PYLADES MILLINIUM CRUISE
PART SEVEN
NEW YORK- KINVARA

2nd June
The crew of the German boat 'Pagan' observed the arrival of Pylades in New York. Perched at the bar overlooking 79th Street Basin they watched our attempts to pick up the mooring, chairs, tables and canopies of the same bar went flying in the short sharp thunderstorm which accompanied our endeavours. We like to feel that it was our arrival that caused that bit of a stir.
Our address for the first two weeks in June was S/Y Pylades, 79th Street Basin, Hudson River, New York, New York. The moorings were but $15 per night. The Hudson River rumbled past sometimes rendering us tide rode. The ferries and other passing craft sent wee rollers in our direction. But with Riverside Park to one side and New Jersey to the other one could hardly be in better location for exploring the city. The dinghy dock was about a four-minute ride away. Nobody locked their dinghies.

3rd June
Great big NY breakfast in a Greek restaurant on Broadway, just two blocks from the landing. We do a fast walk down Broadway to Times Square, the architecture overwhelms, glimpses down the vast canyons at the Empire State Building, the Chrysler, the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre. Across 42nd,back Seventh Avenue, through Central Park awash with joggers, dog walkers and their walking dogs, skaters, cyclists and black nannies minding white children. The first taste was brilliant; the city was exceptionally clean, the people against all expectations unfailingly helpful and polite. We meet Doug a resident in the marina, hands us a copy of NY Times, a welcome token, he says. The city is quite, as horn blowing is now an offence, the atmosphere was relaxed as cities go, all in all a great place to be.
Back to the Basin and a blast of enthusiasm, good humour, and great company arrives from the Old Sod, Brenda Linnane. Later that evening a gang of four arrive out from the marina to welcome us and chat, a couple from a Canadian yacht join us for a while so the wife can moan and whinge just about everything, they leave, we yap further and crash out. This is the city where we were told, no one talks to you and one should never make eye contact.!!!

5th June
Many days and many miles of museums, art galleries, the Guggenheim of course. The theatre of the streets, everywhere little free concerts, unexpected squares with exquisite waterfalls. Then huge architectural masterpieces of jaw dropping proportion the Rockerfeller Centre. (with dubious quotations by Rockerfeller Jr etched in stone). Dinner in Chinatown, drinks in the Village, dashing about in the subway. Shopping, well the shopping, hundreds of miles of shopping, who buys all that stuff? We buy a few mugs, pressie for Kay's mammy and a tee shirt, Wall Street is pleased. Food is not necessarily cheap but the quantities are massive, one sandwich is more than enough for two normal people, although we note NY people are slimmer than otherwise observed in the US to date. The displays of food in the deli's, foodbars and stores is amazing in this the land of plenty. Pan handling is almost unseen since the zero tolerance of the NYPD, so it appears some days that maybe no poverty exists, but on the wet days out of the parks and lay-bys to shelter under the bridges emerge the broken, the abandoned, the derelict, the people of poverty.

6th June
Rain, heavy dark and cold pours down in sheets for 15hours, we wake, peer out the hatches, back to bed. A fine evening meal and much vino finishes a very welcome rest day

10th June
Original plans had been to continue and cruise up the Long Island Sound after NY to Newport R.I. but on reading the pilots the distinct impression was gained that this area was an extensive and expensive yachting suburbia with swill like waters. Best we thought to enjoy the big city and then head for the remote Azores. However, one could not leave without a sail around Manhattan and down the East River. This we did, timing our tides carefully we headed back down around the Battery, under Brooklyn Bridge, the Four Stacks, past Roosevelt Island, the whole astonishing panorama of this vertical city unfolding. On through Hell Gate, past Rikers Island a vast barbed wire encrusted penitentiary. Past the runways of La Guardia Airport and finally anchoring at Throgs Neck Bridge. A magnificent sunset, wine and BBQ while we discuss and contemplate existence.
Next morning at 5.30 in the light of a beautiful dawn we reverse the trip, returning to our moorings at 79th St.

12th June
Brenda's final day in NY, breakfast again on Broadway, its great when one can slink in and say " the usual". Kay and Ferg head for the chandlery, the last thing expected or intended was to have a member of staff in tears on leaving, but this is precisely what happened as he recalled his mother's old home in Ireland and her last sail with him. Four large diesel containers are bought; these to increase motoring range on the trip to the Azores in case we run into the famous high that sits over it. Walking back with the cans we get comments like, " hey you guys not gonna burn down our city ?" Passing a fire station many blocks from 79th, a fireman says he hopes the Fire Chief doesn't see us with the cans, we explain. He says " you from the grey steel boat moored at 79th St Basin. Saw the flag, heard the accent put two and two together. All the firemen now gather for a chat, "you want we can free fill the cans for you, we're coming down with diesel here. We thank profusely but explain that then we could not carry them and saunter off to find Brenda in 'McAleers' for a pint before she flies back across the Atlantic.

16th June
Bunker up with water and 70gals of diesel; post back our customs forms and visas. Yacht 'Morning Star' from Canada prepares reams of statistical data for us on the route, great circle route planning and statistical weather analysis, we determine to sail the projected great circle route, but events will alter that plan. Pylades slides off down river, past the Statue of Liberty waves, we wave, we're off.. Turning to the east after exiting the great harbour a SW wind is picked up and at hull speed we tear off into the gathering gloom. The transition from bustling streets, cars, people, and that very busy harbour to solitude never ceases to amaze for within a few hours all sea traffic and America is over the horizon and we are alone on the North Atlantic. With apprehension, a waypoint to the Azores 2100c miles east is set.

17th June
First days run at 12.00 noon 150 miles, not bad if that can be kept up, its not, next day its 124nm. The water is now back to blue clean colour, first time we have observed swimmable water since entering US but now it's a bit lumpy. Still well within soundings, water only 100ft, it takes us three days to get into deep water where we feel a little happier. Plans to sail the great circle route, which would take us up to 42deg north, are altered with predictions of storm centres at 46N with gales down to 40N. Also there are reports of icebergs with attendant ice fields and fog down to almost 42N. Remembering a certain ship called the Titanic which lies quietly in that region Pylades sidles off south to 39N where its hoped to run a rhumb line route to Flores.

21st June
The Gulf Stream to which in Europe we owe so much for our temperate climate is a very mixed blessing when crossing back the Atlantic. To ride it can give an additional 2 to 3 knots but it is bumpy and unpredictable. If per chance a fresh to strong wind should turn against you whilst riding this sixty-mile wide conurbation, well the stories of lost boats abound. Tales of 25ft high square waves, the dangers of sea anchors dragging boats under, and counter current eddies at the edge, uncharted and unchartible, for like the stream itself the form and position are in constant flux. Best be off it we say, but even down at 39N we get bursts of favourable current bringing us up to 9.9knts and a counter current which holds us back by 3knts for a 24 hour period

23rd June
Dark and grey with three reefs in the main and half the genoa out roaring along rough seas, much holding on. Since Kay's fall in the blow off the USA more hand holds and a galley strap have been fitted to mitigate the chance of the same again, the hand now fully mended apart from a scar has taken six weeks to get back to full operation. Watches start at 21.00 and alternate every three hours until about 12.00 so we both try to get about nine hours broken sleep per 24hrs.The main meal is at 18.00 prepared by Kay in an often arcing galley with much ffffing and blinding, Fergus attempts to listen to Herb (an amateur weather forecaster dedicated to yachts crossing the pond) reception is generally very poor one can only pick up bits and pieces. Sunsets can be dramatic and scary, copper coloured with purple edges to ragged clouds bringing apprehension and the prospect of rough and busy nights on the deck. A rosy sunset, {much sought after} promises sounder sleeps and steadier sailing.
The wind in the mid latitude Atlantic is more unstable than the southern crossing, this means far more deckwork as the rig is jibed to suit the winds shifting from SW to NW and dead downwind running in the westerlies. Then an occasional day of clocking winds, so far however those winds that have come on the nose have thankfully been light.
Watchkeeping at night (one ship sighted in last nine days) can be a strange and melancholy time as Pylades roars on under the wheeling stars, the skippers mind wanders back over life so far, to cherished parents now at rest in the hills over looking Cork, to growing up in that most confidant of cities. To that great University of Life that was the farm and the people of Mourneabbey where I was privileged to have spent so many wonderful summers. The brothers and sister, relationships and friends past and present with all their riches and the children, ah! the children to look forward meeting them again on the western shores and chat, now that's what destination is all about.

29th June
Motoring all day, still no sign of other boats. For company we have a school of very playful dolphins and one turtle. Fishing line out each day but no fish.

1st July
Saturday morning 06.20, smudge of Flores is sighted through thick clouds. As always when land is spotted after a long voyage, the tone of the ship becomes chirpy and busy. A lot of tidying up and showering. The dark outline changes to fields and cliffs, to waves washing the shore to a small fishing boat and an exchange of salutes, to a harbour wall and the sighting of masts, to the sound of running chain as we drop the anchor. Waving to the crews of the other boats, we are ecstatic to have arrived.
In the little harbour at Lages we are met by Jacinto, the customs man, who conducts the business of the day from the front seat of his van. All forms filled in and signed, Jacinto buys us a drink in the nearby bar, he tells about his life, friends and the island of Flores. He spots the immigration van passing the pub and hurries us out onto the street chasing after the officials, we climb into the back of their van and fill in more forms. Over the next week we walked this heavenly island with its welcoming people, one even gets picked up on the road when not hitching. The people invite to join in their fiestas and generously wine and dine us.

7th July
Driven out of the harbour of Lages by easterly winds and rising sea, which threatened our boats and indeed snaps the anchor rodes of two. Both will return in quieter conditions and attempt to recover their ground tackle. We run for shelter to the roadstead of Faja Grande on the normally exposed western side of the island, this now shelters us from any wind with an easterly component. The backdrop is spectacular; waterfalls tumble hundreds of feet down into crystal pools, which are surrounded by blue hydrangea bushes in full bloom. Here we wash and swim. Great cliff walks abound. The local village is fabulous and untouched by tourism. A man with a pike over his shoulder leads a pair of cows slowly through the village. The tinkling of the cowbells and the copious background of bird song are the only sounds.
In the evenings we sit around the bar and swap tales with sailors, A young French couple talk of their Atlantic circuit which they are doing within the same time scale as ourselves, only they happened to include, the Antarctic and Terra del Fuego, and talk of the warmth of the Chilean people. Others talk of the Caribbean twenty years ago, St. Helena, South Africa, and New Zealand. Rich talk says Pylades. We return in quieter conditions to Lages to finish our wall painting. While sitting in the bar that evening the doorway fills with three young men who recognise one of the company of sailors. Come join us for a drink he calls, "no we must push on, a party in the Faeroe Islands in a few weeks we must be there," they " only 1800 miles we should make it." Enquiring from us where they might get good shelter on the West Coast of Ireland, should it be required, the Faeroes Gods and their ketch disappear into the night on a rendezvous with Goddesses to the north, no doubt.

13th July
After a few more restless and rough nights in the harbour at Lages exposed to the Northeast winds and a crunching encounter with an American boat which snapped one of its anchor lines and swung into us, we leave for Horta. Twenty miles out the Northeast wind freshens further and veers to the east, the expected 132 mile run turns into a 176 mile punishing beat. Pylades copes brilliantly but the crew not so well. We plunge through each wave, and crash down into the trough beyond, the noise is awesome, sleep scarce. Water continuously cascades over the deck. Those sailors who beat around the world into the prevailing wind are surely insane. The races off the very welcome coast of Fayal give us a final thrashing, then we slide into the famous Horta.
All reading of Atlantic Ocean sailing refers to this great crossroads of the sailing routes. Tied up are boats from, the USA, UK, Poland, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Norway, Holland, France, New Zealand, and now us, Ireland. After clearing in we dock and retire to Peter Sports Café, the sailors bar where the talk in all languages is of, rigs, ships, and passages over or beginning. All boats and sailors present have crossed oceans and its tells, there are no boastful sailors here. All have respect for the great element and celebrate their safe passage, we do likewise and sleep very well.
In Horta we work on the boat every day for about six hours, then swan about the lovely town with is friendly people and drink its very cheap drink. The work on the boat, consists of replacing and turning running rigging, cleaning out tanks, changing engine and gear oil, scraping and touching up rust, and generally preparing the boat for what might be its roughest passage, that to the North, the land of the fast moving depression. Every where one looked busy sailors were up masts, and lugging gear.
Another fascinating side of Horta are the wall paintings, the tradition has grown that to plead a safe passage with the Gods, the name of the ship should be painted on the breakwater walls. This we do as hundreds have done before, many of these are works of art. It's the best gallery in the world certainly where sailors are concerned. Several famous ships are mentioned here and melancholy too. From the pleading words of Coustou to maintain the sanctity of the ocean, to a faded graphic of the 'Marquis' under which has been added at a later time a sad short eulogy to its loss at sea with nineteen crew.
One day we got a taxi to the far end of the island and did a little walk about, we had intended to climb Pico (not permitted without a guide, they say, no way Hosea!,) then we wanted to walk around the rim of the volcano in Fayal 'Not permit ! crater rim has fallen in and all is very dangerous". Our walkabout was tame but very pleasant, we walked to where a large mass had in 1957 with much eruption emerged from the seabed and had joined itself to the western tip of the Island. This activity buried the main lighthouse and damaged many buildings in the island. Real estate would be real cheap out that part.

25th July
This was the day we had tentatively planned to leave, most of the stores, water and fuel were aboard we were nearly ready to go. However, the forecasts were dismal, the Azores high had split in half and chains of depressions and gale systems were charging through, rain, black clouds and lots of wind were about. A vote was taken tween the skipper and crew and the overwhelming choice was that we continue drinking and socialising. We won't see drink at this price again was one excuse!!. On the 29th the high rejoined and it looked like the lows would now track NE. We were out of excuses; we would leave at dawn.

30th July
A fine day, a light wind from the Northwest, much waving from our many new found friends, signal horns blow, Pylades is at sea again. Motor-sailing most of the day, before dark the engine is off and we make NNE with a light breeze at six knots. The precious islands save for the light of Graciosa are consumed by the surging night. Over the next six days the fickle winds come and go allowing us to sail for periods, then engine and motor sail again. The Azores high intensifies and follows.

3rd August
The nights are clear, a scimitar moon sits on our tail and sends a shimmering yellow light down our wake, the clear ocean is infested with sea sprites with their flashing lights, silkies whisper soft broken words from the deep, the voices of the countless lost sailors. When the waves come water nymphs career and tumble down their faces. The canopy of stars wheels slowly through the broken darkness. Many visits by the ever welcome, leaping and darting dolphins.
With the ocean in such a benign mood we reflect on the lost sailors who whisper to us. The ocean itself can be more than a challenge, we think of the time when ships crossed in mid winter with both the Atlantic itself and the Atlantic war raging, when U-boats hunted and thousands of tons of shipping with hapless crew slid into the abbess, mad dreams of a great Reich haunted Europe!!. We celebrate these better times when one is free to roam the ocean and give thanks to those who enabled that to be so.

7th August
Motor sailing with a very light wind and calm sea. A large black creature emerges from the deep. The whale blows a fine jet of spray. It lifts it head and stares at us with a baleful eye. Its square head and small dorsal identifies it as a sperm whale, about fifty foot plus. We gaze in awe and wonderment at this great creature from another world.
250 miles out, a trawler appears over the horizon and closes us, sighting the name 'Draiocht na Mara', we call over the VHF, a very west cork accent answers. He asks where we are headed, bound for a few pints in the Aran Islands is our reply, that sounds good to me he says. We exchange further salutations and proceed on our separate paths.

8th August
With the crossing of latitude 51deg north Pylades enters a damp and windy fridge. Thermal underwear and woolly hats are broken out. The barometer starts to slide. As many sailors have remarked before, it would be a kind thing if the gods could organise a more even distribution of the wind. For when one has little wind and wishes for some more an over abundance is often supplied, and so it was. A fresh to strong southerly airflow force five to six was predicted. This changed to predictions of force six to seven with gusts, then gale warnings throughout.
By the afternoon it's blowing very hard. Much reefing of the main before its finally stowed, the headsail is reduced on an ongoing basis. The moan of the rigging turns to a scream, rest is very difficult, the option of hoving-to was considered, but with less than a hundred miles to go we decide to press on.

9th August
Waves are now of character building proportions, with driving rain, visibility very poor, and shouting required to communicate. Pylades approaches the north sound of the Arans at hull speed and surfing, she is beginning to lay over, the decks are awash, we are scared. Rock Island flashes its signal light cutting swaths through the blinding rain. Kay below at the radar and GPS plotting positions and calling distance off on a continuous basis, the self steering gear plays a blinder. Holding a fixed distance off of half a mile we sweep around the rock. Kay hears the skipper exclaim in a rather optimistic note, we've pulled it off! We are in the lee of the Arans, the wind still screams but the sea is gone. We gingerly pick our way to the harbour at Kilronan. Reattaching our anchor we drop our hook in the sheltered water. Its four in the morning, the dawn's faint first light is scratching at the night,we open a bottle of wine.
Awaking at two we greet a lovely afternoon. The Arans look magnificent, to the east our final destination, Galway Bay and the Burrin. Clearing in with the Gardai in Aran, 'Failte, you don't have to show passports and ships papers, sure aren't you one of us!. We drink some real pints, the first in fifteen months and sleep some more.

11th August
Sliding into New Quay we note strange objects on the shores of Aughinish to port side, Huge posters, 'Daragh is not the worst'. Where were you? You're teas gone cold!, Failte Abhaile ! Underneath are two people waving the Clare flag, it's Fergus and Margaret. To starboard at New Quay a crowed waving balloons and a sheet hanging down the front of the pier, Welcome home Sailors, Kay and Fergus, we laugh and cry and dock. Champagne, hugs, pints and much talk.

12th August
Galway Bay is dotted with hookers, leathbhaids, and gleoiteogs. With Justin and Trish on board we are steaming hard for Kinvarra and the Crinniu na mBad. We join the buzz, dozens of friends and the children arrive, so many hugs and welcomes, our heads spin. The tide ebbs, dusk falls 'Pylades' lies at rest against the pier, we look at its calm reflection in the still waters. The faint sound of fiddles in reels drifts from 'Connollys'.
Reflections pass by, Sarah and the old man in Aberdovey, the seas off the Scilly Isles when the wind did blow. The Channel du Four at night. The sighting of the great capes of the northern Spain. Sailing into Lisbon. The realisation that the hills that appeared through the fog in southern Spain were the Atlas Mountains of Africa. The Straits of Gibraltar and the rock itself. The sighting of the light at Porto Santo after an apprehensive passage. Cape Verde. Clearance to enter Barbados. The Caribbean experience, the land of the Rasta and 'No Woman No Cry'. The children on board. Volcano rims. Hove-to in coloured lightening. The Statue of Liberty in a gathering thunderstorm. Breakfast on Broadway. The smell of Flores. 12,500 miles of ocean. Rock Island light through rain and gale. The welcome home. The people, most of all the people, the characters, the craic. We hope we have learned, and return more humble and more helpful perhaps. What was the most frightening part, people ask, the thought that perhaps, we might not have built the boat, might not have sailed the Atlantic!!!

We give thanks to---------
Pylades and the Captains
Our love that held fast for fifteen months.
Joan, Kays mother for pushing her out the door.
Mary Q, sister, for managing finances while we sail
Siobhan, sister for minding the furniture of the dispossessed.
Vera , Eoin & Sarah, daughters and son for great humoured communications and gossip.
Brian, brother for the Middleton and the hat.
Fergus & Margaret, for organising a wedding, to make sure we got back.
Jay for a few thousand miles of assistance and the haircut.
Eddie for the web page; www.pylades.net
Peter and the boys from the Bracken Lass, for the lift, the launch and the laugh.
Dermot and his boys for a toilet door and other timber bits.
Bill for his help in sticking them in.
Ger. for the tricky welds
All the people who supplied bits for the boat that stayed together.
Brendan for the charts and Pilots Stateside.
Mike and Sue for charts Caribbean.
Email correspondents for gossip and encouragement.
Fellow sailors for craic and company.
All the other people, children, brothers sisters, aunts uncles, nephews and nieces and friends who made a welcome most great and our return worthwhile.
Fin.
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