such exotic shores under sail was like nothing I had
experienced before. In between Fuerteventura and Gran
Canaria, I had my first encounter with adverse weather.
The wind rose above 30 knots and I could just about
manage my smallest jib. The steep, breaking waves were
more of an annoyance than the wind. I would hear the
crashing of a crumbling wave growing louder as they
rushed up from behind – before thumping the side of the
hull and engulfing the entire deck. Even with the new
sprayhood, bucketfuls of water still found their way
underneath the hatch, eventually pooling in puddles on
the vinyl mattress beneath me. I was used to a damp bed
by then, but sleeping in puddles of salt water really isn’t
my idea of comfort. Eventually, I decided I would be
better off sleeping in my dripping oilies on the cabin
soles, waking up every 20 minutes to pump out the bilge.
The next passage was a fast 900 mile run to Cape
Verde. Between these two archipelagos, the trade winds
kick in. The erratic, inconsistent winds surrounding the
islands gave way to an incredible conveyor of stiff
northeasterlies, currents and following seas. My routine
transformed from constant sail adjustments to monotony.
Sail changes were days apart, and with the twin headsails
I ticked off 120 miles a day. As I neared Cape Verde, the
hills of Sal rose out of the dusty atmosphere like
illusions, and it took some time to overcome the novelty
of seeing land again. The islands were orange, dry and
Mars-like, with rolling hills scarred by deep veins spilling
into sweeping barren areas of flat gravel.
ISLAND RENDEZVOUS
After Sal, I sailed west to Mindelo, and had a rendezvous
with a couple of Swiss dock walkers I had met in Las
Palmas. I spent a lot more of my time with dock walkers
than I did with other yacht captains. We would drink in
my tiny little cabin, before rowing ashore and revelling in
the streets of Mindelo.
It was early in the morning when I sailed out of
Mindelo, and into the acceleration zone between Sao
Vincente and Santa Anton. I flew only the small jib for
the first three days: it was still windy and the odd
breaking wave walloped against the side of the boat.
After three days, the wind died to Force 3, and I poled
out my two big genoas. This was the sailing I had in
mind, gently rolling wing-on-wing in the troughs of
massive groundswells as the seascape slowly deepened
from a temperate turquoise to a rich, tropical blue. For
the next five days I didn’t fiddle or tweak with anything
- Flying Cloud was perfectly balanced, and as the
conditions didn’t change in the slightest, why touch
anything? My collection of books became invaluable.
About halfway across, the first squall crept up behind
me. I studied it with both suspicion and anxiety as it
grew closer, and the isolated cluster of grey clouds
WIND VANE
AUTOPILOT
Max’s plans for
his self-steering
system made
from old bits of
stainless steel
found in a
Vilamoura
boatyard“The erratic, inconsistent winds
surrounding the islands give way
to an incredible conveyor belt of
stiff northeasterlies, currents and
following seas”