(Editor’s note: Tom Hay and Dawn Biggs are Americans, personal friends from our hometown of Louisville, Ky. This is Pt . 3 of their adventure sailing across the Atlantic from the Caribbean to Europe. Jump to Pt. 1 here, Pt. 2 here and Pt. 4 here.)
We could have chosen an easier way to cross the Atlantic and begin our expat life in Europe. We chose to sail there in a small, three-decades-old boat named Kairos. It wasn’t exactly an impulsive decision. It had been our dream for 15 Covid-interrupted years.
First we found a sturdy, affordable boat in the Caribbean. We sold our home in the United States and for the next four years lived aboard her, accumulating 6,000 nautical miles while cruising from one end of the Caribbean Sea to the other.
But the centerpiece of the dream was always sailing across the Atlantic and see Europe. So we set sail from Puerto Rico.
Day 7:
605 Nautical Miles. Winds shifting.
At 5:30 in the afternoon the winds pick up and shift from the north.
We can finally turn the boat eastward and head for Europe.
We have caught the winds! Azores here we come!
Day 10:
930 nautical miles. Winds beginning to slacken.
For the most part, Kairos is a very lonely speck in a vast sea with only the featureless horizon all around us. We expected that. Some sailors join fleets of similar boats on transatlantic passages. I suppose they like feeling the comfort of knowing other boats are nearby and making their passage in a community of other sailors.
Not so much Kairos. We sail alone, and having heard countless stories of other boats who made the passage, we expect to be alone. We have been told that most people don’t see another boat for weeks! Again, not so much for Kairos. We are surprised that we see another boat at least once a day, some coming within a few miles of us. Mostly they are container ships showing up on our AIS (Automatic Identification System), a radio signal that all large ships and many sailboats use for safety.
It isn’t exactly Los Angeles at rush hour, but we need to watch carefully to manage traffic. One of the dozen sailboats that pass is named Sea Ya. For more than a week, she stays within 20 miles of us on a similar track. One day, when the winds are shifting, we notice her slow down and soon the captain is calling us on the VHF radio to introduce himself. He is from the Netherlands and has singlehanded his boat around the world.
We say hi and promise to have a beer together when we both get to the Azores. In the end, he beats us to land by 6 hours, 600 miles after our first contact.
But for me the most surprising thing is the birds. A thousand miles from any land, I’m shocked to see birds. And at night we hear them. Out of the darkness a strange cry, almost like the cry of a child, first sent chills down my spine. Finally, we figure that it must be a bird because of the way the sound moves quickly across the dark sky.
Later, in the Azores we hear those birds again and find out their story. They are Cagarros and after hatching in the cliffs of the Azores, they live almost their entire 40 years of life out at sea. If you have a notion, check out the sounds they make at night in their cliffside nesting places on Youtube. Their strange calls will always be the soundtrack of our passage.
Day 13:
1300 nautical miles. Wind 13 knots.
Today we symbolically celebrate the middle of our trip – at least by estimated miles. We have a miniature bottle of Champagne that we pull out of the fridge and pour into glasses set aside for the occasion. First a little bit is poured over the side for Neptune, and then a toast.
It’s a small thing but amid the wonderful, life-giving monotony of life at sea, we cherish it.
Day 14:
1420 nautical miles Winds 12-17 knots.
Have you ever seen those pictures of guys (they are always guys) driving along a highway on their home riding mower? There are stories of people going across whole states at 4 miles per hour. That’s us, basically going the equivalent of Chicago to Seattle at the pace of your neighbor’s riding lawn mower. This is sailing, at least the way we want to do it, without stressing too much about making time. But the last 24 hours have been different – 155 nautical miles!
That’s a nose bleeding average of 6.458 nautical miles an hour! Be still my beating heart.
Day 16:
1687 nautical miles. No wind.
Well that didn’t last very long. Our weather advisors had been telling us to expect a low that would take away all the wind. We had the choice of turning on the engine and powering through, or to wait for the low to pass and catch the winds on the other side.
For us, it was a no-brainer – we are in no hurry. As someone reminds us later, there are no awards for arriving in the Azores with plenty of leftover fuel, but still we didn’t want to burn diesel just to avoid being adrift. We decided to lean into it.
For most of three days we are a bobbing cork on a flat, windless sea. We go swimming and for our evening cocktail use real glasses. We rest. A lot. A pod of dolphins comes by to check us out and it is so quiet we can clearly hear each breath they take. We even find a way to take a hot shower!
A few sailboats pass in the distance, obviously burning fuel, but we are too lethargic and settled to care. We are letting the boat live into the name we chose to give her. Kairos is a Greek word for time. Another Greek word for time, Chronos, means the appointed time or the exact time. Kairos on the other hand is about the right time. The proper time.
In choosing to name our boat Kairos, we were trying to live into a life governed not by doing things at the appointed time, but at the proper time.
If the wind’s not blowing, this sailboat’s not going. It isn’t the right time.
So we drift, alone in the middle of an endless horizon.
Tom Hay
