Atlantic Wanderer

“There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than life at sea.”

 Joseph Conrad

Wind Surf Transatlantic Sailing Day 2

When we went to bed the night before, the waves looked enormous through our cabin’s porthole. Every few seconds, water rose against the glass and washed over it entirely, momentarily replacing the view of the ocean with the ocean itself. We could hear the swoosh of the waves through the walls, the low creak of the ship, and the steady sense of Wind Surf cutting her way through the swells. After the long travel days that had carried us from home to Toronto, then from Toronto to Sint Maarten, and then finally from shore to ship, I should have fallen asleep instantly. Instead, the excitement of being back on board mixed with the unfamiliar closeness of the sea, and I stayed awake longer than I meant to, watching the water rise and fall against the porthole.

Sean found the same sounds soothing. For him, the rhythm of waves against the hull seemed to offer the first truly peaceful night’s sleep he had had since we travelled to Norway aboard Ambience the previous November. Where I heard motion and wanted to keep looking, he heard reassurance and let himself be carried by it. Perhaps that is one of the strange gifts of smaller ships. They remind each person differently of what it means to surrender.

 
With that said, by four o’clock, he was awake, and by four-thirty, he was already up and showering. I could see the faint light beginning to gather at the porthole and knew immediately that he hoped to be on deck for sunrise. On our first crossing aboard Wind Surf, he had often been among the first people outside in the early mornings, but this time he was not alone. Several others were already standing in the full wind, apparently blissful as the bow struck each wave and sent spray flying across the deck.

 
It was still early enough in the voyage that people noticed one another with curiosity rather than conversation. Soon enough, someone would ask who we were, why we were always outside, and what on earth we kept looking for.  For now, there was only wind, sunrise, salt spray, and the beginning of the first full day at sea.
 

Morning Routines on Deck

 
I stayed in bed a little longer and finally made my way upstairs around six-thirty. It was a beautiful sunny morning, already around twenty-six degrees, with winds of fifty-two kilometres an hour. The sea was active and brilliant, its blue surface broken everywhere by streaks of foam and whitecaps. It looked restless and agitated, which seemed appropriate. After the past few months, so did we.

 

On deck, I found Sean at the railings, windblown and happy, watching the sea with the expression of someone who had returned to a place that made sense to him. Schools of flying fish were leaping from the waves, silver and sudden, skimming low over the water before vanishing again. The ship rolled beneath us, the warm winds pushed hard against our bodies, and the light slowly spread across the wooden railings along the length of the vessel.

 
Everyone has their morning routine on board a ship. Some passengers walk laps around the deck. Others appear with coffee, cigarettes, cameras, or books. Some stand quietly in their chosen place and watch the sky change. For Sean, simply being there again seemed to matter. To see sunrise at sea, to feel the roll of the ship underfoot, and to be back inside the elemental simplicity of wind, water, and horizon felt, in some small but unmistakable way, like coming home.
 
When I joined him, the skies were still lighting up and full of colour. 

 
As we walked the decks, enjoying the moment, he spent the next hour sneezing. At first, we thought little of it, but then it began to seem oddly symbolic, as though his body was trying to expel the city, the airports, the recycled air, the stress, the months of accumulated pressure and noise. It was as if something in him wanted to clear space for the essential: wind, salt, light, motion, and breath.
 

Breakfast in Veranda

 
After some time at the railings, we headed to Veranda for breakfast. It felt wonderful to sit outside once again with bowls of muesli, fresh fruit, hot coffee, and a fruit smoothie while the sea breeze moved through the shaded deck around us. There were not many people out and about, and we later discovered that this was likely because the choppy seas were already making themselves felt. The ship carried only around 160 passengers for this crossing, but that morning she seemed emptier still, with perhaps only a couple of dozen people making their way to breakfast.

 
The great drama of the morning, such as it was, seemed to be a combination of widespread seasickness and one elevator undergoing maintenance.   For a small few, this absence of easy transit became their focus for critique and discussion, either of which we had much interest in participating in.
 
After a delicious breakfast, we wandered the decks, again watching the flying fish and scanning the horizon for birds and whales.  When the sea is agitated and full of white caps, it is always more difficult to detect any signs of life, and we only managed to spot two black and white birds wheeling about just above the waves near the horizon.  They were too far away to identify, but we enjoyed the search.

 
There is a particular kind of searching that happens at sea. It is not the same as looking for birds in a forest, where the eye is trained toward branches, shadows, movement, and sound. At sea, the scale is larger, and the clues are fewer. You look for interruption: a line that breaks the horizon, a flash of white that is not foam, a curve that rises against the rhythm of the waves. Most of the time, there is nothing. Yet the possibility of something keeps the watching alive.
 

At the front of the ship, the waves were large enough to break dramatically, even sending spray high enough that the bridge seemed to disappear behind water and light. At one point, both of us were coated in salt - which felt less like an inconvenience than an initiation. We had left land. The Atlantic had made that clear.
 

Whale Surveys and Sargassum

While we stood at the railings, I attempted my first ORCA-style marine mammal survey. The process is more disciplined than simply looking out to sea and hoping for a whale. It involves committing to a timed period of observation, noting the weather, sea state, visibility, field of view, and any marine mammal activity. For thirty minutes, I watched carefully as Wind Surf travelled roughly ten kilometres through active seas and whitecaps. Sadly, no whales appeared – or, if they did, I didn’t see them.

 
Still, the survey changed the way I looked. It made the sea feel less like scenery and more like a habitat. Every whitecap became something to distinguish from a possible blow. Every shadow required attention. Every distant line of movement asked to be considered and then either held or dismissed. It was a reminder that watching well is work, and that absence is still data, even when the heart would prefer a sighting.

 
What we did see all morning were long lines of Sargassum, the floating seaweed we had noticed from the airplane the previous day. From the ship, the patterns were even more intriguing. Wind Surf cut through one line after another, and yet they still appeared tightly organized, stretched across the surface in remarkably straight bands. Looking down from the deck, we could see at least two layers: yellowish-green plants floating at the top, with softer, brighter green structures beneath. The clumps did not seem joined by a single long stem, and yet even after the ship passed through them, the lines remained surprisingly intact.

There was something mesmerizing about the order of it. The sea around us seemed restless and chaotic, all wind, foam, and motion, yet the Sargassum held itself in these long formations. It made us wonder what hidden forces were at work beneath the visible surface: wind, current, convergence, or some other organizing principle we did not yet understand.
 

Rain Showers at Sea

 
As we stood at the railings, a storm began to move toward us. We could see the soft grey wall of cloud approaching across the water, though somehow it took longer to arrive than expected. Then, suddenly, it was upon us. Rain showers at sea do not always arrive gently. This one swept down the deck in a visible line, the first huge drops striking the teak and turning into puddles within seconds.
 
We were, perhaps predictably, among the few people daft enough to still be outside. By the time we retreated to shelter at the back of the ship, we were already soaked. Yet the rain smelled wonderful: fresh and clean, and as though the entire world had been briefly rinsed.

 
From the shelter, we watched the sea change character. Moments earlier, the waves had been royal blue, textured, sharp, and busy with whitecaps. Under the rain, they softened into smooth grey ridges, like a watercolour painting of mountains and mist-filled valleys. The sky and sea became a shifting study in blues and greys: turquoise where the water was stirred, dark under cloud, glowing again wherever sunlight broke through. Amid it all, silver flying fish continued to leap from wave to wave, brief bright sparks of life against the changing water.
 
Then, almost as quickly as it had arrived, the rain moved on. The storm passed, the light returned, and the sea resumed another of its many faces. It was a timely reminder of how quickly things change out here. At sea, nothing holds still for long. Weather, light, colour, mood, and even the shape and texture of the water alter minute by minute.

 
That is part of what I love about Wind Surf. She does not isolate you from the sea. She does not smooth everything into a controlled, climate-managed experience. The roll of the ship, the salt spray on your skin, the sudden rain, the sound of waves against the hull, and the effort required to stand in the wind all place you firmly inside the crossing. You are not merely watching the Atlantic through glass. You are in the frame and live within the experience.
 

Réserve naturelle nationale de Saint-Martin 

 
During the night and into the early morning, we passed through waters associated with the Réserve Naturelle Nationale de Saint-Martin and the protected marine environments around the island. Knowing this gave the early part of the crossing a different feel – at least to me, a naturalist. We were not simply leaving land behind; we were passing through a living seascape of reefs, seagrass beds, seabirds, fish, turtles, and marine mammals, much of it invisible from the deck but present nonetheless beneath the waves.

      

 
I had hoped that travelling through and beyond these protected areas might increase our chances of seeing marine life, especially now that I had completed the ORCA training and was trying to look with more discipline. But the reality of marine mammal watching is humbling. During my second thirty-minute survey, there were swells, high winds, and no whales. Perhaps that is simply the reality of survey work. Perhaps I still have a lot to learn about detecting fins, blows, and backs amid whitecaps. Or perhaps the conditions were simply too rough for anything subtle to reveal itself.
 
Even so, it felt good to be looking. These waters are not empty space between destinations – I have, of course, known that for a long time. They are habitat, migration route, feeding ground, nursery, and home. The fact that we did not see whales did not make the ocean lifeless. It only reminded us how much of life at sea happens beyond the limits of human perception.
 

Refreshed at Sea

 
With the sun shining once again, we made our way up to the lookout on the top deck at the front of the ship.  The wind up there was incredibly strong, making it difficult to stand upright. Ahead of us on the horizon, we spotted the tall sails of another small ship, the mast leaning over at a steep angle in the high wind. It was too far away to see, but we could imagine the incredible speed with which it must have been scudding across the waves.

Taking a deep breath in felt like the cool, clean, fresh sea air was pushed straight into the deepest parts of my lungs.  Slowly, the heavy, thick, stale, stickiness of the city was being flushed out, like something dark and polluted being expelled.  The ocean provides us with 50% of the oxygen we breathe, meaning every second breath comes directly from the sea, and it felt like we were fully immersed in the source.  

We hadn't felt so alive in a long time.

For the past couple of years, we've been feeling increasingly hemmed in by the unceasing noise and clutter of the town we live in.  The collective impatience, frustration, and anxiety hits like a wave every time we step outside, and constant sirens signal an ongoing state of emergency.  Daily news hits like a bombardment of unceasing disasters, leaving us feeling both helpless and hopeless.  Quality of life in that environment is poor, and we have found it unbearably draining and hard to explain until we were removed from it.  

Standing on the deck of this ship, in the full force of the wind, with the sun shining down on us and a thin, crunchy layer of salt coating our skin, feels like the opposite of our claustrophobic city existence. Here we are fully immersed in the world we are a part of - from the water we drink, to the air we breathe, to the sunshine that gives us life. Feeling this connection once again does not admittedly solve everything, but it does heal and restore the soul.
 

Easter Trivia

 
Around eleven o’clock, we stepped into the Lounge for trivia. Since it was Easter Sunday, the questions focused mostly on the origins of Easter symbols and traditions. It was a fun session, though trickier than expected, and most unusually, we came in third with a score of seventeen out of twenty-five. The winning team had only nineteen, which made us feel slightly better about the result.  As well as generally stunned as we are horrid at trivia. 

 
I cannot deny that, only one full day into the voyage, we already missed Matt O’Brien’s particular creativity and his talent for turning trivia into something more expansive. Last year, he had a gift for providing background, obscure details, and funny bits of context that made even the strangest questions feel like part of a larger story. Today’s session with Nikki was enjoyable and good-hearted, but it was also an early reminder that this crossing would have its own feel, its own personalities, and its own way of unfolding.

 
With that said, everyone definitely deserves time to set their own rhythm and our views are likely the result of expectations rather than reality.
 

Lunch Announcement

 
After trivia, we wandered back up to Veranda for lunch. The staff had prepared a lovely Easter brunch, complete with hot cross buns, raisin bread, salads, and an array of treats. We settled into the shade with plates of couscous, tabbouleh, Easter bread, and the kind of ocean view that makes even a simple meal feel extravagant.

 
We were especially grateful for the shade. After our wandering in Sint Maarten and our long hours on deck, both of us had begun to resemble lobsters more than explorers or voyagers. The new containers of sunscreen and aloe vera set out on deck felt not merely thoughtful but absolutely necessary. The Caribbean sun had already made its point – especially on Sean once again.

 
The captain’s noon announcement helped place us more clearly in the crossing. Since leaving Sint Maarten the previous evening, we had travelled 175 nautical miles. The nearest land was now Barbuda, 136 nautical miles away. We were making 10.8 knots, with seas of 2.5 to 3 metres and winds of 25 knots. Although it felt hotter to us, the temperature was apparently 28 degrees Celsius.

 
We had been looking outward all day, so it was fascinating to hear that visibility was fourteen nautical miles. That meant we could see roughly 620 square miles of ocean around us (of course, not all at once). It felt vast from the deck, and yet the captain noted that this enormous visible circle represented only a tiny fraction of the Atlantic. As vast as it looks, our view 'only' encompasses 1/10 of 1% of the total area of the Atlantic Ocean. There was something humbling in that. Even when the sea seems to fill the entire world, we are still seeing almost none of it.
 

Lounging and Enrichment  

After lunch, we found a couple of lounge chairs in the shade and simply watched the ocean slip past until two o’clock, when we headed back into the Lounge for an enrichment lecture titled “Exploring the Final Wilderness.” The speaker, Dr. Peter H. Ranelli, was an oceanographer, meteorologist, and retired captain in the U.S. Navy, with decades of experience in naval operations, underwater systems, maritime research, and operational oceanography.

 

His talk invited us to think of the ocean not as separate bodies of water divided by maps, but as one interconnected system essential to life on Earth. He took us on an imagined descent through the layers of the sea, beginning in the sunlit zone where most familiar marine life exists, moving downward through the twilight zone of larger fish, whales, fading light, and strange adaptations, and then into the deep ocean, where sunlight disappears entirely and bioluminescent creatures inhabit cold, dark pressure-filled worlds.

It was an engaging talk delivered by someone with immense knowledge and experience. Perhaps to my own shame, I was surprised by how strongly his message centred on protection. Given his long career in naval operations and applied research, I had expected something more technical or strategic. Instead, the overwhelming message was that human survival depends on the world’s oceans, and that understanding them must go hand in hand with protecting them.  Hearing his talk, I really like his perspective and approach to the oceans. 
 
On a day when we had spent so many hours breathing sea air, watching Sargassum lines, scanning for whales, and feeling the ship move through the water, the talk felt well placed. It gave intellectual shape to what the day had already been teaching physically: the ocean is not a backdrop. It is the system that makes life possible.
 

Nicknames and Tropic Birds

With a free hour until the next talk, we headed back outside and settled on two deck chairs in the shade outside the Compass Rose bar.  There were quite a few people relaxing with books, tablets, and drinks, and when they saw Sean taking photos we discovered that we've been nicknamed the 'flying fish people' because we spend so much time watching and photographing these strange and wonderful animals. 
 
As a nickname, it will do – on other trails and voyages, it has been much worse.

Since travelling on Wind Surf last year, we’ve learned that flying fish are a family of saltwater ray-finned fish, and there are around 64 species in seven genera worldwide.  While they do not actually fly through the air the same way birds do, they use their long, wing-like, paired wings to generate lift and prolong their gliding abilities.  In this way, they can make powerful leaps out of the water, travelling quite long distances and even changing direction mid-flight by ‘bouncing off’ waves.  This behaviour is thought to be a predator avoidance strategy, but while it would help them escape from swordfish, mackerel, tuna, or marlin, they would be exposed to aerial predators like Frigatebirds.  Either way, it looks like a lot of fun.

As we sat there chatting, Sean suddenly spotted a large white bird following behind the ship.  Looking through binoculars, I could see it had a yellow bill, a mostly white body with black markings on the wings, and an extremely long thin white tail. We later learned it was a White-tailed Tropicbird, which is a new species for us.  How very exciting!
 

Polar Exploration and Enrichment

At four o’clock, just as the sun was becoming uncomfortably hot on the back deck, we headed inside for another enrichment talk, this one titled “Why Do We Explore?” by Wayne L. White. Wayne had captured our attention almost immediately after we boarded. He had strolled into Compass Rose with the unmistakable presence of someone who had spent a life outside conventional rooms: long grey hair, a bushy moustache, an Indiana Jones-style hat, a faded U.S. Marines T-shirt, and cargo pants.

This made us suspect immediately that he was probably one of the more interesting people on board, or at the very least our type of person with cool stories.  It turns out we were right. 

Like me, Wayne is a member of The Explorers Club, along with several other renowned organizations, and he has spent much of his life travelling, collecting artifacts from remote places, and conducting research on small, isolated islands and naval bases. He has also spent three winters running the research station at the South Pole, an experience he wrote about in Cold: Three Winters at the South Pole. In addition, he is the current president of the Old Antarctic Explorers Association and belongs to the Adventurers Club of Los Angeles and the Antarctican Society.

His talk was fascinating, though as a first presentation it functioned largely as a broad overview of his life and career. It left us wanting more detail rather than less. I found myself hoping we might have the chance to share a meal or a drink with him at some point during the crossing, because people like that tend to carry stories that do not fit neatly into lecture slots.

Sunsets and Relaxation

After the enrichment talk, predictably, we headed back up on deck.  The sun was setting off the back of the ship, sending long streaks of light across the sky as it sank toward the horizon. The waves felt like they were gently rocking us to sleep in the warm evening air. The captain's welcome was at 5:30 PM, and although we felt guilty for missing it, we simply wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet of the back deck and watch the sun set.

There are moments on a voyage when the official program and the living experience of the ship pull in different directions. That evening, the peace of the back deck won. We wanted the quiet, the light, the wind, and the slow disappearance of the day into the Atlantic.

Eventually, reluctantly, around six-thirty, we went below to freshen up and change for dinner. Sean stepped into slightly more formal clothes, while I chose a collared shirt, cozy jeans, and deck shoes. I simply did not feel up to a dress that night. After a full day of wind, sun, salt, and motion, comfort seemed more honest than elegance.

Before dinner, we listened to Danyi in the Lounge for a while, then headed into Amphora.

Dinner in Amphora

Neither of us was particularly hungry, so Sean just ordered a prosciutto and watermelon salad, while I had the market salad and the cashew and vegetable stroganoff.  I had no idea prior to ordering it what stroganoff was, and I learned that it is not really to my taste.  It was wonderful and tasty, simply not what I would have again.  It was one of those harmless travel lessons: live, learn, and order differently next time.

Unfortunately, the evening’s meal was not defined by the food but by the staff’s reaction to Sean’s order.    Given our recent long days of travel, our sunburns and general exhaustion, neither of us ordered the full starter, soup, main course, and dessert.  The result, especially when Sean simply enjoyed a wonderful salad and no main course, was to have a series of staff come to our table to repeatedly question him about his health and choices.  First, it was our server, then her supervisor, then the floor manager.  Was he sick? Was he dizzy? Did he need help? Should they get the doctor? What medicine was he on? What is his current health condition?  Did he have travel insurance? Etc, etc, etc…

We understood that the concern came from a good place. On a ship crossing the Atlantic, health matters, and crew are trained to notice changes that might signal something more serious. Even so, the repeated attention became overwhelming. What had begun as a quiet attempt to have a light dinner turned into a small scene neither of us wanted. Sean felt scrutinized rather than cared for, and by the time we left Amphora, we had the distinct impression that the ship’s doctor might be asked to check on us.

Even after we moved to the Lounge, we noticed a server pointing us out to another supervisor. It was all kindly meant, I am sure, but it left us feeling exposed and slightly unsettled. Sometimes care, when repeated too insistently, begins to feel like pressure.

Evening Working on Deck

In the end, we retreated to the open air near Compass Rose, which had already become one of our favourite places to let the day settle. We gathered our notebooks and drafts of the writing we were working on and set ourselves up outside, where we could listen to the live music and breathe the night air.

This was the first voyage where we had actual work to do while on board. Several articles were due to be published soon, and the practical realities of our writing life had come to sea with us. There was something slightly absurd, and also rather lovely, about proofreading and editing under the stars while Wind Surf moved steadily through the Atlantic.

As we worked, Elaine Eagle played piano, and later, Pure Soul Trio took to the stage again. The evening was lively and warm, full of music, voices, and the soft motion of the ship beneath us. For the third night in a row, we did not want the evening to end.

Reflecting on First Sea Day

We have been on enough ships now to understand how quickly time passes once a voyage begins. Even one day into the crossing, I already felt a small sadness that another sea day had come to an end.  That may sound strange when there were still many days ahead, but sea time has a way of feeling abundant and fleeting at once. The horizon seems endless, the ocean immense, and yet each day disappears almost before you know how to hold it.

That feeling was reinforced by the notice waiting for us that night: at two o’clock in the morning, the clocks would move forward to three. We had barely settled into the crossing, and already time was being taken from us. Of course, that is part of crossing an ocean eastward. The ship moves, the clocks adjust, and little by little the body is asked to surrender land-based certainty.

Perhaps that is what the first sea day had really been about. We were making way now, not only across water but moving away from the noise, restlessness, and pressure we had carried aboard. The sea had not been calm. The wind had not been gentle. The ship had rolled, rain had swept the decks, waves had broken into spray, and salt had dried on our skin. Yet somehow all of that motion made us feel more grounded.

See you on board! 

Nautical Term of the Day – Swell - Long, rolling waves generated far from the ship.