Tenn makes coffee while I watch the sunrise. It’s a good life. Certainly the best life I’ve known.
I’m particularly grateful for this sunrise, because last night was a moonless dark night that made visibility almost zero. Save the lights of ships in the distance, it was nothing but the black of night, but it wasn’t the other boats that were my concern. It was land.
Without electronic navigation, I can only rely on my own eyes. The Azores Island chain does have small rocky islands that we could potentially collide with.
Tenn’s arm appears in the companionway and slides a coffee over to me without saying a word. I lean down and take it; our eyes meet for a moment and I say to her, “Are we there yet?”
She repeats the words back to me without delay.
The conditions are perfect. We are being pushed along at about six knots on a beam reach, and the seas are rather agreeable this morning. Since we do not know our exact position, there is no way to know if we’ll be sailing all day before we see land, or even tomorrow morning if we lose our wind. Or, I could spot land right now while I drink my coffee.
It could be a long day. Today could feel longer than the past twenty-four days we have been at sea.
Tenn joins me on deck and gives me a small plate holding a piece of warm bread with melted butter on top.
“Thank you,” I say as I have said every morning for the last twenty-four days.
“Should we go over the plan?” she asks.
“The plan?” I question.
“I don’t know. I mean, I know we are winging it, but we should iron out what we do know,” Tenn says.
“Well, we know we are arriving with a dead engine, so we’ll need to be towed in. Once we get tied up to the dock, we will have to check in with customs.”
“Do they inspect our boat?” Tenn asks nervously.
“I hope not,” I tell her.
Tenn takes a deep breath to calm her nerves. I’m not sharing her anxiety this morning. I enjoy the last of my bread and give her an easy smile to try to pull her out of her thoughts.
“You seem oddly cavalier about all this,” Tenn remarks.
“It’ll be fine,” I answer.
Tenn chuckles, then sets her plate on the cockpit table. “So I guess that’s as much as we got. Basically, we just show up and hope for the best,” she says frankly.
“That’s about it.”
I feel her anxiety, and I want to help. It’s never easy trying to calm someone down; oftentimes it’s impossible. I look at the stunning colors of the beautiful sunrise. Orange, red, and yellow clouds cover the eastern sky like a watercolor painting. If that sunrise can’t calm her down, I don’t think there are words for me to find. The only thing I can think of now is how she needs to prepare to check into customs alone. She’s the captain of this ship, so she needs to be the one to go to the office and present all our documentation. Obviously now is not the time to tell her that.
Tenn is letting her thoughts get the better of her. She is slouched over, her eyes shut tight, stress veins showing on her temples. I haven’t seen her spiral down so deep. I feel like a consoling touch would aggravate her, and anything I say will rattle her deeper in the hole she is in.
What I see faintly in the distance beckons me to say the only two words that can break the spell she is under.
“Land ho!”
Tenn sits back up and peers over the horizon. For the moment, there is no expression on her face as she stands, steading herself with one hand on the pedestal and the other pushing strands of thick, curly blonde hair away from her face. Then her expression changes, and tears begin to well up. Her tears are not of sadness but of someone overwhelmed by an unexpected gift.
I remain composed, but I, too, share the same sensation. We have been at sea for twenty-four days, and the sight of land is both sobering and overwhelming. I don’t say a word, as this is a moment we will both remember for the rest of our lives, and I don’t want to ruin it. Tenn looks at me and smiles with tears in her eyes, like a mother who just met her newly born child. Her smile is perfect. I respond by smiling back, standing beside her on the opposite side of the pedestal.
We stand on deck being very slowly pushed along by a gentle breeze. Our head sail is large and full, and the clouds are still colorful from the morning sun. I feel like a Spanish galleon sneaking into battle. We stand for some time, squinting at the faint shape of an island on the horizon.
“There it is,” she says, almost to herself. “The other side of the pond,” she adds after a pause.
The next several long hours are spent doing some housekeeping. Tenn does some of the exercises she likes to do on the forward deck. We try to keep our minds busy and make the time go by. An elephant lies on the horizon that has changed our dynamic. It’s as if we feel like we should spring into action and prepare, but there is little to do but wait.
The faint shadow of an island slowly becomes more detailed, the harsh cliffs and lush green becoming more defined as we get closer. I study the shape of the island and suspect that this is Corvo. I need to refer to the chart to confirm because that means we are further north than I thought we were. It’s a pleasant surprise and a nice feeling to know our exact position.
I keep our distance from the island, but as we pass it by, we can smell land. I begin to yearn for solid ground under my feet and feel a sense of restlessness. Tenn’s rather fidgety and I can tell she is feeling the same.
The day is broken by seeing many other sailboats coming and going. Sometimes they’re close enough that we can see each other clearly; it feels good to see a smiling face. Tenn stands on the pulpit, giving big waves to boats passing by.
While we eat our sandwiches for lunch, Tenn casually suggests we go out for dinner tonight. We both put down our half-eaten dry tuna sandwiches and laugh.
“I’m going to order everything on the menu,” she says.
“Two of everything,” I add.
“Ugh, honestly what do you want more than anything?” Tenn asks.
After some thought I answer, “Pizza and a cold beer.”
“We are going to order an extra-large and we are going to drink every beer they have.” Tenn sounds like a child making a dare.
Her mood is light and positive, and I want nothing more than to keep that going. The last thing we need to do is to talk about what is hidden in the hull. We are just a couple of free spirits basking in the accomplishment of our crossing the Atlantic.
I’ve been keeping close track of our position, so I know the island we are approaching is Faial.
“That is our island, darling,” I say, pointing to the stretch of land to our port side.
“Land ho!” Tenn shouts, holding up her sandwich like she is giving a toast. We share a laugh and the mood stays light.
We have to tack a few times as the wind seems to be coming straight from where we want to go. The island of Faial is lush and green, the wind bringing the smell of grass and trees, causing us both to pause. I’m surprised at how profound the smell of land is. Neither of us say anything, but we both turn our noses up and inhale. After, we exchange warm smiles to confirm we are feeling the same thing.
Off to our port side is an airport that is marked on the chart, and I know that Horta is only a couple hours ahead. We are still too far to call on VHF radio, but I keep it close by.
Tenn has gotten quiet, and I fear her thoughts are getting the best of her.
“So, I’m ordering an extra-large pizza and all the beer. What are you going to order?” I ask Tenn to try to break the silence.
“Rum,” she says without delay.
After a few tacks, we are close enough to see the masts of all the sailboats at the marina. I turn on the radio and call in.
“S.V. Crazy Lady, fifty-foot sailboat, calling Horta Marina. Over.”
“Hello Crazy Lady, this is Horta Marina. Over.”
“We are arriving after crossing the Atlantic and have a dead engine. We request a tow in and a slip for the ni
ght. Over.”
“Yes, Crazy Lady, we have a spot for you, and we can tow you in. The Captainaire will come to you shortly. Over.”
“That is great news. Thank you, Horta Marina. Crazy Lady over and out.”
I throw the handheld radio down on a pile of pillows on Tenn’s side of the bench.
“Well, that was easy,” I say to Tenn, who is standing tall trying to see the marina better.
We do short tacks back and forth for about thirty minutes, then we see an orange zodiac powering our way. The boat skips over the water and approaches us quickly, making a sudden turn before hitting our hull.
“Bonjour!” the friendly man shouts with a smile.
“Bonjour,” I respond, surprised to hear French.
“I understand you have some problems with your engine,” he says with a heavy French accent.
“Yes. We appreciate your help,” I respond.
“Not a problem, mon ami. This happens all the time.”
Tenn has our headsails down and bunched up on the deck and has hoisted a yellow flag that shows we have not checked in to customs yet. The friendly Frenchmen throws us lines and secures his boat along the starboard side of ours. Tenn is surprised. I guess she thought a line would be tied to our bow and we would be pulled along.
He motors along slowly and brings us into the marina. I’m surprised we don’t have to raft up to another boat as this is a famous stop for ocean-crossing sailors. It’s indeed a busy marina full of sailboats either arriving from passage or ready to leave, but there is one empty spot at the end that is just big enough for Crazy Lady.
It’s obvious this is not the first time the Frenchman has towed a sailboat into the dock, as he makes it seem easy. A friendly face offers to catch a line on the dock, and Tenn gladly tosses it their way. Our French friend unties the tow lines when he sees we are secured.
“Welcome to Azores,” he says before slowly motoring away.
We thank him and turn our attention to the concrete dock that we are loosely tied to. The dock is colorful from all the sailors who have painted the names of their vessels and the date they arrived. Almost every inch of the concrete pier is full of boat names. I’ve heard of this dock from bragging sailors who have been here.
“Ladies first,” I say to Tenn.
We both stand on the edge of the deck like teenagers on the edge of a cliff at the local watering hole, waiting to see who will jump first, who will be the first to step off the boat. I haven’t told Tenn that it’s customary for the captain to check in with all the crew’s documentation alone. I hand her the folder we have prepared with our passports and Crazy Lady’s papers.
“You have to go alone, Captain, and I have to stay aboard until you check us in,” I tell her as lightly as possible.
“Alright. Then pizza and beer,” she answers with a forced calm tone.
Tenn climbs down and takes her first step off Crazy Lady in twenty-four days.
“And rum,” I add. She doesn’t look back.
I watch her walk confidently toward the customs office with the black folder in her hand. For some reason I hold my breath when the door closes behind her and she disappears into the office.
It feels like hours pass as I wait, although in truth it’s probably only been minutes. I take a seat and try to relax. I read some of the names painted on the dock to try to distract myself; I imagine Tenn taking out her paints and brushes and painting something lovely. I’m sure she will. She will walk out of that office and everything will be fine.
A large man with salt-and-pepper hair and dark sunglasses walks along the dock and comes close to Crazy Lady. He stops where I’m sitting.
“Good evening,” he says in an American accent. He looks at Crazy Lady side to side and up and down.
“Evening,” I answer.
After a moment, he pushes on. I wonder if he is the one we are going to do business with or just a passerby. I’m hypersensitive and perhaps he wasn’t as suspicious as I’m making him out to be. I turn to watch him walk along the dock, and he does seem to be looking closely at every boat. I watch him closely, waiting to see if he turns back.
“Hey, darlin’!” Tenn says.
“Bahh!” I shout. I was so focused on the suspicious character that I didn’t see her come back from the customs office.
“Jeez, I thought you were supposed to be the calm one,” she says with some disappointment.
“I’m good, I’m good. How did it go?” I ask.
“We have to go to the police station,” she answers.
“Why?”
“We need to fix our engine and provide proof to the police that it’s in running order before they will allow us to leave,” she says as she climbs back aboard.
I watch her for a moment in silence. She begins to lower the yellow flag.
“You could have said that in a different order. Geesh,” I say.
Tenn chuckles and tucks away the yellow flag. She takes a Portuguese flag and pulls it up high until it’s just below the shroud. She looks up at the yellow and green flag waving in the wind. “How about that beer?”
Tenn climbs off the boat, and I follow. Although the dock is indeed floating, it feels odd to feel the concrete under my feet. It doesn’t help that I’m reading all the boat names painted on the dock as I walk. It also feels strange to walk away from Crazy Lady. We make our way up a ramp and finally we are on solid, dry land. We don’t say anything, but we both know we are feeling the same thing. Tenn stumbles for a moment, and then so do I. We haven’t been on land for twenty-four days, and our bodies need to get used to being on a surface that isn’t constantly moving.
“Sea legs,” I say, while my knees wobble. Tenn laughs at me and seems to be handling the adjustment a little better.
“Come on, sailor,” she says as she leads the way through a door that has the words ‘Marina Office’ written above it. The salty air has worn down the hinges of the rickety door, and it makes an awful noise as Tenn pushes it open, making the bell that rings rather redundant.
“You must be Crazy Lady,” the older man says from behind the counter.
“That’s what they tell me,” Tenn answers as she approaches the counter. “We will be with you for two nights.”
“No rush. I have you down for three nights, and you’re all paid up.” The friendly old man’s voice is rough, and he has a heavy accent.
Tenn and I look at each other to confirm we both heard the same thing. Tenn looks frightened at what the man had just told her.
“That’s perfect. Three nights it is. Thank you kindly,” I answer for Tenn, guiding her out of the office.
We walk along a path away from the marina. We are both moving a little differently. We both know we are being watched.
“And it begins,” Tenn says, looking over the bay.
We find an establishment that seems to be fitting. On a wooden sign it reads “Café Sport.” When we walk into the small bar, it’s clear we are not the first transatlantic sailors to walk through this door. The wooden walls are covered with drawings and messages from ocean-crossing sailors. There are so many flags and other things that there is little wall left. We take a seat next to an intense painting of Neptune and some sperm whales in a churning sea. It feels good to take a seat at a table. I feel like the entire restaurant is floating and we are bobbing up and down. Clearly, I still have my sea legs.
“How was the crossing?” a waiter asks.
How could he know we have just arrived from a passage? I look at Tenn then up to him, trying to figure out if he has something to do with our moorage being paid.
“I can always tell. I have seen thousands come in and out of here. This is usually the first stop. Welcome to Pete’s.” The waiter speaks without a smile but somehow still seems friendly.
“Thank you! Yes, we’ve just arrived after twenty-four days at sea,” I answer.
“Well, you have walked into the right place. What can I get you sailors to celebrate?” he asks.
“Gin and tonic,” Tenn answers without delay.
“Same,” I answer.
The waiter disappears and walks behind the bar.
“No beer?”
“Beer will happen later,” I tell her.
“How could they have known we were arriving today?” Tenn says quietly.
“They were watching us somehow. Maybe there is a tracker hidden on the boat? Maybe they heard the navy radio communications,” I answer.
“Maybe the GNR is in on this,” Tenn says, her eyes wide.
“Two gin and tonics,” the waiter says as he puts the drinks on the uneven wooden surface of the table.
“To Horta,” Tenn says as she raises her glass.
“And beyond,” I answer, and raise my glass.
The drink is cold, which is nice. I haven’t had a cold drink since the engine died. It feels good in my hand. When I take my first sip, it tastes like pine trees and sugar, and the ice hits my mouth as I tilt my head back. I didn’t realize I liked gin and tonic so much. I find myself rattling the ice around in an empty glass. I look at Tenn, who is just putting her glass down. She, too, has finished her cocktail on the first sip.
“Two more gin and tonics.” The waiter comes out of nowhere and replaces our empty glasses with fresh ones. “Happens all the time,” he says, this time with a slight smile.
Tenn and I share a look. It’s like it just hit us both at the same time. We made it. She smiles, and I smile back, then we clink our glasses. No words need to be spoken; we know what we are celebrating.
“Congratulations, folks,” a rosy-cheeked smiling man says in an overly friendly tone.
He sits alone at a small table close to us. He’s middle-aged and wears a loud, red Hawaiian shirt. I see behind him that the man I saw earlier is sitting alone at the bar. He still wears his sunglasses, even though it’s evening and he is in a dark bar. He is not looking at us, but I can tell all his attention is on me and Tenn. He’s lost in the shadow in the corner, and I wouldn’t have seen him if this silly tourist hadn’t pulled my attention his way. He clearly wants to talk and doesn’t take the hint that Tenn and I are not in the mood to chat.
Uncharted Waters Page 22