From Santa Helena to Brasil

Even though I now have a house on the sea and I enjoy the company of my family so much, there are times when I go down to earth, the spaces, nature and people make me feel at “home”. And that is why, this time, I propose to come down to earth before continuing on the sea, and allow me to tell you something about what our weeks were like on one of the most remote islands in the world, something about Saint Helena.

I had a preconceived image of that island, it was associated with “the place where Napoleon was exiled” – I imagined it as a prison, as a rock in the middle of the ocean, solitary and battered by the winds, infertile and aggressive – But how lucky was Napoleon, we thought as we began to explore the island – I have rarely seen such a variety of immensities gathered together in such a small space.

As soon as we arrived, the welcome from the locals was gentle and discreet. I felt a bit dizzy as I walked along the silent street of the dock and the main street of the town. A large garden with a restaurant at the back impressed us with the beauty of its trees and the variety of its birds. We didn't know it yet, but we would spend many hours there, the kids playing with other kids, immediately integrated into the group, and us working at the table at Ann's Place, the restaurant, where no one ever asked us to consume. Ann's Place belonged to a man of the sea, that man with the ocean in his gaze, the furrows of the wind and the sun on his face, the tranquility of those who have endured so many storms. His name was Richard, and he was always discreet and attentive, sometimes he would appear with fishing hooks as a gift for Mael, and with some advice, other times with a piece of fresh tuna straight from the sea. When it got late and the restaurant closed, they would leave a little lamp on for us and give the children something to eat before leaving, wishing us a good night and leaving everything open. And it is that, as soon as we arrived on the island, we felt that all the doors were open, that we could leave any object in any public place and no one would touch it, that Oiuna and Mae could go to play out of our reach and nothing would happen to them. After so many months in Africa, with so many social tensions, it was like a huge relief, a great relief. How beautiful, a world where there is no reason to distrust.

We went the next day to the other side of the island, by land. We took our two-person tent, which is the only one we have, some dried fruit and bread, and we went for a walk. We quickly found ourselves in a tropical landscape, with bananas and flowers. When we got close to the sea, it had become volcanic, arid, and red. Looking for water, we had arrived at a family who in the valley were preparing their land to grow passion fruit. They had sailed the world with their sons and daughter. They explained to us that we were inside a crater. We set up the tent in the bay and a family who was finishing their day of fishing approached us and gave us 4 fish, telling us that they were very tasty. We made a fire and roasted them, and it is true that they were exquisite.

Spending the night in a tent for two by four may sound impossible, but since we don't like that word, we took it with a lot of humor, and between the comments and the laughs the four of us fell asleep very, very close together. What a nice time I spend with my family, what a privilege, I know.

The next morning we continued on our way, leaving a backpack with our camping and fishing gear on the beach, confident that we would find it there again at the end of the day. We set out to walk through that immense, arid landscape, with its curious birds, some of them nestling eggs on the rocks. Below the large cliffs we found natural pools, full of fish, and even though it wasn't hot, we swam there, getting rid of the smell of smoke and fish. The landscape was grand, and unusual, with its broken cliffs, the pools and the breaking waves. And there were those birds, who had come 10 miles from land to greet Tortuga and who looked like little paper birds. Here they came closer, they stared at us head on, flapping their wings.

The following days we continued walking a lot. We passed through areas that made me think of Japanese animation, with their tall green, almost blue grasses moving in the wind, and the fluffy white clouds passing by casting shadows. We walked through pine forests, through meadows, along arid coasts dotted with cactus, along rocky mountain edges, through shaded valleys following rivers. The number of birds was impressive. Their songs, their presence, their way of getting so close. And the flowers, the plants, the trees, which we had never seen before, which were endemic to the island, and were vibrant with life. Sometimes, it would rain for a few moments. From the top of some hill, I looked at that expanse so blue. I smelled the wet soil, that smell so of the earth. How could that space, so fertile and so green, coexist surrounded by the blue giant? It was such a different world that awaited us out there—another music, another aroma, another dance with the wind and with time—and despite longing for that sea, we extended our stay of a few more days in Santa Helena, and stayed for several weeks.

In Saint Helena, it was enough to raise your hand for the passing car to stop and ask you what you needed. And regularly, in the evening, when we returned to the dinghy, we found some nice pieces of fish or sometimes a whole fish, left for us by the fishermen. Kenny, the ferry driver, with his closed face and his brusque manner, did not want to charge us for the week of the ferry when we told him that we would use our dinghy because we were short on money. And he would appear on the boat with homemade cakes for the children or other sweets. Richard and his family from Ann's Place made us feel more and more at home in their quiet space at the bottom of the large garden, and on the last day they gave us bags and souvenir t-shirts. Bramwell, a friend of a friend, invited us to go around the island and sleep at his house several times, and his wife Sarah cooked us Kenyan meals, always welcoming us with open arms. At one dinner they asked us what we had seen so beautifully in the sea. My mind began to run through images. The phosphorescence of the Red Sea at night, when the sea looked like a starry sky, the showers in the distance in the Indian Ocean and the islets appearing like a mirage, the whales at dawn in Tanzania, and the great whale near Namibia, with its immense placidity and that perched breathing, the petrels like little planes that barely touch the sea with their wave, the albatrosses courting Tortuga.

The only thing that was not good about that island was the anchorage, which was absolutely unprotected, the boat was constantly shaking and we spent very little time on board. We did not realize that this movement was loosening the shackle that held our stern anchor, and one day it was gone. Because the boat was moving so much, the range where the anchor could have fallen was wide, and the depth in those cold waters was twenty meters. Richard gave us a small anchor as soon as he heard about it. I also mentioned this to Raquel, a woman with whom we had spent an afternoon, with her husband Stephen and their three daughters, walking and spearfishing. The morning we were leaving, Stephen turned up with his diving partner, Lawrence, and the two of them went down to 20 meters into the cold waters of St Helena, without oxygen, in apnea, to look for the anchor that was in an imprecise area. After a while they had found it and Lawrence went down again to tie it to a rope. Back on board the two men had coffee, and Laurence told us about Tristan da Cunha, painting a vivid picture of those islands 10 km long, 20 km wide and 2000 meters high. He told us about how its inhabitants made protections for their plantation with volcanic rocks, and how sometimes the cargo could not board it because of the winds that turned and were violent. Speaking of St Helena, the men told us about the delicious honey that there was on the island, and we regretted not having found any in any store. And so we left the beautiful Santa Helena. We had mixed up the days and had gone over our visa, but with a smile the immigration lady told us that they would make an exception. We went to give the last hugs and leave gifts for everyone. I have not mentioned here all the meetings and moments shared, it would be too long. A few hours later, when we already had the engine on and we were about to say goodbye to the island, Kenny appeared on his boat, with a large pot of honey, “a gift for you” he told us. A gesture from Stephen, probably.

We set sail and slowly set out, in the uncertain breeze. At dusk we were still very close, there was no wind, but the curls on the surface of the sea told us it would arrive soon. We tried to fish, we recognized the mountains and peaks we had climbed, we looked at shapes in the clouds. Soon the wind would arrive and take us away from that charming island. When the sun set the breeze rose and we continued onward, with a relaxed watch at night. We woke up 40 miles from the island, and its mountains could still be seen. We were heading further south or further north depending on the wind, to be comfortable and bearable, and those gentle days began, stopped in time, surrounded by infinity, cradled by water and wind, between readings and meals, and so many stars at night that I felt like I was falling into that dark, mysterious, abysmal sky.

During that voyage, an immense animal appeared three times, a boreal baleen whale, with its inclined fin, a huge flipper, and its gusts of water. We saw it so many miles apart from each other, and we were left wondering if it was the same one, or if it was another one. It always makes a great impression on me to suddenly see such a colossal animal emerge from the water. I remember then that I am floating above such an immense space, inhabited, vibrant with unknown life. Between the sky and the sea, it is so, so small and insignificant, that little boat, our home, our shelter and our world… what a delight this vertigo in front of the grandiose nature. In the middle of the sea I feel that we are returning to our true place.

Something striking that happened during that trip was the fish we caught. They all came out contaminated, full of white worms in their flesh, organs and skin. They had to be returned to the sea, and the cat ate a piece of the first one, when we still didn't know exactly what it was. That night I dreamed that some live worms were coming out of the cat's anus, and I shared the horrendous vision with Diego. After a few days, the parasites appeared in the cat's poo, and then they began to come out, alive, through its anus. The poor cat was forced to live on the deck until we reached Recife, where we were able to treat him quickly. At that time, without the Internet to find out more, without the possibility of going to buy what was necessary to cure him, one feels how far away one is from everything, how isolated one is. However, the crew didn't worry too much, we were about a week from shore, and we would cure it. The worrying thing was seeing the number of fish caught by this plague, and the distance between each fish.

After week into the trip, I made pancakes with St. Helena honey to celebrate and we did a thorough bathroom cleaning, some tidying up and engine maintenance. We spent about 48 hours without a satellite signal, we didn't know that was possible, but it's a fact. No signals were reaching any of our devices. We thought we were in an area not covered by satellites. The wind was constant and the sea was calm, and we joked and joked, we took out the sextant to see if we could use it. There were no doubts about the course: if we kept heading west we would reach Brazil. That is what I wrote in the logbook: “How beautiful the sea is – so gentle and undulating, so supportive – And the clouds, few and scattered, with an almost metallic blue outlining them, those at the stern, because those at the bow are tinged with dusk – There was a bird, flying at the bow – Small, black and white, alone, with wings wider and rounder than those of a petrel – Perhaps it came from Asension? It is the closest land to this forgotten space of the world, so remote and peaceful. We lost the satellite signal two days ago, and we have not crossed a single ship. The nights are so clear that they give you vertigo, with their scandal of stars, nebulous and milky ways, and the tireless wind. Strong and constant, never aggressive. I remember the violent showers of the Indian Ocean. Here, if a cloud passes, it rains a little over Tortuga, it blows slightly more, and the ship goes on.”