Our domestic life was simple. We took watches of 2 or 2 1/2 hours, but whoever was on watch had plenty of opportunity to read between visits to the hatchway, and we got ample sleep. I, as is my custom when we are afloat, cooked breakfast, which consisted of boiled or scrambled eggs with toast (with an occasional warm-up and removal of the mildewed outside, the Bermuda bread lasted out the passage) and 'spoon' coffee. Susan did the rest, and lunch was usually hot, canned meat or fish with boiled, sauté, or chipped (depending on the motion) potatoes; and Carr's water biscuits with cheese were popular. But perhaps because of the jerky motion caused by the beam wind, our appetites were never large and our evening meal rarely consisted of more than a cup of soup. For the night watches there was chocolate, and biscuits to nibble and Horlicks to drink. The nights grew noticeably cooler, and we were glad of blankets on our bunks. Nicholson [the cat], who had now been on board for eighteen months, still did not care much for life at sea, and to our relief rarely went on deck during this trip. But often he sat in the companionway swaying to the motion and glaring angrily at his arch-enemy, the slamming mainsail, until he could endure it no longer and then returned to Susan's bunk or mine, whichever was the warmer, to put in a few more hours of battery charging; however, he woke the moment a flying-fish or squid landed on deck, and, to hell with the mainsail, chased these creatures all over the ship before eating them. Incidentally, we had recently received a letter from Bob Rimington telling us about a visit he and Jay had made during the winter to the Powder Magazine (Nicholson's birthplace) at English Harbour. He wrote: 'We had a very pleasant cocktail there, and part of the conversation centered around you and Nicholson. I am glad that he did not take after his mother, whom I regard as a cat of a very low order indeed.' Susan and I have often wondered just what she can have done to antagonize such a kindly and easy-going man as Bob, and we fear it must have been something pretty bad. Day followed day, not with regular monotony but with constant interest for us in the ever-changing weather, and in our progress as the miles slipped away astern. During the first week, and in spite of the time spent hove-to, we made good 800 miles, and in the second week 840, leaving only about 130 to go to our destination. On the morning of our fifteenth day at sea we were bustling along uncomfortably with the wind forward of the beam, and at 0630 the nearest point of Fayal lay by account only 34 miles away, and dead ahead. But the position line obtained by taking a bearing of the radio beacon on Fayal passed 10 miles north of our dead-reckoning position, and as it seemed unlikely because of the overcast sky that it would be possible to get any observations of the sun, I placed my trust in the bearing, and bore away for the island. I should have realized that because of the beacon's geographical position my bearing ran beside high ground and might therefore be in error. Two hours later, when we sighted Guia, the southern tip of Fayal which we must round to reach the harbour at Horta, it was on the weather bow and we had to come hard on the wind in order to weather it; I realized then that my radio bearing had indeed been wrong, and that I would have done better to rely on my dead reckoning. It was rough going now with the lee deck buried and cascades of spray driving across the fore part of the ship. As we plunged wetly on, watching to see if we were going to pass clear of Guia or not, ahead of us through the haze, which in our experience so often envelopes the Azores and other high islands in similar latitudes, the perfectly proportioned volcanic cone of 7,600-feet O Pico on the neighbouring island slowly took shape – a lovely sight for which one may often have to wait for many days or even weeks. At noon we weathered Guia and thankfully bore away for Horta, which lies on the island's eastern side, smoothing our water a little then, though it was still quite rough. As we swept towards the port I made the necessary preparations between long looks at the lush, green, mountainsides, for we had seen nothing like this since we left Madeira. I took in the patent log, hoisted the ensign on its staff and put the Portuguese flag and international code flag 'Q' at the starboard crosstree; I unplugged the navel pipe, hauled out the end of the chain and shackled it to the anchor; got ready the fenders and the dock lines. A local vessel under sail and power, her deck packed with people, came out from behind the high breakwater end as we approached and made her first curtsy to the open sea in a smother of spray, her crew and passengers waving enthusiastically. The pilot boat came out, too, made a circle, and as soon as we reached sheltered water within the breakwater, came neatly alongside without touching us so that the English-speaking pilot (we learnt that he was born on Fayal and had

never been away from the island) could step aboard. Surprisingly he remembered our previous visit twelve years before, and greeted us warmly. Susan kept the helm, I started the motor, the pilot helped me to stow the sails and then directed us to a berth near Jomada (she had left Bermuda some time before us and had taken 18 days) between a pair of clean wooden lighters, which were moored fore-and-aft in the most sheltered corner of the harbour. We took lines to both, and so arranged ourselves that we touched neither, but considerable attention was needed to protect our lines from chafe during our stay, as there was some scend in the harbour and we and our big neighbours surged to and fro. Horta harbour is a busy place, and although the few yachts that call there are made welcome there are no real facilities for them, and as the holding ground is bad they are not encouraged to anchor. We found the island little changed since our earlier visit, though there are probably now more motor vehicles than ox-drawn carts, and as there is no air-strip it is simple and unspoilt, and the hard-working people just as friendly and courteous as ever they were. The colour-washed town sprawls beside its harbour, into which comes each day a fleet of tuna- fishing vessels, gaily painted, bold of sheer, as well as local boats bringing people and produce from the neighbouring islands, and once a fortnight the graceful old coal-burning steamer Lima puts in on her round trip from Lisbon. Above the town, mounting tier upon tier, are neatly hedged fields and market-gardens smelling pleasantly of damp grass and cow dung, and topping a ridge above them stands a row of little windmills, their triangular sails provided with roller reefing gear. Rua Tenente, which runs uphill beside the harbour, is tree-shaded, its pavements patterned Azorean fashion with designs in black and white cobbles; and half-way along it, squeezed tightly in between the other buildings, is the narrow blue and cream façade of the Café Sport. Here all ocean-voyaging people are given a great reception by Peter Azevedo and his father in their bottle-lined bar, where the visitor can sit and look out through the doorway across the harbour where his little vessel lies, to the cone of 0 Pico thrusting nobly up through a necklace of cloud. When we looked in to pick up our mail, Peter at once took Susan into the town, where very little English is spoken, to help her with her marketing, while I, with Jock Hardwicke and his crew Simon, and the people off Tamuré, a New Zealand yacht bound for England, sampled the vinho Verdelho Pico (a local rosé wine with some of the properties of sherry) and studied the visitors' book in which are particulars of all the yachts that have called at Horta. We remained in port for five enjoyable days, and as they slipped by we wondered what had become of Elsie, and finally guessed that she must have gone on to another island, San Miguel, perhaps. We were not expecting to see Caravel II, the trimaran with the Carlisle family aboard, because she had not been due to leave Bermuda until some days after us, but we have never since had any news of her. This, of course, is not surprising, even though her final destination was to have been England, for the British press does not as a rule take much notice of a yacht completing a long trip unless she gets into some sort of trouble, and Britain is too far north for the coconut radio, which in lower latitudes keeps ocean voyagers in touch with one another, to work effectively. We were only one day out on the trip towards south-west Ireland when we lost the fair wind which had carried us clear of the Azores, and thereafter had calms, one of which lasted for 27 hours, some fog, and light airs for several days, with the result that the passage, which is not much over 1,000 miles, took us 15 days. Often what little wind there was

from ATLANTIC CRUISE IN WANDERER III by Eric C. Hiscock 1968

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