Right at the start of our journey through the Bay of Biscay, the sea treats us to one of those rare days: dolphins accompany us for hours. At the bow, they play, leap, spin, slice through the waves, and keep coming back, as if to test us. Their squeaks can be heard, close and vivid, a bright sound in the endless blue. A whole day that feels light, almost weightless.
Between these first few hours and what follows lies one thing above all else: change. A tear in the genoa reminds us that even calm periods come at a price. Calm and standstill repeatedly interrupt the motion before it builds up again. And then there’s this quiet, almost perfect glide—so still that it seems as though the ship itself decides when to move on. Later, a group of dolphins appears once more, this time only from a distance, a fleeting greeting as they pass by. Orcas? Not a trace. Just us and the water.
With each passing day, the Bay of Biscay opens up further and shows itself at its best. Below us, the depths plunge to nearly 5,000 meters—a barely imaginable void that puts everything into perspective. The wind shifts constantly, unpredictable but never truly hostile. For long stretches, the sea remains surprisingly calm; it’s only over the last 100 nautical miles that it begins to stir noticeably. In between, the weather is almost unreal. A region that commands respect—and rewards it at the same time.
Amid this apparent calm, there is a brief, clear moment of disruption: hydraulic oil is leaking from the jib winch. A minor malfunction that immediately captures our attention. Yet it remains just that—a moment. Nothing that stops us. Just a reminder that even out here, everything keeps moving.
Then something shifts in the rhythm of the journey. For the first time, the sun sets behind us. A change in perspective that’s barely noticeable and yet lingers. A quiet moment that settles in without imposing itself.
The last night before A Coruña is, after all, black. Pitch black. No land, no light. Just a sky that opens up—a canopy of stars with a clarity rarely experienced. Around one o’clock, the moon rises: half-full, blood-red, almost unreal. The sea rolls in long, calm waves; the wind is just right. We’re moving at five knots, gently rocking. That’s all it takes.
And so everything boils down to a simple rhythm that leaves a deep impression:
sunrise. Water. Sunset. Dark water. Sunrise. Water. Sunset.
A cycle that blocks out everything else.