The Art of Slowing Down

“At sea, I learned how little a person needs, not how much.”

 

Robin Lee Graham

 

Wind Surf Transatlantic Sailing Day 3

 
There was a time when transatlantic crossings were measured and assessed in terms of speed. Ocean liners raced one another for prestige, reputation, and the unofficial honour of the Blue Riband, a prize awarded to the fastest passenger ship to cross the Atlantic. Ships were symbols of engineering, ambition, and national pride. To cross faster was to demonstrate mastery not only over distance, but over the sea itself.

 
Commercial aviation changed that equation completely. Once aircraft could carry passengers across the Atlantic in hours rather than days, ships could no longer compete with flight in terms of speed. The very thing that once defined them had been overtaken. To cross the ocean by ship now is no longer the fastest way to get anywhere. Today, to take an ocean liner or sail across the Atlantic is, almost by definition, a conscious decision to go slower.
 
Perhaps that is why it matters to us. This was our second transatlantic crossing aboard Wind Surf, and only the most recent in a long series of attempts to resist the assumption that faster is always better. We have crossed the Atlantic aboard Queen Mary 2, crossed Canada by train, walked thousands of kilometres on trails and pilgrimage routes, and again and again discovered that slowness changes the nature of a journey. It gives the mind time to arrive with the body. It lets weather, fatigue, conversation, silence, and landscape become part of the experience rather than inconveniences to be minimized.

 
To sail rather than fly is to accept that the crossing itself matters. It is to choose days of open water instead of hours of compression. It is to give up efficiency in favour of presence. And in a world that increasingly seems to value speed, output, and constant response, that choice can feel almost radical.
 

Morning on Wind Surf

 
I slept better last night. The ship rolled less, or perhaps I had simply begun to settle into the voyage. The first night back on board had been full of the excitement of setting off and the hypnotic distraction of waves washing over our porthole. By the second morning, the rhythms of the ship had begun to reassert themselves: the sounds of movement through water and the hum of the engines defined the evenings on board.   The only unfortunate aspect being that last night we had our first time change and the clocks moved forward – a reminder that crossing eastward means giving up hours.

 
As I got ready this morning, I admit that I feel bad about last night. We had sat outside Compass Rose with our notebooks and drafts while the wonderfully talented pianist played nearby, trying to work through articles that were due soon. It was practical, and perhaps unavoidable, but it also felt like a small failure of the very thing we had come here to practice. We had boarded this ship, at least in part, to disconnect and slow down, yet there we were on the first evening at sea, still trying to keep up with deadlines.

 
Much like making a conscious choice to be on board Wind Surf and travel slower, it seems I have to make an active effort to slow myself down as well.
 

Differing Transatlantic Course

 
When I woke up this morning, the sea looked much calmer than yesterday.  Having a porthole right at the waterline provides a shearwater or petrel's perspective of the ocean, which is quite fascinating.  It looks like a constantly changing landscape of jagged hills and mountains, but curiously, it feels less chaotic than when viewed from above. 

As usual, Sean was already up on deck well before sunrise, but with the time change, I did not join him until just before seven. Before heading out, I turned on the navigation channel in our cabin and was startled by what I saw. Our course was markedly different from the route we had taken the previous year, when Wind Surf had left Sint Maarten intending for Gran Canaria and Lisbon before the weather ultimately carried us to Cádiz.
 

We had known, of course, that our crossings aboard Queen Mary 2 between New York and Southampton and back again followed a much more northerly Atlantic track. But when it came to Wind Surf, we had both assumed that last year’s route had only shifted south later in the voyage, after weather forced the itinerary to change. Seeing this year’s north-easterly course made us realize that the possibility of Ponta Delgada and Lisbon must have been built into the track much earlier than we had understood.

 
This year, we were clearly making for a very different line across the Atlantic. The air already felt cooler than it had the year before, another small but noticeable difference. It was a reminder that even when two voyages begin in the same port aboard the same ship, they can diverge almost immediately. We had thought we were repeating a crossing. The navigation screen suggested otherwise.
 

The Soundtrack of Wind Surf

 
Before going outside, I stopped to put on sunscreen, determined not to let the previous day’s sunburn deepen into something worse. When I stepped onto the deck, the teak boards were beautifully rain-soaked, their wet surfaces glowing a rich reddish brown. Puddles held pieces of the early light. The sun was tucked behind a cloud bank, sending long yellow beams toward the ocean like fingers, and the temperature was noticeably cooler than it had been the day before.

 
Outside, I found Sean standing near the front of the ship, watching as the crew went about the work of preparing Wind Surf for another day. Decks were being washed. Chairs were arranged with precision. Railings were wiped down. Inside, the ship was still quiet, but outside, there was already movement, labour, and care.

One of the things I have noticed aboard Wind Surf is how often the crew seem to hum or sing while they work. It’s something I really enjoy - their voices become part of the ship’s atmosphere: soft songs, moments of laughter, greetings passed in different accents, and little bursts of music that rise and vanish with the wind. It creates a feeling of warmth that is difficult to define, but very easy to sense. By comparison, so much of land life seems to involve sitting silently at computers and scowling into screens, even on days supposedly meant for rest.

On board, the human sounds blend with the vessel’s own soundtrack: the creak of the superstructure, the hum of the engines, the flap of sails, the footsteps of early walkers on deck, the clink of teacups and coffee cups, and later, the softer ring of wine glasses. Wind Surf is not a silent ship, and that is part of her charm. She sounds inhabited, worked, lived in, and alive.
 

Breakfast at Veranda

 
Together, Sean and I made a slow circuit of Wind Surf, pausing at the lookout on the top deck near the bow to admire the view and breathe in the cool, salty air.  Eventually, we headed to Veranda for breakfast. While we ate muesli, fruit, orange juice, and coffee, another rain shower passed over the ship, arriving and disappearing almost before we could react. This would become the day’s pattern. Sun, rain, wind, blue, grey, gold, and then sun again.

 

This time, the shower left a double rainbow behind it. We could see the point where the arc seemed to meet the sea. Human beings have made countless legends, symbols, and superstitions out of rainbows, and I understand why. They feel like messages. But right now, I like thinking of them more simply: sunlight and rain meeting briefly in the right conditions, beauty appearing because two changeable things happened to overlap.
 

This morning, Veranda was strangely quiet, with only two other couples eating outside with us. When we finished, we wandered the decks for a while, searching for wildlife. We saw none, but the ocean was calmer than it had been the day before, and that alone made us hopeful. Calm seas make it easier to notice a fin, a blow, a seabird, or some small disruption that does not belong to the waves.
 

Whale Surveys and Whitecaps

 
From 8:30 to 9:30, I did a cetacean survey for ORCA on the port side of Wind Surf near the bridge.  Although conditions were good, I didn't observe any whales, dolphins, or porpoises.  This didn't mean the hour wasn't interesting, however.  

At the end of the first half hour, we spotted a huge fish just off the side of the ship that Sean thinks might have been a shark.  It was 3-4 ft long, greenish-grey with elaborate black markings, and a rounded greenish dorsal fin. It was moving its tail side-to-side as it swam lazily along, looking very impressive. 

The excitement from this sighting was so great that we decided to keep the survey going for another half hour. Altogether, we spotted 27 flying fish and two more White-tailed Tropicbirds.  We also noticed that the huge, long strings of Sargassum that we were passing through all day yesterday had largely disappeared.  Only small clumps of the seaweed remained, similar to what we saw during the crossing last spring.
 

Sailing the Sargasso Sea

 
Today we are sailing along the edge of the Sargasso Sea, one of the most unusual regions of the Atlantic. Unlike most seas, it is not defined by land boundaries, but by currents. The Gulf Stream, North Atlantic Current, Canary Current, and North Atlantic Equatorial Current form a clockwise gyre around it, creating a vast region of open ocean associated with deep blue water, relative calm, and floating mats of Sargassum.

From the deck, Sargassum can look like scattered debris or loose ribbons of seaweed, but ecologically, it is much more than that. Free-floating Sargassum provides food, refuge, nursery habitat, and breeding grounds for fish, turtles, crabs, shrimp, seabirds, and many other species. NOAA describes these floating rafts as habitats that can stretch for miles, supporting life in the open ocean where shelter is otherwise scarce.

 
Knowing this changed how we looked at the long lines drifting past. They were not simply seaweed. They were miniature floating worlds, nurseries and shelters, travelling with the currents. Perhaps that helped explain the flying fish, tropicbirds, and the large fish we had spotted near the ship. Even when the sea appears empty, there are structures of life within it, some visible only when you slow down enough to notice.
 

Exercise and Emergency Drill

 
As we stood at the rail, we were repeatedly passed by a group of people doing laps for their morning exercise.  Several of them were walking very aggressively, their arms pumping and their pace a fast march.  By the end of the hour, this group of four walkers looked like they were actively chasing each other around the deck, vying for first place in the pack.  It seems we can create competition out of anything and get swept away by it if we stop paying attention for too long.  Perhaps that is why slowing down is not as easy as it sounds.

At 10:15 AM, the crew went through a safety drill.  The fire alarm was sounded, followed by six short and one long blasts of the ship's whistle.  A hypothetical fire was reported on deck one, and all crew were required to respond accordingly.  The water-tight doors below decks were sealed, making us wonder if our cabin is in the leak-proof or leaky part of the ship (its location below the water line suggests that in a Titanic situation, we would be the first to go). 
 
For about half an hour, the crew was fully occupied with the imaginary emergency. It was reassuring to see the seriousness with which they approached it, even if our own minds wandered briefly toward less reassuring possibilities.
 

Are We Lost?

 
At 11:00 AM, we headed inside to the Lounge to listen to Wayne White's presentation, which was titled 'Are We Lost?' As before, it was an engaging talk, walking us through stories of his time at the South Pole, during which he learned to use the stars, flag lines, and a compass that didn't function as per usual so close to the pole to walk over 3,800 miles over three winters, when temperatures were around 79°C.

 
From there, he moved into the broader history of navigation, beginning not with humans but with animals: birds, turtles, whales, wildebeests, and even dung beetles, all using magnetic fields, stars, landmarks, scent, or other cues to find their way through the world. Then came Egyptians, Carthaginians, Phoenicians, and early modern European sailors, each developing tools and techniques to move farther across uncertain waters.

 
One point that stayed with me was his reminder that even as navigation advanced from astrolabe to sextant to chronometer, early sailors were still travelling through profound uncertainty. Instruments improved, but fear did not simply disappear. They still faced storms, distance, hunger, sickness, rumours of monsters, and the old imaginative terror of sailing beyond what was known.

 
It felt like an appropriate talk for a day when we had just realized how different our own course was from the year before. We were not lost, of course. Wind Surf and the bridge crew knew exactly where we were. But emotionally, perhaps, that question had resonance. Are we lost? Or are we simply between known points, learning again how to travel without demanding certainty too soon?
 

Bridge Announcement and Lunch

 
As the talk ended, the Captain delivered his noon announcement, during which we learned that Wind Surf has sailed 492 nautical miles since leaving Sint Maarten.  We are travelling at a speed of 11.7 knots, and the ocean beneath us is 5,500 m deep. 

The nautical fact of the day regarded the Blue Riband, an unofficial prize awarded to the fastest ocean liner to cross the Atlantic.  The all-time winner is the SS United States, which crossed with an average speed of 34.5 knots.  According to the Captain, Wind Surf would have been competitive in 1842, when the winner of the Blue Riband was the SS Great Western, which made an average speed of just under 11 knots on her transatlantic voyage.  The captain claimed this was okay, because Wind Surf isn't racing across the ocean, it prefers to elegantly glide across.

After the talk, we slowly headed back up on deck for some lunch at Veranda.  To our surprise, there was a tanker ship passing off our starboard side.  To our even bigger surprise, the restaurant was jam-packed.  We wondered if perhaps the majority of passengers had been seasick for the past two days, but with the calm seas, they were now all ravenously hungry.  For the first time ever in our experience on Wind Surf, people were quite pushy around the buffet. 

 
We managed to extract a plate of cheese, salad, and a few cookies, but by the time we escaped, we felt slightly shell-shocked. Voyages have days like this, too. Not every moment is graceful. Not every shared space feels gentle. The trick, perhaps, is not to let one crowded buffet define a day otherwise filled with rainbows, sunlight, and open water.
 

Relaxation and Sea Shanties

 
After lunch, we spent another hour walking the deck, relaxing, and admiring the many colours and textures of the ocean. 

 
At 2 PM, we settled down in the shade outside Compass Rose and spent the next hour happily being taught to sing sea shanties with Elaine Eagle.  The songs we learned were called ‘Wellerman’ and ‘Leave Her Johnny’, and we all sang ‘Drunken Sailor’ as well. 

I wonder how often this part of the ocean hears human voices singing sea shanties.  Once, songs like these helped coordinate labour, measure effort, and bind sailors together through rhythm.
 

Justifying Relaxation

 
We enjoyed the singing, and when it was over, we lingered on the back deck outside the Compass Rose bar, enjoying the warm breezes and late afternoon sunshine.  It was interesting to notice that relaxing almost felt uncomfortable.  Present-day society puts so much emphasis on efficiency, productivity, and constant achievement that it can feel like we need to justify how we spend our time.  As people who write about our travels, we are not immune to that.  Even when we are trying to share the joy of slow travel and the value of living in the moment, there can be pressure to do something, see something, learn something, or produce something that will later become a meaningful paragraph.

  

When writing about a rest day, I sometimes feel the need to account for it, to fill the page, to prove that the time mattered. But perhaps that instinct is part of the problem. A day does not become valuable only when it produces a story. A life is not more meaningful because every moment can be explained, photographed, or shaped into evidence.

      

Today and this afternoon, I cannot claim to have done much of anything. We lounged. We watched the water pass. We listened to the wind. We let the ship carry us. And it felt wonderful not to rationalize it to ourselves or anyone else. It reminded me of childhood days at the beach, lying on a blanket simply enjoy the warmth, sky, and time. No one asked what had been accomplished. The day itself was enough.
 
Of course, this attitude exists only in our minds, and today we chose to reject it and simply embrace doing nothing.
 

General Trivia and an Evening of Music

 
Eventually, we headed downstairs to change for dinner and then went to the Lounge for Trivia with Nikki.  

Today's topic was General Knowledge, and the questions included everything from 'where is the valley of kings?' to 'what are the names of the four Golden Girls?'  We only managed to correctly answer 10 of the 21 questions, but once again, the top team scored 14, which made us feel slightly less clueless. Overall, the point was to have fun, and we left quite content.

After trivia, Elaine played pre-dinner music in the Lounge, and we stayed to enjoy it, meeting and chatting with several other passengers along the way. 

As always, dinner in Amphora was delicious, but tonight’s meal left us feeling full enough to explode.  It began with a tomato tart, followed by a main course of cauliflower bang-bang.  It felt like we needed to join the energetic deck walkers to burn off some of the food, but instead we drifted back up on deck to Compass Rose. 

 
Another relaxing and beautiful day had come to an end.
 

Exploration and Connection

 
That night, as Wind Surf continued toward the middle of the Atlantic, Artemis II is travelling around the far side of the moon. The thought stayed with me. Somewhere above and far beyond us, humans were circling into darkness, passing briefly beyond direct sight of Earth, while we moved slowly across another old frontier in a small sailing ship.

As RCGS Fellows and Explorers Club members, we have had the good fortune to meet or hear presentations by extraordinary people over the years: prime ministers, Alex Trebek, Adam Shoalts, and even Jeremy Hansen, who was now part of that mission around the moon. None of them would likely remember us, of course.  We were simply more faces in the crowd - but I remember the moments clearly: the talks, the handshakes, the sudden feeling of standing near people whose lives had reached toward large questions and difficult horizons.

There was something humbling about thinking of that while we sat aboard Wind Surf.

Exploration can look like rockets and lunar missions, but it can also look like ships, footpaths, field notebooks, binoculars, and the long, patient work of paying attention. We were not doing anything grand by comparison. We were simply crossing an ocean slowly. Yet the impulse felt related: to go, to look, to learn, to be changed by the experience.
 
See you on board!
 
Nautical Term of the Day – Glassy Calm - A near-motionless sea surface.