It was time to go.

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Our original plan had been to sail from Gibraltar to Madeira, spend a few days in Madeira, then continue on to Las Palmas. The crossing to Madeira is about 5 days, then another 2 to Gran Canaria. It had become clear, however, that the weather had other ideas. The forecast for the coming week was dire. There were storms coming in from the east (we left Gibraltar the day Valencia and the rest of southern Spain was inundated by catastrophic rains), but there was also an evil looking westerly facing us once we got out of the strait, and it looked like it was going to stick around for a while. If we were going to get to Las Palmas with any extra time to prepare for our Atlantic crossing, we needed to go directly there. We were going to have to postpone our plans for wine tastings.

We knew it was going to be a rough start (viz., description above), and for the first time in a very long time the predictions matched the conditions. It was ugly out there. We’re such a tiny wee boat! And there are so many monster ships in the Strait of Gibraltar! We hugged the coast of the peninsula as long as we could, then had to start crossing the shipping lanes. You may remember my description of crossing the Athens shipping lanes last September. That was Candyland.

We’ve got a bit more experience these days, so my first reaction was not to throw my apron over my head and babble senselessly. Tempting, but no. It was very windy, cold, and we were in high seas. With the rain, visibility was terrible in the early grey light, and there was traffic on both sides barreling through the lanes. No, first I watched the gleam come into Peter’s eyes. Then I realized it was matched by the maniacal smile on Nelson’s face. It hit me. I was setting out on a 6-day ocean passage with two madmen.

We crossed to the Moroccan side of the strait without being keel hauled by a crude oil tanker, and then started down the coast. For that first day and night we were close enough to see the pinpricks of city lights in the night, but not close enough to feel any illusory safety that comes from knowing if you absolutely had to you might be able to swim to shore if you don’t get eaten by sharks or orcas first.

The west coast of Africa is very, very long. I know that because the second day, the wind died, and then stayed dead. We motored for DAYS. We couldn’t even use the parasail, never mind the main or genoa. Occasionally a little breeze would tickle our noses or fluff a lock of hair. We’d all perk up like labradors sensing someone’s left the refrigerator door ajar, only to find that within minutes it would sighhhh and disappear.

Eventually there was enough to motor sail. In the meantime, we were all starting to feel as though the engines were revving inside our brains, shaking our bodies, and there was no escape. Yep, just a little bit nuts.

But don’t worry, he said. In the crossing to St. Lucia, we’ll have steady, reliable trade winds the whole way. Hmph. Remember that.

We had some diversions. Flying fish felt the need to fling themselves onto our decks overnight. Stiff and stinky by morning, it was a daily reminder that there is a ton of life under our hulls, and the drama involved us. They might escape the jaws of dolphins, but they couldn’t get themselves back to the sea. I resolved to do an hourly tour of the decks overnight to toss back any I found still alive, but that lasted zero nights after remembering how exhausted passages leave me. Poor little fellas. They were going to have to either get themselves back in or die trying.

Less depressing were the little birds who joined us along the way. My Merlin app told me these were Iberian Chiff Chaffs (so of course they were adorable – a name like that??), and it was clear these little guys were exhausted. Not from migrating, or however they got to the boat in the first place. Nope, they spent all night every night mobbing our tricolor light on top of the mast – like moths, but less suicidal. By morning all they could do was find a quiet spot in the cockpit or at the helm or on Nelson’s hat and just sit there dazed and looking cute.

Don’t forget the dolphins. We had several visitations along the way and honestly, dolphins never get old.

On the fifth day Lanzarote came into view. We were finally getting close. The sixth day we could see Gran Canaria wayyyy off in the distance. As the day wore on the island took its sweet time getting closer. Then I heard Peter yelp out on the trampoline and peered beyond to where he was pointing. There were dozens of dolphins out in front of us, and they were coming right at us! Until they got to us, when they did their nifty little kick turns and took us in hand, leading us into Las Palmas. It was magic. We arrived in the heavy dusk of Day 6, anchored outside of Marina de Las Palmas, and after a champagne toast and some giddy high fives, fell bonelessly into bed.

Up next: Exploring Las Palmas and Gran Canaria