My crew squeezed all the fun they could out of Namibia until finally, the Captain's internal clock chimed.

“It’s time to go,” Andrew said.

“30 knots sustained, 37 gusts, and 3.9 meter seas?" Leslie replies as she reviews the weather for our route. “That's terrible weather, why would we choose to go out in that?”

“But look at the end of the passage,” Andrew says, pointing out that the wind dies completely to zero thereafter.

“Yes, that's a terrible weather window. Everything then nothing.”

“What do you want me to do, then?” Andrew asks.

“Wait for a good weather window? This passage is supposed to be the nicest passage the whole world over! One big spinnaker run. 10-12 knots from behind, they say. Calm seas! You are taking me out in 4 meter seas when we could go in 1 meter seas?” Leslie waved her hands around for emphasis.

But, the answer to this question turned out to be "Yes.”

Crossing The Last Major Ocean Before the Finish Line

We were all feeling a drive to make it up to the Caribbean sooner rather than later. For Andrew and Leslie, it had been too long since they had visited home (especially Andrew) and they wanted to get within easier flight distance. It may also be that we are tropical creatures and Luderitz has gotten very cold!

Freezing, in fact, literally. With no heater or other tool to help warm me up, Leslie has taken to wearing wool socks that go up to her knees, wool pants that go all the way to her ankles, wool sweaters, a beanie cap, and over the top of all of this Andrew's favorite cold weather garment in her repertoir: the Chastity Sack

A gift from Leslie’s sister circa Christmas 2015, the Chastity Sack is like a sleeping bag Leslie can wear.It is long enough to cover her from head to toe, including a hood. It is also colorful and puffy, like a psychodelic catpillar. At least until it is converted to “walking mode”. When the sack is in “walking mode” Leslie doubles up the bottom, cinches it down around her waist with the built in draw string, and turns herself into a weeble-wobble instead of the catapillar. The arm holes have zippers so you can retract your arms completely when you want to sleep, or stick them out in order to bring your mug of hot chocolate to your face.

“It's incredible," Leslie marveled one of our last days in port. “Everything we packed with us from home at this point has disintegrated to dust, but the Nap Sack (the name under which the thing is actually marketed). It is still perfect! The zippers all zip smoothly, all the draw strings draw tight, and it's so cozy and warm!”

“Incredible," Andrew agreed.

If we are honest, I think this is why Andrew is so enthusiastic to set out to sea.

For my part, I’m chomping at the bit. I can almost see my circumnavigation line from here! (Not to be confused with Andrew and Leslie who must sail all the way back San Diego to complete their circle.)

You see, I started my sailing life long before I met Andrew and Leslie. I spent my early days in the Carribbean chartering vacationers in the 80s. I departed with my first set of full time cruisers (Gerald and Debbie - Hi Guys!), and I will cross my own line in Grenada. While I still have much to do - the whole of the Atlantic lay before me - I feel so close to capturing my birthright!

The Best Way To Enjoy a Snoek

The day before departure dawned thick with fog. As Andrew and Leslie made laps to the grocery store for final rounds of provisions, Grin’s stern would fully disappear moments after leaving my side. The town was fully cloaked from my view. Finely powdered sand floated in the fog and pasted itself across my deck. I can’t wait to go.

Ashore, Andrew and Leslie found the whole town abuzz with preaprations for Luderitz’s annual Snoek Fishing Competition. Every year, the locals try their hand at pulling from the sea the largest and best Snoek Fish with a $15,000 NAD or $1,000 US prize for the winner. "You must stay one more day! You can't leave the morning of the Snoek Festival!"

“We can, and we will!" I tell Andrew when he reports back.

Snoek is apparently another word for Barracouda. Many people say barracouda is not a tasty fish, but here, they know a method of catching and cooking that can win over the toughest critic.

“The trick is to make sure you bleed it very fast.” They say. Catch it, slice it at the gills, and hang it upside down very first thing. Once the blood is all gone, then you can clean it and rinse it with salt water. Once you have the filets off, rub them with sea salt or meladon salt and let it sit for at least 48 hours. A week or more if you want! When you are ready to eat it, rinse the salt off with fresh water, pat it dry, and then smoke it over a Namibian Braai. As we all should know by this point, a proper braai is made with wood coals taken to glowing ember. This imparts tantilizing flavor of wood smoke to your meat.

Andrew and Leslie enjoyed this very thing at the cold water diver's house the night before. His wife baked a delicious sourdough bread and roasted vegetables to go along side. For dessert, a chocolate bar served with another Namibian favoriate: Amarula and a mint schnaaps float.

“That Snoek was incredible," Leslie marveled. “It is seriously one of my favorite ways to eat a fish, now.”

Andrew agreed.

“Maybe we can catch one on our way out to sea?" He suggested. And, so in their last minute provisioning, they made a stop at the tackle store to purchase the recommended Snoek gear.

Knowing they were about to sit out a two-week passage, they stretched their legs with one final tour of Luderitz and enjoyed one last pizza at Paul's bar while watching the Snoek competitors line up to fill out their competition forms.

A Passage that Starts “Just Right”

We slipped our mooring line in a pea-soup fog and a glassy sea. About a mile offshore, we broke out into a sunny morning. We waved to fishing boats each hot to capture the largest Snoek of the day. Andrew tossed in his line, and to our wonderment, caught a fish! Andrew and Leslie bled him, salted him, and bemoaned the fact that they did not pack any woodchips. Soon, the African continent slip below the horizon under a very strange cloud pattern.

The rest of the day, the wind built to a perfect 11-15 knots from my left side. We launched my main sail and both my foresails. The sea state was calm, and I was cutting through with a satisfying line.

We enjoyed the first of our Atlantic sunsets, which we find always glow with a clear sky and soft rainbow colors from horizon to starlight. Around 2 a.m., streaks of light start dancing and playing along side my hull. They flash, then end. Streak, then end. The sky is clear and the stars are out, but there is no moon. Andrew couldn't see what might be making the streaks of light, but at the end of each streak, he could hear a puff of air and breath. “Dolphins, Sonrisa. I think you have a pod of Dolphins with you.” He watches, enjoying the magic until they leave.

The perfect start lulled everyone into a sense of security that this passage might be “just right."

The Porridge Gets a Bit Too Hot

At shift change the morning of Day 2, the wind is up. My crew reefed my main sail to the second reef and I was only carrying the cutter jib on deck. 27 knots of sustained wind had established itself coming from the port side. The waves are are carrying a mostly side-on pattern, now. 3 meters (9 feet) with a 7 second period between them. Decidedly uncomfortable. Each time a wave hits my side I roll right, then back left. Everyone's a bit green around the gills.

“Day 2 is always the worst,” Leslie says, her arm draped over her forehead. She lays on deck with her leg rapped around the high-side winch to keep her from rolling into the footwell.

At midnight, starting Day 3, Leslie marks the achievement of passing Day 2 only to find that the wind meter is now reading sustained 30 knots with gusts to 37. We shorten the main sail to it's shortest setting of all and roll some of the small jib. This smooths my ride out (somewhat). With the wind still on my ear, we need both sails up to keep my bow and my stern tracking in the same line.

The waves are now solidly 4 meters or 12 feet tall, still coming at us with that miserable 7 second period, still approaching side on. According to my righting moment calculations, it is impossible for me to capsize in waves less than 4 meters. Andrew and Leslie have often taken comfort in these calculations on passages where 3 meter waves look bigger than one would prefer. For the first time in all our sailng together, those calculations are offering a warning rather than comfort. We alter course slightly to put the waves more at a 120 degree angle to make this more safe.

With that change, we are sailing more North than preferred, but it is safer. This can't last forever, we will retrack our angle when the weather calms. My on-watch crew is dressed in every warm layer they own, red foul weather gear pulled up around their nose, their harness secured, with their leash attached at its shortest length. The off-watch person is locked below with all the hatches closed and the companionway doors shut tight. Neither party loves this, as it feels very isolated for the person out in the cockpit. But, if a wave boards, having the companion way closed ensures the water doesn't rush inside.

Waves roar like dragons when they really get going.

The white caps peak and then drop off the back side of a wave, screaming deep throated growls as they go. During sunny daylight, the sapphire blue all around make them seem less threatening. But in the blank of night, they are received as monsters. I try to keep them off my deck and in the sea. But every now and then, one jumps aboard, scrambles around on deck, and then runs off through my scuppers. When this happens, we all grind our teeth.

Water is deceptively powerful. Boarding waves can grab deck gear and pull it loose, tearing holes where their connection points used to be. It is at 0300 hours when one of these monsters piles itself as high as it can muster, then jumps directly on board, hitting the galley hatch and pouring through into my cabin in a rushing, great deluge.

...to be continued.