Trade winds & turquoise waters
15 APRIL 2026
By mid-February the mood shifted.
It was time to prepare for the Atlantic crossing. It was not dramatic. It was methodical. Lists were written. Systems checked. Weather forecasts watched closely. Weather routes discussed. Although we have done long passages before, the ritual of leaving never quite loses its edge.
The Atlantic crossing to the Caribbean is dictated not by romance but by weather. You go while the trade winds are still in your favour.
One of Steven’s sons joined us for the crossing. There is something deeply satisfying about sharing an ocean passage with the next generation - not as instruction, not as a lecture, but simply shoulder to shoulder on watch.
We prepared the boat carefully. Food for three weeks. Fresh water topped off. Diesel tanks full. Rig checked again, though it had already been checked twice. Offshore racers by background, we have always been intolerant of sloppy preparation. The sea does not reward optimism; it rewards competence.
We left the Canary Islands in mid-March and headed due south.
For three days we sailed downwind in relatively unsettled air, waiting to pick up the trades properly. The Atlantic is patient. You move into its systems gradually. Then, as forecast, the north-easterlies filled in. We hardened up slightly, hung a right, and set our course for the West Indies.
Wolfhound found her rhythm almost immediately.
There is a particular pleasure in a well-designed boat in consistent breeze. She leaned into the long, smooth Atlantic swell and simply went. The days slipped into that offshore cadence - four-hour watches, small adjustments to sail trim, shared meals, log entries, long horizons. Sunshine and what I can only describe as sparkly seas. Nothing dramatic. No broken gear. No squalls that demanded heroics.
Just nineteen days of steady, confident sailing.
And then we made landfall in Antigua.
Land after a crossing never quite feels real at first. The green looks impossibly vivid. The air smells different - sweeter, heavier. English Harbour appeared like a painting we had studied from afar and suddenly stepped into. We planned to stay for two months, and the timing placed us neatly into April’s Antigua Classic Week.
We were not there to race.
But sailors are drawn to other sailors the way migrating birds find one another. We managed to secure a berth stern-to in English Harbour where the regatta was being hosted, which meant that for a week Wolfhound sat quietly observing a parade of maritime history.
Steven’s son was invited to crew on the magnificent 212-foot threemasted gaff schooner Adix. At the other end of the spectrum, I secured a spot aboard one of the smallest vessels in the fleet - the 36-foot Carriacou sloop Sweetheart.
The scale could not have been more different.
Adix with her towering spars and acres of canvas; Sweetheart low, lean and alive in your hands. Steven, entirely content, stayed aboard Wolfhound and watched the feverish choreography from her deck.
Each afternoon Sam and I returned tired, salt-streaked and sunburned. We compared bruises and stories. Near misses. A parted line. A perfectly judged tack. The small triumphs that only make sense to sailors. At the end of the regatta both boats - the largest and one of the smallest - found themselves on the podium. It felt oddly fitting.
As happens in life Sam flew away to join another vessel as paid crew.
Antigua has a way of drawing you in, so we stayed on.
Once the regatta ended, the island’s pace softened. It was time for Steven to think about painting again. Sailing is not the only rhythm that governs our life afloat. Creativity demands its own discipline.
Through the regatta we had met Nancy Nicholson - a stalwart of the Antiguan community and a wonderfully talented potter. She offered Steven space to paint at her home and studio in Falmouth Harbour. It was an act of generosity that still humbles me.
We moved Wolfhound around the corner and anchored off Falmouth. Each morning we loaded easel, canvases and paints into the dinghy. I would run him ashore with a packed lunch and more water than seemed necessary. The heat in Antigua has weight. It presses.
Nancy’s studio space was undercover but open to the elements. That sounds romantic. It was not. Insects discovered fresh oil paint within seconds. Birds, apparently appreciative of a good vantage point, chose the top of the canvas as a perch. More than once Steven returned in the morning to find an unexpected collaboration of oil paint and bird droppings.
Six weeks later the painting was finished.
It felt earned.
By then May had arrived, and it was time to move north. The Bahamas called.
We arrived in Georgetown at the southern end of the Exuma chain at what is arguably the best possible moment - just before the first of June. By that date, most US-flagged boats must leave the hurricane belt or risk voiding their insurance. The mass departure creates an extraordinary silence.
We had the place almost entirely to ourselves.
This was our first time sailing Wolfhound in serious coral country. Offshore passages are one discipline; shallow reef navigation is another entirely. The water in the Bahamas is so clear that it plays tricks on your depth perception. What looks safely distant can be alarmingly close.
The cuts between islands demand attention. Tidal flow can run hard. Charts are good but not infallible. One of us posted on the bow when necessary, polarised sunglasses permanently on.
There were a couple of gentle bumps on sandy bottom - the sort that bruise pride more than hull. A few moments where the margin felt thin. But gradually confidence built.
Wolfhound is a centreboard vessel, which gives us flexibility that many boats of her size do not have. With the board up she draws six feet; with it down, twelve and a half. We lower it when sailing to windward for performance, but in settled conditions it often remains up. That ability allowed us to tuck into coves and anchorages that crews on fixed-keel yachts would never contemplate.
Over the years we have grown used to the curious looks as we anchor in what appears improbably shallow water. There is quiet satisfaction in understanding your boat well enough to trust her limits.
The Exumas were weeks of turquoise water and pink sand beaches. Long swims off the stern. Anchorages so still that the reflection of Wolfhound in the water seemed more real than the boat herself.
When we reached the northern end of the chain, we turned north-west toward the Tongue of the Ocean.
The transition is dramatic.
One moment you are sailing over an indigo trench more than six thousand feet deep. The next, you cross an invisible edge and find yourself in fifteen feet of luminous turquoise. The margin between the two is a near-vertical wall - a geological statement of intent.
We crossed onto the Great Bahama Bank.
The bank stretches vast and shallow, the water a uniform fifteen feet deep over white sand. It is a strange and magical experience to sail there. The bottom looks close enough to touch, yet you are entirely out of sight of land. The horizon blurs into sky, and perspective shifts.
We noted the sea temperature with disbelief - thirty-one degrees Celsius. It felt like sailing across a warm bath.
That night the stars felt impossibly close. With the centreboard up and a steady breeze behind us, Wolfhound moved easily across the smooth, pale water. No swell. No drama. Just quiet progress under a sky so full of light it hardly seemed credible.
These are the moments that do not photograph well.
There is no towering wave, no storm-torn sail, no heroic narrative. Just two people on a well-found boat, crossing shallow water in the dark, deeply aware of how fortunate they are - and equally aware that such ease comes from years of preparation and experience.
Cruising, we have learned, is rarely about spectacle.
It is about attention.
About knowing when to go and when to wait.
About understanding your vessel intimately.
About accepting that beauty and responsibility sit side by side.
April was not dramatic.
It was better than that.
It was trade winds, old schooners, new friendships, paint spattered by birds, coral heads watched carefully from the bow, and a warm, star-lit bank stretching beyond sight.
It was the quiet continuation of a life we had worked very hard to build.