We set out to cross the Bay of Biscay in January. The sailing season ended months ago, long before we wrapped up our toil in the boatyard. Now, in the middle of winter, we peel off Elixir’s frozen sail covers. After leaving the friendly refuge of Falmouth Harbour, we sail into the biting North Atlantic.
Despite the cold, it feels exciting to be sailing south, towards an empty horizon, and sharing the moment with Harry and Chloë. We run with a steady northerly. Beneath the starlit sky, the temperature plummets. We pile on layers until there are no more to add. After two numbing nights, the wind begins to build as we close in on the Galician coastline. The sea ramps up as we make our way onto the continental shelf, and all around us is a messy confusion of water.
The night watches are dismal. Two hours feel like eternity, and I cling to my insulated flask of peppermint tea. The steep, breaking waves are obscured by the cloudy night. We can only hear them—the cascading crash and impending hiss of whitewater. Occasionally, a breaker sweeps the entire boat, engulfing the cabintop and filling the cockpit with icy water.
The frigid seawater finds its way through the hatches in the cockpit footwell, into the aft cabin, and on to Chloë, curled up in her only place of comfort. I feel for my friends, as this is their first experience of offshore sailing.
Pangs of doubt and worry cloud my sleep deprived state. I’d sold the dream of offshore sailing—a dream I had already lived in a much smaller boat—and encouraged them to join me on this adventure. Then, I’d spent two years sailing alone, covering 10,000-some miles. This time, I want to share the experience with as many people as I can.
That has been the essence of my efforts with Elixir, and it remains my goal with this open-ended voyage west. But as I watch my friends suffer through the notorious Bay of Biscay in winter, I wonder: Is this a mistake?
A Sailing Obsession, and a Boat Reborn
My stepdad, Dave Cockwell, is a boatbuilder. When I was 4, he met my mum. In a 10-foot wooden dinghy, he ignited my passion for sailing in the murky waters of Bristol Harbour in the UK. He showed me the ropes and steered me through the constant obstacles of owning a boat. Dave has a unique ability to look beyond almost any part of a boat and intuitively understand how the design works. When something fails, he doesn’t see problems, only solutions. This skill, coupled with a tireless work ethic and an unyielding love for boats, led to the success of his boatbuilding company, Cockwells. During evenings and weekends, you can still find him at the boatyard. Instead of managing the builds of luxury motor launches, he’s wearing Crocs, listening to the radio while casually restoring his 1936 Scottish fishing trawler.
I was interested in boatbuilding, but I became obsessed with the idea of going sailing. At 19, I bought my first cruising boat, Flying Cloud, a 22-foot sloop built in 1965 and planked in mahogany. Dave helped me replace the corroded keel bolts and overhaul the single-cylinder Yanmar. We found common ground in the boatyard, and our relationship flourished through the gritty work of rebuilding boats.
Within a month of getting her back on the water, I had squeezed my possessions into her tiny forepeak and set sail for France. I had no plan, only a notion to go sailing. Captivated by the boundless freedom in front of me, I kept sailing with no wish to turn back. It wasn’t until two years later, after a 10,000-mile solo Atlantic circuit, that I finally returned home.
Those moments at sea changed everything for me. As I ghosted downwind into the familiar shelter of Falmouth Harbour, I had a profound realization. I needed to go sailing again, this time to share the experience with as many people as possible.
The opportunity came when Dave turned my attention to Elixir, a 1970 S&S Swan 37 that, after a long sailing career, had ended up in the boatyard. Her previous owner, Ian Chaston, had sailed her all over the Pacific, Atlantic, and around Cape Horn. She was overdue for a big refit. Sadly, Ian passed away, and for several years, Elixir was listed for sale by a local brokerage. Buyers seemed put off by the project. Elixir continued to gather leaves and show the signs of the harsh English weather. The blanket of mold failed to hide her sleek, ocean-going lines. As the years went by, the yard fees began to add up. Not wanting to see a good boat go to waste, Dave purchased Elixir from Ian’s family.
We struck a deal: In return for a half share in Elixir, I would put in the work to restore her so she could sail again. I sold Flying Cloud, and Elixir became an obsession. She was a racing boat with a bulging IOR tumblehome. I couldn’t stop dreaming about long ocean passages and South Pacific anchorages.
Over 11 months, we stripped Elixir back to a shell and rebuilt her again. Most of the early work was sanding and grinding. I was grateful for the help from a constant team of eager friends. Dave watched over the project and helped with the difficult tasks: rebuilding the rudder, fitting a new stern tube, and replacing the teak toerails.
Chloë and Harry, two of my closest friends, joined for the first freezing day of pressure washing in January. Harry and I had sailed together before; however, for Chloë, it was new. Still, she had a strong curiosity and affinity for the sailing lifestyle. They were fun, adventurous, and free—perfect crewmates for the journey. Both had become almost permanent residents of the dusty Elixir shed. I was grateful to share the highs and lows of the restoration with them—the long days of sanding, that satisfying first layer of undercoat, and the surreal moment when she emerged through the shed doors, a boat reborn.
Finally, on a November evening, she was launched. I couldn’t stop smiling as we trailed behind Elixir and watched her keel part the Atlantic for the first time in years. It was November, 6 p.m., already dark. We still had no mast, and the engine cut out as we motored down the creek, but she was floating, and the progress felt tangible.
In January 2020 we made our dash for Spain. The Biscay crossing was wet, cold, and miserable. It felt like a miracle that nobody was put off. But Chloë and Harry both had the gift of finding a silver lining in any storm, an asset during the bleak early hours. Within days, we joked about the experience.
The Floating Youth Hostel
Two weeks after that first landfall, we continued south. It was the middle of winter in northern Europe, and we were striving for lower latitudes. Gradually we shed layers, and the distant shoreline became increasingly arid. By late February, we were weaving our way through the Mars-like landscapes of the Canary Islands. A strong easterly sandstorm blew from the Sahara, a phenomenon known as a calima. The weather caught us off guard, and we arrived in Tenerife in an obscure, mustard-colored cloud of desert sand. It felt apocalyptic—and in a way, it was. Covid was sweeping the globe.
The day dawned for our departure, and Spain went into lockdown. On our final dash for provisions, a blockade of Guardia Civil, rifles poised, directed us back to Elixir with a swing of the wrist. Escaping it all seemed like a great idea until we realized most of the Atlantic was closed. If we left, there was a very real possibility that we’d have nowhere to go.
The pandemic put the journey on hold. We left Elixir in the marina and took a surreal flight back to the UK.
A year or so later, we were able to continue, grateful to be part of the slow re-opening of the world. Lily, who had helped a lot with the restoration, joined in Portugal and crewed to the Caribbean. From the beginning, the goal was always to invite people aboard. Quickly, everyone who had helped with the restoration made the most of the opportunity and spent some time on Elixir.
I enjoyed the constant enthusiasm of my new crewmates. We always parted on good terms, and there was never a shortage of eager crew. Everyone brought their unique skills and personalities to the boat. In a cruising community mostly made up of couples, Elixir stood out. We jokingly referred to her as “the floating youth hostel” because of her transient and international crew.
We reached Grenada. My closest pals had all tasted the delights of the cruising life before heading back for the grind of work. I had a decision to make: Either I continued singlehanded or I had to find some new crew. I felt nervous about inviting a stranger on board. But sailing alone seemed like a wasted opportunity.
Taking a chance, I welcomed some unfamiliar faces. Hannah was a sailing social media influencer from Los Angeles. She had spent the last few months crewing on a catamaran in the Caribbean. She brought her friend Ximena, too. With a new Californian crew, we set sail for Colombia.
We crossed the Caribbean Sea and zigzagged our way up to Mexico. My parents joined us for the transit through the Panama Canal. It had been a bucket list experience for Dave, and it was special to share the first shimmering glimpses of the Pacific with them.
We met more people along the way, and it seemed like there was never a shortage of eager crew willing to hop on board. We were all in our mid-20s, fueled by a sense of adventure with new thrills at every stop. Hannah crewed on Elixir for almost 11 months and became one of my closest friends. She used the opportunity to practice her sailing skills and went on to buy her own boat. In return, I gained insight into social media. By the time we were ready to cross the Pacific, we’d amassed over half a million followers.
The newfound clout helped a lot. Precision Sails in Canada replaced our shredded mainsail. We were given all kinds of sailing gear, and each day I received a handful of messages from people wanting to become part of the voyage.
Across the Pacific
In April 2023, we left the Sea of Cortez, bound across the Pacific. Chloë rejoined the boat for the Pacific crossing. Also onboard was Alex, a racing sailor from Lake Michigan. Although she had been sailing her whole life, this was her first bluewater experience.
At night, Elixir’s bow broke through the dark swells. The inky water washed over everything, igniting phosphorescent plankton and peppering the deck with vivid green sparkles.
Each day, we cracked the sheets a little more. After passing the island of Socorro, we embraced the northeast trades and bore away for the equator. Through the Intertropical Convergence Zone, the wind stayed constant. Neptune favored us, and we flew across the equator with a single reef in the main. Polaris vanished behind, and the Southern Cross appeared ahead of us, guiding us to the prospects of a whole new hemisphere.
During the final week of the crossing, Elixir bounded along in the southeast trades. We relished the feeling of connectedness that comes with offshore passages, the rhythmic passing of days at sea. Like an abstract world, our lives on land felt extremely far away.
After 23 days, the endless run of empty horizons was finally broken. The volcanic peaks of Fatu Hiva stood defiantly against the relentless trade winds. On the leeward side, floral-scented gusts dashed down from the lush, green hills. The scenery was otherworldly—an incredible landfall. We dropped the hook in our first South Pacific anchorage, the Bay of Virgins, and finally, everything was silent.
From the striking volcanic islands of the Marquesas, we moved to the circular atolls of the Tuamotus. I’d never seen water so clear; we were somehow levitating over the seabed. We’d peer over the rail, watching the dance of reef fish and the occasional sleek silhouette of a shark. In the Marquesas, beauty lies within rugged landscapes. In the Tuamotus, it’s submerged.
More crew came and went as we moved through the Cook Islands, Samoa, and Tonga. By November, the first cyclones of the season were beginning to form, and we leapt south to New Zealand to wait out the season.
Seven days after leaving Minerva Reef, we made landfall in the Bay of Islands. I was in awe of the subtropical surroundings and blown away by the beauty of New Zealand. It took a few days to register that this was halfway, and from now on, home would only be getting closer.
It’s now been four years since that first frigid passage across the Bay of Biscay, when I wondered if my dream of a floating youth hostel would crash against the harsh rocks of reality. But since then, a huge part of my joy sailing offshore is being able to share the experience with other people, and since leaving the UK, Elixir has had a total of 50 different crew members. Some stayed for a week or two, others for months. Some are skilled sailors. For others, it’s their first experience of offshore sailing. Ten have gone on to buy their own vessels. Some bought dinghies, and others bought ocean-ready cruising yachts.
I’m often asked, “Is there ever any drama onboard?” and I can honestly say that not once have we argued. The sea has a flowing ability to straighten out any disagreements, especially when everyone has the same goal of making a safe landfall. After one particularly heavy night in the Caribbean, I decided to quit drinking, and since then Elixir has become a dry ship. No more alcohol dramas. Without the haze of being hungover, we can truly see our surroundings.
I’m grateful to Dave for providing me with the opportunity to make this trip on Elixir. It’s been a life-changing experience for me and many others. Harry, Chloë, and the dozens of other ex-crew all found their entry into the world of bluewater sailing onboard Elixir, a reflection of Dave’s generous nature in sharing his passion with me, and so many others.
The plan is to spend the next year in New Zealand refitting the boat before continuing north to Fiji and eventually back to the UK. After four years, the goal remains the same: to share the experience of offshore sailing with as many people as Elixir and I can.
March 2025
