It was almost midnight when our catamaran surfed down the 4-meter swell, and a giant wave broke between her hulls. The impact hit with a thunderous crash under us, reverberating and shaking the entire boat. I flew out of the salon bed in a panic. It was a new moon, and the ocean was pitch black. You could feel the waves but couldn’t see them until they were next to you, and they were as high as the coachroof. I yelled to my husband, John, “Are you OK?” From the helm, he called back, “Yes—I’m fine. She is handling this all very well!”
John and I had flown to La Rochelle, France, in April 2022 to pick up our new Lagoon 450S, Coronado. The journey had really begun years earlier, in a discussion of what we wanted to do when the youngest of our three children left for college. We hatched a plan to quit our stressful corporate jobs and spend a few years sailing the world. Arriving in France was the culmination of more than seven years of planning, saving, and training for this goal; our dream was becoming a reality.
We spent almost two months in La Rochelle preparing the boat to depart for a first season aboard of summer sailing in the Mediterranean, followed by joining the ARC 2022 for the Atlantic crossing to the Caribbean.
But first, we had to cross the intimidating waters of the Bay of Biscay—our first offshore passage alone as a couple, and our first night sail on Coronado. We had taken her out for day sails, learning her systems and practicing reefing. We had also carefully set up our safety equipment, including rigging a strong preventer for downwind sailing, setting up jacklines, and configuring our EPIRB and personal MOB devices in our lifejackets.
As we planned for the three-day passage from France to Spain, we felt well prepared but also apprehensive. We were leaving at a good time of year, with the weather being most favorable in early summer. John carefully planned our route, and we waited for a suitable weather window. The morning we left was blue and sunny. We knew some stronger weather could come in behind us, but as we set off, things looked very manageable. We raised the sails and took off downwind.
By that afternoon, less than five hours into the passage, two things had already broken. The cam cleat on the preventer had been acting up, and it had exploded into pieces. Luckily, we had rigged it with a strong safety backup knot that held the boom in place. Then, when we dropped the mainsail that afternoon, it fell over in the sail bag. I climbed on the coachroof to investigate, and the back 2 feet of our brand-new sail bag had torn away from the seam. We devised a temporary solution by lashing a line around it and under the boom.
I went to bed early to try to get some sleep until my watch started at 0200. We also converted our salon table into a bed so we could be within earshot of each other at night.
After sunset, the wind was steady at about 25 knots and almost directly behind us. The waves and swell were building and hitting our stern quarter, causing the boat to seesaw like a washing machine as she lifted and came back down. And it was getting stronger.
Sometime after 2300, the waves had built enough that John remembers looking next to him at the helm and seeing one over his head. The gusts were hitting 37 knots. The edge of the strong weather that we had thought would be behind us had sped up, and there was no getting out of it. John hand steered as we surfed down the waves, partly to give the autopilot a break and also to feel if the boat was balanced. Coronado was doing well, but it was a loud, harsh, and turbulent ride.
Inside, I was lying awake, and my heart was pounding. I thought of everything I had seen or read of other sailors being in their first taste of stronger weather. My mind kept repeating the mantra I had thought about so many times for situations like this: The boat can handle more than her crew can. Coronado can handle this. We can handle this.
It’s an interesting thing that happens at sea, however, and I know many sailors have described the same emotions we experienced at that moment. Instead of feeling overwhelming fear or panic, a sense of grit and determination settles in. You can’t stop the boat and get off. You are in it, for better or worse. And something about that lets your mind find a state of calm amid the fear. You know your only option is to do your best to get through it. Coronado was making a lot of noise, and I could hear things being thrown around inside the cabinets, but she was also solid as a rock. She felt sturdy and powerful as she surfed down the waves. She felt safe.
John gives the new dinghy a test drive in La Rochelle before departure.
Sailing under a clear blue sky and easy breeze.
Anna and John during the passage.
Coronado, their new Lagoon 450S, proved capable and strong in the tough weather.
When I took over the watch at about 0230, the wind was down to about 25 knots, and the waves were more in the 2- to 3-meter range. I took the helm, but within about 30 minutes, the motion had made me seasick. I knew John was exhausted from managing the rough seas and wind. He needed to sleep, especially if the storm worsened again.
At the helm, I held my bucket tightly next to me and sipped water every few minutes to stay hydrated. I know myself and my seasickness. It comes in waves, and in between those waves, I usually feel better for a little while. I wasn’t miserable, and I wasn’t too tired. John slept in the cockpit in case I needed him quickly, and every time I would be sick, he would wake up and say, “Are you OK?” And I just kept replying, “Yep! I’m good. Go back to sleep!” Once the sun rose, I let John take over. I drank a big bottle of water and a rehydration pack and closed my eyes.
When I woke up a few hours later, we had changed course, and the waves were behind us, making it more comfortable. The sun had come up, and the water looked beautiful. It was so peaceful you would almost swear it was a different ocean. There was nothing around us but blue sea and blue sky. I was filled with that bliss that happens when I am on the open ocean and conditions are good. There is no pressure. Nothing to do other than sail, sleep, and stand watch. It feels peaceful in a way that not much else can compare to. As if on cue, a huge pod of dolphins suddenly appeared at our bow, including several calves. It was magical.
The rest of the day was calm. The wind had eased but was still deep behind us, and we sailed wing on wing. By late afternoon, we needed to motor. By the time I came on watch at 0230, it was dark but quiet. We moved through the water under the blanket of a thick cloud cover, without even stars visible. Being in that kind of darkness while sailing is both peaceful and unsettling. You have no choice but to watch carefully for lights from other boats and trust your instruments. With a bit of practice, it’s incredible how you can feel like you have a good sense of what is around you, even on pitch-black nights. I felt much more awake and alert than the night before and let John sleep in until 0900. The sunrise was beautiful and welcoming after such a dark night. Being able to see the water around you again feels like a relief.
I had read stories about sailors offshore getting excited to see shorebirds. They started to show up for us when we were 25 miles out, long before the land was visible from the boat. By midafternoon, it was raining, and we dropped our anchor in the peaceful fishing port of Ensenada de Espasante. I looked out at Spain’s lush, green hills and felt the reality settle in. We had crossed the Bay of Biscay.
Our first passage on Coronado had held a bit of everything for us, and it also drove home one of the most important life lessons of cruising. Life on the water reminds us of the eternal truth of impermanence. The storms come. And then they pass. The sun rises again each morning, new and fresh. The seas return to calm. The same wind that whipped past you with a screech last night now perfectly fills your sails and pushes your boat through the water with an effortless ease that calms every cell in your body. This is how it feels to be fully alive.
We opened a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate. Our first 340 nautical miles were under our keels, and it was time to rest. We felt proud of how well we had successfully handled the challenges of our first voyage, and we felt more connected to Coronado than we could have imagined. She had safely carried us through big wind and waves, and I could feel how much she and her crew were ready for more adventures ahead.
October 2024
