In the days leading up to departure from Tenerife, the catamaran becomes a hive of concentrated, almost ritual preparation. Crew members move between the island’s mercados and the marina’s provisioning docks, gathering crates of Canary bananas, papayas, potatoes, onions, and the sturdy produce that survives weeks at sea. Dry stores—rice, lentils, pasta, canned goods—are loaded in measured quantities. Water tanks are topped to maximum capacity, fuel levels double-checked, jerrycans secured, safety gear laid out on the trampolines for inspection: lifejackets, tethers, EPIRB, flares, grab-bag, medical kit. The skipper and first mate walk the decks in practiced silence, adjusting a lashing here, assessing rig tension there, ensuring that nothing is left to chance before casting off into the immensity of the Atlantic.

Once the lines are slipped and Tenerife’s volcanic slopes disappear astern, the rhythms of land fade almost instantly. The night-watch system—2.5-hour rotations shared evenly across the crew—sets the cadence of life at sea. While most sleep in short, restorative bursts, one sailor stands clipped at the helm, eyes adjusting to the moonlit swells, tending instruments glowing amber in the cockpit, listening to the sails breathe with the steady northeast trades. The first mate often appears with a quiet suggestion or a shared mug of tea before drifting back below, leaving only the hiss of water under the bows.

Daylight brings a gentler rhythm. Watch changes roll into breakfast: fresh fruit while it lasts, then oatmeal, yogurt, pancakes, or eggs depending on the sea state and the creativity of the day’s galley team. Cooking duties rotate, becoming both a responsibility and a communal offering to the boat’s floating micro-society. The smell of coffee mixes with warm trade-wind air as conversations begin anew—about the night’s stars, the wind shifts, the miles run.

The days settle into their own purposeful simplicity: watches, naps, reading, trimming sails, checking chafe points, and the quiet science of keeping a boat balanced across thousands of blue miles. The skipper guides the crew through sail evolutions—reef early, shake out cautiously, adjust to the rhythm of the trades—and offer informal lessons in seamanship: how to anticipate a squall line, how to feel a subtle wind shift without looking at the instruments, how to read the ocean’s long, low pulse toward the Caribbean basin.

Most days unfold under full sail, the catamaran gliding west with a confident, steady gait. Engines are used sparingly: to charge batteries, to nudge out of a windless patch. Lunch is light and easy—wraps, couscous bowls, salads, rice dishes—served in the shade of the cockpit. Afternoons stretch out in a soft lull: some nap in their bunks, some journal or read, some sit forward on the nets watching flying fish scatter like silver sparks across the surface. Often dolphins join the bows for minutes or miles, stitching their presence into the memory of the crossing.

Evenings gather the entire crew. Dinners are warm and comforting—pastas, stews, curries—followed by shared stories, small rituals, and the skipper’s nightly briefing on conditions and the next rotations. When darkness settles fully, and with no land light for thousands of miles, the sky becomes almost impossibly rich. Stars spill across the dome of night, satellites track quietly overhead, and the wake glows with constellations of phosphorescence. Each night watch becomes its own world—quiet, steady, humbling.

As the days pass, the routines grow familiar yet never repetitive. The ocean shifts in tone and temperament. Squalls come and go—dark smudges on the horizon that deliver quick bursts of rain, wind, and exhilaration. Flying fish appear on deck each morning, tiny reminders that the boat is truly moving through wild, unbounded space.

Then, one dawn, the horizon reveals the faint outline of land—Martinique rising from the sea in soft blues and greens. As the catamaran approaches Le Marin, the familiar smell of earth drifts across the water, and the lush, mountainous silhouette sharpens with each passing mile. Entering the calm of the bay feels almost surreal after the wild expanse of the Atlantic. Lines are secured, feet touch the dock, and the crew stands together—exhilarated, sun-warmed, and deeply fulfilled.

More than two weeks after leaving the shadows of Teide behind, the boat and its sailors have crossed an ocean, carried by trade winds, teamwork, and the quiet magic that only a long passage can create.