And in Senegal, and in Senegal...
At anchor on the outskirts of Dakar
. We’ve made it through a difficult passage—from the Canary Islands to Senegal . The first mate and the young sailors are sitting in quarantine under the yellow flag while the captain sorts out the formalities ashore. Soon we too will be able to set foot on the many-faced land of Senegal .
There are several living yachts at the anchorage, many half-alive ones, and some that are completely dead. The latter are smothered in bird droppings beyond all hope of resurrection. The strip of shore is covered with an even layer of plastic rubbish—which means people here aren’t exactly starving—and lined with fishing boats. The fish market is bustling to our right. After yesterday’s foray ashore, Andrey said we wouldn’t like the market :).
Where else we won’t like it, and what it’s generally like here in Senegal —I’ll tell you next time. This is roughly how we got here:
The Canary Islands–Senegal Passage. The First Mate’s Diary
I read in Thor Heyerdahl the words of one of Tahiti’s long-standing European residents: “...If you want people to buy a book, you absolutely have to paint a picture of paradise in it. Otherwise, who would read it? People need romance, somewhere they can escape to in their dreams.”
And so, the romance 🙂
8 March
We left La Gomera at about six in the evening. Tenerife is sparkling with lights. The sea is very rough. Spray periodically lashes the wheelhouse windows. It’s wet and windy in the cockpit. We did watch “Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears” in honour of 8 March. I’m sleeping on the watchkeeper’s settee (well, more like a padded bench 50 cm wide), head-to-toe with Andrey. The children are rolling around the bed in the aft cabin.
9 March
There’s less rolling in the morning, but my daughters and I are still three loaves of bread. The windvane has undergone its naming ceremony. It is now called Iron Felix. Felix has a rather difficult temperament—the lines keep breaking, even though they’re new. Andrey is hanging over the stern in his harness, in the water, making a new line while I keep watch to see whether any sharks are charging in to grab the captain by his appetising backside. The backside survived unscathed; the sharks are weeping with hunger.
The line lasted the whole night (a victory, in my opinion...). Once again, I sort of sleep but don’t sleep on watch, contorted into an impossible shape. My back and neck hurt. There’s a strong smell of diesel; there’s a leak somewhere. The harder the boat lurches, the worse the stink.
10 March
The captain is performing the duties of cook. He alone can remain in the galley for more than 30 seconds. Breakfast is a banana smoothie and oatmeal with honey and raisins.
After breakfast, the captain once again soaks his backside in the sea while replacing the stopper at the end of the line.
We had a communications session via the silver suitcase—the keeper of the satellite modem. I’m flat on my back all day, but I can already write and read riddles to Lada. The wind is fair; we’ve covered 250 miles in less than two days.
We sang to the guitar and had boiled potatoes for dinner. In the evening, we’re watching “In Search of Captain Grant.” It helps remind us that feeling unwell is not the greatest misfortune that can befall lovers of adventure. I’m dreading the night. I try sleeping here, then in the aft cabin, which is impossible: the children and I roll back and forth across the wide bed. In the end, I went to the saloon, after having a little cry.
11 March
Everything hurts. From the very first second of the passage, Nastya and I have been waiting to reach land. I don’t know whether we’ll last through a circumnavigation.... This bloody rolling.
It turned out that the aft cabin had been bouncing through all those waves with the window open. I’m not going to think right now about how much salt water seeped onto the shelves and into the locker. We found a leak from beneath the stanchion fittings in the wheelhouse, running down onto the settee. And there I was wondering why my backside was always wet and salty... Nastya and I are on the verge of mutiny. The team’s spirits and nourishment are being sustained solely by the captain :).
The Climax of the First Half of the Canary Islands–Senegal Passage
Tired of his crew’s faint-heartedness, the captain solemnly declared:
“The Travely-Family crew, after the first day and a half of their ocean passage, decided they were not a family of travellers but a family of farmers, and instead of sailing around the world, they went off to grow swedes in a beautiful Altai village, in their own Gingerbread House . And the headline: ‘A Family of Siberian Farmers’ Triumphant Exit from Their Round-the-World Voyage.’”
We all crack up. I laughed all day, at times through tears...
Andrey is sealing the source of the leak; I’m sprawled in the cockpit. There’s salt everywhere, and the wind is cold. By evening, the rolling eases. Lada and I entertain ourselves with stories. I’m reading Thor Heyerdahl. What a fearless man! Now that I can read, waiting for evening doesn’t feel quite so terrifying.
Our average speed is 6 knots. We’ve covered 430 miles in three days, more than halfway. Hooray. We still haven’t caught any fish; apparently, the bright yellow rubber squid dangling by the hook does not lull them into a sufficient sense of security. There seems to be less water leaking under the settee. Andrey patched it again. I can put on dry trousers.
Sleeping is impossible. I dozed off a couple of times for half an hour, but only while on watch. Towards morning, the boat rounds up mercilessly. It seems even Iron Felix is tired.
12 March
An entry in our daughter’s diary: “Our parents have gone mad...”
Just how deep the parents’ madness runs, what sounds pour from the VHF off the coast of West Africa, how we tacked between Senegalese fishing nets and caught a fishing boat on our hook—all that in the next publication .
Keep your spirits up, everyone! 🙂