Las Palmas, Canary Islands to Mindelo Sao Vincente, Cape Verde

• 943 nautical miles,

• 1.15 engine hours

• 3. Place in our class

We have just passed the starting line in Las Palmas, tacking around the yellow buoy on the starboard side and started our rally. It's been clearly stated several times its not a race its a rally, but there were a lot of boats ready for a race.

Leaving Las Palmas

Hey! I am screaming to a small Danish catamaran, the boat is closing in on us fast. Coming directly towards our starboard side. Hey! I scream again. Its only a few meters between us and them. And behind us the Norwegian boat Atlas is closing in. The captain on the small catamaran seems to have lost control of his vessel.  The Danish boat turns 360 degrees. Turn on the engine, we scream to ourselves and to Atlas. We motor forward and Atlas is backing away with the engines in full throttle as the Danish boat pass between us. That was far too close. 

Thinking of this after the fact, our whole journey would have stopped here if we had collided, and it was just a matter of a few meters.

Rounding the yellow bouy at the start.

After the near collision, the wind completely died, leaving us adrift. Kristian and Maren took the opportunity to go for a swim, while Espen and I  realised all the other boats had pulled ahead—we were now at the back of the pack. With no choice but to follow suit, we started the engine. After an hour and fifteen minutes, we finally found some wind, and from that point on, we relied solely on sail power until we crossed the finish line in São Vicente.

Espen writes in the captain`s logbook:

1.5 m swell 20-23 knots of wind. Sailing jib and main, average 7 knots, crew is happy and moral is high.

We decided not to change the sail setup for the coming days, even though we were sailing farther east than the other boats—here the wind was stronger but the swell more pronounced. Meanwhile, Emilie was constantly unwell, and on this first leg, we all had to work on our mindset. Kristian, as steady as ever at the helm, managed the boat with remarkable skill. He carried a regatta mindset—eager to go fast with full sails—and naturally, Kristian took charge given his vast experience. Yet, over time, we realized that we needed to contribute more actively to learn and build our own confidence.

Kristian at the helm

Just when we felt almost isolated on the vast blue, Espen's excited shout of "Dolphins!" broke the calm. In an instant, our solitary journey transformed into a magical encounter: hundreds of dolphins appeared, their sleek bodies leaping and frolicking around the boat. They danced along the wake, their joyful play creating ripples of light on the water, and for about half an hour, all our challenges were forgotten in the wonder of nature’s performance.

Dolphins

On the third night, the wind builds to 30 knots, and the swells grow significantly. I can feel the tension between Maren and me during our joint watch. I’m out of my comfort zone—unused to such strong winds, so much sail area, and this kind of speed. I’m more of a comfort cruiser. But this is great training for me.

At one point, I wake Kristian. We’ve rigged preventers on both the main and the jib, setting up a butterfly configuration. During the day, he had warned about the risks of broaching, and I wanted to double-check my understanding. It turns out I had misunderstood, and he patiently walks me through the process, explaining how he would handle things if anything went wrong. Kristian always takes the time to teach, and the kids still speak fondly of everything they’ve learned from him—just as Espen and I do. I never feel afraid.

Maren, however, seems uneasy. She appears uncomfortable being on watch alone with the kids and me, and being only two on watch unsettles her. She suggests having a third person sleep outside as a backup. In hardcore regattas, that might be necessary, and we agree that if conditions worsen, we can add another sleeping watch. But knowing that most boats sail with just one person on watch—and that many (not all) even read or listen to podcasts during their shift—it feels like overkill. Still, with enough crew aboard, we prioritize making sure everyone feels safe.

The boat surges forward, riding the swells like a dolphin. Each wave picks us up and hurls us forward, the hull humming with energy as we accelerate down the face. The air is thick with salt spray, the wind whipping through the rigging, and the unmistakable frapping noise echoes through the deck as we catch each wave just right.

Espen is on watch, growing more eager by the minute. I can see it in the way he leans into the helm, his hands tightening on the wheel, his eyes locked ahead. With every swell, the boat finds its rhythm, gaining speed, pushing harder. The numbers on the instruments tick upward. Faster.

Kristian turns to Espen, grinning. “How fast was that?”

Espen’s face is pure exhilaration, his excitement barely contained. “Twenty point three!” he shouts. “New speed record!”

The others cheer, but my stomach tightens. To them, this is thrilling—pure joy in the dance of wind and water. But to me, we’re going too fast. The power beneath us feels immense, barely controlled. I grip something solid, steadying myself, caught between awe and unease. I am happy to say we have not broken the record since.

On the crossing to Las Palmas, I had pre-prepared meals that we could simply thaw and heat up. But with limited freezer space on this passage, we had to rethink our approach. Instead, we took turns—each crew member responsible for cooking and washing up on their assigned day.

Fish! Kristian had been calling for fish every day since we left Las Palmas, his hopes high looking out and nudging the line every so often. When he finally reels one in—a stunning blue and yellow mahi-mahi—his excitement is contagious. He holds it up triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear.

Mahi Mahi

Maren wastes no time, turning the fresh catch into a delicious ceviche, the bright citrus bringing the flavors of the fish to life. We take a fork each and wolf it down.

Twice daily, we contribute to citizen science by collecting water samples in collaboration with SeaLabs. Using a state-of-the-art probe, we measure a suite of parameters—electrical conductivity (EC), pH, total dissolved solids (TDS), temperature, oxidation-reduction potential (ORP), specific gravity, and salinity—and compile them into a shared dataset.

Monitoring pH helps us track ocean acidification: as the ocean absorbs excess carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, the water becomes more acidic. EC measurements enable marine biologists to detect sudden influxes of freshwater from rivers or melting ice, which can alter local marine habitats. TDS levels, which influence the density of seawater, affect the osmoregulation processes of marine organisms and can, in turn, impact ocean currents.

Temperature is a critical parameter; even slight changes can affect the behavior, reproduction, and distribution of marine life, influencing entire ecosystems, ocean currents, and weather patterns. ORP provides insights into water quality by indicating the presence of contaminants and the overall ability of the water to support life. Specific gravity offers valuable clues about both salinity and temperature, with any fluctuations potentially impacting the buoyancy of marine organisms. Finally, salinity itself plays a key role in shaping ocean currents, layering, and mixing, with many species finely tuned to specific salinity ranges.

The ocean holds the key to understanding climate change and sustaining a healthy planet. Despite its crucial role in mitigating climate impacts, our marine environments remain largely understudied. It’s imperative that the scientific community and policymakers receive more data to protect and preserve this vital resource.

There’s something truly magical about life at sea. Every evening, we’re gifted breathtaking sunsets, the sky painted in shades of gold, crimson, and pink. As darkness falls, the stars emerge—brilliant and endless—while the bright planets stand out like beacons.

Looking back over the stern, the boat leaves a shimmering trail of bioluminescence, tiny glowing creatures swirling in our wake like scattered stardust on the water. The only sounds are the wind and the waves and the boat making its way through the water.

The best watch of all is the morning. It begins under a vast canopy of stars. Slowly, the horizon softens, the first hints of dawn creeping in. The night’s tension—the heightened awareness that comes with sailing in darkness—melts away with the promise of daylight. And as the sun finally rises, casting its golden light over the waves, we are ready to embrace a new day at sea.

After five days at sea, land finally comes into view. Jagged peaks rise dramatically from the horizon with rugged silhouettes. As we draw closer, the unmistakable volcanic ridges of São Vicente take shape, a striking contrast against the deep blue of the Atlantic.

Mindelo welcomes us with its colorful waterfront, a blend of colonial charm and vibrant island life. The pastel-hued buildings line the shore, their facades weathered by salty winds, while fishing boats bob in the harbor alongside sleek yachts.

We cross the finish line, sails easing, hearts full. We have arrived. We are docked.