Transatlantic Finale

This was drafted a few weeks ago. Then life on land got busy and I never finished it. Please just time warp yourself back into July. Who wouldn’t like to be able to turn back the clock?

I finally ran out of ocean. Laughing Gull has landed. She has been at anchor in Glandore harbor, on the south coast of Ireland, for a week now. I am caught up on sleep, and recovered from the steady flow of beer and champagne which followed our arrival. I have landed as well. Ashore.

We arrived with the dawn, escorted by pods of dolphins. Overnight, we had possibly the most perfect sail past Fastnet, with a favorable wind, crystal clear night skies and a blazing full moon. Never has a landfall felt more propitious. Of course, it started raining within days of arrival. No matter, Ireland is wonderful in all weathers.

Arriving in Bermuda from Tortola (900 miles) felt like no big deal. Arriving in the Azores from Bermuda (1800 miles) felt like no big deal. Mostly this was because we were very lucky with weather, and reeling off ocean miles is what Laughing Gull is made for. But arriving here in Ireland, following those passages, suddenly felt very meaningful as I stood my last solo night watch of the transatlantic. A familiar coast was sliding by. A familiar destination, a final destination (for the moment), was just hours away. A three year odyssey was drawing to a close.

I stood in the cockpit, gazing out over the hardtop into a night sky ablaze with stars. The moon hung fat and yellow, casting a warm glow across the darkened wavetops. Laughing Gull hissed along on a three-sail reach, eating up the remaining miles with her usual purpose and efficiency. Quiet music trickled into my head through a single earbud, and I stilled myself into the gentle rise and fall of Laughing Gull communing with a friendly sea. I didn’t want to focus or structure my thoughts. I just wanted to let my mind and emotions swirl and eddy freely.

A sense of deep gratitude—to LG, to the crews that made our long journey so enjoyable, to the seas and winds that favored us—welled within. I turned and contemplated the rippling, swirling water—mesmerizing and silent—that flowed from LG’s transom and streamed away toward the horizon. My mind’s eye pictured it as the final miles of a single stream that had unspooled for thousands and thousands of miles, and took me all the way back to another place and another life. That sense of passage, over time and distance, brought me joy. A sailboat is a unique conveyance, and it can carry you across both geographical and metaphysical distances. A true voyage.

An entirely natural and logical question—What is next?—briefly formed and tried to engage my mind. But I didn’t want to think ahead. I wanted only to sink into the moment I was in, to absorb it, to let it fully express whatever meaning and feeling it had to offer. Moments that have a lot to say are fleeting and rare. When they arrive it is good to indulge them.

The stirring of the oncoming watch, and the creeping dawn, eventually brought my contented reverie to an end. We were approaching The Stags, which would be followed by High and Low Islands, and then the island of Adam which sits at the opening of Glandore harbor. All deeply familiar and all deeply meaningful. The final miles were enjoyed with coffee and a happy crew. It was a perfect arrival.

A few weeks later, the logical question is back, and this time it deserves attention and consideration. What is next? I don’t really know yet. But I feel like another voyage, destination as yet unknown, is beginning. And that is always something to look forward to.

Here are some more photos and videos which capture life in Glandore since arrival:

Don Street’s son, Richard, on a fly-by with family:

Richard Thompson, playing in Skib:

Rabbit Island picnic in small boats:

Kids messing about in a boat:

Glandore Sailing School morning launch:

LG at anchor:

Quiet night in Casey’s:

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