The days leading up to departure from Marigot, Saint-Martin are filled with a purposeful, almost ritualistic energy. Crew members move in and out of the markets and provisioning docks, gathering crates of fresh fruit, vegetables resilient enough to last the crossing, stacks of pasta and rice, tins of fish, sealed packs of butter, cheeses, long-life milk, and the essential treats—chocolate, nuts, dried fruit—to boost morale during long watches. Water tanks are topped to the brim, jerrycans checked, the engines inspected, safety gear counted and laid out: lifejackets, tethers, EPIRB, flares, grab-bag, offshore first-aid kit. The skipper and first mate walk the deck with their practiced eyes—adjusting a lashing here, checking rig tension there—quietly ensuring that nothing is left to chance.

When the lines are finally slipped and Marigot fades behind the stern, the rhythm of land dissolves. The routine of the ocean takes over almost immediately, structured around 2.5-hour night watches shared equally among all crew. The watch system defines the pulse of life on board. At night, the off-watch crew sleeps while one sailor stands at the helm, clipped in, scanning instruments and horizon, listening to the whisper of the sails or the hum of the engines when motoring through light airs. The orange glow of the cockpit instruments becomes familiar, as does the quiet presence of the first mate who checks in, sometimes sharing a warm mug or a few encouraging words before disappearing again into the cabin.

Daytime aboard the catamaran reveals an entirely different atmosphere—bright, warm, open to the sky. After the early-morning watch change, the crew gathers for breakfast: fresh fruit while it lasts, oatmeal, yogurt, eggs on calmer days. Someone takes charge of the galley each day, rotating responsibilities so that cooking becomes part of each person’s contribution to the crossing. The boat smells of coffee, sea air, and whatever the day’s chef has decided to prepare. Cooking at sea is a practical art—balancing pots, gripping counters with knees, timing meals between gusts or swells.

Throughout the day, life arranges itself around watch duties, naps, reading, small conversations, and maneuvering the sails. The skipper and first mate guide trimming sessions, reefing before squalls, shaking out reefs at first light breezes, and explaining weather patterns on the chartplotter. These interactions, often informal but deeply educational, become treasured moments: how to listen to the sails, how to feel the swell through the helm, how to catch the subtle shifts of wind long before instruments register them.

The catamaran spends most of its time under sail, gliding steadily, twin bows slicing the Atlantic. From time to time the engines hum to life—when the wind drops to nothing, when batteries need topping, or when the boat must keep pace with a fair-weather window. Even then, the focus remains on sailing: adjusting course to follow the best wind lanes, balancing speed with comfort, keeping the motion predictable and the nights manageable.

Lunch tends to be simple, eaten in the shade of the cockpit: wraps, salads, couscous, rice bowls, sandwiches. Afternoon brings a quiet lull—some crew nap to recover from the night watch; others take advantage of daylight to handle small tasks: checking chafe points, cleaning the galley, jotting notes in logbooks or personal journals. Dolphins sometimes appear, racing the bows, lifting moods effortlessly. When seas allow, someone might even cast a fishing line in hopes of catching mahi-mahi for dinner.

Evenings are the most communal moment of each day. Dinner is served before sunset so everyone can gather around the cockpit table—warm bowls of stew, pasta, or stir-fries, depending on sea state. The conversation often drifts between storytelling, technical sailing talk, reflections on the rhythm of the crossing, and the hypnotic repetition of waves and sky. As the sun dips, the skipper reviews the night’s weather and watch rotations, ensuring everyone knows their duties.

Then darkness returns, and life contracts into quietly tending the helm for their 2.5-hour night watches. The stars become constant companions, revealing more night after night as the boat sails farther from any trace of land. The hum of wind in the rigging, the phosphorescence in the wake, and the deliberate passing of time create a state of calm awareness.

Day after day, this pattern repeats—structured but never monotonous, shaped by the sea, the sky, and the shared commitment of the crew. Before long, the crossing feels less like a journey and more like a floating micro-world with its own rituals, camaraderie, and steady forward momentum.

And then, after 15-18 days depending on wind, a faint outline appears on the morning horizon: Faial, rising soft and blue from the Atlantic with the spectacular conde of Pico island behind it. As the catamaran enters Horta, the breakwater painted with sailors’ murals greets the crew like a rite of passage. Exhilarated and filled with a sense of accomplishment, everyone steps ashore with a new understanding of ocean time—and of themselves.