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In 16.5 days we sailed over 2,300 nautical miles from Sint Maarten to Horta. We experienced heeling, calms, whales, orcas, engine trouble, a spontaneous Atlantic baptism, a halfway party with cheese fondue and a little regatta with other crews. Despite the cold, tiredness and a Snickers crisis, our humour and team spirit stayed strong – and the MyWay brought us safely across the Atlantic.**
Country: Sint Maarten (NL)
Departure: Sint Maarten
Destination: Horta
Route: Sint Maarten - Horta
Nautical miles: 2304
Travel dates: 10.05.2025 – 25.05.2025
Sailing yacht: Monohull, Elan Impression, 52 feet
An ocean that tests us, carries us, surprises us – and ultimately changes us.
Our last evening in Sint Maarten hangs over us like a quiet farewell. The lagoon glitters in the warm light, as if it knows we are leaving. One last time we walk the pontoons, casting a glance at MyWay, which tomorrow will no longer be just a boat but our little universe in the middle of the Atlantic. Everything is stowed, everything secured, and yet we feel that tingle that only the departure into something great can create. Tomorrow our adventure begins.
The next morning, at 08:30 sharp, the bridge lifts like a gateway into another world. We glide through, faster than ever before, and suddenly the Atlantic opens up before us – vast, open, powerful. A promise and a warning in one. On the very first evening it shows us it means business: water is getting in. We rip up floorboards, search, curse, finally find the old engine cooling hose. Seal it. Test it. Carry on. The Atlantic tests us early. We pass.
The next few days belong to the wind. It's hard on the wind, forcing us into a permanent heel that soon becomes our normal state. Cooking becomes a balancing act, sleeping an art form. Seasickness creeps in like a silent shadow – not bad, but always there. We learn to move carefully, as if every step were a pact with the stomach. The autopilot fails once, we reboot it, and on we go. 450 miles lie behind us. We're getting there.
After five days full of wind, everything suddenly collapses. The sea turns glassy calm, the sky as vast as an endless dome. We're adrift. The calm settles over us like a blanket. We use the break to pay tribute to Neptune. The skipper raises his glass and laughs: 'I've been in the Caribbean for five months – I've got credit with him!' Then we catch our first fish, an Atlantic dweller that apparently also wanted to head to Europe.
The calm continues, and at some point we decide: if one jumps, everyone jumps. 5,000 metres of water beneath us, one jump after another, screams, laughter, a thrill. A quick swim back to the boat. We're relieved that no one got eaten – and proud that we dared to do it.
The nights grow darker. The moon stays hidden, the starry sky is breathtaking and eerie at once. A container ship crosses our course. We see it, it sees us – but not on the AIS. A radio call clears things up. Our AIS is playing up. We take it with humour: 'The main thing is that we see them – and they see us.'
Finally a broad reach. Finally butterfly – the sail setting that keeps us standing upright for the first time in days. We meet the 'Odessa', smaller but faster. A quick radio chat, a few jokes, a bit of seamanlike pride. The night stays calm.
Half the distance is done. 1,100 miles still lie ahead of us, but today we celebrate. In the middle of the Atlantic, on a calm butterfly course and in sunshine, we bring out the stove and do what you have to do on a Swiss boat: a cheese fondue. The scent of melted cheese mixes with the salty Atlantic air. For a moment we feel like we're in the mountains – except that there are 5,000 metres of water all around us.
The waves come from the side, the mainsail slams, the boat rolls like a drunken whale. We take the mainsail down, sail with the genoa alone – and still make 5–7 knots. The bread maker is hacked to produce something resembling an edible cake. It works. Somehow. And then the unofficial regatta begins: MyWay against Seestern against Odessa. Banter, laughter and challenges fly over the radio. We reef, trim, push hard – and actually start to gain on them.
Temperatures drop, jackets get thicker. Spirits remain high – until the truth comes to light: the Snickers are finished. A moment of shock. We improvise with biscuits. The situation stabilises.
Just before dusk, orcas appear. Majestic. Close. Unforgettable. The next day, pilot whales. The Atlantic reveals its full beauty. Less beautiful: the fresh water fails. The taps stay dry. Panic? Briefly. Then we find sand and limescale in the strainer. Clean it out – and the water flows again.
The wind is light, the sea calm. We have time – and suddenly realise how much our daily routine has changed. Cooking on a heel has become routine. Sleeping in 2–3 hour stretches feels normal. Everyone knows their watch, their tasks, their movements. We eat, laugh, repair, clean, rest, watch the horizon. MyWay is no longer just a boat – she's our little universe. In the evening dolphins appear, glowing in the plankton. A moment that leaves us all speechless.
The sea becomes mirror-flat. 24 hours of motoring. The sun shines, we can warm our limbs again. At night absolute darkness returns. The next morning a whale suddenly dives right in front of the bow. A heart-stopping moment.
200 miles to go. Everything's running smoothly. Until the engine starts to sputter. Judders. And at 03.46h in the middle of the night, it stops. Diesel filter? Dirt in the tank? Faulty gauge? Nobody knows. We stay calm. We've weathered worse. And somehow – as always – we get it sorted.
And then, on the 16th day, she finally appears: the silhouette of the Azores. Horta. The harbour every blue-water sailor dreams of. We've made it. 2,304 nautical miles, 16 days and 2.5 hours. Calms, heeling, whales, orcas, engine drama, regatta, fondue, cake, Neptune baptism, seasickness, Snickers crisis and countless moments that will bind us together forever.
Our reward awaits: a world-famous gin and tonic at Cafe Sport and the certainty of having made it.
MyWay has carried us safely across the Atlantic.
And we've proved what makes a crew:
Courage, humour, team spirit – and the ability to laugh even in the midst of chaos.
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