1984 (8) – Leaving the Azores

Coeur de Lion, Krystal's home.  Getting ready to participate in the regatta.

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

We loved the Azores, and had considered wintering there, but learned from other boat people that the Azores had a long, damp, dreary winter, with the possibility of severe storms.  Toward the end of the season, as the excitement of the summer came to an end, Othon would have liked to see us stay on, and have me continue as his student.  Since Ed wasn’t interested in scrimshaw, Othon had come up with something for Ed to do - building dinghies for Othon and a few other people.  But the thought of the long winter, in an unsafe harbor, discouraged us from staying.

The end of Horta's tourist season was celebrated with an annual festival called "Sea Week."  The climax of the week was a regatta.  All yachts were not only invited, but also encouraged, to participate.  If a yacht completed the course of twenty miles in five hours, the crew received a free case of Pico wine.  Despite that dubious incentive, Tropic Moon (with her lazy crew), sat at her mooring, while over 30 yachts - 80-90% of those there - were out earning their wine, and maybe a trophy or two.

The island of Pico, in the background.  Source of really cheap wine.

Sea Week in Horta ended with a bang - a beautiful display of fireworks over the harbor.  Our preparations for departure began in earnest.  We sailed out of Horta on August 16th.  On August 25th we made our landfall at Cape St. Vincent, Portugal (the southwesternmost tip of Europe).  Rounding the point, we dropped the anchor in the bay at Sagres.  A few days later I was trying to write home about the passage, and I couldn't think of a thing to say. 

Turning to Ed, I asked, "What happened on the trip here from the Azores?"

Ed:  "Nothing."

Me:  "That's what I thought."

An uneventful passage, favorable winds, gently rolling seas, sailing all the way, but with the engine running a couple hours each night to keep the batteries charged.  As a result of the miserable trip from Bermuda to the Azores, feeling a certain amount of tension waiting for the feathers to hit the fan, but they never did.  Nine days and 944 miles.  No dolphins, but three turtles seen on different days, dog-paddling westward across the ocean. Seeing them made me feel like we were doing it the easy way!  Crossing the north-south shipping lane off the western coast of Europe, just where the chart said it would be; tracking the lights of several tankers and freighters during our night watches.  And, once in Portugal, a sense of accomplishment, as well as a huge feeling of relief that the Atlantic was finally behind us.

1984 (7) - Scrimshaw

Scrimshaw by Othon Silveira.  Internet photo.

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

When I look back on our time in the Azores, what I'll remember most are the days I spent at Othon Silveira's shop.  Many yachties - American, French, British, and German - ended up making the trip along the bay road.  Othon's very small basement shop was generally jammed with people.  Othon spoke Portuguese, French and English fluently, and knew some Spanish and German.  His scrimshaw work - whaling scenes, square-rigged sailing ships, dolphins, and the like, were really beautiful.

Detail from one tooth.  See Othon's name?  Between the whale's tail
and the ship.  Internet Photo.

While in Antigua, about four years before, we had met a British couple, Jill and David, aboard their 28-foot sailboat, Different Drummer.  Jill was helping support them by selling her scrimshaw work - carvings on whale's teeth.  I bought a pendant from Jill.  In conversation, Jill had mentioned she and David had met a man in the Azores, who had taught her the art of scrimshaw.

My pendant, carved by Jill White.

I asked Othon if he knew Jill White. 

"Jill? She is like a sister to me, and David is like a brother!  Do you know them?" 

So I told him my story; the next time I visited I wore Jill's pendant to show him.  I brought Ed with me to place our order.  Another time I brought Krystal, a friend from the yacht Coeur de Lion.  Each visit Othon said to me, as he did to everyone, "Come back anytime, no need to buy.  Just visit.  Why don't you try scrimshaw?"  The fact that I couldn't draw didn't seem to faze him.  Krystal and I soon became students, at no cost for either lessons or materials.  We learned to cut and polish the whale's teeth, as well as do the etchings. 

The bird I carved - with a fair bit of help from Othon!

***

My other carved pendant.

Lunch on the patio with Othon and his wife, Zita - and whatever other folk were in the shop - became a daily ritual.  Krystal and I contributed home-baked breads, salads, and desserts to go with Zita's meals of fresh tuna, fresh fried sardines, local sausage, omelets, cheese, tomato salads, and the local wine from Pico, the neighboring island.

I bought two pendants, and one tooth, from Othon. 
I loved this beautiful sailing ship!

As the summer season drew to a close, and most of the boats continued on to Europe, Othon began to relax after the pressures of a very busy few months.  Krystal and I continued as students.  Krystal's husband often came along with us, to cut and polish the teeth, as well as help Othon consume copious amounts of the Pico wine.  One time Othon decided to demonstrate the alcoholic content of the wine, and poured a large puddle of it on the basement floor.  He lit it with a match.  We had quite a fire burning in a basement cluttered with benches, cupboards, and stacks of newspapers and magazines!  Luckily, we didn't burn down the house.

Dolphin, carved by Othon.

Another day, Othon decided to go through his inventory of old whale's teeth.  We pulled out boxes and boxes of teeth from under the benches, and dragged them to the patio that opened off the basement.  Someone - probably Othon - got the crazy idea of burying him with the teeth, like one might bury someone in the sand at the beach.  When we had finished the job, Othon - tucked into a corner wall of the patio - was buried under a mound of whale's teeth up to his neck, with only his head still showing.

The tooth Othon carved for us.  He added Tropic Moon's name.

***

A second view of the tooth.

***

Detail.

1984 (6) – A Failure to Communicate

The bay road to Othon's home.

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

Early on in our stay in Horta, I heard of a local man who did scrimshaw work.  I was given vague directions on how to reach his house.  (Cross the hill and follow the bay road out of town a ways.  The number is 53-A, and there's no sign in front).  Right.  So one adventurous day I set off across the hill and started following the bay road.  House numbers stopped and started, but then seemed to run steady.  I finally reached no. 53.  Next door was a big white building with no entrance in front, and then a cross street.  Nothing looked promising, so I stopped a lady on the street. 

"Bom dia!" (Good day).  It would, of course, have helped immensely if I could have spoken Portuguese, but since I couldn't, I tried the word "scrimshaw" on her.  Total incomprehension.  I pointed at my teeth, said "whale" and "scrimshaw," and finally she smiled.  She motioned "Come."  Chattering in Portuguese, she led me to the back of the white building - which turned out to be a Mercedes-Benz repair garage. 

The bay road to Othon's home.

About ten men were standing around.  After determining that none of them spoke English, she told them something in Portuguese, and then left.  I did my pantomime for them, tugging on a tooth.  There was a lot of smiling and nodding.  From the words coming back at me, I suddenly realized I was going to be sent to a dentist! 

"No, no, no!"  Wave the arms.  Try again.  Spread my arms.  "Big whale."  Point out to sea.  Pull on tooth.  "Scrimshaw."  Make the shape of a pendant against my chest. 

The light went on in one man's face, and he started yelling, "Othon! Othon!"  He motioned me to follow him into an office.  There he picked up the phone, dialed, spoke to someone in Portuguese, and then handed the phone to me. 

Close-up of the beautiful buildings.

"Hello?" 

Boy, was I relieved to hear English!  I told the man my predicament; he gave me directions to where I wanted to go.  (Another 600 meters along the bay road, past the fish factory, a sea wall on the left, then the fourth house, No. 53-A).  At the end of the conversation, I finally realized I was speaking with the man I was going to visit. 

He confirmed it, "Yes, I am Othon."

1984 (5) - Ed’s Letter from the Azores

Horta, in the Azores

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

Greetings from the Azores,

Jeanie and I have been in Horta for a week and a half now, and it has only been these last couple days we feel like we have recovered from the trip.  The biggest problem was conditioning ourselves to sleep more than four hours at a time.  We found it annoying that we couldn’t sleep through the night, and were taking extensive naps in the mornings and afternoons.  But now the naps are less, and we are sleeping better at night.  It is a shame we will have to go to sea again, and throw another monkey wrench into the biological clock.

We regret not calling, but the telephone connection is so bad, no conversation can be carried on.  Only the most necessary information can be communicated.  Apparently, the phone link is by cable from here to Lisbon, and then somehow it makes its way across the Atlantic.  When Jeanie called her parents, it literally required lots of yelling on both ends to make oneself heard.  The overseas telephone is in the post office, rather than at a telegraph or cable company office, so it is probably a government, rather than a private service.

Horta, in the Azores

Our passage of 21 days was comparable to other sailors leaving Bermuda at the same time we did.  Recently, boats have been arriving in 14-16 days.  It’s a question of first, having wind, and then deciding how hard to push.  In our case, we did not have good winds at all.  In fact, the wind was in front of us all the way, except for a few days at the start.  Then it was not blowing hard enough to keep the sails full on a broad reach, given the five-foot westerly swell.

We left Bermuda, on July 1^st, in a light southwest breeze, which veered to west, and died after three days.  Then we had 2-1/2 days of calms (winds less than 3-5 knots, from the west, with an incessant swell, rather than flat calm, but no use for sailing).  At this point, we were almost one week out, and had just made 5 degrees of easting.  Since we had 36 degrees of easting to make, this was most discouraging.

Horta, in the Azores

At this time, the weather pattern was looking odd.  The Azore’s high was centered up at 41 degrees North, and a high-pressure ridge extended down through the Carolinas and Bermuda.  On Saturday, July 7^th, this system broke apart, with the high breaking through the ridge to establish its own circulation.  Since it was centered north of us, we got SE wind.  For the next several days, the forecast was for this high to drift south and east.  So we kept waiting for the wind to move into the south, and free us up a bit.  But, on each succeeding day, the weather report showed the high to be drifting east – as fast as we were sailing.  The forecast kept predicting southerly movement; the high kept moving east.  We kept beating into the wind….   But we made good progress during this time, reaching the halfway point on or about July 12^th.

The next day, Friday the 13^th, we were in the midst of a gale.  The wind and seas were freshening all day.  The weather report was only for 20-30 knot winds.  Then on the afternoon forecast, there was suddenly a gale centered 200 miles northwest of us.  In the next hour, the sun went away, the wind continued to get stronger, and the seas larger.  We hove the boat to, under mizzen (later, reefed mizzen), and storm jib, rigged on the inner forestay.  The gale (35-45 knots of wind, probably) lasted till midnight.  The rain started coming in squalls, and they got stronger and stronger.  Finally, about 11:00 p.m., after one particularly vicious squall, everything stopped.  Nothing tapered off – it just stopped.  No wind, no rain – but clouds and waves persisted.  One would have thought we were in the eye of a hurricane.  We rolled around the rest of the night.  By morning, the sun came out, a favorable breeze sprang up, and - in two hours - we were becalmed again, as the breeze died to 3 knots from the west.

During the gale, quite a few waves would smash into the side of the hull, and send a wall of water up over the cabin top.  We discovered that water rushing along the roof of the salon would come squirting in the companionway hatch, and the vent hatch in the salon.  While we got damp in the salon, all the berths stayed dry, so we really were not that uncomfortable.

Horta, in the Azores

Having hoped for a fair breeze on the backside of the gale, I was disappointed when it proved to be too weak to sail.  My consternation grew the next day when the wind was still too weak to sail, but added to the problems was a very short (two boat lengths) easterly swell.  The weather reports gave no indication of what might be generating this new feature.  And we were getting fog in the mornings.  I suppose it should not have been surprising the next day, after a particularly dense fog on the 4-to-8 watch in the morning, the wind filled in from the northeast.  Up went the sails; three hours later, down came the mainsail.  After lunch, we changed to a smaller jib, amidst rain that, for all intents and purposes, looked like a New England northeaster.  Our course was unfavorable against the head winds.  We were pounding into the heavy seas, so we hove to again.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped, the sky was still overcast, and the wind was still northeast.  So we started sailing southeast.  I assumed there must be a low off to the southeast, hopefully moving northeast faster than us.  This was based on the fact that we sailed into this thing, but I didn’t think we sailed through it.  Anyway, I hoped the wind would soon shift into the north.

In the end, the clearing came out of the west-northwest, and the wind continued northeast, but again, lost its oomph.  I was not particularly happy with our situation.  We were 200 miles from our destination, and 35 miles south of it, while the wind and seas were from the northeast.  Tropic Moon does not go to windward well.  It looked like getting to the Azores was going to be like pulling teeth.

Horta, in the Azores

The powers that be must have taken pity.  The wind shifted some.  We found ourselves going east instead of southeast.  So now we were 100 miles away, and still 30 miles south.  Each mile we went east, the more north-northwest the wind was going to have to shift, if we were to make the island.  But shift it did that last day.  At 4:00 a.m. boat time, on Sunday, July 22^nd, the islands were visible – right in front of us – 15-20 miles away.  The winds had delivered us right where we wanted to go.

The harbor here at Horta is not very good.  The bottom is rocky, so anchoring is a chancy proposition.  We are on a mooring at the moment, which is better, but I would not trust the mooring in a blow.  So we have decided we will move on, and not winter here.  We will probably leave in the next week or so for Gibraltar or, perhaps, southern Portugal.  Wherever we stop, we should be able to receive mail, as there should be no pressure from the weather to move on.

1984 (4) - Azores Interlude

A busy day at the beach!  

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

The Azores, volcanic in origin, with impressive cliffs and mountain peaks, are thought by some people to be the remains of the legendary continent of Atlantis.  While that may be rather far fetched, the islands do seem to be a bit of paradise stuck out there in the middle of nowhere.  The archipelago consists of nine islands scattered over a distance of 375 miles from Corvo to Santa Maria.

The harbor at Horta where we anchored.

Horta, the main town on the island of Faial, is the only decent, safe port in the whole archipelago and is, therefore, the meeting place for yachts on the west-to-east Atlantic crossing.  We were told that, the year before, in 1983, 600 yachts had visited the Azores.

Horta.

More temperate than tropical, the islands are given over to agriculture.  Viewed from a distance, the hillsides appear to be patchwork quilts of cultivated fields.  During our wanderings on foot, we discovered that windbreaks planted with sugar cane form the distinctive outlines of the fields.  The flowers of the Azores seemed more subdued than Bermuda's.  Rather than riots of color, we found the cool purples, blues and whites of hydrangeas blooming in profusion.

The anchorage is visible in the background.

Fruits and vegetables are grown on the islands.  We feasted on fresh pineapple, yellow plums, large purple grapes, small, thin bananas, and tomatoes, onions, carrots, potatoes, cucumbers and cabbage.  Cheese, locally produced, sold in small or large wheels, and the fresh bread and rolls from the bakery, were special treats.

Local transportation.

The Azores belong to Portugal, and the "coin of the realm" was the escudo.  Yachties, always concerned about money, walk around in shock their first couple days in Horta, exclaiming over how unbelievably cheap everything was.  We found a typical restaurant meal - rolls with butter and cheese, meat or fish with potatoes and rice, sliced tomatoes, a bottle of wine or a couple beers, dessert and tip - to run to about $6.00 for the two of us.  The moorings were free, on a first come, first served basis; it cost us all of 80 cents to clear Customs.

Faial was a marvelous island for hiking.

After our stay of nine months in Nantucket, we were rather well seeped in the lore of the old whaling town, and life aboard the whaling ships.  In Nantucket, whaling was viewed from an historical vantage point, but in the Azores, whaling was still an active lifestyle.  Many mornings we popped our heads out of the hatch to see the whaling longboat (sails and oars, no motor), and its crew being towed out of the harbor - meaning that whales had been spotted offshore.  In the Azores they generally captured about 60 whales a year.  The whales were processed on the island of Pico, a near neighbor to Faial.  Fortunately, with increased environmental awareness, the islanders had decided to give up whaling.  The last whale was taken during our visit in 1984.

The whaling boat, being towed out of the harbor. 
Hard to believe such a small boat was used to capture a whale.

1984 (3) - Drugged

Small art quilt.  15" in diameter.

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

The amount of equipment on Tropic Moon, and our knowledge of how to handle her, had increased immeasurably over the years.  Thanks to a new autopilot, as well as an improved wind vane, during our passage across the Atlantic, we were almost never at the wheel.  If there was no wind and we were motoring, the autopilot was set to follow a compass course, and we putt-putted sedately in the correct direction.  Sailing with light winds and moderate seas, the autopilot usually still got the nod because it took a certain force of wind to make the wind vane effective.  In heavy seas the autopilot lost control, and then the wind vane, an excellent helmsman in strong winds, took over.  Sometimes the wind vane and the autopilot were used in combination.  And, while we were hove to during the gale, and the wheel was lashed off, they both took a well-deserved break.

On the three-week passage from Bermuda to the Azores, Ed did all of the sail changes, all the navigation, listened to our new single side band radio for the "high seas" weather reports, stood his watches, and even cooked some of the meals when I couldn't handle things in the galley.  I stood my watches, cooked the rest of the meals, and kept up with the dishes.  Ed told me I was a failure on the trip, and, as a sailor, I certainly felt I was.  My general mental state was one of numbness and lethargy.  Whatever I had hoped to gain from the passage was far out of my reach.  My only special moments were the few times when dolphins joined Tropic Moon and played about the boat. 

Swan.  Detail.

On watch, I kept a lookout for ships, but seemed incapable of noticing anything else.  Ed told me if the mast fell down, I probably wouldn't notice.  He was proven out on the last day of the trip when the mainsail ripped a seam near the top of the sail, leaving a section flapping in the wind.  I went off watch without seeing it.  At the end of each watch, we would take note of the log, to see how many miles we had made, and enter it in the logbook.  The log was in the middle of the knot meter, the same way a car odometer is located on the speedometer.  I would read the mileage, but not notice what speed we were doing.  As we changed watch, Ed would invariably ask me our speed, and I wouldn't know.  Several watches went by before I was able to click my mind into gear to also take note of our speed.

Looking back on that time, I put a good deal of the blame on the drugs I was using to combat seasickness.  I wore patches containing scopolamine on my neck, and changed them every three days, pumping more and more of the drug into my system.  We have since heard horror stories of what happened to people taking scopolamine.  I was dangerously drugged, and neither of us realized it at the time. 

At one point, during one of my watches, the wind had died.  Fighting my lethargy, I decided to take down the luffing mainsail.  It was a pleasant day, and I climbed onto the fore deck without attaching my safety harness.  Using the winch handle, I released the pressure on the mainsail, and the sail quickly began to fall to the deck.  I had had only one hand on the winch handle, and the force of the falling sail, pulling on the halyard, spun the winch handle out of my hand, and sent it flying across the deck.  Rather than let things take their course, I reached with my left hand and grabbed the wire halyard to slow down the speed of the falling sail.  I burned my palm on the wire, and then stood there, holding onto the halyard, unable to reach the winch handle, and at a total loss as to what I should do next.  I ended up yelling for Ed, who was pretty upset when he saw the fix I’d gotten myself into.  In essence, I simply wasn't able to think clearly, and make reasonable judgments on how to handle different situations.

On the morning of July 22^nd, I had my usual midnight to 4:00 a.m. watch.  While I was aware we would be approaching, and probably arriving at the Azores that day, all I saw ahead in the darkness were clouds on the horizon.  By that time I had little interest in our progress, and was having trouble making myself go out on deck to do the occasional checks.  When I did make my final check at 4:00 a.m., dawn had broken, some of the clouds had lifted, and the sun was rising from the sea behind the islands, highlighting them in impressive silhouettes.  Appearing directly ahead - and far closer than I had expected for our first "land ho" - it was as if some nautical magician had whipped off a magic cloth, planting majestic islands in our path.  It was an almost unbelievable, but very welcome sight.  Later that morning, after three weeks at sea, we made our port of call at Horta, in the Azores, in the middle of the big, blue Atlantic Ocean - 2500 miles, and four time zones, to the east of Washington, D.C.