I slept most all my off-watch time today - I think lack of sleep must have started catching up with me.  The calm conditions also afford some time to bring the laptop on deck during watch to catch up on emails and the like.  When we're beating hard, the motion of the boat is much more punishing and it's much harder to stomach tasks that require your eyes to maintain a sharp focus, so you tend to use that focus only on the things that require it, like weather analysis and sending position reports home for peace of mind of the family.  Days like today also allow for reading.  Mark's lucky - he can read in rougher conditions than can I.

When on a long passage, especially when there are squalls around (which seems to be at least 3 out of 4 nights in this part of the world), we often have the autopilot steer in wind-vane mode, rather than to a compass bearing or waypoint.  This allows the autopilot to effectively keep the sails trimmed as the wind veers this way or that around a passing cloud.  Always when squalls are around, and always at night, we reduce sail a bit, as with just the two of us (the cat really isn't much help), we don't want to find ourselves overpowered by the conditions - we have to keep the balance in check, if you would, so that we can always have the upper hand, even when the conditions are escalating.  If we had a couple of burly extra crew on board, then it would be much easier to push this line harder.  We find the wind vane/reduced sail tactic also often allows Auto to handle minor squalls as well, with constant attention, of course, but not too much intervention.  We're always there to take over from him, but he's quite useful to have on board.  And he doesn't mind steering in pelting rain.

If we were in Maine, I think this type of sailing would drive us crazy, but here, 300 miles south of Bermuda, it feels more or less like being at anchor with a 24 hour watch schedule and no dingy or launch service anywhere to be found, but with a fabulous 360 degree view.

Maybe we'll catch that movie under the stars tonight, or there's also rumor of a fabulous jazz club nearby.  It is, after all, Saturday night.

I've found two stories behind the naming of the horse latitudes.  The first and most common is that often, back in early days of Atlantic navigation, sailing ships traveling at these latitudes often became becalmed for days and days on end, and were forced to lighten their load, getting rid of anything that wasn't absolutely necessary, including the horses, which would be quite heavy and also quite taxing on diminishing fresh water supplies.  The second comes from a translation of the Spanish phrase "golfo de las yeguas," meaning gulf of the mares, which was their name for the waters stretching between Spain and the Canary Islands, and compares fickleness of the wind found there with the fickleness of the mares.

Still watching that same old low, now over the Dominican Republic. - it might end up as nothing but a bit of rain by the time it makes its way north, but it's certainly causing a bit of discomfort further south.  Keeping a close eye on it and everything else to plan the departure from Bermuda, possibly in a couple of days, but more likely later in the week.

Doing lots of reading between naps, and thinking more about what, where, and when for the rest of the summer and fall.

Before getting near the range of being able to transmit over the VHF all the way to Bermuda, we struck up conversation last night with a couple of other boats, all of us about 60 miles south of the island.  One of them had listened to Herb (the well-known weather guru from Ontario, who guides boats across the Atlantic basin every day of the year via SSB broadcasts, as a hobby, and has been doing so for years), who had used the words "possible tropical cyclone developing" to refer to that area of showers and thunderstorms now near the Dominican Republic.  When words like that come over the local airwaves, suddenly everyone strains to tune in.  I feel we've been very tuned in to the weather throughout the Atlantic, as I feel one needs to be when contemplating such a passage.  We have, after all, been watching this very area with a close eye and adjusted our course to head for Bermuda a number of days ago now, for the very reason that there was something unsettling about what was going on down there.  After talking for a while, one of the boats said they were not heading north, like the rest of us, but south, for a landfall in Puerto Rico.!.!.  They in fact, had just left Bermuda earlier that day, apparently not very aware of the conditions in the SW Atlantic and Caribbean Sea and the potential consequences of them.  After a couple others offered their concern to this particular vessel, I offered mine as well.  They turned around and are now somewhere in this harbor, along with the other 120 or so yachts of all sorts also waiting for the right window to continue their various journeys.

Approaching land after a number of days at sea always evokes all sorts of strange feelings.  Bermuda is such a low island, not mountainous like the lands behind us now.  It first appeared as a dim glow on the horizon, many miles away, and grew larger and brighter as the night progressed.  Eventually we started to see a couple of other faint points of light off the port side and motored along in lock step with them, hour after hour, all collectively very tired of the "Rrrrrrrr" of our engines needed to make any progress at all through this windless night.

Arrived first thing this morning. Took our place in line, hovering off the customs dock for nearly an hour and a half, holding ourselves as motionless as possible, circling in place just a couple of times, until one by one we were granted entry into this island nation in the middle of the sea.  So here we are, now tied to the wharf along with a handful of other boats, in a tiny little cove between the cruise ships.

Do you know that you can get a ham sandwich here for a mere $9.  Surely the cost of living on the island has not risen at quite the same rate as at home, as the story of the $7 ham sandwich is deeply engraved into the Bancroft family history of many, many years ago.  It had to be 20, maybe 25 years ago, when Gramp had that first ham sandwich here. It certainly must be one of the most famous ham sandwiches in history.  Seems like a good choice for lunch today.

A couple of boats left on Thursday on an aggressive, but promising forecast - one of them returned the next day, slightly humbled.  Friday might have been an ideal day to cast off, though maybe the seas would have still been a bit rough, but it's bad luck for sailors to depart for a long journey on a Friday and we just weren't really in the right frame of mind.   With the seas subsiding outside, the cruise ships left and the crowds stopped taking pictures of the quaint little boats by the wharf.  The village seemed to get a bit smaller and took back that yachting feel known by many the world around.

One more front passed through with a whimper last night, not quite the fury we expected, but good enough to provide an escape before the next one comes by in a couple of days. So today is the day - and we're off, after another ceremony and another offering of blackberry brandy to Neptune and the other gods of the sea.

S/V Lucina is a couple of hours ahead, Triumph is just behind, Poseidon to port, and reportedly a few others all setting a course towards Horta.

Followed a southeast course out of Bermuda (but the Azores are northeast, are they not? for those of you paying attention).  The idea was to scoop low to escape the 35 knots of the next low screaming across the North Atlantic, passing by Bermuda late Tuesday.  So we dutifully headed southeast.  The winds have in reality been quite light and now it seems our low is passing a bit further north than anticipated.  The 20 or so knots we thought we would see tonight are now looking more like 15.  As night falls, we're sailing wing and wing, surfing the gentle swells, back on a more northeasterly course in 12 knots of breeze.  After reviewing the latest reports, I suspect we'll be honing our light air skills over the coming days, maybe at long last getting the opportunity to try out our new light air drifter sail that Clarke Basset (of Kappa Sails) made for us last summer. 

The wet and windy lows have been tracking rather low across the Atlantic for this time of year.  Between that and our desire to avoid not just one or two, but a gale every 4 or 5 days as seems to be the case further north, our anticipated track to the Azores is quite southerly.  We are not the only ones making this call.  A large percentage of the boats leaving are also analyzing this weather pattern rather carefully, especially as so many who left early and kept to the more conventional northerly routes have had it so rough. It seems to me that the jet stream may be finally starting to lift, and we will tune our course to match if it holds, hopefully making steady progress day after day.  It's possible, even probable, that our choice will make for a slightly longer passage,  but a safe and not too taxing one for our crew of two and faithful ship's cat.

Last night, for a brief minute, I thought I had been transported to Maine, as the pea-soup fog rolled in and made itself at home until near dawn.  The only things missing were the sound of the fog horn, the deep bells of the buoys, and the sound of the occasional engine of some crazed soul zooming around at full speed in a small fiberglass boat without a radar reflector.

But now life is looking up.  We've had nearly 10 knots most of the afternoon and it's all ahead of the beam!  4.8 knots SOG (speed over ground, for you not so nautical types) is usually nothing to write home about, but what a refreshing change.  And the swell is no longer a despised enemy, but a gentle hand to rock us to sleep on our off-watch. The occasional voices on the radio from the other vessels in this small pack have been ecstatic since the first hints of this breeze late this morning. No more jokes about jumping ship here.

We really didn't expect such a lack of wind so early on, but a new area of high pressure decided to form just in front of us, giving us nowhere to turn.  We left Bermuda with a mere 140 gallons of diesel, 40 more than we usually carry, but not the 200 that we had when departing from Antigua.  With all this light air so soon into our passage, we must be very careful to resist the urge to turn on the engine to help us along a bit.  The real purpose of the fuel is power and we must keep enough in reserve to help us along in case we really need it later on in the trip and/or for the final approach to the Azores, which is well known for the summer high pressure cell often surrounding it.  So many stories abound of vessels such as ours bobbing along with a fantastic view of the volcano on Pico (across from Horta) for days, unable to make landfall for lack of wind or power to carry them the last few miles.

So we anticipate these light winds to be with us for a few more days and we will persevere, inching our way along and continuing to fine tune our skills of propelling ourselves across the sea on little to no air. 

It's getting rather damp on the early morning watch now.  I suppose we are at the latitude of the falling damps.  The cockpit awning keeps it from becoming uncomfortable. It's a tad chillier, too.  The wool hat was introduced as an optional component of the night watch attire a couple days south of Bermuda, and now the blanket on deck is becoming firmly entrenched. It's not really terribly cold, but you must remember we've been living in a rather warm climate for a number of months now.  The days are still warm, though generally no longer uncomfortably hot, even when perched upon this mirror which is the sea.  We've been fortunate not to have much rain, hardly a drop on this leg thus far.  A far cry from our passage south last fall, when it poured buckets for days on end.  It is refreshing to be reminded that it doesn't have to be quite so wet and uncomfortable when out at sea.  I think I was a bit scarred from the end of that passage.

By the looks of things, it looks like it will be a drifter and mizzen staysail kind of day...

Still trying to catch that elusive dorado or wahoo for dinner.  Only one of the boats in our small class has been successful in the hunt.  He says his secret is a blue squid lure.  We only have shades of pink, green, and orange squid left, yet we persevere. 

It seems tomorrow or maybe even sometime this evening, the winds will return back to 10, then 15.  We just adjusted our course once again to slightly south of east, as it seems a new low is coming to our neighborhood in a couple of days, tracking not just north of where we'd like to be, but exactly between us and the Azores.  Do you detect a trend here?  It's not a terribly strong one, but nonetheless, we are now headed on this southeast course to get underneath it's projected path to take advantage of what we expect will be 20 or so knots on the aft quarter with seas to match, rather than 30 clocking all around.  Not sure how far south we will go, maybe to 32N, maybe as low as 31.  We'll be watching it all very carefully to stay safe and have a smooth ride.

Another sunny day today.   The sun felt so warm through my long sleeves and jeans on the afternoon watch.  I think we've at last adjusted to our bizarre sleep schedules, are getting plenty of rest and are, of course, eating quite well.  And while the bananas and avocados are long gone,  at least we still have plenty of green tomatoes.

Was thinking today we have now traveled over 1750 nautical miles over ground since departing Antigua and I'm happy to say I don't have a single bruise to prove it - after our last long offshore passage last fall, my poor body seemed to have more black and blue than not.  I could get used to this kind of sailing.

Russell has captured the prize for first fish of the passage.  While on watch with me on deck in he early hours of the morning, his flying fish catch leaped into the cockpit and flopped all around.  We put in the freezer for safe keeping and future fish bait.  Maybe our fortunes will change soon.  I put my line with a beautiful green, yellow, and orange squid out shortly thereafter, once the sun started to rise, but no luck yet.

Just before 9, I finally finished a few emails to send along with my morning position reports, called up my globalstar modem and sent them out.  As mail goes out, so mail also comes in, and a corrected high seas text forecast was among the mix.  While anxious to get on with my nap, I went over the forecast, looking at our low in detail, only to notice that the corrections and changes where all about our low.  No longer a low with 25 knots, but upgraded to a gale, with winds from 25-40 and seas to match.!.!.!.!    No new data other than this would be out until after 1:30pm and no new charts until 4 in the afternoon.  As the low should start to affect us late tonight into tomorrow, any necessary adjustments must be made in short order.  Even when we fly, we're not exactly doing 5 minute miles.  After some quick analysis, we said goodbye to our beautiful easterly course and turned once again to the southeast.  We had been out of radio contact with the others in our pack for a day or so, as we had chosen to stay further south than the rest.  I picked this gale warning up at that time half by chance, half by my diligence in checking the weather whenever any new bit becomes available.  Many of the other boats with us are using the infamous Herb, mentioned above, also known as Southbound Two, for their weather routing and all were all further north than we were at this time.  Herb had advised not to go north of 34N with this low looming, but in reviewing this latest data I could see that even that would put one in a rather uncomfortable situation. They wouldn't check in with him again until very late in the afternoon.  I'm very happy I had exchanged sat phone numbers with Bev on Valiant Lady a few days before.  We did it strictly as a precautionary measure - just in case... you never know when you might want to talk to someone who is nearby out here, even if that means they are a day away.  In the end, none of the others had picked up this morning update.  With limited power, communication and bandwidth (both electronic *and* human) resources on board, we each have our own methodology for the what, where, why, and how much weather info to gather, and in this case it seemed we finally had a day of just pure bliss ahead before the higher winds set in.   In the end, from what I understand, all the others, too, chose to turn south with these brief, but poignant new details.

So here we go, southbound once again...

An evening consult with Bev via sat phone highlights that Herb had revealed the presence of a counter-current below 33N, running from west of us, to somewhere around 045 W.  If you know anything about wind, waves, and current, you know that a wind against current situation is not where you want to be when the wind pipes up.  Such conditions might cause square waves, breaking seas, or just plain confused seas.  Auto wouldn't deal well with these and neither would we.  We decide to hold our course above 33N, tacking downwind though the night if need be.

Every low has one side of it that is more hazardous than the other.  On land you might not take notice of this, but at sea it's rather significant.  If a low has 25 knots associated with it, and is also traveling at 15 knots, those tallies add up quickly on the side that is to the right of the projected path (remembering that lows rotate counter-clockwise).  So while our projected path was far from the center, it was also on this more hazardous side.  From personal experience, we also have learned to notice trends in weather projections - if a system starts to intensify more quickly, it may continue to do so after the forecast goes out.  On the way south last November, we were happily primed and prepared for several days of 25 knots when we got blind-sided with 40.  And at that time, as now, I was also taking very careful note of the weather. 

A few years ago, we took a very informative offshore weather course with weather-at-sea guru Michael Carr and Lee Chesneau, senior forecaster at the NOAA's Ocean Prediction Center.  Lee candidly told us that when it comes to predicting the weather, he is nearly *always* right.  That there have in fact been very few times in his career when he was wrong.  He said the TV weathermen in New England have it far tougher than he, especially in the winter, as they are called upon time and time again not just to say what the track of a particular storm may be, but what the precise temperatures will be across the region and where the all-important rain/snow boundary will be. But for Lee, who predicts the movement of weather across entire oceans, it is not too terribly difficult with his extensive experience and the tools available to him today to foresee the general trends of where this low and that front will roam.  He may be off by a couple of degrees here or there, or a few small percentage points in terms of strength of the wind and height of the seas, but his predictions always merit an "A".  And as the charter of the Ocean Prediction Center is to provide forecasts to allow for safe shipping on the high seas, he is right on. The problem for us as a small vessel, averaging 6.5 knots on a good day at sea, is that the difference of a hundred miles or two in storm track or a few mb of pressure differential (and thus windspeed) can make the difference between an adrenalin-filled or downright terrifying or even hazardous experience.  Hence the added caution we take in preparing for escalating conditions at sea.

As afternoon settles in we are feeling good.  We just celebrated what we are calling our half-way point across the ocean.  A bit difficult to pinpoint, really, with this seemingly insane amount of zig-zagging we have done on this course from Antigua to some as yet to be determined final landfall in Europe, but many days ago we decided we would celebrate this moment when we crossed 045W. Marked this occasion by opening the "halfway across" card from John and Heather (S/V Evergreen, at this moment also on passage, sailing north from a stop in the Bahamas up towards Cap May).  We have faired well with this low, rocking and rolling through the swells of the night, making way, but still managing to stay outside boundaries of real wind and seas, so we think.  But better to be safe and cautious than not.  At last the winds have clocked to the NW.  The front has passed and winds are down to 20-25 knots. We're looking forward to this refreshing change in breeze and 3-4 days of 15-20 knots. I shook out the reef in the mizzen and adjusted our course slightly to carry us east by northeast on to Horta. 

I was about to publish this last bit in the late afternoon.  That's when the wind piped up again.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the wind rose to a solid 25-30, gusting higher, once again.  How could this be?  Maybe the low was slowing or tracking on a slightly different tack?  Maybe I should not be adding that northeast component to my course quite so soon?  Kept waiting for it to drop again... and waiting... and it did not.  I dropped off my much longed for northbound heading.  Mark awoke shortly before sunset and we put the reef back in the mizzen to prepare for darkness once again.  The late afternoon weather data does not illuminate the situation for us, but we deduce that it is likely this will be with us for at least some part of the night.  And to think we thought it was over!  A phone call to Bev (S/V Valiant Lady), who had minutes ago checked in with Herb, explains a bit more.  Apparently, though one front of sorts passed, it was not the one that would truly signal that the low had moved safely past as we thought the wind shift would indicate.  That one might make its way by tonight or early tomorrow, it is hard to say.

We had a fast night of sailing.  Solid sustained winds up to and even over 35 at some times.  And gusts topping out at 47 around 10:30 pm.  With our very well-balanced yankee and reefed mizzen sail combination, Verve handled flawlessly, sailing herself really.  And while our dear friend Auto worked hard, steering through each and every rising swell, he never seemed to tire or lose his light touch.  We were, as always, ready to take over from him at any moment, but happy to say we didn't have to, as it's not easy to steer in such conditions on a dark night.  And it's still a long way to the Azores.  The rolling motion of the boat was not uncomfortable. I slept well on my off-watch, as is Mark at this hour.  Russell's level of comfort with this whole sailing thing rises all the time.  He's now dealing well with winds up to 30 knots, beyond that, he needs a lot of extra TLC.

The hour after sunrise is my favorite time of the day.  The wind often comes up for a short time in the morning, as the sun begins to heat the atmosphere all around.  I usually move from my perch tucked in near and more or less under the dodger to take a seat snuggled up against the rail in the aft (back) corner behind the wheel.  Every once in a while as I scan all around this morning, I look up to see a wall of water rising above me, just behind the boat, moments later to be gently lifted high in the sky for a fantastic view of the horizon all around, then down again as the swell passes under our keel.  It's times like this when I'm glad our radar is mounted very high, far above the likes of my head.   A mesmerizing experience as we continue to head east. 

The low has moved well away from us now and the seas will slowly, but surely quiet down.  The wind has more or less dropped to around 20 and should remain at 15-20 through the weekend.  Another bright and sunny day at 33 degrees North.

By late morning the wind is up to 9 knots and is gently prodding us along on our trek to Horta.  If it wasn't for the roll left over from our low, attempting to spill the air from our downwind sails every few seconds, it would be quite peaceful. 

Late afternoon finds us with the upper hand over our familiar friend, the roll, while attempting to become fluent in very basic broken Portuguese, as learned from a travel phrasebook and Azorean travel guide.   At least the food words should prove useful, if the suggestions for beginning a stoic conversation do not.    The local version of bouillabaisse is called alcatra, though the same word is also used for a meat stew.  Balcalhau seems to be the word for cod, though I have seen it used to describe both the fresh and the dried.  I would kill for a baked fillet of fresh cod right about now.  Still no luck fishing here other than some jellyfish tentacles I wrapped around my hands this morning while pulling in the towable generator, in an attempt to win back a few tenths of a knot.

Speaking of jellyfish, what we do know is that our baggie-like comrades at sea are not technically jellyfish at all.  They are members of another class of coelenterates called hydroids, and are indeed closely related to Portuguese man-of-wars.  These strange creatures navigate the tropical waters of both the Atlantic and Pacific with a sail bladder filled with a mixture of carbon monoxide and nitrogen monoxide.  Their tentacles can reach nearly 100 ft long. Their numbers have been fewer as we venture further into the abyss of the ocean, yet I still see them sailing by now and again.  It seems they are often beating into the wind, but still we do not know where they are attempting to go.  Surely their stated destiny cannot be solely to wash ashore on coastal beaches to terrorize small children on the shore.  And regarding the stings, I am fine.

Night after night, the moon appears later, now for just a few short hours before dawn.  It is now a slender burnt orange sliver in the sky when it appears, just a few hours from dawn, a far cry from the platinum illuminating rays of a week and a half ago.  As darkness starts to fade, it slips into a deep, soft butter yellow glow, before fading into the growing light of day.  Soon it will be gone and the stars will reclaim the night as their own.

A festive day onboard today, after taking turns at some extra long sleep.  Now just 500 miles to go.  It seems like nothing to us now.  It seems we're almost there.  The 8 knots of wind continues through the day and in late afternoon starts to move.  By nightfall it is nearing the beam.  The crew is in a very good mood.  We celebrate with truffled foie gras with a touch of applesauce, followed by a deep and earthy northern mexican beef stew served with meltingly tender bermudian sweet potatoes.

When preparing for a long passage, one thinks about what one might expect along the way.  I must tell you I thought we would see 15-25 most every day, occasionally higher with the passing fronts.  I certainly did not anticipate an average wind speed of less than 10, coming mostly from 130 or more degrees off the bow.  Cousin David would have really enjoyed this passage with the warm sunny days, more decadent cuisine, and without the need to hold on even a little much of the time.  Having to brace oneself 24 hours a day to avoid from being slammed into things is far more tiring.  It has been a long passage, far longer than we ever would have imagined, but a very enjoyable one nonetheless.  Fortunately our provisions are deep and hardy vegetables and fruits still abound.

We expect the wind to die away for a up to day within another day or so.  I'm talking 5 or less.  As a consequence, landfall is looking like Thursday morning.  It's possible we could make it for Wednesday, but after coming this far in light airs, the question of whether to sail or call upon those diesel reserves in such times makes one want to sail it all, despite the extra day.

Maybe a little jazz would be in order to wake the off-watch crew for his Sunday morning watch...  Looks like yet another sunny day at sea ahead.

As I begin my night watch, I am struck by the brilliance of the phosphorescence tonight.  It is as though we are encased in a sleeve of stardust, rising near the bow as we are propelled through the water, and leaving a trail of frenetic green fire in our wake.  It must mean we are leaving behind the arid and lifeless seas of the tropical blue waters.  It must mean I should be fishing.

We put the cockpit awning back up this afternoon as the nights of late have been so damp, though tonight it seems the foggy haze has gone away.  To get an unobstructed view of the heavens I must return to my perch in the back corner behind the wheel.  Sitting here now recalls those grand swells of a few mornings ago.

The atmosphere is so clear tonight without the dampness and the light of the moon, which will rise later.  It is littered with so many tiny points and smudges of light from the faintest of faraway stars and galaxies, that this litter obstructs my otherwise clear view of the constellations, with whom I strive to become more familiar.

As we near the Azores, I learn of Francesco Lacerdo, the archipeligo's most famous composer.  I know nothing of him, except that he was born on the island of Sao Jorge (renowned for their cheddar-like cheese), north of Velas, later lived in Urzelina, and that he was a friend of Debussy. I select some music of the sea to accompany me through until dawn.  Debussy's La Mer and Roussel's piano concertos.

We have crossed the invisible line between globalstar sat phone territories.  We are officially roaming the world.  No longer do we have data speeds of 38K but instead a measly 9.6... on top of that the service is sporadic, dropping more than three quarters of the data calls I attempt to make.  I adjust my mail to download only headers so I can filter the few pieces I really want to see and avoid getting caught in an infinite loop of downloading the same tired messages over and over, as the process never manages to complete successfully.  Reportedly the situation should improve somewhat upon reaching the Azores, at least the calls should not continue to drop.  I am terribly annoyed I cannot manage to publish this page as I've become aware that at least a few of you are following this journey.  I hope you will have patience with me.  The iridium is not much kinder in attempting to hold a connection long enough to download a file of this size with it's mind-boggling speed of 2.4 kps.  I suppose you will get a chance to read this soon enough.

I best get back to my music, as this night watch seems destined to never end.  Still not a blip on radar anywhere.  It has been days since we have seen another boat, though Dick on S/V Triumph reminds us all to be extra vigilant as we approach the island chain, with vessels converging to this destination in the vastness of the Atlantic from all over.

Today the clouds return, we have just 195 miles to go.  One recalls the summer high pressure system named after these islands in honor of it's usual summer residence nearby.  One would think that might imply a soft breeze from the south to provide us with some beam reach sailing for this last short stretch.  But alas, the wind is once again from the northeast, and if you recall from the beginning of our journey, we are still methodically attempting to sail just this way.

At first the wind is light, 10 knots, but the swell ahead is growing.  We struggle to maintain a reasonable course as the swell continually attempts to knock the wind from our sails and de-power us.  The wind picks up.  15 and on to 20.  It does not abate.  We are so close.  We have felt as though we are nearly there since we crossed the 500 mile mark 3 days ago.  Now we wonder whether we will be able to achieve our Thursday morning landfall.

The day progresses and we beat on.  The sea is relentless in its motion.  Mark cheers up the crew with a small, but festive, Moroccan meal.

The night tonight is blacker than black.  There is no moon, no stars, only blackness.  As the minutes go by, three shades of this darkness become apparent.  One for the sails, one for the thick cover of the sky, and the deepest of all for the blackness of the sea.  Our bow wake continues to plow through this night.

Have not seen another vessel for many days now.  Heard a French voice on the vhf at some moment yesterday, but am somewhat shocked that still we see no-one.  Every few minutes I rise from my night-time perch to peer this way and that into the blackness.  Straining in search of even just a small flicker of light.  Then out of the night one appears, dead ahead.  I look to the radar, nothing there.  I zoom out and there he is.  Not a small vessel at all, but a large tanker or cargo ship of some sort.  I marpa him, Marpa being our radar tracking tool.  As he nears, more lights begin to pierce the night. He is 10 miles off, then 9, then 8, headed straight this way and will be upon us in less than 20 minutes.  With apprehension, as sometimes they do not answer, I hail this unknown ship on the radio. 

A couple of minutes go by and at last a voice responds.  He is indeed the voice I am looking for, as he describes my position as I had outlined his own.  He is a member of the Croatian Merchant Marine, on a 17 day voyage from just outside of Rome to somewhere in Mexico.  We chat for a while. He is strangely curious about my little orange sailing cat.  He tells me of his seaside village and the islands of the coast called Dalmatia. Eventually he says he can see my masthead light.  He will alter course slightly to leave our tiny ship to port.  We wish each other a pleasant journey and say goodbye.  As this immenseness passes by, just 1.5 miles near, a very bright light flashes on and off with some lost message.  Clearly morse code, but alas, reading meaning from dots and dashes of light is a language I have not yet learned.  I turn on the floods to illuminate my deck and sails, so that if but for a brief moment, he can see. 

As the lights of this cargo ship fade away, the blackness of night returns to envelop us once again.  The beauty of dawn is mysteriously absent as the black slowly, but surely fades to grey.  Still 115 miles to go.

Mark gets up and takes the reigns.  I crawl into the port sea berth with my poor frazzled cat and sleep like the dead.  When I awake, the boat is sailing smoothly.  The sun is shining and the sea has abated a bit.  I wedge myself into the corner of the shower, bracing tightly, and take a luxuriously long rinse.

The afternoon sailing is fast and relaxed.  I take up residence in the cockpit once more, reclining against the pillows in the back to catch the warm rays of the late afternoon sun.  One last sat phone call to Bev on Valiant Lady.  It seems surprising that we are not yet again in radio range, but they chose to track further north after the gale subsided so we are approaching our destination at slightly different angles.  I am saddened to hear she must fly out soon after making landfall in the morning, as she is days late for returning to her work.  We have spoken so often and shared the ups and downs of this passage together, despite the fact that we have never met.  I have pictures of she and Ivan in my head and wonder how terribly far off they must be.  While we've been targeting a Thursday morning arrival for several days now, the timing beckons an early arrival to allow for some quick hugs with our new friends.

As the evening drags on, I continue to remind myself that patience is a virtue.

We ponder the history of these remote islands and all who have come here before us.  We take our time carefully preparing ourselves and the boat for landfall as we believe one should look refreshed, neat, and in order when coming in from the sea, no matter the distance of the journey.  An apple and cherry crisp and a coffee provide a final boost as we stand back to wait our turn, as a cargo ship enters the harbor and the morning sun floods and illuminates the shore all around. 

The island is awash with green.  Small and irregular fields are fringed with green hedges up and down the hills.  White-washed houses dot the landscape radiating out from the village.  Facades of almost Tuscan-looking churches, one with eastern European onion domes, dominate our first glimpse onto the fabled town.  It is strange how the mind struggles to map the new onto what it knows.

By 7am, we are tied up, precariously rafted outside of 4 other boats at the customs dock.  A few moments later we are checked-in and huddled in the cockpit over another coffee with the now-exuberant familiar voices of our crossing friends.

The day is inwardly festive, punctuated with spontaneous joyous rendezvous with those whose paths we have crossed before.  Horta is legendary amongst sailors and as a destination is one of the most coveted.   Everyone here has sailed from far away. For lunch, there is but one choice today. Peter Cafe Sport is *the* place for every yachtsman's or yachtwoman's  first meal ashore here.  Today, with my fried squid, I have a beer for me, tomorrow, I'll have the one I promised for Toby Baker.  We will surely sleep well tonight.