Discovery on the hard in Ceuta, Spain

Main Salon, before the remodel

Its been just over a month since I joined her, and it that time we have achieved a lot. Gavin and Jody have worked tirelessly to get the Ocean Odyssey up and running- website, new sponsors, members and all the little pieces of this elaborate, complicated puzzle that makes a true expedition gel.  The Ocean Odyssey is something I have wanted to achieve for a very long time, and now it’s happening.

After...

Cockpit gets and upgrade

It is not in some of us; it is in us all. Some listen while others try to quiet the voice within. One foot in front of another is how you climb a mountain, and as long as I keep making my way forward everything will be all right.

Covered and prepped

¨This temporary office has basically become my permanent residence, staring long days and nights into a computer screen and going cross-eyed. I gave up my last paying job doing day work on a 48m motor yacht in Palma, before coming here. I have spent all of my savings- literally down to the last couple of euros in my pocket. I have done all I can to make this happen; I have put it all on the line and now for some reason it feels like it all hangs on a small thread, a rubber band that could easily snap.

My kite and board bag are packed, ready to go; this is all I will need to start my new life aboard the S.V Discovery, the 60ft catamaran that will be my home for the next 5 years. I can see her now, I can feel the deck moving underneath my feet as we make way, the wind on my face, the smell of salt and fresh ocean air in my lungs.

Life is about to return to what is was, I am about to go home.

Work goes on

It is a deep bond, the bond of love that man has for his place, his home, now I return to mine, a vessel on the sea.¨

Getting there...

Seon Crockford

Captain S.V Discovery

Weeks before we ended the expedition, which happened on a warm still day in Ibiza, Spain on October 18^th I asked Jody to begin working on a slideshow.  I asked her to do this because I knew I wouldn’t have the words to describe, to explain, to illustrate what the expedition has meant to us, or to those who have joined along the way.  Of course photos are only a slice of the picture, a fabulous collage pieced together somewhat magically and very haphazardly as we slowly worked our way around the world.  There’s been a plentiful supply of blood, pain, laughter, disappointments, discoveries, and of course moments that are too special to ever try to represent with words.

So here it is, a slideshow that takes us back to the beginning and all the way to the end.  From the Caribbean, through the Panama Canal, across the South Pacific, Micronesia, Indonesia, across the Indian Ocean to Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, Namibia, Cape Verdes, Azores, Scotland and Spain:

When I look back I see images that many of you have shared, and many that are mine alone.  I also see statistics, and some of them turn out to be figures that I find a bit shocking, and honestly…make me a wee bit proud of what we’ve achieved.  For example:

•  Total miles sailed:  54,000 (the distance of nearly two circumnavigations)
• Circumnavigation completed:  December 10^th, 2010 (near Cape Verde)
• Countries visited:  50
• Total trips operated:  90
• Days with guests on board:  986
• Documented virgin kite locations:  148
• Dinghies destroyed:  2
• Trips cancelled or delayed:  0
• Money spent on food:  $123,321.00 USD
• Approximate bottles of beer consumed:  4,320
• Cumulative Staph infections suffered by Jody and me:  23
• Pros on board:  37
• Reefs I’ve planted us on:  3
• Times hitting the reefs caused an emergency haul-out:  2
• Number of times rebuilding a toilet has caused me to swear profusely:  24 (the exact number of rebuilds I’ve done)
• Number of people I kicked off the boat:  1

We’ve gone places that I could have never dreamed even existed. We’ve gone places that are very close to being totally destroyed, if they aren’t already.  The sadness, the beauty, the mistakes, the friendships; the many things we’ve discovered, touched and seen along the way will be with us forever.  Memories of course have a way of fading and the many thrills and wonders that took place will be remembered less and less as time streams along faster and faster, rushing us all towards the one true inevitable end.  And now that it’s all over we’re trying to come to terms with what it has meant, and what it continues to mean.

No easy task.

People keep asking Jody and I what’s next?  To be honest neither of us knows.  I’m not sure I want to know, at least for the time being.  For these five years and eight years before that I have been charged with keeping a lot of people safe in some seriously tight situations at sea.  At times the stress of it was as suffocating as drowning, but to witness the smiles and hear what the expedition meant to those who joined was more payback than I could ever get from a paycheck.  Even in the very dark times I knew my office was something I should never take for granted, and hopefully I never did.  Neither Jody nor I consider ourselves planners, but somehow we planned what is certainly one of the most complex expeditions that has ever happened. If someone died, or got hurt, or got sick the show had to carry on.  No calling in sick, no taking a day off.  At times I felt like I was living inside a pressure cooker that had no relief valve.  More than once Jody and I had long, tearful, serious talks about pulling the plug.  But always these times would pass and be replaced with some of the most precious and happiest moments I’ve ever lived.  I’m humbly proud of what we’ve achieved and at the same time scared that what we’ve achieved is only human, which succumbs like everything…to history.

We owe much of our success and all of our most incredible moments to our owners and sponsors, who dedicated much of their own lives (and no small amount of their hard-earned money!) to The Best Odyssey.  Each of you took a huge gamble on us, two people you had never met before and to you we say THANK YOU.  Thank you for making this absurd, crazy, impossible dream come true.  We hope it has also been a dream realized for you.

Because it certainly was for us.

Many thanks to each and every one of you, all those thousands of people who I’ve never even met who have followed our trials and tribulations in the form of the Captain’s Logs for these past five years.  As most of you know, writing these logs is always hard for me and without your continued support I would have given it up long ago.  But again and again you have reached out to me with your own stories, sorrows, joys, hopes, and fears and blessedly- your encouragement, which always makes penning the next story possible.

I hope we’ve kept you entertained.

But now we have reached a point that five years ago I couldn’t even imagine, and I still can’t believe has come.  This is the final log of The Best Odyssey.  An era has come to an end.

But really, somehow I think it’s just the beginning.

As always, I leave you with a quote.  It’s one I’ve used before but it remains my favorite.  Someday I hope to be as cranky, profound and important as Edward Abbey, who fought his entire life to preserve wild places.  Unfortunately it’s a fight that will continue to be lost to the Corporations unless we get seriously pissed off and do something about it.  Seems like now is a pretty good time.

“One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast….a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; You will outlive the bastards.“  — Edward Abbey

Classic scene in Northern Scotland

A curse and blessing of our times is the speed at which we can move about the planet.  I often think it must be terribly hard for our guests to negotiate the distances and logistics required to get to the boat, then get their mind in a place where they can actually really BE on the boat rather than thinking about work, children, pets, bills and all the distractions and nuances of daily life.  Then suddenly just as they are getting into the groove, just as those layers of “home” are wearing off and the need to fire up the blackberry or Iphone are beginning to fade they find themselves at the airport and it all comes rushing back in, like a spinning tempest.   In no time they are back at work and their trip begins to grey and diminish, cloistered in that unreliable region of our brains in charge of memory.  All of this ties into the damnable paradox we all find ourselves these days.  As technology gets better and everything gets faster, with the promise of saving us time, we all find that in fact we have less and less of it.

The Skipper contemplating more than the weather

There have been only a handful of times in the last five years that I’ve even left the boat.  In theory I should be immune to these pressures and paradoxes.  I should be firmly “in the groove” all the time.  But technology these days doesn’t draw a line at the cities or the suburbs.  It reaches everywhere.  When we are offshore I can get online and check into Facebook.  I can tweet.  It would cost a fortune so I don’t- but I could.  But as soon as we are within cell range there is no escape.  It is not uncommon on Discovery to be anchored in some beautiful bay, the smell of Bobby’s cookies wafting up from the galley, the sun easing behind the horizon and instead of lazing around on the decks taking it all in, there’s everyone banging away on their computers and PDA’s.  Hurry hurry, before the signal is lost!  The problem is we’ve been trained into thinking that to be efficient; to succeed in today’s world this is what we’ve got to do.  And doing it is often insanely fun, so we are caught up in this elaborate web where escape is not impossible- but is certainly very difficult.  We were anchored in Stornoway, at the north end of the Outer Hebrides watching the Red Bull X-Alps, a paragliding event that is the flying version of an Ironman and the Tour De France with a huge dose of insanity LIVE, in real time on Google Earth.  A few days later we got to see infamous Teahupoo in Tahiti going off with one of the biggest swells in history, all in real time while in the main salon of our boat.  Better than the movies, better than TV!  But the problem then becomes a constant grapple with that old adage “the grass is always greener”.  Let’s go there!  Even while “here” is perfect.

Bruce Marks paragliding in the Outer Hebrides on SLOW TIME

Meanwhile off our bow was a place with some of the oldest geological rock on Earth.  A place people have been living for well over 5,000 years, since before the time of the Pyramids.  Of course things have changed much since the Neolithic, but it isn’t very apparent in the scenery.  It’s a place that encourages taking a look around.  It’s a place that on the surface at least has escaped the gloss and glitter façade of “progress”. If you remove the odd ferry and fishing boat by sea things are almost certainly as they have been for thousands of years.  We’d sailed across Cape Wrath and the north coast of Scotland to explore a bit of the Orkneys; fantasized about flying the cliffs of Hoy; drank scotch at the Highland Park distillery; sat near a peat fire listening to stories of myth and legend (ie the way we used to communicate); and we did it all at a pace that was very “old world”.  I prefer this pace.  I want to return to this pace.  I could have sworn this was the pace I grew up in. Could have sworn this was the pace I lived for most of my life.  Is it all a construct of a fallible memory, do I want to just believe that I used to be capable of slow living?

A view of Tom Chidgey through the window of an ancient dwelling in Skara Brae, Orkney Islands

We returned to the Outer Hebrides on the last trip of the season.  Back across Cape Wrath, down the Big Minch, across to the western shores where there are tiny towns, no boats, and very little in the way of company other than seals and birds.  A big low-pressure system hit us hard for a few days with loads of rain and winds upwards of 40 knots.  At the same time the first big swell of the season bashed in from the west and I tried to position Discovery in a protected spot, but close enough that we could possibly ride some of the waves.

Plenty of rubber

On the day the wind and swell peaked I found myself incapable of being smart and staying put.  My role is to keep people on our boat safe, and that includes me.  To kite to where the waves were I’d have to ride downwind 10 miles, all of it dead offshore.  Which means if something were to happen to me or my gear I’d be in a desperate situation: offshore, alone, in big seas and furious winds pushing me further away from land.  I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but I now understand the reason I decided to go out that day, even though every fibre of my inner soul screamed “STOP!” was because of this hidden guillotine that was chopping up my time and marginalizing my world.  I wanted to feel adrenaline.  I wanted to feel fear.  I didn’t want to read about it on Google or in the headlines of the local paper.  The world these days, especially right now is awfully scary, and much of that is SURPRISE!, due to technology of course, but that’s not the kind of fear I’m talking about.   I’m talking about raw fear, doing something that is possibly and probably beyond your limits.  But for many days I hadn’t been able to paraglide, hadn’t been able to kite, hadn’t been able to surf.  Calmer people, more together, grounded people don’t go crazy like I do.  They read books, they play games, they find companionship, they internet.  I like to think that before technology gave us all this “time” I was more together too, but that’s probably just my memory failing me again.

This was NOT the bad day!

So I went offshore.  Long after Discovery was eclipsed by distance and rain and wind and long after I was truly alone and had no chance of rescue my kite could no longer withstand the gusts, which I guessed were near 50 knots (93 kilometers per hour).  It started buckling and twitching uncontrollably and in no time I was completely out of control, racing across steep swells just trying to hang on.  Then I crashed.  I took one look at the shoreline and instantly pulled the release on my kite, knowing I had no chance of making land with a busted kite unless I started swimming immediately.  I watched my gear blow out into the Atlantic for a brief moment and suddenly got everything I unconsciously craved.  A healthy dose of raw fear.  At 59 degrees north the Atlantic was 11 degrees celcius.  The wind was 40 knots right in my face.  The seas were a mess of steep, short duration waves that hammered down on me relentlessly.  I took a breath and began to swim, taking it easy knowing that if I got a cramp I was a goner.  Don’t panic.  After 30 minutes I couldn’t tell if I was making any progress, the shoreline was still a tiny glimmer on my unsteady horizon.  Just keep swimming, stay positive, curse yourself for being so stupid, don’t think about sharks.  I don’t know how long I was out there but eventually I could make out that land was getting closer.  I made it back to Discovery 5 hours later.  Much of that time was spent swimming, and much was spent on land in a sandstorm just trying to find my way back.  It was a search that I now realize was more involved than just finding the boat.  And while my lungs burned and my legs ached and my eyes watered through most of it I know I was smiling.  I was having fun, the kind of fun that technology always promises, but never delivers.

The Skipper, trying to slow down

You remember these days.  These are the experiences that shape a person’s life.  These are the times when time slows way way down.  Everything gets sharp.  Everything is in focus.  There are no distractions, there is nothing else going on at the periphery.  The moment is pure and unfiltered.  I wasn’t thinking of our next social marketing move.  I wasn’t trying to figure out how to increase our website hits.  I wasn’t trying to figure out “what’s next” at all.

Which is exactly what I’m back to doing now.

“The hardest thing in the world to do is to simplify your life.  It’s so easy to make it complex.”  — Yvonne Chouinard, founder of Patagonia

Landscape Kiting by Tom Chidgey

The Stones of Callanish

To get here wasn’t easy, but that was no surprise.  From the Azores we had to sail 1200 miles NNE to southern Ireland, but that plan was scrapped shortly after leaving.   The typical Westerlies in these upper latitudes disappeared and were replaced with strong and very cold NE’ers, greatly extending our miles and associated pain.  As the water temps dropped and the days got longer heading towards the summer solstice Discovery and crew were miserable.  She’d opened up two pretty serious leaks with torrents of green water cascading over the decks and we were mysteriously taking on salt water into our starboard hull (where our fresh water is stored).  Had we hit something – maybe a whale?  Or was it just the stress of sailing our beloved catamaran around the world and she was finally saying she was getting tired?  We needed a port and a facility to haul us out to make the repairs.  Catamarans are a rare sight this far north and finding a dry dock wide enough for us turned out to be rather difficult.  Cork, where we were heading had nothing available so we cracked off on port tack just enough to make the beating a little more tolerable and headed for Falmouth in the UK.

Scotlands beaches are some of the finest we

Three weeks later Discovery was mostly repaired.  I’d spent two of them paragliding in the French and Swiss Alps with Jody and Bruce and our friends Mike and Stu Belbas, who own Verbier-Summits Paragliding.  Upon returning I found out Discovery never actually made it out of the water, for reasons that remain a little mysterious.   The yard doing the work had a number of rather idiotic excuses but never mind, we’ve been crippled many times over the years and a little salt water wasn’t going to stop us from heading once again into the unknown.

Paragliding in the Alps

In Falmouth again unfortunately I had no crew to help me take her north.  Our chef Bobby would be meeting me in Dublin as we could not get him a UK visa, Jody was still in the Alps and Martin, our British First mate over the last few months could I believe smell something rather enticing and distinctly lacking on the Best Odyssey Expedition as soon as we hit land- females.  I think the monastic lifestyle of living on a boat with no neighbors had run its course and it was with some sadness that we wished one another well.

Getting ready to launch

The sail to Dublin turned out to be a motor in zero wind up the Irish Sea.  I’ve done plenty of solo trips.   Most of them turn out to be anything but placid, but this one went without mishap.  30 hours and 300 miles after departure I laid anchor off a small marina in Howthe and was whisked off to Dublin by a local kitesurfer I’d never even met named George Karellas. He’d heard the Best Odyssey was coming to town and graciously spent the entire day with me demonstrating remarkable Irish hospitality.  Several of those hours were spent in the super market where we added 4,000 euros worth of food and booze to our holds and another 600 euros worth of fuel to the tanks.  Welcome to Europe, it’s bloody expensive!

Bobby and Jody arrived right on time that evening and we set sail just 10 hours after my arrival that morning. As always, our pressing schedule driving the whip.  In 36 hours we had a trip starting on the isle of Barra, at the south end of the Outer Hebrides.

The effort would soon be worth it!

I met a number of people on the docks in Falmouth and Dublin who kept saying the same thing when I told them where we were heading.  “You’re crazy!  Well, it will be beautiful, but you’re crazy!”  Stories of horrendous midges (sand flies), storms, freezing water, huge tides that created vicious whirlpools and radical overfalls.  I have to admit I was feeling like maybe I’d made a big mistake taking us this far from our usual tropical environs.  I’d learned to sail in the Pacific Northwest so I felt reasonably confident the skills required to keep people safe this far north would come back to me, but that was a long time ago…

Pretty sure we were the first to fly here- and about another dozen sites!

It wasn’t long after worrying over these things that any doubts over coming north vanished completely.  By day three of the trip I’d already decided the Outer Hebrides would rank in the top three spots of the expedition.  I don’t know if it’s the Celtic blood in my veins; the similarities to the Pacific Northwest, where I grew up; or just the sublime ethereal beauty; or another dozen things, but I haven’t been this enthralled with a place in a long time.  It was in these islands that Tolkien found the inspiration for Mordor as well as the Hobbit Shire and the Elven forest Lothlorien in the Lord of the Rings.  It’s a place that just gives you hope I guess.  Hope for the planet, hope for our species.  Things seem natural here.  Clean.  A huge range of seafood is caught or grown (mostly) sustainably as far as I can tell- oysters, mussels, prawns, lobster, scallops, mackerel, cod, hake, haddock…All you need is a sack of lemons and some butter and you could live like a king for weeks.  The sun never really goes down.  At midnight there is still a sliver of light, sunsets and sunrises last for hours.  It must be a fiercely difficult place to be in the winter- dark, wet, miserable and cold.   But in summer it is a land of magic.

Bruce Marks chucks the Niviuk Arctik2 around

The skipper cliff soaring

On day three we were beginning to head north to Stornoway and came across a few massive dorsal fins.  At first I thought they had to be Great Whites.  I called to Jody- “there is something HUGE in the water up here!”  We were under sail and one of the fins was right in front of the boat.  Our guests Thomas and his lovely family, Keith Cockrum, and my mom all ran up to the bow just in time for us to feel a small thump.  We’d actually hit the beast!  But it was not a beast at all.  Jody correctly identified them as Basking Sharks, over a half dozen all within a few hundred meters of our boat.  They were feeding on plankton in the tidal rich waters and seemed indifferent to our presence.  We frantically set the anchor and clawed our way into thick wetsuits and jumped overboard.  Here is the result.

Hello big guy!

Click here to view the embedded video.

In the days that followed we found one anchorage after another that would go into my log as “the best anchorage we have yet found.”  I had to stop writing it for the redundancy.  Fjords and bays are too innumerable to count.  No matter the wind or sea there is absolute protection and a perfect place to hide every few miles.  And in most of these spots an idyllic little hill would be perched just a few minutes walk from the boat where we could hike up and huck off with our paragliders and fly for hours at times.

Tandem flights on the new Niviuk Takoo2 for the guests- and in this case, my mom!

Even the non-pilots in the group- Thomas’s family and my mom were all treated to the first thrilling flights of their lives with the addition of our new Niviuk (Thank you Niviuk!!!) tandem wing to the boat.  It’s quite a special thing to take a bit of fabric and webbing and hike a short distance and soar like a bird.  Lakes, lochs, fjords and rolling green hills sweep by under your feet; air whistles in your ears; the ever changing light continually highlights the dramatic landscape in a way that can only happen once and then only briefly.  That we are here to glimpse these moments from a perspective that I felt certain no one has before is…overwhelming.

Discovery in another amazing anchorage

At each corner a new vista, a new surprise, something wonderful to fill your heart and eyes.  I even started meditating each morning on the bow, huddled up in all my new First Ascent down (thank you First Ascent!!!) against the biting wind. I wanted to be very cognizant of our surroundings; I wanted to fully appreciate how extraordinary it was for us to be here.  For the millionth time on the expedition thus far I found myself feeling wildly lucky and fortunate.  To be surrounded by incredible people; eating Bobby’s perfect combinations of exquisite food; taking to the air in places where no one else has before; sharing this wild and crazy world with people I love.  There have been many times in the past when I felt the end of the expedition could not come soon enough.  So many times when either extraordinary luck or more often- remarkable perseverance kept us going.  The effort has shaved years from my life, of this I am sure.  But in the Garden of Eden, which is what the Outer Hebrides feels like to me I never want the end to come.  It’s a place you want to stay awhile.  Or maybe…forever.

Wicked

On passage to the Azore Islands

Discovery does not hold a lot of fuel. Our range, which is greatly influenced by current, wind and seas, is about 900 miles in perfect conditions, well short of the distance on a standard ocean passage. Our forecast as we left Cape Verde for the 1200 mile trip north showed almost no wind at all. Simple math meant we’d either have to get some wind, or we’d be doing some sitting around in the middle of the ocean. But no wind does have its benefits. For one, Jody actually gets to enjoy being at sea. Usually the passages for her are synonymous with suffering and I too admit that as the years have gone by my indifference to seasickness seems to be wearing off.

Dolphins

For 3 days the ocean was almost perfectly flat. Dolphins visited regularly; sometimes hundreds would join off our bow to play in our wake. Martin and I hung off the swimstep one afternoon and several came up right beside us, certainly wondering why we couldn’t just let go and join them. As our latitude increased the water temp dropped and the sunsets lengthened. Sunsets at sea are one of the most precious things we experience. You have the feeling that you are the only one to see them, and in fact this is true, at least from our perspective. Other than dolphins, whales, and an incredible number of Portuguese Man-o-war jellyfish (NASTY to the touch, but beautiful) sailing placidly on the surface we are the only ones out here. We’ve spent nearly all our time in the last 5 years in the tropics, where the days and nights are equal, there are no seasons except wet and dry, and the sun spends very little time on the horizon. I found myself relishing the change.

One of the many beautiful sunsets on passage

Then we got some breeze, but unfortunately it was right on the nose. Our options were to crack off to a heading that allowed us to use the wind, but greatly increase our miles, or use more fuel going the right way. We had 10 days to complete the journey, our first trip was scheduled on May 10th in Sao Miguel, in the Azores. 10 days to go 1200 miles is typically a very comfortable margin- with decent wind Discovery can easily make 200 miles a day. But by day 6 of the trip things were looking desperate. By my calculations we were going to run out of fuel a full 400 miles short, and then of course not make the start of the trip. We needed wind…or a miracle.

Our lucky break

At sunset on the 7th day the radar picked up a ship 12 miles off our port bow, headed right for us. I put out a call to the ship, which ended up being a natural gas supertanker out of Norway- the “Norman Lady”. I explained that we were in no distress and would cheerfully wait for the wind if need be, but would happily receive a wee bit of diesel if they were so inclined. Knowing these massive ships are on tight schedules and their operating costs are exorbitant I never imagined they could help. But as usual, someone was looking after us. The law of the sea and our incredible luck of literally running right across an extremely friendly and helpful skipper (thank you Morgan!) in the middle of the Atlantic prevailed and the looming monster immediately began to slow. It took her 12 miles just to slow to 6 knots. I gingerly pulled alongside and the crew of the ship, well above the top of our mast at their deck level heaved us a line and lowered 150 litres of fuel in jerry cans in a sunset exchange that was literally bewildering. Discovery seemed like a dinghy, a miniscule toy, dwarfed by a mega giant. As sunset turned to night with a fresh load of fuel on board we said goodbye to Morgan and his crew, who proudly wore some Best Odyssey gear and turned north again, full steam ahead.

Some cold water kiting for a change

We arrived the night before our scheduled trip, as always just in the nick of time. We were again down to a sip of fuel remaining as we never did get any real wind to help us along. We came to the Azores to paraglide, kitesurf, surf and hopefully swim with whales with recent reports of Blue, Sei, Fin, Humpback, and Sperm whales all being spotted right off the marina in Sao Miguel, our home for three weeks. Being in a marina was I’m sure disappointing for the clients, but it was a welcome change for the crew. Bobby could walk to the stores daily for provisions, Martin could hook into shore-water to rinse the decks, I could actually get parts from chandleries instead of waiting for people to arrive from distant places with parts hidden in their bags.  It was all very “first world”, and after 5 years of roaming in places where getting a croissant or good cup of coffee was nigh impossible, the modernity was appreciated.

Gavin emerges from a kiting session

Our three weeks in the Azores was as varied as the weather, which changes every 15 minutes. Sun, rain, wind, calms; repeat indefinitely, every day. I’m not sure what I expected from the Azores but I know I loved it all. The scenery is a lot like the north island of New Zealand- lush rolling green hills and towering craters with small lakes shrouded in wispy clouds. When the sun comes out the whole place turns technicolor, the contrasts rich and vibrant. Which tells you something about the climate. Black sand beaches and steep cliffs are continually battered by fierce Atlantic swells and clouds whistle through valleys in a real time time lapse. A long history of whaling lends a very nautical feel to the area and the Portuguese people are as friendly as they come, and thankfully for us- all very adept with the English language.

Owner Keith Cockrum kiting

We were welcomed into the local flying community (Asas Sao Miguel) with open arms, headed up by Joao Brum, who eagerly showed us incredible site after site to soar and fly over his beautiful island. We spent three weeks enjoying the people, kiting, flying, sailing in rather rough conditions to nearby Santa Maria, swimming with dolphins and even got a brief encounter with a Sperm whale. The weather was at best uncooperative, but somehow between bouts of rain and wind we were able to carve out delicious fun every day.

Gavin ridge soaring

Joao showed us a rarely flown cliff site near Ribiera Grande that immediately caught Jody’s photographic eye. For three weeks we visited almost daily, sometimes several times in a single day, hoping for a short go. On our last night in Sao Miguel it finally happened. For several hours we were able to soar directly over the ocean. If the winds shut down when doing this you’re dead- literally. As soon as you hit the water with a paraglider it fills with water and turns into a 1 ton block of cement that pulls you to the bottom. But the conditions were perfect and I for once have no untoward incidents to report. Here’s a little taste of the results.

Soaring the amazing cliffs

“Who dares nothing, need hope for nothing.” –Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

Kiting among the beautiful Cape Verde Islands

I’ve been trying to write our final log of the Cape Verdes for over a month now. It’s not that I can’t remember what happened, and it’s not that I don’t have a story to tell. I experienced some of the most magical days of my life in those dry islands off the west coast of Africa and I’d like to describe how that feels. If I described our time in the Cape Verdes like a football game play-by-play it would be as predictable as the headlines on Fox News. War, fear, economy; liberals are ruining the world- you all know the story. I’ll have lost you in the first paragraph. Maybe this is what writer’s block is? But I don’t think so.

The wonderful colors of the arid landscape

I think it’s because the story is complicated and I’m not sure I have the word combinations to piece it all together. The story has the usual suspects- wind, waves, people, and places. The story has all the familiar problems- breakdowns, stress, sleepless nights, long days. But I don’t want to tell that story because it has been told before.

So here I am, wrestling again with time. Each day I think, today I’ll be able to finish the log. And then I stare at a blank screen. Ok, tomorrow I’ll be able to finish. Here’s just one reason this story is complicated: I want to say that Cape Verde is one of the most magical places I’ve ever been, but I can’t say that because then I’d have to back it up. If waves, wind, friendly faces, beautiful music, and sizzling sunsets are your travel candy, then the Cape Verdes are Halloween. But how we saw Cape Verde and how most people would see Cape Verde aren’t the same. We spent a week at an uninhabited island that was every bit as gorgeous as any island I’ve ever visited. But without a boat you can’t get to that island- so if you come to Cape Verde, you’re almost definitely not going to go there.

Local Fishermen

Another example: We spent over two months anchored off Sal, which on first inspection is just plain ugly. Flat, windswept, and brown. But living off her coasts on a beautiful boat with a plethora of toys, eating crazy food, catching more waves than you’ve ever dreamed of and well, Sal starts to look pretty incredible. Ever watch a 3D movie without those cool glasses? Not quite what the director had in mind. I feel like sometimes on this boat we’ve got the special glasses.

The colorful town of Mindelo

We stayed for over 4 months and either surfed or kited every day. The only days we didn’t were because we were either too lazy, or had to prep the boat for another trip. Maybe then it was the routine that has so bewitched me? This expedition is definitely never predictable, but our stay in Cape Verde was probably as close as we can get, and maybe that comfort- knowing that this or that surfbreak would be working, knowing the wind would arrive, knowing I could keep our guests in smiles. I don’t think I ever once felt in want of anything (well, besides some spare parts of course!). And that’s a beautiful place to be- free of any desire except to live right now, in this moment.

Kiter Kristin Boese

In that slippery way that time operates looking back at our 4 months in Cape Verde seemed to last forever, and it seemed to happen in an instant. Our departure loomed and swept by like my 39th birthday, an event I still can’t believe took place and a moment in time I’ll never have back. In fact on the day we sailed from Cape Verde, as the cliffs of Santo Antao shrank in the distance it wasn’t just sadness that I felt but a bit of anger. Even though our horizon held all kinds of new discoveries and wonders everything behind us will never happen again. How can life go by so fast? How can it keep accelerating like this? Did I seize every day, every minute? Did I learn from my mistakes? Did I appreciate this wonderful world and treat her with the respect and reverence that she deserves? Did I treat those around me, all those who have made this wild journey possible with that same care? I wish I could say I did but the truth is of course- a little more complicated.

Volcano on Santo Antao

So this time I’m going to take the easy way out and give up. Everyone who knows me knows I’m not a quitter, but the words this time just will not come. But luckily I have a secret weapon who very often covers my many shortcomings and this is one of those times. Jody has put together a slideshow of our time in the Cape Verdes and I hope these images will more properly tell the story I cannot. Enjoy.

“Half our time is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save.” — Will Rogers

Santo Antao, Cape Verde

A few days before the tsunami hit Japan and the horrors that followed life on board Discovery seemed to be almost on autopilot. Cape Verde had been serving up heaping platters of wind and waves and while my list of projects had grown beyond the boundaries of our “to do” whiteboard, none of them were all that critical. Well, other than replacing a prop, which had mysteriously fallen off. A three thousand dollar rather critical component vanished to the sea floor.

We hadn’t moved the boat more than 10 miles in over a month, finding little reason to abandon Sal. Sal is flat, brown, dusty and dry- not a place you imagine when you think of tropical paradise. But in a strange way Sal is also beautiful. The turquoise ocean, fiery sunsets, hardy plants and moonlike landscape all grow on you. And when you’re chasing wind and waves like we are there’s few better places to settle in.

Bobby preps lunch

At this time of year Sao Vicente hosts a Carnival festival that we’d heard was second only to Rio De Janeiro’s. As we don’t get many females on board, Martin, my First Mate would probably have abandoned ship if we didn’t go, living for months now without the joys of flirting and mingling with the opposite sex. Our owners Bruce and Rogier were not quite as keen, knowing that a swell was due to arrive and we knew little about the waves to the west. Bryan and his friend Dan from Michigan had lugged our new prop across the Atlantic and when I discovered we needed a particular spacer for the shaft which we could only get in Vicente the decision was made for us. To Carnival!

Skipper

We sailed all night on a perfect beam reach, slashing across the top of Sao Nicolau and three smaller uninhabited islands that screamed for future exploration before arriving in Mindelo, Sao Vicente, the colorful capital of the northern island chain and Cape Verdes second largest city. The islands to the west of Sal are a shocking contrast from what we’d seen. Visually they seem to belong to another country. Steep craggy buttes reach for the sky and vertical cliffs plunge headlong into crystal clear waters. They were still very much brown, but we’d find out shortly why Cape “Verde” was so named, as thus far it seemed a poorly chosen descriptor.

Mindelo, Cape Verde

Carnival was indeed raucous and sexy but I think for Martin it was a bit of an anticlimax. He’d been dreaming, or maybe fantasizing is a better word for a couple months (and I admit to these mind wanderings as well) of hedonism in the streets and scantily clad swaying bodies pulsing to the beat, but the problem for boat-bound people is bed time comes early and parties in Cape Verde don’t get started until well after midnight. We were all half dead by the time things got going! Ahh the pleasures of getting older.

Maurius Boosting

We were all glad to see it but with a swell looming being in port was not an option. We were gone well before Carnival wrapped up the next day, our endless pursuit of simple ocean bound pleasures pulling us like a magnet to a refrigerator. On the south side of Vicente we found a bay called San Pedro that supposedly had the most reliable wind “on the planet” according to an internet post I’d found. In this department it did not disappoint. Rogier’s friend Maurius and Dan were more than happy with the flat water conditions to perfect some absurdly huge jumps and Martin nearly got picked out of the sky by an incoming airplane as the bay is the approach for inbound flights. Luckily Martin didn’t see the plane until it would have been way too late to do anything anyway but I’m sure the pilot got a hell of a fright. Nevertheless, we thought it prudent to leave before they sacked us and the boat.

Martin and Plane- who wins?

We took advantage of our proximity to Santo Antao, the highest and most verdant island in the archipelago to spend a day hiking what we’d been told “might be the best hike of your entire life.” I can unequivocally say this is true. Antao is cloud-capped, high, steep and yes- green. We were shocked to find pine forests shrouded in mist and green terraced fields of sugar cane and cabbage clinging to impossibly vertical walls. Quaint cobblestone streets wander through gorges and canyons, sunlight filters through coconut palms and ferns. To get to the starting point of our hike along the NW coast of the island we passed through villages of colorful houses that were somehow defying gravity. These places had no business perched where they were but there they were, where they had been for decades. The whole scene was stupidly surreal and beautiful. Cobblestone streets eventually wind down into cobblestone paths that wander up, down and around for miles and miles; each rock carefully picked and placed by slaves in the last century. It was surely back-breaking work and for me every bit as impressive as the pyramids of Egypt.

Everyone knows I’m not much for plans. Usually when people ask me “so what are we going to do tomorrow?” I don’t have much of an answer. “We’ll do whatever we want” is the closest I can get. So without planning in this way we found ourselves back in Sal. I knew of no better place to get waves. Unfortunately the forecasted swell was a bit of a dud, but it was big enough to thrash me into the rocks and dislocate my shoulder on a drop gone bad while kitesurfing, which would end my wave pursuits for at least a few weeks. This was all about the same time that we got the news of the tsunami so it was awfully hard to feel sorry for myself considering what was happening on the other side of the world. Rogier had also suffered injuries after “kitesurfing” up a small mountain for reasons only he knows. We’ve all had moments like this- times when our brain takes a walk and says- “see you later buddy, you’re on your own for awhile!” He came back to the boat looking like he’d met a human-sized cheese grater.

Cape Verde

Pain, bliss, comfort, solitude, ocean, surf. Small pieces of a larger puzzle that sometimes come together not as you hoped or imagined, but probably just as they should.

Martin Jackson at

“I don’t make plans for my life. Because that would destroy what plans life has for me.” Portuguese philosopher

The Skipper gets a little deep

The last time I wrote a log it was Christmas Day and we’d just crossed 4500 miles of the Southern Atlantic Ocean. I wasn’t in a festive mood and our new surroundings did little to lift my spirits. Praia is the most populous city in the Cape Verdes, situated at the southern tip of Santiago; a long, dry, brown, dusty island which upon first glance held none of the succulent promises of memorable landfalls in the past. Ports are never a bastion of cleanliness and livery, but Praia was an ugly reminder of how human disregard for the planet is sometimes on full display. We landed at the fish market, where two drunk and filthy men in tattered clothing offered to look after the dinghy, which I accepted. Two of our trash bags were taken and promptly ripped open and dumped across the street neatly “hidden” behind a large rock, among great piles of other refuse, just a few meters from the ocean. The guidebooks recommended maintaining a diligent watch and keeping the boat locked down tight, so we didn’t go far that first day.

I wish this was our first view of the Cape Verdes! Kristin Boese throwing down.

When we returned to the dinghy everything in it was gone. A brand new anchor and chain, lock cables, water bottle. But the two guys who were “looking after” the boat demanded they still be paid. An interesting “discussion” ensued, which I lost.

By the next day Discovery was enveloped in a thick film of dirt and sand. Tradewinds that roar across the Sahara Desert, which stretches across the countries of Mauritania, Western Sahara, Libya, Niger, Mali, Morocco, Senegal, Algeria… sweep up and hold aloft a blanket of dirt that reaches hundreds of miles out to sea. The Cape Verdes lie in the path of this hazy swath which resembles the locust swarms we’d seen in Madagascar- thick and inescapable.

Craig finds an interesting place to kite- the salt mines on Sal

But as soon as we left port on that first trip before the fall of the New Year another place and country began to take shape. Crystal-clear waters alive with large pelagic fish. Empty clean beach and point breaks. Colorful villages with cobblestone streets and smiling people who seem to have few cares in the world.

Rob Born cracks the lip

It’s now two months later and those initial perceptions and reactions are thankfully a distant memory. Like most things in life, uninformed rash judgements are no more accurate than declaring the earth is flat. Like a fine wine that takes time to mature so has our appreciation and love for this country, it’s people, and its reliable pleasures, which visit regularly. Of course I am speaking about wind and waves.

Rob Born scores yet another awesome ride

Unfortunately our companion Trouble is forever dwelling in our midst, ready to strike at the most inconvenient time. Two hours before the start of our second trip I got in a taxi to visit the incoming clients to inform them the trip would have to be cancelled. Our first cancellation of the expedition. Our generator was down and we’d need at least 10 days to make the needed repairs (turns out we’d need a month). I was covered in oil and dirt, sweating profusely, my knuckles and knees bloody and grotesque after working for hours in the cramped generator compartment which was now only a gaping hole. On the way to the guests’ hotel I made one final effort to find a portable generator I could run on deck (previous attempts had come up empty), struggling to communicate my need to the taxi driver using a mix of Spanish, English and very poor Portuguese, which was all he spoke. Sometime later we had an obnoxiously loud belching gasoline engine running on our port bow, a tolerated nuisance that would get us by. Our track record would remain in tact. Another disaster averted.

Bobby's amazing food continuously blows us away

We’re now three islands up the chain in Sal. We’ve been here for a month, rarely moving more than a few miles a day. There is a famous break here called Ponta Preta that surfers, windsurfers, and kitesurfers the world over come to ride on big swells. I was worried before our arrival in Sal that it would be too crowded and too touristy. But as always Discovery grants us access to the gems that most people who travel here never see. So when Ponta does get crowded we simply disappear over the horizon and catch waves that are every bit as good, and get them all to ourselves.

Rob gets a cool shot from the kite at Ponta Preta

We’ve been here long enough now to know all the best places to score the freshest goods so our chef Bobby can continuously blow us away. In fact there are three things I can guarantee every person will say at least several times while on board. 1) “Bobby will you marry me?” (keep in mind almost all of our guests are guys). 2) “That’s the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.” 3) Bobby can you come live with me?”. Between gastro delights we surf, we kite. We surf, we kite. We surf, we kite. It’s a simple existence that seems to me somehow selfish and deserved at the same time. Time passes. Time stands still. Time moves so fast it seems reckless and as frightening as a mammoth hollow wave crashing down when you’re caught inside. We have no control nor influence over any of it.

Kristin Boese boosting

On our last trip, which ended yesterday guests Rob Born, very pregnant wife Kelly, pro rider Kristin Boese, and two new Canadian guests Craig Pryor and Eric Van Steen scored some of the best conditions of the expedition so far. The guys kited every single day and I heard “best day of my life” on at least half of them. Rob and I surfed some of the biggest waves- and longest rides I’ve ever had with a total of zero other people in the water for three straight days.

Captain works off some stress

Discovery sat in one place for almost all of the trip. There was no reason to move. We had what every adrenaline junky needs. Food (fuel), Wind (play), Waves (fear), Sleep (recovery). And of course what makes a log possible in the first place- photos (Jody), who returns to Discovery after nearly 4 months of slaving over a computer at home in Seattle. I hope you agree, it’s good to have her back.

Rob Born, one insane session with Discovery in the background

“The trouble with simple living is that, though it can be joyful, rich, and creative, it isn’t simple.” –Doris Janzen Longacre

Dirty Clubs makes a vicious comeback!

The paradox of being at sea for a long time is that you do not get more comfortable as time passes, but more scared. You get more competent, and that helps with controlling fear, but competence can only carry you so far. With each passing year out here I feel smaller and more at the whim of the ocean; more humbled, more afraid. People who come on board who have not spent time at sea often tell me they want to see a storm, they want to experience what it’s like. I know immediately that I am dealing with a novice if these words leave a person’s mouth. Storms at sea are not the same as on land. Land lubbers cannot possibly comprehend what it’s like to know the dread and physical stress that an approaching deep low pressure system causes; they cannot comprehend what it’s like to battle 70 mile an hour winds; to be in seas several times larger than your boat; to be completely at the mercy of the weather, your ability, and the frailty of your vessel.

After our last trip in October we had to sail around Cape Agulhas and the false cape, Good Hope, the most southern points of Africa to cross into the Atlantic Ocean. To get there and around we had to negotiate the fearsome “Wild Coast” of South Africa, one if not the most revered bodies of water on earth. The holy grail of capes is of course Cape Horn, at the southern tip of South America. But sailors who have rounded both often experience much tougher conditions at Cape Agulhas. I rounded Cape Horn in the Antarctic winter of 2005 and a few years back I would have looked forward to the challenge of rounding Cape of Good Hope, but I am not that person anymore. As I pored over the weather prognosis and grib files as we headed south from Mozambique I felt anxious and afraid and very small. The knots in my stomach were wound tighter than a guitar string.

The Wild Coast is named so because of three main factors. First, there is almost nowhere to hide. Ports and harbours are sparse and in several long stretches non-existent. Second is the Agulhas current, which screams south west along the coast at speeds over 6 knots, which of course assists if you’re heading south, which we were, but it also commonly creates rogue waves in excess of 80 feet when the third factor comes into play, a SW gale, known as a “Buster.” Waves like these have destroyed countless boats on this coast. Buster’s march up from Antarctica and across the southern tip of South Africa in a regular succession that has almost no pause. Sailors often wait for weeks at a time to get a weather window, often little more than 48 hours to make a jump south. Maputo to Richards Bay; Richards Bay to Durban; Durban to East London; East London to Port Elizabeth; and then around the Capes. When the difficult decision to leave is made it feels like you are racing for your life. You live for the next forecast, you talk to yourself, you try to be calm, you try to be cool, you do everything you can to prepare; but in the end you have to just hope- thus the “Cape of Good Hope”.

Cape Town from a distance, Photo Martin Jackson

On the front edge of a deep low, or an impending buster there is always an eerie calm. We experience this on land as well, but at sea it is terrifically more frightening. Imagine the hand of God taking the entire sky, removing all the stars and wrapping you up in a atmosphere blanket that is several miles thick. You cannot breath through this blanket, you cannot move, you cannot see. The barometer falls and falls, you tap the glass hoping it is broken, but it laughs back at you and continues to plummet. The blackness is so complete it feels like you have fallen into an abyss from which there is no escape.

Martijn and friend, Photo Martin Jackson

6 hours out of Maputo in the middle of the night the winds died and we were enveloped in pure black. We’d been racing as fast as we could, sailing Discovery with too much sail, hoping we could beat what I knew was coming. The sky seemed to stop a few feet from the boat. My senses were on full alert. When this one hit we were in for a hell of a ride. I reefed the sails down as far as they would go, double checked that everything was stored and secure, and waited.

When it hit I felt like we were on the wrong end of a series of Mike Tyson punches. Fast and furious blows from every direction. I donned a life jacket for the first time in the last 5 years, switched off the autopilot and hand steered as the winds quickly climbed to 45 knots. We were hard on the wind, close hauled and even completely reefed down I couldn’t get our speed below 8 knots. Green water engulfed the boat with nearly every wave, the two hulls grinding and bellowing and screaming against the mad concussion of forces. I’m always amazed boats can withstand this kind of abuse and I wonder not for the first or last time….can I?

Days later after a 36 hour rest near Maputo we are underway again, racing through another tiny window to Durban. I decide to leave on the back side of the low, which puts us hard on the wind to begin with but will give us more time before the next Buster hits. 12 hours out of Durban the winds are gusting to 55 knots. We’re on a broad reach, running south with the current and wind and seas at an impressive 14 knots under bare poles (no sail). Discovery is skidding around like a game park ride, but my small crew and I are not having any fun. Humpback whales breach and blow near us and I find myself praying to anybody who will listen to keep them out of the way. These waters are infested with Great White sharks and the thought of sinking manifests a renewed abundance of bile in my throat.

Jake with Wahoo, Photo Martin Jackson

Several weeks later in early November I am alone with Discovery in Durban putting the finishing touches on a number of major projects, including the repairs to our starboard engine, which has been non-functional since June. A friend is en route from the States to help me take the boat south, but I’ve got a small weather window for the run to East London, the longest exposed stretch of coast and the most dangerous, and I want to take it. Everyone at the yacht club insists I can’t do it alone- it’s too hairy; she’s too much boat for a solo. I relent and take on a traveler from the States who’s trying to get to Cape Town. His first words are “boy I hope we get to see some bad weather.” He spends the next 48 hours curled in a ball on the couch moaning. People who are this sick are a liability and make my job even harder. In one particularly rough section something has fouled the fuel line on the port engine. I’m in the engine room lurching in huge seas, the boat is dropping off small cliffs. I spray diesel fuel all over my back and hair and puke all over my feet. I ask myself for the thousandth time- “what the hell am I doing out here?”

Thankfully my friend Jake makes it and brings some sanity to the situation (and some badly needed help) and we round Cape Agulhas and Cape of Good Hope and arrive in Cape Town exhausted and cold after yet another night of 50 knot winds and wretched confused seas. The city is wonderfully claustrophobic; hurried and complicated compared with life at sea and I relish in its lack of familiarity. I repeat a promise I’d made to myself dozens of times on the trip already- I will never sail the Wild Coast again.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Watch Jake pull in a huge wahoo

Cape Town is part vacation, and part preparation for out final year at sea. Two weeks of errands and maintenance, and some time to meet new people and relax. Before I know it we are underway again on December 1st with a full compliment of crew. Owners Martin and Bjorn; guests Martijn and Bjorn’s son Nick; Jake, a bush pilot from Alaska; and Bobby our precious chef, who returns to us after his nasty car accident last year, healed and ably handling the galley like the professional that he is. I haven’t been home for Christmas since 2003 and as excited as everyone is to be having an adventure on the big blue, my heart and soul are not in Africa. We must sail 4,000 miles NNW to the Cape Verdes, the longest passage yet for Discovery. On day 8 of the trip we cross the same longitude that we left from in another lifetime in Italy, which makes our circumnavigation official. It doesn’t strike me as a very big deal, and if it’s an achievement I can’t make any sense of it.

All the crew in St Helena, Photo Martin Jackson

On this trip it is not strong wind and heaving seas that are our nemesis, but long periods of calm and contrary current. We have solid sailing for the first three days out of Cape Town and then for the next 2500 miles the going is slow and relies heavily on our motors. I’m envious of my crewmates serenity. I have told them that being alone like this, being in a place where no one else is should be savored. It’s a precious and rare gift, and each of them seem to get it- they understand and slowly get into the pace and groove of being at sea. But I can’t. I’m stressed we’re running so late; I’m bothered by the continual problems with the engines; I find no solace in the endless horizon. I try again and again to rekindle my love of the sea, but it’s buried somewhere like a sunken ship, deep beneath the dark blue Atlantic.

St Helena Town, Photo Martin Jackson

On day 10 we anchor at the crack of dawn for a few hours at St Helena, where Napoleon was exiled. It’s a towering, intimidating, lonely island in the middle of the South Atlantic but the people are remarkably friendly we find the place quaint and adorable. If we weren’t so far behind schedule it would have made a wonderful stop. The guests take a tour of the island while Bobby, Jake and I cart jerry cans of diesel back and forth to the boat from the town’s gas station. With some luck and wind we can still make it to Cabo Verde by the 22nd so everyone can make their flights on the 23rd and be home for Christmas.  The race renews.

Martin Jackson at the famous staircase in St Helena, Photo Martijn De Wit

But we get no luck, and we get no wind. We are forced towards the African continent in search of fuel but the options all seem bleak, and even dangerous. Senegal and Gambia are relatively safe, but too far north and beyond our range. Guinea and Sierra Leone sound dubious at best and life threatening at worst. Which leaves Liberia. I didn’t have a clue where Liberia even was before this trip, but on the 20th day of the passage, still 1,000 miles from our goal we arrive Monrovia, the Capital in search of fuel and unload all the guests, who had arranged circuitous last-minute flights home. Discovery attracts a large and rather rough crowd in port and the fleecing begins. Bottles of whiskey, US dollars, clothing, shoes, wine and anything else in sight disappears in a steady flow- a procedure which I am intimately familiar. In return we slowly get passports stamped and take on fuel that is as black as my mood. The air is thick with smog and coal dust, the water is filthy and brown. It felt like a war zone.

Discovery in Monrovia, Photo Martin Jackson

We arrived Praia, Santiago in the Cape Verdes on Christmas afternoon, after 25 days at sea. For three days we bashed into 25 knots close hauled to the wind, fraying battered nerves into useless strands. But as soon as we are settled in and the boat stops moaning I think back to all of us swimming across the equator (the 6th time for Discovery); long luxurious days with nothing to do but gaze out at the horizon; making new friends and spending time with others; marveling at visiting dolphins and streaking phosphorescence behind the boat at night and my perspective improves. I am thankful and aware of how precious this all is, living a life at sea. But as Martin commented sometime on the trip, I’m like a firefighter trying to put out a never-ending flame. One snuffed, another flares. Can I find the energy to keep on fighting?

Liberian dude, Monrovia. Photo Martin Jackson

I feel like I’ve been chewing on cotton. My lips are cracked and my hips are sore and I look again to the east, hoping again for the grayness of dawn to arrive. We have no food and our only jug of water has been contaminated with ocean and sand. I am huddled down with 7 other people in a bed made of two nylon paragliders. The fabric becomes an alarm clock every time we are blasted by wind or when one of us struggles to find a new spot on their body to relieve from the hard sand. If I had a watch I’d check it for the thousandth time. The blanket of night refuses to lift. I try not to think about water and cuss silently to myself for orchestrating this mess. My body begs for sleep but my mind stammers off again, reconstructing how ended up here.

Our “bed”

We are marooned on an island off the coast of Mozambique. Discovery is anchored several miles away and our guest chef, my good friend Ezra who I hadn’t seen in 10 years before this trip is the only one on board. He knows we’re out here, but there’s nothing he can do. The boat might as well be on Mars for the distance cannot be crossed. A few hours ago all of us were in the air, paragliding a place that had never been flown. Of all the discoveries we’ve made, of all the virgin playgrounds we’ve found on this expedition this one easily tops them all. But this seems little solace right now.

Flying our new Niviuk Arctic 2 where none have before

We’d seen this dune on our previous visit to the archipelago back in August, but were never able to fly it. Not because of conditions, but because of logistics. The dune stretches north to south nearly 20 miles. The east side of the dune juts out of the Indian Ocean at a perfect angle for flying, a few hundred meters above the sea. A light breeze will keep you in the air forever, in fact it is possibly the most playful and beautiful soaring site on the planet. No helmet or shoes required. But to get to it you have only two options. The first is to simply luxuriate at the Indigo Bay Resort, drive to the west side of the dune and walk to the top, which in total takes about 10 minutes. Easy (and a REALLY nice place to stay!).

Discovery off the Dune

The other way is to arrive by boat on the east side- that is of course exposed to the Indian Ocean. Getting to the beach without getting gear soaked or flipping the dinghy is often impossible. There is no protection from the swell and every time we’d tried in the past the conditions were too extreme to attempt a landing. Tides range nearly 5 meters on Springs, which further complicates the matter. At dead low tide an outer barrier reef blocks some of the swell, and it is only then that a landing is possible. But at high tide whatever swell is running smashes unrelenting right into the dune, creating an impressive and dangerous shore break.

where ocean meets sand

My mind returns to the present. At last there is a glimmer of gray on the horizon. I can’t wait to escape the flimsy confines of this “bed” and get my aching muscles moving. I’m daydreaming of coffee and food, wondering if Ezra is awake yet, prepping yet another gorgeous meal. If I weren’t so dehydrated I’d be salivating- he is an extraordinary chef and has blown all of us away for the past 10 days. But we have to get there first.

Chef, and food wizard Ezra

Our dinghy is high-and-dry. It is not supposed to be. No one saw it land on the beach, but we know it must have been a hell of a ride, thankfully un-manned. 20 hours ago I had anchored the dinghy well beyond the shore break, dove down to the bottom and wedged the anchor under a large rock and swam to shore. We’d dropped off all the gear and people earlier in the day at low tide when it was safe. The conditions were perfect for flying and we were all racing to get in the air. As I launched I remember looking out at the dinghy thinking, I hope that anchor holds. The waves were well over 6 feet and hammering the beach with violent explosions. Forces the dinghy would not survive.

Skipper takes to the skies

But the urge to fly was too great, my worry was quickly overtaken by the pure magic of flying this place. Bruce, Mike, Stu, Jody, Tim, Rosie, Leah- we are all quickly in the air screaming in delight like children in a sandbox. We fly miles down the dune away from the dinghy and our camp; the shifting light of day turns the dune and ocean into colors that take our collective breath away. As sunset nears Jody is up on tandem with Stu taking photos; Tim is flying backwards on tandem with Mike shooting video; Bruce and I are trying to outdo each other’s best acrobatics; Rosie and Leah are awaiting their turn. I am more present at this time than I have been in months. It is the most beautiful flying I have ever done. The stress of this season and what we’ve been through is no more real than Santa Claus; it has evaporated. Each of us is in a temporary state of bliss, we have entered another world; we have found Nirvana.

Can you believe this?

And then Nirvana is shattered by a few words. “Gavin, do you see the dinghy?” Jody and Stu are flying right next to me. The sun has set, we have been flying most of a day that none of us wants to end. I haven’t even thought about landing, I want to fly until I cannot see. We are still a great distance from where the dinghy should be and I’m hoping it is just the light that robs us of the view. But in my gut I know we are screwed. A few minutes later I land and sprint to the beach. The tide is again retreating but the waves are massive. Nightfall is descending.

Earlier, in Madagascar

Somehow the dinghy is upright. It is filled with water to the gunnels, sitting on the beach like a piece of driftwood. A cushion and pump are missing, the battery is floating, but the engine appears undamaged. Maybe we are lucky? But there’s no way to get the dinghy back out through the shorebreak, and there’s no way to get back to Discovery without the dinghy, so we’re staying put for awhile.

Just goes on and on and on

I snap back to the present again. The dark is finally fading. It has been a painfully long night, and I mean that literally. The warmth of the sun is finally near. We are cold; we are thirsty, we are hungry and tired. The tide is still too high to try to get off the beach. There is an onshore breeze. We grab our wings and launch. We can’t eat or drink or go anywhere, so we might as well fly.

The pain of the night dissolves as soon as I am in the air. My blood circulates to my extremities and my brain begins firing a soothing combination of endorphins and adrenaline and my hunger and thirst are quenched, if temporarily. My mind wanders off again, to an earlier time on this very trip while still back in Madagascar, 500 miles east across the Mozambique channel. I overheard someone say how much older I look these days. The stress of keeping this expedition alive is exacting a toll, no doubt shortening my own time on this amazing planet in the same way drugs or alcohol do. Later this very day we will get back to Discovery unharmed and whole only to learn the outboard motor has in fact suffered a catastrophic failure. It somehow held together for our trip back, carrying everyone and their gear but the block suddenly disintegrates, spilling oil everywhere. It is a useless un-repairable hunk of metal, barely a year old. At the end of our 4th season Discovery is limping. Down an engine, an outboard, and a long list of other things she- and I are tired. I think about one of my favorite quotes. “It’s not an adventure until something goes wrong.” In my experience making discoveries like we have here in Mozambique always comes at a cost: physical, emotional and economic. But to steal from the Mastercard commercial: “Paragliding in Mozambique?” Priceless.

I share a lot with this guy

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Jody MacDonald got all these flying shots while airborne herself with the boys from Verbier Summits Paragliding

Click here to view the embedded video.