Atlantic Crossing — 1st Place in Multihull Class B
- anickebrandt-kjels
- May 25
- 8 min read
Voyage Summary - Cape Verde to Grenada
Distance Covered: 2,700 nautical miles
Engine Hours: 0
Duration at Sea: 15 days
We weren’t racing. At least, that’s what we told ourselves at the start.
Ninety-five boats left Cape Verde that morning, their sails, bright coloured and white against the blue Atlantic. We lingered near the back, wanting space, peace, and time to ease into the rhythm of ocean life. Before the start we had agreed not to use our engines unless absolutely necessary, this was a sailing rally (...regatta...) But as the miles slipped by, and the rumble of other boats engines faded into the deep, our instincts sharpened. We were sailors. And maybe, just maybe, we were racing after all.
As we sailed out from Cape Verde, we left behind the route of the Portuguese explorers—guided by Prince Henry the Navigator (Henrik Sjøfareren)—who charted a course south along the West African coast, opening sea routes to Africa and, eventually, India. Instead, we followed the path of the Spanish, including Columbus, who, under Queen Isabella’s flag, turned west in search of a passage to the Indies and instead encountered the New World. Centuries later, we traced their ocean crossings—not for conquest, but for the joy of sailing, the pull of the horizon, and the promise of land beyond the waves.
A few days into the crossing, a message appeared into the ARC+ WhatsApp group—unsettling, stark, unforgettable.
15°44.328N 02°943.814W Reporting a derelict, double-ended fiberglass fishing vessel with at least one decaying body onboard. Approx. 25 feet. White hull. Photo below. Please alert authorities and issue a sécurité. We are resuming our course.— SV ZIA
A ghost ship, drifting alone in the Atlantic. The crew had approached what looked like a small fishing boat. But as they drew near, the sour stench of decay confirmed what the eye soon could not deny: a lifeless body aboard a vessel abandoned to the sea.
The report sent a chill through the ARC+ fleet. It was a sobering reminder of the ocean’s scale—and its indifference. Out here, far from rescue or refuge, things can go terribly wrong. For many of us reading the message, it was a jarring reality check.
But let’s rewind a few days—to the beginning of the rally.
Setting sail
From the start, conditions were calm. Too calm. We were warned about a potential windless "dead zone" early in the rally, so we planned to skirt down to one of the nearby islands and pick up the breeze funnelling around it. That strategy paid off, and soon we were sailing in good wind, heading southwest.
We never saw the whale they warned us about in the briefing—which, honestly, was a relief. As majestic as whales are, the idea of hitting one at sea is terrifying.
The early days passed slowly and sweetly. We played Catan, fished (and caught a yellowfin tuna!), and settled into routines. Fredrik introduced daily happy hour at 2 p.m., complete with carefully rationed bags of candy and soda—one for each day, divided with military precision. Seven people sharing snacks makes you understand why one sailor (Ewan) brought 5,000 chocolate bars for his circumnavigation.
After a few days of zigzagging along Predicwind's suggested weather routes, we gave up the constant tacking and committed to a downwind setup: mainsail to starboard, gennaker or jib to port, mainsail secured in place with a preventer. Trade winds pushed us steadily along.
Provisioning for a crossing is always a gamble. At the last minute, Kristian had hauled aboard a huge bunch of bananas, and entertained us daily with Minion impressions as he checked their ripeness. Some got eaten. Some burst dramatically in the rigging. Cabbage and carrots grew colourful, fuzzy moulds in strange places, but somehow coleslaw became a boat favourite. And Christoffer’s steak dinner? Legendary.
Halfway through the passage, the chat brought more grim news. A man had gone overboard from the yacht Ocean Breeze in the ARC fleet sailing directly from Las Palmas to St. Lucia. He was wearing a life-jacket with AIS, but neither he nor the signal was ever found. After a day of searching in worsening seas, the effort was called off.
A 30-year-old Swedish man was claimed by the sea. Our deepest condolences to his family and friends.
It shook us all. Man overboard is our worst fear—a fire at sea being the only other close contender. We reviewed our own safety gear and procedures, ran drills again, and spoke more openly about the unspoken: what it would feel like to lose one of our own, or to be the one drifting away in the dark. Alone.
Somewhere near 6°N, 36°W, we crossed an invisible landmark beneath us—the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
It’s easy to forget, sailing under an endless sky, that there’s a vast mountain range rising from the ocean floor beneath our keels. The Mid-Atlantic Ridge is the longest mountain chain on Earth, running from the Arctic to the Southern Ocean, splitting the Atlantic like a seam. Tectonic plates slowly drift apart here, and new oceanic crust is born from molten rock, inch by inch.
There’s no buoy, no marker, no visual sign that you're sailing over a planetary fault line. Just open water in every direction. But knowing it’s there—deep below—adds a strange sense of scale and quiet awe. Our tiny catamaran, riding the waves above this immense geological feature, felt even smaller, and the Atlantic even deeper.
Imagine what it might look like if the sea were drained: towering ridges, volcanic peaks, and valleys deeper than the Grand Canyon.
Then again, it’s good not to be alone out there. Most days, we could spot at least one other boat on our chart plotter, a reassuring reminder that we were part of something bigger. Emilie stayed in touch with the girls on SV Asja, and for nearly a week, we sailed close to Alana, a fellow Norwegian boat. We traded weather updates, course strategies, jokes, and Myrto even helped someone with a 15-digit Starlink serial number over VHF to help another crew restore their internet.
As the days went by, we watched other boats slowly fall behind, break gear, or divert. But we kept going. Our sails held. Our systems worked. The only real casualty was a window hatch, torn off when the genoa sheet wrapped around the handle and ripped it off like a twig.
It wasn’t supposed to be a race—but suddenly, it felt like one. With a few boats dropping out, we realized we were now among the front-runners in our class. The “rally” had turned into a quiet, unofficial race. And we were going all in.
The nights out there were unforgettable—stars stretching from sea level to zenith, bio-luminescence glowing behind the transom, and the steady creak of sailcloth in the dark. These were the moments that made all the discomforts worth it.
But not everything was smooth. Tensions rose. I found myself retreating to my cabin more often, not trusting my face to hide how I was really feeling. Later, Espen shared that he’d been struggling too. It was a tough stretch for both of us—a lesson in the complexities of crew dynamics on a long passage.
Out of curiosity, we asked the kids if they had picked up on any tension. True to form, they were happily oblivious. For them, it had all just been another week at sea.
That experience is what prompted us to sit down and write the advice you'll find below.
Thinking of Taking on Crew? Read This First.
Sailing across an ocean with a good crew can be magical. But bring the wrong person, and it can quickly become stressful—or even dangerous. After crossing the Atlantic with a mixed crew, we’ve learned a few things the hard way. If you’re planning a long passage and thinking about bringing extra crew aboard, here’s what we wish we’d known:
Do you actually need more crew?
Before anything else, ask yourself this: Do I really need more people on board? Fewer crew means fewer personalities to manage, less provisioning, more space, and fewer chances for conflict. If your boat is manageable with a small team, or if you're confident with your current crew, you might be better off keeping it simple. 7 persons onboard was an overkill.
If you can, sail with people you already know and trust.
Nothing beats familiarity when you’re in close quarters for weeks on end. If you’re looking for crew, start with friends, family, or sailors you've already spent time with offshore. Ocean crossings are intense—you’ll want people you know you can laugh, problem-solve, and share night watches with.
We had both the good experience of sailing with someone we knew and the more challenging of taking on someone we did not know.
Vet strangers like you’re hiring for a job—because you are.
Sometimes you have to bring someone new on board. If so, don’t just take their word for it. Ask for sailing references. Get specific about their offshore experience. Try to spend time with them before committing—go for a day sail or even a weekend trip if you can.
Get clear about expectations—on both sides.
What are they bringing to the table? Cooking? Sailing experience? Childcare? What do they expect from you in return? Are they paying? Learning? Helping?
Spell out:
Watch duties and decision-making responsibility
Comfort with night sailing and strong winds
Contribution to chores, meals, and costs
Misaligned expectations are one of the fastest ways to ruin a good trip.
Don’t assume skill—ask about specifics.
Someone saying “I’ve sailed a lot” doesn’t mean they’re ready for offshore. Ask:
Are you comfortable doing solo night watches?
Can you reef or change sails if conditions shift?
What’s the heaviest weather you’ve been in?
If they’re vague or dodge questions, that’s a red flag.
Talk openly about fear, risk, and comfort zones.
Some people thrive on adrenaline. Others panic if the boat heels more than 10°. Make sure your risk tolerances match—especially when it comes to heavy weather, sail plans, and nighttime conditions. We had multiple discussions and crew not wanting to take out what we considered the appropriate amount of sail.
Being 500 miles from land is the worst time to discover someone is terrified of squalls.
Ask about seasickness—and believe the answer.
Even experienced sailors get seasick. Someone being out of commission for multiple days affects everyone else’s workload and morale. If they’ve never sailed offshore before, make sure they understand what might be coming—and that it’s okay to be honest about it.
Talk through the day-to-day life onboard.
Space is tight. Water and power are limited. You might be sharing a cabin or rotating bunks. Who cooks? Who cleans? What’s the toilet situation?
Lay it all out before you leave the dock. Everyone’s definition of “normal” is different.
Remember: compatibility matters more than experience.
Skill can be learned. Personality clashes at sea? Harder to fix. If your gut says someone isn’t the right fit, trust it. A crossing is a long way to be stuck with someone who’s not pulling their weight—or worse, bringing everyone down.
Final Thought: 3000 Miles is a Long Way
Taking on crew isn’t just about filling bunks. It’s about inviting someone into your floating home, your safety net, and your rhythm. Do the homework, set expectations clearly, and trust your instincts. A good crew makes a hard trip easier. The wrong one makes everything harder.
We learned a lot this crossing—not just about wind and waves, but about people and ourselves too. Hopefully this helps someone else make better choices than we did.
"With the crew heading home and the boat finally quiet again, we carried our lessons forward and set out to enjoy the rest of the journey—just the five of us.
Arrival
After 15 days, land was finally in sight. Grenada.
The final approach was painfully slow—the wind had all but disappeared—but we weren’t about to turn on the engines now. We had sailed every mile. We could wait.
As the green hills of Grenada rose from the horizon, we realized just how brown and arid our world had been since leaving Europe. This was something new. Something vibrant.
We had crossed an ocean. Together.
Not only had we crossed the Atlantic ocean, but we won our class in the ARC+ rally. Our fresh new NorthSail sails was absolutely superb. Honour to Kristian who thought us how to sail faster and all your help from the start of our journey, this victory is yours.
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