It felt like leaving home all over again when we sailed away from Gibraltar. What a curious and strangely comforting place it is. After months of broken English and over-reliance on Google Translate, it was wonderful to be fully understood. So much of communication lies not just in what’s said, but in how it’s said - and in the subtle nuances of the language. I’d struggled with some complex technical discussions with engineers coming to the boat or when trying to order an unusual part, but here in Gib, almost miraculously, people understood exactly what I wanted, and suddenly the simple things became easier again. Oh, the joys of being “home”! Where else in the world can you get a proper Sunday roast - complete with Yorkshire pudding - or walk into a Morrisons with such excitement to buy builders’ tea and baked beans? What joy the simple pleasures of life can bring. 

Photo - Sunday roast topped off with a Yorkshire pud!

Leaving Gibraltar from a nautical point of view was anything but dull. The Strait has one of the highest concentrations of shipping in the world, and you need to understand what every ship is doing - whether it’s at anchor, coming towards you, at what speed, and whether you’ve got time to get out of the way. It didn’t help that our chosen departure day came with a forecast of fog - just to add to the ever-present threat of orcas.

Some of you will know that orcas - also known as killer whales, though they’re actually the largest members of the dolphin family - have been attacking yachts in the Strait of Gibraltar and up the Iberian coast. The behaviour started several years ago and is believed to involve one or two adult females who have since passed it on to their young. No one really knows why; orcas are intelligent and normally peaceful elsewhere in the world. One theory is that the heavy fishing of tuna, their main food source, has changed their habits or frustrated them. Whatever the reason, their actions pose a real threat: they target a boat’s rudder with surprising precision, and several yachts have been damaged or sunk.

On Perdika we have a skeg-hung rudder, which is stronger and less exposed than the much more commonly damaged spade rudder - a lighter, free-hanging design found on many yachts. That offered some reassurance, though no boat of our size is entirely safe. Data from recorded encounters helped us plan our route across the Strait to Morocco and down the north-west tip of Africa. The records showed that very few incidents occur at this time of year if you keep close to the Moroccan coast in water less than 20 metres deep. That sounded fine, but I was surprised how close to shore that really is. With fog forecast and our AIS (Automatic Identification System, which tracks nearby ships) playing up, it made for a lively pre-departure briefing.


Damage to rudders courtesy of Yachtingmonthly.com and Halcyon Yachts. For publicly available video footage of these incidents, see @Reuters here and Halcyon Yachts here.

A challenge with sailing trips like this is learning not to let your mind run away with everything that could go wrong, but to stick to the facts. Not reckless, but calmly cautious. We’d done our research, we were in a strong boat, the AIS was working (for now), and the leg to Tangier was only 31 miles, with only intermittent fog forecast. So we left. 

Having an extra pair of eyes with Simon joining us was invaluable. The huge ships in the Strait, which looked almost stationary, were actually travelling at four or five times our speed and could be upon us much quicker than you’d think. Our route took us at right angles - 90 degrees - directly across the main shipping lane. Under the COLREGs (International Collision Regulations), you’re required to do this so you cross the heavy traffic in the shortest possible time. It felt a bit like playing chicken as we judged which ships we could safely cross ahead of and which we needed to tuck behind. Relative speed was everything, and working that out with a strong tide running beneath us made for an exhilarating couple of hours that kept us firmly on our toes. 

Our route across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier. Image courtesy of the International Maritime Organisation via www.gc.noaa.gov (11/12/06).

Although Morocco was only twelve miles from Gibraltar shore to shore where we crossed, it felt like stepping into another world. You could feel that as we approached the coastline, and the rolling fog, which was now closing in, added to the enchantment of what lay ahead. Europe had felt familiar, but now, sailing along the north coast of Africa, it seemed as though our real adventure was only just beginning.

Rachael’s covered our trip to Tangier, so I’ll pick up from our exit - challenging as it turned out to be. Tangier lies on the south-west tip of the Strait of Gibraltar, so our departure still had to be carefully timed with the tides. Anyone familiar with tides will know that the Strait makes fascinating reading, as none of it follows the usual rules. In that narrow strip of water, there are several different tidal streams, often running against each other, and you have to choose the one that suits you best.

Then there’s the wind - that part’s more straightforward, but you don’t want “wind over tide”, when the wind blows in the opposite direction to the tidal flow. That throws up short, choppy seas, and if you’re sailing against it, you’re in for a rough ride and not getting anywhere fast. So, planning the departure time from Tangier was crucial.

Tell that to the Tangier port police and customs, and they’ll laugh. We had already planned for getting out through customs to take a while, as they’d certainly “softened us up” to that coming in. So we gave ourselves plenty of time and went early to the customs dock to wait. And we waited… and waited… and waited. A few hours later, the inspectors finally did their bit, and we were free to leave - only an hour later than we had planned, fortunately, so the wind and tides were still good - not as good as they might have been, but good enough.

The next thing to watch out for was the orcas. We weren’t clear of their threat yet, and the usual trick of staying close to shore wouldn’t work, as the seas around the north-west tip of Morocco were confused and unpredictable and needed to be avoided before heading south. So we turned west into deeper water and sent out our happy thoughts to the orcas.

The wind was frustratingly gentle for this first stage of our five-day sail down to the Canaries. PredictWind, our default weather planner, had suggested heading due west, 80-100 miles before turning south, which should provide a healthy southerly breeze - good enough to carry us all the way to Lanzarote. This was one of those times you just had to trust the forecast. They’re pretty reliable these days, but it still felt counterintuitive to sail for a day and a night in a direction you didn’t want to go. But that’s sailing for you: a flight takes a few hours, sailing takes a few days, but it’s not the destination that counts - it’s all about the journey.

And what a journey. The promised wind did fill in the next day, and we hoisted that big kite with a wide grin. In 12 knots of southerly breeze, the boat skipped along at an average of 7 knots, and the motion was gentle and smooth. Time to just sit back and enjoy the ride. Life at sea in these conditions is truly beautiful. You are transported away from any life or worries on shore, focusing only on the day-to-day tasks of managing the sails, keeping a steady course, and making small adjustments for wind and tide, while enjoying the company on board. There’s a tranquillity and freedom you simply don’t find anywhere else.

It’s a five-day trip down to the Canaries, approximately 800 nautical miles. The ARC rally team call it a “shake-down cruise” before the big Atlantic crossing - the idea being that if you and your boat can get to the Canaries safely, you’re good enough to tackle the Atlantic. For us, the trip was gentle, not so much a shake-down as a chance to slow down into the rhythm of life at sea, at the pace the conditions allowed. We flew our “big kite” during the day - I just love that sail, now it’s been tamed.

Simon and I also had a go at flying our ballooner. It’s an unusual sail, particular to Amel yachts, although I guess it’s found elsewhere. It’s clever in that it mounts in the same “foil” as the genoa. The foil is the metal pole at the very front of the boat around which the sail wraps. Having two sails attached to the same foil is unusual, and it means you can wrap (to bring in or out) both sails simultaneously. That’s pretty cool in my mind, as it means you can sail dead downwind, with the wind exactly behind you, and if you get overpowered, you press a button and both sails furl in together. Bloody clever - or it will be, we haven’t quite mastered it yet. It’ll be ideal for our Atlantic crossing and trade wind sailing - that’s what it’s designed for.

Robin and Simon running the ballooner up the genoa foil.

Our route across the Atlantic will take us into the trade winds, which blow from behind. They’re aptly called the trade winds, as those were the winds that fuelled the trade between Europe and the Americas at a time when sailing boats couldn’t do much other than sail downwind. Our ballooner sail is also pretty impressive in that it can take stronger winds - 20-25 knots. That’s a huge amount more than the big kite can stand and perfect for the trade winds, which blow constantly around 20 knots.

Map of the world’s prevailing winds (trade winds in red). Image courtesy of Global Solo Challenge via Sailworld.com (29 July 2022).

To hoist the ballooner, you send up a “mouse” - a small hook that runs in a groove along the foil with the ballooner sail attached. This mouse magically clips into the top of the foil, and the halyard (the rope used to hoist the sail) can then be dropped back to the deck. If it didn’t, it would wrap around the sail when you lowered it, which you don’t want. You then send up another mouse to unhook the sail when you want to take it down. Clever, eh?

Genoa and ballooner ‘wing on wing’.

Anyway, I’m probably getting too technical, and you can tell there’s a fair bit to get right - or wrong. Simon and I gave it a go. Simon looked a bit anxious and asked, “What if it goes wrong?” “We’ll have to climb the mast,” I replied. “Or rather, I’ll have to climb the mast.” He looked a bit happier after that. So we gave it a go - and guess what? It went wrong. The sail went up fine, but we couldn’t get the halyard down. My bravado about climbing the mast was beginning to seep away.

Simon came to the rescue, realising we could probably drop both sails together - messy as that would be, as there’s not much room on deck. Fortunately, as we went to drop them both, the ballooner started to drop on its own - that mouse hadn’t quite clicked in after all. Having got away with it, we didn’t feel like trying again just yet. That’s a shame, as this sail really needs to be mastered for the Atlantic crossing, but more about that later.

The passage down to the Canaries soon settled into a steady rhythm, and we all enjoyed the ride. At one point, a huge pod of dolphins joined us, bobbing and leaping around the boat as if escorting us south. The days slipped by gently, with the big kite flying during daylight hours and the ballooner experiments safely stowed for now.

On the fifth day, the blue sky was broken by a flat line of cloud in the distance - often the first sign of land - and sure enough, the faint outline of Lanzarote’s mountains emerged from the morning mist. We still had a fair way to go, and by late afternoon we were rounding the north-east tip of the island, heading for the marina about ten miles down the coast.

As darkness fell, Lanzarote lit up with the lights of Arrecife, the capital, and we approached the harbour entrance. It wasn’t quite time to relax just yet. Arrecife harbour is built on a series of reefs, with a tight and lengthy passage to the marina basin.

Although the passage is well lit, with green lights to starboard and red to port, the backdrop of multiple coloured city lights makes it tricky to pick out the correct channel. Rocks line either side, so caution is essential. It all made for an exhilarating end to a wonderful journey.

The marina staff were ready for us, and at that point no customs formalities were required - we could do that in the morning. We slipped into our berth, tied up, and uncorked a bottle of fizz. It had been a wonderful passage, leaving us deeply content and grateful for calm seas, good company, and the quiet satisfaction of a journey well made.

With our Atlantic crossing departure due in just over a week, Rachael will post an update on our preparations as we ready Perdika for the big adventure ahead.