Voyage 2022/2023

I've been struck by ship fever again. The longing I felt since I disembarked two years ago in May had slowly faded away. That tugging feeling in my chest when I watched the live broadcast on Facebook a year ago as the Tres Hombres set sail for the Caribbean from Den Helder. Now it's gripping me again. But this time it feels better because, just like three years ago, I'll be on board.

Rain, energy levels at "exhausted." The others staying at the Stella Maris are also are slumped tiredly on the benches. I was just at the ship. The riggers are also working on Sunday, protected by a makeshift tarpaulin. Time is pressing: as long as everything is not right with the rigging, a motorless ship cannot set sail. One or two details of the interior fittings can also be completed at sea or in a harbour (with a correspondingly limited selection of "correct" screws, see below, which encourages improvisation). And in a week's time, when the wind is right (currently a strong south-westerly is forecast, not exactly ideal for crossing the English Channel), the optimists believe that we should finally be able to set sail.

The day before yesterday, I moved onto the Tres Hombres. Perhaps a little early, as the smell of the fresh paint was still quite strong on the first night. But at least I was finally able to gather all my belongings in one place. I had left my duffel bag on the rigging floor above the metal workshop on the pier, slept on the Stella Maris, and we ate on the Earl of Pembroke, which is about to being scrapped. So now all of us who will be sailing are concentrated on our ship. Yesterday, the cargo hold was finished, the library has already been cleared out, the table for the nautical charts has been assembled, the captain has sorted the ship's medicine chest, and we're actually ready to go.

Together we push the "Tres Hombres" from the pier to the jetty in Den Helder, from where we can start more easily.

"Daniel!" - ... - "Daniel!! Whatchchange". Change of guard. For better or worse, I have to wake up. Light on. I put on my socks and long thermal underpants while still lying down and head out through the navigation room to the toilet in the stern. The port watch has got into the habit of holding the door to the toilet open for me - a kindness I particularly appreciate in the rain. But it's not always dry in the cramped little room when the wind from port drives the rain horizontally through the cracks in the door. So I quickly get back, get dressed and turn up in my oilskins on time for the watch change. The time of the watch change is sacred, because the departing watch is tired and wants to go where I come from: to my bunk.

I can't get my hands through with the best will in the world. The packaging actually said that the suit was suitable for my weight class. Eventually Tim comes to my rescue, replacing Arthur, who is leaving the boat here in La Palma, as my first mate: "Then you'll just have to take an oversize." I peel myself out of the yellow neoprene and try the red suit. My hands end up in large rubber gloves. The next puzzle is how to pull the zipper closed so that my beard doesn't get caught. But that's exactly the point of the exercise: if we really had to leave the sinking ship - after a collision, for example - there would be no time to try on the right size.

The port of Marin turned out to be a huge marina. Yacht after yacht, many catamarans which, with all the living room clutter on board, are far too heavy as floating caravans to be able to take advantage of this construction method developed in Polynesia under sail.

The barrels are practically covered in sand. Initially undecided as to which one we should take, Remi and I turn one and let it roll down the beach. It hits the first wave, splashing loudly. The force of the 270 kilos pushes the barrel further into the water. We follow behind, push it away from the shore and try to put our fins on at the same time. Remi loses one and it accidentally pops up in the churning water next to me. I wade back in, sit down in the light surf, slip into the fins and walk backwards to the barrel. Together we pull it further out. The water slowly gets deeper. I try to swim, but it's not deep enough yet.

Anne-Flore had drawn a large sketch of the general cargo port in Boca Chica in the Dominican Republic. We were to be given a place at the pier in front of the bow of a tanker, with our bowsprit jutting out over the corner into the channel to the lagoon.

I've become a regular customer at this café in Horta in the Azores: electricity and internet, not to mention the friendly staff behind the counter... Yesterday a Portuguese man told me that Switzerland is the most beautiful country after the Azores (!).