“This morning our horizon made the wise decision to get togged up and everyone is on deck for the occasion. To port, she is wearing a long dark contrasting necklace, adorned with a row of small mountains, beautifully outlined by the low levels of light welcoming us.
“This morning our horizon made the wise decision to get togged up and everyone is on deck for the occasion. To port, she is wearing a long dark contrasting necklace, adorned with a row of small mountains, beautifully outlined by the low levels of light welcoming us.
Ahead of our bow, there it is, big, straight and imposing, one rock higher than the others, the Cape. Beneath big grey clouds, the albatrosses are always there at the grand occasions, flying along, beating their wings, though this time by way of a goodbye.
The Southern Ocean is bidding us farewell, the lines of Pacific swell are pushing us towards the exit, to deliverance, the point of no return after one hell of a crossing.
It draws closer, it takes shape, it becomes clearer, the nuances, the relief, Cape Horn is ours, this Cape, fashioned by so many stories and marked by sacrifice. It watches us pass by, under its nose, without a sign and without a sound.
We slip along, in silence, the sea becoming flatter, our wake parted slightly as if to leave a thought for our friend who remains here. That’s it, we push the helm, heading home after four months away from you, here we are back in the Atlantic.”
