Crossing the Bay of Biscay

It was almost 12 am when Coronado surfed down the four-meter swell, and a giant wave broke right between her hulls. The impact and force sounded like a huge crash under us, reverberating and shaking the entire boat. I flew out of bed in the salon and looked at the chart display. A 37-knot gust. Oh goodness. I yelled to John, “Are you ok?!” From the helm, he called back, “Yes – I’m fine! She is handling this all very well.” 

It was a new moon, and the ocean was pitch black. You could feel the waves, but you couldn’t see them until they were next to you, and they were as high as the coach roof on the catamaran.

My heart was pounding. I thought of all the things I had seen or read of other sailors being in their first bit of stronger weather. And my mind kept repeating the mantra I had thought about so many times for situations like this… “The boat can always handle more than her crew can. She is ok. Coronado can handle this. She can handle this. We can handle this.”

By the next morning, everything had changed. It was bright, sunny, and calm. Right around sunrise, a pod of dolphins came to play at our bow as Coronado glided through the smooth seas. It was so peaceful you would almost swear it was a different ocean. This dichotomy is a common theme among those who live at sea and do any form of extended cruising or voyaging. They will say:

“It is the highest highs and the lowest lows. It will be filled with the most perfect, beautiful, and breathtaking moments you may ever experience… and also the most frustrating, hard, and in some cases, terrifying moments you may experience.” 

In many ways, this is exactly why we are doing what we are doing. Because those moments – and all the moments in between – are the experience of truly, fully being alive. Life on the water reminds us of the eternal truth of impermanence. The storms come. The wind rages, and the waves crash. And then they pass. The sun rises again each morning, new and fresh. The seas are calm. Dolphins come to play at your bow, and the same wind that whipped past you with a screech last night now perfectly fills your sails and allows your boat to slide through the water with an effortless ease that calms every cell in your body. Moments come, and they go. Some are beautiful. Some are challenging. We do much better as humans when we try not to cling to the good or the bad. We seem to do our best when we can be fully present wherever we are in the moment, and yet this is a hard and challenging task for many of us.

Captain and HRM on the Bay of Biscay

29 May 2022 – Setting Off from Île de Re 

Time: 1146 
Location: 46° 11.37’ N 1°28.32’ W
Course: 160°

We embarked on our crossing of the Bay of Biscay from the island of Île de Re, just outside of La Rochelle, France. The wind was behind us, and the weather forecast looked good. The Bay of Biscay is notorious for strong weather and big waves, so careful weather monitoring is a must for a successful passage. There was some stronger weather coming behind us, but as we set off, things looked very manageable. We headed downwind and raised the sails. 

The Captain during a peaceful moment on our first afternoon at sea.

By 1648 that afternoon, less than five hours into our first big sail, two things had already broken on the boat. The clam cleat on our preventer (which you use to prevent an accidental gybe, where the wind pushes the boom and sail over from behind) had been acting up and had snapped. We had a safety knot that held it in place, so there was no other issue, thank goodness. The wind was too far behind us for the main and genoa to be effective, but when we dropped the main that afternoon, it fell over in the sail bag. I climbed on the coach roof to investigate, and the back 2 feet of the bag had torn away from the seam. We came up with a quick fix to hold the sail in the bag by lashing a dock line around it and under the boom. Being scrappy and creative with quick fixes is just part of sailing!

We had spent the afternoon flying with just our second headsail, a Code 0 meant for lighter wind. At about 1945, the wind started picking up, and we decided to get ready for the night shift. We changed to our genoa, our primary headsail, and I heated dinner. I had premade all of our meals for the trip, which made everything much easier for us. We had a delicious meatball and pasta soup for dinner. Things were going well, but the real adventure was about to start.

I went to bed early to try to get some sleep. The plan was for John to take the first watch from 2000 until about 0200; then, I would take over until after sunrise. There are many different ways to split night watch with only two people. Some do 3 hours on, 3 hours off, or 4. John and I decided having more extended periods of sleep would probably be better for us, so we wanted to try doing longer watches and agreed that if either of us got too tired, we would simply wake the other person up to take over. We also set up the salon table inside and changed it to the convertible bed (a nice option to have!), so we could sleep upstairs and be within earshot of each other each night.

Sunset over the Bay of Biscay

The wind and waves didn’t really begin building until the sun went down. By midnight, the wind was steady at over 25 kts and almost directly behind us. Even with only the genoa up, the boat was going over 9 kts. The waves and swell were also building, and hitting the boat on our back quarter, causing the boat to seesaw like a washing machine as she was lifted and came back down. And it was building and getting stronger. 

Rough Seas and a Seasick HRM 

Sometime after 1100, the waves had built up enough that John remembers looking outside next to him at the helm and seeing one next to us over his head. Coronado was doing well, but it was loud, harsh, and a turbulent ride. The edge of the strong weather that we had thought would be behind us had caught up to us a bit, and there was no getting out of it. It’s an interesting thing when that happens at sea, however. Many sailors have described the same emotions we both felt. Instead of feeling overwhelming fear or panic, there is a sense of grit and determination that settles in. You can’t just decide to stop the boat and get off. You are in it, for better or worse. And something about that allows your mind to find a state of peace; you know you have to just do your best to get through it. You can also truly feel how strong these boats are. Coronado was making a lot of noise, and you could hear things being thrown around inside the cabinets, but she was also solid as a rock. She surfed down the waves and felt sturdy and powerful. She felt safe.

I took over the watch at about 0230, the wind had died down to about 25 kts, and the waves were still big, but more in the 2 to the 3-meter range. I took the helm, but with the motion of the boat and wave conditions, it was only about 30 min until I was sick. This is where the grit comes in. (Spoiler: Feel free to skip this part if you don’t want to read about seasickness!) We both knew John was exhausted from being at the helm through the rough seas and wind. He needed to sleep, especially if the storm might get worse again.

I told John to go to bed, and I took over at the helm with a bucket next to me and kept sipping water every few minutes to stay hydrated. I know myself and seasickness – it comes in waves, and in between those waves, I usually feel better for a little while. And that’s exactly what happened that night. I wasn’t miserable, and I wasn’t too tired. John slept in the outside cockpit in case I needed him quickly, and every time I would be sick, he would wake up and say, “Are you ok?” And I just kept saying, “Yep! I’m good. Go back to sleep!” I didn’t know how bad it would get or how long we would be in bad weather, so I figured the Captain needed to try to sleep as long as Her Royal Majesty (HRM) could hold out at the helm. 🙂 Once the sun rose and John woke up a little bit, I could feel my body starting to give in to the dehydration and seasickness. I drank a big bottle of water and a rehydration pack and immediately laid down and closed my eyes (which usually causes the symptoms to stop for me, and it did this time too). I slept for about three hours, and I felt quite a bit better when I woke up!

The bed in the salon we set up for passage – converted from the dining table.

30 May 2022 – Sunrise, Dolphins, and Calmer Seas

Location: 46° 54.21’ N 3°58.97’ W
Course: 135°

We had changed course, and the waves were more behind us which was also much more comfortable. The sun had come up, and the ocean looked beautiful. As I was waking up, John came in and said, “If you feel up to coming out, there is a pod of dolphins playing at our bow!” It was a huge group that included several small baby dolphins. They looked like they were just learning how to play in the bow and one almost hit the boat as he tried to jump. The dolphins are beautiful and playful. They are also smart and inquisitive. They swim close to the surface and turn sideways to look right at you. Like they are checking you out as much as you are checking them out! It was a magical moment.

Sunrise

The majority of the rest of the day was peaceful and calm. The wind had slowed but was still deep behind us, so we sailed with just the Code 0 out. We had a cold chicken cous cous salad that I had made and was ready to eat – it was delicious and easy to just serve without heating.

The wind was too light by late afternoon and almost directly behind us. Even the genoa couldn’t stay full, and we needed to motor. The swell also changed and was hitting us from the side again… and I was sick again! But I took some seasickness medicine, slept again for about three hours, and by the time I woke up that evening, I wasn’t miserable. I let John sleep again because I knew he would be taking the first night shift… and so I got back at the helm and hand-steered for a while, which helped me feel better.

John once again had the majority of the action happen during his watch that night, only this time it was dodging fishing boats. We were far offshore, but a shelf in the Bay of Biscay came up out of the deep water, and it was crowded with fishermen with big nets trailing behind their boats. It is essential to stay away from them, and not always easy because, unlike cargo ships that are typically on a steady course, the fishing boats move sporadically. I came on watch at 0230 again; by that time, it was dark but quiet. We had passed the fishing boats, and I didn’t see another boat anywhere near us all night. It was dark, though, with a thick cloud cover and no stars visible. I will do a whole post on our boat systems, but we have radar and AIS, so even on very dark nights, you feel like you have a good sense of what is around you. You just have to trust the instruments.

31 May 2022 – Open Ocean, Birds, and Bliss

Location: 44° 33.40’ N 6°32.49’ W
Course: 229°

I felt much better the night before and let John sleep in until past 9 am. The sunrise was beautiful and welcoming after such a dark night. Being able to see around you again feels like a relief. My seasickness had passed, and it was calm. There was nothing around us but a blue ocean and blue sky. I was filled with that feeling of bliss that happens when I am on the open ocean and conditions are good. There is nothing to do. No pressure. No action that must be taken other than sailing, sleeping, and being on watch. It feels peaceful.

HRM is feeling better! Happy at sea.

I’ve read stories about sailors offshore getting excited to see birds because it means you are close to land, and they start to show up about 25 miles out, long before the land is visible to you from the boat. It was our first time experiencing this, and it was truly amazing. You don’t even realize that they haven’t been there, in some ways. You are so used to there being nothing – no birds, sometimes hours and hours with no other boat in sight… and then suddenly there is a one, lone seagull circling the boat. My heart jumped when the first one showed up for us that day. I actually said out loud to him, “Well, hello there!” After days of being in the middle of the sea, we were close to land!

By mid-afternoon, it was raining. We decided to head to a closer anchorage and continue to Coruna later. We dropped the hook in a gorgeous and peaceful little anchorage called Ensenada de Espasante. It was surreal to see the hillsides of Spain. It was lush and green and beautiful. The landscape reminded us of the coastline of the Pacific Northwest in the U.S. 

Arriving in Spain after our crossing.

We opened a bottle of Prosecco, and both settled in for a truly good night’s sleep. Our first 340 nautical miles were under our keels, and it was time to rest. We felt proud of how well we had done on our first big solo crossing. We felt more connected to Coronado than we could have imagined – she had personality and was our home in every way. She had carried us through big waves and was ready for more adventure; you could feel it! 

Safe at anchor in Ensenada de Espasante, Spain.