Day 17 - Swimming in the Deep End

This morning is beautiful. Serene. The sun rises while the moon sets. By now the moon is gone. There's almost no wind and the sea is calm. So calm. No waves and just the soft light of the morning sun give the waves and the water a hypnotic effect. The color of deep blue, of thousands of meters, of nothing, of the depths below. The waters seem tranquil and at peace. I sit there, listening to Hania Rani, watching the clouds, the rain in the distance, and smile, at bliss, at peace, happy, slightly tired. I smile at this universe, always there, eternal, the beauty of the cosmos, of the little things, of moments like this, the music seems ethereal, fitting the quiet surroundings, only the soft tuck tuck of the engine and the sploshing of the water piercing through the silence. It would be perfect without the engine, but then we would not move. By now the sun is orange, the clouds glow softly. Patterns on the waves, slowly moving back and forth, iridescent, shimmering, glittering, mesmerizing, hypnotic, soothing, calm, like liquid metal, gold poured into mercury, like the sea is alive and breathing, like it has always been there, mother of all, like home, who knows what lies beneath? A window in the sky opens up, a glimpse of heaven. A moment of peace. Of quiet. Awe induced my the magnificence of nature. The vastness of clouds and oceans, of their pure beauty, the stillness within their movement, like the world and I are holding our breaths together to appreciate this moment.

At some point Christian tucks his head through the window and greets me good morning. The sun is still beautiful, but Christians grin tells me something better is about to happen. He's just like, no wind still huh? And I'm like, yup no wind. And he just turns off the motor and the quietness is complete. No sound, almost no movement, the boat sitting there amidst a sea of gold and mercury, the waves settling, no more motor noise. And then Christian disappears, and comes back with his swimming pants on and says: "Yo, I'm going for a swim now". My own smile widens to match that of Christian. We make less than 1 knot in the water and it's beautiful morning sun. Rebecca also looks out of the main hatch and I excitedly tell her about our plans. And then we all go for a swim. Christian first, taking the jump into the cold water.

Seeing him outside of the boat there is surreal. It looks so weird, because there is nothing there, only the boat and the blue. Christian swims back and I jump from the railing. It's a bit hard because you have nothing to hold on to and the boat is rolling quite a bit left to right because it's not moving and therefore aligns itself with the waves. Once in the water Thalassophobia, the fear of the unknown lurking in the depths kicks in. Looking down below the boat there is nothing but deep deep blue water. We are approximately 5000 meters above the seafloor. Thinking about this makes my stomach turn and I can't handle looking into the abyss like this. It's too simple to imagine a giant shark or some other creature lurking there, coming up to eat me and my primal brain kicks in telling me to get the heck back onto the boat. But I jump back in a couple more times, the water is simply too refreshing and looks so beautiful and not terrifying from up above. Rebecca joins in too, belly flopping into the water from the railing. I even do some crooked backflips for the fun of it. And Rebecca even has a water proof phone case and takes her phone into the water to take some pictures of us and the boat. Unfortunately the water proof bag wasn't as water proof in the end and now her phone seems to be broken.

But to take the pictures she swims away a little bit from the boat and then the wind picks up again. Not much, just 3-4 knots more but it's enough to make the boat move. And Rebecca is swimming, but somehow not moving towards the boat.

Seeing her there, from the perspective of the boat at a stand still, paddling and swimming for her life, makes me on board panic. We turn on the motor and turn around to get her. But to see how little chance of movement one has compared to the 1.5 knots the boat was making is scary. Imagining that the boat can easily make 7-8 knots is even weirder. A human is just a tiny speck in the forces of the ocean. Meaningless. Incomprehensibly tiny. Marginal. This scale and force is awe inducing and extremely humbling. And yet we sit on a boat and conquered this extreme body of water. We're almost there now, just mere hours away from seeing land again. Having spent the last 18 days at sea make this feeling of excitement well-earned.

After the morning swim I go back to sleep and it's refreshingly cold and I sleep extremely well for a change. When I come back up it's already lunch time and I prepare the leftovers from the day before. Then Christian makes some kickass dessert.

It's Rebecca's sweet brownie cake from the day before, with vanilla Joghurt, some pineapple and dried strawberries. It tastes delightful and the smile of the morning is back on my face. Here we are, living the life of kings, out on the ocean in the middle of nowhere. Literally every day we had amazing food and beautiful things to see and do. Little adventures, hardships and challenges to overcome and lots and lots of beautiful moments and memories. Thinking back through the days makes my heart fill up with gratitude and tears of joy come into my eyes. It's been such a magical time and I am sad that we will be in Guadeloupe tomorrow already.

The rest of the day I spend painting things. At first Rebecca wanted to have a portrait of her, and I said, uh screw it, why not. I'm bad at painting people, especially faces, but I need to practice, so here we go. A while later I produced a small sketch of her .

Then after that I start the next painting for Christian. This time I wanted to paint the Tarpan, his boat, in stormy weather, as a memory and something to hang on his little wall of pictures and nick nacks. And so I paint for the next hour or so, until the sun starts slowly setting in the background. I like the result. It's not the best painting I ever made, but not the worst either, though I fucked up the A of Tarpan because the paint was not quite dry and so the pen slipped.

Before the sun completely set we put out the sails, to catch a little bit of wind. This time Rebecca and I put them out under my direction, and we did it with only a few small corrections from Christian but basically "on our own". It felt like a true accomplishment, rebuilding the entire sail setup, back to our trusty old butterfly configuration, also known as a "Passat" sail. When we were done we had enough wind to go the same speed that we did before with the motor on and we sailed into the last sunset of this Transatlantic journey in piece and quiet. And what a magnificent sunset it was.

Sitting there on the deck, in the wind, watching the sails and the clouds, thinking about the journey, tranquility.

For dinner we ate the bread from the day before. With freshly made hummus and a platter of little goodies. Salami sausage, pickles, cheese, beetroot and bell peppers. Mixing and matching, each to their own taste. While cooking I had beautiful jazzy music on the speakers. Dancing in the kitchen to Bossa Nova, singing. This is life.

Finally I told Rebecca my "best travel story". I had promised to tell her this one since the day we met and started trading travel stories. And today felt right. And so I told her of the Tuk Tuk adventure that Flo and I lived, when we were both 19. And how we bought and drove a Rickshaw all over India, and how this was the best, most rad thing I have ever done. Now the sailing trip might make that number two, I am not sure.

But now I am just sitting here, alone, during my last night watch of this trip, letting it all pass revue in my mind. And I must say, my oh my, what a trip this Atlantic crossing has been. Full of beauty. Smiles, laughs, good memories and vibes.

But, I'm glad to finally reach the other side too. The anticipation of land under my feet, of internet, a good shower, a full night of sleep. There are so many small things waiting. And I'm happy and sad at the same time. What a mixed jumble of feelings, but one thing is sure: I'll miss this boat and our little crew.