Espana 1

 

Fortune smiles upon Stargazer, for her passage south to Spain.

She is reaching, under cruising chute, in the fervently wished for, but better than forecast, twelve knots true.

Making close to seven knots.

Thirty nautical miles out, from the Gironde, Stargazer is holding her own with Roxanne. Although, admittedly, we have 'cut the corner' through the (inactive for the weekend) Landes Firing Range . Stargazer is following a midway track, for Laredo. Keeping Bilbao or Santander open as options.

 Whereas Roxanne, a fifty five foot, X-Yacht, out of the Netherlands, is either playing it cautiously with the range limits ; or following the rhumb line to Gijon. (The latter proves to be the case).

We both left Port Medoc, at high water. Dodging astern of the Port Bloc Ferry.

The breeze too light to pull the wrinkles out of the chute. But sufficient, with the tidal assistance, to give Stargazer three to four knots.

Slowly we inch our way past the Cordouan light. Mentally recalculating our passage time, at our current speed (forty eight hours). Hoping for the breeze to fill in.

Our compensation comes in the form of an almost complete lack of swell. Just enough to roll this passing fishing boat over to port. Insufficient to disturb the set of Stargazer's sails.

Through the afternoon and evening the breeze builds. Stargazer is making close to eight knots, under full main and genoa, in twenty one knots of true wind.

 For the first time, in Stargazer's (and my) cruising career we are 'Off Soundings.' Beyond the Continental Shelf. The ocean floor, at two kilometres, too deep for the depth guage to register.

The sea darkens to a rich indigo, flecked with white, as the sun slips toward the horizon. 

Pelagic trawlers pace to and fro, patrolling the line of up-welling waters, just beyond the shelf boundary. Dolphins leap and sport, between fish snacks. Their bodies shimmering golden, in the light of the setting sun.

Stargazer is throwing a fine rooster-tail wake, as she rides the swell. Making nine and a half to ten knots, on the sleigh-ride surfs. Exhilarating sailing, in daylight. But I take a precautionary single reef, before nightfall.

The sun sets. With enough red fire in its belly to delight a flock of shepherds.

Stargazer forges south under a kaleidoscope canopy of swirling stars.

The wind eases to twelve knots, in the small hours. Backing from north to north east. I shake the reef out. Gybing, to keep the wind at one hundred and thirty degrees (and the genoa just drawing). Until, in the dawn twilight, I am able to set the spinnaker pole, to run wing-on-wing. Back on course.

The High Picos, wreathed in a cloud cover of their own making, are already visible, fifty miles out.

As night grudgingly yields its monochrome pallet to the technicolour day.

The foggy coastal veil only reluctantly reveals its mysteries: Rugged Atlantic cragginess taken to hitherto unimaginably (by me, at any rate) exuberant excess. 

A soaring cliffscape, riven with plunging valleys. Lush from the rainfall, wrung from the seaborne cloud. Forced high, to hurdle the mountain tops.

Stargazer runs in. Beneath the green crowned, orange dappled, wave-furrowed face of Punta del Fraile. Before the silhouetted ridges and summits of the High Picos, marching in ranks to the far horizon. Toward a golden line of sand, which is Laredo. 

Picture Credits

Roxanne courtesy of Corinne Keizer