We came to Cape Verde at a strange time of year. The rocky wastelands of the northern islands are peppered with the emergence of life. The weather is challenging but full of character – in each anchorage the wind takes rolly rests between hammering in deafening gusts, and on each passage the harmattan haze obscures our view beyond the nearest rock or islet. The air feels warm but the light, noise and movement are comfortingly wintery. The indistinct contrasts of our surroundings echo the turmoil in our hearts.
We left Palmeira in Sal the morning after a night out on the town. We’d swayed to the music of the single net-barriered disco and scoffed street fare galore, from the kebabs on billowing barbecues to home-flavoured spirits sold from benches and tables. It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise that within the short sail to the next bay down we both realised we had food poisoning. We spent a couple of days gurgling and moaning in the bouncing wash off a dull beach before getting fed up with waiting to be well and sailing away overnight. We drank a lot of water, then put chlorine tablets in the tanks in case it was Gambia’s water and not Sal’s hygiene standards that had got us.
The island of Sao Nicolau (so aptly named for our Christmas retreat) was another friendly sanctuary and soon became one of our favourite places of our whole adventure. In our first anchorage we swam ashore, taking advantage of a rare outbreak of clear sunshine to explore columns of basalt and an invitingly roll-downable dune. In our next, the town of Tarrafal, we jumped on the back of a 4×4 for a trip to the capital and a long, steep Christmas eve trek. On Christmas day we ate lunch ashore in the company of a street dog then watched bad movies on board while the wind funnelled down the valley and blew whistles through the rig.
The distracting excursions of Christmas were welcome. On board we had reality to face and we didn’t like it. A job offer for Rich in Japan had become more than speculative, and in Sal we had been forced to consider the future of our trip. If Rich took the job and flew to it when we got to the Caribbean, what was to become of Gwen for its two year duration? Realisation pierced us both like a skewer. If he goes we can’t afford a long stay in a marina or the repairs that will doubtless be needed after a long time without use. No matter how we try we can’t seem to come up with a plan that realistically involves us coming back to her and continuing on.
So (gulp) Gwendolyn is up for sale, and we’re heading to Antigua to say goodbye. I’ve put her about on social media, and I made an ad for this site today, so please share it if you know someone who might be interested in taking on our beautiful boat. I wasn’t sure what price to put – how do you value your favourite thing ever for someone else? How many dollars cover five years’ work and investment? How many cover five years’ love? She’s cost us plenty of money, but she’s given us a home, a purpose and an adventure – she owes us nothing.
A quick sale and a good owner for Gwen feel just as important as price. It’s daft to feel so attached to an object, but knowing that doesn’t stop it being so – somehow she deserves to be cherished and not abandoned and allowed to rot. Sitting here I am leaning on a table that Rich designed and made which is tied to the mast I’ve hugged for comfort in difficult times. I’m leaning on the first bit of tongue and groove I ever laid and sitting on a cushion Rich sewed when he was recovering from an operation. Nothing on her is without a memory, and everything about her seems even more wonderful than ever. She has always exceeded our hopes for her, and she has brought us so far.
It’s not easy knowing that our Atlantic crossing will probably be our last on board, and though we’re excited about what the future holds for us that joy struggles to break through the heartache of what we’re about to lose. Rich is burying himself in research about projects that might follow Japan and he is often distant, keeping his feelings in line by closing them off to himself and to me. Occasionally the stress becomes too much and he spills over. Me, I’m scared, particularly about the first few months after I leave Gwen when unlike Rich I will not have a job or a place to live to go to – I can’t join him in Japan until we know what his schedule will be and can sort out more than his work accommodation. I’m scared of what happens if Gwen doesn’t sell, and I’m scared of a world where I don’t leap from my door in the morning for a swim. Fortunately Rich and I are united in looking forward to the Atlantic crossing. There is something so present about sailing, when tiredness and practicality prevent you from doing anything but experiencing the moment you are in, that we are sure will be both healing for us and a fitting goodbye to our boat.
We had a good dose of this between Sao Nicolau and Sao Vincente, where we are now anchored. The journey took two day sails with a stop in another gusty island anchorage (Santa Luzia) in between. We sailed hard on the wind and, unlike on our turbulent journey from the Gambia which had similar conditions, we relished the tilt of the boat and the tug of the tiller. The dust that has darkened Gwen’s halliards and left an orange film on her deck got pasted up with the water of leaping waves, and we wore the filthy smudges of our journey on our clothes, hands and smiling faces.
Now we’re in Mindelo, the largest city of Sao Vincente and by far the busiest and most cosmopolitan we’ve seen in Cape Verde. So far we’ve found a French outdoor theatre act, a well stocked fresh market and a bunch of great restaurants, and have gorged on home comforts like gin and tonic, pizza and chocolate biscuits. A big stage has been put up in the city centre and we’ve run in to Mattis and Mo and a couple of other folks from the Lanzarote gang so we’ll be in good company for the new year’s celebrations tonight. Project distraction is going well.
This year started in the Mediterranean and ends over 3,000 miles later in the Atlantic. There are only a couple more jobs to do and some water to replenish before we can make our way across the ocean, the journey we dreamed about when we first saw Gwen over five years ago. There might be tears right now, and there must be more to come, but there are no regrets. Happy 2018, and here’s to living dreams.