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Hey bei mir schon viel wärmer als letzte woche „ nur minus 6 grad und Sonnenschein „

Den Sonnenschein kannst du gerne mitbringe. Aber die -6 Grad bitte zu Hause lassen 🥶

Courage jungs Tangier 10 grad
Teneriffa 7 Grad
Cabo Verde 22 Grad
Fernando de Noronha 27 Grad

Was schreibst du uns da für “Seemannsgarn”, Henri?
Ich lese 13/10 Grad in Tangier am Freitag. Tendenz steigend.

Sacht ich doch

Seamansgarn

Wie lange bin ich schon Seemann?
Mein ganzes verdammtes Leben. Mein Vater war König Neptun, und meine Mutter war eine Meerjungfrau. Ich wurde auf dem Kamm einer Welle geboren und in der Wiege der Tiefe geschaukelt. Mein Haar ist aus Hanf, ( was ich such gerne rauche ) meine Kleidung aus Segeltuch. ( deswegen juckt es mich ) Und wenn ich spucke, spucke ich Teer. ( na ja ) Ich bin tough das bin ich, das war ich, das werde ich auch bleiben
( solange du nicht das meckern meiner Freundin hörst) ist alles im lot

Ich sitze in Granada und genieße die Sonne. Auch wenn es nicht besonders warm ist. Hier ist vom Wind nichts zu spüren. Aber gestern in Málaga war es bestimmt auch Windstärke 5-6.

Danke!

Denkt dran auch wenn du erlaubnis hast in Marocco noch 2 Frauen dazu heiraten darfst, dass du dann auch 2 Schwiegermütter dazu bekommst
Also gut überlegen
Ok dachte das ich euch vorwarne bevor irgendwas unüberlegt passiert

😜

Pass hab ich mitgenommen. Marokkanisch Küste entlang hangeln klingt gut für mich.
Henri, wir hatten doch ausgemacht, dass du die Schwiegermütter übernimmst 😉

Oups ich nicht deutsch sprechen

Ich formuliere es auch gerne auf Englisch oder französisch 😀

😜

Ok wenn das so ist vielleicht sollte ich die Schwiegermütter suchen und du über nimmst dann die Töchter die sie zufällig haben ! Stehst aber blöd da wenn sie nur söhne hat

😀Söhne nehm ich nicht. Bin auch fast sicher, dass du solche Schwiegermütter in Marokko nicht findest.

in Marocco
Frauen sind zum Kinder machen
Buben sind für den Spass
Ecstasy ist ne reife Wassermelone

Hey Mischa
Hast du einen Schiffs Stempel?
Mit
Schiffs name
IMO nummer
Tonnage
registrierter heimat hafen

Ist praktisch wenn du einfährst und Papiere ausfüllen musst

Kann ich natürlisch auch machen

Yukon Gold ist die beste Kartoffel dafür

Glaub ich nicht das es das gibt auf der boot
Eher in nem Print shop oder Papier waren laden

Super. Herzlichen Glückwunsch!

Nice schau ich später an
Hat survey nach ner Rettungs insel gefragt ?

In Granada hat es heute Abend angefangen zu regnen. Sieht so aus , als ob das bis zum Wochenende so weitergeht.

Warst du auch bei der netten Brasilianerin aus Paraty?

Oh, dann bekomme ich es zweimal… 🤗

This message was deleted.

This book is already reminding me of you 😂

Hat mir mein Sohn zugeschickt

Nicht verzagen

Was ist den der wind im Moment?

Mein windy ist anders als deine auf meinem ist es grünlich und vom NWten

Lasy Jacks Montage.

Ist das die Dude ?

Sind gerade von einem 2 x 45 minuten Spaziergang gekommen
Ist sau kalt mit minus 25
Brauch 20 minuten nur um aufzutauen

Das ist Michael im Mast der Dude.

Ich habe den Wind gecheckt: Heute nach windy konstant 24 Knoten in der Meerenge.

Ja ist die ganze kalte luft die von Canada aus über den teisch bläst
Hier heute wieder -23 grad

Yep sieht so aus

We should have gone on and drop Dude off in Rabat last year ehh

Schon wach?

9 Uhr treffen?

Ich sehe das ihr in Tangier seit
Hättest ein tau mitnehmen sollen und das boot vom Strand aus rüberziehen

War nur ne idee

Desperate times calls for desperate ideas

Geht ihr die Küste entlang? Oder nur Tangier ?

👌

Fez hat ne super Altstadt und eine schöne Medina
Viel Spass

Oups sieht aus sls müsste man reinsurfen

Off shore wind

Meanwhile here

It has been snowing for twenty hours.
Not heavily — just lightly, steadily.
Flakes drift down, fluffy and innocent,
settling quietly, hiding in corners, forming small drifts.

I went for a walk.
My steps muffled by the soft compression of snow beneath me —
pleasant, intimate, almost ceremonial.

I remembered something from childhood:
no two snowflakes are alike. Unique, they said.

I tasted them.
All the same.
I cannot tell the difference.

Have I been fooled?
Or am I merely bored, inventing reasons to be outside?
Am I exploring my scientific side,
or am I a poet with no aim,
carrying only a fond, wry sense of self-mockery?

The flakes keep falling, oblivious, patient.
And I, for all my questions, am still here,
walking, tasting, thinking,
watching the world fold itself quietly under white. While my Friends an ocean away get battered by salt laden winds while listening to waves battering the shoreline

Wenn ich das lese, erinnere ich mich an meine Zeit in Montreal und bekomme Heimweh nach den schneereichen Wintern, wenn alles im Schnee versinkt und alles still wird.

Es hat was Magisches auch bei -20
Und hier läuft alles weiter
Busse und autos fshren , läden sind offen , Cafés und Restaurants haben offen Leute gehen spazieren oder Joggen sogar Fahrrad fahrer sind unterwegs
Bin lange spazieren gegangen und rin paarmal war es mir zu kalt und rinfach mal 5 Minuten in nem laden um aufzuwärmen und keiner sagt was , gehört einfach dazu

(34.068267066189, -4.973594455716)

Heist das das ihr jetzt nicht mehr zum aufwärmen anhalten werdet und gegen den 6 ten in Cabo verde sein werdet

Ok werde versuchen meinen Flug vor zu verlegen

Morgen schaut Christelle ob sie ihren Urlaub auch vorverlegen kann
Müssen dann auch die tickets verschieben

Salam Aleikum
Ich werde mein ticket nach CV verschieben
Währe Eine Woche ok also etwa den 12 Februar? Könnte dann dort warten wenns sein muss

Ich sehe auch auf windy aber scheint anders zu sein als auf deiner app

Das ist für morgen

👌

Ok ill try to change my ticket for at least a week

Your staying aboard? Or traveling?

Ok where too ?

Grüsse an Ana Clara von uns und gute besserung
Halten uns auf dem Laufenden

Yep
Ich war noch nie so nah an der Wasser Oberfläche wie auf der Dude
😂

Das ist So Abend 20:15 deutsche Zeit, richtig?

Nur zur Info…

https://epaper.swp.de/schwaebisches-tagblatt/blick-in-die-welt/09.02.2026/4027CF1FAC6F5B79F5093A5F56C30417

Das muss gewesen sein kurz nachdem wir Marokko besucht haben

You added William

Wie ihr wohl alle schon erfahren habt, kann ich die Strecke La Linea-Kanaren leider nicht mitsegeln und habe schweren Herzens abgesagt. Ich wünsche euch einen guten Törn und bin gespannt auf eure Nachrichten.
Ich würde gerne meine Schulden auf settle up begleichen.
Matthias an Michael: 289,-
Matthias an Niklas: 143,-
Michael’s Bankverbindungsdaten habe ich glaube ich.
Kannst du, Niklas mir deine noch zukommen lassen?
Viele Grüße Matthias

Wow, was für Bilder. Gute Fahrt , Henri!

The Ballad of the Weary Deckhand

Young Tom the sailor, bold and bright,
Set off to conquer seas by night;
With swagger grand and cap askew—
By dawn he’d yawn enough for two.

He bragged of storms he’d surely tame,
Of kraken huge and seafaring fame;
Yet after swabbing half the deck,
He leaned upon the rail—“Oh, heck…”

He claimed the waves all knew his name,
That gulls saluted when he came;
But rocked to sleep by gentle tide,
He snored with mouth thrown open wide.

The captain roared, “Attend the sail!”
Tom answered with a drowsy wail;
He tied a knot—well, tried to tie—
It looked more like a sailor’s pie.

At supper time he’d boast once more
Of distant ports and pirate lore;
Then nod mid-tale, chin to his chest,
Proving brave hearts still need their rest.

So mock him not too sharp, I say—
The sea can steal a lad’s hooray;
For though he droops like wilted mail,
He’ll wake at rum—and tell the tale

Sieht sehr gut aus. Dann weiterhin gutes Wetter und gute Fahrt!

Während ich warte

Nicht das üppigste Frühstück,
aber sag mal …
hast du wenigstens einen Pool, den du ohnehin nicht benutzt,
oder bist du umgeben von einer Horde Hippies,
die morgens um acht schon kiffen,
während man fünfundvierzig Minuten braucht,
um drei Scheiben Brot zu toasten,
ein winziges Glas Orangensaft einzuschenken,
drei Tassen mit Butter und Marmelade zu füllen
und einen Apfel auszuwählen,
als wäre es eine philosophische Grundsatzentscheidung?

Nun ja …

Ein Festmahl von heroischer Langsamkeit,
bei dem der Toaster mehr meditiert als heizt,
die Butter mit der Ernsthaftigkeit eines Sonnenuntergangs schmilzt
und man den Apfel betrachtet,
als trüge er die Geheimnisse des Universums in sich.

Welch episches Bankett —
minimalistisch, mystisch
und herrlich ineffizient.

Ich sehe, dass ihr dabei seid! ⛵

Ja. Die erste strecke wurde gesegelt

Super
Gut wind

Ein super Start durch die Meerenge und jetzt die nächsten Tage eine sehr schöne Windvorhersage. Sieht gut aus!

Super

Ah ja, daher der Kurswechsel auf einen westlicheren Kurs. Da gibt es morgen Vormittag auch etwas mehr Wind 💨

Perfekte Backstagsbrise, aber warum so dicht unter Land? Geht es in einen Hafen?

Beeindruckend, über 7 kn nur mit Vorsegel (und ohne Bimini …). Der Wind ist weiterhin gut und stabil in allen Wettermodellen, also: go ahead! [This message was edited]

Ein kleiner einblick

Wunderschön!

Wenn schon dann Mach auch nen vertrag für die transatlantic Begleitung

Super
Hey ihr seit ja bald dort
Und ich am 25/26

Give me a fast ship and a bright star to steer her by, and I will bear this message to the Lords of the West.’”

Tolkien
The Silmsrion
Tuor volunteers to sail to Valinor to seek aid from the Valar.

Jep Gute matrosen und anständiges kochen und die Delphine und whale sind da zum rendevous

Ist ja einfach hab auf die carte geschaut und ihr geht ja abwärts auf der welt kugel

Yeah
Seamannsgarn mit tiktok back up

Ok werde nach Iguazu fahren rausfinden wie es ist Motorrad in Paraguay anzumelden geht angeblich ganz einfach ist dann Mercasur somit dann nicht mehr ein problem ein und aus zu führen

Darf ich vorstellen: Willi die Windfahne. Bester Mitarbeiter selbst bei Raumwind mit 25 kn und 4 Metern welle macht der nen super job

Prima - Ihr achtet auf die Sicherheit:
Betty die Rettungsinsel hat auch Wache!!!

Was ist den die Temperatur bei euch auf dem Meer ?

Ihr könnt euch freuen.Lanzarote ist noch da!!!

Brrrrr

Die gute Nachricht: schöne Marina und viel Platz mit einer Menge freier Boxen! Die schlechte Nachricht: Alle Duschen sind kaputt und werden erst nächste Woche repariert!

Ehh Kiel holen !

Hey, habt ihrs geschafft. Das ging ja super schnell. Herzlichen Glückwunsch!!

Noch sind sie nicht da. Ich habe mich nur mal umgeschaut. Und mit den Duschen, das habe ich auch geregelt! Aus eigenem Interesse, wenn sie hier morgen einlaufen.😀

Ach so. Da war ich wohl etwas voreilig.

Willkommen in Arrecife! Starke Leistung, in gut 5,5 Tagen, well done!

Einfahrt Arrefice

Wat Kein Landgang für die Matrosen !
What about some R&R
Rest and Recreation
Na dann weiterhin gute fahrt

Auch von mir: Gute Fahrt!!

Hey das Pilotage buch das ich dir gelassen habe ist genau für den Küsten Abschnitt den ihr gerade entlang fahrt

Pass auf für die drift netze und die drift linen mit den haken
Die können kilometer lang sein
Sind ab und zu mit Radar Reflektoren ausgestattet und wenn wher sparsam

Heute zurage könnte schon sein mit nem Transponder

Gives meaning to
Wherever the wind takes me

Arret Cafe sur le bord du chemin aux Bresil pour duivre la game de Hockey

Me too damm it

Bon Appétit

Schraubernachmittag mit Wasser im Kraftstoffsystem. Alle Filter sind getauscht und der Motor läuft wieder rund.

Das kann teuer werden. RCA?

Solange das wasser im filter ist gehts

Ja es war auch was in der leitung. Der motor lief etwas unrund und jetzt läuft wieder alles.

Die tanköffnung war nicht ganz zu. Vielleicht ist es darüber rein gekommen

Sehr wahrscheinlich

Congrats guys! Arrived at Carbo Verde🙏😊👍

Ankerbier -Gin -Wein-Sekt-Portwein

Hats geklappt mit dem über drink sich was an bord liefern zu lassen !

Tja alte tradition
Captain öffnet die bar am Samstag und der erste drink geht auf seine rechnung

Bin in Sorocaba
1050 km in 2 tagen
Schlaucht schon
Bin ein bisserl zu alt für sowas
Muss mir was gemütlicheres ausdenken

Ana Clara hat gute Ideen
Heute Blumen markt, Kino und Maniküre und Pediküre

Ne pool pumpe ist kaputt und ne neue kommt diese woche
Mal sehen mit dem Austausch

Wann meinst du schaust du hier vorbei ?

Ok
Wenn du am 7 ankommst können wir im Auto dich und Christelle gemeinssm abholen

Dann könten wir eventuell etwas zusammen unternehmen
Und unsere Mädels würden sich auch untereinander austauschen

Hmm glaube morgens muss nachschecken

Währe aber egal kann ja dort warten oder wieder kommen

Wie fliegst du zurück nach CV ? Ich habe meinen flug am 25 März via Casa gebucht

Its just werde an 7 eh Christelle abholen
Und dein Mädel würde sich sehr freuen und die Gelegenheit nehmen um ihre Eltern zu sehen
Christelle bringt was mit für sie

Wie siehts aus
Lässt du das boot wo ihr seit oder fährst rüber zur Marina ?
Wenns geht Scheck doch aus nach Hotel und fähre

Hey das 2 te bild mit dem Brettspiel
Muss mal die Regel rausfinden
Hab so ein Brett zuhause

Yep

👌

💨

👍

… ist das ein neues Boot? 😃

Sieht schick aus! Gut geworden!

🤩

Da haben wir ja alles richtig gemacht mit den Brettern. Was soll das schreinern gekostet haben

bei dem Preis hätte er auch Boden und Bänke mitmachen können😁

Oups jetzt aufpassen brim kleckern

Hier bri mir vor der türe

Mega schön!

Henri, du solltest mal raus gehen und Schnee schippen😀

Hatte versprochen bekommen das alles weg ist wenn ich wiederkomme
Aber Muss wohl alles selber machen
Na ja in 3 tagen tue ich zum Deck schrubben sus fliegen und komme wieder wenn alles weg ist
Werde ne anfrage machen bei Ana Clara ob die mich nicht adoptieren will

Hab noch nie ein pferd trainiert um stubenrein zu werden

Oi Mischa bist f duu gut angekommen ? Haben wir einen etste hilfe kit an bord?
Fwhlt was ? Sag Bescheid ich hol es dann

Und das dritte ?
Fehlt irgendwas?

Super

Da steht 5 tage vor ankunft
Etwas spät dafür
Auch für Europa pass ?
Werde mal nachschauen

Henri,
wenn du die Seite zum bezahlen gefunden hast, bitte mal zusenden. Danke

Bin dabei musst schnell sein sonst expired es

Bin dabei anzumelden zum 2 mal

Code kommt nicht an

Also ausgefüllt und bezahlt
Sagt aber das die bestätigung bis 48 stunden sein kann
Bin 2 mal durch den Prozess gegangen
Erste mal zu langsam gewesen
Die zahlungsseite ist ganz am ende vom form ausfüllen
Kommt aber immer wieder die Warnung in rot das es 5 tage vorher gemacht werden soll
Aber Geld angekommen haben sie trotzdem

Ist schon weg

Müsste aber ne email von meiner abrechnung bekommen

Ok hab ne confirmation bekommen

So letzte vorbereitung hier
Hoffe das in SAL flughafen WIFI gibt
Dann sag ich Bescheid
Wenn nicht leg eine leine bis zum strand fas uch mich entlang hangeln kann

Es gibt W lan [This message was edited]

👌

Mathias hat’s geklappt mit dem anmelden ? Zahlen?
Mein Geld haben sie angenommen aber es kammen immer in rot warnung das es 5 Tage vorher gemacht werden muss

👌

Mein Flug von Casa -Sid. ist
AT597
Dep casa 2305
Arr SID 0055
Am 27 also kurz nach Mitternacht vom 26

Ok also wenn ich dem taxi capricorno sage bringt er mich da hin !

Ok eingecheckt
Koffer 25 kg und Hand gepäck etwa 15 kg werden kaum hungern
Jetzt erst mal warten

Bin ebenfalls eingecheckt. In 1 h geht s los

Casablanca jetzt erst msl bis heute abend warten

Super bekomme ein hotel zimmer bis 20 uhr von Royal Air Maroc

Na gepäck ablegen und in ein Hammam
Bus geht von Flughafen ab

Bus hotel flughafen alle 30 Minuten

Ok am Flughafen
Boarding in ner stunde
Arrival 055 your time
Müsste im Hafen gegen 0230 sein
Will confirm wenns geht in Palmeira oder vom Flughafen
Müssen eventuell 2 runs zum boat machen koffer sind schwer
Ne Leine bereit halten um die koffer an bord zu hiefen oder vom quay runter zum dingy hieven

Super

Auf alle fälle RAM is ne nummer besser als AC
Sitze haben mehr platz. Und essen war gut
Fish oder Huhn
Gute Portion Huhn mit ner creme Sauce reis und Gemüse
Brot Käse salat yogurt muffin Schokolade
Morgens zum Frühstück Brötchen mit ei muffin yogurt
Glaub nicht das die Alcohol serviert habrn bin mir aber nicht sicher
Dann das hotel 3 minuten vom Flughafen mit pool und inclusive mittag und Abendessen
Hatten ein spa direct dort
Hab 2 ein halb stunden dort im Hammam und mit Massage verbracht ( 200$ cdn) und ein nachmittags schlaf gemacht
An bord aber nur Stewards naja alternativ bei AC währe es all die alten Stewardessen gewesen

Boarded

Landed

Ok

Internet scheint nicht zu funktionieren

Liebe Transat‘ler, für den anstehenden Schlag wünsche ich Euch alles Gute, mögen Euch gute Winde schnell zum Ziel bringen!

Auch von meiner Seite, alles Gute und eine gute Fahrt!!!

Gute Fahrt!

May the force be with you!

Bon voyage! ⛵

You added PAULO

You added Dagmar,Ana Clara, and Thomas

You added Christelle

Das Leben kann definitiv schlimmer sein ☀️

Oups my pose is not the most popular one

Have a nice trip ⛵

Departure from Cape Verde, heading for Brazil.
The last island slowly fading on the horizon… a picture-perfect moment — until you actually look at our boat.

Because yes, let’s talk about that.
Me A “professional” sailor… on a tiny sailboat… seasick. Honestly, this is probably the smallest boat of my entire career — and definitely the most humbling.

Life on board? “Limited space” is generous.
If you want to turn around, you basically need clearance from the whole crew.

Out on the horizon, everything looks calm.
We’ve got good wind — we’re moving well — but the sea has other ideas. It’s having its rough moments with waves crossing behind us and lifting us before we fade in the through
I’m a bit dizzy… with a growing, very poetic urge to lean gently over the side to feed the sealife.
Now to the real challenge? Finding a spot where two people can face each other in order to pass, a little like a life tetris game. Not exactly designed for that.

The boat is small, everything is tight, nothing stays in place — except Markus, our third crew member… consistently seasick since day one. Reliable, in his own way. He does have his moments of presence but allas the horizontal position seems to be the healthiest

Mischa, on the other hand, is doing great. Suspiciously great.

Me? I have my moments.
Even this morning, I almost “fed the fish”…
Lasted about five minutes.
Right after cooking breakfast, of course.

In the end:
Mischa ate everything.
Three portions.

A true survivor.

And hes still hungry asking for dinner

Hi Micha, könntest du bitte Ina auch in Verteiler aufnehmen? LD 🙏

You added Ina Verena

Oh, noooooooo 🤮
Michael, you always were a survivor!

😍🥩

Gute Besserung an Markus🤞
Ich hoffe die Seekrankheit geht vorüber und du gewöhnst dich an die Bewegung.
Wenn du unter Deck kochst, wundert es mich nicht, dass dir auch schwummrig wird, Henri.
Ihr könnt ja das Kochen einstellen und auf Knäckebrot umstellen. 🥴
Alles Gute weiterhin!🤞

All the best for Markus and Henri! What about scopolamine patches?

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾🙏🏼🙌🏻

Are you referring to Henri's cooking or sailing abilities...
🤔
or both?
💪🏻 [This message was edited]

You added Falco

My sailing ability, against all available evidence, appears not to have deteriorated. If anything, I’ve regressed with remarkable commitment—straight back into a previous century. Possibly one of the less successful ones. There’s a peculiar romance in steering by hand, estimating direction by squinting suspiciously at the stars and the Moon, while the dishes below stage an increasingly aggressive percussion performance in the sink. I, meanwhile, cling to the helm like a man who has recently discovered that autopilot was not, in fact, a decorative feature.

It’s all very authentic. Perhaps too authentic.

Of course, I do miss certain luxuries—minor things, really—like my steward, who used to clean my cabin, stock my fridge, and maintain the fragile illusion that I had my life under control. That illusion has now been replaced by a fine layer of salt, crumbs, and mild confusion.

To fully commit to the historical reenactment, all we need now is a horse or two on board—strictly for sacrificial purposes once we reach the doldrums or the horse latitudes. Tradition matters. Admittedly, given our current inventory, we could simply throw some food overboard as a symbolic offering. It would both appease the ancient maritime spirits and improve performance. I am prepared to call this a win-win and label it “advanced nautical optimization.”

Now, Micha’s reaction to last night’s dinner bordered on spiritual awakening: grilled “halal” pork chops—halal, of course, due to my thorough and entirely legitimate pre-cooking baptism of the pig—served with Knödel and Rotkraut. Today’s scrambled eggs were described, generously, as “memorable,” which I choose to interpret as a compliment rather than a warning.

In fairness, his usual culinary benchmark is Brazilian feijoada: a dish composed of pig parts that seem to have lost a democratic vote, cooked with beans for several days until time itself becomes irrelevant, then served over rice. Under those conditions, it is perhaps unsurprising that my cooking appears to him as a gateway to higher civilization.

He claims it reminds him of childhood—his grandmother’s Gerstensuppe mit Pflaumen or Linsensuppe. I accept this with grace, while remaining alert for any signs that he may soon start addressing me as a maternal figure, which would be where I draw a firm and immediate boundary.

Meanwhile, Micha has taken it upon himself to restore order to at least one corner of this floating experiment by honing his mechanical skills. He is currently engaged in what can only be described as an intense and deeply personal relationship with the wind vane, attempting to rig it so it will steer us faithfully without wandering off course or allowing the wind to batter us from entirely the wrong direction—something the rest of us have so far embraced with surprising enthusiasm.

His present obsession is achieving the most direct possible heading toward the Brazilian coast. No deviations. No compromises. No philosophical detours.

I can only assume the call of a plate of feijoada is, in fact, stronger than the wind itself.

OMG 🤩

May I briefly address the suggestion of scopolamine patches?

As a general rule, drugs I cannot pronounce are unlikely to find their way into my body—the temple generously entrusted with my continued existence. I feel that if I can’t say it without hesitation, I probably shouldn’t be applying it behind my ear like a decorative afterthought.

Which brings me to my second concern: a patch stuck behind my ear would inevitably suggest not medical prudence, but a catastrophic failure in my shaving technique. I have a reputation to maintain—however fragile and largely self-invented it may be.

That said, I must confess to a certain affinity—let’s call it a discreet and entirely philosophical acquaintance—with substances of a more approachable linguistic nature. Names that roll gently off the tongue, like Mary Jane or the ever-mysterious “sacred ash-ish.” Far more personable. Far less judgmental.

These, in the past, have occasionally assisted in opening my mind and, perhaps, in steering a few of my life decisions—some better than others, admittedly. As Frank Zappa so wisely observed: “A mind is like a parachute—it only works if it is open.”

And to quote our childhood authority on such matters, Obelix: “I don’t need it—I fell into it when I was young.”

So yes, I continue my journey with a slightly calmer disposition, occasionally accompanied—purely in spirit, of course—by these two most amiable and well-named companions aboard this vessel on route to this little Island of the coast of Brasil

Frei nach Boney m: Brown baer at the Ring

Very impressing the challenge that you all tackle! I’m very amused about the entertaining messages and descriptions of Henri 😀👍! On this picture, the water looks calm and quiet. Does the autopilot it’s job?

You added Hans and Joanne

Good morning! Does this mean you two are starting your epic voyage, destination Canary Islands?

Safe travels! How long is the passage? Friends of mine will be in the Canary Islands in a week

So far, we’re sailing on with the Canary Islands fading into a distant memory behind us—clearly they didn’t try hard enough to keep us.

If anyone’s wondering where we’ve gone, tell them not to panic—just climb the highest mountain they can find, look to the southwest, and squint a little. We’ll be the tiny speck making a graceful escape (or at least that’s the story we’re sticking to).

And if they’re still confused… well, maybe it’s time they finally caught up on our previous posts.

Ok il send them to your box later

I see your location now, you’ll be in Brazil in no time, safe travels!

Gliding thru the Atlantic waves only withe main? Or butterfly with the genoa? Looks wonderful ⛵️

After an eventless night—if such a thing truly exists when one is afloat—the bright Moon held dominion over the sky, dimming the quieter ambitions of the stars. The Ocean, meanwhile, seemed undecided about its own temperament: at times calm and reflective, then suddenly stirred, as if shaken from a dream it could not quite remember, trying out new gestures of movement like a restless sleeper turning over.

Our windvane, a creature of moods rather than mechanics, offered guidance only intermittently. It would point the way with conviction, then just as quickly reconsider—philosophical, perhaps, about the nature of direction itself—leaving me to wonder whether constancy is overrated. As a result, the weekly ritual of tracing the familiar stars became less certain, though not entirely lost.

Still, a few steadfast companions revealed themselves: Sirius burning with quiet authority; Castor and Pollux keeping their twin counsel; Orion’s belt, as reliable as an old proverb; and even Jupiter, unbothered by earthly confusion. With some effort—and a willingness to contort both body and dignity—the Big and Little Dipper came into view, and Polaris too, though I must admit I recognized her more by memory than by sight. It seems even navigation, like faith, sometimes relies on what we believe should be there.

Then finally, just before sunrise, the Moon sort of… puts on a show. It sinks down in all these strange colours—orange, pink, a bit of red maybe—and for a moment it feels like it knows you’re watching. And then, almost suddenly, with the Moon stepping away, the whole sky opens up properly, like a curtain being pulled back, and there they are—more stars than you feel like there should be. It’s a bit unfair, really. But I suppose the Moon will be back at it again in the coming days, growing bolder each night, crowding the sky until the stars have to wait their turn again.

Meanwhile, with the recent Spring equinox, the Sun now passes almost directly overhead at noon, a reminder that we are not merely travelers upon the sea, but also passengers on a much larger journey—one we neither steer nor fully comprehend.

Sitting outside—well, crouching rather awkwardly behind the wheel, so close to the water that it feels less like observation and more like participation—my thoughts wander. I think back to a recent motorcycle ride through Brazil, where the road yielded itself to my decisions, each curve negotiated, each acceleration chosen. There was a certain illusion of mastery in that. Here, by contrast, the waves and wind dictate terms. I respond rather than command. It is a humbling exchange, and perhaps a more honest one.

And then there are these little flashes of life. Every now and then, a few flying fish burst out of the water like they’ve remembered something urgent, skimming just above the surface as if they’re trying not to wake it. They go surprisingly far—farther than seems reasonable—before slipping back in like it was all a secret. And above, the occasional seabird drifts low over the wave crests, barely moving its wings, as if it’s figured something out the rest of us haven’t.

Of course, none of this happens without a bit of a struggle. The wind, true to form, refuses to make things easy. It shifts and hesitates, sometimes fading just when you think you’ve got it right, and then returning from an angle you didn’t quite ask for. Keeping the sails filled—properly filled, bellied out and actually pulling us forward—becomes a kind of quiet challenge. There’s a lot of adjusting, a bit of guessing, and occasionally just hoping for the best, as if the boat and I are trying to agree on something the wind hasn’t fully decided yet.

Then there are the sounds. The water rushing beneath the hull, a steady whisper punctuated by the occasional playful roll of a wave tapping against the boat—like a quiet joke shared between old friends. Compare this to the drama of waves crashing upon a shore, the thunderous declaration of arrival, the final act of a long journey.

And that raises a question, one the sea does not answer directly: are these waves, out here in their wandering state, somehow incomplete? Is their purpose—to break, to dissolve, to surrender themselves upon the land? Or is that simply our way of imposing a narrative, a need for culmination?

Perhaps the waves do not yearn at all. Perhaps they are already fulfilled in their motion, in their rise and fall, in the endless conversation between wind and water. The shore may seem like an ending to us, but to the wave it might be nothing more than a change in form—a brief, dramatic flourish in an otherwise continuous existence.

If so, then maybe we are not so different. We speak of destinations, of purposes, of final reasons—as if life were obliged to resolve itself neatly. But out here, where even the windvane refuses to commit and the Ocean experiments with its own moods, it becomes easier to suspect that meaning is not something waiting at the shore.

It is something that moves with us—restless, shifting, occasionally contradictory—and, if we are paying attention, quietly enough… even a little amusing.

You added Sonja

So today was bath day.

Mischa went up to the bow, completely naked — ohhhh yes — pouring buckets of seawater over himself and proudly using his Head & Shoulders shampoo, which, to be fair, works even in saltwater.

Of course, he made absolutely sure that no boat was within a 40-mile radius…
and we, the rest of the crew, were instructed to avert our eyes. Blindfolds practically recommended.

You never know — after enough time at sea,
even that fine old carcass of his might spark some dangerously unexpected desires.

So there you have it — all the necessary precautions taken
to preserve the purity, sanctity, and unmatched modesty of the man.

Truly a heroic effort… in the name of decency and we shall all folow that procedure to preserve our integrity for the sake of our Ladys at home so that they can be assured that only their eyes can delight in the sight of our flawless bodys

0,2 kn! When you manage to accelerate from 0,5 kn to 0,7 kn = ] you are talking about 40% increase 😁

Yesterday—ah yes, that day. The kind that reminds you the human body is less a temple and more a lightly supervised experiment.

After the previous night’s supper—a mild Indian curry made with chicken breast and a mysterious sliver of frozen meat acquired back in Cape Verde—our collective digestive systems staged a quiet but determined rebellion. Not dramatic, mind you. Just a firm, repeated suggestion that everything should be… reconsidered, and promptly evacuated.

Michael, ever the optimist, waved it off as mere indigestion, insisting he’s accustomed to far hotter curries—as if spice tolerance were a badge of honour rather than a gamble with fate. Markus, meanwhile, dove into the first aid kit his wife Dagmar had so thoughtfully and professionally assembled, rummaging with the seriousness of a field medic preparing for the worst. Food poisoning, he seemed to suspect, was not just a possibility but the narrative.

And then there’s me—philosopher of the porcelain throne—dismissing it all as a mild inconvenience, though spending rather more time seated than I’d care to admit. I maintain it was simply my well-documented intolerance to anything vaguely spicy. That said, in a moment of intellectual honesty: the curry was delicious. Which, as history shows, is often how these things begin.

Thus followed a surprisingly animated debate about causality. Was the meat questionable? Was it spice? Was it hubris? The untouched tub of leftover curry now sits in the fridge, quietly awaiting judgment like an accused in a trial with no impartial jury.

Notably, the small, bespectacled, slightly rotund chef responsible for this otherwise excellent meal has, so far, escaped blame. A triumph of either diplomacy or denial—I’m not yet sure which.

Today, in a decisive pivot toward what can only be described as culinary countermeasures, I produced Montreal smoked meat—heroically schlepped across continents and oceans—and served it atop dense, homemade rye bread, courtesy of Dagmar’s formidable baking prowess. Markus recounted, with a mix of pride and lingering awe, the painstaking effort involved in the mixing of the various incrediends and the bake itself, no doubt aware that such excellence comes with the implicit expectation of appreciation… and eventual return to more of the same.

Alongside the smoked meat, we had Schwarz kosher pickles and an earnest attempt at a salad—cucumber, tomato, asparagus—dressed with lemon and olive oil. The working theory: between acidity , spiced vinegar and optimism, we might neutralize whatever internal bacterial uprising still lingered. A kind of maritime alchemy. Or, less generously, the culinary equivalent of crossing one’s fingers.

Ah yes—call it also , in honour of all the woman in our life, our little witch’s remedies.

As for the curry, its fate remains uncertain. It may yet be offered to the sea, a sacrificial gesture to whatever deities govern digestion and fair winds. Perhaps it will earn us safe passage. Or perhaps it will simply continue its quiet work from within the fridge, biding its time.

There is, of course, a philosophical angle to all this. Life at sea strips things down to essentials: food, balance, and the occasional existential reckoning in confined quarters. Even the body adapts—my take is that this is a occasion to shet a few unwanted pounds still clinging to my otherwise flawless ( umpfff) body and combined with the constant rolling and pitching it all become a kind of involuntary exercise regime. Legs act as pistons, arms as emergency stabilizers, dignity as collateral damage. Who needs a gym when the ocean itself is your personal trainer? Though I can already imagine Mischa trying to monetize the concept by offering lifelong membership with convenient payment plans.


And so, perhaps it’s time I shift to other topics. After all, we must aspire to more than the analysis of meals past and those yet to come.

Still… I’ll be keeping an eye on that curry. Just in case it decides to make a second argument but so far the consensus is we shall pas the protein to the Sea , now we need to find out who shall be the high priest in charge of the donation.

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾☮️🍀

Better than completely stopped!!! 😉👍🏻🙏🏼

Better than this

This message was deleted.

😳

Ahh, the dolphins—about a dozen of them! But I guess we were too slow and too boring, so they bailed after a mere 15 minutes. Maybe they realized we weren’t cool enough, or maybe it was the curry incident—I mean, who wouldn’t be offended if you dumped a perfectly good curry into the ocean? It’s like we insulted their very existence. “Nope, not today. We came for the vibes, not your culinary disasters.

😂😂🤣🤣

That’s a lot of blue… when is the last time you guys saw land?

Actually We’re not far from Tierra Firma—only about a mile, really. But it’s not the kind of distance you’d want to measure with a map. No, it’s straight yep straight down. A silent, uninviting blue abyss that seems to whisper secrets we’ll never hear. It’s like the ocean is holding its breath, waiting for us to figure out the mystery of its depths, while we’re left with nothing but the weight of the unknown pressing against us. A mile away, but a world apart.

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾👍🏻🙌🏻

I enjoy the poet in the on-board description, (even if I have to use DeepL for it😉 )

Hello!!! No messages today!!!

☹️

Someone received a private message today??? From the crew?

Hey!
I did. Michael said that when he switched on starlink in the morning it didn’t work.
In the afternoon he switched on for a while and said that was going to switch off after to save.
They’re fine but a bit slow … still

Ok!!! Better this way!!! 🙏🏼

GARMIN tracking system is OK!!!

I don’t know if it uses the Starlink network to keep us updated.

Ahhh, give those sailors a break.

We had our bath day. Everyone washed up, changed, and even scrubbed their underwear. A fresh shirt all around, and just like that, we became a brand-new crew. As tradition would have it, we went through the ritual of introducing ourselves again—names, ranks, and the unspoken understanding of what is expected of each soul aboard.

Right after our afternoon thalassotherapy session—otherwise known as a seawater bath, a generous dose of vitamin D, and the time-honored air-dry method—our salt-encrusted bodies were summoned to the aft deck. There, sweetened milk coffee was served alongside a fine, home-baked carrot cake. Sailors, after all, have long known that morale is as vital as wind.

The rest of the afternoon drifted by with tales of past voyages, embellishments growing with each retelling—as is the ancient right of seafarers. The sea remembers, but sailors improve upon the memory.

Supper was held in “Little Italie”: a respectable spaghetti carbonara, followed by a brief and patchy session on Starlink, granting us a fleeting glimpse into the world’s ongoing foolishness.

Meanwhile, the wind has died. We are now chugging along under power, the helmsman on watch gifted with the privilege of breathing in the noble scent of diesel exhaust, while the off-watch crew is gently lulled to sleep by the steady hum of our trusty engine—a modern companion to the old rhythms of sail and sea.

Until it is our turn at the helm again, and with a bit of luck—and perhaps a favor from the old sea gods—we may yet catch the wind once more.

🙏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾☮️🍀👍🏻

Frohen an Bord

🤩👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾

We are not alone…

Toll - Wie weit hat ihr noch zu segeln?

Wow. wide wide sea.
The equator cames soon ?

Near St. Peter, St. Paul???

Maybe more 750 km to FN?

Whats KM stand for ?
Next time I see a panel which indicates distance I will take a picture for you

😝

😜

Odysseus; we now set out on our Odyssey
Sailor;( raising hand) what’s an Odyssey?
Odysseus; a long journey named after the only Survivor.
Sailor; Oh OK wait what ?

😳

Paulo, pra mim está ótimo em kms 😂🙃
Se mudar, mude pra ambos. Daí não tenho que converter. I’m still not a sailor and very busy working (a little lazy too…) 🤷‍♀️.

🤩👏🏼👏🏽👏🏾👍🏻

A nautical mile (often called a “sea mile”) is based directly on the geometry of the Earth—not an arbitrary measurement.

🌍 The key idea

It comes from how we measure position using latitude and longitude.
• The Earth is divided into 360 degrees of latitude
• Each degree is divided into 60 minutes (arcminutes)

👉 So:
1 nautical mile = the distance of 1 minute of latitude

⸻

📏 What that means in practice

If you travel north or south by 1 minute of latitude, you’ve gone:

➡️ 1 nautical mile = 1,852 meters (exactly)

⸻

🧭 Why this system was chosen

Navigators (especially sailors) needed something practical:
• On charts, positions are given in degrees and minutes
• Measuring distance in the same units makes navigation simple

So:
• Move 10 minutes on the map → travel 10 nautical miles
• No complex conversion needed

⸻

📜 Historical note

The concept dates back to early navigation, but it was standardized internationally in 1929 to exactly 1,852 meters.

⸻

⚓ Why it’s still used

Nautical miles are used in:
• Marine navigation
• Aviation

Because they align with the Earth’s coordinate system and work naturally with the latitude and longitude grid.

One Land mile = 1600 m
1 km =0.621 mi or 1000 m

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾👍🏻🤩

Softegg

Voilà—at last, we cross the Equator. That imaginary line, so solemnly drawn on charts, revealed itself to us only by suggestion: long ochre-colored rafts of drifting sargasso weed, as if Neptune himself had strewn a lazy border between hemispheres.

We were deep in the doldrums—a languid, heaving plain of water without a whisper of wind. The sails hung useless, sulking. So we seized the calm to tackle a more stubborn adversary: the steering quadrant, which had slipped a few centimeters down the rudder stock and was now grinding where it most certainly ought not to. Three sailors entered the arena of ideas—proposals launched, torpedoed, resurrected, and argued over with great seriousness and questionable logic. In the end, with a nod to old Archimedes and a dash of maritime improvisation, we cobbled together a temporary fix. Good enough, we declared—shipshape, or at least ship-tolerable.

Michael was then entrusted with the sacred duty of putting away the tools—preferably in a manner that would allow them to be found again before the next ice age. He assured me, with dangerous confidence, that everything was filed alphabetically.

Now, he had previously claimed that our victuals were arranged in the same system. I remain… unconvinced. Which alphabet, exactly? Greek? Phoenician? Some lost Mesopotamian script decipherable only by drunken archaeologists and overly optimistic quartermasters? The mind boggles.

But I digress.

Post-engineering heroics, the daily schedule called for a swim—though naturally, such indulgence required justification. Out came masks and snorkels, and a “serious underwater inspection” of the hull was conducted. The propeller: clear. The intake: unobstructed. The verdict: entirely satisfactory—and thus, with scientific duty fulfilled, Michael and Markus promptly plunged into Neptune’s domain.

Lines with floating fenders were trailed astern, in case they drifted off into oblivion. Meanwhile, I stood watch—heroically scanning for sharks, though I made it quite clear that beyond a well-timed shout of “LOOK OUT!”, my contribution would likely be limited. A man must know his strengths.

Once back aboard, we turned to fuel calculations—an exercise equal parts mathematics and hopeful fiction. Jerry cans were emptied, tanks topped up, numbers debated, and finally a decision reached: we would motor through the doldrums, that cursed wind-starved belt of the world.

After nearly eighteen hours of steady, soul-numbing chugging, we reached the Equator.

The engine was silenced for the occasion. A bottle of prosecco appeared—as if by divine intervention—and was duly dispatched. This was followed by more prosecco, scandalously diluted with peach juice (a crime I shall neither confirm nor deny participating in). For a brief, glorious moment, we even sailed—three knots of hesitant dignity—before my esteemed companions, in a fit of impatience bordering on mutiny, restarted the engine.

It seems the promise of Brazilian feijoada and looming office appointments ashore outweighed the noble philosophy of “better slow going than no going at all.” Blast it all—codswallop and steam-powered nonsense!

And so we press on.

Reality, it must be said, has proven less cooperative than our optimistic onboard calculations. Still, we endure—rocked and rolled in our floating sardine tin, breathing diesel fumes, serenaded by the relentless thrum of the engine and the half-hearted flapping of the genoa, which seems deeply offended by being upstaged by machinery.

As for me, I maintain a veneer of civilization—shaving regularly and awaiting rain showers for my ablutions. Though I must confess, wearing the same shirt for more than three days is testing the very limits of my dignity.

My shipmates, however, have embraced the full “weathered sea dog” aesthetic. They cling to ancient seafaring lore: that upon arrival in distant lands, we shall be greeted by bare-breasted maidens paddling out in canoes, laden with exotic fruits, chattering monkeys, and squawking parrots—offerings of companionship and questionable practicality. Supposedly, our salt-encrusted, disreputable appearance will awaken some deep, nurturing instinct, compelling these mythical women to bathe, shave, and rehabilitate us.

Absolute barnacle-encrusted fantasy, if you ask me—but I admire the commitment.

Meanwhile, our captain has retired below, no doubt dreaming of his impeccable alphabetical system—whatever infernal order it may follow.

And so we continue, counting down the miles, chasing wind that refuses to cooperate.

For as the old German saying goes:
Those who keep things in perfect order are simply too lazy to search for them.

Blistering barnacles… and onward we go.

Voila the equator line drawn quite obviously onto the water

🤣😂

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾🙏🏼🙌🏻

You know what sailors do? We read the horizon, chart angles, ride the pull of currents, and outthink the storms before they even show their teeth. We don’t just drift—we calculate, we adapt, we survive. We take the chaos of the open sea and make a path where there was none.

We don’t stand stuck on one heading—we tack, we turn, we dance with the damn wind. One minute calm waters, next minute fighting a squall that wants to drag us under—and we grin through it anyway.

Sailors have always been called a different breed… yeah, no shit we are.

We don’t believe in straight lines and simple answers. The sea doesn’t work that way. It’s depths, shadows, things you feel more than see. We trust the invisible—the pull of the tide, the shift in air, the gut feeling that says “change course or you’re done.”

We don’t just move through the ocean—we carry its energy, let it beat the hell out of us, shape us, and still we come back for more. It gets in your bones. Changes you.

So when you wonder why a sailor is the way they are, remember this:
we’re carved by storms, guided by stars, and hardened by every wave that tried to break us.

We see things others don’t.
We feel things others ignore.

I am a sailor.
I am a navigator.

I am…

Me , I am we are a swamp-slick, tide-chasing, hard-headed son of the sea.

Belíssimo!!! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾

Soul food, in this particular voyage, is not merely sustenance—it is morale in edible form, a defiant little rebellion against the tyranny of diesel fumes and the relentless heave of the sea.

That carrot cake—cobbled together with nuts, dry stores, and what can only generously be called “culinary optimism”—is no ordinary cake. It is a statement. A proclamation! A sweet, slightly lopsided reminder that we are not yet reduced to barnacles clinging to survival. The nuts provide energy, yes—proper fuel for weary bodies—but the cake itself fuels something far more delicate: spirit.

Between the ceaseless droning of the old engine (which sounds, I might add, like it was last serviced during the reign of Neptune himself) and the infernal rocking of our brave little tin can, one could easily lose both appetite and sanity. And yet, here we are—fork in hand, chewing thoughtfully as though we were in some seaside café rather than adrift in a mechanical symphony of rattles and groans.

We stare ahead, of course. Always ahead. Into that vague and shimmering promise of an island—golden sands, calm waters, and perhaps even a chair that doesn’t move beneath you like a possessed beast. Whether it exists or is merely a mirage conjured by hunger and wishful thinking remains to be seen. But we keep watch like proper seafarers.

And bless the steady hand of our wheelsman—may his grip remain true and his nerves unshaken—for he alone stands between us and turning broadside to these unruly seas like a drunken walrus.

Conversation? Ha! What a luxury. The occasional brave soul attempts a jest—something about the weather or the state of the engine—but it lands with all the grace of a wet sail. A faint smile here, a polite nod there… and then back to the horizon and the hum. Words are in short supply; endurance is not.

Which is precisely why that carrot cake matters.

It is hope you can slice. It is proof that even as we ration diesel and silently calculate whether we’ll reach shore before both tank and crew run dry, we have not surrendered entirely to the elements. We still create. We still share.

And let it be said—should the winds find it in their good graces to cooperate (lazy blighters that they are), and should that engine continue its heroic refusal to expire—we may yet make landfall in time. In time for dry ground, for still air… and for one among us to return, astonishingly, to the civilized world of office desks and schedules. Imagine that!

So we eat our cake, we watch the horizon, and we carry on.

Because at sea, my friend, it’s not just the fuel in the tank that matters—it’s the stubborn fire in the belly.

And by thunder, this crew has both.

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏽👏🏽👏🏾👏🏾🙌🏻👍🏻

You are so brave, unbreakable, daring and incredibly patient. Hats off to you.

🤩👏🏼👏🏽👏🏾👍🏻

So here we are, having crossed the Equator a few days ago
that so-called magical divide between north and south.

It’s where the wind decides to take a nap… and you realize what a fool you are for being on a sailboat.

Now we’re running with the sails down, the old diesel engine—growling louder than a tired old sailor—pushing this tin can of sardines through glassy, motionless water. And somehow, even then, we’re still being tossed around in this cramped little space.

Typical stubborn old men, still thinking we’re heroic adventurers… when really we just forgot to age gracefully.

But here we are—sweaty, salty, slightly lost, and still convincing ourselves this is the good life.

Yes ,good life, I think. (Little bit to noisy but with earplugs ...🐰..😝)
What happened at the turn east/west ?? Was it in the night?

Fernando doesn't seem that far 🤷🏽

Congrats guys!! 🤟🏼
Much respect and admiration for your journey!!
Determination has no age ! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

Bravo! Und Herzlichen Glückwunsch 🍾
You made it!

Happy Terra Firma 🙂

Respekt!! Herzlichen Glückwunsch! Job well done.

PARABÉNS!!! Terra a vista!!! 🤩

tremendous job, well done 👏

Reached the harbor

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Congrats - Super-Alaaf-🥳-💓

Terra à vista. Land in Sicht. Ahoey The cry goes up with all the conviction of men who have already been fooled twice—and are about to be fooled again.

There it is—land—two points to starboard. No, dead ahead. No, now abeam to port, slipping about like a pickpocket in a crowded bazaar. It shifts, it dances, it flatly refuses to hold still long enough to be properly admired. One could swear the island itself is having sport with us, skipping just out of reach and calling over its shoulder: “Catch me if you can.”

The entrance plays the same trick. We line it up—steady as she goes—and there it is, clear as day. Another mile and we’re in. Except we’re not. The blasted thing slides off again, revealing yet another headland to round, another promise deferred. And then—like an exclamation mark hammered into the horizon—a jagged rock juts skyward. Is it a beacon? A warning? Or simply the island’s way of raising a stony middle finger to passing sailors? “Welcome, gentlemen. Also—do not try to think yourselves remarkable.”

Because of course, we are not the first. Nor, regrettably, will we be the last.

Meanwhile, our accidental passenger—the weary seabird that had long ago abandoned dignity for survival—remains perched upon the radar dome like a feathered stowaway of questionable paperwork. One imagines its tale: bold flight, a careless gust, a widening horizon, and then the slow, dreadful realization that enthusiasm has carried it far beyond sense. It circled us at first, skeptical, then desperate, and finally—after several undignified attempts—collapsed onto our dome like a drunk finding religion.

Now it watches. Waiting. Measuring the distance to salvation. Has it rested enough? Or do the cries of its kin—faint at first, now unmistakable—call it back toward those lush, forgiving shores? One hopes it has learned something from the experience, though sailors are rarely in a position to judge poor decision-making.

At last—another rounding, another gamble—and the illusion gives way to fact. The bay opens before us, wide and impossibly blue, dotted with dozens of boats riding at anchor. They bob in unison, bows to the swell, as if rehearsing some slow maritime ballet only they can hear. The soundtrack assembles itself: waves collapsing against rock, wind threading through low green hills, the distant hum of engines, the chatter of life returning.

And the smell—ah! Damp earth, salt, and that unmistakable perfume of vegetation run riot. The island is no longer teasing; it is breathing.

The harbour is alive. Painted wooden boats—gaudy as carnival floats—buzz about collecting their cargo of sunburnt pilgrims, ready to be wined, dined, and gently deceived into believing they have discovered something rare. Sleeker vessels sit lower in the water, bristling with rods and reels, their clientele chasing the ghost of some grander narrative—each man secretly auditioning for a role in a story best told by Hemingway and rarely lived so cleanly.

We thread our way through it all, grinning like fools who have gotten away with something. Because, truth be told, we have. Fuel—always a theoretical concept—has held out just long enough to preserve our dignity. Barely.

Then, as if summoned by irony itself, the radio crackles.

A fellow sailor, voice tight with that particular strain of embarrassment, asks if we might spare some fuel. They have made it—heroically, tragically—to the outer anchorage… and no further.

Ah, the temptation. The sheer, unfiltered joy of moral superiority.

We oblige—vocally, at least—with a few muttered observations about preparedness, planning, and seamanship. Delivered, naturally, only to ourselves, not wanting to further embarrass these poor souls who allready have minimized their embarrassment by switching to German thus making the conversation more intimate , thus our moral mussing is delivered with all the authority of men who spent the past week quietly calculating whether momentum alone might carry us ashore.

Hypocrisy, like rust, is endemic at sea.

Anchor down at last. The ritual begins. Dinghy over. Outboard lowered. Papers gathered in that optimistic belief that bureaucracy may yet be charmed. A brief but spirited debate erupts over breakfast—civilization versus immediacy. In the end, tea aboard wins a narrow victory, with promises of something more substantial ashore.

As for the “hero’s welcome”—one suspects it will involve less cheering crowds and more a disinterested customs officer wondering why we have chosen to arrive at an hour normally reserved for sleep or regret. If Columbus had the decency to arrive on a Sunday, he at least had the excuse of being early to the profession. We, alas, arrive in an age of working hours.

And so my illustrious M&Ms—Markus and Michael—set off in the dinghy. Michael, brimming with vindication, proudly notes that his engine started after only a few pulls, thereby disproving all prior slander regarding its reliability.

It runs.

It runs well.

It runs… briefly.

Moments later, silence.

The last I see of them: two figures rowing with increasing sincerity, their mechanical triumph drifting uselessly behind them.

And here I remain, chronicler of this entirely typical epic—born of salt, sustained by mild delusion, and delivered not by a note in a bottle tossed out at sea, but faithfully thumbed into existence on my IPhone and flung skyward via Elon’s benevolent constellation.

A tale of land that refuses to sit still, of birds with questionable judgment, of sailors no better, and of arrivals that are never quite as grand—or as dignified—as imagined.

Which is, of course, precisely why we keep doing it.
Foolish old man but the cheering from our online fans does count if only to reassure us that we might inspire but beware of false promises of tales at sea and adventure
Mine at least in order to become rewarding will need a good massage a laundromat a shower and a large sready bed for st least a night

Henri, you're great. Thanks a lot. 🫶🏼
Entertaining, amusing and cleverly ironic.
I loved it.
I hope you all have a wonderful time on the island.
Bye, Sonja

Bravo 💪👏👏👏

I support Sonjas comments!! Thanks a lot Henri. 👏🫶👍

Yesss! He’s good!
I think Henri’s writing is excellent. He should consider getting his work published.
I’ve told him already.

👏🏼👏🏽👏🏾😊

Wow! You are great! You did it! Congratulations 🎊🍾🎉

Blistering barnacles, here we are at last back on land… though one might say this island is not quite properly moored—it retains the gentle habit of swaying like a vessel at anchor.

And instead of easing into the comforts so vividly promised, we find ourselves in constant motion—port and starboard—seeing to water, fuel, and provisions. No small undertaking; more the work of a seasoned quartermaster than idle visitors expecting a graceful welcome.

Now, as for Paulo the Brazilian—one must grant the man a certain elegance in his ambitions. The vision he painted was, admittedly, rather splendid: canoes meeting us out at sea, crewed—so he suggested—by local maidens of a rather… unencumbered presentation, bearing fruits, color, and charm. A most theatrical reception before we so much as touched shore.

And thereafter… massages, manicures, pedicures, caipirinhas in hand, and nothing more demanding than watching the girls dance along the shoreline beneath the sun.

Instead, we have discovered that such arrangements require rather more… participation.

Still, one cannot help but admire his balancing act. To remain in the good graces of Ana Clara and Christelle, while not entirely losing ours—well, that suggests a certain diplomacy. Indeed, one might reasonably suspect that once our ladies became aware of the precise nature of this proposed welcome, Paulo may have been… discreetly encouraged, perhaps even recruited, to ensure that certain elements of the plan failed to materialize.

One senses a man navigating competing loyalties, as mindful of our expectations as he is of the far more immediate and persuasive authority—and potential wrath—of our ladies.

As for how he managed to persuade the pilot, after landing, to take off again—well… that remains a minor mystery worthy of a raised eyebrow and a quiet toast.

We did, briefly, consider administering a most undignified punishment—something involving suspension by the big toe and a ceremonial tickling with an organic carrot. However, it seems entirely plausible that he was already facing a far greater and more immediate threat from Ana Clara and Christelle… to the point that our own consequences appeared, by comparison, perfectly acceptable terms for what might be described as a certain dereliction of duty.

In any case, should he not appear shortly—well, considering he expressed an interest in bicycling, we did notice a few water cycles along the beach. He may yet have the opportunity to make use of them… and catch up with us.

For our part, we do intend to depart soon.

No great drama, then. A touch of improvisation, a hint of delay—but also, one must admit, a certain style to the whole affair.

And that, after all, is not nothing.

❤️

Hear, hear, you scurvy scoundrels and scourges of taverns—prisoners of your desks and dreary offices!

By the blistering barnacles and ten thousand thundering typhoons, cast off those ledgers and leave your bean-counting misery behind! Stop measuring your worth in papers pushed and pints politely sipped. There’s a world beyond those walls—a roaring, heaving, salt-stung world of adventure, discomfort, and rock-and-rolling chaos that’ll rattle your bones and wake the dead in your soul!

Come! Answer the call where meagre meals and questionable rations await—where your compensation is paid in lost weight (whether by feeding the fishes with your breakfast or clinging for dear life to a railing like a terrified limpet). Your muscles will harden like ship ropes in a gale, and your grip will rival that of a barnacle in a storm!

Aye, you’ll post your pictures—oh yes! Gleaming beaches, feasts fit for kings, and your sun-scorched hide ranging from boiled-lobster red to something resembling a half-decent chocolate tan. Your ancestors may roll in their graves, calling it an outrage—but by thunder, you’ll wear it like a badge of honor!

You’ll become a grand deceiver of the highest seas—painting this gloriously miserable existence as a life of luxury! Brag without mercy! Spin tales taller than the main mast! Your shipmates, those blundering sea cucumbers, will never betray the truth of the thrashings, the curses, and the chaos endured below deck—silence bought only when morale claws its way back from the abyss!

So sign up, you bilge-sucking landlubbers! Trade your comfort for chaos, your routine for roaring waves, your sanity for stories worth telling. By the beard of Neptune, you’ll have tales so wild your grandchildren will swear you wrestled storms and dined with sea monsters!

Now move, you pack of slack-jawed deck-scrubbers—the horizon won’t chase itself!

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