Brest, France – August 2025.
When I boarded Voyager, an Alden 390b gaff-rigged schooner, it was the realization of a dream I didn’t even know I’d been carrying. I had traveled from Knoxville, Tennessee, across Charlotte and London, before stepping into the windswept port of Brest. I wasn’t a seasoned sailor—far from it. I was a complete novice, about to embark on my first true sea passage with my brother-in-law Loch, my sister-in-law Lee, and their son, Eero.
Voyager on deck
Voyager Stern
The Mah Jong
August 9–14: Waiting in Brest
I landed in Brest, France, on Friday, August 9, after an overnight flight with a layover in London. Voyager was still at sea, in route from the Azores. Unfortunately the wind for the Azores passage was nonexistent and the crew spend a miserable time motoring. I filled the days in Brest walking Rue Saint Malo’s ancient walls, touring the naval museum, and eating my share of croissants and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Each evening I lingered at the harbor, imagining her arrival. Would she look as majestic as the pictures? Would I be ready for the sea? At 0400 on Wednesday, August 14, Voyager slipped into port. I didn’t move aboard until Thursday, but the sight of her when I walked down in the morning—wooden spars gleaming in the dock lights—was enough to get my heart racing. That evening, we were invited aboard Mah Jong. Captain Emma, First Mate Sam, and Zolie welcomed us warmly, giving us a tour of her open-layout saloon and berths. Emma even handed us crew shirts before departure. Their generosity, spirit, and skill left an impression that stayed with me.
Voyager Broadside
August 15: Underway at Last
Friday morning, August 15, we topped off at the fuel dock, then motored clear of Brest. It was time to sail. With halyards straining and the gaffs swinging into place, the sails rose, and suddenly we were under way.
At first, the sea was deceptively kind. The breeze filled in softly, and Voyager moved along at an easy pace, her hull carving gently through the water. The morning was calm enough that I began to think: maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
But by mid-afternoon, the wind built steadily. The swells, at first a slow and rolling rhythm, grew more pronounced, lifting the schooner and dropping her into troughs with a force I had never felt before. Before long, we were moving at 10 knots, spray flying, the deck alive with motion.
Loch passed me the helm, and though my track looked like I was chasing seagulls, he only grinned: “The track you laid with your crocked helming is now part of the preeminent record and lives in our Garmin Sean.”
That evening we made Lam Paul harbor on the island of Ouessant, where Lee and Aero snagged the mooring line like pros.
August 16: Island Days
Saturday, August 16, Ouessant revealed its rugged charm. Lee flagged down a fisherman who ferried us ashore, where we ate quiche and tuna tartare, rented bikes, and pedaled to lighthouses. Aero, nimble as ever, scrambled down a seawall to rescue a stranger’s hat—winning applause from the locals.
When it came time to return, luck struck again: another fisherman offered us a ride back to Voyager. That evening we ate dinner aboard, the wind still howling from the east, whitecaps flashing in the harbor.
Night brought stillness and stars. I crept on deck and watched the beam of the lighthouse sweep across a sky so clear the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon. It was a moment of pure wonder.
August 17: The Channel Crossing
Sunday, August 17, we cast off at 0400. Our plan was the Scilly Isles, but the sea had other ideas. The wind veered, the seas steepened, and soon we were beating toward Falmouth, England, instead.
The Channel was merciless. Seas built to 10 feet, winds rose past 25 knots, and Voyager pitched like a cork in boiling water. Within the first hour, seasickness claimed me. My stomach turned, my head spun, and I quickly learned the hard truth: there is no outrunning nausea at sea.
I clipped in on deck, stretched flat against the wood, and gave myself over to it. Between waves of dizziness and vomiting, I tried everything—fixing my gaze on the horizon, focusing on the masthead light, closing my eyes. Nothing worked. Each attempt only deepened the misery. Going below was out of the question.
Hours passed in a blur of retching and spray. I remember laughing once, half-delirious, at how absurd it was to be soaking wet, strapped to a schooner, and still calling this a vacation. But somewhere in the laughter was acceptance: the sea had humbled me, and all I could do was endure.
After nearly eleven hours, the Cornish coastline appeared. As we entered Falmouth’s protected waters, the motion eased, and like magic, the nausea lifted. My stomach settled. My head cleared. I stood again, battered but grateful. Loch, Lee, and Aero later said it was among the roughest crossings they’d endured. For me, it was baptism by salt.
August 20: Farewell
Wednesday, August 20, was my last day. That morning, I boarded a train bound for London. The five-hour journey from Falmouth to Paddington Station carried me across the green quilt of the English countryside. Fields rolled past in shades of gold and emerald, dotted with villages, church spires, and stone farmhouses. For long stretches, the tracks hugged the Cornish coast, where marinas and sailing boats lined the inlets. Each glimpse reminded me of Voyager and the world I had just stepped into.
By evening I was in London, the city’s clamor replacing the rhythm of waves. One more night ashore, then it was back to the States. My voyage was over, but the sea had left its mark.
August 18–19: Falmouth Ashore
Falmouth welcomed us with a warmth that only a sailor can appreciate after such a crossing. The town was charming—narrow lanes, old stone pubs, and friendly locals who seemed genuinely pleased to see us.
On Monday, August 18, we found a restaurant by the harbor and lingered over lunch. The food was good, the margaritas even better. Loch and I could have kept the afternoon rolling if the restaurant hadn’t closed after lunch service. Instead, we wandered the streets, taking in the town’s easy pace, the kindness of shopkeepers, and the bustle of a true sailing port.
On August 19, Loch, Lee, and I walked from the harbor up to Pendennis Castle, Henry VIII’s old coastal fortress perched high above the sea. The path wound uphill, giving us views back over the harbor where Voyager rested at her berth. From the top of the keep, we gazed out at the sweep of the Cornish coast, waves breaking against rocky headlands, and the town spread out below. The castle itself was fascinating, but it was the panorama—the sense of standing watch over centuries of sailors—that left the deeper impression.
Gratitude
To Loch, Lee, and Aero: thank you for letting me into your world. For the patience, the laughter, the encouragement at the helm, and the chance to sail aboard a storied schooner.
From Brest to Ouessant to Falmouth, and finally on to London, I lived the adventure of a lifetime—etched in salt spray, starlight, and gratitude.
August 9–20, 2025