LOG n.15 - New Chapter

6.7.2026 1237, Pasito Blanco, Gran Canaria

Big break is over.

Or is it?

It is.

I spent 3 months on the drydock, only to experience an engine failure days after launch. Haha.

But nothing will stop us.

To update you on what had happened after we fixed everything and dealt (or not) with the insurance money. 

We got launched into the water after multiple delays. Finally. Went directly to an anchorage to fix the genoa, because that would be stupid to attempt on the dry.

I’ve spent a few nights on said anchorage and prepared myself (or so I thought) for the climb up to Las Palmas. 

I attempted that in those 25kn of wind and 2m waves. After a while of very uncomfortable sailing (but who's to pick) my furling line slipped from the holding, leaving the furler unworkable. I could have gone to the bow and fixed it better temporarily, but I didn’t, because I thought the holding screw had gone to the sea (had not), and the idea of a simple clove hitch didn't come to my mind then. That was advice from a friend, but listening to this I was already in the harbour. Until next time.

Anyway. The swell was around those 2m with short frequency, and I thought that three wraps of sheets around the genoa were going to be enough to hold the sail furled without the furling secured on its own.

Stupid.

I left the mainsail up and started the engine to motorsail upwind, not wanting to change my plan, though I did contemplate it. 

In approximately one hour, the genoa unfurled completely and started flying above the sea. 

Without a working furler, I needed to take down the whole sail. So I did, and then I stuffed it under the jackstays on the deck. Then I finally got the memo and left the idea of Las Palmas to evaporate from my cerebrum. Instead, I decided to go to Pasito Blanco. Not that I had many other options. Apart from being, by far, the closest port to me at a given time, it was also the port that I promised I would never come back to. Primarily because of the amount of depression mixed with pretentiousness that I've experienced there last time.

Obviously, fate didn't care about that. Or did, but in the opposite direction. So I called the port and informed them about my minor emergency with the headsail, seeking a berth for a few days, since was leaving for England the next day. My request was met with a little resistance, but in the end, they agreed to harbour me.

I started motoring to Pasito Blanco, finally. It took me 2 unfortunate events fueled by my own stupidity to put my tail between my legs and turn my ass. Initially, I was thinking that if this decision was formed during my first circles of contemplation (which were happening approximately 2.5NM from the port of Pasito Blanco) I could have saved myself approximately 4 hours of bullshit. But, "would've, could've, should've" is a useless way of thinking on its own, so I dropped that one into the sea as well.

I felt a sense of defeat and decided to call my friend Nova, who is a brilliant solo-sailing girl from Sweden. She is currently in Denmark, making her way from Sweden to Galicia. You can check out her YouTube channel at @seemeatsea.

So we're underway for hours at this point, and I am trying to fight the feeling of defeat with cynicism. That was another bad decision, as anything involving the unhealthy forms of ego usually is. Especially at sea. 

1.2NM before Pasito Blanco right below the south point with a lighthouse my engine just stops. Just stops. It appears to be a fuel delivery issue. But all of my tanks are more than 3/4 full.

Now we’re drifting into the land, not away from it. Luckily, the place where we stopped is basically half a mile of sand bed with a depth of 10m. Everywhere. So I go on the bow and dig myself under the sail to drop the anchor that I thought I won't be using anytime soon, hence I thought it was no problem leaving the sail there. I drop it manually (windlass not working), and open the engine compartment in an attempt to see if I can resolve it somehow myself. The engine is extremely hot for me to work with, or even be there, and after thinking and trying things that I could think of, like switching the tanks, I come to a conclusion that there’s nothing I can, or want to do. And I don't want to wait here for some other peculiarity to happen.

So I call the rescue services. Great and lovely.

They actually were great and lovely. They were amazing in everything, they managed my boat very nicely and got me safely to Pasito Blanco, where I needed to pay the berth for a week and the "tow" into it.

Glad that I was safe, I packed Rafael and his stuff, and managed to deliver him to my cat-keeper friend in Puerto Mogan. Guys seemed to get along pretty well, so I came back and managed to pack a little for myself to go to the UK the next morning for the planned celebration of my 27th birthday and a tiny vacay.

Oh god, how I needed a vacay after this cherry on top.

England is one of my motherlands. Though I am a citizen of the world, England is one of the few places that feels like home to me. Or closest to that experience I can recall. Aegean seas are the second motherland. I can’t yet explain the feeling better than just being hugged by your environment that simply cares about you and recognizes you as a part of itself. 

It was a great trip. I visited some places, saw some boats, met family and friends, shopped in charity shops, and had an overall good time.

Reminded myself of the importance of what I am fighting for, and came back feeling just a little bit older.

Now I am in the port, assessing the engine and sails, hoping it’s not the fuel pump. 

Realized I am being pushed once and again into my goals and slacking off is no longer an option. Not because it’s not possible, but because it is physically painful.

It's painful to put my energy into anything that is not worthy of my attention, even though I might be used to it as a coping mechanism.

But I became a little dead in the tracks in the last two days after I came back from England. Coming to a previously towed boat in a place I didn’t want to be, without my cat.

I came back motivated, but managed to lose it on the first day. I think I was rather ineffectively digesting all the stress, so I need to build up the momentum again.

I can’t live my life otherwise, that much I’ve learned. So everything feels just like cycling in the mountains. I mean - I imagine that's how it feels. I wouldn't know.

 I haven’t written here for the longest time as well. I’ve been contemplating, reorganizing, and telling myself that I am going to start once I am sailing again. So much for that. At least I am back in the water. Everything else can be dealt with. 

It physically hurts me to reside in the past versions of myself, no matter how frequently I change. I welcome progress in my soul, but my body needs to catch up as well. And that sometimes takes me time.

But I am sober now and 27. Big girl.

Bit by bit.