The Atlantic Roar: Trading Sightseeing for a Force 9 Thriller

by Simon Connor, December 2025

Two weeks ago, I joined my friend and regular crewmate aboard his beautiful 46 ft Amel Santorin ketch for what we planned as a leisurely hop from Motril, Spain, to the Canary Islands. What we got instead was a brutal, exhilarating, and unforgettable eight-day introduction to the Atlantic Ocean.

The Calm Before the Storm: Spain & Gibraltar

My brother and I flew into Malaga, bused to Motril, and met the skipper. Our first day was a gentle, 11-hour motor-sail, a peaceful start that lulled us into a false sense of security. The sunrises and sunsets over the Spanish coastline were magnificent—pure Mediterranean bliss.

Day two brought the sailing we craved: steady 15-knot winds propelled us toward Gibraltar. It was incredible to be escorted by 2 pods of dolphins surfing the bow wave as we approached the iconic rock of Gibraltar as the sun set behind it. We celebrated with the obligatory anchor beers, gazing up at the sheer face of Gibraltar now illuminated by the moon.

We opted to leave the boat on the Spanish side to avoid border bureaucracy, some essential morning provisioning and a walk across the surreal airport runway crossing to enter the territory. We strolled around the lively marina village and town which was packed with tourists. We had a hearty seafood paella and a good night’s sleep but our plans for sightseeing the following day were abruptly canceled. A severe weather system was rapidly approaching and our best option was to leave immediately.

We consulted the PredictWind Pro routing. Setting a constraint to avoid 30+knot winds yielded no routing results. At first we wondered whether the system was working properly but when we removed that 30 knot limit, 6 routes were displayed, all of which had us sailing five days Northwest offshore before turning south. The ocean was telling us: There is no easy way around this one. We set off from Gibraltar at noon, pushing past the famed, turbulent currents off Tarifa and crossing what felt like tame shipping lanes compared to the Straits of Singapore. Whilst the last sightings of Orcas in the area were 2 months ago, it didn’t stop me from feeling somewhat concerned, and luckily we didn’t encounter any.

Into the Wild Atlantic Swell

As we steered deeper into the Atlantic, the famous swell arrived. It wasn’t just waves; it was rolling hills of water, typically hitting us at 45 degrees off the starboard quarter. The ketch rig allowed us to experiment: Jib/Main, Jib/Mizzen, and even Jib/Mizzen Ballooner, until we spotted a small tear in the mainsail—a non-starter in the building conditions, we would have to manage without the main for the rest of the trip, it just wasn’t safe to attempt repairs.

The weather system tracked further south than forecasted, turning our moderate passage into a beat. PredictWind’s forecast of 30-35 knots quickly became a thrilling reality: 40-45 knots of wind and 6-7 meter waves.

The sea was a churning mass of white foam, the wave tops instantly atomized by the gale. We were forced to cross the cold front head-on in order to get to our turning point, still some 24 hours away.

The Three-Second Drop

ENIF, the 13 tonne Amel ketch, shuddered and groaned as we steered a fine line between fastest  course and minimizing the relentless slams of the waves. I started counting the freefall from the crests of the waves to the troughs – we were experiencing three seconds of weightlessness before crashing down. The whole boat would tremor violently—my biggest, recurring fear was that she would somehow break, but the Amel was built for such conditions.

The waves were not only large but also inconsistent and unpredictable. One massive breaker hit us on the stern quarter, violently twisting the boat off course. I was below at the time and was launched headfirst across the cabin, meeting the wooden interior with a painful, shocking thud. Luckily, no major damage to either me or the boat.

Then came the true rogue wave with our name on it. My brother and I were clipped on in the cockpit when an absolute monster swept over the stern. It landed on top of us, flooding the cockpit and pouring down the companionway. Stunned, soaked, and laughing in sheer disbelief, we had only one sensible reaction: close the companionway and turn up the volume on ACDC.

We pushed through the gale for nearly 24 hours, then motor-sailed through five squalls on the other side of the front to fully clear the system. Suddenly, after 3 grueling days, the sky was brilliant blue and the sun was shining again. The ordeal was over.

Landfall: Lanzarote

The final two days were a glorious respite: the easy, rolling Atlantic swell returned, powered by a manageable 10-20 knot breeze. We had seen seven whales during the passage, one swimming so close I was certain we’d collide.

Due to the headwinds and scheduled flights, we changed our destination from Las Palmas to Lanzarote. The final watches, after eight days at sea, were focused entirely on staying awake, tweaking the autopilot, nursing bruises and keeping an eye on the AIS – it seemed that about 10% of ships were on collision course with us, and they all annoyingly left it very late to change direction.

Painful lessons: The weariness was beginning to show. As winds built again to 25+ knots I was easing the genoa in order to reef, there weren’t enough turns on the winch. The huge force in the sail wrenched my finger against the drum. Abad bruise only, thankfully, but a frightening split-second reminder of how quickly fatigue can lead to a trip-ruining injury. The same occurred with my brother too when only his lightning fast reflexes prevented his fingers from getting trapped between the jib sheet and winch. Both near misses could have been avoided by turning into the wind and luffing the sail first to depower.

Sailing up to the black volcanic shores of Lanzarote was a sight to treasure. We anchored for the night, diving into the refreshing water for a celebratory swim followed by dinner and beers. The next day a final 4 hr motor into the light wind before pulling into Puerto Calero Marina. Washing the salt-crusted boat inside and out, refuelling, and grabbing a pizza felt like we had really achieved something special and we spent several hours in the pubs reflecting on the adventure.

The ten days of sailing were nothing like we had expected. The bad turn of weather gave us, paradoxically, the best experience possible—a true Atlantic sea story that I will treasure forever, especially having shared the whole wild ride with my older brother. With many thanks to my good friend and skipper Per for the adventure.