

Due to higher winds forecasted, we took the “opportunity” to retrieve the spinnaker halyard at the top of the mast in this light air. I rigged up the bosun’s chair and we hove to. With the spin halyard at the top, there is no option as a backup for my hoisting. I’m shaking. Luke is winching. Half holding on for dear life, half attempting to climb, my dialogue down is short and direct. The mast sways in the swells, appearing gently so from the deck, whilst at the top I’m riding a mechanical bull. I retrieve the halyard and come down like Tarzan, chafing my thighs on the mast and straining my muscles to hold on tight. It was more than enough adrenaline to last the rest of the year. I need no more.

DAY 13

Luke and I have been letting each other sleep for long hours. Seven, eight, sometimes nine hours. One of us sleeps until the other one feels ready. Because of it, keeping watch is not difficult. For the first time in my life, I find myself enjoying the night shift over the day. I am feeling balanced. Patient. Cozy. Calm. But not sharp.

While doing the dishes in the bucket, I empty the bucket into the sea and the remaining silverware I missed at the bottom goes with it. I’ve done this twice now. I have halved our silverware supply. The precious ones remaining, are licked clean and put straight back in the drawer. Cutlery—not an item I expected to lose at sea.

A northerly swell elevates and descends us at a nearly unnoticeable rate. The smaller waves run from the east, then sew themselves into the northerly swell. The lower quadrant of my whole world is sapphire. Sapphire melts into teal at the tippy-top of each wave and rolls over into a frothy cappuccino. The sun reflects so brightly my pupils shrink to the size of a single quinoa.

DAY 14

Vacation’s ended. Both arms are in rigor mortis, stretched out and stiffened, to hold my torso steady. My body has fully acclimated to the motion of the ship, predicting instead of responding. Swaying without thought in the way your feet step on the rocks your eyes instruct them to.

I stare with purpose at the waves in genuine belief that if I stare hard enough they will not break. Eight-toten-foot rollers appear like pit bulls. Fierce exterior and intimidating approach. Come to find a gentle interior, just a friendly lick. The waves roll. I brace for the sets that appear particularly fierce, but they roll under the keel, frothing over on the leeward side doing no harm. I stare for hours.

DAY 16 Where is everybody? I don’t like sailing today. Not even a little bit. Luke saw my tears of frustration and made me feel better. Assured me I am not mental.

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DAY 17

The sky brews a squall. Squall after squall after squall. The wind is 15 knots. 35 knots. 10 knots. 30 knots. No more books. No more sound sleep.

I submerged my shoe against the bulwark to take photos. There’s a small rainbow to port with quilts of rain to follow. The whole landscape is drama in search of harmony. Mixed skies. Mixed feelings. Tempestuous. The change. I love it.

Only 630 miles until landfall. Our hopes are rising like the barometer only to drop again. The under-forecasted weather keeps me modest.

DAY 18

I’ve been trying to work out why I’ve been acting so sensitive. Hypersensitive. It is displeasing. I’m frustrated and at times ungrateful. It’s gross. I’ve been gross. I’ve been needing Luke to be my best friend, my husband, my father, my mother, my caretaker, my cheerleader, and, oh, also my super-sailor. All the things I have on land that create happiness I’m expecting to

receive from another tired sailor. This is impossible. I know this. Impossible. It’s funny, actually.

The only conclusion I can reach for this behavior is— it’s like pissing your pants and having to sit in it for three weeks while you wait for it to dry. Problem is as soon as it’s dry you have to piss again and the process starts all over. Sometimes it’s my own piss, sometimes it’s Luke’s piss. Sometimes it’s the oceans piss. Point is, there’s no where to go and no one else to rely on. Can’t take a walk. Can’t call a girlfriend. Can’t consume myself with work. Can’t watch a movie. Can’t aimlessly scroll the internet. Can’t have a beer. Can’t sleep well. Can’t bathe well. Can’t eat well. Can’t distract myself with anything aside from literature or music. I clean to keep myself busy. Write to organize my insanity. Which I admit to being a great deal of help.

All this being said, sitting alone with yourself day after day, in your own piss, hyper-sensitizes every emotion one could possibly experience. It’s incredible how modern day distractions hand us fly swatters and

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Jessie & Luke

we can simply squash away our feelings with the click of a power button, play button, space bar, or some sort of other button that starts and stops anything to take our minds to a different place.

Not out here. No damn buttons. Where is everybody?! DAY 19

Eating has become more of a task than a pleasure. I skipped dinner and ate spaghetti and meatballs at 4:00 a.m. It was a can of meat. Can of tomato sauce. Can of mushrooms. Dried Oregano. Hot sauce. Parmesan. I didn’t hate it.

My bare legs are glued to polyester in the damp cockpit. I’m grateful for the clouds, the rain. I’m feeling conservative these days. Not long to go now, no time to be cocky. I’ve become Captain America wearing a safety suit with a whistle. You can expect to hear the blow anytime you do something against the rules.

Luke held the whole night watch AND cooked breakfast. When I woke up I immediately reefed the mainsail and blew my whistle as a black cloud approached. He did not like this. He wants to go faster.

DAY 20 We’re closing in on society—170 miles to go. I’m at the transom, my feet dangling off the starboard quarter and aimed dead down. We’re rolling. My feet slam through the surface of the water with each starboard dip. The power of the water tries to pull me in,

the curves of my calf, ankle, heel, are not hydrodynamic. It’s like that feeling when you have your palm out the window on the highway, perpendicular to the wind. Flaps up during final approach. Entertained by my own drag like kid playing video game.

I’m wide-eyed, anxious, just like the day we left. Less than 24 hours until the ocean floor rises, breaking the surface in a 10x10 shape of a splat called Antigua.

DAY 21

Landfall. LANDFALL. L A N D F A L L. Jiggling my legs in some sort of dance, I shake or shiver. Can’t stop moving. My smile is grand. I am happy. I am so so happy. I’m yelling noises. I look like an animal. Now only 12 miles to go. The contour of the land takes shape and colors other than blue are explosive. I want to eat it. We are arriving four days sooner than expected. And only two-and-a-half days shy of my 30th birthday.

There everybody is! Sailing around headlands. Appearing in and out of the sea. The stiff breeze blows the tree branches to the west. The air thickens. The smell changes. There’s chatter on the VHF. I’m sailing now, actually at the helm and Luke working the lines. We’re sailing together. Not alone. Motivation returns. Energy makes an epic comeback.

Anchored afloat the turquoise shores, hundreds of boats from all over the world come together. We pull up

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alongside a dock in English Harbor. I want to hug everyone. Every stranger. I don’t need any recognition. Just a hug and a cold beer.

More time must pass until I can put into words what it means to me to have crossed an ocean. Twice now. It’s an intoxicating feeling, to have made the decision to leave. To have made the decision to trust. To continue building self-reliance. To be walking on a rock on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Calm. Pleased. Proud.

Cross the Atlantic

Voyage Statistics

Distance

3010 nm

Time

21 days 15 hours

Avg. speed

5.89

Avg. current

0.38

Avg. wind speed

15.28 kts

Highest gust

34 kts.

Starboard tack

19 days

Port tack

2 days

Sail configurations

8

Hydrovane

20 days, 12 hours

Hand steer

12 hours

Tank water used

40 of 70 available gals

(1.84 gallons per day)

Potable water used

19 of 25 available gals

(0.9 gallons per day)

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