When Eric and I left Florida in January 2017 to sail around the world in Corroboree, we could never have imagined all the adventures and misadventures that would befall us. We certainly didn’t foresee losing our steering 1,100 miles from Fernando de Noronha and having to effect a difficult emergency repair underway. So on departing Fernando on 20 April for the final, 2,000-mile leg to Grenada, we couldn’t help but feel anxious and vulnerable. Oh please, don’t let us screw up now!
Let me paint a brief picture of Fernando before we go. As I said at the end of the previous post, the island caught us off guard in several respects, and I want to be fair. Part of the problem was our expectations. Fernando had been described to us as a “popular resort,” which we took to mean hotels, stores, restaurants and services. What we found was a very low-key, undeveloped island where the main attractions are the beaches and diving. Nothing wrong with that. Fernando is also a marine sanctuary, and we are all for preserving nature. It was a pleasure watching the dolphins frolic each morning in the bay.
Moreover, the island has every right to charge visiting yachts a fee. We’ve encountered this practice elsewhere and the price was usually $10-$15 per day. However, at Fernando the daily anchorage fee was $45.57 plus $18.75 per person, a total of $83.07 per day—yikes! This did not include any public toilet/shower facilities or access to a freshwater tap, and the free wi-fi, available in only a few places ashore, cut out repeatedly. We had also been assured that the island offered abundant fresh produce. Nope. The four small grocery stores were almost devoid of fruits and vegetables, and we had to scour the bins daily to secure decent bananas, plantains, plums, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and green oranges. In light of these drawbacks, we determined to tackle our boat chores and depart asap.
But the people of Fernando de Noronha were lovely. In the port captain’s office we were served sweet, black coffee and ice-cold water. The paperwork, in both Portuguese and English, was easy, a map of the island was provided, and between my Spanish, their English and Google Translate, Eric and I acquired the local information we needed. The official on duty loaned us money from his own wallet until we could get to an ATM, a police officer drove us to the hardware store, and we barely had to stick out our thumbs to hitchhike and drivers stopped and invited us to hop aboard. Store clerks smiled and helpfully counted out our change. Thank you, all!
But now for the final stretch, and—Hallelujah!—it was the best sailing ever! For almost the entire journey, we reveled in sunny skies, fresh southeast winds and rippling blue water. Normally, we anticipate Corroboree’s speed at 4 knots or 100 miles per day to allow for spells of light air. That translates to 20 days to cover the 2,000 miles to Grenada. But just look at our daily runs: 121, 165, 168, 159, 143, 163, 105, 87, 166, 181, 143, 130, 106, 171! Previously, our best 24-hour run anywhere was 168 miles in the South Pacific trades in 2018. On this leg alone we matched or beat that mark three times. Our top day, 181 miles, yielded an average speed of 7.5 knots.
How did we do it? The fabulous Guyana Current. Until now, most of the currents we’ve encountered have been either against us or not strong or long enough to matter. But the Guyana Current, with few interruptions, flows northwest for almost 1,500 miles along the coast of Brazil and up to the Caribbean at speeds as high as 2 knots. That’s an extra 48 miles every 24 hours! To ensure that we entered and stayed with it for the greatest possible distance, Eric downloaded daily ocean current reports in addition to our wind and weather forecasts. Then he meticulously waypointed and charted every bend and curve of our course. As an engineer, Eric is inordinately fond of devices, and he was in his glory.
We began to detect the current on 22 April, encountering patches of agitated water in which stiff little waves leapt up and down. The waves were no more than 2 feet high, and Corroboree coasted over them with ease. Nevertheless, it was a curious sight, like the egg-white peaks on a meringue pie. At our change of watch at 0100 on 23 April, Eric greeted me with the news that over the past few hours our track had merged into the full strength of the Guyana Current. “It’s remarkable!” he exclaimed. “The current flattened out the sea and it’s pushing us at 2 knots or more. You can feel it. It’s like sailing on velvet!” From there almost all the way to Grenada, the wind and the current zinged us along.
Yet you may have noticed an odd dip in those daily runs to a mere 87 miles. There’s a reason for that, although it took us a while to figure out the cause. The episode began just after midnight on 27 April, when the wind died near the end of Eric’s watch. As I took the helm, it started to rain, a warm, patient, almost leisurely rain falling straight down from the sky. Flashes of sheet lightning joined in, but it was too dark to see any clouds or squalls, and the wind remained AWOL. But the rain didn’t stop. It just kept pattering and was still doing so when Eric came up at dawn to a uniformly gray sky. We couldn’t remember encountering a similar weather situation, and it was beginning to feel eerie.
An hour later Eric announced that we had somehow become caught in a contrary 1-2 knot current. How could that be when the ocean currents app showed us smack in the center of the favorable Guyana? The rain had finally dwindled, and we switched on the engine, assuming we could quickly motor out of whatever eddy had formed in our path. Instead, the current continued against us, and when a light wind returned in mid-afternoon, the story became even stranger. This wind came from the southwest—what had happened to the prevailing southeast trades? At this point, we half imagined we heard the theme music from “The Twilight Zone.”
Over the next 24 hours, the weird current diminished, we turned off the engine, and the wind gradually shifted around the compass and strengthened as we segued into the northeast trades. During that time we also consulted the rain models and found them to be at total odds. Two of the models showed huge red storm cells over the Brazilian coast, while the other two showed harmless mist all around. But in poring over the maps, enlightenment dawned.
Corroboree was then 200 miles due north of the Amazon delta where that mighty river pours into the Atlantic, and as we pictured that unseen and enormous swathe of humid green rainforest, we began to appreciate how it could create weather patterns even this far offshore. We also recalled the pilot guides saying that the muddy outflow of the river into the ocean tinges the water brown. Sure enough, when the sun broke through, the blue sea around Corroboree was infused with a chocolate hue. We speculated that it was the freshwater of the Amazon that had interrupted the Guyana Current, and when it resumed we were sailing on velvet once more. It was a privilege to have this glimpse of the incredible power of Nature, and the rainwater we collected yielded two luxurious bucket baths.
Other highlights of this leg were a spectacular green flash at sunset on 21 April and crossing the Equator back into the Northern Hemisphere on 25 April. On 2 May, we passed the 30,000-mile mark on our sail. That night we sighted the loom of Tobago, and come daylight we glided past that verdant island at about 8 miles offshore. As the tail end of the Guyana Current sent us off with a last small boost, the NE trades filled our sails. Since leaving Fernando, the moon had grown fuller each night, and now shone as bright as a newly minted silver dollar. Who could ask for more?
We anchored in Prickly Bay on the south side of Grenada at sunset on 4 May, 15 days out from Fernando de Noronha, and proceeded to Port Louis Marina in St. George’s the next morning. It was from here that we sailed westward to Panama on 3 November 2017. Now, on 5 May 2023, we officially tied the knot on our circumnavigation. We posted the news on my blog and on Facebook, and it took days to respond to all the congratulations. You’ll never know how much your support and encouragement have meant to us throughout this adventure. There are some compliments we must decline, however.
We are not “brave” or “courageous.” Those adjectives belong to the soldiers and citizens of Ukraine fighting for their country, to the women—and men—who stood up for women’s rights in Iran last year, to the doctors, nurses and staff who tirelessly treated patients while the Covid pandemic raged. They put their lives on the line for a greater cause. We just went sailing—a long way, to be sure—but though it was sometimes dangerous, more people accomplish it every year. We will therefore happily settle for “adventurous” and “resourceful.” Given some of our escapades, “crazy” might also apply.
The other, far more numerous kudo we cannot accept is “amazing.” No, what we are is fortunate. Look what we started with: our health, the finances to pull it off, and most of all, each other. Look what we found en route: kind people, helpful strangers, new friends, and a network of fellow cruisers ever ready to come to our rescue as we would to theirs. I could say we’ve earned it, having worked hard all our lives to get here. But again, look what Eric and I each started with: loving families, a good education, and all the opportunities that come with being born in a free country. It didn’t take our circumnavigation to teach me that, but it surely reinforced it. We are fortunate, and I never, ever forget it.
We still have 1,500 miles to go to Florida, so please stick with us a little longer as we return to the USA and figure out what comes next. We did it, we made it, we circumnavigated the globe, and we are grateful.
