The much-anticipated trip is finally about to start. This week will have a bit of everything: great wind, exhausting overnighters, repair drama, dolphins, sunsets, and above all great spirit aboard.

But let’s take it in order.

Johannes and I leave Munich together bright and early on Thursday and find JACE in good shape, tugging at her dock lines. We are lucky: sunny skies and a dry boat cover make the job of removing and stowing the giant canvas monsters a lot easier.

Still, the work list seems endless. Covers off and packed away, bimini and dodger rigged, dinghy back in the water, outboard mounted, provisions bought, systems checked, sails bent on. By Friday morning Matt arrives and immediately joins the work crew. Greg lands Saturday afternoon and just like that, the team is complete.

What strikes me from the beginning is how naturally everyone settles in. While all three have sailed aboard JACE before, none of them know each other. A week on a small sailboat can absolutely create friction. Lack of sleep, heat, salt, cramped quarters, constant motion — it tends to amplify personalities, not soften them.

But somehow the opposite happens.

Conversations start immediately and never really stop again. Sometimes joking, sometimes absurd, often genuinely interesting. Three engineers and one English major. Greg repeatedly reminds us of the importance of “a broader humanities perspective” whenever the rest of us disappear too deeply into technical optimization discussions.

By Saturday morning we are ready to leave the dock and reposition the boat outside the lagoon for an early Sunday departure. Except the skipper overlooks one small detail: tidal range.

At the dock there is just enough water beneath us. Fifty meters later there isn’t. Soft mud thankfully, no damage done, but JACE comes to a very dignified stop just off the dock. We return sheepishly to the dock and laugh it off. We cannot leave until the 10 p.m. high tide.

That evening we finally slip out into the lagoon and anchor nearby. Early Sunday morning we pass the two bridge openings and motor out into open water.

The journey has started.

The first leg down toward St. Kitts begins beautifully. Reaching in 18–20 knots, everybody relaxed, the boat moving well.

Until Greg suddenly says from the helm:
“Hey Andy … I have no steering.”

The wheel spins freely. No resistance. No rudder.

For some reason I immediately know.
“The steering cable must have snapped.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

A rudderless sailboat can quickly become a serious situation. But then I remember that the autopilot acts directly on the rudder quadrant and bypasses the steering cables entirely. I engage it and instantly regain control of the boat.

I can tell the crew is holding their breath. Nobody panics. We huddle in the cockpit and I explain that we have to return, as only St. Maarten has the right repair facilities. No objections. Everyone simply falls into action mode.

We tack around and head back under autopilot. Meanwhile I dig out the emergency tiller and together we rig it up. With Johannes steering from the stern, Matt on lookout, Greg handling ground tackle, and me juggling throttle, we safely make it back into Simpson Bay.

So much for the easy start.

Inspection confirms my instinct: the connection between steering chain and cable has parted. My contacts point us toward the best repair service on the island. Unfortunately they casually inform us Monday morning that they might be able to look at it “sometime next week.” Not exactly compatible with our schedule.

So we decide to fix it ourselves.

We buy thin high-strength Dyneema line, remove the steering cables from the quadrant to create enough slack, and construct a makeshift lashing reconnecting chain and cable. It takes most of the morning, including one complete redesign after the first version fails. But eventually we stand back, slightly greasy and sweaty, but more than just a little proud of ourselves.

It works.

At first we don’t entirely trust it and let the autopilot handle much of the steering while we monitor the repair closely. But little by little confidence grows. By the second overnight passage we are mostly hand steering again.

So by Monday afternoon we are finally underway once more, now with little time buffer remaining.

We sail deep into the night and reach St. Kitts around 2 a.m., dropping anchor in darkness before collapsing into bed.

Tuesday morning we take a short breather. There is time for a swim. Coffee. Breakfast in the cockpit. The first sense that we are no longer just preparing or repairing, but actually settling into the rhythm of the voyage.

Then comes the first true overnight leg: roughly 130 nautical miles down to Dominica.

We establish a three-on, five-off watch rotation that works surprisingly well. Each watch overlaps with the next, creating a good rhythm aboard and constantly reshuffling both crew configuration and the conversations in the cockpit.

Soon after departure dolphins appear and briefly surf our bow wave, always one of those moments that instantly lifts everybody’s mood.

The easterly trades remain steady around 18–22 knots. JACE settles into her favorite configuration: reefed main, staysail, and partially furled genoa. Well heeled but balanced, she charges south steadily at six to seven knots.

None of the guys have done this kind of sustained offshore sailing before. And watching each of them gradually adapt is fascinating. The sleep deficit. The strange body mechanics of moving around a violently moving boat. Learning how to wedge yourself into corners to sleep. Timing meals and bathroom visits with wave patterns. By day three everyone smells vaguely of sweat, saltwater, stale coffee, and exhaustion.

There is also, though never openly acknowledged, a subtle competition for the coveted lee bench in the cockpit — the single best sleeping spot aboard. Matt in particular always seems to have one eye on it.

Actual bunks prove challenging. Matt abandons his forward berth entirely after repeated near-launch experiences. Johannes claims the lee-side settee in the salon. Greg and I somehow manage to remain in our rear bunks, though mostly sideways with feet braced against the hull.

And yet everybody handles it remarkably well. No drama. No tension. Just four people gradually adapting — to the boat, the sea, the watches, and each other. By the end, it feels less like four individuals aboard and more like a crew.

By the time we enter Dominica’s Prince Rupert Bay shortly before noon the following day, all of us are proud and also exhausted. As we enter the bay I spot my old friend Alexis approaching in his dinghy and we greet each other excitedly.

After lunch and naps we head up the famous Indian River. Frequent readers know the place already: a narrow jungle river winding slowly inland through dense mangroves. No engines allowed.

Up until this point the trip has been all movement: sailing, preparing, repairing, navigating. Dominica feels like the first moment where we truly exhale.

Our guide rows the boat upriver in near silence while talking about Dominica’s history, nature, and life before Hurricane Maria. The whole experience has an almost meditative quality to it.

After days of wind noise, alarms, repairs, watches, and constant motion, the stillness feels profound. All four of us become unusually quiet and present, simply enjoying the slowness of it.

That evening we join the local beach barbecue, eating mahi-mahi under the stars before returning aboard for a long, calm night at anchor.

Thursday brings our longest leg yet: 165 nautical miles all the way past Martinique, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent toward Bequia. Twenty-five hours of nonstop sailing.

Conditions remain almost absurdly favorable. Sunny skies, only a few showers, steady easterlies. The wind angle improves further into a beautiful beam reach and JACE comes fully alive. Less heel, more speed, smoother motion.

The night offshore becomes our favorite part.

After sunset the world shrinks to black water, wind, stars, instrument lights, and the sounds of the boat. Steering in darkness feels strangely primal — guiding sixteen tonnes through invisible seas mostly by feel, sound, and rudder pressure.

We could do it all night.

In fact, we do.

By now everyone has found their rhythm. Sleep comes easier. Watches flow naturally. Coffee appears almost magically at just the right time. And of course cookies and chocolate. I make sure of that. Conversations drift from sailing to work to family to life to utter nonsense and back again.

When we finally arrive in Bequia the next afternoon, the mood aboard is deeply relaxed. It is coffee and cookies in the cockpit again before we go ashore and wander the waterfront, eat well, drink well, and enjoy the tropical evening.

Saturday is the final push: another 65 nautical miles to Grenada.

An early departure allows us to clear customs along the way in Carriacou before continuing south. By afternoon the conditions become almost comically perfect: lighter wind, calm seas, golden late-afternoon light.

Perfect gennaker weather.

We rig the big colorful sail and JACE takes off effortlessly. For nearly four straight hours the gennaker pulls us south to and then along Grenada in one of the most beautiful sails I can remember.

The sea is calm, the light soft, everybody relaxed now that we know we are going to make it. We laze in the cockpit. Conversations drift lazily. Then, briefly, dolphins appear once more in the bow wave as if to complete the scene.

It feels almost absurdly perfect.

By sunset we finally douse the gennaker and enter the St. George’s marina.

Lines secured. Engine off.

We made it. We really did.

Dinner at my favorite Indian restaurant that night is celebratory and slightly surreal, helped along by an extremely entertaining waiter-magician.

Sunday morning arrives too quickly. Johannes departs first at 7 a.m. Greg and Matt help me bring JACE around Grenada’s southwest corner and into Woburn Bay where she will spend hurricane season ashore. Then their taxi arrives too.

Hugs all around.

And just like that, the trip is over.

What a week it has been! A hard week. But a great week. 

One that none of us actually wanted to end.

What more could we have hoped for?

P.S.

Most of the “wow that’s a cool picture” photos are Matt’s. He has a great eye and clearly wins the best picture award. Multiple times over.