Even though you can feel pretty puny in the vastness of the Atlantic, periodic visitors mean you’re never really alone.

Although some people (especially a couple of ex wives) might claim that I have been sailing in circles most of my life, when it comes to last year, I’d have to agree with them. From early May through mid April, I completed the classic ‘Atlantic Circle’ in my 47-foot Kaufman cutter, Quetzal. This 12,000 mile loop from Ft. Lauderdale to Ft. Lauderdale, included two Atlantic crossings, a summer and fall exploring the Western Mediterranean, a winter in the Windward and Leeward Islands of the Caribbean, and a ripping spring reach through Bahamas back home. And, despite the impressive geography consumed, the schedule is not as hectic as you might suspect, and the sailing is often superb.

Although sailors are always griping about headwinds, when it comes to crossing the Atlantic, both eastbound and westbound, the odds are the winds will be abaft the beam. On our two crossings last year, which totaled 49 actual sailing days, 41 were spent primarily reaching. This fact is essential when working through the mechanics of how to plan for this passage. This is the first of two articles that will examine what’s really involved in a taking year out to complete the "Atlantic Circle."

When bound for any European landfall the best time to shove off from the US east coast is in May, and the earlier in the month the better, especially if you are departing from points south of Cape Hatteras. The weather in May tends to be settled, the gales that can sweep the Atlantic during the transitional period in late March and early April are usually over and it is still pre hurricane season. Also, the winds are still at least moderate, unlike the annoying zephyrs created by the two massive fair weather systems that dominate Atlantic weather later in the summer, the Bermuda and Azores highs.

In addition, by departing in early May, you can spend time in both Bermuda and the Azores and still arrive in Gibraltar early enough to enjoy the bulk of the summer season in the Mediterranean. Although Pilot Charts may seem distressingly old-fashioned, they are still the best tool for planning ocean passages and one of the best bargains around. An Atlas of North Atlantic Pilot Charts, which includes individual monthly climate charts for not only the wide expanse of the North Atlantic between the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer, but also for the Caribbean/Gulf of Mexico and the extreme Arctic regions (for the crazies among us,) sells for around $40. Still, if you’re so modern that you just can’t sully your hands with paper charts, the user friendly Virtual Passage Planner Program by Digital Wave makes every pilot chart just a click away.

We cleared the dock on May 10. There were five of us aboard and we were on a fairly tight schedule. We needed to be in Vilamoura, Portugal, in 30 days. Most boats leaving the east coast head first for Bermuda, and then carry on to the Azores on leg two. From Ft. Lauderdale, this breaks down into passages of roughly 1,000 miles and 2,000 miles, or in most boats, a one-week, followed by a two-week voyage. Instead, we chose to sail directly to Horta, the famous waypoint on the island of Faial in the Azores. My crew wanted to experience a genuine "ocean" passage, and this 2,900-mile route was definitely a genuine passage. Also, by steering directly for Horta we were able to bend north, following the shorter Great Circle route, and more importantly, maximizing the effect of the Gulf Stream current. From Ft. Lauderdale, if you traced the Gulf Stream north past the Carolinas, and then east across the pond, it would nearly parallel the Great Circle route to the Azores.

The east winds were fresh and the Gulf Stream was on steroids as we sped north off the coast of Florida. The first two days of the passage we logged 250 and 220 miles respectively. Once we crossed the 30th parallel the prevailing SW winds arrived, and they were light, too light and our progress slowed dramatically. Sailing downwind in light air, especially in the Gulf Stream is challenging, to say the least, maddening might be a better way to describe it. True winds of less than 8 knots blended with the ever- present swell and small chop of the current is a recipe for gear slatting frustration.

Quetzal is a terrific sailing boat but like most cruisers, ironically, she’s not ideally suited for running. I carry an asymmetrical or cruising spinnaker in an ATN sleeve. It is easy to deploy and more importantly, easy to douse when a sudden squall line rears its ugly head. It is also, unfortunately, not very efficient with wind aft of the quarter. The obvious solution of tacking downwind, keeping the wind at about 120 apparent, is not as obvious as it seems because your course is predicated on staying in the narrow band of maximum current. We found that sailing wing and wing, yes, old fashioned wing and wing, with the main prevented and the poled out jib by the lee, was the most effective way to make miles day after day.

We were all committed to sailing, not motoring, so we worked the boat hard to keep moving. Quetzal carries just 68 gallons of fuel in two tanks, and we had another 30 on deck, for a total of about 100 gallons. Considering we needed to motor two hours a day to keep the autopilot and fridge happy, and that the 82-hp Westerbeke greedily consumes more than 1 gallon an hour at 1600 RPMS, we didn’t have much spare fuel to use for making miles. Without the option of pushing the start button when the sails went slack, we always found ways to make the boat perform. Our average for the first week was more that 170 miles a day, which translates into a 7 knots plus, though of course a Gulf Stream asterisk is required.

Sometimes the best bet for sailing downwind is still good old fashion wing and wing.

We had gear several issues caused by the constant rolling downwind. I had the boom "over-vanged" to keep it under control and unfortunately, ripped the solid Garhauer vang right out of the boom fitting. We improvised a traditional vang from a U bolt on the bottom side of the boom, and rigged it as a preventer on the side deck but this proved to be a mistake. By point loading the boom, we induced a small crack that I later had to have repair in Gibraltar. I finally remembered how rig a preventer all the way forward, which gave boom a little bit of travel during accidental jibes, but managed to keep from taking somebody’s head off. We also had issues with the old Hood headsail furling system, but this was more a function of age than sea motion.

I am not a complete dinosaur when it comes to sailing technology and although this was my 16th Atlantic crossing it was my first with satellite communications. When I outfitted Quetzal, I opted for a Global Star sat phone instead of a Single Sideband radio. We used my trusty Grundig Short-wave for weather forecasts and the convenient sat phone to call home. The crew enjoyed being able to pick up the phone, dial the number and call family and friends. It was convenient and for the most part affordable. I did draw the line however when one of the crew went on for several minutes talking to his dog! We had good coverage for the bulk of the crossing, although east of the Azores Global Star applied most unwelcome roaming charges.

The weather was gloom the second week, and the winds remained light form the west and southwest. A menagerie of sea life, from daily visits of Atlantic White Sided dolphins to a couple of romantic sea turtles, kept us entertained. Through two weeks our averaged dropped to 150 miles a day, or just over 6 knots. We were actually thankful for a wind shift during the third week, and made the most of moderate to strong northeast winds, slashing upwind at 6.5 knots. Of course green water on deck was not pleasant, but the full cockpit enclosure, dubbed the patio, kept life aboard civilized, and we never missed or even delayed cocktail hour.

The end of one leg and its harbor approach is just a transition to the return voyage waiting around the corner.

We spotted the distant outline of Faial on the afternoon of the 19th day at sea. Naturally, by the time we approached the island landfall would come in the darkest hours of a moonless night, in a rainsquall, with just enough fuel to worry about stalling as we finally approached the fuel dock. With the winds veering down the mountainsides, we set up a series of safety meridians in lieu of waypoints, and cautiously made our way into old familiar Horta, Faial’s port city.

Horta has changed - there are more and bigger boats than ever before and the marina has been expanded. The legendary Café Sport has a separate building selling tee shirts and scrimshaw and the bar seems a bit touristy, and it is not as cheap as it once was--but is still the best landfall in the Atlantic. I love the place. Sailors crowd the town and everybody there has come from far away. There is a voyaging camaraderie that can’t be found anywhere else, weather it’s English, French, Italian, Spanish or local Portuguese, we all speak the same language of blue water sailing. We tarried for four days, before pushing on for Vilarmoura, along the Algarve coast of Portugal, 900 miles to the east.

We had a magical sail in the evening twilight along the northern shore of the dramatic island of Pico, which is just a few miles from Faial. Pico explodes out of the ocean like a child’s drawing and we crept along at five knots and drank in the luscious green hillsides and rocky edges. Unfortunately, we were plagued by more light air on this passage, and judiciously mixed motoring with spinnaker sailing to make progress. The pilot charts called for fresh northerlies, the so-called Portuguese trades, but blew only in spits. Light air reveals sea life however, and we were amazed at the multitudes of man-of-war as we neared the coast of Portugal, they are well named it seemed.

On the 7th day out of Horta, we sailed close by the dramatic headland of Cape St. Vincent before making another middle of the night landfall at the glitzy marina in Vilamoura. We all felt like Christopher Columbus--there is just something about crossing the Atlantic Ocean, it is one of the things you need to do at least once in a lifetime. Sure the statistics tell one story, 26 sailing days to cover 3800 miles, a prosaic 6-knot average, a decent crossing. But my memories tell a different story and crossing the Atlantic, no matter how many times you do it, is an unforgettable experience.

Next Month, we’ll look at the logistics of exploring the Western Med with limited time, riding the trades back across, strategies for Caribbean passage making, and sailing back home.