Disembarkation and Travel

“No man can tether time

Or tide”

 

Robert Burns

 

Wind Surf Transatlantic Sailing Day 15

Final Morning on Board

 

We woke at seven, which may have been the latest we had slept on any morning aboard Wind Surf. There was no rushing up to the railings in darkness, no fear of missing a whale blow, no need to stand under the stars waiting for the coastline to appear. Instead, we got up, showered, and did the thing every traveller eventually has to do, no matter how much they wish to delay it.

 

We packed.

 

For two weeks, our cabin had been a small floating home: close to the water and with the sound of waves against the porthole.  Usually, our world was neat and in order, this morning everything lay out as our clothes were folded, electronics collected, and our whale ID guides were gathered up.   The little domestic order we had created was dismantled piece by piece.  

 

At 7:30, we dropped a letter at reception for Tina and Michael, along with the pack of cards we wanted to leave them as thanks. These small gestures matter at the end of a voyage. People who were strangers two weeks earlier had become part of the crossing, and it felt wrong simply to disappear without marking that in some way.  Hopefully, we will be able to keep in touch or meet up again on the decks of Compass Rose in the future.

 

Not long after, we went up to Veranda for our last breakfast. The sunrise that was still lighting up the sky was glorious, and we sat over coffee and the familiar shipboard meal that had anchored so many of our mornings at sea.

 

One thing we noticed during our last day and night in Lisbon was that many passengers had shifted to the opposite side of the ship for breakfast and lounging. Perhaps it was simply the sunny side. Perhaps it offered more shelter from the wind. But it also faced away from the city, and I could not help wondering whether, consciously or not, many of us had made the same decision. We had returned to land, but we were not quite ready to look directly at it.

 

New Perspectives

 

Afterward, we walked around Wind Surf, trying to take in the details and the feel of the ship one more time - the decks, the railings, the sails and the loungers.  We stood once more in some of the places where we had watched dolphins, sung sea shanties, counted flying fish, and let the Atlantic slowly slide past us.

 

There is something odd about seeing land from the sea. Lisbon felt different from here, not the city we had walked through on the Camino, not the city of crowds, modern tuk-tuks, cathedral steps, and tram lines, but a shoreline seen from a ship.  From Wind Surf, the city felt different. 

 

At 8:30, we left our room for the last time and said goodbye to Darvis, our amazing room steward. We left him a card and a tip, grateful for the wonderful, steady care he had given us throughout the crossing. It is easy to speak of ships romantically - sails, sunsets, horizons, and sea days - but much of what makes a voyage feel wonderful comes from the labour of the crew.

 

Disembarking Wind Surf

 

By nine o’clock, we were back sitting outside of Compass Rose, waiting. It felt right to spend our last hour aboard at the aft of the ship, where so many of our evenings had ended. Even tied to land, even with Lisbon moving around us, that space still held some of the crossing’s atmosphere -  music in the evenings, conversations, the open deck, and the sense (or hope) that if we waited long enough, perhaps the ship might simply cast off again.

 

As had happened the night before, several crew members stopped to speak with us. Ben from reception, the same person who had once pointed out whales, came over and asked if we had seen anything that morning.  Afterwards, he wished us luck on our travels before continuing preparations around the ship for Wind Surf’s next voyage.

 

Seated there, we got brief opportunities to talk again with Brian, Laily, Mella, Jesse, and Eka – each amazing people.  Each one took a few moments between their tasks to get ready for the next ship of passengers due this afternoon. 

 

We waited at the aft of Wind Surf until around 10:10, and then finally stepped off the ship.  Across the gangway – from sea to land.  We were thanked by the bridge crew for voyaging with Windstar and sent on our way. Just like that, the crossing became part of the past.  We were no longer living on board a sailing ship – it was relegated to memory.  Behind us, the crew continued working diligently to prepare for the coming journey to the Mediterranean.

 

One passenger had described her own time in Lisbon, saying, “I’m taking a little stop here to catch my breath before going onto the next thing.” That felt right. Disembarkation is not necessarily an ending. Sometimes it is simply the space between one moment and another.  This voyage and the one yet to come.

 

Repositioning

 

Transatlantic voyages, beyond those aboard Queen Mary 2, which still runs a regular liner service across the ocean, are often described in practical terms as repositioning voyages. Ships move from one season to another, from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean, from winter itineraries to summer ones.  On paper, that was what Wind Surf had just completed as well. She had carried us from Sint Maarten to Lisbon because the map, the calendar, and the cruise schedule required her to move.

 

But there is no denying that, in some ways, we had boarded Wind Surf hoping to reposition ourselves. After months of decisions, uncertainty, exhaustion, and the pressure of trying to shape whatever came next, we had needed more than transportation across the Atlantic. We had needed distance. We had needed time between moments.

 

Perhaps that is the gift of a crossing. The ship moves from one part of the world to another, but somewhere along the way, if you are lucky, your mind shifts too. Not all at once. Not neatly. Maybe not even towards any more clarity than beforehand. But gradually, with each sea day, each sunrise, each conversation, each distant fin or bird or wave, something inside begins to reposition. You are not fixed in the same place anymore. You are not quite the person who stepped aboard.

 

At the Crossroads

 

This transatlantic voyage, our return to Lisbon, and now the train onward to Faro placed us at the crossroads of so many earlier journeys. Once again, we had connected ship, trail, pilgrimage, and rail into a single line.  Each was familiar but different in feeling this time around. Lisbon had been a Camino beginning before we stepped onto the Trans Canada Trail. Faro had been a gateway to the Algarve and the Rota Vicentina. Wind Surf had brought us across the Atlantic before giving way to our time on the Via Augusta, Via de la Plata and Camino Sanabres.  Yet despite being here, none of it felt like repetition. We were older now, less certain, and travelling with a different mindset.

 

Beyond Wind Surf and Lisbon’s docks, the train station was only a few minutes away – indeed, it was directly across the street from the ship. That practical reality made the transition feel abrupt. One moment, we were transatlantic voyagers on a sailing ship; the next, we were travellers with luggage, tickets, seating assignments, and departure boards.

     

 

With a 10:45 train to catch and a flight in four days at 9:25 in the morning, we were firmly back in lives governed by schedules and clocks. Ship time had given way to railway time, airline time, check-in time, platform time, and the familiar low-grade anxiety about missing the next connection.

 

Train Travel from Lisbon to Faro

 

From Platform 6, sitting above the roofline of our train, we could see the masts of Wind Surf. She remained docked behind us, waiting for her next passengers, her next voyage, her next line across the map. It was strange to be leaving her while she stayed. For two weeks, she had carried us forward. Now we were the ones moving on.

 

Our train first took us to Oriente Station, where we changed for Faro. The departure was delayed by about twenty-five minutes, which felt like a clear return to the world of clocks. At sea, time had become less meaningful, and our days were driven more by our interests. On land, twenty-five minutes could once again become a problem – for some people.

 

As the train crossed the Ponte 25 April Bridge, crossing the Tagus Estuary, we looked down and saw Wind Surf docked below us. 

Her masts rose from the harbour, still elegant, still unmistakable, while we rolled away by rail. It was a beautiful and painful final glimpse: the voyage below, the land journey ahead, and us suspended between them for a few seconds above the river.

 

Faro, Portugal 

 

A few uneventful hours later, we arrived in Faro on the southern coast of Portugal.  It was wonderful to be back, though the circumstances felt different. When we came here to hike the Rota Vicentina years ago, we had arrived on a Wednesday. This time, we arrived on a weekend, and the difference was immediately clear. Ryanair Jets roared overhead – arriving and leaving every 10-15 minutes - the streets were crowded with people, and the beaches were packed.  We had left a large city and exchanged it for a tourist town on the weekend. Sigh…

 

Faro also seemed to have changed in the few years since we had last visited.  The effects of tourism and increasing English-language presence were more visible than before: English pubs, English menus, more English spoken and a sense that parts of the city were being reshaped for visitors rather than simply lived in by locals.

 

Beyond this, I have to admit that after half a month of teak decks and open seascapes, it felt strange to navigate cobble streets lined with buildings again. The sky had edges now. Our view stopped at the walls.  Still, there was comfort in being back in a place we knew and returning to places we had enjoyed before.

 

Arriving in Faro, we walked the winding streets toward Hostellicious, our accommodation for the next few days. It was not a long walk in any meaningful way, perhaps only a kilometre or two, but it quickly reminded us that whoever invented rolling luggage had almost certainly not come from a region with old cobblestone streets. Every uneven stone seemed to travel up through the wheels, into the handles, and then into our shoulders and arms, turning what should have been a simple transfer into a rattling, clacking, vibrating obstacle course.

 

Not for the first time, I found myself longing for my backpack. There is nothing elegant about carrying everything on your back, but at least the weight belongs to you. It moves with your body. It does not fight every stone in the street. After two weeks of shipboard clothes, formal wear, and the comforts of a cabin, I found myself wondering again whether all of it could somehow be compressed into something more practical. Trails had taught us to value function. Ships had asked us to bring layers, nicer clothes, and a little more polish. Faro’s cobblestones seemed to side very clearly with the trails.

 

Regardless, we soon arrived to our accommodations, checked in and settled as best as we could.  Then we did what we almost always do when we arrive somewhere – we walked.

 

Waterfront Walk

 

As we set out without any clear direction or along a particular trail, but simply with the goal of letting our bodies stretch after sitting on the train, and to adjust to land again.

 

It was not long before images of “drunken sailors” came to mind – after so many days on Wind Surf, even ordinary streets and community pathways felt strange.  The ground did not move as the decks had.  The horizon no longer rose and fell.  Yet despite this, our bodies kept correcting for motion that was no longer there.  In addition, the air carried traffic, food smells, jet engines, voices and people…so many people. 

 

Our wanderings led us back to another place that we had loved on our last visit – Faro’s waterfront.  I would like to say we returned there for the birds and tidal pools, but part of me wondered whether we simply were not quite ready to give up on the sea.

 

We crossed toward the waterfront by the marina and wandered into the industrial and fishing area behind the train station.  Here, Faro often feels more lived-in and less like a polished tourist destination.  The tide was low, exposing wide stretches of mudflat and tidal channels, and almost immediately the world seemed to fill with birds again.

 

Sparrows called from fences and lampposts. Magpies hopped along the edges of city parks. Hoopoes called out from somewhere nearby, their voices unmistakably of land after two weeks of wind and water. Below them, in the tidal flats, Whimbrels and plovers hurried across the mud, their thin legs flashing as they probed and ran.

 

Not far away, hundreds of small crabs lifted and waved their oversized claws, each one seemingly determined to impress, threaten, or outperform the others. Beyond the immediate shoreline, the birds became even more striking. Spoonbills swept their bills through the shallows. Stilts picked delicately through the water on impossibly fine legs. Elegant Avocets moved through the flats, and farther out, we began to pick out flamingos.

 

Some of the flamingos looked surprisingly pale, even almost white. It was a reminder that the vivid pink colour people associate with flamingos is not simply a fixed feature of the bird itself, but comes from pigments in their diet, especially the tiny organisms and crustaceans they feed on in saline wetlands. Younger birds can also look much paler than adults. Against the bright glare of the Ria Formosa, these birds looked almost ghostly, less like the saturated images of postcards and more like part of the estuary itself.

 

As we had discovered years ago, this waterfront trail seemed to have been built with ambition and then largely forgotten. If anything, that neglect felt even more visible now. The pavement was cracked. Weeds had pushed up through the lawn. Sections of plastic decking were broken or worn. Yet somehow none of that ruined it for us. The place still felt wonderful: hot, open, tidal, alive, and just a little rough around the edges. 

It was the kind of place where birds, boats, mud, industry, and neglect all existed together, which perhaps made it feel more honest than the polished streets closer to the marina.

 

The afternoon sun was intense, especially for two Canadians more accustomed to the damp grey softness of British Columbia’s west coast, and we found ourselves taking shelter whenever we could beneath the tall palms planted along the route.

 

Historical Wanderings

 

By late afternoon, with the temperature rising, we had returned to the walled section of Faro near the marina. On our previous visit, before hiking the Rota Vicentina, we had spent time at Sé Cathedral de Faro and visited its bone chapel, but today a large tour group had gathered there, and we felt no desire to push ourselves through the crowd. Some places are better returned to in the right way, or not at all, depending on the day.

 

Instead, we meandered through the historic quarter and along the outer walls, letting the old streets guide us as they wove on. After the openness of the Atlantic and then the brightness of the waterfront, the narrow lanes felt protective. 

Whitewashed walls reflected the late-day light. Tilework appeared in doorways and on façades. Murals covered sections of walls and street corners. Swallows and swifts moved through the air above us, while other birds seemed to have made homes in the cracks and pockets of the stonework.

    

 

It was the kind of neighbourhood we could wander endlessly, not because there was one single sight to reach, but because the pleasure was in the texture of the place itself: the old walls, the tiles, and the feeling of history.

 

Dinner at the Marina

 

As the day began to fade into evening and the sky began to change colour, we made our way back toward the marina and to O Coreto, a restaurant we had loved on our last visit. It sits close to the water, with outdoor tables, umbrellas, heaters, kind staff, and the kind atmosphere that makes you want to stay longer than you planned.

 

We love places like this, where you can sit outside near the water and simply let the day settle.  Nearby, the docks were filled with boats and yachts. In the public square, people sat, talked, laughed, ate, and relaxed. Beside the restaurant, as often seems to happen, there was music. A young woman with a guitar and a terrific voice was singing nearby – though perhaps I am biased because her set included Tracy Chapman, Sting, Eric Clapton, and Bruce Springsteen, all performed with impressive talent.

 

Though by no means secondary, the food itself was also terrific. We shared a vinaigrette salad and an enormous vegetarian pizza.  Both of which were generous and exactly what we wanted after a day of travel, walking, heat, and readjustment. For a while, we did not want to move at all. But beyond the marina, the colours in the sky were stunning, especially over the Ria Formosa, and eventually the sunset pulled us away from the table.

 

Sunset at the Pier

 

A short walk from the restaurant brought us to the Pedra de Faro, the long pier that reaches out into the waterfront and which is a popular place at the end of the day. By the time we arrived, the sky had turned golden. Lone boats sat in the low tidal waters and gave an ambience to the shoreline. 

 

Teenagers sat along the pier laughing and talking, enjoying the moment together – the sight made me unexpectedly miss being young. Above us, the sky shifted through subtle pinks and blues, and for a few minutes, we simply stood there watching the water and the light.

 

Then something caught Sean’s attention - he dropped his camera bag beside me, apparently assuming I would take care of it, and scrambled down beneath the docks and pier. I thought he looked slightly ridiculous, though two young women with cameras nearby clearly saw whatever he had seen, too. They watched with interest as he made his way to the waterline.

 

Not long after, Sean was standing in the tidal water, crouched low despite the cold, the thick mud, the slippery moss, and the mussels underfoot, taking photographs. Once again, he had seen what I had not.

 

Sean rarely photographs people or even scenes with people in them. Yet even he would admit that some of the images he most wishes he had taken over the years involved people who simply looked beautiful, iconic, or perfectly placed in a moment, regardless of gender, orientation, or anything else. Increasingly, I have been encouraging him to take those photographs when they present themselves. In Spain and Portugal, especially, where people often seem to fall naturally into classical poses against old walls, or where water, light, and stone give way to stunning moments, the results can be remarkable.

 

That evening, I was glad he followed the instinct.

 

After darkness settled in, we wandered once more through the walled quarter, this time simply for the pleasure of strolling. The narrow whitewashed streets, lit at night, were beautiful and peaceful, and Sean continued photographing as we moved through them. After the movement of the ship, the crowds of Lisbon, the train, and the transition back to land, those quiet streets offered peacefulness.

 

Reconnected

 

Tonight, sitting back in the hostel, I was finally able to upload my whale surveys and begin adding Sean’s images to iNaturalist to confirm what we had seen and ID what we didn’t know from what we had spotted during this year’s transatlantic crossing. I completed seventeen ORCA surveys in all, though that number does not fully capture what the voyage gave us: the Fin Whale blows, the Sperm Whale, Striped Dolphins, Common Dolphins, shearwaters, gannets, turtles, flying fish, Henslow’s swimming crabs, and all the moments that were too brief, distant, or uncertain to name.

 

I love that process of finding out what we have seen. I love contributing to citizen science programs, learning new species, and turning brief encounters into records that might matter beyond our own memories. There is something satisfying about taking a photograph, a note, or a sighting from the field and placing it within a wider community of observation.

 

At the same time, I have always felt a little uneasy about reducing a journey to numbers. A voyage like this was more than fourteen nights, fifteen days, and forty-three species spotted. It was more than a checklist, more than a survey total, more than a means of getting from Sint Maarten to Lisbon. The data matters, of course, but so do all the moments in between sightings.

 

Evening Reflections

 

Disembarkation always feels too quick. A voyage that takes weeks to unfold can end in a few practical moments - packed bags, scanning off the ship, a thank-you at the gangway, and walking on. Yet the ending is not really that simple. The ship continues inside you for a while. You still hear the waves at night. You still walk expecting swells and the movement of the deck.  You still look for the horizon. You still expect time to move by activities rather than timetables.  Nothing ends at the moment it ends.

 

As Robert Burns wrote, no one can tether time or tide. The voyage moved on, whether we were ready or not. Wind Surf remained behind in Lisbon for a few hours, preparing for her next chapter, while we boarded a train south toward Faro and whatever came next for us.

 

We were back on land, back among schedules and decisions. But for a little – if only a short while longer, the masts of Wind Surf were still visible for us.

 

Whether on trails, rails or sails – see you out there.

 

Nautical Term of the Day – Freeboard - Distance from waterline to deck.